Hrolf Kraki's Saga (23 page)

Merry at first, he began in time to brood. Bera watched him in growing trouble. She was not astonished when, at last, he bade her walk with him alone in the greenwood. There he asked her who his father was. He had gnawed his way through her tale and would no longer be fobbed off.

In a mingling of dread and joy, she told him about Björn and herself, and how his stepmother had undone her lover.

Bjarki smote fist in palm; birds fled from branches. “We’ve much to reward that she-troll for!” he cried.

“Beware her,” his mother begged. And she told how she had been made to eat of the bear’s flesh, “and that’s seen on your brothers, Thori and Elk-Frodhi.”

Bjarki said through his teeth: “I should think Frodhi has greater grounds to avenge our father and himself, than to win goods by robbing and slaying harmless men. And strange how Thori could fare away without giving that hag a keepsake.”

“They did not know,” Bera whispered.

“Well, then,” and Bjarki grinned like a wolf, “best that I pay her off on behalf of us all.”

She warned him about Hvit’s witchcraft. He promised to take care, and spent some while making ready.

Grandfather Gunnar had become time-enfeebled. Bjarki and his mother went by themselves through the woods to the hall of King Hring. They found the garth ill-tended, paint peeling from walls, weeds rank in the yard, few folk around save slovenly guardsmen and servants. There was no bar to getting speech with the king in an offside room. He too was greatly aged. In him, unlike the yeoman, was no haughtiness left, and his hands always trembled.

Bera stood forth, her son sheer behind her, and told him what had happened. For proof she had the ring taken from beneath the slain bear.

The king turned it around in his chalky fingers, peered at it with his dim, watering eyes, and, “Yes, yes,” he quavered, “yes, I know this well, I gave it myself to my Björn cub, and … and … oh, I had my thoughts, I was not blind, not then, but I kept still because … because I care so much for her.”

Bjarki’s deep young voice rang under the rafters: “Let her now begone, or I will have revenge.”

Shivering, though the day was summery bright, Hring pleaded. He would make it up with goods, he promised, gold, every kind of wealth, heaped as high as might be wished, if only Bjarki would let this matter rest in its grave. He would give his grandson a shire to steer, yes, the name of jarl at once, and the whole Uplands to be king over when he, Hring, was gone, which would be soon. Hvit had given him no children. But oh, let her live—

“No wish have I for that,” said Bjarki, “before all, no wish to call that fiend my queen—and you, you’re too snared by her to rule either your kingdom or your wits aright. Never shall my father’s murderess do well in the Uplands!”

Hring cowered, seemed to crumble. He might have called his guardsmen. Did he know that Bjarki, who had overcome each one of them in games, would hew a road through any shield-burg they raised? Or did he fear they would stand aside from the queen they hated? Ruthless in his youth, Bjarki walked across the yard and tore open the door of the lady-bower.

Hvit’s women shrieked and scattered. She crouched spitting before him. He had a glimpse of a haggard face, of a soul more starved than any flesh could be; then he had clapped a sealskin bag over her head and drawn the string of it chokingly tight.

Blinded, she could work no spells on him. She clawed, and he heard her voice muffled from within: “Ha, I know you, I know you, and I say the hour will come when another witch brings your bane—”

He cuffed her. The hooded head snapped to one side and she fell. “This for my father!” he shouted, hauling her back up. Blow after blow: “This for my mother! This
for Elk-Frodhi! This for Thori Hound’s-Foot!” When she was dead, he tied her by the ankles and dragged her around for everyone to see. Afterward, lest she walk again, he cut off her head and burned her.

In this wise died Hvit the Finn-King’s daughter, far from her homeland in miles and years. Most in the royal household said her doom was not too harsh.

Later Bera showed Bjarki the cave. He took the rest of the treasures, which were the largest part; and for him the longsword came easily out of the stone.

The runes on its blade said it bight Lövi and was among the best of weapons, for it was not forged by hand of man. It must never be laid under one’s head nor rested on the hilt; nor need it be honed more than thrice in an owner’s lifetime. Whenever drawn, it would give a death, and no second blow would have to be landed. Following his mother’s word—she remembered the elves—Bjarki made for it a sheath of birchbark.

Old King Hring did not long outlive his wife. When he sickened and died, men hailed Bjarki in his stead.

He ruled for three years, and did well at healing the harm that had come under the witch-queen. Yet he was restless as his brothers had been. The Uplands were no home for a young man like him. Here were tall mountains and good hunting, and very little else. Men grew stale on their wide-scattered homesteads. At best, they might fare abroad as traders or vikings. Why not seek something this country could never give?

First he saw to his mother’s welfare. Valsleif Jarl was a widower, a man of standing whom Bera had come to like. Bjarki got them married, and himself helped lead groom to bride. Thereafter he called a Thing, told the folk he was leaving, and led them in choosing a new king.

Then at last he was free to ride off.

He had a horse of size to bear him, and no other company. Most gold and silver he left behind, though with weapons and clothes he was well outfitted.

Off he rode, and suddenly after this long time he could let his glee break loose. Far up in heaven, the larks heard him singing.

Of his trek naught is told until one day, like Thori before him, he came to the lair of Elk-Frodhi. He took his horse to the stall end of the house and settled down. He knew some of the things he saw in the piled hoard—they were akin to those he had taken from the elven chest—and felt he had a right here to whatever he might need.

Toward sundown Frodhi came home and glowered at the newcomer who sat in his chair, hat pulled down to mask face in shadow. Even to him, a guest was a guest, thus holy. He brought his own horse to the stall, and found it could not get along with the other.

Turning, he said: “Well, this a froward and worthless fellow, who dares sit himself down without leave.”

Bjarki kept his hat low and did not answer.

Seeking to frighten him away, Frodhi drew shortsword from sheath so it screamed. Twice he did this; but Bjarki paid no heed.

The robber drew blade a third time and rushed in. Huge though Bjarki was, Elk-Frodhi overtopped and outweighed him. Still the guest sat calmly. Frodhi growled and slavered. “Would you like to wrestle?” he got out. His thought was that he could break the man’s neck in that game and so become free to cast him out.

Bjarki laughed, sprang to his feet and seized Frodhi around the rough-haired waist. Mighty was that fight, wrenchings and tramplings till the walls shuddered.

Then the hat fell off. Frodhi knew his brother, let go, and rasped: “Welcome, kinsman! Why didn’t you tell me? Too long have we fought.”

“Oh, no need to end it yet,” said Bjarki, albeit he breathed hard and sweat sucked his clothes to his skin.

Elk-Frodhi grew grave. “Scant luck would you have had, kinsman, if we really strove,” he rumbled. “I can only be glad that I saw in time…. Come.” He hugged his brother; the woodland smell of him filled Bjarki’s nostrils. “Let’s drink and eat and, oh, you must tell me everything!”

Bjarki stayed for some days, talking when they did not go hunting. Frodhi asked him to abide here and own half
the wealth. Bjarki said no; he did not like killing folk in order to win his goods.

Frodhi sighed in the firelit gloom: “I’ve given ruth to many when they were small and weak.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Biarki answered. “Best would be if you let everyone go by in peace, whether or not you think you can win aught by slaying them.”

“I have gotten a doom that is heavy in all ways,” said Elk-Frodhi.

After a while he added: “As for you, well, I know somewhat of the world, alone though I am here. Wayfarers and—and others—tell me things. If you want riches and renown, seek out King Hrolf in Denmark. The best warriors fare to him, for he’s the most bold, wise, openhanded and splendid of kings in the Northlands.”

More did he have to say, until Bjarki agreed.

Next morning Frodhi followed his brother a ways along the road, doing his clumsy best to talk. At last they must speak their goodbyes. Biarki dismounted to clasp hands on the same footing. Frodhi shoved hard at him, and he stumbled backward. A smile stole across the robber’s ugly lips. “You don’t seem as strong as you ought to be, kinsman.” he said.

Drawing his knife, he gashed his own elk-thigh. “Drink of this blood,” he said. Pointing to what welled forth. Like one in a dream, Bjarki knelt and obeyed. “Rise,” ordered Frodhi. When Bjarki did, he shoved him again. This time the man younger by an hour stayed in his tracks.

“I think you got good from that drink, kinsman,” said Frodhi. “Now you should stand above most, as I heartily wish for you.”

He chopped his foot into the bank beside him, through ferns and soil, down into rock till the hoof was lost therein. Withdrawing it, he said: “Daily will I come to this spoor and look. If you die of sickness, there’ll be mold in it, and water if you drown at sea. But if you die by weapons, there’ll be blood, and then will I come to avenge you … dearest to me of all men.”

And Elk-Frodhi fled away up the wilderness road.

Bjarki shook himself free of sorrow and rode on. Naught worth telling happened before he crossed the ranges to Lake Vener. King Thori Hound’s-Foot was away, whether on war or hunt is not said. Folk wondered to see him come riding back by himself—for, shod and mounted, he looked just like Bjarki.

Unsure what was going on, the latter thought best to play along till he could learn. He let them bring him to the royal hall, serve him in the high seat, and at night lead him to bed by the queen.

When they were alone, Bjarki said to her, “I’ll not lie under the same blanket.” She was taken aback until he told her how matters stood. Thereafter she too thought it wisest to pretend; a witch or a Norn might be in this.

Things went so for a time. While they did not become lovers, Bjarki and the queen became friends.

When Thori did get home and found his brother, that was a meeting of embraces. Having heard the full tale, the king said there was no other man in the world whom he would have trusted to rest beside his wife. He wanted him to stay on and to share in everything.

Bjarki said that was not his wish. Thori offered him men instead, to follow him wherever he might go. This likewise Bjarki refused. “I’m bound for King Hrolf in Denmark,” said he, “to learn if it’s true what they tell me, that more can be won as a man of his than as a king anywhere else.”

“That may be,” said Thori; dryly: “Though I’ll stay where I am.” And earnestly: “Remember, those birds which wing highest are most likely to be struck down by the hawk.”

“Better that than to be a mole,” said Bjarki.

Thori started to answer, but curbed himself. At leave-taking he rode a ways with his brother. They parted in friendly wise, though keeping thoughts of their own.

Now once more is little to tell save that Bjarki got to the Sound, bought passage across, and at last had not far to go before he would reach Leidhra.

IV

The year had run on to fall, each day more short and chilly than the last. Toward the end of Bjarki’s trek, rain fell from dawn till dusk and gave no sign of stopping to sleep. He had pushed on hard in his eagerness, and at nightfall found himself on a lonely stretch of heathland, soaked through. His horse was badly wearied under him. It slipped and plopped about in fetlock-deep mud. Still the downpour brawled, icy through an ever deeper blackness. At last he lost the road.

A bit later, his beast stumbled against what seemed like a mound. Bjarki got off, groped forward, and made out that this was a house, one of the poor little sort built from turf and peat over a pit dug into the earth. The smokehole was covered, but light glowed dull red through cracks around a door. Bjarki knocked.

A man half opened it. Grizzled and ragged, he carried a bill. The Norseman wondered what in the gloomy hole behind him might draw robbers. Even the wife was not much to look at, seen by a clay lamp over which she huddled for some warmth.

“Good evening,” said Bjarki. “May I shelter here for the night?”

The crofter, who had gulped at the great size of him, now felt safe and said, “Aye, I’d not send you on in this foul weather and murk, outlander though I can hear you are.” He helped unharness and tether the horse. It must wait outside, no room being within where his one cow was stabled. Bjarki got a shabby coat to wrap around himself after his drenched garments were off, a dish of roots and hardtack, a place to lay himself on the rushes in that smelly gloom. Everybody was soon asleep.

In the morning the wife, Gydha, gave Bjarki the same food for breakfast since they had no other. Meanwhile Eilif, the man, asked for news. In his turn Bjarki asked about King Hrolf and his warriors, and if it was far to reach them.

“No,” said Eilif, “only a short way. Are you bound thither?”

“Yes,” answered Bjarki, “that’s my thought, to see if he’ll take me into his household.”

“It’d be fitting for you, aye, aye,” nodded the crofter, “seeing how big and strong you are.” He sounded oddly sad; and all at once, Gydha broke into tears.

“Why, what are you crying about, goodwife?” asked Bjarki.

She sobbed: “I and my man … had an only son … we called him Hott. Here was a lean enough living for him … and this past year none, after we lost our flock … Eilif and I can barely last on what’s left…. Hott went to the king’s burg to see if he could get work—and they made him a scullion but—” She must stop to master her grief. “The king’s men make game of him. He has to help serve, and … when they sit and eat, as soon as they’ve gnawed the meat off a bone, they throw it at him … and if it hits him he’s hurt, knows not if he’ll live or die, though where else could he go?” She leaned forward in the dimness of the hut and said more steadily, “This reward do I ask for taking you in, that you cast small bones at him rather than big ones, if they’ve not already knocked him to hell.”