The Axe (10 page)

“Mother!” the girl cried loudly from outside.

Ingebjörg ran out to her.

It was almost daylight and the sky was pale and clear high up, but clouds and mist lay over the land. Straight across the lake in the north-west a great fire was blazing, shedding a ruddy light on the thick air far around. Black smoke poured out, drifted away, and mingled with the fog, thickening and darkening it far over the ridge. Now and again they saw the very flames, when they
rose high, but the burning homestead lay hidden behind a tongue of the woods.

The two women stood for a while gazing at it. The mother said not a word, and the girl dared not speak. Then the mistress turned into the loft—a moment later Ingunn saw her running across the yard to her little house.

Two women servants rushed out in their bare shifts and ran down to the courtyard fence. Then came Tora, with her fair hair fluttering loose, her mother leading her two young sons, and all the women of the place. Their cries and talk reached Ingunn.

But when they began to swarm up into the loft, she stole out. With her head bent and her hands crossed under the cloak that she held tightly about her—she would have wished to be quite invisible—she crept up to her own loft and lay down.

A violent fit of weeping came upon her—she could not make out what it was she wept like that for. It was just that she was too full of all that had crowded in upon her that night. She could not bear others to come near her—it made her tears run over. Tired she was too. It was morning now.

When she awoke, the sun was shining in at the door. Ingunn started up and pulled on her shift—she heard there were horses in the yard.

Four or five of their own strayed about grazing, unsaddled. Olav’s dun Elk was among them. And there was a neighing from the paddock. The maids ran between the cook-house and the hall—they were all in festival clothes.

She threw her cloak over her and ran to the eastern bower. The floor was strewed with brier-roses and meadowsweet—it almost took her breath away. She had not seen festivity in her home since she was a little girl. Drinking-bouts in the hall and banquets on high days—but not such as they strewed the rooms with flowers for. Her silken kirtle and the gilt circlet lay on Olav’s chest. Ingunn fetched them and ran back.

She had no mirror, but she did not feel the want of it as she stood ready dressed in her bower. She felt the weight of the gilt garland over her flowing hair, looked down at her figure wrapped in the green and yellow silk. The kirtle fell in long folds from her bosom to her feet, held in slightly by the silver belt at her waist. The gown was ample and long, so she had to lift it with
both hands as she stepped over the grass of the courtyard. Full of delight, she knew that she looked like one of the carven images in a church: tall and slender, low-bosomed and slight of limb, gleaming with jewels.

At the door of the hall she stopped, overwhelmed. The long fires were burning on the central hearth, and the sunshine poured in through the smoke-vent, turning the smoke sky-blue as it drifted under the rafters. And lighted torches stood on the board before the high seat, facing the door. There sat her mother by her father’s side, and her mother was dressed in red silk. Instead of the kerchief that Ingunn was used to seeing on her, she wore a starched white coif; it rose like a crown above her forehead and left the back of her head uncovered; her knot of hair gleamed golden within a net.

The other women were not seated at table; they went to and fro, bearing meat and drink. Ingunn then took up a tankard; she carried it in her right hand and held up her gown with her left, making herself as lithe and supple as she could—she thrust her hips well forward, dropped her shoulders to make herself look more narrow-breasted, and bowed her neck, leaning her head to one side like a flower on its stalk. Thus she moved forward, gliding as lightly as she could.

But the men were already half-drunken, and maybe tired too after the night’s exploit; none paid any great heed to her. Her father looked up with a laugh when she filled his beaker. His eyes were bright and stiff, his face blazed red under his tousled tawny hair—and now Ingunn saw that one arm was bound up over his chest. He had on his best cloak over the tight leather jerkin that he wore under the coat of mail. Most of the men seemed to have sat down to table just as they came from the saddle.

Her father signed to her to pour out for Kolbein and his two sons, Einar and Haftor; they sat at Steinfinn’s right hand.

On Steinfinn’s left sat Arnvid. He was red in the face, and his dark-blue eyes shone like metal. A tremor passed over his features as he stared at his young kinswoman. Ingunn could see that he, at any rate, thought her fair this evening, and she smiled with joy as she filled his cup.

She came where Olav Audunsson sat on the outer bench, and squeezed in between him and his neighbour as she poured out for those sitting on the inner bench. Then the boy caught hold of her
down by the knees and pressed her toward him, screened by the table, making her spill the drink.

Ingunn saw at once that he was drunken. He sat astride the bench with his legs stretched far out, his head supported in one hand, with the elbow on the table among the food. It was so unlike Olav to sit thus that she could not help laughing—they used always to tease him for keeping just as steady and quiet, no matter what he drank. God’s gifts did not bite on him, said the others.

But this evening the ale had plainly got the better even of his stiffness. When she was going to pour out for him, he seized her hands, put the tankard to his lips, and drank, spilling the drink over himself, so that the breast of his elkskin jerkin was all befouled.

“Now take a drink yourself,” he said, laughing up in her face—but his eyes looked so queer and strange; they gleamed with a wanton wildness. Ingunn was flustered a little, but she filled his beaker and drank; then he clutched her again under the table and came near to making her fall into his arms.

The man by Olav’s side took the tankard from them. “Bide awhile, you two—you must leave a drop for the rest of us—”

Ingunn went out to fill the tankard again—and then she saw that her hands trembled. With surprise she found that she was shaking all over. It was almost as if she had been scared by the boy’s violence. But she was drawn toward him in a way she had never known before—a sweet and consuming curiosity. She had never seen Olav in this state. But it was so joyous—this evening nothing was as it was wont to be. As she went about filling the cups she could not help trying to brush past Olav, that he might have a chance of stealing those rough and furtive caresses of his. It was as though they drew her on.

None had marked that it was growing dark outside before the rain spurted through the smoke-vent. They had to close the ventil; then Ingebjörg bade bring in more lights. The men rose from the board; some went to their places to sleep, but others sat down again to drink and talk to the women, who now began to think of food.

Arnvid and Einar Kolbeinsson, her cousin, sat down by Ingunn, and Einar was to tell her more of the raid:

They had sailed under the eastern shore right up to the river, and there they went across to Vingarheim, so that they came riding down upon Mattias’s manor from the north. This proved unnecessary, however, as Mattias had set no watch.

“He never believed Steinfinn would strike in earnest,” said Einar scornfully. “None can wonder at that—after so much prating and waiting he would be apt to think that, could Steinfinn bear his shame in patience for six years, the seventh would not be too great a burden for him.”

“Meseems I heard a tale of Mattias—that he fled the country for fear of Steinfinn,” said Olav Audunsson, who had joined them. He squeezed in between Arnvid and Ingunn.

“Ay, and Steinfinn is lazy too; he is one to sit under the bush and wait till the bird falls into his hand—”

“You would have had him take to lawsuits and wrangling like your father?”

Arnvid interposed and made them keep the peace. Then Einar took up his story:

They came into the courtyard unopposed and some men were posted to guard those houses in which folk might be sleeping, while Steinfinn and the sons of Kolbein went with Arnvid, Olav, and five of the house-carls to the hall. Kolbein stayed outside. The men within started up from sleep when the door was broken down—some naked and some in their shirts, but all reached for their weapons. There were Mattias and a friend of his, the tenant of the farm and his half-grown son, and two serving-men. There came a short struggle, but the drowsy house-folk were quickly overpowered. And then it was Steinfinn and Mattias.

“This was unlooked for—are
you
abroad thus betimes, Steinfinn?” said Mattias. “I mind me you were once so sound a sleeper, and a fair wife you had to keep you to your bed.”

“Ay, and ’twas she who sent me hither with her greeting,” said Steinfinn. “You surely won her heart when last you came to us—she cannot put you out of her mind.—But don your clothes,” he said; “I have ever thought it a dastard’s deed to set on a naked man.”

Mattias turned flaming red at those words. But he made light of it and asked: “Will you give me leave to buckle on my coat of mail too, since it seems you would make a show of chivalry?”

“No,” cried Steinfinn. “For I have no thought that you shall come off with your life from this our meeting. But I am nothing loath to meet you unharnessed.”

While Steinfinn unbuckled his coat of mail, Kolbein came in and he and another man held Mattias. This he liked ill, but Steinfinn said with a laugh: “Methinks you are more ticklish than I was—you cannot bear a man’s hand near your skin!” After that Steinfinn let Mattias put on his clothes and take a shield. Then the two set upon each other.

In his youth Steinfinn had been counted most skilful in the use of arms, but of late he had fallen out of practice; it was quickly seen that Mattias, small and slight as he was, would be more than a match for the other. Steinfinn had to give ground, foot by foot; his breath came heavily—then Mattias made a cut at him and disabled his right arm. Steinfinn changed his sword over to his left hand—both men had long since thrown away the wreckage of their shields. But now Steinfinn’s men thought it looked badly for their master: on a sign from Kolbein one of his men sprang to Steinfinn’s side. Mattias was somewhat dazed at this, and now Steinfinn gave him his death-blow.

“But they fought like two good lads, we all said that,” said Arnvid.

Meanwhile, as ill luck would have it, some of the strange men-at-arms whom Steinfinn had with him bethought them of pillage, and others tried to stay them from it. And in the tumult some man set fire to a stack of birchbark which stood in the narrow gangway between the hall and one of the storehouses. It was doubtless that Tjostolv who did it, a man none thought well of, and he must have carried bark into the storehouse too, for it burst into flames on the instant, though timbers and roof were wet from the rain. And then the fire took hold of the hall. They had to bear out Mattias’s corpse and loose the other men.

Now folk came up from the neighbouring farms, and a number of these peasants came to blows with them. Some were hurt on both sides, but ’twas unlikely that more were slain.

“Ay, we need not have had the fire and the brawling on our hands,” said Einar, “had not Steinfinn been set on showing prowess and chivalry.”

Olav had never liked Einar Kolbeinsson. He was three years
older than himself and had always loved to tease the younger boys with his spite. So Olav answered him, pretty scornfully: “Nay, no man will charge your father or you brothers with
that—
none will accuse Kolbein Borghildsson of goading on his half-brother to ill-timed high-mindedness.”

“Have a care of yourself, young sniveller—Father’s name has always stood next to Tore of Hov’s. Our stock is just as good as Aasa’s offspring—mind that, Olav; and don’t sit there fondling my kinswomen—take your paw out of her lap, and quick about it!”

Olav jumped up and they were at each other. Ingunn and Arnvid ran to part them. Then it was that Steinfinn rose and called for silence.

The house-folk, men and women, and the strangers drew toward the table. Steinfinn stood leaning on his wife’s shoulder—he was no longer red in the face, but white and sunken under the eyes. But he smiled and held himself erect as he spoke: “Now I will give you thanks, all you who were with me in this deed—first will I thank you, brother, and your sons, and then my dear cousin, Arnvid Finnsson, and you others, good kinsmen and trusty men. If God will, we shall soon have peace and atonement for these things that have befallen this night, for He is a righteous God and it is His will that a man shall hold his wife in honour and protect the good name of women. But I am weary now, good friends, and now we will go to bed, I and my wife—and you must forgive me that I say no more—but I am weary, and I have gotten a small scratch too. But Grim and Dalla will have good care of you, and now ye may drink as long as ye list, and play and be merry as is fitting on a joyful day such as this—but now we go to rest, Ingebjörg and I—and so you must forgive us that we leave you now—”

Toward the close his speech had become thick and halting; he swayed slightly on his feet, and Ingebjörg had to support him as they went out of the hall.

Some of the house-carls had raised a cheer, hammering on the tables with their knives and drinking-cups. But the noise died away of itself, and the men stood aside in silence. Not a few of them guessed that Steinfinn’s wound might be worse than he would have it thought.

All followed them out—stood in silent groups watching the tall and handsome couple as they went together to the loft-room
in the rain-drenched summer evening. Most of them marked how Steinfinn stood still and seemed to speak hastily to his wife. It looked as though she opposed him and tried to hold his hand; but he tore off the bandage that bound his wounded arm to his breast and flung it impatiently from him. They heard Steinfinn laugh as he went on.

The house-folk were still quiet when they came in again, though Grim and Dalla had more drink brought in and fresh wood thrown on the fire. The table and benches were cleared out of the way. But most of the men were tired and seemed most inclined for sleep. Yet some went out into the yard to dance, but came in again at once; the shower was just overhead and the grass was too wet.