Ned, the son of Webb: What he did.
TextCHAPTER V.
THE WAR SUMMONS
"There!" thought Ned, as he reëntered the great central hall of Vebba's house. "One of those other buildings that are stuck on to this is their kitchen."
He saw several of the women coming in with dishes through an open doorway near him, and he stepped forward for a look at the place from which they came. He saw no cooking stove or range, but there was a charcoal fire in the middle of the floor. Around this were the cooks with kettles, gridirons, and saucepans of entirely familiar shapes. There was no smoke, and instead of it there was an unpleasant smell of burning charcoal. He noticed particularly that some of the cooking utensils had a brassy look, and he soon afterward discovered that his new friends knew how to do a great many things with copper and bronze as well as with iron and steel.
Almost everybody was now hastening toward the dinner-table on the dais. If, under ordinary circumstances, noon might be the dinner-hour, upon this occasion there was a variation. Not only the fishermen of the family, but several other persons, had but just arrived, and this late meal was to be something of an affair.
Sitting down at the table appeared to be a matter of particular ceremony, and it quickly aided Ned in understanding how minute and sharp were the distinctions of social position and rank among the Norsemen. They were a free people, but for all that any man's ancestry, his wealth, and his achievements in war had much to do with the esteem in which he was held and the place he might sit in. Vebba himself was evidently of high degree, and he took his seat in the high-backed middle chair behind the table with great dignity. At his right was Madame Vebba, as Ned called her, or Wiltna, and at his left was a short, black-haired woman who wore a gold bracelet and a high cap. She might be a guest of rank. After these, on either hand, were seated men and women with evident precision according to some rule. Lars and Ned and other youths, not yet considered especially distinguished, were at the left end of the table, and a number of young women and girls were at the right end. There were many servants to fetch and carry dishes.
"The plates are wooden!" said Ned. "They won't break if you drop 'em. Some of the cups and pitchers are of wood. Made with hoops like little pails. They make all sorts of pails. Horn cups, crockery, green glass, – why don't they make window glass, too?"
He had taken his seat by Lars, and the first entirely thoughtless thing that he did was to speak to one of the men waiters, saying:
"Knife and fork, please."
"Oh!" exclaimed Lars. "I see! He hath no cutter. Bring him a good blade."
Ned's cheeks were blazing. He had almost forgotten that he was not at home. There was not one solitary fork in the hall of Vebba the chief.
"No!" he said aloud. "Nor a napkin, nor a table-cloth, nor a potato!"
"I hear thee!" came suddenly in the deep tones of Vebba. "Thou hast also been taught other tongues. It is well. Thy father is wise with thee. When the priest cometh he shall talk with thee in Latin, for we understand him not very well."
"That's it!" thought Ned. "I spoke in English. What'll I do with Latin?"
Then he replied to Vebba:
"I will be glad to see the priest."
"We like him well," said Wiltna. "He is from Ireland, where there are many such as he, and he cometh here to teach against the old gods of the North. Most of the people swear by Wodin and Thor to this day. They change not easily."
Ned did not say anything aloud about their being heathen, but he blurted out in Norwegian:
"It is just so among us; we have ever so many preachers, and most of the people do not go by what they say any too well."
Vebba nodded, as if that were understood to be a matter of course everywhere, and the dinner went on.
"How they do drink beer!" thought Ned. "Nothing else. Every fellow uses his own sheath-knife and his fingers. Salt, but no pepper. Fair butter. Pretty good bread. This is goat mutton, is it? I like it pretty well. I guess there won't be any pie. Fingers were made before forks, as Uncle Jack says."
Nevertheless, the table manners were very good, and the food was abundant, fish, flesh, and fowl. The fish, especially, were all that could be asked for, and the poultry was wild game of several kinds.
Now and then a remark from Vebba or Wiltna came to Ned, politely, but he was left to Lars and the other youngsters most of the time. It was manifestly against the rules of good Norse society to ask too many questions of a guest. Strangers were welcome to come and go, and would simply be treated according to their degree while there. In fact, much of the respect with which Ned was now regarded by his new friends belonged to the fact that he had learned so much from his American fencing-master, – and he, too, had been French.
The dinner ended for the aristocratic part of the household, all of lower degree getting their provision afterward, or in other houses or outer rooms.
It could be seen that this day was of some unusual interest. Other men were arriving, one by one, and they came in armour, bringing weapons with them. While they were being welcomed by their hosts, Ned had a good opportunity for his proposed examination of the ornaments of the walls of the hall.
Great antlers, fastened here and there, served as hooks on which to hang things, and all were heavily loaded. There were helmets of many patterns; shields of all sorts; coats of mail; pieces of armour; coats of thick leather, with or without plates of metal before and behind; short-handled and long-handled battle-axes, with single-edged and double-edged blade-heads of curious shapes; spears, heavy and light, and swords, some of which seemed as if they were made for giants, for they were almost as long as a man. In one corner lay several bundles or sheaves of arrows, and there were plenty of bows.
"I don't believe I could bend some of those bows," thought Ned. "I'd rather have a revolver, anyhow, or a repeating rifle that would carry a mile. It would send a bullet through one of those coats of mail, or a shield, either."
He was called away from his tour of observation by a sudden sound of music. He whirled upon his feet to see, and there in front of the table, on the dais, sat four old men with harps, which they were tuning, getting ready to play. At the same time the hall was growing lighter. It had been somewhat dusky, but now a strong glare was reddening over the walls and the black rafters of the roof. The servants had brought in upright, three-legged cressets of iron-work. That is, at the top of the upright stem of each of these tripod cressets was an iron basket, into which fragments and knots of pine and fir were fed, as they burned. These were the chandeliers of the dwelling of Vebba, and they answered remarkably well.
"No candles to snuff," thought Ned, "but I'd rather have electric light, or coal gas, or kerosene. Hullo! They're going to work at the forge. I wonder if every man around here has a blacksmith shop in his own house."
Probably not, considering how very costly a thing an anvil and a lot of hammers and chisels and files might be. Only a rich chief could afford such an affair as was that forge in the house of Vebba. There was a charcoal fire upon its masonry now, however, and a brawny, grimy man in a leather coat was holding a piece of steel in it with tongs, while another man worked the bellows.
Then the four harpers struck up, and at once the smith began to sing. Out came his white-hot piece of steel to the anvil, up went a hammer in his strong right hand, and the thudding blows that he struck kept time with the music and with the cadences of his anvil-song:
"I forge a sword;
I hammer steel;
It shall cleave shields,
Going through mail.
By it shall men fall.
Hammer! Hammer! Hammer! So do
I shape the steel for the battle."
The smith had a rich, deep, musical voice, and the hall was filled with a great roar of song when all the other voices in it joined in the hammer chorus at the end of each stanza. Somewhat slowly the meaning of it all began to dawn upon the mind of Ned, the son of Webb. This was not mere forge-work; not the manufacture of one blade more at this time; it was part of the entertainment of the evening, and there was an increasing excitement among the Vikings as the singing and harping and hammering went on.
"It is grand!" thought Ned. "Something else is coming, I know there is. Hullo! What's that?"
Instantly all the great chorus died away, and every face was turned toward the open outer door of the hall. Through this doorway had come a fiercely ringing blast of a powerfully blown war-horn, and now, striding forward three paces into the hall, was a broad-shouldered, splendidly armoured warrior, carrying shield and ax.
"Ho, Vebba, son of Bjorn!" he shouted. "Hearken thou and thine to the summons of Harold Hardrada the King! All is ready for Britain, save this last of thy keels. Let it follow thee. Be thou at the seaside the third day hence, and bring with thee every sword and spear of thy house."
"Hail!" shouted back Vebba, joyfully. "Hail to thee and to thy message from Harold Hardrada! Bide thou with me this night, O messenger of the king."
"Not I, Vebba the chief," loudly responded the warrior at the door. "One horn of ale I will drink, for thy welcome. Then go I onward, for the summons is hasty, and the steeds of the sea are already harnessed. I am bidden to say to thee and to all, that the hosts of the Northland and the lithsmen of Tostig Godwinson the Earl must be in England to claim the land for their own before the muster of William of Normandy can cross the sea to land in south Britain. It is to be ours, and not theirs, to cut down the Saxons of Harold the King. Hail to Harold Hardrada! Hail to the winning of England by the heroes of the Northland! My message is done."
A huge silver-mounted horn cup, foaming with ale, was brought to him. He drank it standing, and it appeared to be out of order to ask him further questions. At the same time, however, all the excited warriors present were loudly repeating to each other the substance of this war news.
Away strode the messenger, whose name escaped the ears of Ned, the son of Webb, and as he departed the harpers once more struck up a roaring battle-song. The women were as excited as the men, and many of them had excellent voices.
"This is splendid!" exclaimed Ned, and at that moment a heavy hand was laid upon his arm.
"Come thou with me," said one of the older warriors. "It is by the order of Vebba, the chief. I will show thee thy arms and armour, and then thou wilt go to thy rest. We are to march in the morning."
"Horses for thee and me," interrupted Lars, at the side of the old Viking. "It is but six leagues to ride. Then we take ship. There will be many carts, also."
"All right!" exclaimed Ned, in English, and then he corrected himself and replied in Norwegian, as he followed them to the house of arms.
Both of them carried pine-knot torches, and when Ned turned at the doorway to look back upon the Vikings, the women, and the harpers, he thought he had never seen anything else half so wonderful. The men had caught weapons and shields from the antlers on the walls, and these, as well as the anvil and hammer, were now clanging time to the music and its choruses.
It was only a few steps farther, and then Ned, the son of Webb, was feverishly examining his new metallic clothing. The helmet handed him was of bronze. It was plainly made, without any crest, like one which Lars showed him as his own, and it had a nose-piece in front as well as a back neck-piece behind. He put it on, and it did not hurt, for it was lined with padded deer-skin. Next Lars held up before him, to measure his size, a beautiful coat of linked-steel mail, not too heavy, and polished till it looked like silver.
"Thou and I must wear our mail at once," he said, "to get used to it. Even old fighters need to harden a little, after a long peace. Put it on, but first put on the leather shirt, for thy blue cloth is too thin."
"It would wear to holes in no time," said Ned, and he pulled on over his outing shirt another of soft goat-leather.
It was a genuine pleasure, then, to find that his splendid mail hauberk was a capital fit, and did not pinch him at any part. The belt by which his sword-sheath was to be suspended had also a strap to go over his right shoulder, the better to sustain the weight. It had a very good buckle, too, and he wondered why they did not use better buckles on their harness.
He drew his sword from the sheath to look at it, and was delighted. It was a slightly curved short sabre, sharp on one edge and at the point, with a steel cross-hilt that had no guard.
"Thou knowest how to use a sword," said the old Viking, pleasantly. "Thou wilt be a jarl, some day. These are thy spears and thy shield and thine ax. Fight thou well before the eyes of Harold Hardrada and the sea kings, for thou and Lars are but young to face Saxons."
The two spears, longer and shorter, were of the best. The ax was short-handled, but was heavy enough to need both of Ned's hands to swing it well. The shield was round, steel-rimmed, of thick, hard-faced hide, having thongs within for a left arm to pass through. The other armour consisted of light steel leg and arm pieces, and shoulder-bars that would stop a pretty strong sword-cut.
"Now we are ready," said Lars. "Thou and I have nothing to do with bows and arrows. Neither thy arm nor mine can bend a battle-bow. Not one man in ten can bend the bow of Vebba, the son of Bjorn, and the bow of Hardrada the Sea King is as a bow of steel. It sendeth an arrow through the side of a ship."
"I guess not," thought Ned. "Not, anyhow, if she were an American ironclad. What is all this armour compared to our two-foot steel plates? I'm glad I'm to have a horse, though. I don't believe Nanny would let me mount her if I came up to her in this rig."
He was to take it all off now, however, and carry it with him to the room in which he was to sleep. This was in a small house that opened at one corner into the main dwelling or hall. In it, around the sides, were four broad benches, upon each of which were wolf-skins and a straw pillow. Two of these bench-bunks were already occupied by sleepers, and down went Lars upon another, after putting out his torch.
"That's it, is it?" said Ned, to himself. "Well, it's bed enough for a soldier, I suppose. I'll do just as he did."
His mail and arms were laid upon the floor, and his helmet was placed upon them. Tired, exceedingly tired, he stretched himself upon his wolf-skin, and the old Viking walked out, carrying his torch with him.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SEA KING
Through a sashless window, the next morning's light came into the room where Ned was sleeping, and woke him. With it poured in the dull roar of the ocean waves upon the rocky coast of Norway.
"What's that?" he exclaimed, sitting up and looking around him. "Where am I? I say, what would father and mother think of this? Well, I begin to remember it all now! There's Lars. I saw his hawks and the dogs and all the rest. Then came the blacksmith business and the songs and the harping. I know where I am! I'm a Viking, and I heard the messenger from King Hardrada. Hurrah! I'm going to invade England! Just the very thing I've always wanted to do!"
He was on his feet now, picking up his arms and armour. His exclamations and the clatter he was making aroused the other sleepers. They, too, sprang up with shouts of warlike enthusiasm, and began to talk eagerly about the mustering of the army. They helped one another with the mail and the pieces of armour, for clothing of that style had peculiar difficulties of its own. Their hero was Hardrada the Sea King, and they had wild tales to tell of his exploits and adventures half-way around the world.
"He went almost to the edge of it, once," said Lars. "I'd like to go there, myself, and see where the sky touches the earth. It's as hard as a brick and has star-holes in it, but you can't climb through."
"He doesn't know that the earth is round," thought Ned, "but he will, some day. What he needs is the primary and then four years in a grammar school. I want to see Hardrada, and then I'd like a good look at Harold of England and William the Norman."
Out they went to breakfast, and all the while Ned learned more and more about the great invasion. It was to be made by the largest force that ever had sailed from the Northland. Even Knud the Great, the conqueror of England, had never gathered such a fleet. He was a Dane, indeed, but all sorts of Northmen had gone with him, or he would have been beaten by the Saxons.
There was no order at the breakfast-table except that of first come first served, and nobody lingered long.
Ned's next errand carried him to a place from which he could see the landing, and he watched the boats that were busily plying to and from the ship.
"They're loading her as fast as they can," he remarked. "I'd rather go by land. There'll be sea-going enough – "
A loud summons from Lars interrupted him, and in a few minutes more they were among a considerable drove of saddled and bridled horses.
"Some of them are big ones," he said, "but Lars and I are to ride ponies."
Vebba himself was very well mounted, and he was riding around, in full armour, giving orders to his men. These were several scores in number, and they were a ferocious-looking crew. Their arms and equipments were of all sorts, for each man had suited himself, and nothing like a uniform was called for by the army regulations. Most of them were tall fellows, but there were also a number of short, broad-shouldered, powerful-looking fighters, with dark skins and black hair, who almost seemed to belong to some other race.
"Who are those fellows?" replied Lars, when Ned asked about them. "Why, knowest thou not who they are? They belong to the old race that was here when Woden and Thor and our people came in here from the east. They are all miners. They live among the mountains, and some of them are wizards. They are good fighters, though, and they never spare an enemy."
Terrible, indeed, were their hard, cruel faces. One of them, in particular, had a kind of fascination for Ned, he was so tremendously broad-shouldered and long-armed, and seemed so strong. It was enough to make one shudder to look at him and see him move. There could not have been an ounce of fat on him, but he must have weighed over two hundred pounds. For all that, however, he stepped around as lightly as a fourteen-year-old catcher in a game of baseball.
"He is worth a hundred common men," explained Lars. "He is Sikend, the Berserker, and no spear can hit him. He can catch an arrow on his ax-edge and he can cleave a steel helmet as if it were made of pine. There isn't any Saxon that can stand before him."
Ned and his friends were quickly mounted, and were riding away in a southerly direction. Vebba remained behind to bring on the main body of his following, while a score of his best men went forward with his son. To him he said, at parting:
"Get speech with the king. Say to him that I and mine are coming. Say that I have sent on great store of provisions and three more good keels wherewith he may ferry his levies. Go!"
Everybody seemed in good spirits, but there was a kind of excitement which was in the way of conversation. Even the women at the house and in the village were cheerful.
"I suppose," he thought, "they may do some crying when the men go, but Lars says that the Norway women can fight. His mother killed a wolf once. I wouldn't like to have my mother go out for wolf-killing. Wouldn't she run! So would the girls or Aunt Sally. Oh!"
He and Lars were now riding together at the rear of their little company, and just then he heard the sound of galloping hoofs behind him. He turned his head to look, and a horseman wearing a long black robe and a peculiar cap reined in at his side, exclaiming loudly, in Latin:
"Thou art Ned, the son of Webb. I am Brian, the missionary, from the Clontarf School and Abbey in blessed Ireland. Good-will to thee!"
Ned summoned up all the Latin he had ever worked upon, but there was danger of its falling somewhat short. He had begun with it early, and Uncle Jack and his father had bored him horribly with it, year after year, making him talk it as well as read it. He could, therefore, really do something in this sudden emergency, but he was willing to say little and to let the rosy-faced and friendly priest do most of the talking, – which he was ready to do.
"Alas, my son!" he remarked to Ned. "These men of the North are no better than heathen. They are not at all civilised Christians such as we have in Ireland. Even after they are converted, they stick to their old gods, – such as they are. They are all murderous pirates, anyhow. If it were not for the like of them and the Danes there would be peace and prosperity in Ireland all the while. Even the Saxons trouble us less than do the Danes and the Jutlanders and the sea kings."
Ned was entirely able to ask questions, and he was likely to learn a great deal concerning the piety and enlightenment of the land of St. Patrick, the land of education, from which more missionaries were going out than from any other. Already had they done wonders for the English and Scotch and similar idolaters. Alfred the Great, said Father Brian, had welcomed the Irish scholars gladly, giving them houses and lands and cattle. Edward the Confessor had also done well by them, and the present King of England, Harold, the son of Godwin, had been their friend when as yet he was only an earl.
"What if Hardrada and Tostig are going to beat him?" asked Ned.
"That is yet to be determined," replied Father Brian, thoughtfully. "They may indeed divide the island of Great Britain with Duke William of Normandy. He is a pious man. He speaketh Latin. He will bring with him shiploads of teachers and missionaries. He will build churches and found schools, as he hath already done in Normandy. It hath been on my mind that these Vikings may but cripple the Saxons and open the way for William the Norman."
"King Harold of England is said to be a hard fighter," suggested Ned.
"Thou art but a boy," exclaimed Father Brian. "I was a soldier once, myself. Mark thou! Harold fighteth with two at a time instead of with one enemy only, and each of the twain is his equal, I think. I hear that the English themselves are little more than half-hearted for Harold. Were there not seven kingdoms of them not so long ago? They are a bundle of sticks that is badly tied together."
Somehow or other, although Ned was now one of Hardrada's warriors, he felt a strong feeling of admiration, if not of sympathy, growing in him for Harold of England. The Saxon king was to be forced to defend the northern and southern ends of his kingdom at the same time, and there was no fairness in it. A great deal that he was hearing was new to him, but he could dimly remember having read something somewhere concerning the great development of the early Irish Church.
"St. Patrick himself set it going," he said, thoughtfully, "but Father Brian doesn't seem to know much about him. Perhaps his biography hasn't been published there yet. As soon as it is, he'd better get a copy and read it."
Something like that idea was wandering around in his mind when he spoke to Father Brian in modern English concerning the telegraphic reports of Harold Hardrada's landing in England.
"What's that thou art saying, my boy?" sharply inquired the missionary, in good Clontarf Latin. "Change thy tongue."
Ned strove to explain the matter, but he found himself altogether at sea, for his reverend friend had not the smallest idea concerning either printing or electricity.
"It's the lightning, is it?" he gruffly remarked. "Let me tell thee, then, thou wilt get little good out of that."
Ned was silenced completely, and gave the matter up.
"It's a curious piece of business," he thought. "I have been living in another world than his. The world that he and all these others live in is pretty near a thousand years behind time. I wish I could give them a photograph of the Kentucky or show them an express train going sixty miles an hour."
He and the Vikings were going along at pony trot, and he was discovering that a steel mail overcoat, put on over leather and flannel, was a pretty warm kind of summer clothing.
"I wonder if a fellow ever gets used to it!" he remarked to Father Brian. "Those Vikings don't seem to mind it much. They're all iron-clad, too, like so many war-steamers."
"There was never mail made yet," replied the good man, "but something would go through it. I've split a shield with a pole-ax."
He was looking somewhat unpeaceful, just then, for his pony was kicking.
"Even a Berserker, though," said Ned, "would want no bearskin shirt to-day."
"They never wear them," said the missionary. "Thou art all wrong with the name. The word Ber meaneth bear, that's so, but some weak minds will spell it b-a-r-e, as if they'd fight in their linen, if they had any. No more do they take bearskins for mail."
"What do they, then?" asked Ned, in Latin.
"Like other men," said the priest, hotly. "The meaning is that they're descended from bears, and fight like wild beasts. There are other opinions, indeed, but mine is as good as any other man's, any day."
Perhaps that was a good enough reason for sticking to his own notions and lashing his pony into good behaviour. At all events, Ned did not contradict him. He was just then recalling the savage countenance of Sikend the Berserker, and it had reminded him of a grizzly bear he had seen in the Central Park menagerie.
"It's the same expression in the eyes," he said to himself, "but the old grizzly had a better-tempered look than Sikend has."
On went the cavalcade, halting at noon for a rest and for luncheon. Only an hour or so after that they halted again on the crest of a ridge. Beyond this lay a wide, deep valley, bordered westerly by the blue waters of the North Sea. With one accord the Vikings raised an enthusiastic shout, and clashed their spears against their shields.
"The host of Hardrada the Sea King!"
"The hundred keels of Norway!"
"The flag of the World Waster!"
"Hail to the banner of Woden!"
"Hail to Harold Hardrada!"
"The spears will be many and sharp!"
"Swords will cleave helms!"
"Axes will break the mail of the Saxons!"
The war-cries of the men of Vebba, young and old, were fierce and exulting as they gazed down upon the valley and out upon the sea. Scattered upon all the slopes and levels and along the shore were the houses of a considerable town. At the upper end of the valley, and also at the right of the very commodious harbour, were what looked like extensive fortifications. These were composed mainly of strong palisade works, surrounded by ditches or moats. Nowhere was to be seen anything like a castle of stone. In the open spaces, everywhere, were tents and booths. These must now have been empty, for the afternoon sun glittered upon the polished arms and armour of long lines and serried columns of warriors drawn up in battle array as if for inspection.
"Ships! Ships! Ships!" exclaimed Ned. "Scores and scores of them, big and little. I don't see any square-rigged ships, with yards and topsails, but a good many of them have two masts and some have three or four. They are all single sticks without topmasts, and with brig and schooner rigging. I shall know better what they are like after I get down among them."
Now came up from the valley a loud sound of harping and the braying of thousands of war-horns, followed by a great shout that ran along the lines as one body of troops after another caught its meaning and passed it on.
"On, men! Ride forward! Lars, son of Vebba, yonder cometh King Hardrada. He revieweth his army before it goeth on ship-board. Thou wilt hasten to deliver to him the greeting of thy father. Let Ned, the son of Webb, ride with thee. I go to the shore speedily, to seek our shipping. This errand is thine." So spoke the veteran warrior in charge of this party of Vebba's men, and all rode rapidly onward.
"This is awful!" thought Ned. "I hope the king will have little to say to me. I wouldn't know what on earth is the correct way of talking back to him."
He did not have many minutes more of riding, nevertheless, before Lars, the son of Vebba, said to him:
"Pull in, Ned. We will halt at the right front of this nearest square of men, and wait for the king. See thou! He and his jarls and captains come this way. I am not of full age that I may ride to meet him."
Only a man of rank or a warrior of fame, it appeared, might presume to go out in front of the lines to greet the royal company, and Ned began at once to breathe more freely.
"I will keep a little back," he said to Father Brian. "We will let Lars do the talking."
"That will not I!" exclaimed the rosy-faced Irishman. "Any half-heathen king like him is no better than the rest of us; besides that, I am a missionary from Clontarf. I will speak my mind to him."
He consented, however, to halt with the rest and wait for the king to come.
Loud rang the cheers and war-cries, fiercely brayed the war-horns, as the great Sea King rode slowly nearer. His keen, flashing blue eyes were searching the array of his warriors, man by man, and rank by rank, while his proud face flushed with exultation. Never before had any monarch of the North gathered such a mustering of the best fighting men of the broad flat earth.
Hardrada was almost a giant in size, being said to measure over seven feet, and to be strong in proportion. His armour was richly ornamented with gold and jewels. His gilded head-piece had no visor in front to hide his features, and his abundant, bright red hair, from which he took his name, flowed down his shoulders in a mass of ripples, instead of being worn in braids like those of numbers of his followers. At his saddle-bow was slung a huge battle-ax, which few arms but his could wield. From his belt hung a long, straight sword, in a jewelled sheath. His broad, round, gorgeously decorated shield was thrown over his shoulder. In his hand was a long spear, not unlike the lances which were carried by the men-at-arms of France and Normandy.