At the bed of Breda the Black, he dropped to his knees. It was a high bed, but he was a tall man and even with knees to the floor he could overlook his wife. He took her hand in his and knew, without asking, that Death had placed his cross on her forehead. She smiled.
“I am glad to see you, Eric, my first and last love, and it sorrows me that I will not be a long time with you. It seems to me that I am dying from nothing in particular save the lack of desire to live. My ladies tell me that I am now the Queen of the Overlord and mother of a new prince, but I saw the boy, just for a moment, though my ladies tried to keep me from doing so; and, knowing how you would feel, I have no desire to live. Speed me with your lips and burn candles for the peace of my soul.”
Thus Eric the Golden lost two of the dear ones of his life. But he rose bravely from the side of his dead wife, saying in muted voice: “I have a son and must live on for him and his future greatness. Someday he will carry the Golden Key.”
He told the ladies-in-waiting to lead him to the child. Fearful, they escorted him to the nursery, where the withered husk of an old nurse sat at the foot of a cradle inlaid with gold, ebony and ivory, a present from the Emperor of the Spice Isles in which Eric had been rocked years before. The father looked down on his son. The ladies faded from the room. Only the old dame stayed, rubbing her cold fingers.
“The boy has a large head,” observed Eric. “He should be wise as a man.“
“His head is large and shapely,” muttered the nurse.
“There is a good jaw there. When he fastens on an opinion he will hold it. He has a strong neck and will hold his head high as he travels through life.”
“His jaw is firm and his neck strong,” answered the nurse, though she had no need to.
Eric whirled around, took her by the shoulder and shook her. “What is wrong with the lad?” he demanded. “What is wrong with him?”
She made no reply, but sat with head down, sobbing.
With great, strong, shaking but tender hands, Eric took off the baby clothes and then, white-faced and silent, replaced them and still wordless left the room. In the hall the ladies stood rigid against the walls as though waiting to be struck. He paused, looking from one to one. “Tend to the lad carefully and see that he is fed on Goat’s milk,” he said. “I go to bury his mother, and when that is done I will come back and provide for my son.”
On the morning of the third day he dressed in leather hunting clothes, took the child from the nursery and rode away without escort into the dark forest. The babe slept, but by noon cried lustily for want of food. Just then a woman walked from the greenwood and paused in front of Eric’s horse. He, looking down on her, saw that she was young, deep-bosomed, flaxen-haired and in all respects comely.
“Who are you? Why do you stop me? What can I do for you?” he asked kindly.
“I am Freda, wife of Olaf the Dane and mother of his child. Our war vessel, The Swan, wrecked on your rocks two suns ago and I was the only one to reach shore. I found a hut and slept. Last night, in a dream, I saw you coming with a babe who hungers for a mother, as I hunger for my dead child.”
Wordless, Eric handed her the baby. Wordless, the woman seated herself on the grass, opened her kirtle and nursed the little one. Eric, from his saddle, looked down on them and wondered if here was not a gift of God, sent to aid him in his sore distress. Finally the babe slept. The woman cradled him in her arms and said quietly, “The child has a lovely face.”
Eric looked at the woman and babe without answer.
“A strong chin and a powerful neck,” she continued. “With proper care he will become a fine man.”
“Hand me the little one,” commanded the Overlord of Cornwall, “and do you seat yourself behind me on the horse. The boy is yours to care for. I will take you to my hunting lodge, where there will be servants to wait on you and men-at-arms to protect you, for this baby, if he lives, will some day be Lord over all Cornwall. You are a good woman and thus you will have a home and safety. Your care of the child will be rewarded, if a woman can be paid for such kindness to a child.”
As time passed Eric found work to busy him. His father had cleaned Cornwall, but now the son put a polish on the land till it was a country anyone would be proud to live in. One day a month he rode to visit his son, and the rest of the time he tried to forget him, which was very difficult. When the boy was three years old Eric called to the castle an old forester who had a flair for training dogs.
“From now on, Russell, you will train a prince instead of wolf-hounds. My son has a strong jaw. He must be taught to use it. He must learn to hang to a rope and never let go until he desires. Teach him how to use his body correctly, to arch his neck and how to move about. Every day rub his body with oil. I will have a wise man teach him in the use of words, and after that in all wisdom. He can learn to write. When he is six we will put him on a pony with special harness and saddle. By the use of a cunningly devised bridle he can learn to guide the pony, and, as he grows older, he will ride a horse. Do you know about the lad?”
“I have heard talk about him but paid little heed of it. It seemed to me that things could not be as bad as ‘twas said.”
“It is as bad or worse. But the boy has a fine brain and talks very well for his age; so far he does not realize — he has seen no other children — he does not know.”
“Someday,” said the forester boldly, “he will know, and then he will not thank you for keeping him alive.”
“Who am I to kill my own son?” Eric replied. “All of us have something wrong with us, with our minds or bodies. The boy is not to blame — no one is, save the old physician who was slain too late by my father. Let the future tell the story! The lad has a strong jaw and a fine mind. These must carry him where he will go. It is for us to help him make the most of what he has. Do as I told you and remember you have in your keeping the next Overlord of Cornwall.”
From that time a new life began for Balder, for thus he was named, that naming having been the desire of Breda the Black while she was carrying him. Eric pondered over the irony of such a name, and thought it should be changed, but wished not to depart from the desires of his dead love. Balder the Beautiful, the beloved, perfect god of the Northlands. What a name for such a child!
The boy learned to hold things in his mouth,death-gripped. He learned to ride the pony, guiding him with his jaw. Freda cared for him. Russell trained his body and a very wise old man taught him wisdom. By the time he was twelve he had learned all the ancient could teach him and could gallop on a war horse. Eric knew the time had come to bring him home to the castle and begin teaching him the duties of Overlord, which he would have to assume some day. His body grew large and strong and he could do what any other fine boy could have done with a similar body just that and nothing more. But, because he had to depend on it, his mentality had developed far beyond his age.
An artificer in leather made him a harness so he could sit beside his father in the banquet hall. There, except that he had to he fed, he seemed to be like any other young prince, and, as those around him were accustomed to his care and had a great love for him, they never mentioned the tragic difference between him and other young men. He was mostly happy, appearing to enjoy life, as is the due of youth.
On his twenty-first birthday he was sitting in the library reading a manuscript which held him thrilled. A little dark man joined him and asked, “What are you reading, my dear Balder, which seems to make you smile and frown as you turn the pages?”
“This,” the young man replied, “is the history of my grandfather, Cecil, First Overlord of Cornwall. I smile as I read of his very remarkable life and I frown when I realize that there are some unwritten pages at the end of the book, and on them should be placed the tale of his later years.”