The Long Ships (23 page)

“King Harald,” said Orm, and his voice sounded strangely unhappy, “I am not willing to be a party to such a contest.”

They all stared at him in amazement, and Sigtrygg and a number of King Sven’s followers burst out laughing.

King Harald shook his head sadly and said: “If you are afraid to fight, then there is no alternative but that you surrender your chain to him and hope that it may divert his wrath. To my ears, your voice had a bolder tone in it than this a few minutes ago.”

“It is not the fighting that worries me,” said Orm, “but the cold. I have always been a man of delicate health, and cold is the thing that I can least endure. Nothing is more dangerous for my health than to go out from a hot room, after heavy drinking, into the cold night air, especially now that I have spent so many years in southern climes and am unaccustomed to the northern winter. I do not see why, to please this Sigtrygg, I should have to endure being racked with coughs for the rest of the winter; for coughs and colds tend to hang about me, and my mother always used to say that they would be the death of me if I did not take good care of myself. Therefore, O King, I humbly propose that the fight take place here, in the hall, before your table, where there is plenty of space, and where you yourself will be able to enjoy the spectacle in comfort.”

Many of those present laughed at Orm’s anxiety; but Sigtrygg did not join in their mirth, bellowing furiously that he would soon settle any fears Orm might cherish concerning his health. Orm, however, paid no attention to him, but remained quietly seated with his face turned toward King Harald, awaiting his decision.

At last King Harald said: “I am sorry to see that young men are growing soft nowadays. They are not what they used to be. The sons of Ragnar Hairy-Breeks never bothered about such trivial considerations as their health or the weather; nor, indeed, did I myself, in my younger days. Really, I do not know of any young man today who is of the old mettle, apart from Styrbjörn. I confess, however, that, now that I am old, it would be a convenience for me to be able to watch the fight without having to move from my present chair. It is lucky that the Bishop is ill in bed, for he would never permit this to take place; still, I do not see that the peace that we have come here to celebrate can be said to be broken by anything to which I give my assent; nor do I think that Christ could have any objection to a contest of skill, provided it be conducted with due propriety and the correct formalities. Therefore let Orm and Sigtrygg fight here in the cleared hall before my table, with sword and shield, helmet and chain shirt; and let no man assist them, except with the putting on of their armor. If one of them be killed, the matter is decided; but if either of them be no longer able to stand upright, or throw down his sword, or seek shelter beneath the tables, his adversary shall not continue to strike at him, for he shall then be deemed to have lost the fight and the chain with it. And I and Styrbjörn and Hallbjörn my groom shall see that the contest is fairly fought.”

The men hastened to fetch armor for Orm and Sigtrygg, and the noise in the hall was very great as the rival merits of the champions were extolled and challenged. King Harald’s men deemed Orm the better fighter of the two, but King Sven’s men were loud in Sigtrygg’s praise and said that he had slain nine men in single combat without sustaining a single wound serious enough to require bandaging. Among those who talked loudest was Dyre. He asked Orm whether he was not afraid that the cold of the grave might make him cough; then he turned to his brother and bade him be content to have Orm’s chain for his share of the compensation and allow him, Dyre, to have Orm’s sword.

All this while, since they had first interrupted his story, Toke had been sitting in heavy silence mumbling to himself and drinking; but when he heard Dyre’s words, life seemed to return into his brain. He plunged his eating-knife into the table in front of Dyre’s place, so that it stood quivering in the wood, and tossed his sword, still in its sheath, beside the knife; then he leaned forward across the table, so quickly that Dyre had no time to draw away, seized him by the ears and the beard on his cheeks, and forced his face downwards toward the weapons, saying: “Here you see weapons as good as Orm’s; but if you wish to have them, you must win them yourself and not beg them from another.”

Dyre was a strong man, and he took hold of Toke’s wrists and tried to dislodge his grip, but only succeeded in intensifying the pressure on his ears and beard, so that he groaned and grunted but could not free himself.

“I am holding you here in amicable converse,” said Toke, “because I have no wish to disturb the King’s peace in this hall. But you shall not go free till you have promised to fight with me, for Red-Jowl likes not to hide her beauty from men’s eyes when her sister dances naked.”

“Let me go,” snarled Dyre, his mouth pressing against the table, “that I may waste no time in closing your mouth.”

“That is a promise,” said Toke, and as he spoke he released his grip and blew from between his fingers the wisps of beard that he had dragged from their roots.

The whole of Dyre’s face, apart from his ears, which were scarlet, was white with fury, and at first he seemed to have lost the power of speech. He rose slowly to his feet and said: “This matter shall be settled without delay; and your suggestion is a good one, for by this means my brother and I shall have a Spanish sword apiece. Let us go out and piss together, nor forget to bring our swords with us.”

“That was well spoken,” said Toke. “You and I can dispense with the formalities of kings. For your acceptance of my suggestion, I shall remain in your debt as long as you live; how long that may be, we shall shortly know.”

Then they descended the length of the King’s table, each on his opposite side, and strode shoulder to shoulder down the aisle between the long tables that faced each other across the hall, and out through one of the doors in the short wall at the bottom. King Sven saw them go and smiled, for it pleased him to see his men behave arrogantly, because this increased his fame and the fear in which his name was held.

Meanwhile Orm and Sigtrygg had begun to arm themselves for combat, and the part of the floor where they were to fight had been swept, so that they should not slip on the straw or stumble over the bones that had been thrown there for King Harald’s dogs to gnaw. The men who had been eating at the top and bottom of the hall now crowded forward to get a better view, squeezing into spaces on the benches and the long tables on both sides of the cleared square, as well as behind King Harald’s table and along the wall on the remaining side. King Harald was in high good humor and could scarcely wait for the fight to begin; and when, on turning his head, he noticed two of his women peeping eagerly in at one of the doors, he issued a command that all his women and daughters should come and watch the sport; for it would be a hard thing, he said, if they should be denied the pleasure of witnessing such a spectacle. He made room for some of them on his own royal bench, by his side and on his knees, and for others in the Bishop’s empty seat; the two most beautiful of his daughters, however, managed to find a space on either side of Styrbjörn and found nothing to complain of in the tightness of the crush that pressed them against him; they giggled coyly when he offered them ale, and drank it with a bold air. For those women who could not find room on the royal bench, another bench was placed behind the table in such a position that the King and his companions did not impede their view.

Hallbjörn the groom then commanded a fanfare to be blown, and called for silence. He proclaimed that everyone should keep absolutely still while the fight was in progress, and that no man might shout advice to the contestants, or throw anything into the arena. Both the contestants were now ready, and they entered the arena and stood facing each other. When it was seen that Orm held his sword in his left hand, an excited hubbub of discussion broke out, for a fight between one right-handed and one left-handed man provided difficulties for both of them, since it meant that the blows fell on their sword-arm sides, to which their shield offered less protection.

It was plain that neither of them was the sort of adversary that a man would choose to find himself pitted against; nor did either man appear to cherish any anxiety regarding the outcome of the contest. Orm was half a head taller than Sigtrygg and had the longer reach, but Sigtrygg was more squarely built and looked rather the more powerful man of the two. They held their shields well forward across their breasts and high enough to be able to cover their necks promptly, should the necessity arise; and each kept his eyes fixed on his opponent’s sword, so as to be able to anticipate the other’s blows. As soon as they came within striking distance of one another, Orm aimed a slash at Sigtrygg’s legs, but Sigtrygg evaded the blow nimbly and replied with a vicious swing that landed with a ringing crash on Orm’s helmet. After this opening, both men proceeded more cautiously, parrying each other’s blows skillfully with their shields, and King Harald was heard to observe to his women that it was good to see experienced swordsmen such as these at work, instead of the sort who rushed crazily into the fight leaving themselves open; for this meant that the spectacle would last longer.

“It is no easy thing to forecast which of these two is likely to prove the master,” he said. “But the red man looks to me to be as safe a swordsman as I have seen for many a month, for all his fear of the cold; and I shall not be surprised if Sven is one kinsman the poorer tonight.”

King Sven, who, like both the jarls, was sitting on the edge of the table to get a better view of the fight, smiled contemptuously and retorted that nobody who knew Sigtrygg need have any fears regarding the outcome. “Although my men are not averse to the sport of armed combat,” he said, “it is seldom that I lose one of them, except when they fight against one another.”

As he spoke, Toke re-entered the hall. He was limping badly and could be heard muttering a verse to himself; and as he climbed over the bench to his place, it could be seen that one of his legs was black with blood from his thigh to his knee.

“How went it with Dyre?” asked Sigurd Buesson.

“It took time,” replied Toke; “but he finished pissing at last.”

Everybody’s eyes were now on the fight, which Sigtrygg seemed eager to bring to a quick conclusion. He was attacking Orm savagely, trying to pierce his defense and concentrating on his legs and face and the fingers of his sword-hand. Orm was defending himself ably, but did not appear to be able to achieve anything very positive himself; and it could be seen that he was having trouble with Sigtrygg’s shield. This was larger than his own and was of tough wood, strengthened with leather; only the center boss was of iron, and Orm had to take care that his sword should not become embedded in the edge of the shield, for if that were to happen, it would give Sigtrygg the chance to snap it or wrench it from his grasp by a twist of his arm. Orm’s shield was made entirely of iron, with a sharp spike in its center.

Sigtrygg sneeringly asked Orm whether it was warm enough for him. Blood was pouring down Orm’s cheek from the first blow on his helmet, and he had besides received a thrust in the leg and a slash across the hand, while Sigtrygg was still unmarked. Orm made no reply, but retreated step by step alongside one of the long tables. Crouching behind his shield, Sigtrygg moved swiftly in to the attack, padding forwards and occasionally leaping to one or the other side, while his blows rained ever the more fiercely, so that it seemed to most of the spectators that the end could not now be far distant.

Then Orm suddenly sprang at his opponent and, taking Sigtrygg’s blow on his sword, drove his shield against Sigtrygg’s with all his strength, so that the spike on his own shield pierced through the leather and into the wood and remained embedded there. He forced the shields downwards so hard that the handles of both of them snapped, whereupon the two men both took a step backwards, freed their swords, and, leaping high into the air, slashed at each other in the same instant. Sigtrygg’s blow struck Orm in the side, piercing his chain shirt and causing a deep wound; but Orm’s sword buried itself in Sigtrygg’s throat, and a great shout filled the hall as the bearded head flew from its shoulders, bounced on the edge of the table, and fell with a splash into the butt of ale that stood at its foot.

Orm staggered, and supported himself against the table. He wiped his sword across his knee, replaced it in its sheath, and gazed down at the headless body lying at his feet.

“Now you know,” he said, “whose chain it is.”

1.
The father of King Canute the Great.

2.
A good poet and a strong fighter, who is supposed to have ended his days in America.

THE FIGHT for the necklace was busily discussed throughout the palace—in the hall, the kitchens, and the women’s chambers. All those who had witnessed it were careful to store away in their memories everything that had been said and done, so as to have a good story to tell other men in the years to come. Orm’s feat in pinning his opponent’s shield was particularly praised, and on the next evening Styrbjörn’s Icelander recited some verses in
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on the danger of losing one’s head in ale. It was generally agreed that such sport as this was not to be enjoyed every Yule, even at King Harald’s court.

Orm and Toke, however, were confined to bed on account of their wounds and could take little pleasure in anything during the next few days, though Brother Willibald used his most soothing salves upon their injured places. Toke’s wound began to fester, making him delirious and violent, so that four men were needed to hold him down while Brother Willibald dressed it; and Orm, who had had two of his ribs broken and had lost a quantity of blood, was feeling very sore and enfeebled, and lacked his usual appetite. This last he took to be an evil symptom, and one that boded ill for his recovery; and he became very downhearted.

King Harald had ordered one of his best bedchambers to be prepared for them, with a walled fireplace to warm it, and hay instead of straw in the mattresses. Many of the King’s men, and Styrbjörn’s also, came to see them on the day after the combat, to discuss the previous evening’s happenings and chuckle over King Sven’s discomfiture. They made the room very crowded and noisy, and Brother Willibald had to rebuke them and finally drive them out; so that Orm and Toke were not sure whether it was more dispiriting to have company or to be left to their solitude. Shortly after this they lost the comradeship of their own men, who were all anxious to return home now that the Christmas feasting was over; all, that is, save One-Eyed Rapp, who was an outlaw in the Lister country and so preferred to remain at Jellinge. After a few days, a storm having blown up and dispersed the ice, King Sven put sullenly out to sea with few words of farewell. Styrbjörn, too, took his leave of King Harald, being anxious to lose no time in recruiting men for his spring expedition; and Orm’s men obtained permission to sail part of the way with them, paying for their passage by taking their turn at the oars. Styrbjörn would have liked Orm and Toke to join his company. He came in person to visit them in their chamber and said that they had made a good contribution to the Yule festivities and that it would be a pity if they were now to spend a week in bed for the sake of a few scratches.