Approaching the booths, Alwin had immediate proof of this statement, for bench and bush and ground were littered with garments and furs and weapons, and odds-and-ends of spoil, as if a ship had been overturned on the spot. The lean little man whom Rolf had pointed out stood in the midst of it all, examining and directing. He was dressed in coa.r.s.e homespun of the dingy colors of trading vessels, gray and brown and rusty black, which contrasted oddly with the mantle of gorgeous purple velvet he was at that moment trying on. His little freckled face was wrinkled into a hundred shrewd puckers, and his eyes were two twinkling pin-points of sharpness. He seemed to thrust their glance into Alwin, as he advanced to meet his visitors; and the men who were helping him paused and looked at the thrall with expectant grins.

Rolf said blandly, "Greeting, Thorgrim Svensson! We have come to see your horse-fight. This is Alwin, Edmund Jarl's son, of England. Bad luck has made him Leif's thrall, but his accomplishments have made me his friend."

He spoke with the utmost mildness, merely glancing at the grinning crew; yet they sobered as though their mirth had been turned off by a faucet, and Thorgrim gave the thrall a civil welcome.

"It is a great pity," he continued, addressing the Wrestler, "that you cannot see the Flesh-Tearer, since you came for that purpose; but it has happened that he has lamed himself, and will not be able to fight for a week. Do not go away on that account, however. My ship has brought me some cloaks even finer than the one you covet,"--here it seemed to Alwin as if the little man winked at Rolf,--"and if the Englishman is as good a swordsman as you have said--ahem!" He broke off with a cough, and endeavored to hide his abruptness by turning away and picking a fur mantle off a pile of costly things.

Alwin's momentary surprise was forgotten at sight of the treasure thus disclosed. Beneath the cloak, thrown down like a thing of little value, lay an open book. It was written in Anglo-Saxon letters of gold and silver; its crumpled pages were of rarest rose-tinted vellum; its covers, sheets of polished wood gold-embossed and adorned with golden clasps. Even Alfred's royal kinswoman had never owned so splendid a volume. The English boy caught it up with an exclamation of delight, and turned the pages hungrily, trying whether his mother's lessons would come back to him.

He was brought to himself by the touch of Rolf's hand on his shoulder.

They were all looking at him, he found,--once more with expectant grins.

Opposite him an ungainly young fellow in slave's garb--and with the air of belonging in it--stood as though waiting, a naked sword in his hand.

"Now I have still more regard for you when I see that you have also the trick of reading English runes," the Wrestler said. "But I ask you to leave them a minute and listen to me. Thorgrim here has a thrall whom he holds to be most handy with a sword; but I have wagered my gold necklace against his velvet cloak that you are a better man than he."

The meaning of the group dawned on Alwin then: he drew himself up with freezing haughtiness. "It is not likely that I will strive against a low-born serf, Rolf Erlingsson. You dare to put an insult upon me because luck has left your hair uncut."

A sound like the expectant drawing-in of many breaths pa.s.sed around the circle. Alwin braced himself to withstand Rolf's fist; but the Wrestler only drew back and looked at him reprovingly.

"Is it an insult, Alwin of England, to take you at your word? It is not three hours since you vowed never to turn your back on a challenge while the red blood ran in your veins. Have witches sucked the blood out of you, that your mind is so different when you are put to the test?"

At least enough blood was left to crimson Alwin's cheeks at this reminder. Those had been his very words, stung by Rolf's taunt.

The smouldering doubt he had felt burst into flame and burned through every fibre. What if it were all a trap, a plot?--if Rolf had brought him there on purpose to fight, the horses being only a pretext?

Thorgrim's wink, his allusion to Alwin's swordsmanship, it had all been arranged between them; the velvet cloak was the clew! Rolf had wished to possess it. He had persuaded Thorgrim to stake it on his thrall's skill,--then he had brought Alwin to win the wager for him. _Brought_ him, like a trained stallion or a trick dog!

He turned to fling the deceit in the Wrestler's teeth. Rolf's fair face was as innocent as those of the pictured saints in the Saxon book. Alwin wavered. After all, what proof had he?

Jeering whispers and half-suppressed laughter became audible around him.

The group believed that his hesitation arose from timidity. Ignoring the smart of yesterday's wound, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the sword Rolf held out to him, and started forward.

His foot struck against the Saxon book which he had let fall. As he picked it up and laid it reverently aside, it suggested something to him.

"Thorgrim Svensson," he said, pausing, "because I will not have it said that I am afraid to look a sword in the face, I will fight your serf,--on one condition: that this book, which can be of no use to you, you will give me if I get the better of him."

The freckled face puckered itself into a shrewd squint. "And if you fail?"

"If I fail," Alwin returned promptly, "Rolf Erlingsson will pay for me.

He has told me that while he is free and I am bound, he is answerable for what I do."

At this there was some laughter--when it was seen that the Wrestler was not offended. "A quick wit answered that, Alwin of England," Rolf said with a smile. "I will pay willingly, if you do not save us both, as I expect."

Anxious to be done with it, Alwin fell upon the thrall with a fierceness that terrified the fellow. His blade played about him like lightning; one could scarce follow its motions. A flesh-wound in the hip; and the poor churl, who had little real skill and less natural spirit, began to blunder. A thrust in the arm that would have only redoubled Alwin's zeal, finished him completely. With a roar of pain, he threw his weapon from him, broke through the circle of angry men, and fled, cowering, among the booths.

There were few words spoken as the cloak and the book were handed over.

The set of Thorgrim's mouth suggested that if he said anything, it would be something which he realized might be better left unsaid. His men were like hounds in leash. Rolf spoke a few smooth phrases, and hurried his companion away.

The sense that he had been tricked to the level of a performing bear came upon Alwin afresh. When they stood once more in the road, he looked at the Wrestler accusingly and searchingly.

Rolf began to talk of the book. "Nothing have I seen which I think so fine. I must admit that you men of England are more skilful than we of the North in such matters. It is all well enough to scratch pictures on a rock or carve them on a door; but what will you do when you wish to move? Either you must leave them behind, or get a yoke of oxen. To have them painted on kid-skin, I like much better. You are in great luck to come into possession of such property."

Alwin forgot his resentful suspicions in his pleasure. "Let us sit down somewhere and examine it," said he. "Yonder, where those trees stretch over the fence and make the gra.s.s shady,--that will be a good place."

"Have it your own way," Rolf a.s.sented. To the shady spot they proceeded accordingly.

Rolf stretched himself comfortably in the long gra.s.s and made a pillow of his arms. Alwin squatted down, his back planted against the fence, the book open on his knees.

The reading-matter was attractive enough, with its glittering characters and rose-tinted pages, and every initial letter inches high and shrined in azure-blue traceries. But the splendor of the pictures!--no barbaric heart could resist them. What if the straight lines were crooked,--if the draperies were wooden,--the hands and the feet ungainly? They had been drawn with sparkles of gold and gleams of silver, in blue and scarlet and violet, until nothing less than a stained-gla.s.s window glowing in the sun could even suggest their radiance. Rolf warmed into unusual heartiness.

"By the hilt of my sword, he was an accomplished man who was able to make such pictures! Look at that horse,--it does not keep you guessing a moment to tell what it is. And yonder man with the red flames leaping about him,--I wish I knew why he was bound to that post!"

Alwin also was bitten with curiosity. "I tell you what I will do," he offered. "You must not suppose that reading is as easy as swimming, or handling a sword. My father did not have the accomplishment, and his hair was gray. Neither would my mother have learned it, had it not been that Alfred was her kinsman and she was proud of his scholarship. Nor should I have known how, if she had not taught me. And I have forgotten much. But this I will offer you: I will read the Saxon words to myself, and then tell you in the Northern tongue what they mean."

He spread the book open on a spot of clean turf, stretched himself on his stomach, gripped one leg around the other, planted his chin on his clenched fists, and began.

It was slow work. He had forgotten a good deal; and every other word was linked with distracting memories: his mother leaning from her embroidery frame to follow the line with her bodkin; his mother, erect and stern, bidding Brother Ambrose bear him away and flog him for his idleness; his mother hearing his lesson with one arm around him and the other hand holding the sweetmeat she would give him if he succeeded. He did not notice that Rolf's eyes were gradually closing, and his bated breath lengthening into long even sighs. He plodded on and on.

All at once a thunder of approaching hoof-beats reached him from up the road. Nearer and nearer they came; and around the curve swept a party of the King's guardsmen,--yellow hair and scarlet cloaks flying in the wind, spurs jingling, weapons clattering, armor clashing. Alwin glanced up and saw their leader,--and his interest in pale pictured saints dropped dead.

"It must be King Olaf himself!" he murmured, staring.

A head taller than the other tall men, with shoulders a palm's-width broader, the leader sat on his mighty black horse like a second Thor.

Light flashed from his steel tunic and gilded helmet. His bronzed face had an eagle's beak for a nose, and eyes of the blue of ice or steel, piercing as a two-edged sword. A white cross was painted on his shield of gold.

As he swept past, he glanced toward the pair by the fence. Catching sight of the sleeping Rolf, he checked his horse sharply, made a motion bidding the others go on without him, and, wheeling, rode back, followed only by a mounted thrall who was evidently his personal attendant. Alwin leaped up and attempted to arouse his companion, but the guardsman saved him the trouble. Leaning out of his saddle, he struck the Wrestler a smart blow with the flat of his sword.

"What now, Rolf Erlingsson!" he demanded, in tones of thunder. "Because I go on a five days' journey, must it happen that my men lie like drunken swine along the roadside? For this you shall feel--"

Before his eyes were fairly open, Rolf was on his feet, tugging at his sword. Luckily, before he thrust, he got a glimpse of his a.s.sailant.

"Leif, the son of Eric!" he cried, dropping his weapon. "Welcome! Hail to you!"

The warrior's frown relaxed into a grim smile, as he yielded his hand to his young follower's hearty grip.

"Is it possible that you are sober after all? What in the Fiend's name do you here, asleep by the road in company with a thrall and a purple cloak?"

Rolf relaxed into his customary drawl. "That is unjustly spoken, chief.

I have not been asleep. I have found a new and worthy enjoyment. I have been listening while this Englishman read aloud from a Saxon book of saints."

"A Saxon book of saints!" exclaimed the guardsman. "I would see it."

When its owner had handed it up, he looked it through hastily, yet turning the leaves with reverence, and crossing himself whenever he encountered a pictured cross. As he handed it back, he turned his eyes on Alwin, blue and piercing as steel.

"It is likely that you are a high-born captive. That you can read is an unusual accomplishment. It is not impossible that you might be useful to me. Who is your master? Is it of any use to try to buy you from him?"

Rolf laughed. "Certainly you are well named 'the Lucky,' since you only wish for what is already yours. This is the cook-boy whom Tyrker bought to fill the place of Hord."

"So?" said Leif, in unconscious imitation of his old German foster-father. He sat staring down thoughtfully at the boy,--until his attendant took jealous alarm, and put his horse through a manoeuvre to arouse him.