King Thorkell’s sensible persuasions hushed the chieftains’ grumblings, and when the assembly came to an end, fewer were of a mind to reject the rewards offered, despite the conditions imposed. Each chieftain now returned to the company under his command, to explain to the men what profit they could derive from baptism and the Holy Spirit.
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IT IS SAID that among those assembled aboard Thorkell the Tall’s ship to debate the fleet’s acceptance of Christianity was the lad Olaf the Stout of Vestfold, who commanded two of the fleet’s ships, his tooth-fee. He was eighteen years old at the time. He moored his vessels alongside the other ships on the Seine River at Rouen Castle. After returning to his ship in the evening, Olaf roused his crewmen from sleep and assembled them. He spoke as eloquently as an experienced commander who habitually exhorts his troops, and many a man remarked that when Olaf focused on a cause, his lack of experience in swordplay and other noble pursuits was made up for by his silver-tongued persuasiveness.
He commenced his address by stating that now, at that very hour, Norse Vikings were being offered a greater haul than any man had heard of since the days of Harald Fairhair, when the Norsemen’s fortunes soared so high, and their excellence in equal proportion, that foreign kings vied to yield them their lands and give them their daughters to wed, as when King Charles in France handed Normandy to Rollo, and his daughter Poppa to boot. “And now,” he continued, “Rollo’s descendant in Rouen, Duke Richard, has heard of the great glory you won in England by your stoutness of heart and your valor, and the invincibility that causes all the world to tremble. Now, out of fear, he proposes to relinquish his lands to you, to give you leave to make war on French sovereigns and crush them at will, and to take of the land’s bounty whatever you desire, as well as princesses and queens and other distinguished dames, all for free and according to your needs. In order for you to indulge blamelessly in the entertainments to be had from a victorious campaign of manslaughter, arson, plunder, and rape, Richard demands nothing of you in return, apart from the trifle of receiving baptism and the Holy Spirit and becoming Christians.” Olaf now informed them what he had heard at the assembly of the fleet’s commanders. “There,” he said, “those distinguished fellows who boast more ships than me spoke their minds, and all seemed to be in agreement, both the eminences among them and those in charge of but a few small ships.”
Olaf the Stout continued his address to his troops, as follows:
“In brief, I consider myself to be better versed in Christianity than other men here in the fleet, as a result of my experience in slicing off the noses and ears, cutting out the tongues, and gouging out the eyes of more learned men and nuns than most other Norsemen, a task entrusted to me because I am thought to have excellent surgeon’s hands. I have not yet seen sign of a Christian losing heart despite being maimed – far more of them, in fact, laugh as they are mutilated. I suspect that the world will perish at Ragnarök before such men can be conquered. I also wish now to disclose to you all that not one single day has passed when I do not recall the manhood of Ælfheah, the English archbishop, when we pelted him for our amusement with bones and horns. I have long felt, ever since we stoned that cleric, that our weapons and ships are not as effective as they once were, though our axes are broader than in other lands, and our warships swifter sailing than those of any other king in all the world. I am surely not as wise as our leader, King Thorkell Strutharaldsson, yet I know, no less than he, that the understanding of hidden things, the benefit of books, the art of song, chivalric manners, and skill in noble swordplay, and therewith the respect of worthies in the south, is all had from Christ, not Óðinn, though the latter is said to know the language of birds, and has conversed with Mímir’s head. I also feel that the time has come to put an end to a widely believed lie: that Christ the son of Mary is no match for Þórr in his fierceness and severity, or for Óðinn in his guile. Why would Þórr not have smashed the world beneath his hammer if the gallows tree of the son of Mary were not a tougher cudgel – one which my kinsman Olaf Tryggvason let flash in the air over Norway?1 I have a suspicion that no Norse king shall ever again be victorious without the support of these fellows, and I am told that my namesake sits at the high-seat with Christ in the royal castle called Munvegar,2 which is found in the Kingdom of Heaven. I hope that we never make the heinous mistake of eschewing conflict when gold and silver are to be had, even if we take up arms for holy, spiritual teachings of the sort that we hardly imagined to exist when, uneducated and ignorant, we first left home and which even now we do not fully understand – such as what woman Christ intended for Odo in Chartres to take to his bed. It seems to me a better course to exact Christ’s revenge on Odo for his inconstancy to his lawful spouse, and thereby ransom ourselves from the snake pit that Christ intends for his enemies, rather than to slay men and salt down cattle on the desolate coasts of the North, where divine teachings and courtesy and pious morality are lacking.”
In the annals of Rouen, the baptism of the Viking fleet is counted among the greatest of events ever to have taken place in that town, not least on account of its manifold consequences, of which only a tiny portion will be recounted in this little book.
When news of the Vikings’ imminent conversion spread throughout the castle and town, and then the surrounding region, the entire duchy of Normandy praised the Lord. On the day appointed for this great ceremony, a huge throng of people flocked to the town from all sides, singing and praying, in order to witness that horde of evildoers, known to be among the most abominable of men on earth, humble themselves and submit to Christ. Early that morning, the cathedral filled with people, so many that those who arrived late could not gain entrance. Due to the size of the crowd, the clerics commanded that none should be brought into the church for baptism except the chieftains and other leaders of the Viking fleet – the rest were to be baptized on the cathedral square under the open sky. Water was now brought in buckets, and blessings were chanted over them. This benediction transformed the water, bestowing on it the power and quality of the waters of the Jordan, the river where, Holy Scripture tells us, White Christ himself was baptized. Ropes were used to mark the bounds of the ceremony on the square – within them the Viking host was to be granted the sacrament of baptism, while the populace stood outside the sacred space to behold this work of the Almighty.
That day, the clerics in Rouen certainly had their hands full. All the bells were now rung and every horn or flute in the city was blown, creating a tremendous din that touched and softened hearts that had been untouchable until then. Then the monks began exultantly singing Lauds. As soon as they concluded this office, they went straight on to the Te deum, and the bishops, in their finest array, moved in procession from the castle, leaning on their crosiers and preceded by a stout, imposing cross. In the path of this procession, firewood was burned – wood that the kings of the East had brought to the White Christ as a tooth-fee when he lay newborn in a manger, alongside an ass and oxen – while deacons and acolytes walked behind the bishops and bore their trains. Also taking part in the procession, in the name of God, were Duke Richard and his barons and other high-ranking men, some wearing gold and gemstones, others polished byrnies and gilded helms. Their exceedingly splendid gold-inlaid swords flashed and sparkled, as did their wondrously embossed shields. Finally, bedecked in white christening robes, came the chieftains from the Viking fleet, followed by the clerics who were to act as their godfathers. There, cloaked in white linen, were gathered numerous scruffy old friends of Þórr, their locks tangled and beards matted, walking in procession with their great broad shoulders hunched, heads hanging, chins thrust out, brows knitted and mouths turned down in frowns, glancing here and there as if following the advice from the Sayings of the High One: “Before crossing a threshold, take a good look around you.”3 Together with these were squat men with potbellies, bandy-legged, bull-necked, pale-haired, ruddy-cheeked rascals, grinning as they waddled along. The rabble thronged round, their tongues fl
apping with praise and eyes glistening with tears of joy to witness such an appalling gang of thieves and villains adorned with the cloak of light, ready to be anointed with holy water and chrism and to receive absolution for their evil deeds, such as stealing cows and setting fire to Europe for seven generations.
Inside the church, each chieftain was assigned a divine guardian angel and saint, in addition to a godfather, and each was christened with the name of his own particular patron saint through anointment with holy water and chrism. They were then called one by one into the confessional. In the agreement made with Duke Richard and the bishops, it was stipulated that the Vikings were to confess their sins and crimes against God, although they had no clear understanding of what creature it was that the clerics called sin, or what god they had committed crimes against, or how one can commit crimes against gods. As for the articles of faith, they were certainly less studied and reflected on by the chieftains than professed as a means to gain profit.
As regards the rest of the host, the men were arrayed in ranks on the square, and bidden to lift up their hearts to God. Then the clerics went among the ranks with buckets and sprinkled water from sponges over them, thereby baptizing the entire horde at once. Some of them received but a meager dose of chrism on their heads, while entire rows had to content themselves with just one angel or saint, and large numbers of them had to share the name and patronage of just one heavenly guardian. Most of the names of these guiding spirits were in Latin, making it difficult for the men to remember what they were christened, and many a man retained the name that he had been given in childhood, when he was sprinkled with water as a heathen.
It is said that when the fleet’s chieftains urged their men to receive baptism, each and every one of them was at liberty, in a manner, to make his own choice – the pact with Duke Richard was to be submitted to freely. Yet with the following proviso: any man who did not wish to receive baptism would have leave to take to the woods of Normandy and live as an outlaw, and to keep whatever spoils he could get his hands on, without, of course, being permitted to fight beneath the banner of Duke Richard.
No books tell of whether anyone in the fleet chose to take to the woods rather than submit to Christ the King of Heaven and Duke Richard; quite a few, however, said that they had already been baptized elsewhere, even though they had forgotten their name and faith for a time, and others were nowhere to be found on the morning they were due to report to the church. The same happened with Olaf Haraldsson’s two little ships: one man was missing when the count was taken, and the chieftains were puzzled as to who it might be, since no crewman admitted to losing a comrade. Such was the excitement over the impending great events that the missing man was quickly forgotten.
As for Þorgeir Hávarsson, when he heard that the Vikings intended to be baptized, hoping by such a contrivance to gain money and fame for themselves, he could not help but shake his head at the folly of it all. He did not care for Christ any better than before, or for the Holy Spirit either. Those men who owned ceremonial garb took it out from their small trunks, happy now to be treading the most profitable path and bidding farewell to the heathen gods that had never done anyone any good. In the midst of the fleet’s busy preparations in the night, Þorgeir crept along the gangways and manropes between the ships on the river and boarded a merchantman, unnoticed by the ship’s watchmen. Þorgeir looked about for a place to hide, but found none apart from a tar barrel, not entirely empty. He decided that it would serve to avoid Christ, hopped in, and pulled the lid over his head. The stench in the barrel was the worst he had ever smelled, yet he found it far preferable to being baptized.
Time passed, and in his barrel Þorgeir could hear the echo of the pandemonium in town, as pipes and horns were blown, bells rung, and organs poured out resounding song – a merrymaking that he could hardly find more disagreeable. Then, long after everyone had gone into the castle, folk had been baptized, and the bells had ceased to ring, and the clergy were singing Mass, Þorgeir heard a voice, near to where he was hiding in his barrel on the merchantman. It was most unpleasant; a hoarse, cracked and ragged voice reciting some sort of lay and constantly repeating the same verse while changing the wording each time, as if composing on the spot and making it ever more gloomy and solemn.
Þorgeir could make out that the lay was in praise of the greatest of all of King Thorkell the Tall’s many outstanding exploits: his victory over the English, when he sacked London and endeared himself to King Æthelred, after first ravaging Canterbury. The lay named that battle as the seventy-first that Thorkell had fought, and the most glorious. It told of how hundreds fell to the blue battle-mattocks of Thorkell’s warriors in a single hour of the morning – neither eagle nor she-wolf went hungry that day. The river reddened with wound-sweat when Thorkell wrecked London’s wharfs. That game, said the lay, bore no resemblance to the one men play when they lay bright brides on their bolsters or kiss young widows – many a maiden wept in the gloam of that morning. The lay had the following burden:
Fearsome was the fray,
fiercely battled Thorkell.
Þorgeir Hávarsson lifted the barrel’s lid and emerged, black with tar. Sitting there by the deck cargo was a tall bard, with green tartar on his teeth and his chin showing through his beard. He was wearing a tattered and torn black cloak, and his bare, sinewy forearms sported two bands of gold, both of them heavy and worth a great deal.
Þorgeir said: “I am tired of listening to your twaddle. What a liar you are – and a feeble skald – when you say that we sacked London. Who are you, anyway?”
“My lay, Glory of London, was not intended for your ears. Why have you not gone with the others, to be sprinkled with water in place of tar?”
“I am an Icelander,” said Þorgeir Hávarsson, “and I have little desire to follow others’ customs. There may be good booty for the taking in Rouen, but I am no more desirous of Christ here than I was on Hornstrandir, when my sworn brother Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld and I cut cravewort from a cliff face.”
The graybeard looked up and stared hard at the man, before answering: “You are speaking to the Jomsviking Þórður, the Skald of Strutharaldsson. I will not, however, kiss you in greeting, though we are compatriots – for you are all covered in tar. You strike me as a rather unfortunate man.”
“There is no need,” said Þorgeir, “for you to speak poorly of me or to augur me ill, when you spout lies about King Thorkell’s glorious siege of London. The lays of my sworn brother Þormóður were of a different sort, as were the ones that I learned at my mother’s knees. Those lays were all made from true events and the magnificent deeds done when hero faced hero in battle – and they exalted those forefathers of ours who were the noblest men in the world: King Sigurd Fafnisbani and the other Völsungs, as well as the Gjukungs and Helgi Hundingsbani, and then Rognvald, Jarl of Møre, and King Ragnar Lodbrok. You, on the other hand, prate about us having bravely conquered London: yet you know better than anyone that in London, piss and pitch were poured on us, and we were sliced with table knives like cured shark, and those who did these deeds were women and decrepit, helpless old men.”
Skald Þórður replied: “It goes ever for kings as for vicious dogs: they lie on their spines when their bellies are scratched. That is the lot of skalds. And chieftains know well that the fame they gain from us skalds lasts them longest. Nothing is dearer to any king’s man than verses exalting his sovereign, to feel the praise poured on his king drip onto him. Every warrior loves hearing afterwards of how bravely he comported himself in battle, no matter how frightened he actually was, or how useless his king really was – or, no less, if he had been drenched with piss. What chieftain do you serve here in the fleet?”
“The one whom I believe has more glory in store for him than any other young chieftain, for he has sailed with fighters since the age of twelve and fought many a great battle. He defeated the Frisians and occupied Gotland, and his name is Olaf Haraldsson. I would rather you made verses for him.
”
Skald Þórður replied: “It has not been my habit to versify about kings who command few ships. Poetry composed for petty kings always proves to be labor in vain. All that I have heard of this Olaf is that farmers in Kennemerland rode to the coast to meet him, bringing him gifts and intending to trade with him, but in a grand display of his arrogance, he had them all killed by way of greeting – despite their being unarmed – and then salted down their horses for provisions. One thing more I know of Olaf Haraldsson: that the Gotlanders thrashed him aboard his own boat when he was twelve and came to plunder them – this he called making the Gotlanders his tributaries and occupying their land. The skalds that come after me will laud him in verse, if they find themselves lucky. As for me, I find my skills in the noble art waning, dear fellow; I am hardly able any longer to exalt those friends of mine who need it most. I long once more for the fish I caught when I was young, in a lake in Iceland lying between pasture and heather, called Apavatn Lake. To the east of it we behold Mount Hekla, and the heads of its fish make men skalds. Glory of London will be the last of my poems, if I manage to finish it, for I have asked leave of my friend Thorkell to return to Iceland to die. From here on, others will step in to determine kings’ reputations. And you, Þorgeir, are a foolish man not to have gone to the castle to be baptized.”
Wayward Heroes Page 15
