The Honor of a King

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The Honor of a King

by Arthur Gilchrist Brodeur —A Complete Novelette

II

HENGIST sat in the high seat of the hall Finn had given him, communing with his gods. The tall back of his oaken throne brought them very near him, for they were carven out of the very wood of it. Behind Hengist’s right shoulder loomed the bearded head of Thor, god of strife and of vengeance; opposite Thor, on the left, smiled Frey, kindly lord of peace and plenty; in their midst and above them towered the torso of Odin, patron of princes, judge of feuds, wise father of the host of Heaven. Though the All-Father’s thick oak body formed the central part of the chair-back, his head, shaggy and helmeted, bent forward a foot above Hengist’s, ready to whisper counsel to him who sat in the throne of power. Of wisdom the god had a never-failing source, for on his shoulders were perched the images of his ravens, who croaked into his ear all the tidings of the world; and at his flanks fawned the two divine wolves, bearers of the news of battles and slayings. Their curved backs formed the arms of Hengist’s throne: so that behind, above, and on both sides he was surrounded by the divine knowledge and the divine strength.

Great was his need of both; and often had he sought them. The long Winter that had passed since his compact with Finn had eaten deep into his spirit. Young as he was, his cheeks were furrowed, and his brow was lined with bitter care. Both he and Finn had kept their bargain well; naught but fair words had passed between them, and Hengist and his warriors were rich with Frisian gold. In Finn’s wars against the Franks, the Danes had won great honor; but neither gold nor fame could ease the suffering in Hengist’s heart. He slept little; and whenever his exhausted body won sleep, his troubled mind brought before him the vision of Hnaf, bloody and mutilated, crying out for vengeance.

Revenge was the warrior’s first duty, the sacred obligation of a prince; yet Hnaf was dead, and Hengist, his sister’s son, had failed to avenge him. This was the source of Hengist’s trouble: it tortured him in every conscious moment of his life. He did not count it revenge that Finnlaf, the young Frisian prince who, all unwitting, had slain Hnaf, had himself fallen beneath Hnaf’s blade. That was fate; it did not touch the heart of the matter. It was the Jutes who were to blame for Hnaf’s slaughter, and for all that the Danes had suffered. And on the Jutes Hnaf had not been avenged. That Finn had hanged many of them availed Hengist nothing. That was punishment, not vengeance. A man must avenge his own—no other man can avenge for him. By sparing nine-tenths of the Jutes, by continuing to regard and reward them as his servants, Finn had virtually taken on himself the burden of their guilt. By preventing the Danes from renewing the feud, Finn, in the eyes of all Northern folk, had made himself, vicariously, Hnaf’s slayer. And Hengist had pledged his men—Hnaf’s men—to serve Finn. He had had no choice—but that did not mend matters. While the Jutes lived, the red spirit of Hnaf would haunt Hengist’s bed nightly, unable to rest under his grave-mound, though the fire had turned his bones to ashes.

And Hengist could not make the Jutes pay without breaking his oath of service to Finn. That oath had been sworn by all that was most sacred; and Finn’s nobility of soul made the obligations of the Danes to him still holier. If he had been a tyrant, the oath could have been broken with no loss of honor. But Finn was the most generous, the most just, the bravest of lords; wherefore their oath to him could not be broken without a treachery almost equal to that of the Jutes. If Hengist owed a sacred duty to Hnaf’s ghost, he owed a sacred duty to the living Finn.

Hnaf, in whose personal service Hengist had been from his fifth year, had always fostered the spirit of honor in his nephew.

“Courage,” he had often said, “all men have in some measure; it is honor and good faith that win the favor of the gods. Keep your word, if you would be esteemed a man!”

And now the counsel of the living Hnaf strove, in his nephew’s mind, with the dead Hnaf’s ghostly cries for vengeance. All the Winter it had been so, till Hengist’s heart was well-nigh eaten out.

The firelight flickered on the wooden faces of the gods, so that they seemed to nod and whisper to him. Yet no counsel came from their; oaken lips; their favor was turned from him.

The eastern door of the hall opened, letting in the pale sun of early Spring. Guthlaf and Oslaf entered, the fiercest of the Danish warriors. Brothers they were, deeply attached to each other; there had been a third brother, Hunlaf; but he had fallen beneath Wigstan’s knife just before the Jutish assault four months before. He had left a grown son, a strong young man and a brave soldier. This son had a name of his own, but none mentioned it. In their hot desire to avenge their brother, Guthlaf and Oslaf kept the flame of their wrath alive by calling the boy only “Son of Hunlaf,” and all the Danes followed their example. He was thus a living reminder of the unappeased ghosts of the Danish slain.

Hengist looked up, with no welcome in his eyes for these, his bravest officers. The trouble in his breast had been kept alive by their promptings; they would not let him forget that his uncle’s blood cried from the ground in vain. Nor could he bid them be silent, for they were graybeards, and a young man, whether prince or peasant, must yield reverence to his elders.

Straight to the dais they strode, their eyes gleaming with their bloody thoughts.

“It is Spring,” Guthlaf began; and “The harbor is clear of ice,” said Oslaf.

Hengist nodded gloomily.

“One might sail to Denmark now,” added Guthlaf; and in his turn his brother spoke again:

“Today came three ships from Jutland, bearing five hundred more Jutes to take service with Finn. Finn bade them swear to keep peace with us.”

“All this I know,” Hengist answered. “What is it to me?”

“Hnaf is dead,” Guthlaf rebuked him.

“By Odin, that too I know!” cried the harassed prince. “Is there an hour, a moment, that I do not think on it? Give me peace!”

“Our men yearn for home,” Oslaf took up the tale. “Most of them have left wives and children behind, whom they long to embrace once more. They think ever of the fair shores of Denmark, of the sea-girt islands and the green plains, of their friends and dear ones, and—of the shame and dis honor that clings to them here! Every gift they receive from Frisian hands, every glance from Jutish eyes, is a reminder that their king is dead—and unavenged!”

“I have sworn an oath to serve Finn,” Hengist retorted, angrily because his heart burned with the same grief and shame that consumed these two. “That oath binds me; you, who are my men, are bound by any covenant I make. My honor is involved, and my honor is yours.”

It was an argument he had used over and over to the two during that long Winter of suppressed bitterness; but this time Guthlaf and Oslaf were ready for it.

“It was an oath taken under compulsion,” Guthlaf asserted, “and such an oath binds no man. The duty to avenge a man’s murdered kin comes before any oath—surely before an oath extorted under the threat of Frisian spears!”

“Moreover, we are Danes, not Frisians!” Oslaf cried in sudden rage. “We stifle in this alien land! Are we never to see our homes again? Must we eat the bread of exile and drink our tears forever? Are we to lay our bones in Frisian soil, where none will mourn for us? Does your honor compel us to live in shame and die in misery? If you have not the spirit to avenge your dead, or the justice to let us avenge ours, at least give us leave to go home, where we may forget!”

Hengist was stung by the taunt, but his heart softened nonetheless. Well he knew the Dane’s love of his home—had not the sea-girt isles called to him also, all the bleak Winter long? Not a word had these men uttered that he too had not thought and felt, hour by hour, day by day. He longed for revenge as they did; he yearned, like them, for home. However the Dane might wander for trade or booty, he always returned to his hearth. If ever he were moved to settle in a foreign land, he must have wife and children with him, must set up the images of his gods at the gate of the new homestead, must give the familiar Danish names to hill and brook and plain. And here, in a land where every foot of ground was alien, every hamlet bore a Frisian name, there could be no home for Danes.

Guthlaf and Oslaf saw that their words had sunk deep, and wisely forbore to speak further.

“Send Sigurd to me,” Hengist said at last.

Oslaf strode to the door, but his brother remained. Soon Oslaf returned, Sigurd of the clan of the Sword-Danes at his side.

No man was more fearless, more cunning with the sword, than Sigurd; and none of the Danes was held so wise. All that Winter he had served his lord without a murmur, fighting at Hengist’s side under the Frisian banner; never had he, like the others, sought to influence his prince’s mind toward vengeance. No spot rested on Sigurd’s honor; and for his integrity and wisdom Hengist revered him above all men, cherishing his counsel. Now Hengist repeated to him all that Guthlaf and Oslaf had said.

“Give me of your wisdom,” the troubled prince concluded. “I know not what to do. To seek vengeance is to break my oath; to let my men go home is to break my word, since I have pledged them to Finn’s service. I have pondered on these things till my heart is dark, and my mind never the clearer.”

Sigurd, a huge man in the prime of life, stroked his flaming beard, and looked to Odin’s image for guidance.

“My lord,” he asked, “have not the gods advised you?”

“They speak not to me!” Hengist replied bitterly.

Sigurd frowned.

“When the gods will not answer, they are angry. You have kept faith with Finn, therefore it is not a violated pledge which stirs their wrath. There can, then, be but one thing which angers them—you have not avenged your uncle’s blood!”

He paused; and Hengist, desperate for help, shot an eager question at him.

“You agree with these?”

His outflung arm swept toward the vengeful brothers.

“I agree with them,” Sigurd answered with slow deliberation. “Two duties bind each man’s honor: the duty to keep a pledged oath, and the duty to avenge the dead. Of these two, the higher duty is to avenge. The gods will forgive a broken pledge, if there is a compelling cause for breaking it; they never forgive a man who leaves his dead unpaid for. A slain man stifles in his grave, bathed in the burning drops of his own blood, till he is ransomed by the blood of the slayer, or the slayer’s kin.”

Hengist pondered on these things.

“Have the gods whispered this to you?” he asked.

“Nay, my lord,” Sigurd answered honestly. “It is the wisdom that life has taught me. I have heard my dead cry out for vengeance, and have avenged them to end their anguish. Does not Hnaf cry out to you?”

Hengist started. This was the very stuff of his dreams, haunted ever by the bleeding vision of his murdered uncle. Was not that vision, after all, a message from the gods?

After long silence, turning his thoughts over in his mind, he turned again to Sigurd.

“My men long for home?” he questioned.

“Aye, as the dead long for revenge! They mutter one to another, whispering the names of their dear ones; they cry out against you, their lord, blaming all their wo, their dead comrades, their wretched exile, on you!”

Sharp as were Sigurd’s words, he spoke calmly; and his answer was like a knife turned in Hengist’s breast. Were they not right to blame him, who had sworn an oath which kept them here in exile, shamefully serving a king whose warriors had stricken down their comrades?

Seeing his emotion, Guthlaf resumed his implacable assault.

“Will you not let us go?” he demanded. “Will you do nothing to ease our wo?”

Hengist shook back his long locks from his eyes, as if to clear his vision.

“I will let you go!” he promised. “But though every word ye utter is as if it came from my own heart, I am not yet sure that ye are right. I must be guided by that which seems honorable to me, not to you; nor can any bear the burden of decision for me. Therefore hear my words:

“Until I am certain that vengeance is holier than my pledged word, I will keep faith with Finn. My oath calls for my service and the service of my men. Our numbers were four-score when I took the oath; therefore I owe him four-score warriors. Ye two, Guthlaf and Oslaf, shall now return to Denmark with half our men; the rest remain with me. Once at home, ye shall send me four-score new men; on their landing here I will let the rest of those who came to Frisia with me sail home under Sigurd’s command. Thus at all times, save during the short space of the voyage thither and back, will the four-score men I owe Finn be here to serve him; and my honor will be clean till I can settle in my own heart the question of my right to avenge my uncle. Are ye satisfied?”

Sigurd, his eyes clouded, would have spoken; but Oslaf laid a hand on his arm. Guthlaf, catching his brother’s glance, nodded.

“We are satisfied,” he answered. “Do you, my lord, obtain Finn’s assent to our sailing. He will not refuse, since we are to send back the full number he expects from us. We sail as soon as he consents.”

“Be it so,” the prince agreed; and the three chiefs left his presence.

Once in the open court, Oslaf turned to his brother.

“Let us speak with the Son of Hunlaf,” he said.

THE Frisian king readily—gladly—approved Hengist’s resolve. By shrewd wisdom as well as by courage had Finn carved out an empire for his people. He had perceived and read the struggle in Hengist’s soul; read, too, the hostile thoughts of Hengist’s warriors. Confident in his judgment of the young prince’s character, Finn believed that Hengist would keep his oath unless goaded beyond endurance by his vengeful officers. Therefore Finn was glad to let these officers take their men back to Denmark, where he hoped they would stay forever.

He wanted Danes in his army, for they were the most invincible of spearmen and the most skilful of archers; but he much preferred four-score new men to those who had fought by Hnaf’s side and now burned to avenge Hnaf. The Folk-Ruler was sure he could hold Hengist’s loyalty until all who had come with Hnaf had departed—those who took their places would be easier to handle. He need only pay them enough, and they would be faithful to him.

Therefore, when examination showed that the Winter had shrunk the joints of Hnaf’s ship, in which the Danes had come and planned to return, Finn at once placed a fast long-ship of his own at their disposal. He was eager to have them off, and in particular to see the last of Guthlaf and Oslaf.

Finn’s conduct was well-reasoned; but it failed to take into account one element—the Danish character. Never having fought them, he had not learned that the Danes exceed every other people of the North in their thirst for vengeance. He counted on their love of home, and knew not that they would hate him and all that was his long after a Frisian would have ceased to hate.

THE morning after their talk with Hengist, Guthlaf and Oslaf, with forty men, sailed out of Finn’s haven. Guthlaf held the steering-oar, his brother by his side. The long-ship, her single square sail bellied out with a favorable wind, took the waves with a fine bone in her teeth and a hissing of flung spume.

“Think you it will move him?” Oslaf asked suddenly.

Guthlaf smiled through tight lips.

“It cannot fail to move him. Hengist is honest. Once he says he will strike, his sword will not rest in his sheath till it has drunk deep.”

Oslaf nodded.

“That is true. But will he promise to strike?”

Guthlaf’s eyes glinted.

“Leave that to the Son of Hunlaf!”

Hengist’s decision to send his men home did not ease his heart. The very excitement of their going tore at his troubled spirits; the words of Sigurd gave him no rest. He had stilled his men’s reproaches, but he had not stilled his own conscience. The conflict still raged between his oath to Finn and the duty of vengeance for his uncle’s death.

“Vengeance is more sacred than a plighted oath,” Sigurd had said; and it was this which denied him peace. His strained nerves kept the vision of Hnaf constantly before him; his imagination was raw and festered with the thoughts on which it fed. The more it fed, the more inflamed it grew, till he dreamed every night that his uncle’s ghost stood beside his bed, bathed in blood, torn with wounds, crying out on him for a coward who dared not avenge. With this vision his upright soul wrestled, sustained only by the consciousness that he had been true to his oath to Finn. Aye, but that oath had been extorted from him and his battle-weary little band, oppressed with horror at Hnaf’s fall, surrounded by armed Frisians! And the gods kept silence, the gods, angered because he did not take revenge.

On the fourth morning he woke, exhausted and trembling with the moral struggle that grew the more terrible with sleep, and with the ghastly dreams that came in sleep. His body was drenched in sweat, his hands unsteady. It was in this state that the son of Hunlaf found him.

Hengist had his bed in a small outbuilding devoted to his sole use; the warriors slept in the loft, or on the benches lining three sides of the hall. Every morning one of his officers came to escort him into the hall, where he would give audience to his men, adjust disputes, assign orders for the day, and break his fast with them. This morning it was the turn of the son of Hunlaf to seek his lord.

The young man had something hidden under his cloak; but Hengist, wrung with his spiritual struggle, did not notice. Dully he returned the youth’s greeting, and walked to the hall door, leaning on the arm of Hunlaf’s son. At the dais his escort left him. Hengist sank into the high seat with a gasping sigh. His dreams had shaken him out of self-control.

The two-score Danes still left, destined to leave Frisia as soon as new forces came, clustered between the fire-pit and the dais, the flames shining on their mail. They were full-armed, as it was their duty to be when they appeared before their lord for formal audience. Brighter than their mail gleamed their eyes; but Hengist was too troubled with his own dark thoughts to heed.

When Hengist had mechanically uttered the time-honored words which declared the audience open, the son of Hunlaf strode to the very foot of the dais.

“I have a question to lay before my lord,” he said; and his words fell labored, one by one, for he was greatly excited.

Hengist nodded, scarce hearing.

“It is this,” the Son of Hunlaf continued. “Of two duties, which is the more sacred—to keep one’s oath, or—to avenge one’s dead?”

The words brought Hengist out of his brooding. His eyes widened with consternation; his hands clenched and unclenched on his knees; he drew in his breath hoarsely.

Hunlaf’s son shot a doubtful glance at Sigurd, who smiled back at him, nodding slightly. Mounting the dais in one swift stride, the son of Hunlaf took from beneath his mantle the thing he carried, and laid it gently on Hengist’s lap, so that the prince’s fingers touched it. Closing and unclosing with nervous tension, Hengist’s hands encountered something hard, and grasped it tightly. As soon as his right hand took firm hold, the assembled Danes raised a shout of wild joy.

Hunlaf’s son tinned on them, his eyes blazing with victory.

“He accepts it!” he cried. “Our lord accepts the pledge of vengeance!”

Uncomprehending, Hengist looked at that which he had unconsciously clasped. Recognizing it, he shuddered with sudden realization of its meaning. Across his knees lay a sword, its hilt clutched in his own right hand— the sword of his slain uncle—the sword of Hnaf!

But how had it come there? It had been placed on Hnaf’s funeral pyre, to burn with him, and thus to serve him in the life beyond the grave. Suddenly full understanding came to Hengist. Guthlaf and Oslaf had somehow stolen it from the pyre, and kept it to be used, through Hunlaf’s son, when the time was ripe. And now, in his trouble of spirit, it had been laid in his lap by Hunlaf’s son, where his hand must close on it.

To accept a sword is to accept any obligation that goes with it—to accept the sword of a slain man is to accept the duty of avenging him. A man may evade the duty by refusing the gift; but once his hand clasps its hilt, he has accepted sword and obligation. This rite, which men believed to have been instituted by Odin himself, Rather of the Gods, was thrice holy; and from it there was no appeal.

“The gods have decided!” Sigurd cried; but Hengist, still in the grip of torturing doubt, ventured the appeal that did not exist.

“Let the gods give a sign!” he cried in a shaking voice.

Now at that moment Sigurd, striding forward to protest at Hengist’s doubt, struck his foot against the end of one of the logs burning in the fire-pit. Dislodged, the log dropped one glowing end into the coals; a flame shot up, reflecting full on the carven face of Odin. In the flickering light, the god seemed distinctly to nod, thrice.

“The sign! The sign!” shouted Hunlaf’s son; and Hengist, turning to follow the pointing finger, saw the firelight’s play, and the god’s third nod. Odin had cut the bonds which bound Hengist; the gods had declared for vengeance.

The irrevocable decision came to Hengist like healing to a wound. The responsibility was no longer his; it was Odin’s. The long struggle was over; Hengist’s burden rolled off his shoulders. He felt himself a man again, with a man’s tasks and a man’s strength. Rising to his feet, he brandished Hnaf’s sword in hands that tingled with new power.

“Hear me, All-Father Odin!” he cried; and the jubilant Danes grew still to listen. “Hear me, ye Gods! By Gungnir, spear of Odin, by Odin’s self, by Thor, Frey, and Tyr, I swear that this sword shall not be sheathed till it has drunk deep of Jutish blood, and the spirit of Hnaf shall be appeased!”

The Danes would.have shouted again, but he hushed them with a gesture.

“Hostile ears are keen,” he warned them. “We must be wary if we would succeed.”

All gathered closer about the dais, the chiefs at Hengist’s very feet, their followers as close as they could press. Hengist felt his senses thrill to their eagerness. Decision—any decision—would have brought him relief; the gods themselves having intervened to wrest from him the decision that his own heart most craved, he was now his old, ardent self. His eyes sparkled with the prospect of action; his sinews tautened as for battle. He spoke with a new wisdom, the fruit of his unhappy Winter of self-searching:

“We are too few to venture now; we must wait till Guthlaf and Oslaf send us the new men. Then ye will not return—we shall number a hundred men. I will find some pretext to explain your staying. When the time is ripe, we must find a way to fall on the Jutes alone, before the Frisian host can come to their support. It will be hard; the Jutes will outnumber us nigh six to one. But the gods have chosen the road we must take, and they will guide us along it.”

Sigurd, his eyes lowered, caressed his beard.' At length he looked Hengist full in the face, and spoke that which he had hitherto kept hidden:

“My lord, we shall not be outnumbered. Guthlaf and Oslaf took with them all the gold and precious stuff that Finn has given us since we first came hither. With this treasure they will hire, not four-score, but as many men as the gold will buy—at least fifteen hundred, and ships to bear them hither again. They will wait to sail till the weather is smooth; then they will make all haste. When they are almost within sight of Frisian land, they will cruise offshore till night. Under cover of dark they will land, making for that part of the shore which it is our duty to guard. Finn posts a few Frisians with us for safety’s sake; them we must overpower as soon as we hear the muted notes of Guthlaf’s trumpet. Beyond that our plans are not made—it is for you to complete them.”

In tie gladness of his relieved heart, Hengist did not blame his men for the plot they had made without his knowledge. He seized on it with joy.

“We shall win, then!” he cried. “When Guthlaf’s host lands, we must march swiftly for the highroad where it forks, one branch leading to Finn’s stronghold, the other to the hall of the Jutes. It will be the task of the first detachment to hold the Frisians in play—a perilous duty—while the other overwhelms our foes. But mark ye this: No harm must come to Finn, for he is a man, and has dealt honorably with us. Our quarrel is with the Jutes alone.”

“And on them we will wreak it!” the son of Hunlaf muttered between set teeth.

III

HENGIST’S plans unfolded with utter smoothness; it was plain to all the Danes that the gods fought on their side. Guthlaf and Oslaf, their men’s mail muffled with wadding of woolen strips, landed in hushed silence; then, at the muted sound of the trumpet, the Danish coastguard sprang upon the handful of Frisians detailed to make sure of their good faith. Borne under by numbers, the Frisians were swiftly bound, gagged, and hidden in the thick reeds by the shore. Then Guthlaf led up his men—two thousand hard-bit fighters, mad with war-lust after their four-day confinement aboard ship. But neither Guthlaf nor Oslaf had been too excited to steer their prows for the point where the Danes held guard; not for nothing had the brothers patrolled this point till they knew it in the darkest night. They had even planned the precaution, before their departure, of having Sigurd send out a small boat to listen for the beat of their oars, and guide them in if they missed the proper landing.

As best he could in the night, Hengist surveyed his new men, striding up and down the ranks, issuing orders. He spoke softly, giving his commands to the chiefs as he came to them; all were bidden to reply in whispers, lest the voices of so many be heard by some lurking Frisian.

But the Frisians were all unsuspecting in their dwellings, save those who guarded the shore; and those posted at this point were disposed of. Quickly Hengist led his host straight inland, till he was well-past all the coast-guard; then they turned off toward the royal road. For half an hour they marched along it in silence, setting down their feet softly, taking care not to march in step, lest their footfall be heard.

Hengist halted them at the fork in the road, told off the leaders of one-third the host to march to the royal hall, under Guthlaf and Oslaf, and bade these make a pretended attack.

“Do not close in,” he bade them, “nor come within arrow-range; but shout loudly, clash your weapons, and retreat slowly if the Frisians attack. If they take fright, and keep within the palisade, hold them there as long as ye can. Finn has no more than eight hundred spears on duty; we can achieve our purpose before his runners can rouse the country.”

No instructions were needed for those who were to march with Hengist to the Jutish hall. Their purpose was simple—to attack and to destroy, before Finn could beat off or outmaneuver Guthlaf and Oslaf. This they could surely do. Peace having been made with the Franks, Finn had dismissed the militia that made up the vast bulk of his army, and retained at court only his professional house-carles, the greatest number the royal stores could feed.

Under a moonless sky pricked with tiny stars, the two divisions took their respective roads. No man spoke, all advanced with infinite care. They had even cast aside their scabbards, lest these betray them by clanking against their mail.