Randvar the songsmith

by Ottilie A. Liljencrantz

That was not very soon for a great throng was ahead of the hunter, and no hurrying or struggling competition marked their progress, since the course of a river between its banks is not more fixed than was the place of each. Dropping out or pushing on, they settled leisurely into orderly rows upon the long benches against the wainscot—advice-givers and courtmen and guards along the southern wall, priests and lawmen and land-owners along the northern, the eastern cross-bench for women guests, the western for the women of the court, such small-fry as armorers and harpers and tumblers filling the draughty corners by the doors. The time came at last, however, when the hunter’s tow head brushed under the lintel; and pushing after him, the traders came into the cheer of the heir’s inheritance feast.

Gone was the darkness and coldness and silence of mourning that for three Norse weeks had brooded over the mighty pillared hall. Once more, the light of fragrant juniper torches played upon pictured tapestry and garlanded column. Once more, the round gilded shields hanging above the benches were turned into so many suns by the ruddy glow of fires leaping on the stone hearths down the middle of the long nave. At the white-spread tables that formed an oblong around the fires, the gorgeous feasting dresses of the court-folk made streaks of rainbow color through the brightness.

Running his eye up the line of the southern wall, the trader who had spoken last said over his shoulder: “Yonder he is, on Helvin’s left, as was to be expected.”

He might have done better to say, “on the left of the high-seat,” whose towering carven posts marked plainly its place midway the length of the hall, for the heir was in no way conspicuous in the line of his guests as he sat on the footstool of the ruler’s seat, awaiting the ceremony which should elevate him to its empty cushions. But the traders found the spot at once where the new face looked out over the scene, and they studied it critically as they moved forward.

What they saw was a superbly proportioned young fellow of four-and-twenty, rising as erectly tall beside the guardsmen as a pine-tree beside oaks. Level as pine branches was the line of his thick dark brows, and no gold but the sun’s glowing burnish was on the mass of hair that shadowed his sun-ripened face. Of the might of the primeval wastes and of the wilderness’s virile beauty, he was expressive. One of the old men spoke for them all when he said:

“Since Helvin, Starkad’s son, has been likened to a captive eagle, it would not be amiss to call this fellow an eagle of the forest that has come to perch beside him because of a kinship between their natures. The Fates alone can tell what will come of such a partnership!” Doubt was heavy in the wagging of their heads as they turned away to follow the overseer of guests to the seats appointed them.

Following after them went the eyes of Randvar the Songsmith. Though their words had not carried across the fire, their scrutiny had, so that gradually his mouth took on a satirical twist. Presently he spoke to the heir on the footstool—spoke without having been spoken to—to the indignation of the old counsellors on the right of the high-seat.

“Lord, when I see how your people stare at me as at a black Jotun, I realize it is not a dream that I am in your court. Other times it seems to me as if I must be lying on the cedar branches by the Tower fire and imagining what I should wish to happen.”

To the added displeasure of the old chieftains, Helvin justified the familiarity by returning it. He had been sitting with his chin on his hand, a figure of weary splendor in his furred and jewelled dress of state; now he straightened and resting his elbow on the seat-cushion, entered into conversation with the son of the sea-rover,—it was fortunate that the old men could not also hear his frank remarks.

“Your luck is great, Songsmith, that you can get interest out of this. Just before you spoke, I was thinking that though I were blindfolded, I should still be able to describe every tapestry on the walls, put every man, woman, and thrall in place, count up every dish and goblet and knife on the table. At times, when I sat where you sit now, I used to amuse myself by rearranging the people in my imagination, beginning by putting yonder fat-chopped buffoon in the proud priest’s place. I can tell you that it came the nearest to making sport of anything I have had in this hall.”