The North Star/Chapter 48
XLVIII
“ONLY A POOR PILGRIM TO THE HOLY LAND”
The year 1000 that saw Norway snatched from the hands of Olaf Tryggevesson, was a memorable period in European affairs. Some predictions had foretold that this closing year of the tenth century would also see the closing of the world’s history. It was believed that the Day of Judgment was at hand; and that Christ would appear upon earth and would sit in judgment on Mount Sion. Some were so far influenced by these ideas as to dispose of their worldly possessions, and prepare for the Millennium. Others repaired for the Holy Land in the belief of the second coming of the Saviour.
In spite of these conditions, the Church was urgently working to propagate the faith of Christ in many lands. Since the fifth century when the belief in the Millennium had been so prevalent, the Church had endeavored to disabuse the popular mind of this belief; and at last had formally pronounced against the doctrine of millenarianism, or the belief in the near approach of the end of the world.
One of the most prominent figures in European history at this time was Otho III, Emperor of Germany. Before his accession to the throne he had been instrumental in settling difficulties among Cardinal Franco, Crescentius II, Governor of Rome, and Pope John XV. So successful was the young prince in establishing the security of the Pope’s authority, that when John XV died, Otho was allowed to exercise considerable influence in choosing his successor. Otho gave the preference to his cousin, Bruno, a very talented young German nobleman, who had taken orders. Bruno was elected, and took the name of Gregory V, and was the first German to occupy the Papal throne. He reigned but three years; and his successor was the learned Gerbert, who was the first French Pope. This was the great Sylvester II, a man so skilled in the arts and so in advance of his age in scientific research as to be considered as indebted to some unearthly power for his unusual knowledge. To the masses he was known as the “Magician;” while to those in a higher sphere, his strict life and his demand for a strong discipline in church government, made him at once an object of honor and fear. It was the distinction of the young German emperor to influence the elevation to the papacy of his cousin, Gregory V, and of his tutor, Sylvester II, to whom he was devotedly attached. In his zeal for the spread of Christianity, Pope Sylvester II found an earnest supporter in Stephen I of Hungary. This monarch was known as “Saint Stephen,” and for his earnest work was given the title for himself and his successors of “Apostolical Majesty.” King Stephen’s wife was Queen Gisela, the sister of Henry II of Germany; and thus two powerful Christian nations, Hungary and Germany, were brought closely together. Bohemia, Germany, and Hungary were zealous workers for the faith. King Stephen built churches, colleges, and hospitals, in the East at Constantinople, and even at Jerusalem; in the West at Rome and Ravenna.
Otho and Stephen, with Pope Sylvester, had formed a great design of arousing all Christian Europe to rescue the Holy Land from the Mohammedans. None of them lived to see their plan carried out; and it was nearly a hundred years later, when their idea took definite shape, in the first of the famous Crusades.
It was at this time, while these rulers governed and these conditions existed, that a pilgrim came to the City of Rome. It was an autumn day in the year 1000, and during the second year of Pope Sylvester’s reign. This pilgrim was attired in the usual dress of one bound upon a journey to the Holy Land,—the sombre, brown tunic, with a monk-like hood and sandals. The palmer’s staff was in his hand and a cross was embroidered on the breast of his tunic. As the pilgrim walked through the streets of Rome, every passer-by gazed at him in wonder, although the sight of a pilgrim was a common one in the Eternal City. But this one was a man of such striking appearance, so tall and blond, so stalwart, and of such warlike tread and such majesty of mien, that he could not pass unnoticed. The tall pilgrim walked on, seemingly unconscious of the interest he excited. His eyes were bent upon the ground, and his face wore an expression of deep sadness. He made his way to the Pope’s palace, and waited in the antechamber with the throng assembled to pay their respects to the Father of Christendom. As the visitors were admitted to his presence, the Pontiff blessed them, and gave a few kind words to each.
At last the tall, handsome pilgrim approached. He knelt down, and in Latin, with a voice of strong Northern accent, craved the blessing of the Pope upon his pilgrimage.
“Who art thou?” asked the Pontiff, gazing in wonder, in admiration even, at the stately form bent down so humbly before him.
“Holy Father! I am but a poor pilgrim bound by a vow to visit the Tomb of my Saviour, in the land of Palestine.”
“Thou art now a pilgrim?”
“Aye, Holy Father, a poor sinful man, doing penance for his many sins, and making a humble pilgrimage to the land my Saviour trod.”
“Rise, my son!” the Pontiff’s intent look never left the palmer.
“Now thou art a pilgrim, an humble penitent. Something else thou hast been,—something far different.”
The pilgrim rose, and stood with bended head. The Pope laid his hand upon the red blond hair. “It doth seem, my son, as if a crown had rested here, and in thy hand a sceptre was held, even as thou dost now grasp thy pilgrim’s staff.” He looked down at the sandalled feet. “Thou hast trodden on the battlefield, and mastered the deck of the war-ship. Thou hast worn armor, and carried a strong sword at thy side. Who art thou?”
The pilgrim gazed beseechingly at the Pontiff, then kneeling down again, he said imploringly:
“No other name have I now, Holy Father, no other place, but that of a humble pilgrim to the Tomb of my Saviour. I would crave thy leave to bury all my life, to let it sink in death and defeat under the waves of the deep sea. I have worn a crown, I have borne a sceptre. Aye, I have won battles on sea and land, and my sword was swift to conquer. I have ruled—a king! But now, Holy Father, when I have whispered once my name, thou wilt let it die as I would have it die in the silence of the desert.”
The pilgrim rose again, and without lifting his eyes he leaned forward, and spoke his name in an undertone, full of sadness.
The Pontiff started with surprise. “It hath been rumored, my son, that thou wert dead, drowned after thy defeat.”
“I am dead, Holy Father, to all that knew me in the past.”
“My dear, dear son! faithful and full of zeal!” The Pontiff laid his hand caressingly on the pilgrim’s arm, and drew him into his embrace. “Go thou on thy pilgrimage. I bless thee on all thy ways. Rest thou with thought and prayer in the holy places of Palestine, and when thou hast lifted up thy heart, I will call on thy courage to aid me.” The Pope’s voice was full of ringing enthusiasm. “My son, thy sword that hath won so many battles must not rust.”
Something of the Pope’s ardor awoke in the pilgrim. He lifted his head and looked eagerly in the enthusiastic face before him. “In what cause, Holy Father, might I draw again the sword I have sheathed? I lifted it up and swore to fight for Christ. I have failed. My sword is broken. I am an exile, without a kingdom, without a home.”
“Nay! my son,” said the gracious voice of the Pontiff, “thou must not say thou art an exile. Thou art still a Christian prince, and thy sword should still be ready to serve the cause of Christendom. Otho of Germany, who so gallantly defended the rights of the Pope in his youth, and Stephen of Hungary, who is an apostle in zeal for the faith, have promised to aid me in arousing and arming all Christian nations to rescue the Holy Land from the heathen. Think what glory for a Christian warrior to conquer the sacred places that the Saviour trod, and to guard the Holy Tomb where He slept. The pilgrims who journey to the Holy Land, and the Christians who dwell in Palestine are sorely persecuted by the infidel followers of Mahomet. Shall their Christian brethren of Europe see them suffer in silence?”
“They shall not! They shall not!” The pilgrim was standing erect in a commanding attitude, and his voice rang through the audience chamber. “I will unsheathe my sword again! I will serve under the banner of the cross! I will rescue the tomb of my Saviour from the Moslems.” He paused, and looking perplexed said inquiringly: “But if the end is so soon to come, Holy Father? I have often heard it said upon my journey that the world’s end is near. If the thousand years of St. John’s Revelation have indeed passed, and the Saviour come so soon to judge the world on the Judgment Seat of Mount Sion, how may we plan of earthly conquests?”
The Pope shook his head gravely. “My son, it is a dream, a phantasm of the foolish mind. More than five hundred years ago the Church rebuked the leaders who so loudly proclaimed this Millennium doctrine. Now it hath again sprung to life and is carrying the weak and ill-taught to foolish practice. We plan and we work for the spread of the faith, and we build and we teach as if there were no such stumbling-block in our path as this wild belief in the near approach of the Judgment Day. Thou, my son, wilt see the holy places of the Saviour, but Christ Himself thou shalt not see in thy earthly life. Now will I bless thee again; and when thy vow is fulfilled, thou canst come to me.”
The tall pilgrim knelt to receive the blessing, then rose, and with bowed head but with a brighter countenance left the audience chamber.
Many months had Thorgills travelled to find King Olaf. At last he reached the city of Rome. Here his inquiries revived the memory of the stately pilgrim who had held long converse with Pope Sylvester, and had been embraced by him as a Christian king. Then the pilgrim had left for the Holy Land. None could tell his name, but he was tall and blond, and bore himself with great majesty. He was bound by a vow to visit the Holy Sepulchre, and had promised the Pope to return and join the Christian princes when they should march to rescue the Holy Tomb of Christ from the Moslems. Armed with this much help in finding his master, Thorgills journeyed on. He crossed the Mediterranean, and at his questions the sailors remembered a passenger they had carried some weeks before, a strong, silent Norseman, who had walked like a king, and would give no name save that of a humble pilgrim to the Holy Land.
Thorgills landed at Smyrna and journeyed down through the land of the Turk to Palestine. Weary and disheartened, he reached Jerusalem and knelt before the Holy Sepulchre. He heard from a brother traveller, the tale of a tall, handsome pilgrim, who had passed through the Holy City, and after fulfilling his vow of prayer at the Saviour’s Tomb, had disappeared into the desert. Here he was going to live as a hermit, an anchorite like St. Paul of Thebes, the father of hermits.
Thorgills sat down in the dusty street of Jerusalem. Lost in the desert! How should he ever find his king? He bent his head hopelessly, and it seemed as if his heart-strings must burst asunder with the terribly hopeless thought of his search.
As the scald sat in moody reverie, a pilgrim stood before him. Something in the face brought back to Thorgills his Irish journey. He sprang up in joyful surprise. “I know thee, who thou art.”
The pilgrim smiled, and grasped Thorgills’ hand, saying as he did so, “And thou art the scald of King Olaf of Norway. I did hear that he was defeated in the fight, and that he was drowned after the battle, and that his kingdom had been given to others.”
Thorgills said cordially, “Now, surely do I know thee! Thou art the Irish knight, Sir Eogan O’Niall, whom my king did love so strongly. Art thou, too, bound on a pilgrimage?”
“Aye! I vowed to visit the Holy Land if my son should be spared when he lay ill unto death. The boy did live; and I have made my vow at the Tomb of Christ, and now I am returning to my home.”
Thorgills looked earnestly at Eogan, “Sir Chief,” he said at last, “I did believe that my king wag living. He was rescued after the battle, and he began a journey to Rome. Then he came hither to kneel at the Holy Sepulchre. When his vow was done, he went out into the desert. Think thou, Sir Chief, how may I find one man who hath been swallowed up in the desert?”
“Nay!” said Eogan, looking kindly at the scald, “thy king would rather that thou shouldst let him disappear into the wilderness, If indeed his kingdom is lost he might not greatly desire to return to it.”
Thorgills looked anxiously in Eogan’s face, as he answered: “Even so, Sir Chief, King Olaf believed he had lost Norway; but Norway is his as long as he has life; and I have journeyed all these Weary miles to find him and to bring him home. Dost thou not remember, Sir Chief, how all Norway turned to him when he came back from thy Irish land? Even so shall the Norsemen turn to him, if so I can but find him.”
Thorgills bent his head again in thought, and Eogan O’Niall sat down beside him. He was deeply touched at the scald’s devotion; but he gravely doubted if Olaf were living, or that he could be found, or could be reinstated in his kingdom. To divert the scald’s attention, he questioned him of his own affairs.
“My wife is of thy land, Sir Chief,” Thorgills answered.
“Then should she be loving and faithful.”
Thorgills was silent a space, then said slowly: “She is but young, Sir Chief, but she is very dutiful, and her heart is all turned to her own land.”
Eogan O’Niall looked in wonder at the scald. “All her heart, thou sayest? That do I not understand. Ever an Irish woman turns her heart to her husband.”
Thorgills’ voice was very gentle. “Sir Chief, she is so young, and now I do believe she married me out of her promise to her father. I was so eager to call her mine, I waited not to win her heart. She is faithful, aye, and ever dutiful. In my thought she was ever the white flower I would wear upon my heart. Now I seem to have grasped the flower too hastily, and all the soul of its chaliced, fragrant life is closed and hidden to me.”
Eogan O’Niall laid his hand in Thorgills’. “Friend,” he said, “think thou. There is no flower will stay closed to the sunlight. There is no true woman’s heart will stay closed to kindness. Thy young wife is as the rose that waits for the sun to burst open all its beauty, and all its fragrance. Thou hast left her in the shadows of a lonely life.”
Thorgills looked anxiously at the speaker. “She hath friends, she hath grace and wit and beauty.”
“In the kindness of friends her heart will not blossom as it must in the glow of thy love. Oh! believe me, friend, I, that have a faithful wife, can tell thee, out of my own great thankfulness, that the white flower of a woman’s love finds fullest flowering on the heart of her faithful lord. And thou dost say thy young wife is beautiful? Dost thou not fear that in her loneliness other men may see as thou hast seen, and find her beautiful?”
“Nay! nay!” eagerly protested Thorgills. “She is faithful—far more faithful than life, faithful even as death.”
“As are the women of her land,” said Eogan, simply. “And yet, dost thou do well to leave her so unprotected in a strange land?”
Thorgills looked sadly at Eogan. “I came to seek my king. It did seem as if I should die, if I found him not. I thought only that my wife would not grieve for me. She is in the care of a noble lady. Now I seem to have done an unwise thing, and I have not found my king.”
Eogan thought for a moment, then he said kindly, laying his hand on Thorgills’ arm: “Come thou with me to the house of an Arab, who is friendly with me. To-night we will rest with him, and on the morrow we will further inquire of thy king.”