Complete Works of William Morris, page 437
Still seemed to bear his fame unto her feet;
All summer sights and sounds, and odours sweet,
Were heavy with his memory: no least way
To ‘scape from thought of him from day to day.
Withal, the sight of faces dull with hate
Of that same man, on every step did wait.
Familiar grew the muttering sullen voice
Of those who in no goodhap could rejoice,
Until the very thought and hope of strife,
The use of hate, must grow to be her life.
And shaped therefrom a dreadful longing rose,
That some fell end the weary way would close,
Unto herself she scarce durst whisper what.
Now on a day three of her brothers sat
Within the hall, and talked, and she stood by
Hearkening their eager speech most wearily.
“The gabbling crone Thorhalla has just been,”
Said Ospak, “And whom think you she has seen?”
“Nay, by thy scowl I know well,” Thorolf said,
“’Twas Kiartan Olafson, upon my head.”
“Well, Thorolf, thou grow’st wise — now, said the crone,
That in her life she ne’er saw such an one
As Kiartan looked, a loving maiden’s dream
Of a great king, she said, the man did seem.
‘Well,’ said I, ‘and how long then will it last?’
‘Ah,’ said the crone, ‘till after ye are passed;
Why, the whole country-side is ringing now
With this, that ye had best be wise and bow
Before him humbly, since most kind is he;
Kind,’ says the crone, ‘certes he was to me.’
‘Well, well,’ says I, ‘but these are fools’ words here.’
‘Nay, let me speak,’ she says, ‘for he will fare
Unto the west to Knoll; this know I well,
Because to him therewith I needs must tell
Of one who owed me half a mark thereby.
Well, goody, says he, I shall pass anigh,
And I will fetch it for thee — lo, how kind.’”
“Now may God strike the gabbling idiot blind!”
Said Thorolf. “Nay,” said Ospak, “not so wise
Thou growest now; rather, God keep her eyes!
Tidings she told me, saying he would bide
For just three days at Knoll, and thence will ride
Through Swinedale home, close here, nor like that he
Will ride by us with a great company,
Say two at most — good luck go with his pride,
Whereby so fair a chance doth us betide! —
Bodli shall lead or die.”
Then Gudrun turned
Sick-hearted from them; how her longing burned
Within her heart! ah, if he died not now,
How might she tell whereto his hate would grow?
Yet a strange hope that longing shot across,
As she got thinking what would be the loss
If Bodli fell ‘neath Kiartan’s hand. That day,
Like years long told, past Gudrun wore away,
She knew not how; but when the next day came
She cried aloud, “The same, ah, still the same,
Shall every day be, now that he is dead!”
She started as she heard her voice, her head
Seemed filled with flame: she crawled unto her bower
And at her mirrored face hour after hour
She stared, and wondered what she really was,
The once-loved thing o’er which his lips would pass.
Her feet grew heavy at the end of day,
Her heart grew faint, upon her bed she lay
Moveless for many an hour, until the sun
Told her that now the last day was begun;
Then she arose as one might in a dream
To clothe herself, till a great cloud did seem
To draw away from her; as in bright hell,
Sunless but shadowless she saw full well
Her life that was and would be, now she knew
The deed unmasked that summer day should do.
And then she gnashed her teeth and tore her hair,
And beat her breast, nor lightened thus despair,
As over and over the sweet names she told
Whereby he called her in the days of old;
And then she thought of Refna’s longing eyes,
And to her face a dreadful smile did rise
That died amidst its birth, as back again
Her thoughts went to the tender longing pain
She once had deemed a sweet fair day would end;
And therewith such an agony did rend
Her body and soul, that all things she forgat
Amidst of it; upon the bed she sat
Rigid and stark, and deemed she shrieked, yet made
No sound indeed; but slowly now did fade
All will away from her, until the sun
Risen higher, on her moveless body shone,
And as a smitten thing beneath its stroke
She shrank and started, and awhile awoke
To hear the tramp of men about the hall.
Then did a hand upon the panel fall;
And in her very soul she heard the ring
Of weapons pulled adown, and every thing,
Yea, even pain, was dead a little space.
At last she woke to see the haggard face
Of Bodli o’er her own: “I go,” he said,
“Would God that thou mayst hear of me as dead
Ere the sun sets to-day.”
She passed her hand
Across her eyes, as he in arms did stand
Before her there, and stared but answered not,
As though indeed his face were clean forgot;
Yet her face quickened as his eyes she saw
So full of ruth yet nigher to her draw:
She shrank aback, but therewith suddenly
A thought smote through her, with an angry cry
She sprang up from the bed, naked and white
Her gold hair glittering in the sunshine bright
That flooded all the place; his arm she caught
And stared into his eyes:
“What is thy thought?”
She said, “why goest thou with these murderous men?
Ah! dost thou think thou yet mayst save him then?
Ah! dost thou think that thou mayst still be kind
To every one, fool as thou art and blind,
Yet work thy wicked will to pleasure thee?”
Across her passion he began to see
That now she doubted him; he muttered low:
“The work of these my hands what man can know?
And yet at least the end shall be to-day.”
She fell aback nor noted more, but lay
All huddled up upon the bed, her hair
O’er her white body scattered here and there,
And as he gazed on her he saw she wept,
And a wild passion o’er his heart there swept,
And twice he stretched his arms out, to embrace
His curse and his delight, twice turned his face
Unto the door that led unto the hall,
Then with a cry upon her did he fall
And, sobbing, strained her to his mail-clad breast,
And to her writhen lips his lips he pressed,
And moaned o’er her wet cheeks, and kissed her eyes
That knew him not; till in his heart ‘gan rise,
Now at the last, a glory in his shame,
A pride to take the whole world’s bitter blame;
And like a god he felt, though well he deemed
That to an end at last his dream was dreamed.
And she, she knew him not, her arms fell down
Away from him, her drawn mouth and set frown
Were not for him, she did not shrink from him,
She turned not round to curse or bless, when dim
She lay before his burning eyes once more,
Her long hair gilding the white bed-clothes o’er,
As midst low restless moaning there she tossed.
Wildly he cried: “Oh, Gudrun, thou hast lost,
But look on me for I have never won!”
Then from the place he rushed, and with the sun
Burst into the dusk hall, a stream of light,
Neath his dark hair, his face so strange and white
That a dead man dragged up into the day
By wizard’s arts he seemed to be, and they
Who waited armed there, and the last cup drank
Looked each at each, and from his presence shrank.
For there were gathered now the murderous band,
Long to be cursed thereafter through the land,
Gudrun’s five brethren, and three stout men more.
Then Ospak cried, “Soon shall our shame be o’er,
And thou and we shall be great men and famed,
And Bathstead free; come now, since thou art named
Our leader, husband of Gudrun, lead forth!
For this day shall be called a day of worth,
By those that tell the story of our house.”
Flushed were the men, and fierce and boisterous,
And Bodli trembled in his helpless rage
To be among them, but his sin’s strong cage
Was strait and strong about him: with no word
He girt to him the rover’s deadly sword,
And did his helm on: and so forth they wend
Through the bright morn to bring about the end.
The Slaying of Kiartan Olafson.
NOW Kiartan rode from Knoll betimes that day,
And goodman Thorkel brought him on the way
With twelve men more, and therewithal they ride
Fast from the west, but where the pass grew wide
And opened into Swinedale, Kiartan stayed
His company, and unto Thorkel said,
“Thanks have thou, goodman, for thy following;
Now get thee back, I fear not anything
‘Twixt this and Herdholt.”
“Well,” the goodman said,
“Time enow is there yet to be waylaid
Ere thou art safe at home; let us ride on.”
“Nay,” Kiartan said, “the thing shall not be done,
All men of heart will say that heart I lack,
If I must have an army at my back
Where’er I go, for fear of Oswif’s sons.
Fare thee well, goodman, get thee back at once!
And therewithal take this to comfort thee,
That Bodli yet is scarce mine enemy,
And holds aback those brethren; wot ye well,
Too strange a story would it be to tell,
If these should overcome my father’s son,
Besides, without thee I ride not alone.”
So back the goodman turned, misdoubting though,
In spite of all how yet the day would go,
And up the dale rode Kiartan: An the Black,
The man who erst the stolen sword brought back,
Was with him these, and one named Thorarin,
As slowly now the midway dale they win.
Now, as I find it written in my tale,
There went that morn a goodman of the dale,
About those bents his mares and foals to see,
His herdsman with him; these saw presently
Up from the east the men of Bathstead ride,
And take their stand along a streamlet’s side
Deep sunken in a hollow, where the mouth
Of the strait pass turns somewhat to the south,
From out the dale; now, since the men they knew,
Much they misdoubted what these came to do;
But when they turned them from the sunken stream,
And saw the sun on other weapons gleam,
And three men armed come riding from the west;
And when they knew the tallest and the best
For Kiartan Olafson, therewith no more
They doubted aught.
Then said the herdsman: “Sore
The troubles are that on the country-side
Shall fall, if this same meeting shall betide;
He is a great chief; let us warn him then!”
“Yea, yea!” his master said, “and all such men
As fate leads unto death, that we may be
‘Twixt the two millstones ground right merrily,
And cursed as we cry out! thou art a fool,
Who needs must be the beaker and the stool
For great men’s use; emptied of joys of life
For other’s joy, then kicked by in the strife
When they are drunken; come, beside the way,
Let us lie close to see the merry play!
For such a swordsman as is Kiartan, we
Shall scarce behold on this side of the sea;
And heavy odds he hath against him too.
These are great men — good, let them hack and hew
Their noble bodies for our poor delight!”
So down the bent they slipped, and as they might
Lurked by the road, and thus they tell their tale:
Ere Kiartan reached the strait place of the dale,
High up upon the brook-bank Bodli lay,
So that his helm was just seen from the way;
Then Ospak went to him, and clear they heard
Across the road his rough and threatening word:
“What dost thou here? thou hast bethought thee then
To warn thy friend that here lurk all-armed men.
Thou knowest Gudrun’s mind — or knowst it not,
But knowst that we within a trap have got
Thee and the cursed wretch, the proud Mire-blade,
The Thief, the King’s-pimp, the white Herdholt maid.
Come, sister’s husband, get thee lower down!”
The foam flew from the lips of the fierce clown
As thus he spake, but Bodli rose and said:
“Thinkst thou I armed because I was afraid
Of thee and thine this morn? If thou knewst well
Of love or honour, somewhat might I tell
Why I am here with thee — If will I have,
Kiartan, who was my friend, this day to save,
Bethink thee I might do it otherwise
Than e’en by showing what in ambush lies!
— How if I stood beside him?”.
“Down with thee
And hold thy peace! or he will hear and see.”
For so it was that Kiartan drew so near
That now the herd their clinking bits might hear,
Borne down upon the light wind: on he came,
Singing an old song made in Odin’s fame,
Merry and careless on that sunny morn;
When suddenly out rang the Bathstead horn,
And sharply he drew rein, and looked around;
Then did the lurkers from the gully bound
And made on toward them, and down leapt all three,
And Kiartan glanced around, and speedily
Led toward a rock that was beside the way,
And there they shifted them to stand at bay.
Most noble then looked Kiartan, said the herd,
Nor ever saw I any less afeard;
Yet, when his watchful eye on Bodli fell,
A change came o’er him, that were hard to tell,
But that he dropped his hands at first, as one
Who thinks that all is over now and done;
Yet, says the neatherd, soon his brows did clear,
And from his strong hand whistled forth his spear,
And down fell Thorolf clattering on the road.
He cried, ‘Down goes the thief beneath his load,
One man struck off the tale! I have heard tell
Of such as dealt with more and came off well.’
Silence a space but for the mail rings; then
Over the dusty road on rushed those men;
And, says the herd, there saw I for a space
Confused gleam of swords about that place,
And from their clatter now and then did come
Sharp cry, or groan, or panting shout, as home
Went point or edge: but pale as death one stood,
With sheathed sword, looking on the clashing wood,
And that was Bodli Thorleikson. Then came
A lull a little space in that wild game.
The Bathstead men drew off, and still the three
Stood there scarce hurt as far as I could see;
But of the Bathstead men I deem some bled,
Though all stood firm; then Ospak cried and said;
“O Bodli, what thing wilt thou prophesy
For us, since like a seer thou standest by
And see’st thine house beat back? well then for thee
Will I be wise, foretelling what shall be
A cold bed, and a shamed board, shalt thou have,
Yea, and ere many days a chased dog’s grave,
If thou bringst home to-day a bloodless sword!”
But yet for all that answered he no word,
But stood as made of iron, though the breeze
Blew his long black hair round his cheek-pieces
And fanned his scarlet kirtle.
“Time we lose,”
Another cried, “if Bodli so shall choose,
Let him deal with us when this man is slain.”
Then stoutly to the game they gat again
And played awhile, and now withal I saw
That rather did the sons of Oswif draw
Toward Thorarin and An, until the first,
From midst the knot of those onsetters burst,
And ran off west, followed by two stout men,
Not Oswif’s sons; and An the Black fell then
Wounded to death, I deemed, but over him
Fell Gudlaug, Oswif’s nephew, with a limb
Shorn off by Kiartan’s sword: then once again
There came a short lull in the iron rain;
And then the four fell on him furiously
Awhile, then gave aback, and I could see
The noble Kiartan, with his mail-coat rent,
His shield hung low adown, his sword-blade bent,
Panting for breath, but still without a wound.
While as a man by some strong spell fast bound,
