This book will not recount the stories of Olaf the Stout’s burnings and murders in Norway, nor attempt to retell the Saga of King Olaf the Saint any more than is needed to elucidate how the fates of our two heroes from the Vestfirðir, whose tale we began to narrate quite some time ago, played out in the shadow of greater events in the world. Of Olaf, we shall relate here only what bears on the unfolding of our heroes’ destinies.
In Norwegian law, king and slave were treated as equals in certain respects. By law, those who burned others to death were the worst class of criminals, and if a king did the burning, he was condemned and outlawed no less than a slave, was labeled an incendiary, and forfeited his life and whatever wealth he had in land and movables.
It is not known whether it was ignorance of the law or childish recklessness that caused Olaf the Stout to begin ravaging Norway with fire, the one crime that not even a king was permitted in that land. The brows of many furrowed when the king, whom Sigurd Syr had bribed men into accepting and others had formally taken as their master at assemblies, turned up in Romerike with three hundred men, burned the authorities in their homes, and took possession of their lands in the name of Christ.
As this news spread, a number of nobles met to discuss what steps to take now that such an arsonist had come to Norway. Assembled in this council were several who had held the title of king, among them one that had fled Romerike when Olaf torched it, as well as kings from Gudbrandsdalen, the king of Hedmarken, and the king of Hadeland. They met at the old assembly-place and manor in Hedmarken called Ringsaker, located on a grassy bank of the great lake that fills the valley there, called Hedsævi of old, but which Snorri the Wise has called Vatn. Most of the leading men in Østlandet had gathered for the assembly – those that had not accepted bribes from Sigurd Syr or sold their lands and titles. These were husbandmen who had never participated in Viking forays and knew little about war; their knowledge and skills were acquired only in peaceful locales. They were kings of the sort that knew how to forge iron, cast copper, and engrave silver, or else how to fashion houses to look as if they had built themselves. They could carve runes on sticks and dragons on columns, and praise in verse the virtues that gain a man respect at assemblies and a reputation that lives on after death. They were taciturn, but could recite every law valid in Norway. Over ale, they told tales of the mingling of gods and giants, and shared stories of what went on up north beyond the great gulf, where ogresses dwelt.
Assembled thus at Ringsaker, the petty kings settled on a plan, in response to the woeful state of affairs in the land, to levy an army against Olaf the Stout, and they appointed a rallying day. Each king was to contribute three hundred men to this army, each man with whatever weapons he possessed, and the others with anything that might serve for a weapon. Having made this decision, they called for drinks and turned to lighter subjects, passing the cup between them in a friendly drinking bout before going to sleep.
Turning back to Olaf Haraldsson: after setting Romerike ablaze, he convened an assembly and issued orders, while Grímkell began teaching vagrants the paternoster. As they occupied themselves at these tasks, Olaf received word from down south in Ringerike that the kings were conspiring against him, and would meet at Ringsaker in three nights. Olaf announced this news to his troops at once, bidding them make ready swiftly and ride to Ringsaker in Hedmarken to attack the kings.
After riding long and hard, and finally drawing near to the kings’ assembly-place, some of the men in Olaf Haraldsson’s band, those born and raised in Norway, began to harbor doubts, anxious about burning more people at present. Moreover, some in the company claimed kinship to the kings, and discontented murmuring arose among the ranks. Those closest to Olaf said it was not a criminal act to maim or burn heathens, while others denied that kings in Norway should be burned alive in their houses because Christ built the halls of Heaven, not Þórr.
When Olaf the Stout heard of the wrangling going on in his army, he consulted with his captains, then convened an assembly in a clearing and addressed his men. It is said that he had greater skills in persuasion than most others in Norway, whether speaking to someone in private or before an audience at assemblies.
In his address, Olaf explained how all the great kings in Christendom had always proclaimed the true faith with fire and sword, and how Charlemagne, the most glorious of all emperors in the sight of God, had, in one morning, beheaded four-thousand eight-hundred Saxons, after first baptizing them all in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, thereby redeeming their souls from fire and the serpent. He declared nothing to be better than torture and flame for persuading people to repent and reform and for bringing them, through vivid visions, to an understanding of the salvation that Christ granted men, particularly if the leading peasants were roasted alive, mutilated, or beheaded. As an example, he described how that very pillar of Christianity, Otto the German, the Holy Roman Emperor, had traveled south and blinded the anti-pope John, sliced off his nose, and plucked out his tongue, so that the true pope, Sylvester, might ascend to his throne and the majesty of Christ be exalted.
After declaiming to his men for some time on the necessity of fortifying Christendom, Olaf asked his friend Bishop Grímkell of Canterbury to step forward and have his say – the man who, by rightful ordination and anointing, had received the gift of the Holy Spirit to act as Christ’s spokesman after only the pope himself. Olaf bade Grímkell express, in plain language, whether it was Christ’s will that manslaughter or burnings be abandoned in this world or that the torture of heathen kings and the anti-pope be forbidden. “In what other manner,” said he, “are the people to be saved?”
Grímkell raised his cross and stepped forward at his lord’s behest, and there in a forest in Norway delivered a discourse that old books render in the following words:
“Verily, Christ is king of kings as he is of all men, but the hour has not yet come when all kings acknowledge Christ. For this reason, that peace does not yet reign which Scripture states will be so great that the dead shall awaken, and so enduring that men shall beat their swords into ploughshares. But as long as that peace remains unestablished, we have the words of all the eminent bishops and Church fathers and holy doctors, as well as the decrees of the Lord Pope. And Christ himself, who rules over Judgement Day and the world’s end, says, when he preaches the sword, that it is neither prudent nor sensible to enact and unreservedly observe laws that prohibit the slaying of men or the destruction of settlements that deny the redemption of the soul.”
Bishop Grímkell of Canterbury continued:
“I was present when Archbishop Ælfheah, my spiritual father, was pelted with bones and horns by heathen Norsemen, and dozens of my brothers from my school days were mutilated, as well as my maidenly sisters. Now the day draws nigh when heathen Norsemen shall, in their own homeland, be dealt the same measure, full to the brim and well shaken, that they dealt us in Canterbury. My spiritual son, King Olaf, has imposed this penance upon himself: to consign every man born of woman in Norway, king or slave, that denies the redemption of the soul, to torment and flame, and upon completion of his atonement, he will be proclaimed the most glorious king in the North.”
Olaf the Stout’s forces made the journey so speedily that the kings had no warning of their movements. Olaf’s men concealed themselves in the woods and arrived at Ringsaker by night, and were blessed by Bishop Grímkell before commencing their work. The kings had no backing but pages and grooms, and they woke in the night to find that Olaf the Stout’s army had surrounded the buildings.
The sun had risen and was shining on lake and forest when Olaf Haraldsson had the kings and other leading men lined up along the courtyard wall at Ringsaker. Most were wearing only their nightshirts or other scant clothing. The weather was calm, says Snorri. Olaf ordered the kings bound. Then he stepped up to the line and called on someone familiar with the prisoners to state the name and origin of each of them. Some of the kinglets had kin in Olaf’s army, and these entreated
him for the lives of their kinsmen. From several nobles he took oaths and handshakes as promises that they would leave the country and never return to Norway, yet he spared no man who claimed kinship with himself. A few men offered to kiss his foot, and these he dealt with according to his whim. One or two elders among them declared that they would never plead for mercy from a kinless boy, an incendiary and a thief, who was no more of a Norseman than Olaf Tryggvason, the Estonian. Olaf the Stout ordered that these men be led away immediately and hanged at once.
Then Olaf Haraldsson opened his bag and drew forth the tools that were dearer to him than most, which he had bought in the British Isles and kept handy ever afterward – namely, his instruments of torture. From the line, he selected those whom he intended to torment, while prescribing how the kings were to be restrained during the procedure. Before the torture began, Bishop Grímkell bade the men say the paternoster and sing the psalterium beate Marie virginis, that is, the Psalm of Our Lady. Olaf’s men looked on, as did the manservants and housemaids of Ringsaker, some from the stable doors, others from doorsteps or windows, as this brash, portly fellow, fairhaired and beardless, faced the bound and barefoot kings of Norway, most of them hoary-headed, long-bearded, and disheveled from sleep. There, as is told in Icelandic books, Olaf Haraldsson blinded King Hrorek of Hedmarken, then pulled the tongue from the mouth of King Gudrod of Gudbrandsdalen and clipped it in two at the roots, before wrapping the eyes of the one and the tongue of the other carefully in his handkerchief, for a keepsake. The elders who had defied Olaf were led off to a granary. There, holding his cross, Bishop Grímkell sang the sacred psalm Miserere, gazing humbly toward heaven as ropes were tossed over the rafters and the old men strung up. In this manner, Norway was dedicated fully to Christ. Dwelling in those woods were black grouse and capercaillie: these birds shook the night-dew from their wings just as King Olaf Haraldsson was washing the blood from his hands.
The king commanded his men to set fire to the buildings that had housed his enemies in this place, and declared that a church was to be built there afterward.
When Ringsaker was resettled and a church constructed there, the farm was moved and rebuilt farther up the lakeside. Now only grass is found on the bank of the lake where the kings of Norway were led out, yet black grouse and capercaillie still chatter in the foliage. The sun’s rays shone on the gently rippling lake as I passed by there one morning in late spring.
36
NOW THE STORY moves west to Ísafjarðardjúp.
As far as people knew, life was happier in Ögur than anyplace else in the Vestfirðir, or even in the districts beyond. Ever since Chieftain Vermundur contributed land and other kinds of wealth in order to make his kinsman Þormóður a worthy match for Þórdís Kötludóttir, and their wedding was held and Þormóður settled down to farm, folk in the district forgot both his past faults and the fact that it had been only a very short time since he and his crony Þorgeir Hávarsson had spent their time freebooting in those parts. Vermundur had also paid full compensation for the sworn brothers’ questionable exploits on Hornstrandir, in which Þormóður had played a part. Folk in Djúp still recall that during the years when Þormóður lived as a husbandman in Ögur, he seems not to have been disliked in the district – from the day that he settled down to farm, no one has any stories of him ever imposing on other farmers or making his presence felt in any way other than perfectly peaceably. He showed not the slightest interest in grabbing after distinction or power in the district, but remained quietly at home on his farm, interacting only rarely with others and taking as little trouble to make friends as enemies. As mentioned earlier, in his youth he had been more agile at games than most others there in the west, and a vivacious reveler at gatherings, but after he returned from his Viking forays at Hornstrandir, and he and his sworn brother had parted ways, he stopped participating in most of the games and attended not a single social gathering. People also have it on good authority that the entire time Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld lived as a farmer, he associated with no other woman but his wife Þórdís. The capricious girl who opened her window one night out of curiosity, was in fact her husband’s one true love – the kind of woman who embraces a man’s heart with both life and limb. That is why it is said that in the west there has never been a love as good or better between husband and wife.
Djúp shone with light from Gimlé, the name that ancient lore gives to the southern hall of the sky. Þórdís Kötludóttir of Ögur reigned in this light – not, in sooth, a curious maiden who let an athlete in during the night against her own will, but rather, a distinguished matron in a bounteous district, reserved in speech, yet warm. She had eyes that sparkled heavenly blue though her gaze was steady, and her hair was more deeply ashen colored than in childhood, yet just as plenteous. Her skin was so drenched in sunshine that she shed a golden light all around her, as if the very luminance of the sky had taken on the appearance and shape of a woman. It is frequently attested in the old tales that such women changed shape in their sleep and flew through the sky in the dress of swans.
Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld worshipped this golden image of womanhood above everything he owned, and after her, the two daughters that she bore him. These he called his Moon and his Star. It is said that he loved his wife and daughters so dearly that he spent days on end thinking of them and nothing else, and could never sufficiently praise the good fortune that sometimes can fall into a wretched man’s lap during his lifetime – dead though he soon may be. On the other hand, no one recalls Þormóður as having a knack for farming, though almost any task he put his mind to came easily to him, and credible report has it that he abandoned his poetry and other lore entirely during his blissful days at Ögur.
One morning early, during haymaking, just after folk at Ögur have risen and are readying themselves for their daily chores, a sight catches their eyes through the main door. There, out by the homefield gate, is something new, and entirely unexpected: a man’s head. The head is impaled on a stake and faces the farm. It is big and bulging and far from pleasant to behold; most resembling a seal’s head turned inside out. The lips are eaten away, as is the tip of the nose. The jaws gape widely, the tongue sticks out between the teeth, the eyes are glazed and sunken, and the hair is filthy with old, crusted blood and gore. Few people have ever beheld so ogrish a head.
While the entire household is shuddering at this sight, a woman calls for Slave Kolbakur and tells him to make quick work of it, before the master and mistress rise, and take down this curse-pole that wicked men have raised against them. Kolbakur retorts that although he is a slave, the women ought to pay attention to their own work before his. “This head,” says the slave, “is not intended for me, and I will not take it down.”
Just then, the two girls come out of the house to fetch their toys. The slave says: “Go back inside, little maidenettes, and tell your mother that here by the main gate stands a head that she alone may get rid of, if she wishes.”
Just before mid-morning, Þórdís Kötludóttir is standing in the courtyard, surrounded by her servants, her hair radiant with a golden luster. She immediately asks what head this is that has been raised there in the night. No one will answer her plainly or admit to recognizing the head. Slave Kolbakur speaks up:
“This head rode into your yard, Mistress,” he says, “and you must decide whether or not I bury it before your husband wakes up. Your choice is this: will you have it buried without asking his leave, or wait until he wakes, when he will choose between your head and it?”
His mistress laughs and says that if this is a head of destiny, then it is not for her to do away with it. “And it is of little use for me to bury it, for some day, every man will encounter that same head. Go inside now, my little goldcrests,” she says, “and wake your father from sleep and tell him that there is someone at his door who was bound to come sooner or later. I always knew that he would show up on a fine morning such as this, with the sun shining on Djúp and eiderducks leaving their ne
sts.”
The little girls run inside to their father’s bed. The older of the two gives her father’s foot a kiss as he lies there, while the younger pokes the tip of his nose with her forefinger, waking him. Þormóður sits up, grabs both girls, holds them in his arms, and asks them what is new.
“Father,” says the younger girl, “there is a head outside, fixed on a stake. No one has ever seen a head so ugly!”
“What sort of head?” says he.
The elder girl replies: “I think, father, that it is the old Devil who has come, he who was hounded and tormented most by God, and bound tightly – and whom we call the Midgard Serpent. When that serpent gets loose, the world will end.”
“This is weighty news,” says Skald Þormóður, and he puts the girls down, throws on a cloak, and pulls shoes onto his feet. Then he goes out. When he comes to the door, he sees his wife standing in the yard, along with his entire household, all staring at the huge, hideous head. They are astounded by the head and wonder how it has gotten there. Farmer Þormóður goes straight to the stake, and after staring at the head for several moments, says:
“I recognize this head clearly, though I am not familiar with all of its journeys. This is the head of my sworn brother Þorgeir Hávarsson, come to pay us a visit.”
At this announcement, he lifts the head from the stake and kisses it. The little girls burst into tears when they see their father kiss such a horrifying head. Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld bids his household, old and young, to keep calm, and tells them that he will certainly give this head a worthy welcome. He asks his wife for a cloth of the finest weave to wrap round the head, and then lifts it in his hands and carries it carefully to a storehouse at the edge of the courtyard. He then bids the servants attend to their chores.
After finding a place for the head in his storehouse, wrapping it in the cloth, and speaking to it for a time, Þormóður sends some farmhands of his around the countryside to make inquiries into the movement of people or boats over the last few days – who has been out on the roads, whether any seafarers have come ashore. He learns that two tramps had been seen in the mountains, apparently having crossed over the heaths from the east – between them they were carrying a pole from which hung a bulky object. Those that saw it thought it might be part of a ram’s carcass, which they had perhaps been given as alms. Folk had presumed them to be Butraldi Brúsason and his lackey Lúsoddi, who were forever roaming about the Vestfirðir.
Wayward Heroes Page 21
