The Black Jarl

Front matter

(Cover, Argosy Magazine, 1 January 1923)

The Black Jarl By Johnston McCulley Author of "The Mark of Zorro," "Hooked," etc.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

CHAPTER I.

SVEND THE BLOODY.

BILLOW upon billow the mist rolled away from the fiord, up over the rocky beach, over the wooded slope, on and up into the hills where the dense green forest shielded black aisles in which wild beasts frolicked and evil spirits outcast by Odin and Thor held sinister sway.

Now the waters of the fiord danced and sparkled in the sudden glory of the rising sun, and sea fowl commenced their raucous squawkings as they breakfasted and fought. Sleepy thralls appeared about the great establishment of Svend the Bloody, the big log house at the edge of the dark forest with its half score of smaller out buildings. Smoke issued from vents in the sloping roof. The odor of scorching meat stole through the air.

The huge gates were thrown open and dogs charged forth to snap and snarl at one another as they took their morning run. Sheep and swine wandered slowly toward the edge of the wood for forage. Horses fed in the clearing.

The rays of the bright sun glanced from metal as a man at arms shifted battle-ax from shoulder to shoulder. A shield maiden came forth in gleaming corselet and bright kirtle and heavy sandals, her fair hair streaming down her back and almost to her knees. She followed a trail through the brush to a rushing stream that tumbled down from the hills—the bathing place of the maidens, where they plunged, laughing and shouting, into the melted ice and snow.

Far away on the headland, a tall and slender thrall stood to his feet as the mist rose out of the sea, shaded his eyes with his hands, and looked long at the ship in the offing. Then he buckled his leather belt tighter, made certain that his sandals were secure, turned, inhaled a deep breath—and ran.

He was high above the shore of the fiord, yet he knew the country well. And not for nothing had he been named the Swift. His elbows glued to his sides, his head bent slightly backward, his torso held straight—he knew the proper method of running, albeit that it was natural with him and not a thing acquired.

On he ran, skipping brooks where the melted snow had come down from the headlands to swell the flood. He darted through second growth timber that had grown since the great fire in the forest years before. He sprang over jumbles of rocks and fought the tangling vines and tall ferns.

On he ran; and now he descended rapidly toward the level of the water. In the far distance he could see curls of smoke from the chimneys of the house of Svend the Bloody. The thrall's breathing was more rapid now, and the perspiration streamed down his cheeks and along his throat. His hands were clenched so that the nails bit into the palms. Still he ran, nor slackened his speed, knowing well what would occur if he did.

Presently he reached the rocky beach and went forward at a much greater pace, darting to this side and that to avoid the rougher places. Once he stumbled, but caught himself before he fell. Again he staggered, but when his knees and palms touched the ground he sprang erect again, crouched, and once more he ran.

Now he was compelled to swim a swift stream some thirty feet in width. Emerging on the opposite bank, he took a deep breath and hurried on. Dogs barked and ran to race with him, snapping at his heels. Other thralls squinted their eyes as he passed, for greater expression of interest was denied them and might bring a blow. Men in armor shouted at him, and men at arms, but the thrall gave no heed. He had important news for Svend the Bloody, and for no other man. And as he ran hope sang in his breast—hope of reward.

The ship had been reported just at dusk the night before, and had anchored to await the coming of the dawn. Svend the Bloody had sent his thrall to the headland to watch for the day and carry true news. Now, in the great hall of the house, Svend sat with his back against the thick wall, eating his morning meat. Cringing thralls served him. Magnus, his chief lieutenant, sat at his elbow and imitated him. There was no talk, no sound save of men eating with no regard for table manners.

The thrall dashed through the huge log gates and into the great hall. Almost breathless, he prostrated himself before Svend. Another hundred feet he could not have gone. He gasped for breath and hoped that his master would give him a moment before causing him to speak.

Svend the Bloody put aside the joint of half-cooked meat from which he had been eating. He scraped his giant hands on the edge of the board and looked down at the thrall. Magnus, his lieutenant, copied Svend's actions.

"Speak!" Svend commanded.

The thrall raised his head and gulped for breath with which to give the message.

"Master, I saw the ship in the first rays of the sun," he said.

"It is my ship?"

"It is, master!"

"The one that I sent to Gaul?"

"Even that one, master," the thrall replied. "I know the ship well. When she was building, I worked on her with the others. It is the ship, and none other."

Svend the Bloody got upon his feet and moved slowly forward. He was a giant of a man even in that land of giants, with the shoulders of an ox. His fair hair and shaggy beard were noted for their length. He clenched his hands and flexed the muscles of his great arms, then stood for a moment with his hairy fists planted against his hips, looking down at the thrall.

"It is the news that I expected," Svend said. "You made fair speed here as soon as you were sure?"

"I ran with all my strength, master, to fetch the news."

"You have done well," Svend the Bloody told him. "It is your moment of triumph! You, a thrall, a common slave, have carried important news to your master. You deserve a reward!"

The eyes of the thrall glistened.

"If only that I might see my Normandy again, master!" he begged. "If I might but have my freedom now, and permission to go to my home on some ship—"

Svend the Bloody suddenly laughed raucously, and Magnus joined in. The big jarl's merriment rang back, from the thick walls. Though it was laughter, yet the thrall felt a shiver of fear.

"So you would leave your kind master and the fair land in which he rules!" Svend said. "Thrall, this is your hour of triumph, as I have said. You have done well. Were you to continue on earth, you might mar that fair record."

"Master!" The thrall was alarmed now.

"You are a swift messenger, and Odin has need of such," Svend continued. "We are not supposed to make sacrifices to him now, so our king, Olaf Trygvesson, says. That half-Christian monarch who is building him a city at Trondhjem would tell free-born jarls their manner of conduct in things religious. Yet such a deed as this of yours calls for a sacrifice."

"Master!" the thrall wailed.

"And so, Magnus," the jarl continued, turning to the man beside him, "we are compelled to conduct ourselves with strategy. An indirect sacrifice, as a man might say. Should not this thrall be sent to the thralls' Valhalla, wherever that is, in the moment of his greatness?"

"Nothing could be more appropriate, Svend," Magnus replied, laughing.

The thrall began whimpering. He was still trembling from his long, hard run. And now he trembled also for quite another reason. Svend the Bloody allowed the expression of merriment to die out of his face, His eyes narrowed and his brow wrinkled. He bent forward quickly and grasped the thrall, and lifted him from the floor.

"Master! I did my best—"

"Yet there must be a sacrifice, and you are the nearest," said Svend. "Fool, to think that it was good news you brought! By the hammer of Thor, it was ill news, thrall! Think you that I rejoice at the approach of the son of Haakon the Lover? Men may think so, but it is not true. And now you have heard me say too much, and so—"

"Master!"

"Your breath is half gone already, and 'twill take no great blow to rob you of the rest of it!"

Svend the Bloody drew back bis right hand, doubled his fist, and launched it forward. There came a scream of pain, the crunching of breaking bones. Svend the Bloody tossed the quivering body of the thrall to one side.

"Not quite dead at the blow, but he will be before the sun is much higher," Svend said. "I wished to see whether I still could slay a man with a single blow. Magnus, we must out and welcome the ship. Be careful of your countenance, that men may not guess the truth."

"So he has come!" Magnus said.

"Do not taunt me with it! Can I do less than make him welcome, my brother's son? Is he not a jarl in his own right? Yet did his father wed and live his life in the southland, and now that he is gone the son returns to claim the rights of a jarl here. I fear that we may tread on each other's sandals."

"You have but to say the word—"

"And you would take your ax to him as he sleeps? It will not do! After all, he is my brother's son—and King Olaf might ask questions. Perchance this young man does not know that half my estates of a right belong to him. His father was called Haakon the Lover, because of his softness. The son may be as soft and can be bent to our will."

For a moment he paced back and forth, busy with thought, his brow a thundercloud. Then he stopped his pacing and raised his voice.

"Eric!" he called.

There was a moment of silence, and then another thrall came slowly through the open door. He was a giant, almost as huge as Svend the Bloody. Eric the Dumb, he was called by men, and there was good reason for it. He had been captured while but a boy, during a Viking raid in Normandy, and the horror of that night had struck him. Thick witted he was, his mind and tongue moving slowly. He did not remember his name and station. So Svend had named him Eric in derision, after a foe he hated particularly.

Eric the Dumb folded his arms across his great chest and stood waiting. His eyes strayed once toward the quivering thing on the floor.

"Take that carrion out of here and throw it from the cliff!" Svend commanded in a loud voice.

Then the jar] stalked from the room and into the open, followed by Magnus.

Eric the Dumb uttered a little cry of pain that could not have been heard more than a dozen feet away. He bent over the quivering body of the thrall and made a swift examination. Then he turned his head toward the doorway, and a flash of hate came from his eyes. The dying thrall had been his best friend, and Eric the Dumb would not forget!

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

A MAN COMES OUT OF GAUL.

ALREADY the ship was coming down the fiord. She was a picture of a ship, some hundred and seventy feet from stem to stern and seventeen feet wide. Her sails were furled, and cascades of watery gems flashed in the sun as the big oars worked through the sixteen oar openings.

Down on the shore, those of the establishment of Svend the Bloody made ready the welcome. It was a long time since this great ship had been sent away, to loot, to trade, and to return to the land of his father Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover. Wherefore, women crowded the water front to greet husbands and sons they had not seen for long, some of them fearing and all hoping, for not always did all of a ship's company return from a perilous voyage.

Thralls rushed this way and that preparing for the landing. Shield maidens strutted back and forth across the rocky beach. Their eyes glinted as they looked at one another, and with reason. Edvard Haakonsson, so report said, was as yet unmarried. It was to be expected that he soon would take one to wife. And he was a man worth the winning.

Edvard Haakonsson was a jarl and heir to broad estates. Moreover, he had been born and reared in that land far to the south, where, it was whispered, men had delicious manners. They were great lovers, those men of the foreign land. And was not this Edvard's father known as Haakon the Lover?

Not a man or woman in the establishment of Svend the Bloody but knew the story. Years before, Haakon had gone on a Viking cruise, and he never had returned. He had met a maid in the land to the south, had wooed and won her, and there he had remained to make his home. The northland called to him in vain.

And now he was dead, and his wife also, and Edvard, their son, alone remained of the family. Wherefore he was returning to claim his place in the land of King Olaf.

There was much speculation among the maidens, and not a little among the men. Haakon the Lover had been a giant of a man, with long fair hair, a proper brother of Svend the Bloody so far as strength was concerned. Yet his great frame protected the heart of a woman. He had been kind alike to men at arms and thralls. He had been known to weep at the death of a close friend in battle. And a great love had softened him.

Edvard Haakonsson, these people of Svend's supposed, would be another such giant. Yet in his blood flowed the influence of the soft land to the south. Perchance his great frame, too, would hide the heart of a woman. Yet he was a jarl!

Now the great ship was approaching the landing place, and men and women shouted their greetings. Thralls waded out into the water, ready to be of service in the landing. There would be great casks of wine to be taken ashore and carried to the big house, they knew. There would be bundles of other things fetched from the lands to the south. The homecoming meant naught but much work for the thralls. Yet there would be a great feast at which Svend the Bloody welcomed his kinsman, and then the thralls would have their share, eating on the floor with the hounds.

Down to the beach Svend the Bloody stalked in company of Magnus. He had forced a smile to his face, and Magnus likewise. They stood aloof, and others gave them space.

"He will be a hulk of a man with the heart of a sheep," Svend said, in low tones. "Such a man was his father, my brother. My mother must have been under the curse of Odin when my brother was born. By the hammer of Thor—"

"The ship is handled well," Magnus put in, hoping to change the other's manner.

"Let us hope that she brings a cargo of profit, since she brings this other also," Svend whispered. "I must be under a curse myself. This, and the command to wait upon King Olaf at Trondhjem, and the activities of the cursed priests with their cross—"

"I have a thought!" Magnus said. "This nephew of yours, Svend, comes from a land where the Christians rule. Do you think it possible—"

"That he be a Christian?" Svend thundered. "A man of my blood? Fool my brother may have been, and soft, but he died in the grace of Odin and went to Valhalla in a viking funeral ship. That much I know! Would he allow his son to be a follower of the Christ? No more words of this! It were an insult even to ask the lad. And, after all, he is a jarl!"

Now the ship was near to the land, and the oars were in. The craft drifted slowly toward the landing place. The thralls were up to their knees in tie water, to their thighs, their necks, waiting to help. On the deck of the craft were cheering mariners and men-at-arms. Frantic women called to their loved ones. Others lifted high above their heads babes that had been born since their fathers had sailed away.

The ship grounded, and the thralls pulled her broadside to the land. Over the side tumbled a score of men in armor, to wade through the surging waters and so claim the dry land. They shouted, brandished their weapons, laughed and called round oaths because they were home again.

Over the side of the ship the end of a landing stage appeared. Sailors thrust it outward and lowered it, until its end rested on the land.

"What is this?" Svend roared. "Is there a man aboard who cannot jump into the water and swim or wade to land?"

"Perhaps there are captive women," said Magnus.

"Even so! Has the day come when a man cannot pack a captive woman on his back? This is a touch of that southern softness, by the hammer of Thor!"

Svend the Bloody started to make his way toward the landing, and Magnus stalked at his heels. Svend was in an ugly mood, though he endeavored not to show it. He cuffed thralls out of his way. He struck a shield maiden aside, and she snarled at him, and put her hand to the dagger at her waist. Svend laughed and cuffed her again.

A child was in his path, and he kicked it aside. A girl, shouting to one of the sailors, was hurled back into the throng. So Svend the Bloody made his way down to the shore and the end of the landing stage.

"Hail, Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover!" the crowd was shouting. "Hail, Edvard Haakonsson!"

The ship was fast. At the top of the landing stage appeared her master. He turned to shout orders to those behind him. And then he walked slowly down to the beach, a giant of a man in armor and helmet, his fair beard blowing back over one shoulder. A dagger was in his girdle, an ax was fastened to his belt. The muscles stood out in knots on his bare legs beneath his mail.

Above him were other men-at-arms, swords and axes gleaming, bows, arrows, and spears near at hand. Some were armed with javelins, light and deadly weapons in the hands of those skilled in their use. They shouted, and then they were still. Their commander walked on down the landing stage, which bent beneath his tread.

"Hail, Svend!" he called, lifting a hand.

"Hail, Rolf! What of the voyage?"

"One profitable raid, and only five men missing," the ship's commander replied. "Much of value have we aboard to be landed."

"Once more you have done well," Svend declared. "And—my kinsman?"

"Is aboard and ready to land and be greeted," Rolf replied.

The ship's commander now was at the foot of the landing stage. Svend clasped him for a moment by the hand, then stood back and spoke in low tones.

"What manner of man?"

"A most peculiar one," Rolf answered. "He is one not to be judged hastily. A man may make his decision at a first glance, and find later that he has decided amiss."

"Let him land! We wait to welcome him!" Svend said.

Rolf turned and lifted his hand. Down the landing stage trooped half a score of men-at-arms, eager to be ashore. They touched the land and stood aside, making an aisle.

"Edvard Haakonsson, come to land!" Svend the Bloody called.

The throng ashore stilled its tumult. Every eye was upon the top of the landing stage. A man appeared there.

Came a gasp from those on the shore.

"He is black of hair!"

"A black jarl, we have!"

"And small! Little in stature!" a woman cried.

Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover, stopped for a moment at the top of the landing stage. He looked at those below him, and his teeth flashed in a smile. He stood in silhouette, and those below had their good look at him.

"By the hammer of Thor!" Svend swore, lightly.

For Edvard Haakonsson did not wear gleaming mail. His bare arms were not crowded with bracelets to show his jarl's rank. His legs were incased in cloth, and he wore a jacket. No helmet was upon his head, but that thing known as a hat. He was a picture of the lazy and woman-hearted land to the south.

Again he smiled, and then he swept down the landing stage like the breath of a gale. His movements were quick. His eyes were glistening, he glanced rapidly from side to side. He came to a stop before Svend and Magnus, and looked up at them.

"You are Edvard Haakonsson, my kinsman?" Svend demanded as though he hoped it were not true.

"I am. And you are Svend, brother of my father!"

"It is so," Svend agreed. "Welcome to the land of your fathers! May Odin give you long life and Thor lend you his hammer against your enemies! My house stands open for you!"

Without another word, Svend the Bloody turned his back and stalked through the crowd, Magnus beside him. Edvard Haakonsson followed beside Rolf. The crowd fell back to let them pass. Thralls gazed at the black jarl, wide eyed. Eric the Dumb showed a flash of interest, because this man was in part like the men of his own land. The shield maidens with their helmets of gleaming silver smiled upon him. Small he was, and black, yet he was a jarl!

They crowded forward closer to look at him. A girl stumbled and fell under his feet. But Edvard Haakonsson did not kick her out of the way and shower oaths upon her. He stopped, gave an exclamation, reached down, and gently lifted her to her feet. He brushed some dust from her kirtle, laughed lightly, and then walked on.

"By Odin!" swore Svend the Bloody, who had noticed the incident. "He is as soft as his father! Magnus, did you see?"

"I saw!" Magnus replied.

"He stoops—he, a jarl—to lift from the earth a maiden of no rank at all! These be soft southern ways! There are certain things that this pretty black jarl must be taught! I suppose he would pet a thrall!"

Magnus laughed. "Any of the shield maidens could defeat him in combat," the lieutenant said.

Edvard had dropped a few feet behind and was looking back at the ship. And now Rolf bent forward and dropped a few words into Magnus's ear.

"Do not be too quick to judge!" Rolf said. "I am no weakling, am I?"

"By Thor—no!"

"And you would think me able to take care of myself?"

"That goes without question."

"Yet were it not for this black jarl I would not be with you now," Rolf declared. "Once he saved my life in combat, and once he saved the ship in a storm, when the men were terrified and on the verge of mutiny and would not work the vessel!"

"This man?" Magnus gasped.

"That man!" Rolf said.

"A man of his small body?"

"Yet in that small body, Magnus, my friend, he has a thing that not all men possess in a great degree," Rolf declared.

"What is this thing he possesses of which you speak?"

"Brains!" answered Rolf. "Brains!"

Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.

A FEAST AND A COMBAT.

THROUGHOUT the long day, thralls worked at unloading the ship. Huge casks were carried to the storehouse of Svend the Bloody, and bundles of wares. The sailors and men-at-arms frolicked ashore. All made ready for the feast.

Inside the great house, Edvard Haakonsson was given an apartment of his own, where he refreshed himself after the voyage. And then he walked forth into the great hall again, to find Svend and Magnus and Rolf eating at the big board. He joined them, but he did not eat as they ate. Edvard, son of Haakon the Lover, had fastidious manners. Svend eyed him for a time in silence, while Magnus grinned into his grease soaked beard. And finally the Bloody one saw fit to speak.

"Our customs and manners are different from yours, Edvard," he said. "It is proper that you dress and conduct yourself here as we of the Norse do."

"That is agreed," Edvard said.

"You should dress as a man-at-arms, and on your bare arm wear the bracelets of your rank. Such dress as you now wear is fit only for women."

"I can change to armor, kinsman!"

"Do so before the feast," Svend said. "We grow rough here at times when there is feasting."

"And you would do well to watch those about you," Magnus put in. "Some may entice you to combat, to try your strength."

Edvard turned to look full at him. "I shall be ready," he said.

Magnus grunted and returned to his eating. The fact that there would be a feast that night did not prevent him eating his fill now. Svend the Bloody put aside a picked bone and leaned back against the wall.

"It is well, Edvard, that you know something of the times here among the Norse," he said.

"I am eager to learn," Edvard declared. His manner was somewhat puzzling. He acted like a man who knew more than he betrayed. Svend frowned, but continued his speech.

"Olaf Trygvesson, our king, is a good man in many ways, yet peculiar," Svend said. "The Christians have won him over, and he would win the remainder of us from Odin and Thor. He is building him a city at Trondhjem, and he has commanded that all jarls await upon him there. We have been waiting but for your arrival before setting out.

"There may be grave trouble," Svend continued. "There are jarls who have adopted this new religion, hoping thus to get favor from Olaf. Harald the Just may the curse of Odin be upon him!—is one such."

"And where lies his estate?" Edvard asked.

"Adjoining mine—that is to say but a night's march away," Svend replied. "We have been at warfare for countless moons. Our thralls fight when they meet in the woods. And here and there a dead warrior is found in the brush, with none to tell the manner of his death. Between the establishment of Harald the Just and mine there can be naught but enmity! It is well that you, my kinsman, should know this thing."

"I shall remember it," Edvard replied.

"We go to Trondhjem to see Olaf, but we go prepared. I shall take men-at-arms with me, and thralls, and pitch a camp outside the city. Olaf is giving a fair. But his real intention is to urge us to peace. 'Twould not surprise me if it be a bloody fair. Olaf may turn against the gods and cling to this new cross, but, by the hammer of Thor, he cannot turn all the jarls with him! Only a few week-kneed ones, who curry favor at the foot of the throne! Olaf perchance will not live to see his beard grow gray. This is the year 998, as the new religionists count it from the birth of their Christ. For three years has Olaf reigned, and for two wears has he been building his city. He is constructing what he calls a church, for this new worship. 'Twould serve him better if he constructed means of defense."

Svend the Bloody spoke bitterly, but he was watching Edvard closely meanwhile. And this kinsman who had come out of the south did not betray anything but polite interest.

"To-night we feast. Then a rest, and then we go to Trondhjem," Svend declared. "We go to the fair—and what happens! Jarl, you are a man of proper years, yet you are not wed. Have you put eye on maiden?"

"Not to any purpose," Edvard replied.

"It were well you did so. The estates of your father are on the other side of mine, but years ago I combined them. It would be a difficult thing to separate them now. It is in my mind that we allow them to remain as they are, and at my death you shall be jarl over all. I have no son."

"The thought pleases me," Edvard said. "The estates are in good hands."

Svend smiled for the first time. "Then it is proper that you take a maid to wife," he continued. "Let not yourself be found in the years of age without male issue. There is in my household the maid for you. She is a distant kinswoman, Brynhild by name, a shield maiden."

"Brynhild!" Edvard said.

"A glorious woman, jarl! Big and strong. She can swim the fiord. She has slain a bear with her hands alone. She is tall and straight, with fair hair that hangs below her knees. She would bear you strong sons."

"But this woman perchance would not wish to wed me," Edvard said.

"Not wed a jarl? When she has nothing but good birth, no fortune of her own? Not wed you—if I commanded?"

"But perchance I would not wish to wed her," Edvard said again. "If my heart did not warm toward her—"