So they turned the bell on to its side, and Brother Matthias swabbed its interior with a cloth dipped in holy water, which he then wrung out into a bowl. There was a lot of old dust in the bell, so that the water he wrung out of the cloth was quite black, which greatly delighted Brother Willibald. Then Brother Willibald set to work mixing his medicines, which he kept in a big leather chest, all the while delivering an instructive discourse to such of the company as were curious to know what he was attempting to do.
‘The ancient prescription of St Gregory is the most efficacious in cases such as this,’ he said. ‘It is a simple formula, and there are no secrets about its preparation. Juice of sloe, boar’s gall, saltpetre and bull’s-blood, a pinch of horse-radish and a few drops of juniper-water, all mixed with an equal quantity of holy water in which some sacred relic has been washed. The mixture to be kept in the mouth while three verses from the psalms are sung; this procedure to be repeated thrice. This is the surest medicine against the toothache that we who practise the craft of healing know: and it never fails, provided that the sacred relic is sufficiently strong. The Apulian doctors of the old Emperor Otto fancied frog’s blood to be more efficacious than bull’s-blood, but few physicians are of that opinion nowadays; which is a fortunate thing, for frog’s-blood is not easy to procure in winter.’
He took from his chest two small metal bottles, uncorked them, smelt them, shook his head, and sent a servant to the kitchen to fetch fresh galls and fresh bull’s blood.
‘Only the best will suffice in a case such as this,’ he said; ‘and, when the relic is as powerful as the one we have here, great care must be taken over the other ingredients.’
All this had occupied several minutes, and King Harald now seemed to be less troubled by his pain. He turned his gaze towards Orm and Toke, evidently puzzled at seeing strangers clad in foreign armour; for they still wore the red cloaks and engraved shields of Almansur, and their helmets had nose-pieces and descended low down over their cheeks and necks. He beckoned to them to come nearer.
‘Whose men are you?’ he said.
‘We are your men, King Harald,’ replied Orm. ‘But we have come hither from Andalusia, where we served Almansur, the great Lord of Cordova, until blood came between us and him. Krok of Lister was our chieftain when we first set forth, sailing in three ships. But he was killed, and many others with him. I am Orm, the son of Toste, of the Mound in Skania, chieftain of such as remain; and we have come to you with this bell. We thought it would be a good gift for you, O King, when we heard that you had become a Christian. Of its potency in countering the toothache I know nothing, but at sea it has been a powerful ally to us. It was the largest of all the bells over St James’s grave in Asturia, where many marvellous things were found; we went there with our master, Almansur, who treasured this bell most dearly.’
King Harald nodded without speaking; but one of the two young women squatting at his feet turned her head and, staring up at Orm and Toke, said very rapidly in Arabic: ‘In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate! Are you Almansur’s men?’
They both gazed at her, amazed at hearing this tongue spoken at King Harald’s court. She was fair to look upon, with large brown eyes that stood wide apart in her pale face. Her hair was black and hung from her temples in two long plaits. Toke had never been fluent in Arabic, but it was by now a long time since he had talked with a woman, so that he managed to come out readily with his reply. ‘You surely come from Andalusia,’ he said. ‘I have seen women there like you, though none so fair.’
She gave him a quick smile, showing her white teeth, but then turned her eyes sadly downwards.
‘O stranger, who speaks my language,’ she said in a soft voice, ‘you see what reward my beauty has brought me. Here sit I, an Andalusian of Celbitian blood, now a slave-girl among the darkest heathens and shamefully unveiled, rubbing this old Bluetooth’s decaying feet. There is nothing in this country but cold and darkness and skin-rugs and lice, and food such as the dogs of Seville would vomit up. Only in Allah can I seek refuge from the miserable fate to which my beauty has brought me.’
‘You look to me to be too good for the work you are doing here,’ said Toke warmly. ‘You ought to be able to find yourself a man with something better than his toes to offer you.’
Again she smiled like the sun at him, although tears had come into her eyes; but at that moment King Harald roused himself and said angrily: ‘Who are you that mumble crow-talk with my woman?’
‘I am Toke, the son of Grey Gull of Lister,’ replied Toke, ‘and my sword and the dexterity of my tongue are all that I possess. But I intended no disrespect to you, O King, in addressing your woman. She asked me about the bell, and I answered her; and she replied that she thought it was a gift that would give you as much pleasure as she has given you, and be no less useful.’
King Harald opened his mouth to reply, but, as he did so, his face went black and he let out a roar and flung himself backwards among the cushions, so that the two young women working on his feet were thrown head over heels on to their backs; for the pain had returned savagely into his bad tooth.
At this there was great confusion in the bedchamber, and those that stood nearest the King’s bed took a step backwards lest he should become violent. But Brother Willibald had by now prepared his potion, and came boldly forward with cheerful mien and encouraging words.
‘Now, now, royal King!’ he said admonishingly, and made the sign of the cross twice, first over the King and then over the bowl containing the potion, which he held in one of his hands. With his other hand he took a little horn spoon, and chanted in a solemn voice:
‘The cruel pain
Within thee burning
Now shall be quenched
In the well of healing.
Soon shalt thou feel
The ache departing.’
The King stared at him and his bowl, snorted angrily, shook his head and groaned, and then, in his agony, aimed a blow at him and roared violently: ‘Away from me, priest! Away with your incantations and broth. Ho, there, Hallbjörn, Arnkel, Grim! Up with your axes and split me this louse of a priest!’
But his men had often heard him talk like this, and paid no heed to his fulminations: and Brother Willibald, no whit daunted, addressed him boldly: ‘Be patient, O King, and sit upright and put this in your mouth; for it is rich with the strength of saints. Only three spoonfuls, O King, and you need not swallow them. Sing, Brother Matthias!’
Brother Matthias, who was standing behind Brother Willibald with the great crucifix in his hand, began to intone a sacred hymn:
‘Solve vincla reis
profer lumen caecis,
mala nostra pelle,
bona cuncta posce!’
This seemed to subdue the King, for he patiently allowed himself to be lifted into a sitting position. Brother Willibald promptly inserted a spoonful of the mixture into his mouth, proceeding as he did so to accompany Brother Matthias in his hymn, while everyone in the bedchamber watched them with great expectancy. The King went purple in the face with the strength of the potion, but kept his mouth closed; then, when three verses had been sung, he obediently spat it out, whereupon Brother Willibald, without desisting from his singing, gave him another spoonful.
All the spectators