The North Star/Chapter 3
III
“BY THE BEARD OF BRAGE”
The hall of the Jomsvikings was wild with riotous mirth, although it was a funeral feast for the father of Earl Sigvalde. With ale and wassail and boar’s-head, they had gathered together to comfort the earl for the death of his parent, whose funeral cortège had been, that evening at twilight, placed on the burning ship and set adrift far down the Oder. Jarl Sigvalde, the chief, sat at the head of the table, while the men drank and ate heartily. He took his long bronze drinking-horn, which hung around his neck by a chain, and filled it full of mead.
“A toast! A toast to Brage!” the earl cried, rising from his seat. The vikings grew silent in a second. Something warlike was to follow. Some stirring adventure promised, when the toast to Brage was called; for he was the deity to whom the vows of war and combat were pledged. Earl Sigvalde’s voice thundered on the silence: “I swear, by the Beard of Brage, that the snows of three winters shall not see Jarl Haakon the overlord of Norway.”
A great cheer shook the oaken ceiling. “A wassail to Jarl Sigvalde!”
“Silence!” shouted the earl. The many potations of ale, mead, and the spicy Welsh bragget were setting his blood aflame. “Live not Jarl Haakon and I three years longer in Norway! Here by the Beard of Brage, I swear that if I die for it, Jarl Haakon shall fly from these shores. I drink the pledge to Brage!” He drained the deep horn to the last drop. Then he cried out even louder, “I swear it again, by the Spear of Odin and the Hammer of Thor, Jarl Haakon goes!” He stood still and waited. Then a hundred blond giants rose and swore after him, by the Beard of Brage, the Spear of Odin, and the Hammer of Thor, that Jarl Haakon should go.
A tall, straight figure rose before the earl.
“What is it, Vagn? Speak! Thy sword is ever first in combat and thy voice should be first in council.”
The gigantic follower of Sigvalde lifted his bronze drinking-horn to his lips. “When the day of com-bat comes, my Jarl, and our Jomsvikings turn out the tide of Jarl Haakon’s power, there is one for my sword to meet. By the Beard of Brage, I swear for the life of Thorkell Leira, my truest enemy.”
Hundreds of drinking-horns were raised. “A wassail to our brave Vagn; and speed the head of Thorkell Leira to his ax.”
Jarl Sigvalde rose again. “And who shall be overlord of Norway?”
A deep silence met the question. The Jarl filled the long drinking-horn and lifted it to his lips. “There wanders one afar, beyond the seas, of the race of Harold Fairhaired.”
A thousand men started to their feet. A thousand swords clashed against a thousand shields; and as their drinking-horns were drained, a thousand voices shouted lustily: “A wassail to King Olaf!” And as they swore and drank and clashed, one from among them crept out into the darkness. He ran to the shore, and jumping into a small boat rowed swiftly in the night.
Next morning Gutorm stood before Earl Haakon, and told him of the fierce oaths of Earl Sigvalde and his followers.
It came to pass, however, that next morning, when day broke and the Jomsvikings considered their pledges in the clear, cool light, they would gladly have been forsworn; but the war-arrow had already started on its rounds and had been stuck in every man’s door; and all the north shires of Norway were roused by the summons that Earl Haakon would meet the Earl of the Jomsvikings in a mighty sea-fight.