Chapter XII: Stangerd’s Wedding

Berse, with all his experience to back him, admired Stangerd very much. She was a big girl, with a strong throat and deep chest; she had not much to say, but was not at all shy. These qualities pleased him; but he thought her golden hair and hot colouring splendid, and would certainly marry her if he could come to terms with her father. When she came to serve him with mead in the hall, he took her hand and looked up at her.

“I wonder that a girl like you should remain at home, Stangerd,” he said.

She blushed. “That may not be my fault, sir.”

“No, no,” said Berse, “but it will be a strange fault in the fine young men I see hereabouts if they leave you alone. I shall look to see you in the golden wreath before many days.”

“That is as my father pleases, sir,” said she.

That was about all he said to her, but he kept his eyes upon her most of the evening, and when she had gone to bed he talked to Thorkel about her, and asked what he would give with her.

Thorkel, who had small eyes, shifted them about Berse without meeting his, and said that he didn’t rightly know, but he supposed that a girl like his was worth a goodish deal in herself. He had been thinking it over, and had no doubt Berse would have done the same. He would like to know what Berse thought about it.

Berse said that there had been some talk about her lately in respect of Cormac Ogmundsson. “And no man cares for that,” he said.

Thorkel said there was nothing in it, and Berse said, “Perhaps not.” But he heard that Cormac was a bold man with his hands. Then he said: “I will tell you this, Thorkel, that I will take your quarrel upon me, and quit you of any mischiefs with Cormac and his friends. But you must deal fairly in the matter of dowry,” he said.

So they haggled over it till far into the night, and came to terms, one of which was that the wedding should be done quickly, and another that Stangerd was not to be told anything about it until just before. Berse boggled at that. “You cut me out of my respectable pleasures,” he said. “It is very pleasant to court a girl. It is very pleasant to see her deal with a matter so momentous to her. Can anything in her life touch her so nearly?”

But Thorkel knew better than to listen to him. “You may be sure that my counsel is wise,” he said. “Stangerd is a good girl if ever there was one, but her heart was very much set upon Cormac, who lives just over the hill. Who can say what she might not contrive? Do you wish for bloodshedding upon your marriage-day?”

“Well,” said Berse, “I am not sure--but have it as you will.”

Next day he went home, but not before he had talked with Stangerd. “We shall meet again, Stangerd,” he said to her. “I hope that you and I may be good friends.”

“It takes two to make a friendship,” said Stangerd.

Berse said, “You are right. But one may begin, and the other catch the complaint. Now I am a man very prone to friendships. How is it with you?”

She thought that she was slow to make friends--and slow to lose them.

Berse said that he was pleased to hear that, and would have given her a kiss; but she wouldn’t allow that, and told him that she didn’t like kissing. He took the rebuff with good humour, and soon afterwards rode away.

Whatever Stangerd may have thought about Berse and his behaviour, nothing was said to her, and she did nothing towards seeing Cormac. But it is certain that he was seldom out of her head. She was still deeply offended, and would have shown him that she was, very plainly, if he had come to see her. But at the bottom of her heart she had a warm conviction of his love, and of her own. Her nature was slow to move, but she had spoken the truth when she told Berse that she was steadfast.

* * * * *

Berse made his preparations quickly, and was ready to go back to Tongue in eight days. He set out with a party of some fifteen men--good men all, and well armed. Thord Arndisson of Mull was one of them, and Wige was another. Wige was a man who had dealings with unseen powers, and was said to be mighty in the dark. Some people deemed that he was a werwolf. Berse would not have gone without him on any account; and before he went he told him that Cormac might give trouble. Wige thought that he could cope with Cormac.

“Why, yes,” said Berse, “and so can I; but Thorkel, look you, is a rare coward, and although I have sworn to take the venture on myself, yet he can’t rest in his bed for thinking of what they may do at Melstead. Now I want to keep this quiet until it’s all over, and she is mine. Then Cormac may do what he will, for then he will work in Sowerby, and not there.”

Wige said, “Enough, I’ll see to it.”

* * * * *

They got to Tongue towards evening, and then Stangerd was told what was about to befall her. Berse told her himself.

She showed flame-red, and gave him a stare for answer. Her eyes were like the flower of flax.

“Was this in your mind a week ago,” she said, “when you spoke to me of your friendship?”

“Yes, it was,” said Berse.

“You use a strange way,” said she, “to win my friendship. I will tell you this, that it is not to be captured by a trick, as you take a hare, nor by a spear. Use that with a salmon, but not with a girl.”

Berse looked rather foolish. He had not thought the thing out properly. “Well,” he said, “you shan’t repent it. I’ll use you well. You will be mistress of a good house--and you will have no bad looks from me.”

Stangerd turned away her face, not choosing that he should see her tears. She was taking this badly, but her mind was full of shifts and schemes how she could let Cormac know what was being done with her. Berse had hold of her hand by this time, and was trying to coax her.

“Look now, Stangerd,” he said, “it is not very pleasant for you here these days. The neighbourhood will talk about a girl that has been jilted on her wedding-day, and your father don’t like that, nor your brother either. It is putting a slight upon the house, don’t you see? Now, I’m a man well known in my own country for a ready hand, and there won’t be things said about me which you or I won’t care to hear. At least, they won’t be said twice. Do your best to make a friend of me, and remember that a girl has to let her father be the judge of what’s to be done with her. I am older than you are--that’s certain--but see what experience I’ve had. Now my first wife was a woman called Finna, of great family and riches; and she was a beauty, too. They called her Finna the Fair. I don’t say that she was your match in that respect--but she was very well indeed, I can assure you. Now that woman got to be very fond of me before she died. She used to say there was no one like me for wheedling. Now you give me a fair field, and you shall see. I know what can be said for that Cormac of yours--a fine, bold way with him, I don’t doubt, and when the mood was on him I can understand that no girl could resist him. But what about his black moods, my dear? How did you find him then? Scowling, glooming; not a word to say for himself. That don’t make for a happy homestead--no, no! Now there’s this to say for old Battle-Berse, that in peace or war no man has ever seen him out of temper. Still less any woman. Always ready with his crooked smile and lifted eyebrow--full of his quips and crankums--always ready to kiss and cuddle; with a knee would seat half a dozen of you at once--and all yours, Stangerd, when you want it. Try me, my dear,--and if you want Cormac after a year in Sowerby, why, you shall have him, for me. That’s a queer way of wooing a wife, but it’s Berse’s way, and not a bad one. Now, what do you say?”

He was an insinuating man. His arm was round her waist by now, and before she lifted her head up his good-natured face was close to hers; and when she did look at him, he kissed her.

It was too late to be angry; but of course she didn’t like it. “If it must be,” she said, “it must be; but spare me your kisses.”

“No, no,” he said. “They are part of the bargain.”

“They are not, then,” said she, “until the bargain’s done”--and she went away.

The hall was very full that night, and she had to serve them all; but she was desperate to find a way of reaching Cormac. Presently there is a call for more drink, and she sends Narve out to fill the pitchers, and goes out to meet him half-way.

She has a moment with him alone. She takes him by both shoulders and stares at him. He puts down his pitchers and gapes into her face.

“Oh, Narve, Narve, help me if you can,” she says.

“That I will,” he says.

She looks about her fearfully. “Tell Cormac--let him know to-night; to-morrow will be too late,” she says. He sees that she is shaking all over, and staring about as if she didn’t know what she was doing.

“I’ll go to him,” says Narve. “I’ll go to him to-night--after they are abed.”

She is swaying about. “Ah,” she says, “catch me--I’m going to fall down!”

She falls into his arms. He picks her up and takes her out of doors, and into the Bower by the women’s door. Then he goes back and picks up his pitchers.

In the hall he tells a maid to go and look after her.

* * * * *

It was late before they were all got to bed. Some of them were very drunk. Toothgnasher had to be carried. Berse had all his wits about him, and Wige the wolf-man had more than ever he had in the day. Narve gave them an hour to get sound asleep and then slipped down the hall and unfastened the door without noise.

It was broad moonlight, and a river of black shade ran before every wall; but he was well over them all, and had forded the river before he knew he was being followed. He only knew it, indeed, by something which is beside sense; for when he looked back he couldn’t see a sign of a man. But he ran like a hare, did Narve, and was up the shoulder of the hill and speeding down the path through a little pine wood, when all of a sudden he felt a hand on his shoulder, and his heart jumped burning into his throat.

His knees failed, and down he sank upon them. By his side, right over him as he found, was Wige, all silver-grey in the moonlight.

“Oh! Mercy! What do you want with me?” he said.

Wige said nothing, but stood still above him with hollow, sightless eye-sockets. He was a very tall, thin man.

Narve’s teeth were clattering together: it was a cold night. Suddenly Wige stretched out a long arm, pointing the way back to Tongue. Narve got upon his feet, and, watching the arm, began to edge along the way he was intended to go. He walked sideways that he might keep an eye upon the apparition; through the wood and up the wood he went, and got into the open. In the broad moonlight Wige looked shining like metal. Narve took to his heels and ran home as fast as he had come out, and Wige fleeted behind him with long, noiseless strides.

In the morning it was Narve’s business to get out and see to the cattle in the byre. He was to drive them afield, and so he did. There was not a soul in sight, but a light mist covered the ground so that you could not see very far. He thought the chance a good one to steal over the hills to Melstead, and took it. He made his way through brushwood and rocks, and was half-way up the fell when out of the mist there loomed before him a shape, tall and shadowy. The terrors of the night came back to him, but something else also; for Wige fell upon him with a ragged staff, and beat him about the shoulders and back. Again nothing was said, and again nothing was done towards the help of Stangerd. Narve saw her when he got home again, at the door of the Bower, with her hair all over her shoulders. It had been washed for the wedding, and she was drying it in the sun. He caught her eyes, and shook his head sadly. She turned away her face.

* * * * *

But by noon she had recovered her composure, and, looking extremely handsome, she went through the ceremonies which married her to Battle-Berse. She made no difficulties and gave no trouble, but when it came to handfasting, Thorkel her father saw the ring on her finger which Cormac had put there, and told her to take it off. That she refused. “Never,” she said. “That stays where it is.” Toothgnasher grew rather rough. “We’ll soon see about that!” he said; but Berse stopped him. “Leave my wife alone,” he said. “The ring suits her very well--and she shall have plenty more for the other fingers when she wants them.”

She was wedded by the afternoon, and the feast began and lasted all night, as the custom is. On the morning after the Sowerby people set off home. They rode by the shore, and they rode quietly, so that few should know what was going on. There was to be a boat ready for them on Ramfirth, by the landing of Thorveig the spae-wife. They would reach it by noon.

Directly they were well on their road, Narve started off to run to Melstead.