Brother Vegard was at home, she told Olav as he came up—now they must ask leave to speak with him; he could best advise them in this business.

Olav thought they could ill trouble the monk with such a trifle. Brother Vegard was wont to come twice a year to Frettastein and he was the children’s confessor. He was a wise and kindly man and always used the opportunity to give them such counsel and exhortation as the young people of that house lacked all too often. But Olav had never spoken a word to Brother Vegard unbidden, and to put him to the pains of coming to the parlour for their sake seemed to him far too bold. They could well inquire the way to the smith of the brother porter.

But Ingunn would not give in. As Olav himself had hinted, it was perhaps a hazardous thing to hand over such an heirloom to a smith of whom they knew nothing. But maybe Brother Vegard would send a man from the convent with them—ay, it was not impossible he might offer to go with them himself. That Olav did not believe. But he let Ingunn have her way.

She had a motive for it, which she kept to herself. Once, long ago, she had visited the convent with her father, and then they had been given wine, which the monks made from apples and berries in their garden. So good and sweet a drink she had never tasted before or since—and she secretly hoped that Brother Vegard might offer them a cup of it.

The parlour was but a closet in the guest-house; the convent was a poor one, but the children had never seen another and they thought it a brave and fine room, with the great crucifix over the door. In a little while Brother Vegard came in; he was a middle-aged man of great stature, weatherbeaten, with a wreath of grizzled hair.

He received the children’s greeting in friendly fashion, but seemed pressed for time. With awkward concern Olav came out with his errand. Brother Vegard told them the way shortly and plainly: past Christ Church eastward through Green Street, past the Church of Holy Cross, and down to the left along the fence of Karl Kjette’s garden, down to the field where was a pond; the smith’s house was the biggest of the three that stood on the other side of the little mere. Then he took leave of the children and was going: “You will sleep in the guest-house tonight, I ween?”

Olav said they must set out for home after vespers.

“But milk you must have—and you will be here for vespers?”

They had to say yes to this. But Ingunn looked a little disappointed. She had expected to be offered other than milk and she had looked forward to hearing vespers in the minster; the boys of the school sang so sweetly. But now they durst not go elsewhere than to St. Olav’s.

The monk was already at the door when he turned sharply, as something came into his mind: “So that is how it is—Steinfinn has sent for Jon smith today? Are you charged to bid the armourer come to Frettastein, Olav?” he asked, with a trace of anxiety.

“No, father. I am but come on my own errand.” Olav told him what it was and showed the axe.

The monk took it and balanced it in both hands.

“A goodly weapon you have there, my Olav,” he said, but more coolly than Olav had ever thought a man could speak of his axe. Brother Vegard looked at the gold inlay on the cheeks. “It is old, this—they do not make such things nowadays. This is an heir-loom, I trow?”

“Yes, father. I had it of my father.”

“I have heard of a horned axe like this which they say was at Dyfrin in old days—when the old barons’ kin held the manor. That must be near a hundred years ago. There was much lore about that axe; it had a name and was called Wrathful Iron.”

“Ay, my kindred came from thence—Olav and Torgils are yet family names with us. But this axe is called Kinfetch—and I know not how it came into my father’s possession.”

“It must be another, then—such horned axes were much used in old days,” said the monk; he passed his hand along the finely curved blade. “And maybe that is lucky for you, my son—if I mind me rightly, bad luck followed that axe I spoke of.”

He repeated his directions, took a kindly leave of the children, and went out.

•   •   •

Then they went off to find the smith. Ingunn strode in front; she looked like a grown maid in her long, trailing dress. Olav tramped behind, tired and downcast.