The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

Well, maiden, such a tale as thou hast told
Two years agone I thought I could foresee
When first thine eyes 'gan look to woman's years,
And thou wouldst redden at a tale of love.
Trust me, I knew that when my lord had time
And thou wert riper, he would reach his hand
To take the fair fruit to him; day by day,
For a year past, I thought of sending thee
Unto my mother's brother in the North
Or out to Iceland to my father's kin:
But time passed, neither thee nor my lord Rolf
Seemed worth the pains, though neither him nor thee
Do I hate or could hate: nor for him methinks
We sit together in the hall nor know
Each of the other what is in our hearts
About us, and for thee the dull days here
Will drag from out me what had better lie
Quiet within my heart for thee—nay, nay,
I will not speak. I note thee ready now
To take my whole speech rash and lay it up
In that deep storehouse of thy mind.

Thorgerd,
Come hither, tell me how the fishing sped
Our folk came back from at the dawn.

[MAIDEN]
But ill,
Goodwife; they said they deemed the shoal
Had shifted and the sea was e'en too deep.

THORA
Thou sittest silent, Margaret, car'st not
For hate or love of mine?

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MARGARET
Nay, if I could
Well would I love thee, if I needs must speak—
What say I? for I love thee well indeed
As slaves durst love: and thou art worthy love.

THORA
A many loves 'twixt a few common words,
And no man by to take one of them all.
But hearken, as for thee, I think, I fear
Thy smooth soft speech, thy voice so seldom raised
That dealeth not with great words, thy great eyes
That fall asleep and dream of far off things
E'en midst thy speech—thou shalt be dangerous
In love belike unto thyself and all
Who come across thee.

MARGARET
Lady, fear me not.
I do thy will—thou hast been kind to me,
And for the rest day comes and day goes by
And leaves me with nought done and nought to hope
And nought to fear even when all is said
That I have said e'en now.

THORA

As from a man's
That came from out thy lips, and well I deem
That if thou hadst a brother he and I
Might be fair friends a while.

Hearken, the horn
Sounds at the garth-gate; is my lord come back?

Enter a Servant.
SERVANT
Mistress, Wulfstan the English ship-master
Has anchored in the haven, and is here

335

Some six in company and prayeth thee
For harbourage for him and his awhile.

THORA

We shall have tidings then; go bid them in.
Well now the day shall go nowise so ill;
We shall have merry talk, news of our earl
And his last dealings with the English king.
Five years ago he sat a gold-haired youth
At the great wedding-feast where Rolf was God
And I was Goddess, and he kissed me then
The new wed wife of that same fostersire
Who bade me love him for the most of hope
Of all the men then waxing in the North.
He kissed me, and my heart felt soft to him
At first; I thought, when sixteen years are gone
Shall I have such a son to win the world?
Then something chilled my heart as I beheld
My husband's eager eye on him and me,
The youth he loved, the wife he had just won
And deemed a fair thing doubtless.

Southland may,
Almost would he have moved thy solemn heart;
Baldur come back to life again he seemed
A sun to light the dim hall's glimmering dusk—
What, sighest thou then?—I am babbling on
Before thy wisdom—Ah here come the guests.

Enter Wulfstan the Shipmaster, Anthony and Shipmen.

Welcome, my masters, and thou Wulfstan, first,
Good hast thou done to ours across the sea
And once again somewhat we pay thee back.
Lord Rolf had been right glad to see thee here
And hearken to thy tidings.

WULFSTAN
None the worse

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We think to fare at thy hands than at his:
Be merry, for two gifts I bring today,
A bale of English linen for thy beds
And a fair winter-guest to make thy board
The merriest in Norway. Greet him well
For he is worthy of it, a rich man
Of noble Southland kin and yet withal
A merchant of all merchants—and thou, friend,
Behold a woman noble as she seems,
Kind, wise and open-handed, craving still
For honour and for knowledge: greet her well.

THORA
Nay Wulfstan, we shall get to verses soon;
Content thee, man, two Icelanders we have
To set the big words going. Verily
I am right glad to see thee and thy friend;
The winter shall be merrier for his words
I doubt me not. Thou lookest round, fair Sir
As if thou wonderest whither thou art come.
Thou hast seen Southland kings and all their state
And deemest us of small account belike,
Yet are we merry at whiles.

ANTHONY
Hail, most fair dame!
Kings' courts hold men and women gaily clad,
Soft words of priests and bitter lies and change,
But few names more redoubted than thy lord's,
And few—no eyes methinks as bright as thine.
Yea, this fair hall should be a happy place.
Aside. The Welshman lied not: she is changed indeed
From the slim joyous maiden of twelve years
And looks my mother of fifteen summers back
Come from the dead to gaze with mournful eyes
Upon the ashes of her house. Yet strange
She doth not seem to know me—Would that I

337

Had come upon this torment of the seas,
Whose death is my desire, amid his men
Flushed with his wealth and wine; for certainly
Peace seems about the place: these red-lipped girls,
Shock-headed herds not all too full of work,
That song without, the smiles here, that soft hand
And ready welcome—Would that we were gone
And they at peace as now.

THORA
And yet, fair Sir,
Your soft speech well said, merely on the ground
Your eyes are fixed. Well, some unburied grief
Perchance you left behind you in your land
And think you are a long way off from it,
And deem our coming winter but a sign
Of mortal separation from all love,
As I have done at whiles.

ANTHONY
In kindly wise
Thou speakest to me. Thirty-five years past
I first saw light, and in our land God wot
That is a long time to be free from grief—
But all shall go well now. Aside. A kind soft place
For me to ruin like my father's house
The soft-winged owl will through to-night!

WULFSTAN
Well lady, if you could turn to me
From this fair Southlander, then might your ears
Hear tidings from the West that touch on you.

THORA
What tidings?

WULFSTAN
These, that Sigurd your young earl,

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My lord Rolf's fosterson, when spring comes round
Saileth for home bearing the good word
Of all men, and great fame that shall endure
And gold enow for anyone but him
Who deems himself Lord God to give away
Whate'er he has, yet never to grow less.

THORA
Great tidings, Wulfstan. Aside. How the bondmaid stares
Upon the guest! a fine man but a proud;
He looks as though he somewhat hated me
Already—Who shall love me? O fair Sir
Sawest thou Earl Sigurd at the English King's?

ANTHONY
Nay, lady.

WULFSTAN
Now by all the saints of heaven
Thy wits are gathering wool upon the downs!
When first I saw thee thou didst stand three feet
From the Earl's nose, wert telling him long tales
Of Sicily and the isles, the day I came
To pray for his good word in Norway here.

THORA
Well, if [thou] wakedst then, fair guest, say now
How thou deemest of him?

ANTHONY
A tall man was he,
Bright cheeked and fair haired, glib enow of speech;
Men called him a good swordsman.

WULFSTAN
O my merchant-friend,
No need to cheapen him so eagerly,
We sell no earls here.

339

THORA
Friends and guests, come forth
Unto the great hall, for the boards by now
Should be well laid. Yea now the horns blow up;
Come, whatso things tomorrow's sun may bring,
Tonight at least shall see us somewhat glad
Drinking the grave-ales of our joys bygone,
Our hopes too bright to bear three noonday suns.