King Olaf's Kinsman: A Story of the Last Saxon Struggle against the Danes in the Days of Ironside and Cnut — John Shaqi
King Olaf's Kinsman: A Story of the Last Saxon Struggle against the Danes in the Days of Ironside and CnutWhistler, Charles W. (Charles Watts)
General
King Olaf's Kinsman: A Story of the Last Saxon Struggle against the Danes in the Days of Ironside and Cnut
Whistler, Charles W. (Charles Watts)
Olav II, King of Norway, 995-1030 -- Fiction
Then she rose up while the old steward took the wine and tried to
force it between the close-set teeth, and she called the farm
servants to her.
"Make ready all the horses and yoke the oxen to the wains," she
said in a clear voice that would not tremble. "Send the lads to
warn the village folk to fly beyond the river. For Grinkel comes
not in this wise for nought. The Danes are on us."
Now I remember the grim faces of the men as they went, and I
remember the look on the faces of the women as they heard, and in
the midst of us seemed to lie terror itself glaring from the set
eyes of the dead warrior. And of those memories I will say
nought--I would not have them live in the minds of any by day and
night as they lived in mine for many a long year thereafter. Many
were the tales I had heard of the coming of Ingvar's host in the
days of Eadmund our martyred king, who was crowned here at Bures in
our own church, and those tales were terrible. Now the like was on
us, and I saw that what I had heard was not the half.
The old steward rose up now, shaking his head in sorrow. I think he
was too old for fear.
"Grinkel is dead, lady," he said gently, closing the wild eyes as
he spoke, and then throwing a cloak from the wall over him. But my
mother only said, "May he rest in peace. What of the Thane?"
Thereat the steward looked forthright into his lady's face, and
spoke bravely for all around to hear:
"Doubtless the levy is broken for this once, and he bides with Earl
Ulfkytel to gather a new and stronger force. The Thane has sent
Grinkel on, and he has ridden in over-much haste for a wounded man.
He was ever eager."
My mother gave back her old servant's look in silence, and seemed
to assent. Yet I, though I was but a lad of sixteen, could see what
passed in that look of theirs. I knew that surely my father had
fallen, and that need was great for haste.
Then was hurry and hustle in the house as all that was most
valuable was gathered, and I myself could but take my arms from the
wall, and don mail-shirt and helm and sword and seax {2} and
then look on, useless enough, with my thoughts in a whirl all the
time.
Presently out of their tangle came one thing clearly to me, and
that was that there were others whom I loved to be warned, besides
the villagers.
My mother came into the hall again, and stood for a moment like a
carven statue looking at the maidens who wrought at packing what
they might. She had not wept, but in her face was written sorrow
beyond weeping. Yet almost did she weep, when I stood beside her
and spoke, putting my hand on her arm.
"Mother," I said, "I must go to Wormingford and warn them also. My
horse will be ready, and I will return to you."
Then she looked at me, for as I go over these things I know that
this was the first time that I had ever said to her "I must,"
without asking her leave, in aught that I would do. And she
answered me calmly.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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