The North Star/Chapter 50
L
THE CONVENT OF NIDAROS
The days and the weeks had passed by busily in the Lady Aastrid’s home, until the months had rounded into a year since the defeat of King Olaf. Maidoch found full work for her skilful hands, and the constant occupation proved the best antidote to the depression that followed Thorgills’ departure.
The political changes in Norway did not affect either Aastrid or Maidoch. Earl Sigvalde had been a wealthy thane, and the generosity of King Olaf had provided well for Thorgills. The needy ones of Nidaros had often had their distress relieved by the charity of these two noble Christian women. Aastrid had resolved to devote her wealth to the service of the poor, and accordingly she had established a convent at Nidaros, for the training of poor girls. Maidoch aided her friend in her work, and sojourned with her.
“Thou wilt let me stay by thee, dear lady,” she pleaded, when Aastrid moved into the convent. “I have promised my dear Lord Thorgills to abide with thee until he shall return.”
Lady Aastrid looked lovingly at Maidoch. “Thou art ever most welcome to my home, and to my cloister; but dear child, do not bind thy hope so strongly on thy lord’s return. It is past twelve months since he left, and it was a perilous voyage through many strange lands. Death may have met him, and so, child, learn to loosen, little by little, this hope that clings so fast to thee; it may rend thy poor heart when it is sudden torn away. Learn to teach thy heart to place thy lord among the dead, for in truth I think he is no longer among the living.”
Maidoch clasped her hands tightly. “Not dead! Oh, no! dear Lady Aastrid. I can never teach my heart to place him among the dead. My dear lord can never be dead to me. Though he slept in the depths of the sea or lay lifeless on the battlefield, or dead on the desert sands, he is living always to my yearning sight, always to my listening ear, always to my hungry heart. Always I stretch out eager hands to some land that holds my hope. If dead to earth he is, even death cannot divide our plighted souls. Yet, dear lady, I cannot come to think of him as other than alive, although all say to me that he will not return. Thou wilt let me stay close beside thee till he comes,—close beside thee in thy cloister, because—” Maidoch hung her head in some confusion.
“Aye, child, thou dost need a shelter. Thou dost look troubled. Hath any one grieved thee?”
“The woman Thora, who is so infirm, she did say, when I went to carry her food, that the jarls of Jarl Erik’s court had spoken of seeking me in marriage; and, my dear Lady Aastrid, it were a sinful thought for any jarl, for my Lord Thorgills doth surely live.”
Aastrid, the abbess, was silent and thoughtful a moment. Then she asked, “What other infirm person dost thou visit?”
“There is an old palsied woman, named Ingrid, who dwells with Thora. The people do say she was a sorceress. She is the mother of the bride of King Olaf, who tried to slay him. She hath lost all her estates, and like Thora she is poor and ailing.”
“I will make a portion of the convent into a hospice, and thou, Maidoch, canst care for thy sick, as thou so lovest this charity, besides thy teaching of the little ones. All thy work thou shalt find within the cloister until Lord Thorgills’ return; for it were not well for thee to journey through Nidaros, where dwell so many wild jarls of Erik’s heathen court.”
Aastrid began at once to have a portion of the convent prepared for the reception of the sick poor. Maidoch had gone to Thora’s little home to apprise her of the plans of the abbess for her comfort. It would have been almost impossible to have recognized in the poorly clad invalid, thin, wasted, and feeble, the once beautiful and haughty lady of the mansion at Rimul. After Earl Haakon’s death, Olaf Tryggevesson had allowed Thora to retain her possessions, but her thralls deserted her; and without the aid of Earl Haakon she could not manage her estates, and was soon reduced to penury. As companion in her poverty and ill-health she had Ingrid the sorceress, now a saddened, decrepit old woman, who had never recovered from the shock of her daughter’s death.
Thora, fretful as usual, gave curt answer to Maidoch’s gentle greeting. “I do marvel at thee,” said the sick woman. “If I had thy youth and thy beauty and the wealth Lord Thorgills left thee, I could surely find a better place to dwell than in the dull cloister with the cheerless Lady Aastrid.”
“Thou art surely wrong to say so,” answered Maidoch. “The Lady Aastrid is a sweet companion, and her cloister is a safe, holy home for me until my Lord Thorgills shall return.”
“Until thy lord returns? And dost thou think he will return to thee? It is over twelve months since he left.”
“Aye, I do know how long—how very long it is—but he will return to me.”
“And thou dost think a man can remember thee so long, aye, even thy Lord Thorgills? Thou hast less wit, with all thy skill and all thy learning, than some poor peasant thrall maiden. Remember? A man remember for a twelvemonth? No! not for a fortnight, if some other face please him.”
Maidoch turned aside to hide her distress and was preparing to leave, when Thora broke out again: “Why art thou so foolish fond of thy lord? Did he not leave thee? Aye, and left thee for other men—the stout jarls of Erik’s court—to see thy beauty and to strive to make thee forget him. And so thou shouldst forget him. There is many a powerful jarl hath sworn over his ale to strive for thee; and it is whispered in the gossip of the court that Erik himself hath spoken of the comeliness of Thorgills’ widow.”
“Nay! nay!” cried Maidoch, now thoroughly alarmed. “Hush! thou must not say such words. I am no man’s widow. I am Lord Thorgills’ wife, aye, his wife, though the seas and the mountains divide us. I am not—Oh, no! I am not his widow.”
Thora laughed lightly. Maidoch’s face was flushed and distressed, and her voice was sharp with fear. Thora’s tone became kinder. “I would not grieve thee, child,” she said, “but it puzzles me to see thee so content in Lady Aastrid’s drowsy cloister, when thou mightest be mistress over some noble home in Nidaros. I did know thy lord. He was a goodly appearing man, fair to look upon, and of a right valiant spirit. Once I strove to bring him to our feasting at Rimul.”
Maidoch drew back. Thora laughed again. “Nay, child, thou hast no need to be afraid. Thy lord would not come. He left me and went off with one of the priests of thy own land, he that was killed the day Jarl Ironbeard was slain, Thou dost remember him?”
“Aye! Father Meilge,—I remember him.” Maidoch’s voice was very low.
“Well,” said Thora, “I wot the priest did come to take him. It matters not. He never came to the feast.”
Maidoch did not answer, and as she sat in the silence all the horror of that sacrilegious murder came back to her,—and now her own unprotected position. She rose and hurried back to the cloister.
On the way she met Father Tuathal. He stopped and looked anxiously at her, then spoke with some hesitation: “I would counsel thee, my daughter, to stay close by the noble lady abbess in the convent. I know thou dost only journey forth on errands of mercy, but this is a wild land, and now it is ruled by a heathen overlord and king. The jarls of Erik’s court do say, over their ale—”
“Oh my father!”—Maidoch pleaded, “I have heard what they do say. But my lord will return soon—soon.”
“I pray God he may!”
“And until then I will stay within the convent walls.”
“It were far better for thee, my daughter,” and troubled and anxious, Father Tuathal passed on.
Maidoch walked rapidly back to the convent. More than once she was conscious of the bold stare of some chieftain who loitered upon the streets of Nidaros. Fear and sorrow filled her soul. Why did not Thorgills return? Why was she so desolate, so surrounded with dangers in this rough land? Perhaps God had punished her for her too great longing for her own land. Had not Father Meilge—now a holy martyr—had he not told her that her work for Christ was to be there, and still she had grieved and grieved; and when she had wedded the faithful lord who had loved her so tenderly, she had shut away her heart from him and had served him in silence and in sadness. Now he was gone! She was alone! Now she knew by the hunger of her own heart how great was the loss that had fallen upon her life.