CHAPTER XI
THE SEA MAIDEN
A TOUCH on his arm awakened him from the deep sleep of early morning. The hall was visible in the half light that never quite left the island. Somewhere he heard Peter snoring comfortably.
The woman who stood by his couch, whose hand had touched his arm, held her finger on her lips. She was no taller than one of the great bales of goods beside her, and she was swathed from head to foot in a heavy sea cloak. Only two braids of hair of the brightest red gold were visible.
“You may not abide in this place,” she said softly. “You must get you gone from here.”
Her eyes, he noticed, were dark and they glowed with excitement. Her age he could not guess, but manner and voice were youthful, and the voice was that of the singer of the day before.
“Why?” he asked briefly, watching her face.
It was characteristic of the armiger that he showed no surprize at her presence. She was here, and in due time he would know all about that.
“The Easterlings are angered, lad. They will not endure you mere.”
“Why are they angry?”
“You shot a shaft at one; besides, you hold the Wardhouse and they would have it for my comfort. What seek you here?”
Thorne rose to his feet, and she stepped back as if to ward him off.
“Nay, sir, touch me not, for that would be your death.”
“Here are threats and warnings,” quoth the armiger impatiently. “But no sense. Mistress, I have loosed me no shaft at any pagan, nor have I a mind to harm you. Come, we will build the fire anew and you shall rede me this riddle.”
He turned to call Peter to go for more wood, but again the girl in the sea cloak checked him in his purpose.
“Nay, let the lout sleep. The Easterlings have no love for him and they would slay him out of hand if he came near me.”
“Now by my faith,” growled the youth, “this is ill hearing. If any man lifts hand against Peter I will put my sword through him.”
The girl smiled at this, yet there was anxiety in her eyes, which traveled beyond Thorne to the far corners of the hall. And he, following her gaze, became aware of shapes that stood without the narrow windows—of heads, covered with the fur of animals, and, once, of a form that resembled a deer with spreading antlers.
These, he knew, were men wearing bear and deer skins, but men so stunted that they stood no higher than his shoulder. And each one, with bow and arrows ready in hand, stirred restlessly as if ill at ease. Fear or uneasiness in savages and animals he knew to be a portent of danger. And his sword and pistols would avail little against their arrows.
It had been Peter's watch, and, judging by his snores, these folk of the island had taken possession of the palisade with small trouble. So reflecting, he brought wood himself, laid twigs on the embers of the hearth. When flames crackled and gripped the logs his gray eyes turned to the girl questioningly.
“And now, the tale, child,” he said calmly, stretching his hands to the blaze.
She had seen that he was aware of her followers, and she glanced at him with fleeting curiosity, one hand smoothing back the hair from her forehead. The fire tinted her thin cheeks with color and made her fair indeed. Yet she was unconscious of this charm of hair and eyes and voice.
“If I tell what you would know,” she whispered not to awaken Peter, “will you pledge me your word that you and the churl will leave the island so soon as may be?”
Thorne considered this and shook his head.
“I may not do that, for I have sworn an oath to abide here.”
“Ah, that would avail you naught, for you would lie under the sod with a cross upon your grave.”
“Like the other?”
Thorne nodded at the palisade.
In a flash he saw that he had hurt the girl; her eyes glistened with tears and she bent her head, looking into the fire, her hands clasped on her breast.
“Peace, I pray you, sir. That is my father's grave. He was not slain by Easterlings, but by pirates who have e'er now made atonement for their ill deed.”
When he still kept silent, she saw fit to tell him her name.
She was Joan Andrews, daughter of Andrews the trader. He was Scotland born, and had come in recent years to the Warehouse by way of the Orkneys and the Norway coast, impelled to this course by sight of gold among the natives. This season he had taken Joan on the trip for the first time, and had met with misfortune, being followed to the Wardhouse by a pinnace with a dragon figurehead, manned by lawless Burgundians.
These had attacked the trader, killed him, and loaded his goods on their vessel which was anchored in the harbor. Andrews' cutter they had sunk a short distance from the island. But Joan had escaped from the Wardhouse after the death of her father, choosing to fly to some few Laps who had come to the island to trade rather than to trust to the mercies of the pirates.
The Easterlings, she explained, had a mound dwelling at the other end of the island, a hollowed-out knoll which was entered by a tunnel hidden from sight in the rocks.
The pirates might easily have escaped in their boat, but, unaware of the presence of the Easterlings, scattered over the island to search for the missing girl, and so fell victim to the arrows of the savages. The goods of the trader Andrews were brought back to the Wardhouse for safe keeping, until a large sailing skiff could be fetched to convey them to the mainland.
Before this vessel arrived, the English ship came into the harbor, and the Easterlings hid themselves with the maiden in their underground dwelling. They watched the Edward sail off and were astonished to find two men left on the island. These they had decided to kill, believing them kin to the pirates.
JOAN ANDREWS had seen Thorne the day before, and by his bearing and voice thought him English and of gentle blood. She had begged the Laps as best she could with signs and her few words of their speech to hold their hands until she could speak with the men in the Wardhouse.
Thorne considered her story and went to the heart of the matter with a word.
“Do these Easterlings cherish you, Mistress Joan?”
“My father ever dealt with them fairly, for such was his way. They have been kind to me. Aye, they be not evil-minded, though foul of feature. But command them I may not, for they be changeful and timid as the wild creatures in whose skins they clothe themselves.”
“Faith—” Thorne smiled ruefully—“they appear to be Christians in one respect. They hang their foes to the yard arm as readily as any ship master.”
Joan Shook her head.
“'Tis their way of burial. They leave their dead fastened to the branches of trees, fully clad, with weapons bound to them. So they made shift to do with the thieves of the pinnace, before they towed the vessel out and set her adrift.”
Through Thorne's brain passed the thought that this was not the method of burial Peter would prefer. It was clear to him that Peter and himself stood near to the edge of a grave, of whatever nature it might prove to be. Yet his curiosity was all for the maiden and the fate in store for her.
“What plan have you, child?” he asked. “How will you contrive to leave the Ice Sea and return to your home?”
She seemed surprized that he took thought of her.
“Why—the skiff may put in at the Wardhouse before the ice floes gird us in.”
But she added, less cheerfully—
“I have no kindred awaiting me.”
The armiger was not minded to dally over the situation.
“Who is the chief of these folk? Have him in, and let him speak his mind. If it is his intention to compass my death, I will e'en take him with me to the nether world.” Placing his back against the fireplace he waited until the girl, after a moment's hesitation called softly.
“Tuon, hulde na.”
And after a moment there appeared in the doorway the same Lap who had rowed out to the Edward. Tuon's stocky shoulders were covered by a wolf skin, and the empty muzzle of the beast leered at them over the broad, greased-coated muzzle of the savage whose yellow, pointed teeth resembled greatly the fangs of the wolf.
Even his hands were covered with fur mittens, and Thorne reflected that these Laps must have been the beasts that Peter glimpsed on the lookout height. He suspected that beside the warmth of the furs, they availed themselves of these strange garments to hunt down other animals, remembering the Lap that, dressed in a deer's skin and antlers, he had taken for a stag the day before.
Tuon walked forward warily, peering about him as if entering a cage.
“Put down your weapons, sir.”
Joan pointed at Thorne's pistol and sword.
“Nay, I'll yield me to no savage. Let him take the weapons, an he will.”
Tuon sidled closer, several of his companions following him into the hall. Thorne was aware of a strong animal scent, of foul flesh and sweating hair. His gorge rose and he clapped hand to the hilt of his sword, having no mind to be made prisoner by such as they. Joan's dark eyes widened in alarm, and Tuon, sensing the rising excitement of the Christians, became uneasy.
At this instant Peter awoke. He sat up, stared at the strange beings who were moving toward Thorne in the vague light of the hall, saw the slender girl in the sea cloak, the fire ruddy on her tawny hair, peered at Thorne who stood as if turned to stone.
Springing up, he drew a blanket over his head and rushed toward Joan Andrews before Thorne could speak. Arriving, as he judged, before her, his eyes being swathed in the cloth, he fell on his knees.
“A''s mercy, if thou be'st troll or Ellequeen, spare an honest shipman. Thou'st put my mate under a spell, so that he speaks not nor moves an eye. Have mercy on a sorry wight that never harmed hair of thy head.”
The spectacle of the giant seaman muffled in a blanket aroused the interest of the Laps. It was clear to them that he intended no violence to the maiden they had taken into their protection; in fact, they must have suspected that he was performing some ritual.
No arrow was loosed at him, and when he withdrew the blanket cautiously he found Thorne smiling at him broadly, and Joan Andrews broke into a rippling laugh at sight of his red and foolish countenance.
Laughter is a key that unlocks many a black mood. The Laps had mirth in them, and Tuon grinned fearsomely. And this served to change Peter's mood in a twinkling. He cast down his blanket with an oath and spread his stocky legs, clasping his great fists.
“So ye would bait Peter Palmer? Put up your fibbers and I'll best the lot of ye scurvy dogs.”
“Let be!” cried Thorne. “Here is no troll maiden, but a child out of the Scot's land.”
IN SPITE of this assurance Peter regarded Joan Andrews with misgivings while the others strove to talk with Tuon; and to the end of his time on the island gave her a wide berth. He never forgot that she had influence over the Laps, and by a process of reasoning all his own, was convinced that she must be a troll maiden out of the sea in human form.
Meanwhile Joan made a bargain with Tuon. The Laps were to have possession of the trade goods, all Thorne's stores and weapons except his sword. She was to be allowed to live in the tower, and the two Englishmen in the hall, and they were not to be harmed.
Thorne was not pleased, for it amounted to a surrender, but the girl pointed out that he was giving no more than the Laps would take in any case, and, besides, his only follower had assuredly yielded himself without any terms at all to her mercy.
“This island is theirs,” she added practically. “'Tis true the Wardhouse was built by other hands long dead—perhaps by the Norsemen. But Tuon's men hold that it is theirs. They ask why you have come hither, if not to plunder or avenge the death of the pirates.”
So Thorne explained the voyage and its purpose, and she shook her head gravely.
“I fear me for your comrades. There lies no passage to the eastward. My father often said that it is closed with ice, that never opens. So the Easterlings told him.”
For a space Thorne thought that this might bring about Chancellor's return, until he recalled the stubborn courage of the pilot-major and his settled determination to find new lands. There might be no northeast passage to Cathay, but Chancellor would press on as long as strength remained to him and his men.