# The North Star/Chapter 37

XXXVII THE KEEPING OF GUDRUN’S VOW
The month allotted for the preparations for his nuptials passed swiftly to all, except Olaf. Every time he saw Gudrun his impatience was greater for the day to come when he could call the proud dark beauty his bride.
To Gudrun, the days, heavy as they were, passed all too quickly, and she shuddered to realize how near was the dread event. Through all the ceremonies attending her betrothal, she appeared colder and prouder than ever, and while her reserve only fired the ambition of Olaf to conquer her affection, it made her the object of still deeper dislike and distrust to his subjects. To some of them it seemed as if Providence must interfere in some way to prevent this marriage, which threatened the peace of the kingdom; but still the days moved on to the nuptial morning without any sign of an interference. The richest stuffs that the looms of Norway could weave were brought to Gudrun by her mother, and Olaf had a score of hunters gathering the rarest furs to line and trim her mantles. Gossip of the court said, too, that the king was collecting a box of precious gems which ​would be her ornaments when first she appeared at court as his queen. In spite of their uncongenial attitude, the Norwegians could not but feel a certain pleasant excitement over the king’s wedding. Then the stir of the preparations gave an impetus to the trade of the little capital that could not be otherwise than agreeable. When Olaf’s people felt more than usually reconciled to the matter, they could not but wish that the bride were less proud and cold. The more hopeful would argue that when Gudrun was the wife of their own genial Olaf, his sunny nature would melt the ice bonds that restrained her from any girlish show of feeling during the days of her betrothal. Besides, the matrons would say to the maids when they chatted over the wedding, it were better for a maiden to be too reserved than to be overbold, even at a king’s wooing. The younger minds would receive this implied counsel with respectful attention, but each resolved in her own mind that she would not like to be as cold and loveless to her future lord as Gudrun seemed to be to King Olaf.
Thus it was with varying opinions, and a hostility softened by that reconciliation with the inevitable that marks our human nature in its disappointments, that the people of Norway greeted the morning of Olaf’s marriage,—a clear, cold, cloudless spring morning, when Bishop Sigurd made the dark, unsmiling Gudrun the wife of the great sea-king, and the Queen of Norway, in the presence of all the thanes and their ​ladies, and as many of the populace as the little stone palace could accommodate.
The evening of his bridal day, Olaf sat with Gudrun in one of the inner chambers of the palace. The soft glow of a lamp mellowed the light of the huge oak logs burning upon the hearth. Skins of wild beasts were spread upon the floor, and over the doors and around the walls were burnished shields and swords and spears. Olaf sat in his high carved chair, his cloak of fur laid aside, and his head resting upon his hand. He had won his will. Gudrun was his bride, and still he was very far from realizing the joy that he had believed this fact would bring. There she sat, away from the glow of the hearth, even as she seemed to have withdrawn herself from the glow of the affection that filled his strong heart. He could not reproach her. He could not even be masterful to her, for when he looked at her, beautiful even in her discontent, he thought of her only as a poor little maiden left to his care.
Suddenly his face brightened. Rising from his chair, he unlocked a drawer in the oaken press opposite to him, and took out a richly carved ivory box. Closing the press, he sat down with the box in his hand. He turned towards Gudrun. She was still in the same place, clad in her rich bridal dress of embroidered silk, the veil and bride’s crown covering her dark locks. Her hands were playing listlessly with
​the silver girdle at her waist. Olaf drew a quick sigh, and hesitated to call her. If she would only come to him and lay her hand upon his arm, and look trustingly up in his face, as any maiden might to her faithful lord, how glad his heart would be at even that little expression of love. But it all seemed foreign to the silent, dark woman, who sat so far away from him, and never allowed her eyes to meet his.
“Gudrun, come here!” The king’s voice was pleading, and not commanding.
She did not stir, and apparently the words had not reached her, or had failed to penetrate the cloud of dark thought that seemed to surround her. Olaf sent the words stronger across the space between them. “Gudrun, come here! I have a queen’s gift for thee.”
The girl rose, and moved towards him. Seeing her coming, Olaf turned to the box, and opened it, looking down into a nest of jewels that sent up sparkles of light, like an uncovered bed of fire. While his eyes rested on the jewels, Gudrun drew from the inner folds of her bodice a slender silver chain, and hid the gleaming dagger at its end in the lining of her long, flowing sleeve. She drew her long mantle closer about her, and stood beside the king, muttering as she moved: “It needs must be done quickly. My vow! my vow! I have sworn by the hammer of Thor and the serpents of Odin. Yet, if he should look so loving-kind upon me, I will forget my vow and fall at his feet.”
​“See, my Gudrun, every mine of Norraway have I made pay tribute to thy beauty.” Olaf drew out the gems, and selecting a necklace of rarest stones held it to the light, letting the jewels absorb the glow of the fire and lamp, and pour it back in a mellower flood. He held the necklace towards her.
“Let me clasp it about thy throat, my Gudrun, and mayhaps thou wilt lay thy head upon my breast, and let me touch thy red lips.” He turned and rising up in his great height looked down pleadingly into her face. Something gleamed in Gudrun’s lifted hand. Something flashed over Olaf’s head, and a cold metallic thrust was at his throat and coming straight to his heart. He started back. A terror, such as never had seized the great viking in all his days of battle on land and sea, shook Olaf then. He dropped the necklace, and caught Gudrun’s arm with one strong hand, while with the other he dashed the dagger to the ground. Then with an exclamation of horror, he flung her from him with such force that she lay breathless and stunned on the white bear rug,—her long crimson mantle looking upon its snowy surface like the stream of blood she would have poured out. Olaf threw the jewels back into the box, and sitting down covered his face with his hands, groaning aloud:
“O great Christ of the Cross! Her hand to strike me! O Mother of Christ! mine own wife to slay me! Her hand—her hand—” and his head bent ​lower and lower. Then he rose and looked down at Gudrun, still as a corpse.
“Did I slay her? Christ, Thou knowest I would not have harmed her. I would she had slain me before I could see and know whose hand was giving me the bitter blow.”
He moved towards her, and stooped as though to lift her, but shrank back.
“No! no! lie there. I would to the Christ thou wert dead before I knew thee as false and cruel. I would not touch thee now, even as I could not touch the serpent that had striven to sting me. And I would have laid thee on my breast, thou viper! Thou wouldst only come near me to sting me. Lie thou there! Thou livest!—I see by the quiver of the eyes that I thought were the stars of my life, and they were the false lights to lure me to destruction. Lie thou there! The women of the household will see to thee, and to-morrow will I send for thy mother to take back the daughter who shows too well of whose base blood she is. O Gudrun! my wife! What did I thee ever but give thee the whole heart of me, loving thee better than life?” and Olaf flung himself out of the room, leaving Gudrun and the stainless dagger, under the mellow lamp-light and the glow of the red hearth.
In the silence and solitude of the room, Gudrun lifted her head and gazed around her. A wild look was in her dark eyes like a hunted fawn brought to ​bay. Slowly she rose. There lay the dagger. It all came back to her, the erring blow at Olaf’s life—his fierce grasp on her arm—the flashing dagger flung to the ground. Where had he gone? To bring the guards and lead her to the ax? What else remained for her, who aimed at the king’s life? She groped towards the dagger, took it in her hand and felt its keen edge.
“Thou wouldst not have failed. It was my own weak, cowardly hand. Thou, keen knife, wouldst have kept the vow, but my own arm forswore me. Why looked he so loving-kind? I would have hated him, and he made me love him—yes,” whispering softly, “made me love—love him.” Then she caught sight of Olaf’s dark cloak with its lining of white fur. She crept towards the king’s chair, and kneeling down, fondled the soft, snowy fur, and sobbed over it, now laying her cheek against the sleek surface, now patting it, as if it were something human to understand her anguish and remorse.
“Olaf! my King! I could have loved thee. I could have died for thee, but for that cruel vow! And now thou canst only hate me. Forever thou wilt despise me. False! false as Gudrun! they will say of me, and no maid nor wife in all Norway but will pray their Christ and Mary, His Mother, to be saved from treachery to their lord, such as mine hath been. False to thee, my King? when the whole heart of me was at thy feet, save that I was forsworn, ​forsworn on the hammer of Thor, and the never resting serpents of Odin. What will the king do with me? What name will they call me through his kingdom, they that love him so? Love him? Not more than I—his false wife who would have slain him. Not more!—not more! That mad vow had stolen my wit, and now the madness is gone, and I only know that I loved thee, Olaf, my King, and I would have slain thee. What may I do? How may I repent by years of bitter sorrow that awful blow at the king’s life? If I could pray—pray? Ah! to whom shall I pray. The old, strong war-gods are gone. Olaf says they are devils, and the pale Christ that they worship, the Man too weak to strike blow for blow—I know Him not. They say He is merciful, but the old gods would have me suffer and be scorned forever. Olaf! my King! my King! If he would but say one little word of kindness I could die in peace. Die!—die!—that is all that remains for Gudrun the false, Gudrun the despised. How can I meet the scorn of Olaf, the wrath of my mother, the contempt of Norway? Ah! little dagger, thy blade is keen and true, and my aim will be more faithful now, since there are no kind, loving eyes to turn its course. Come, keen blade, cut off the life I can no longer bear.”
The dagger flashed again in the light of the lamp and hearth, and fell with fatal, faithful aim against the heart that throbbed so wildly. A wavering of ​the slight form, the hand that held the dagger was dropped, and the crimson-clad figure lay prone upon the white rug. Each action was fantastically reflected on the shield-covered walls, in the shadows of the firelight. The paling cheek rested against the king’s mantle as the fluttering hands tried to clasp its sleek, furry folds. Where the dagger had parted her bodice, a crimson stream was flowing down, redder than the bright robe it trickled over. The fire leaped up and lit with an awful radiance the ghastly scene. The mellow lamplight glistened down upon the red stream carrying out Gudrun’s life in its steady, unchecked flow.
Towards dawn, after a sleepless night of groans wrung from him by his indignant anguish, Olaf called to the guards of his chamber. “Bid the women of the household attend to the comfort of my—the Lady Gudrun. When the day breaks despatch a messenger for the Lady Ingrid. Say to her I would see her at once.”
The guard stared stupidly. Not like a bridegroom looked the haggard king, and surely these were strange, harsh orders after one’s wedding day.
“Why standest thou there? Didst hear? Bid the women of the household attend the Lady Gudrun, and after daylight—”
“Aye—aye—my King.” The guard recovered from his astonishment. “It shall be done even as thou commandest.”
​A few moments afterwards the same servant, followed by the men and women of the palace, rushed in upon the king. Olaf lifted his head confronting the horror-stricken group.
“What now?” he cried, astounded at the interruption. For answer the men groaned, and the women wrung their hands and wept aloud. Olaf gazed at them as if in a nightmare, and placed his hand on his brow, as if to banish some horrible fancy.
“Why stand ye there and cry aloud? What is it hath taken away your slow, churlish wits?” Thorgills the scald, pressed his way through the group and stood before Olaf.
“Well, Thorgills, thou art not used to lose thy wit. What hath happened? Speak!”
The harper shuddered as he answered, pointing to the room beyond: “There is that in yon chamber were a sad sight for the king, after his wedding day.”
“What is it? Hath aught happened to the Lady Gudrun?”
A silence more impressive than language answered him. Olaf moved towards the door. “Stay! stay! my King,” the harper pleaded. “It were not a sight for thee, unready. Thy bride of yestermorn, the Lady Gudrun, is dead, stabbed to the heart, and the red dagger is in her own hand, showing she hath cut off her own life. May the White Christ have mercy on us all, for an awful thing it were to steal the life God alone can give and God only can take away.”
​Olaf sank down into his chair, as the dreadful tidings were broken to him. He covered his face with his hands. The wails of the women broke out afresh at the sight of the king’s sorrow. He raised his head, and looked at them again. “Said ye she was dead? Slain by her own hand? O Christ of the Cross, have pity.” Again he walked towards the door.
“Not in there, my King!” Thorgills besought him. “We were that frozen with horror we thought not to hide the sight from thee, and it were a terrible one to thy eyes.”
Olaf paused, too stunned to be otherwise than passive. Suddenly he turned to the wondering group. “She was mad, my beautiful bride. Aye, some cruel fate had robbed my winsome lady of her wit. Last night she aimed the dagger at my own heart, and I left her alone, fearing to arouse a tumult in the house; and then—can ye not see?—her madness turned against herself. She was mad. So say ye, when the gossip shall ask wherefore the queen-bride should be slain by her own hand upon her wedding night. Say that I—her lord who did love her most—did discover that she was mad.”
Olaf waved the gaping crowd away. All retreated except Thorgills, who came closer to the king. Olaf leaned heavily on the scald’s arm. “See thou that the Lady Ingrid come to me at once. Let the burial of the Lady Gudrun be only such as a Christian kingdom can give to one who hath stolen her own life.” ​The harper started to go. “Stay yet! Bid them not disturb the body of the Lady Gudrun till her mother comes.”
The warm light of the new day was piercing through the gloom and horror within the palace, when Ingrid hurried to answer the king’s hasty summons. A dread of some calamity rested upon her as she followed the reticent messenger, who would give her no word save that the king desired her presence at once. Her nameless fear did not diminish when she stood before Olaf. He did not see her at first, and the sight of the king’s set, haggard face, struck a chill to the dark old sorceress.
“The Lady Ingrid, my King!” said the messenger, and dropping the curtain went out of the room.
Olaf turned with such a fierce start, as it were a bloodhound about to spring upon his victim. Ingrid thought that the last Norse giant must have come back from banishment, and that this must be the great Jotun himself, when she saw how the nerves and sinews of the mighty sea-king quivered with power and passion, as he spoke in bitter anger. Stolid and fearless as she was, Ingrid shrank back.
“Aye! my Lady Ingrid!” shouted the king, “it were well to keep a space between us. By the Sign of the White Christ, I could crush thee for the treacherous witch thou art.” The words came in quick gasps of wrath. “Go in there to yon chamber, and when thou seest thy maiden, thy Gudrun of thy own black ​brood, lying in death, the dagger yet dripping from the blow, thou wilt see thy own work, for thy hand was back of the murderer’s.”
The old woman tottered forward. “My Gudrun dead?” she shrilly screamed. “My Gudrun murdered?” Then fiercely—forgetting her fear of the towering king: “Thou hast done it!—thou whom the men of the Norseland call their bravest—thou hast slain her!”
Olaf looked at her with withering contempt. “I slay her? Thou fool, as well as traitor. Dost thou think the arm of Olaf Tryggevesson”—holding out that mighty member—“hath nothing better to waste itself upon but a weak wench, that had only courage to be false. Aye! my Lady Ingrid—false she was, of thy and Ironbeard’s true traitor blood. When I would have caressed her she laid her dagger at my heart. I flung it from me even as I flung her treachery and herself out of my path. Then I left her alone, and further I know not, save that the thralls rushed in to tell me she was dead, slain by her own hand with the dagger she and thou had whetted for me.”
The old woman’s anguish was terrible to witness, but Olaf did not spare her. “Aye! grieve, as well thou mayest, for as surely as thy maiden lies dead in yon chamber, thou hast murdered her—thou and thy teachings. Didst tell me she would be slow to confess her love? Aye! truly was she, for the first time she ​came near me, I trying to coax her with jewels as women love bright things—she only came near enough to aim her dagger—it shone brighter than my jewels—at my foolish heart that could forget she was of traitor blood and trusted her. The knife found not my life, and hungry as it was for blood, she fed it at her own heart. So now look upon thy work, thou treacherous witch! Olaf Tryggevesson was not thy daughter's fool!”
“Speak not so of her, King Olaf.” The dark sorceress roused from her stupor of grief. “Even as thou sayest, it was my deed. On my head be the penalty. Let them not scorn her in death. She was a true maiden, true in all things save that I taught her it were a noble thing to hate thee—aye, a valiant thing to slay thee.”
Olaf shuddered. “See now, King Olaf! My head is gray and useless. Put it before the ax and say it was I and not my maiden who would have slain thee.”
Olaf smiled bitterly. “Thy head before the ax! And thinkest so gray and poor a thing can stop my path? Nay! nay! keep thy wicked old pate safe from Olaf. It hath enough upon it already. I shall not find it in my way. Go now, and weep if such gracious things as tears may come to thee; and wash away as well as thou canst the blood from thy hearthstone, and the blood thou wouldst have shed upon the king’s hearth.”
An hour later the servants of the palace lifted the ​form of the stern old sorceress from the body of her daughter. Her white hair was crimsoned, and her palsied hands were literally stained with the blood she had morally shed. The king’s servants carried her, beside her daughter’s corpse, to her own home, and the retainers of her household nursed her back to life, and prepared for the funeral of the Lady Gudrun.
A few days after, Olaf stood before his palace window. No sign of mourning he wore, nor was any permitted in the court. The traces of his great disappointment, however, were visible in the king’s face, and were a clearer sign of mourning than any sombre garment could have been. As the king gazed without, his eyes fell upon a small group approaching. It was a funeral procession. No cross led before. No priest walked behind the corpse. One solitary old woman followed the bier. The rest of the group consisted of thralls. Olaf gazed long, and as the procession neared the palace, he called to the guard. Pointing to the procession he asked: “Unas, whose burial is that?” And the man, thrilled by the events of the past few days, softly answered, “It is the burial of the Lady Gudrun, my King.”
Olaf shuddered. Again he felt the keen steel at his throat. Again he saw the corpse of his bride.
The lowly, unhallowed cortège passed.
“Christ have pity on all sinners!” muttered the king.
​A sound of soft music fell upon his ear. Looking up, the king saw, but a few paces in the rear of Gudrun’s funeral, another procession of followers of the dead. The bier held the body of a young girl, white-clad and flower-strewn, and was borne by white-robed maidens. A large silver cross was carried before the bier, and dark-robed priests and acolytes, with swinging censers, followed. A choir of maidens sang a plaintive requiem. All the thanes of Nidaros and their ladies surrounded the sorrowful father and mother to help them to mourn their young and beautiful dead. The cortège was concluded with all the retainers of the household, whose weeping came in between the notes of the harpers and the voices of the singers.
“Whose burial is that?” again Olaf questioned Unas.
“It is Jarl Gormo’s daughter, the fair Lady Freda,” the guard answered, with a note of honest sympathy in his words.
Olaf knelt down as the cortège passed, and Unas fell upon his knees beside the king. Olaf prayed aloud: “O Christ, be merciful to the dead and bring them to Thy kingdom.” Then, under his breath, “And forgive them, O God! that have ever sorrowed this thy pure, Christian handmaid.”