Suddenly they heard cries and sounds of confusion from the direction of the castle and saw a fat man in a long cowl come running toward them down the hill. He was shaven, and wore a silver cross at his breast and terror in his face. He arrived breathlessly at the huts and, flinging his arms wide apart, cried: “Leeches! Leeches! Is there no merciful soul here who can give us leeches? I must have blood-leeches immediately, fresh and strong.”
They could tell he was a foreigner, but he spoke the Danish tongue deftly, though he was gasping for breath.
“Our leeches up in the castle have fallen sick and lost their appetite,” he continued, panting, “and leeches are the only thing to relieve him when he has the toothache. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, is there nobody here who has any leeches?”
No one in the huts had leeches, however, and the fat priest groaned and began to look desperate. He had by this time arrived down at the pier where Orm’s ship was lying at anchor, and there, suddenly, he caught sight of the bell and the men surrounding it. His eyes emerged slowly from their sockets, and he ran forward to examine it more closely.
“What is this?” he cried. “A bell, a holy bell? Am I dreaming? Is this a real bell, or is it a fabrication of the Devil? How has it come here, to this land of darkness and evil spirits? Never in my life have I seen such a magnificent bell, not even in the Emperor’s own cathedral at Worms.”
“It is called James, after an apostle,” said Orm; “and we have brought it here from the apostle’s church in Asturia. We heard that King Harald had turned Christian, and thought such a gift would please him.”
“A miracle, a miracle!” cried the priest, bursting into tears of relief and stretching his arms heavenwards. “God’s angels have turned to us in our hour of need, when our leeches sickened. This is better medicine than leeches. But hurry, hurry! Delay is dangerous, for he has the ache badly.”
The slaves dragged the bell slowly up toward the castle, while the priest exhorted the men incessantly to use all the strength they had to pull it faster. He kept up a continual chatter, as though he had taken leave of his senses, mopping his eyes and turning his face skywards and crying out fragments of sacred jargon. Orm and the others gathered that the King had toothache, but could not make out what good their bell was expected to do. But the priest babbled about how lucky something was and called them messengers of God and said that everything would now be all right.
“He has not many teeth left in his mouth, praised be Almighty God!” he said, “but those that he has cause us as much trouble as all the other machinations contrived by the Devil in the whole of this barbarous land. For, despite his age, they often cause him pain, all except the two blue ones; and when they begin to ache he is dangerous to approach, and blasphemes immoderately. There was a time this summer, when one of his molars was hurting him, when he almost sent Brother Willibald to join the martyrs; for he hit him on the head with the big crucifix, which should properly only be used for the soothing of pain. Brother Willibald is himself again now, praise the Lord, but he was sick and dizzy for many weeks. We resigned our lives to the mercy of God, Brother Willibald and I, when we came with Bishop Poppo to this land of darkness with our gospel and our skill in healing; still, it seems a waste to be threatened with martyrdom for the sake of a couple of old teeth. Nor are we permitted to draw any of them out. This he has forbidden us to do, on pain of death, for he says that he is not prepared to become like some old King of the Swedes who ended up drinking milk from a horn. You see the difficulties and dangers we endure from this King in our zeal to spread the faith—Brother Willibald, who is the wisest doctor in the whole diocese of Bremen, and I myself, who am both doctor and precentor, and am called Brother Matthias.”
He paused for breath, mopping the sweat from his face, and panted at the slaves to move faster. Then he continued: “The chief difficulty we doctors have to put up with in this country is that we have no relics to help us, not even so much as a single one of St. Lazarus' teeth, which are irresistible healers of the toothache and are to be found everywhere else in Christendom. For we missionaries to the heathen are not permitted to carry relics with us, lest they should fall into heathen hands and so become sullied. We have to rely on our prayers and the Cross and earthly means of healing, and sometimes these are not enough. So none of us can heal by spiritual medicine here among the Danes until we have relics to assist us; and the time for that has not yet arrived. For though three Bishops and innumerable minor priests have been killed by the people here, and some of the bodies of these martyrs have been recovered and given Christian burial, so that we know where to find them, yet the Holy Church has ordained that no bones of Bishops or martyrs may be dug up and used for medicine until they have been dead thirty-six years. Until that time comes, this will be a difficult country for doctors to work in.”
He shook his head and mumbled sadly to himself, but then appeared to perk up again.
“However,” he went on, “now that God has seen fit to allow this great miracle to take place, things will become easier for Brother Willibald and me. True it is that I have never seen any reference in the Holy Scriptures to any special efficacy of St. James as a healer of the toothache; but in his own bell, fresh from his blessed tomb, there must surely reside much power against evil of all kinds, even including bad teeth. Therefore, chieftain, it cannot but be that you are God’s messenger to myself and Brother Willibald, and to all of the Christian faith in this land.”
Orm said: “O wise sir, how can you cure toothache with a bell? My men and I have been in distant lands and have seen many marvelous things, but this would be the most miraculous of all.”
“There are two cures for the toothache that we who are skilled in the craft of healing know of,” replied Brother Matthias, “and both of them are good. Personally—and I am sure Brother Willibald will feel as I do in the matter—I am of the opinion that the ancient prescription laid down by St. Gregory is the most effective. You will soon have an opportunity to witness it in operation.”
By this time they had reached the rampart with its surmounting stockade, and the great outer door was opened for them by an old porter, while another man blew on a horn to signify that visitors had arrived. Brother Matthias placed himself at the head of the procession and began exultantly to chant a holy song: “Vexilla regis prodeunt.” Behind him marched Orm and Toke, followed by the slaves drawing the bell, with the other men urging them along.
Within the stockade lay many houses, all belonging to members of the King’s household. For King Harald lived in greater pomp, and with a more extravagant show of power, than his father had done. He had had King Gorm’s huge dining-hall enlarged and had added to its splendor, and had had longhouses built for his servants and followers. The completion of his cookhouse and brewery had been celebrated by poets; and men who knew said that they were even bigger than those of the King in Uppsala. Brother Matthias led the way to the King’s own sleep-house; for, now that he was old, King Harald spent most of his time there with his women and his treasure-chests.