The North Star/Chapter 10
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GYDA’S TWO LOVES
As they walked along the river, Thorgills looked anxiously into Olaf’s face. “My King, I have joyed in thy joy, and I have sorrowed in thy sorrow. I can sound no true note of thy triumph now, for the fear of one false comrade in yon ship. It is the captain, Thore Klakka. I knew him for a traitor in Norway. He and his brood hated thy mother, and now he stands near to Jarl Haakon, the overlord, who rules in thy place.”
Olaf stood still, looking perplexed. “But thou didst tell me, Thorgills, that this captain,—how didst thou call his name?”
“Thore Klakka, my King.”
“This Thore came with a message from Sigvalde, my kinsman, and didst thou not think he brought me the word of welcome to my own kingdom?”
Thorgills shook his head. “So said he, my King, but I like not the man.”
“It may be that I shall not like the man either, Thorgills,” said Olaf, with a happy smile, “but I wot I will surely like his message. Come! come!” laying his hand affectionately on the scald’s shoulder, “thou art too ready to doubt. It is because of thy great love for me.”
Thorgills smiled back into Olaf’s happy face. “It doth puzzle me, my King, why the friend of Jarl Haakon should come to thee with report of thy welcome to Norway. Of a surety, he must know that the Norsemen will not hold Jarl Haakon in thy place, thou the son of kings, and Haakon but a poor jarl of the Trondelag. And if Jarl Haakon comes down, where will his vassals be? But I pray I am needlessly doubting. We will meet this captain. He hath four ships; and plans to take thee on his own back to Norway. But, my King, we will rest on our ‘Alruna,’ which is swifter than any ship that Thore hath, and so can outrun his treachery.”
“Nay! nay! Thorgills. Think not such dark thoughts on this hour that seems so bright to me.”
Thore Klakka was leaning over the side of his ship, looking curiously at the old city of Dublin. He marked how many monasteries rose up in their solemn, gray strength, and how many crosses stood like sentinels of Patrick’s faith. The oarsmen were idle and the crew was resting. Thore glanced up the street that led to the river. His bronze face took on a dark, red hue.
“It is he—the son of Trygge Olafsson,” he muttered. “He has his scald with him. A plague on that twanger of harp-strings. He looks at me as if he could see my soul, and could read there my compact with Jarl Haakon.”
Coming towards the ship, tall, athletic, kingly, handsome; strode Olaf, followed by Thorgills. As they came within hailing distance, Thore sprang to the centre of the ship. He clapped his hands loudly. The crew crowded around him.
“What see ye, Norsemen? Whocomes to claim his own?” He pointed to the majestic figure approaching. Truly he was a king! The linked steel and gold of his coat of mail shook out streams of light as he moved. His long blue cloak, richly embroidered in gold, fluttered in the strong wind. His golden, double-winged helmet shone radiantly, as did the glittering chain around his neck, from which hung a jewelled crucifix.
The crew stood in wonder, in awe even, at the sight of the mighty viking. They had surmised who he was, for the fame of the great son of Harold Fairhaired had been kept alive in Norway, with the tales of his prowess, his skill in arms, his beauty and his undaunted courage.
A great shout went up. “Who comes to us? Whose light will rise over Norraway? The North Star! The North Star! It is rising! A wassail to King Olaf!”
In the midst of the tumult Olaf sprang upon the deck. Thore Klakka grasped both his hands.
“Hail to the son of Trygge Olafsson! Hail to our shining North Star!”
Again the shout went up. “A wassail to King Olaf!”
The bronze drinking-cups were brought out and filled: and drained with lusty cheers. As Olaf took his horn into his hand, the sight of the familiar Norse cup of festivity caused his full heart to almost overflow. His hands trembled, his lips quivered, and a choking lump rose in his throat. Home! Norraway! Back to his own land as king! A mist of tears rose to his eyes. But he brushed them quickly aside, as he did all the softer emotions of the moment. Again he was a Norseman; and more, he was king of the Norsemen. He was the strong, subduing viking, and no sentiment must conquer him. He lifted the bronze horn and drained the ale to the last drop, though it burned his choking throat.
“Norraway! Norraway!” he shouted. “A wassail to our own land! To the sea and the sky! To the hills and the vales! To the fens and the fiords of Norraway!”
“Norraway! Norraway!” repeated the shouts of the crew, as they drained the horns. “A wassail to our own land! A wassail to our king! A wassail to King Olaf! The true overlord of Norway!”
As they feasted and rejoiced and paid homage to King Olaf, Eogan O’Niall came on board the “Aastrid.” Olaf rose up gladly when he saw the young Celtic chief. The news of the North and the ale of the North had both exhilarated the Norseman, and he rang out a welcome to his friend.
“Thou art happily come, my Hogan. Come, pledge a health with me! But thy sad face doth not match my mood. Thou didst speak with the princess, my wife?”
“I did, Sir Chief,” Eogan replied slowly.
“What said she?” The ring was dying out of Olaf’s voice. Something in Eogan’s face forewarned him.
The young Chief O’Niall bowed his head reverently and spoke softly: “I told the princess of the eoming of the ‘Aastrid.’ Before I could say further, she cried out, ‘His mother’s name! It is the sign of our departure.’ ‘Aye, Princess,’ I said, ‘and the sign of thy crowning as queen in Olaf’s own kingdom’ She shook her head. ‘No! no! it will never be. I would rather be a simple chief’s wife in my own little Isle than queen of every kingdom of the Northland. O Eogan! if only Olaf would not feel it were his right and his duty to reign in Norway! O Christ, help me to be brave! But these two loves, when they tear each other in my heart, they well-nigh slay me. O Erne! my country!—O Olaf! my Prince!’—And when I stooped to hear the words that were so faint, I could feel no breath—and, Prince, thy Gyda has no need to choose between her loves, for she has given them all up at once.”
With a cry, terrible to hear from his strong throat, Olaf broke from his merry Norsemen and striding up the street, flung himself into the palace.
Weeping women stood around the body of Gyda, as the tall king threw himself on the remains of all that was lovely in life, and shed hot, bitter tears on this the day of his great hope’s fruition.