LONG the dust-deep highway Eric the Dumb trotted slowly, kicking up great clouds of dust behind him. making nothing of the burden upon his back. Edvard Haakonsson laughed aloud. They passed none, save here and there some thrall sleeping at the edge of the woods.
"On, good steed!" the black jarl cried. "Remember that you are carrying me, and I am not riding."
His words were those of merriment, but his thoughts were not. He sensed a mystery that was fraught with peril for himself. There were some things that cried aloud for an explanation.
Around a bend in the road trotted Eric the Dumb with his unusual burden. Now they could see the buildings of Trondhjem in the distance, and the gay booths on the level space where the fair was being held. People seethed back and forth, common folk straining their eyes to catch sight of famous jarls, and jarls and their men fighting to win through the press and reach the king.
Now Edvard Haakonsson passed countless persons who looked at him in surprise. They knew him for a jarl, and so restrained their laughter. He waved grandly at some of them, laughed, and pretended to be spurring Eric on.
They were not more than two hundred yards from the edge of the fair now. Edvard could see the long lane with pavilions on either side. Shield maidens and ladies of jarls' households were in the midst of the throng. Men-at-arms scowled at one another or greeted one another warmly, according to their creeds.
"Behind the booths!" Edvard commanded; and the thrall turned to one side. On he trotted, but now the perspiration was streaming from him and his breath was coming quicker. Edvard Haakonsson for the moment was quiet, and his merriment had fallen from him. He knew that he must face Svend, and he preferred to do it before the king.
And then a burst of gay laughter reached his ears, and he turned his head quickly. To one side of the road there was a small company, consisting of half a dozen men-at-arms, some thralls, a few shield maidens. But it was none of these who had laughed, though all but the thralls were smiling.
Edvard Haakonsson looked again, and saw a maid. He pressed his arms about Eric's throat, and Eric stopped thankfully. Edvard's teeth flashed in a smile.
The maid stood before the others. She wore a flowing gown caught with a girdle about her waist. Her hair fell in a golden shower down her back, bound with bands of metal. Her bare arms bore a weight of rich ornaments. Never in his life before had Edvard Haakonsson seen a maid like this.
The others held back, but she took a step forward. And he knew by their manner that she was a jarl's daughter. A shield maiden whispered to her, but she waved the shield maiden aside and took another step toward him, and laughed again.
"You like my horse?" he asked.
"He is a well trained steed to walk on his hind legs," she replied, and her voice was like the trickling of water over cool rocks.
Edvard Haakonsson dismounted, for which act Eric the Dumb gave him thanks again. Half a dozen steps forward he took, nor noted the black looks that the men-at-arms gave him. The maiden looked as though she might retreat, yet she held her ground.
"I am new come to this land," Edvard said, "yet it is now in my mind that I was a fool not to come before."
"And how is this?""
"For, had I come before, perchance I would have seen you sooner," he said. "I have lived in a land where there are beautiful women, yet they seem old and ugly when I look at you."
Her face flushed with pleasure. The men she knew did not speak so. Rough Norse they were, who knew not fine speech, men of war and work who did not consider it necessary to speak soft to a woman.
"You come from another land?" she asked.
"But four sleeps ago I landed."
"Yet you are a jarl!"
"It is my station," he replied. "I am my father's son."
"And your father—"
"Haakon the Lover."
Her face turned pale swiftly, and she caught her breath.
"You—you are the son of Haakon the Lover?" she asked. "You are the nephew of Svend the Bloody?"
"I am his nephew," Edvard replied. "But a man cannot pick his uncles."
"You are to live with him?"
"Our interests are related."
"Oh!" she cried. "And it was in my mind to like you."
"And can you not?" he begged. "But you have not told me your name. Is it as sweet as you?"
"I am called Thyra."
"It is a sweet name."
"But perhaps that of my father will not sound so sweet to your ears," she said. "He is called Harald the Just."
"Harald the Proud, to have such a daughter."