# The North Star/Chapter 5

V “YON STRANGER WITH THE HOOD OF FUR”
It was the fifth day of the fair, the day upon which Gyda, the blue-eyed beauty of the Island, would select her husband. Such a marshalling of young warriors as that report had brought! It seemed like the eve of a great battle. Mingling with the traders in silks and linens were the princes of every noble house in the land. A space had been cleared in the widest part of the street, and here was placed the dais for King Kavaran. Upon this platform stood the Princess Gyda, looking over the array of knightly manhood brought together in her honor. The wise men of her brother’s court, the Oolahans, out of their great learning had discovered that it was better for the peace of the kingdom that she should wed; and thus let the young warriors turn all their thoughts to the service of their country.
Fergus O’Niall had reached the fair early that morning, and was standing with Eogan upon the edge of the throng that surrounded the platform. Early as they were, this was as near as they could approach. Lurgha, the harper, and Connaire, the physician of the O’Nialls, were with them, for only the immediate attendants of the chiefs were allowed near the ​platform. The rest of their retainers were scattered through the fair.
Eogan O’Niall was conscious of some one coming up beside him while he was watching the princess. Turning to his left he saw a man of most remarkable heroic beauty. The stranger, for such he seemed to be, was attended only by a young harper, whose instrument was of different fashion from that of the Irish bards. The new-comer was of about the age of Eogan, but he was of more stalwart build. While Eogan had the deep blue eyes and rich dark hair of the Celtic type, the stranger had the fair hair and grayer eyes of the Norsemen. Such he proved to be, when turning he saluted Eogan in Celtic with a strong Gothic inflection. The cloak over the stranger’s armor was of heavy, dark, almost black cloth, lined and edged with the fur of the red fox. Over his head, in lieu of helmet, he wore a hood of white beaver fur.
“Thou art of the North?” asked Logan, his greeting a little chilled by the thought of the stranger’s nationality.
“I am, Sir Chief,” the Norseman answered, looking at the red-wreathed shield and helmet that proclaimed Eogan’s knighthood, “but I am not a Dane,” he added, as if glad to throw off that suspicion. “I am from Norway, the great North kingdom.”
“From Norway!” cried Eogan. “Then let me ​salute thee, that thou art the enemy of our forefathers’ enemies, the Danes.”
“They tell me,” the Norseman said, “that this great assemblage of knights has been called together that a beautiful princess may choose her husband.”
“It is even so,” Eogan replied, a little nettled at what he considered the stranger’s amusement at Gyda’s whim, and to the young Chief O’Niall no lightest fancy of the princess was the subject of the least mirth.
The Norseman marked the frown on Eogan’s face, and drove it off with the next question. “Is she very beautiful, this princess?”
“The sky of midsummer midnight is not darker blue than her eyes. The robin’s breast on the Christmas snow is not brighter than the glow of her cheek. She is the most beautiful of women in a land of beauty.”
“Sir Chief, I might question that saying, since we think our Norse maids, with their clear blue eyes and their flaxen hair, fairer than the Irish maids, but on this day we must devote ourselves to praise of the Irish princess who has called us together. I myself have come to find a face that has followed my dreams since I landed on these shores from my viking ship.”
“Where didst thou see the face?”
“As I walked out from the city and towards the Hill of Tara, I did see descending the slope, a group of maidens. I stood still as they passed me; and one, ​a goddess, she seemed, with deep sea eyes and hair like the gloss of the dark beaver when he rises shining from the waves. Pink as the hawthorn blossom was her skin. She was tall and moved like, the old scalds tell us, Brunhilda or the Alruna maidens, when they went to meet a warrior returning from victory. I stood still to watch her, the while my heart danced with very joy at her beauty. I thought of my viking ship, and how we might go over the water together, of how her blue eyes would look down into the waves and make them bluer. It seemed as if she glanced at me, but mayhaps I only thought so; and I gazed upon her as long as I could see one gleam of her purple robe and her long mantle of purple and yellow.”
“Of purple and yellow?” sharply repeated Eogan, starting at the words.
“Even so. As purple as the hills of Norway at sunset, and its stripes as yellow as the wheat fields of the Trondelag at noon-day.”
“A princess, she was,” said Eogan, “for none but a king’s daughter may wear such a robe and such a mantle. She might have been even the very—”
A blast of trumpets drowned the words that finished the sentence. Eogan forgot, as he remembered the meaning of the sound, the sudden jealousy that had risen as he listened to the Norseman.
“There she stands, my son,” said Fergus O’Niall.
No need to tell Eogan. Every quick throb of his ​heart was warning enough. Gyda advanced to the front of the platform. Her brother stood beside her, and around them was a throng of bards, warriors, Oolahans, and physicians of the king’s household.
There was a murmur of admiration at the vision of beauty in whose honor they had assembled. The waves of praise passing on to Gyda’s hearing, brought a crimson flush to her face, like a delicate rose taking on a richer tint.
“By the Sign of the White Christ, it is she!” muttered the Norseman. The words were lost to Eogan, whose hearing and sight were concentrated upon the platform.
The bards, at a sign from King Kavaran, sang their greeting to the knights, and the monarch rose and gave them the hundred thousand welcomes of the Celts.
Then gravely he treated of the cause of the gathering. He spoke of how the wise men had told him that the rivalry among the young chieftains for his sister’s favor had turned their thoughts from warlike studies, and so to-day she would choose one from among them, and let the others be at peace to pursue their course of knightly tasks.
While her brother was speaking, Gyda had looked over the assemblage, with an anxious gaze, as if seeking an absent face. At last, her glance fell upon the spot where Eogan and the Norseman were standing. The anxiety faded. A smile of satisfaction rested upon her lips, and a new light came into her eyes. ​Eogan met the glance and a hope so intoxicating possessed him he could scarcely breathe.
King Kavaran had ceased speaking, and Gyda took a step forward. Her gaze still rested upon the same spot. Her smile was deeper. Instinctively the myriad eyes followed her glance, and finding Eogan, the common thought was that the young chief of the Clan O’Niall was about to be chosen. It seemed too daring for Eogan to admit to himself, but her glance and his own strong hope, brought a thousand palpitating fancies.
A rich voice was floating over the hundreds of heads.
“Out of mine own heart, and for the lord of my life, I will choose yon stranger, with the hood of fur, if so there be no maiden nor wife in the Northland who may claim him before me.”
A tumult of voices followed. “Yon stranger with the hood of fur!”
The Norseman had heard, and to hear and to answer were one. It was but a step for the tall form to reach the platform, and to stand beside the princess. The greatness of his joy banished even the confusion of the strange event.
“Who is he? Who is he?” demanded a thousand tones. The blond head was bent, and the golden-brown beard touched Gyda’s hand.
“My sister, what hast thou done? I thought when I gave thee so large a liberty, thou wouldst ​surely choose a husband of thy own race and station. Who is this stranger? Whom hast thou brought here?”
The Princess Gyda looked bravely in the king’s face. “I know not, my brother, his name nor his home. He is of the North, I believe; but of all here I was free to choose, and him have I chosen.”
A terrible cry now arose in the multitude, like the angry roar of the heavens before a storm.
“He is a spy of the Danes! Shame upon the Princess of Erne who has chosen the enemy of her country! Thou art no longer our king’s daughter, thou art none of Malachy’s blood that thou canst wed in the black race of Turgesius.”
The Norseman turned to the crowd. “I am no Dane! I come from the great North kingdom of Norway.” There seemed a greater height and strength to the man as he proclaimed his country.