They all thought that this was news indeed and were eager to know more.
“You need have no fear on my account,” said Ylva, “though I am King Sven’s sister. For there is no love lost between us, and the last greeting we received from him was when he sent men here to seek our lives. Was it he who killed King Erik?”
“No, no!” cried Spjalle indignantly. “Had that been so, I should not now be here to tell the tale. King Erik died of witchcraft; of that I am sure, though whether his death was plotted by the gods, or whether by the foul Gute woman Sigrid, Skoglar-Toste’s daughter and King Erik’s Queen—may she toss perpetually in the whirlpool of hell among sword-blades and serpents’ fangs!—I do not know. The King lay off the Small Islands plundering with a mighty fleet, intending shortly to sail against King Sven, who was hiding in North Sjælland; and good luck attended all our enterprises, so that our hearts were merry. But while we were in harbor at Falster, our luck changed; for there a madness descended upon the King, and he made it known to the whole army that he was intending to become baptized. He said that his luck against King Sven would become better if he did this, and that it would not then be long before he put an end to him for good. He had been seduced into this folly by priests who had come to him from the Saxons and who had long been mumbling in his ear. The army liked this news but little, and wise men told him openly that it ill became the King of the Swedes to think of such foolishness, which might serve for Saxons and Danes but would be of no use to him. But he glowered fiercely at them when they counseled him thus, and answered them shortly; and as they knew him to be the wisest of men and one, besides, who always followed his own inclinations, they said no more to him on the matter. But his Queen, the crazy Gute woman, who had sailed south with us, bringing all the ships she had inherited from her father, loathed Christ and His followers with a savage loathing and refused to let King Erik silence her; so that a terrible enmity sprang up between these two, and it was rumored among the soldiers that she had said that there was no more pitiful object in the world than a baptized king, and that King Erik had threatened to have her flogged if she dared to mention the matter again. But it was too late to talk to her of flogging; she ought to have tasted the birch long before, and many times at that. As a result of their strife, the army became divided, so that we Swedes and the Queen’s men looked askance at one another and exchanged sharp words, and often drew our swords upon one another. Then the witchcraft gripped him, so that he began to sicken and lay helpless, unable to move his limbs; and early one morning, while most of our men were still asleep, Skoglar-Toste’s crazy daughter sailed away with all her ships and deserted us. Many of us thought she had sailed to join King Sven, and the King thought so too when he heard of her departure; but there was nothing we could do, and the King was by now so weak that he was scarcely able to speak. Then a great panic descended upon the army, and all the ships’ captains wanted to desert and return to their homes as soon as they might; and there was much wrangling about the King’s treasure-chests and how they might best be divided among his followers so as to prevent them from falling into King Sven’s hands. But the King called me to his bedside and commanded me to carry his sword back to his son in Uppsala. For this is the ancient sword of the Uppsala kings, which was given them by Fröj and is their dearest possession. ‘Take my sword home, Spjalle,’ he said, ‘and guard it well; for in it resides the luck of my family.’ Then he begged me to give him water to drink, and from this I knew that he had not long to live. Soon afterwards he, whom people called the Victorious, died miserably in his bed; and there were scarcely enough of his followers left to build his pyre. But we performed the task as well as we could, and killed his thralls and two of his priests and laid them on the pyre at his feet, that he might not appear before the gods alone and unaccompanied like a man of low degree. Then, while the pyre was yet aflame, the people of the islands fell upon us in great strength. When I saw them coming, I straightway fled, not from fear, but for the sword’s sake, and with these three men escaped across the water to Skania in a fishing-boat. Now I carry the sword bound to my leg beneath my clothes, to hide it as best I can. But what will happen in the world now that he is dead is more than I can guess, for, of all kings, he was the greatest, though by the foul witch’s contriving he met so mean an end and now lies far away on Falster’s strand with no mound to cover his ashes.”
Such was Spjalle’s story, and all his listeners stood open-eyed and silent to hear such tidings.
“These are evil times for kings,” said Orm at last. “First Styrbjörn, who was the strongest; then King Harald, who was the wisest; and now King Erik, who was the most powerful; and not long since we heard that the great Empress Theofano had also died, she who ruled alone over the Saxons and the Lombards. Only King Sven, my wife’s brother, who is more evil than other kings, does not die, but flourishes and waxes fat. It would be good to know why God does not destroy him and let better kings live.”
“God will smite him in His own good time,” said Father Willibald, “as He smote Holofernes, who had his head hewn off by the woman Judith, or Sennacherib, the Lord of the Assyrians, who was slain by his sons as he knelt praying before his idols. But it sometimes happens that evil men cling hard to life; and in these northern climes the Devil is stronger and more powerful than in more civilized regions. That this is true has just been dreadfully testified before us; for this man Spjalle sits here telling us how he himself slew two of Christ’s servants to sacrifice them on a heathen’s pyre. Such devilry exists nowhere in the world save in these climes and among certain of the Wendish tribes. I do not rightly know what action I should take against the perpetrator of such a crime. Of what use would it be for me to tell you, Spjalle, that you will burn in hell-fire for this deed; for even if you had not committed it, you would burn there just the same.”
Spjalle’s gaze wandered thoughtfully around the small group in which he sat.
“In my ignorance, I have said too much,” he said, “and have made this priest angry. But we acted only according to our ancient custom, for we always do thus when any Swedish king sets out on his journey to the gods. And you told me, woman, that I was not among enemies here.”
“She spoke the truth,” said Orm. “You shall suffer no harm here. But you must not be amazed that we, who are all followers of Christ, hold it an evil thing to have killed a priest.”
“They are among the blessed martyrs now,” said Father Willibald.
“Are they happy there?” asked Spjalle.
“They sit on the right hand of God, and live in bliss such as no mortal man can conceive of,” replied Father Willibald.
“Then they are better off than when they were alive,” said Spjalle, “for in King Erik’s household they were treated as thralls.”
Ylva laughed.
“You deserve more praise than blame,” she said, “for helping to bring them to this happy state.”
Father Willibald glared angrily at her and said that it distressed him to hear her dismiss the matter so lightly. “Such foolish talk was pardonable in you when you were but a thoughtless girl,” he said, “but now that you are a wise housewife with three children, and have received much Christian instruction, you should know better.”
“I am my father’s child,” replied Ylva, “and I cannot remember that he gained much spiritual profit from begetting children or from all the instruction he received from you and Bishop Poppo.”
Father Willibald nodded sorrowfully and passed his hand gently over the crown of his head, as was his wont when anyone mentioned King Harald’s name; for he still bore there the imprint of a crucifix with which the King, in an impatient moment, had struck him a violent blow.