"Now it is related that Bjarni Herjulfsson came from Greenland to Eirek Jarl, who received him well. Bjarni described his voyage and the lands that he had seen. People thought he had shown a lack of interest as he had nothing to tell about them, and he was somewhat blamed for it. He became the Jarl's hirdman and went to Greenland the following summer, Now there was much talk about land discoveries."—FLATEYJARBO'K.
The week after Gilli's departure for Norway, Leif returned from his visit to Herjulf's Cape, and made public his intention to take Biorn's barren beginning and carry it out to a definite finish. He brought with him three of the men of Biorn's old crew, and also the same stanch little trading-vessel in which Herjulfsson had made his journey. The ship-sheds upon the shore became at once the scene of endless overhauling and repairing. Thorhild's women laid aside their embroidering for the task of sail-making. There began a ransacking of every hut on the commons and every fishing-station along the coast, for the latest improved hunting-gear and fishing-tackle; and day after day Tyrker rode among the farms, purchasing stores of grain and smoked meats.
As the old saga says: "Now there was much talk about land discoveries." The Lucky One became the hero of the hour. With all its stubbornness, Eric's pride could not but be gratified. He began to show signs of relenting. Gradually he ceased to avert his face. One day, he even worked himself up to making a gruff inquiry into their plans.
"If we return with great fame, it is likely his pleasure will reconcile him entirely," Leif's men chuckled to each other.
The diplomatic guardsman was quick to understand the change, but as usual, he went a step beyond their expectations. The day after his father made this first advance, he invited him to inspect the exploring ship and advise them concerning her equipment. While they stood upon the shore, admiring the coat of scarlet paint that was being laid upon her hull, he suddenly offered the Red One the leadership of the expedition.
Eric's eyes caught fire, and his wiry old frame straightened and swelled with eagerness. Then, though his eyes still sparkled, his chest sank like a pierced bladder.
"It is not possible for me to go. I am too old, and less able to bear hardship than formerly."
Rolf and the steersman, who had overheard the offer, exchanged glances of relief, and allowed themselves to breathe again. But to their consternation, Leif did not take advantage of this loop-hole. He argued and urged, until Eric drew in another long breath of excitement, until his aged muscles tingled and twitched with a spasm of youthful ardor, until at last, in a burst of almost hysterical enthusiasm, he accepted the offer. In the warmth of his pleasure, he grasped his son's hand and publicly received him back into his affections. But at the moment, this was cold comfort for Leif's followers. They turned from their painting and hammering and polishing, to stare at their lord in amazed disapproval. The instant the two chiefs had gone up from the shore, complaints broke out like explosions.
"That old heathen at the steering-oar! All the bad luck in the world may be expected!"—"Nowhere lives a man more domineering than Eric the Red." "What is to become of Leif's renown, if the glory is to go to that old pagan?"—"Skroppa has turned a curse against the Lucky One. He has been deprived of his mind."
"It is in my mind that part of that is true," Rolf said thoughtfully, leaning on the spear-shaft he was sharpening. "I believe the Saxon Saints' Book has bewitched his reason. From that, I have heard the Englishman read of men who gave up honor lest it might make them vain. I believe Leif Ericsson is humbling his pride, like some beaten monk."
He was interrupted by a chorus of disgust. "Yah! If he has become such a woman as that!"—"A man who fears bad luck."—"A brave man bears the result of his action, whatever it is."—"The Saints' Book is befitting old men who have lost their teeth."—"Christianity is a religion for women."
Sigurd struck in for the first time. Although he had been frowning with vexation, some touch of compunction had held him silent. "I will not allow you to say that, nor should you wish to speak so." He hesitated, rubbing his chin perplexedly. "I acknowledge that I experience the same disgust that you do; yet I am not altogether certain that we are right. I remember hearing my father say that what these saints did was more difficult than any achievement of Thor. And I have heard King Olaf Trygvasson read out of the Holy Book that a man who controls his own passions is more to be admired than a man who conquers a city."
For perhaps two or three minutes there was a lull in the grumbling. But it was not to be expected, in that brutal age, that moral strength should find a keen appreciation. Indeed, Sigurd's words were far from ringing with his own conviction. Little by little, the discontent broke out again. At last it grew so near to mutiny, that the steersman felt called upon to exercise his authority.
"All this is foolishly spoken, concerning something you know nothing of. Undoubtedly Leif has an excellent reason for what he does. It may be that he considers it of the greatest importance to secure Eric's friendship. Or it may be that he intends to lead him into some uninhabited place, that he may kill him and get rid of his ill-temper. It is certain that he has some good reason. Go back to your work, and make your minds easy that now, as always, some good will result from his actions."
The men still growled as they obeyed him; but however right or wrong he was regarding Leif's motives, he was proved correct in his prophecy. Out of that moment on shore, came the good of a complete reconciliation with Eric. No more were there cold shoulders, and half-veiled gibes, and long evenings of gloomy restraint. No longer were Leif's followers obliged to sit with teeth on their tongues and hands on their swords. The warmth of gratification that had melted the ice of Eric's displeasure seemed to have set free torrents of generosity and good-will. His ruddy face beamed above the board like a harvest moon; if Leif would have accepted it, he would have presented him with the entire contents of Brattahlid. Following their chief's example, his retainers locked arms with their former enemies and swore them eternal brotherhood. Night after night they drank out of the same horns, and strengthened their bonds in lauding their chiefs. Never had the great hall seen a time of such radiant good cheer.
By the last week of Leif's preparations, interest and enthusiasm had spread into every corner of inhabited Greenland. Strings of people began to make pilgrimages to stare at the exploring vessel that had once been within sight of the "wonder-shores" and now seemed destined actually to touch them. Men came from ail parts of the country in the hope of joining her crew, and were furious with disappointment when told that her equipment was limited to thirty-five, and that that number had already been made up from among Leif's own followers. Warriors thronged to visit the Lucky One, until the hall benches were filled, and the courtyard was so crowded with attendants that there was barely room for the servants to run between the horses with the ale horns. Outside the fence there was nearly always a mob of children and paupers and thralls lying in wait, like a wolf-pack, to tear information out of any member of the household who should venture beyond the gates.
Usually it was only vague rumor and meagre report that fell to the share of these outsiders; but the day before Leif's departure it happened that they got a bit of excitement first-hand.
Late that afternoon word went around that the trading-ship of Arnor Gunnarsson was coming up Eric's Fiord. The arrival of that merchant was one of the events of the year. Not only did it occasion great feasting among the rich, which meant additional alms among the poor, but besides a chance to feast one's stomach, it meant an opportunity to feast one's eyes on beautiful garments and wonderful weapons; and in addition to all else, it meant such a budget of news and gossip and thrilling yarns as should supply local conversation with a year's stock of topics,—a stock always run low and rather shopworn towards the end of the long winters. At the first hint of the "Eastman's" approach, a crowd of idlers was gathered out of nowhere as quickly as buzzards are drawn out of empty space.
As the heavy dun-colored merchantman came slowly to its berth and the anchor fell with a rattle and a splash, the motley crowd cheered shrilly. When the ruddy gold-bearded trader appeared at the side, ready to clamber into the boat his men were lowering, they cheered again. And they regarded it as an appropriate tribute to the importance of the occasion when one of their number came running over the sand to announce breathlessly that Leif Ericsson himself was riding down to greet the arrivals, accompanied by no less a person than his high-born foster-son.
"Although it is no great wonder that the Lucky One feels interest," they told each other. "The last time that Eric the Red came to meet traders, they returned his greeting with a sweep of their arms toward their ships, and an invitation to take whatever of its contents best pleased him."
"The strange wonder to me," mumbled one old man, "is that it is always to those who have sufficient wealth to purchase them that presents are given. It may be that Odin knows why gifts are seldom given to the poor: certainly I think one needs to be all-wise to understand it."
His companions clapped their hands over his mouth, and pointed at the approaching boat.
"Look!"—"Look there!"—"It is a king's son!" they cried. And then it was that their hungry teeth closed upon their morsel of excitement.
In the bow of the boat, shining like a jewel against the dark background of the trader's dun mantle, stood a most splendidly arrayed young warrior. The fading sunbeams that played on his gilded helm revealed shining armor and a golden cross embossed upon a gold-rimmed shield. Still nearer, and it could be seen that his cloak was of crimson velvet lined with sables, and that gold-embroideries and jewelled clasps flashed with every motion.
Buzzing with curiosity, they crowded down to the water's edge to meet him. The keel bit the sand; he stepped ashore into their very midst, and even that close scrutiny did not lessen his attractions. His olive-tinted face was haughtily handsome; his fine black hair fell upon his shoulders in long silken curls; he was tall and straight and supple, and his bearing was bold and proud as an eagle's.
"He is well fitted to be a king's son," they repeated one to another. And those in front respectfully gave way before him, while those behind fell over one another to get near in case he should speak,—and Leif himself paused in his greeting of Arnor Gunnarsson to look at the stranger curiously.
The youth stood running his eyes over the faces of those around him, until his gaze fell upon Sigurd Haraldsson. He uttered a loud exclamation, and sprang forward with outstretched hand.
Sigurd's cheeks, which had been looking rather pale, suddenly became very red; and he leaped from his horse and started forward. Then he wavered, stopped, and hesitated, staring.
"Mon ami!" said the stranger, in some odd heathen tongue very different from good plain Norse. "Mon ami!" He took another step forward, and this time their palms met.
The spectators who were watching Sigurd Haraldsson, whispered that the young warrior must be the last man on earth that he expected to see in Greenland, and also the man that he loved the best of all his sworn brothers. The fair-haired jarl's son and he of the raven locks stood grasping each other's hands and looking into each other's eyes as though they had forgotten there was anyone else in the world.
"He looks to be a man to be bold in the presence of chiefs, does he not?" the trader observed to Leif Ericsson, regarding the pair benevolently as he stood twisting his long yellow mustache. "He said to me that the jarl's son was his friend; it is great luck that he should find him so soon. He is somewhat haughty-minded, as is the wont of Normans, but he is free with his gold." And the thrifty merchant patted his money-bag absently.
The crowd circulated the news in excited whispers. "He is a friend of Sigurd Haraldsson."—"He is a Norman."—"That accounts for the swarthiness of his skin."—"Is it in the Norman tongue that they are speaking?"—"Normandy? Is that the land Rolf the Ganger laid under his sword?"—"Hush! Sigurd is leading him to the chief."—"Now we shall learn what his errand is."
And the boldest of them pushed almost within whip-range of the pair.
But there was no difficulty about hearing, for Sigurd spoke out in a loud clear voice: "Foster-father, I wish to make known to you my friend and comrade who has just now arrived on the Eastman's vessel. He is called Robert Sans-Peur, because his courage is such as is seldom found. I got great kindness from his kin when I was in Normandy."
The Norman said nothing, but he did what the bystanders considered rather surprising in a knee-crooking Frenchman. Neither bending his body nor doffing his helmet, he folded his arms across his breast and looked straight into the Lucky One's eyes.
"As though," one fellow muttered, "as though he would read in the chief's very face whether or not it was his intention to be friendly!"
"Hush!" his neighbor interrupted him. "Leif is drawing off his glove. It may be that he is going to honor him for his boldness."
And so indeed it proved. In another moment, the chief had extended his bare hand to the haughty Southerner.
"I have an honorable greeting for all brave men, even though they be friendless," he said, with lofty courtesy. "How much warmer then is the state of my feelings toward one who is also a friend of Sigurd Haraldsson? Be welcome, Robert Sans-Peur. The best that Brattahlid has to offer shall not be thought too good for you."
Whether or not he could speak it, it was evident that the Fearless One understood the Northern tongue. His haughtiness passed from him like a shadow. Uncovering his raven locks, he bowed low,—and would have set his lips to the extended hand if the chief, foreseeing his danger, had not saved himself by dexterously withdrawing it.
Sigurd, still flushed and nervous, spoke again: "You have taken this so well, foster-father, that it is in my mind to ask of you a boon which I should be thankful if you would grant. As far off as Normandy, my friend has heard tidings of this exploring-journey of yours; and he has come all this way in the hope of being allowed to join your following. He has the matter much at heart. If my wishes are at all powerful with you, you will not deny him."
A murmur of delight ran through the crowd. That this splendid personage should have come to do homage to their hero, was the final dramatic touch which their imaginations craved. It was with difficulty that they repressed a cheer.
But the guardsman looked puzzled to the point of incredulity.
"Heard the tidings as far as Normandy?" he repeated. "A matter of so little importance to anyone? How is that likely?" Straightening in his saddle, he looked at the Norman for a moment with eyes that were more keen than courteous.
"He would be liable to disaster who should try to put a trick upon Leif Ericsson," the thrall-born whispered.
Robert Sans-Peur was in no wise disconcerted. Meeting the keen eyes, he answered in plain if halting Norse: "The renowned chief has forgotten that early this season a trading-ship went from here to Trondhjem. Not a few of her shipmates went further than Nidaros. One of them, who was called Gudbrand-wi'-the-Scar, travelled even so far as Rouen, where it was my good fortune to encounter him."
"It is true that I had forgotten that," the chief said, slowly. He lowered his gaze to his horse's ears and sat for a while lost in thought. Then once more he extended his hand to the Southerner.
"It appears to me that you are a man of energy and resource," he said, with a return of his former cordiality. "Since wind and wave have not hindered you from your desire, it would be unheard-of churlishness for me to refuse you. Get now into my saddle and allow your friend to conduct you to the hall. It is necessary that I oversee the storing of these wares, but after the night-meal we will speak further of the matter." To forestall any further attempts at hand-kissing, he sprang from his horse and strode over to the trader.
With an air of grave ceremony that was swallowed open-mouthed by the onlookers, Sigurd held his friend's stirrup; then, quickly remounting his own steed, the pair rode off.
This time the mob would not be restrained, but burst into a roar of delight.
"Here at last is a great happening that we have seen with our own eyes!" they told each other, as they settled down at a safe distance to watch Leif and the merchant turning over the bales of goods which the sailors were engaged in bringing to shore. "This will be something to relate in time to come,—a great event concerning which we understand everything."
"'Concerning which we understand everything!'" Sigurd, overhearing them, repeated laughingly to his friend as they galloped up the lane.
Robert the Fearless laughed too, with a vibration of uneasiness in the peal.
"Few there are who are capable of making that boast," he answered. "Even you, comrade, are unequal to it. Here now is something that is worth a hearing." Leaning from his saddle, he poured into Sigurd's ear a stream of low-toned words that caused the Silver-Tongued to stop short and stare at him incredulously, and then look back at the anchored ship and pound his knee in a fury of exasperation.
The cloud rested on Sigurd's sunny face for the rest of the evening. Thorhild, enchanted at the tribute to her idolized son, plied the stranger with every attention; and Kark himself, for all his foxy eyes, removed the gilded helm from the smooth black locks without a thought to try whether or no they were indigenous to the scalp from which they sprang,—but Sigurd's brow did not lighten.
As they put a final polish upon their shields and hung them for the last time upon the wall behind their seats, Rolf said to him with a searching glance: "It is hidden from me why you look so black, comrade. If it were not for the drawback of old Eric at the steering-oar, certainly every circumstance would be as favorable as could be expected."
Sigurd arose and pulled his cloak down from its peg with a vicious jerk.
"There are other witless people besides Eric the Red who thrust themselves where they are not wanted," he retorted grimly. Then, turning abruptly, he strode out into the darkness; and none of the household saw him again until morning.
The sun rose upon a perfect day, warm and bright, with the wind in the right quarter, steady and strong. And as if to make sure that not even one thing should mar so auspicious a beginning, Leif's luck swept away the only drawback that Rolf had been able to name.
Down in the lane, midway between the foot where it opened upon the shore and the head where it ended at the fence, there lay a bit of a rock. A small stone or a big pebble was all it was, but in the hands of Leif's luck it took on the importance of a boulder.
When the moment of departure arrived, and the cavalcade poured out of the courtyard gates, with a clanking of armor and a flapping of gorgeous new mantles, warmed by the horns of parting ale that had steamed down their throats, singing and boasting and laughing, and cheered by the rabble that ran alongside, their way down to the shore lay directly over the head of this insignificant pebble. Who would have thought of avoiding it? Yet, though a score of children's feet danced over it unharmed, and sixty pairs of horses' hoofs pranced over it unhindered, when Eric reached it his good bay mare stumbled against it and fell, so that her rider was thrown from his saddle and rolled in the dust.
There were no bones broken; he was no more than shaken; he was up before they could reach him; but his face was gray with disappointment, and his frame had shrunk like a withered leaf.
"It is a warning from the gods that I am on the wrong road," he said hoarsely. "It is a sign that it cannot be my fate to be the discoverer of any other land than the one on which we now live. My luck go with you, my son; but I cannot."
Before they could remonstrate, he had wheeled his horse and left them, riding with the bent head and drooping shoulders of an old, old man.
A stern sign from Valbrand restrained Leif's men from venting the cheers they were bursting with; but the looks they darted at their leader, and then at each other, said as plainly as words: "It is his never-failing luck. Why did we ever doubt him? We would follow him into the Sea of Worms and believe that it would end favorably."
In this promising frame of mind they left their friendly haven and sailed away into an unknown world.
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