Complete Works of William Morris, page 435
Came back to seek the same, and found it gone.
Then questioning there was of everyone,
And mighty trouble; An the Black meanwhile,
A sturdy house-carle, slipped out with a smile,
Just as old Olaf to his son ‘gan talk
In such wise:
“Son, hate far abroad will walk
E’en when new-born, although we nurse it not:
Now my heart tells me much must be forgot,
Many words hidden, many sights be seen
By thine eyes only, son, if I, between
Death and the end of life shall see thee last;
And hold thy living hands as life goes past,
Mine eyes a-waxing dim: wait then, and hope:
Thou shalt grow stronger with the world to cope,
If thou sitst down with patience, casting not
Long days and sweet on drawing of a lot.”
Such things and more he spake, and Kiartan heard
With kind eyes, if his heart were little stirred.
But, as they sat and talked thereof, came back,
Smiling, but panting sorely, An the Black,
And in his cloak he carried something wrapped.
“Well,” Olaf said, “and what new thing hath happed?”
“Soon told,” said An; “I followed them afar,
Knowing what thieves those Bathstead skinkers are,
And at the peat moss where the road doth wind
About the dale, young Thorolf lagged behind;
I saw him take a something from his cloak,
And thrust it down just were the stream doth soak
The softest through the peat; then swift again
Ride on: so when they might not see me plain,
O ho, says I, and comes up to the place,
And here and there I peer with careful face
Until at last I draw this fair thing forth;
— A pity though, the scabbard is of worth!
Clean gone it is.”
Then from his cloak he drew
‘The King’s Gift’ bright and naked. Olaf grew
Joyous thereover, praising An right well.
But Kiartan ‘gan to gloom: “Ah, who can tell,”
He muttered, as he took the sword to him,
“But this shall end the troublous tale and dim? —
Well, I at least cast not the sheath away;
Bewail not ye too much, who have to pay
For pleasure gained; his may the worst hap be,
Who best can bear the pain and misery.”
The Stealing of the Coif
NOW howso Olaf bade An hold his peace,
And Kiartan promised he would nowise cease
To show a good face to the world on all
That ‘twixt the houses yet might chance to fall,
Certain it is, that ere long, far and wide
The tale was known, throughout the country-side;
Nay, more than this, to Kiartan’s ears it came
That Oswif’s sons deemed they had cast a shame
On Herdholt, and must mock him openly
And call him ‘Mire-blade,’ e’en when those were by
Who held him of the most account; no less
Kiartan was moved not from his quietness,
Nor did aught hap ‘twixt autumn and Yule-tide;
Then men at Herdholt busied them to ride
To Bathstead once again, and Olaf said:
“Wilt thou once more be guided by my head,
Son Kiartan, and with brave heart go to face
The troublous things that wait thee in that place?”
“Well,” Kiartan said, “if so I deemed, that fate
Might be turned back of men, or foolish hate
Die out for lack of fuel, no more would I
Unto the Bathstead hall-door draw anigh;
But forasmuch as now I know full well,
That the same story there shall be to tell
Whether I go, or whether I refrain,
Let all be as thou wilt; and yet we twain
Not oft again, O father, side by side
Unto this merry-making place shall ride.”
Then Olaf sighed, as though indeed he knew
To what an end his latter days now drew.
So now all folk were ready there, but when
The women came their ways to meet the men,
Said Thorgerd unto Refna: “Well, this tide
Thou hast the coif, no doubt, and like a bride
Hast heart to look midst those whose hearts are cold
To thee and thine.”
Then Refna did behold
Thorgerd’s stern face in trembling wise, and said:
“Nay, goodwife, what fair cloth may coif my head
Shall matter little mid the many things
Men have to talk of: rise and fall of kings
And changes of the world: within my chest
The coif lies.”
“There,” said Kiartan, “might it rest
For thee and me, sweet; yet I mind indeed
When I, a froward child, deemed I had need
Of some sharp glittering thing, as axe or knife,
But little would my mother raise up strife
With me therefor, and even as I would
I cut myself: so if she think this good
Let fetch the Queen’s Gift.”
Refna looked adown
Shamefaced and puzzled, Thorgerd with a frown
Turned upon Kiartan, but he smiled in turn,
And said: “Yea, mother, let the red gold burn
Among the lights at Bathstead; great am I
E’en as thou deemst; and men must let pass by
Their hatred to me, whatso say their hearts;
Come, open-handed let us play our parts.”
So was the coif brought, and once more they rode
Unto the door of Oswif’s fair abode;
And there they feasted merrily enow —
— Such of them as were fools, or cared not how
The next week went — and at the highest tide
Of all the feast, sat Refna as a bride
Coifed with the Queen’s Gift; Gudrun stern and cold
Scarce would the tender face of her behold,
Or cast a look at Kiartan; rather she
Did press the hand of Bodli lovingly,
Softening her face for him alone of all:
Then would strange tumult on his spirit fall,
Mingled of pain and uttermost delight
To think the whole world had so swerved from right
To give him pleasure for a little while,
Nor durst he look upon his old friend’s smile,
Who, glad with his own manhood seemed to be
Once more, once more the brave heart frank and free;
As though at last the trouble and the coil
That wrapped him round, and made him sadly toil
Through weary days, had fallen all clean away,
And smiling he might meet the bitterest day.
So passed the high-tide forth unto its end
But when at last folk from the place would wend,
And Refna fain would have the coif of her
Whose office was to tend the women’s gear —
— Lo, it was gone — then Refna trembled sore,
And passing through the crowd about the door
Whispered to Kiartan: Ospak stood anigh
And bit his lips, and watched her eagerly,
And Kiartan with a side-long glance could see
His colour come and go, and cried:
“Let be,
Light won, light gone! if still it is ‘bove ground,
Doubt thou not, Refna, it shall yet be found.”
Folk looked on one another; Thorgerd said,
Turning on Gudrun: “Small account is made
Of great folk’s gifts, then; I have seen the day
When Egil’s kin a man or two would slay
For things less worth than this.”
Her angry frown
Gudrun met calmly: “Was the thing his own?
Then let him do e’en as he will with it;
Small loss it is methinks for her to sit
Without his old love’s gift upon her head!”
Ere Thorgerd answered, Kiartan cried, and said:
“Come swift to saddle! Cousin, ride with me,
Until we turn the hill anigh the sea;
I fain would speak with thee a word or twain
That I have striven to think about in vain
These last days that we met.”
Bodli flushed red
And looked adown: “So be it then,” he said.
Then stammered and turned pale, and said, “Enow
Shall one sword be to-day betwixt us two;
Take thou the rover’s weapon, O fair wife.”
She looked on him, her lovely face was rife
With many thoughts, but Kiartan’s kindly gaze
Seemed to bring back the thoughts of happier days
To both of them, and swift away she passed
Unto her bower; and men were horsed at last,
And sharp the hoofs upon the hard way rung.
So as into the saddle Kiartan swung,
He leant toward Ospak, and said mockingly:
“I love thee — I would not that thou shouldst die;
So see me not too oft, because I have
A plague sometimes, that bringeth to the grave,
Those that come nigh me; live on well and whole!”
Then to his face rushed Ospak’s envious soul,
His hand fell on his sword-hilt as le shrank
Back to the doorway, while the fresh air drank
Kiartan’s clear laughter, as their company
Rode jingling down unto the hoary sea.
But the last smile from off his face was gone,
When silent, in a while he rode alone
With Bodli silent: then he said to him:
“Thou seest, Bodli, how we twain must swim
Adown a strange stream — thou art weaponless
To-day, and certes bides my sword no less
Within its scabbard — how long shall it last?”
Then Bodli cried, “Until my life is past —
Shall I take life from thee as well as love?”
“Nay,” Kiartan said, “be not too sure thereof,
Bethink thee where by thine own deed thou art
Betwixt a passionate woman’s hungry heart,
And the vile envy of a dangerous fool;
Doubt not but thou art helpless, and the tool
Of thy mad love, and that ill comes from ill,
And as a thing begins, so ends it still —
— Nay, not to preach to thee I brought thee here,
Rather to say that the old days are dear,
Despite of all, unto my weary heart.
And now methinks from them and thee I part
This day; not unforgiven, whatsoe’er
Thou at my hands, or I of thine may bear.
For I too — shall I guide myself indeed,
Or rather be so driven by hard need
That still my hand as in a dream shall be,
While clearly sees the heart that is in me
Desires I may not try to bring to pass?
So since no more it may be as it was
In the past days, when fair and orderly
The world before our footsteps seemed to lie,
Now in this welter wherein we are set,
Lonely and bare of all, deem we not yet
That each for each these ill days we have made;
Rather the more let those good words be weighed
We spake, when truth and love within us burned,
Before the lesson of our life was learned.
What say’s thou? are the days to come forgiven,
Shall folk remember less that we have striven,
Than that we loved, when all the tale is told?”
Then long did Bodli Kiartan’s face behold,
Striving for speech: then said, “Why speak’st thou so?
Twice over now I seem my deed to do,
Twice over strive to wake as from a dream,
That I, once happy, never real may deem,
So vile and bitter is it; may thy sword
If e’er we meet be sharper than thy word,
And make a speedy end of doubt and strife;
Fear not to take much from me, taking life!”
Still seemed the air filled with his words when he
Turned back to Bathstead, and the murmuring sea
Seemed from afar to speak of rest from pain.
Then on a little knoll he shortened rein,
And turned about, and looking toward the hill
Beheld the spear of Kiartan glittering still,
When all the rest of him behind the brow
Was sunken; but the spear sank quickly now,
And slowly home withal did Bodli ride,
E’en as he might the coming end to bide.
Refna hears Women talking.
SO the days wore with nothing new to tell,
Till spring-tide once more on the country fell,
Then on a night as Kiartan to his bed
Would go, still Refna sat with bowed-down head
And stirred not, nor a while would speak, when he
Spake to her in kind words and lovingly;
At last she lifted up a face, wherein
Somewhat did trouble upon sorrow win,
And said:
“Indeed of all thy grief I knew,
But deemed if still thou saw’st me kind and true,
Not asking too much, yet not failing aught
To show that not far off need love be sought,
If thou shouldst need love — if thou sawest all this,
Thou wouldst not grudge to show me what a bliss
Thy whole love was, by giving unto me
As unto one who loved thee silently,
Now and again the broken crumbs thereof:
Alas! I, having then no part in love,
Knew not how nought, nought can allay the soul
Of that sad thirst, but love untouched and whole!
Kinder than e’er I durst have hoped thou art,
Forgive me then, that yet my craving heart
Is so unsatisfied; I know that thou
Art fain to dream that I am happy now,
And for that seeming ever do I strive;
Thy half-love, dearest, keeps me still alive
To love thee; and I bless it — but at whiles—”
So far she spake till her weak quivering smiles
Faded before the bitterness of love.
Her face changed, and her passion ‘gan to move
Within her breast until the sobs came fast,
And down upon her hands her face she cast,
And by the pain of tears her heart did gain
A little respite; nor might she refrain
From weeping yet, when Kiartan’s arms she felt
About her, and for long her fair lips dwelt
With hungry longing on his lips, and he
Spake to her:
“O poor lover, long may we
Live upon earth, till lover and beloved
Each is to each, by one desire moved;
And whereas thou dost say to me, Forgive,
Forgive me rather! A short while to live
Once seemed the longest life of man to me,
Wherein my love of the old years to see;
But could I die now, and be born again
To give my whole heart up to ease thy pain,
A short while would I choose to live indeed.
But is it not so, sweet, that thou hast need
To tell me of a thing late seen or heard?
Surely by some hap thy dear heart is stirred
From out its wonted quiet; ease thine heart
And ‘twixt us twain thy fear and grief depart!”
She looked up: “Yea, kind love, I thought to tell
Of no great thing that yesterday befell.
Why should I vex thee with it? Yet thy fame,
If I must say the word, in question came
Therein. Yet prithee, mark it not too much!”
He smiled and said: “Nay, be the tidings such
As mean my death, speak out and hide not aught!”
She sat a little while, as though she thought
How best to speak, then said: “The day being good,
About noon yesterday in peaceful mood
I wandered by the brook-side, and at last
Behind a great grey stone myself I cast,
And slept, as fate would have it; when I woke
At first I did but note the murmuring brook,
But as my hearing and my sight did clear
The sound of women’s voices did I hear,
And in the stream two maidens did I see,
Our housefolk, and belike they saw not me,
Since I lay low adown, and up the stream
Their faces turned; I from a half-sweet dream,
I know not what, awaked, no sooner heard
Their first word, than sick-hearted and afeard
I grew, the cold and evil world to feel
So hard it seemed, love, my life to deal:
Bitterly clear I saw; as if alone
And dead, I saw the world; by a grey stone
Within the shallows, washing linen gear
They stood; their voices sounded sharp and clear;
Half smiles of pleasure and of goodlihead,
Shone on their faces, as their rough work sped;
O God, how bright the world was!”
A flush came
Across her face; as stricken by some shame
She stammered, when she went on: “Thus their speech,
Broken amid their work mine ear did reach
As I woke up to care, for the one said,
‘Yea, certes, now has Kiartan good end made
Of all his troubles, things go well enow.’
‘Over well,’ said the other, ‘didst thou know?’
‘Know what?’ the first one said, ‘What knowst thou then?’
‘Nay, nought except the certain talk of men.’
‘Well, hear I not men too, what wilt thou say?’
She said, ‘Men talk that this is latter May,
And Kiartan sitteth still and nought is done
