Þormóður replies: “Þorgeir has in fact fallen in the king’s service, and still lies unavenged, though little has been spared to redress that. Yet for Þorgeir’s sake, I have composed a lay in honor of King Olaf Haraldsson that will be sung as long as the North is inhabited.”
With a smile, Skald Sigvatur says: “We skalds have no idea which lays will remain longest in memory. I, too, composed verses honoring King Olaf.”
Þormóður says: “I abandoned my farm in Djúp, where the ram trundles in its wool and a single fish is worth as much as a bull. I handed over my swan-winged Valkyrie to a slave. To my two nimble-toes, who gazed at me more trustingly than anyone else ever did, I left Þorgeir Hávarsson’s skull.”
“It is a bad bargain to compose lays for lords, Skald,” replies Sigvatur, “while letting others pull the biggest and choicest fish from the sea. I would never have become a skald if I could have had such excellent fish. I became a skald following my forefathers, because we had nothing to live on. I was sent, an impoverished child, for fosterage at Apavatn, where odd little trout swim with inverted fins and carry poetry in their heads – and he who sinks his teeth into those heads is never the same again.”
“I went,” says Þormóður, “to Greenland according to my oath to Þorgeir to pursue his slayers, who were, in fact, so contemptible that they were hardly worth killing. One was a well-pisser, and the other was a lice-ridden tramp.”
Sigvatur asks why Þormóður was unable to kill these sons of the Evil One.
Þormóður says that the little snakes always slipped from his grasp. “When I sought them on Hornstrandir, they had gone to Melrakkaslétta, and when I came there, I was told that they had gone to Greenland. When, after weeks of being tossed on the waves, I finally made it to the Eastern Settlement, they were reported to be in the Western Settlement. In the Western Settlement I met my old concubine, who had cast a love spell on me, and this woman offered me refuge and rest for a time – insofar as those things can be had in Greenland. But Þorgeir Hávarsson’s slayers had escaped to Northern Seat, where they mingled with trolls. When at last I escaped that cruel woman, after being constantly confounded by her sorcery in the darkest of places, I determined to make my way north to the farthest reaches containing any seeds of human life, to see whether I might be fortunate enough to carry out my revenge, and I joined the company of men who gather narwhal tusks and slaughter trolls. Yet after the trolls that we had gone to slaughter saved my life, and cured my broken leg and frostbite, and elevated me to the rank of their dogs, I felt as if those two churls, Well-Pisser and Louse-Crop, were nothing but the offspring of my delirium – once I had come north of Northern Seat, I forgot the purpose of my journey. It seems rather likely to me that Þorgeir’s slayers now occupy a place below Niflheimur, in the ninth and worst world. However,” says Þormóður in conclusion, “it is my hope that King Olaf will, when I finally manage to stand before him, take into account the long road that I have traveled, enduring great tribulation and prolonged times astray, despite my plans having come to nothing. Not all men would have been willing to undertake such a journey for the sake of a bond.”
Sigvatur is much impressed by this story of Þormóður’s, and asks numerous questions about the habitations of trolls in Greenland. Þormóður tells him of those great wonders: of the creatures that dwell there in human form, but do not hold manslaughter to be the highest of accomplishments, or know what it means to accomplish deeds of renown. Nor does that race submit to a king or lord or bishop, and it has neither lawmakers nor tax-paying landholders, nor anyone of rank apart from the man who has made the moon his abode, and the one-handed woman who dwells in the depths of the sea. Lastly, Þormóður recites to Sigvatur and the others gathered in the inn the great lay that he composed with a fiery heart for King Olaf Haraldsson while he languished in those regions where Allfather dwelt with frost giants before he created earth, sea, and air.
Sigvatur listens attentively to the lay, as do the others drinking in the inn. After Þormóður recites the final lines, they continue to sit silently, reflecting on the praise bestowed on King Olaf Haraldsson. At last Skald Sigvatur Þórðarson has his say:
“This is indeed a fine lay,” he says, “and far better than those that I composed for that king, yet it has one drawback. A good lay is of little worth if it is composed too late. Praise bestowed on a king other than the one that now rules the land is worse than silence, however well-worded it may be. A lay for a fallen king is no lay. A lay for a victorious king, who now rules the land – that alone is a lay. Olaf Haraldsson is farther from you, Skald, here in his own royal residence, than when you tarried with trolls in Greenland and had the least hope of meeting him face to face.”
Þormóður says: “Þorgeir and I often spoke of how a valiant heart remains the same in victory or defeat. And it is my belief that the king who is lord of Þorgeir Hávarsson’s heart, alive or dead, will truly possess more power in the end than other kings against their enemies, and that his banner will wave throughout the ages, though he falls. For not even on the bow of Bifröst, whose end touches the sky, nor in Djúp, where I had my domain and my bliss, nor in Greenland, as far north as Northern Seat, where fish have more precious tusks than anywhere else, nor even north of Northern Seat itself, where trolls rule, is there any power or glory – except in the breast that holds a gallant heart.”
Sigvatur says: “I know, Þormóður, that you have put yourself in greater peril than others due to your prodigious fortitude, which would never allow you to shirk from journeying to the ends of the Earth to fulfill an obligation. Yet of all the perils that a fearless heart can stumble into, I wish to warn you, from true experience, of one that is worse than being tossed about off Greenland’s shores and cast up in Northern Seat, and that is, to bind yourself to a sovereign, no matter how noble he might be. He who pledges his faith to a sovereign is truly worse than dead. For a sovereign is the first to be strung up on the gallows. Where do we, his friends, then stand, when our refuge is hung? Secondly, a sovereign is always prepared to yield his throne and lands to his enemy, and his entire army as well, particularly his vanguard of champions, and to conspire with his superior and vanquisher to murder his closest friends and confidants – those who have been most faithful to him. A sovereign is the only man in any land who is free to join the ranks of his enemies at any moment it is to his own advantage, and each and every person that puts faith in his sovereign also puts himself in danger of being murdered by him before all others – and especially before his enemies. It is said of Þorgeir Hávarsson, who was a greater braveheart than most of King Olaf’s champions and far more faithful to him than any other man, that when the hero displeased the king, the king sent him on a perilous mission to Iceland, to kill Icelanders – a mission that came to its expected conclusion. It is wise to bow to a king as long as the peasants put up with him on the throne. When the throne starts to wobble beneath him, however, it is advisable that a skald address his lays to the king whom the peasants are more inclined to endure. If a foreign army invades one’s land and overmatches the king’s own forces, it is wiser to trade one’s loyalty to it for gold, in the manner of noble lords, than to sing the praises of the king who is abandoned or doomed.”
Þormóður says: “When in Iceland I heard tell of Sigvatur Þórðarson, I never imagined that he, when his luck waned, would be first to betray his troth to his king – who, through the valor of his champions, conquered Norway. In the old lore that I learned from my father, a far different kind of gallantry is extolled.”
“Friend,” says Sigvatur Þórðarson, “splitting hairs is unbeseeming for skalds. What matters more is that the peasants here in Norway have toppled King Olaf, and that a foreign lord has arrived with fourteen hundred ships, and, according to old custom, has purchased the allegiance of every good man in Norway with any authority. You are now standing in the English king’s realm – not in King Olaf Haraldsson’s. That is a fact. If a skald or hero in Norway does not u
nderstand this fact, then it will cost him no less than his luck and his life. And then, every man may think what he pleases of gallantry.”
Þormóður says: “Things look quite hopeless for me, then, wanderer that I am, having abandoned my wealth and love, children and farm, field and pasture, in order to win justice for my brother – and paying, over and above all these, with my hands and feet, nose and ears, hair and teeth, all in the hope of earning the friendship of the noble king whom Þorgeir chose for us. You are one of this king’s right-hand men, wearing his costly arm-ring and the scarlet cloak he draped around your shoulders, yet here you are feeding me hearsay that the king wished to destroy the heart to which I had pledged my faith, and which was so fearless that in times of prosperity as well as suffering, the memory of it was ever my lifeline – particularly when my own heart quaked in the face of death. I would have been better off losing my life in the arms of a wicked mistress, or among trolls, than to have to listen, weaponless and defenseless, to such malicious slander.”
“Even the wise may be mistaken, comrade,” says Skald Sigvatur, “as you are when you accuse me of slandering King Olaf Haraldsson. I assure you that I have never had a better friend. I call him a paragon among kings in his generosity to his friends and his guilelessness in most of his deeds. Yet it is no secret that King Olaf was a man of little wit, and in the same measure, of little education, having been brought up aboard ships and trained in the work of marauders since childhood. He never learned how to walk properly on his own two legs on dry land, and instead waddled about, ever on his sea legs. Christian counts and bishops who lead armies in the south bribed him and his fellows to burn and slaughter for them in France, after first baptizing them, for Christ demands that the champions who serve his kings profess the true faith. Such was King Olaf’s learning that he knew only two solutions to any predicament: one being baptism and the other murder. Due to his childish ignorance, he constantly had to have others at hand to tell him when to baptize and when to strike. Yet I believe that King Olaf would have done right if he had been able, even to any small degree, to distinguish between good and evil. And because of his utter childishness, I felt more pity for Olaf Haraldsson than most men, and loved him better.”
45
BOOKS RELATE that following King Cnut Sweynsson’s departure from Denmark to take over the throne of England, he sent Harthacnut, his son by Queen Emma, back east to Denmark to be brought up by his brother-in-law and bosom friend, Jarl Ulf Sprakaleggsson, whom he had appointed his regent there, to defend his kingdom while he was away ruling distant lands.
Eventually the Danes, weary of Cnut Sweynsson’s prolonged absence, claimed Denmark for their own, letting it be known that they were no slaves of kings. The Danish noblemen were more than uneasy with the idea of the land having no king to rule it, as well as no army that a king could use to strike fear into the heart of the populace, in the manner of good rulers. Therefore, Ulf Sprakaleggsson, in consultation with the nobles, ordered that land and privileges be granted to the peasants and lightened many of their obligations and debts to their lords, demanding, in exchange, that they accept as their king his foster-son Harthacnut, an ignorant child. Upon conclusion of the bargain, Jarl Ulf took all power and authority in the Danish realm for himself, without asking leave of his friend Cnut Sweynsson.
Now we shall briefly relate the events that occurred in Denmark at the same time that the English army frightened Olaf Haraldsson out of Øresund, along with the Swedish ships that the king in Uppsala had sent as allies, or rather, as decoys to lure the Norwegians into their predicament. Once the cow-salters from Norway were chased off and peace was restored to the land, Cnut went to see those whom he had assigned to keep watch over his kingdom in Denmark. He left his ships and rode to Roskilde, which was under the regency of his brother-in-law Ulf Sprakaleggsson and Ulf’s foster-son Harthacnut. Emissaries of the see of Bremen had founded a monastery in that town, and it boasted a cathedral as well, which stood for many years, and was dedicated to the Holy Trinity and named the Church of Our Holy Lord.
Jarl Ulf Sprakaleggsson prepared a great banquet to welcome his suzerain, Cnut Sweynsson, and Cnut’s captains. A splendid company of Danes gathered there to regale Cnut, who now named himself Cnut the Mighty or the Great, in commemoration of the victory that he had won against the English king Æthelred and Queen Emma. Jarl Ulf was then the wealthiest man in Denmark, and his banquet in honor of Cnut reflected this – but we shall not recount here what fare was offered to the guests.
Norse books recount that Ulf Sprakaleggsson was a hot-tempered man, but an excellent administrator of his kingdom and a superior leader in every respect. That evening, the two friends, King Cnut and Jarl Ulf, play a game of chess. During the match, the king becomes distracted and makes a wrong move – what Snorri calls a “finger-breaker” – but then wants to take his piece back and make another move instead. When he attempts to do so, Jarl Ulf is none too pleased. He tips over the chessboard, stands up, and walks off. Shortly afterward, everyone goes to bed.
There are two different accounts concerning what subsequently occurred between the brothers-in-law. In this book, we prefer to follow what was put down in writing in English annals the same years that these events took place, and we do so first because Cnut was king of England at the time, and thus we feel it right and necessary to give ear to his own clerics and advocates, who would not have wished to denigrate him in any way, and in the second place, because some of the Icelandic accounts of these events seem more dubious, having grown muddled in the memories of historians, storytellers, and knowledgeable women in a foreign land for seven full generations before being written down.
The accounts state that Cnut had, for a bodyguard and valet, a youth from Norway named Ivar. It was the custom among rulers never to surround themselves, for any reason whatsoever, with natives of the lands they ruled, believing that their lives were at risk in such hands due to the ill will that might be borne by the populace toward its ruler. Cnut Sweynsson thus allowed neither Danes nor Englishmen in his bedchamber, knowing, as he did, where his enemies were to be found.
On the evening of the chess match, after the king has gone to his chamber, he bids his valet get up and go and kill Jarl Ulf Sprakaleggsson. The young man dresses himself in haste and leaves, but returns a little later to report that the jarl has gone with his bishops to chant compline. Cnut has Ivar extinguish the lamp, and they go to sleep. After vigils, however, King Cnut rises from his bed and wakes his servant, telling him to put on his shoes and go and kill Jarl Ulf Sprakaleggsson. Ivar goes out into the night and is away for a long time, but finally returns to tell the king that Jarl Ulf has gone to town to visit his mistress – in whose vestibule are two lions with fire burning in their eyes and jaws, and in whose forecourt eighteen vicious bitches guard the lions. They lie down once more to sleep, the king and the Norwegian Ivar, but toward dawn, King Cnut wakes again and calls to his valet, saying that the time is drawing near for jarls to be returning from their mistresses, and that the Norwegian is to go and lie in wait for the jarl and kill him. The valet rubs the sleep from his eyes and goes out. In town, the cocks are crowing. Quite a long time passes before the Norwegian Ivar returns once more to the king’s bedchamber, with bad news: Jarl Ulf had driven home to his wife, King Cnut’s sister, and they had bolted their bedchamber door from within, while four chambermaids slept, with great modesty, in the anteroom – an iron-clad knight keeping watch over each maiden. Just then, the first bell chimes matins in Our Holy Lord’s Church. King Cnut says that of all peoples, the Norwegians deserve the least blessings, and to be beaten more than any other men. They sleep now for the remainder of the night.
The king rises early the next morning and goes to attend Mass in Our Holy Lord’s Church. At the same time, his brother-in-law Jarl Ulf arrives at the church. They greet each other, proceed to the chancel, and sit down side by side before the altar to heed the service. King Cnut responds over and over to the chanting with bitter si
ghs and warm tears. At the Canon of the Mass, it is a sign of great courtesy for good men to fall to their knees and cover their faces as Christ descends to take up his abode in the bread, which clerics call transubstantiation. When the Mass reaches this point, King Cnut the Mighty kneels next to his bosom friend and lays one hand lovingly on his breast to find his heart, at the same time reciting several holy words from the Psalter in Ulf’s ear. As he speaks, his other hand drives his dirk between the jarl’s ribs and through his heart, killing Jarl Ulf Sprakaleggsson instantly.
It is a mark of how great a man King Cnut was in the estimation of the bishops and archbishops, and of the Lord Pope, yet particularly in the eyes of White Christ himself, that no one with the title of sovereign in Denmark has ever been more or better renowned before or since, though one were to search far and wide. For he is the third king in all of Christendom to have been granted the designation Magnus, which in our tongue is “the Great.” Jarl Ulf was carried quietly out the chancel door while the bishops concluded the Mass. Maidens of Christ then wiped the blood off the stone floor, and clerics purified the Church of Our Holy Lord with a blessing – and it was all as if nothing had occurred.
That same day, Cnut the Great has his son Harthacnut brought to him, and there on the town square, in the sight of the peasants, he deals the boy a fitting chastisement with a switch. Then he takes him on his knee and kisses him, and says that the boy shall sit next to his father on his throne. Norse books record that when these things had been done, the entire populace of Denmark rallied to King Cnut and submitted to him out of love. The king then appointed other regents to govern Denmark, men who play no part in this story.
Now we shall return to the tale of Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld, who has made it to Norway after being battered and afflicted by storm, starvation, cold, and other hardships in Greenland. When the Icelanders in Nidaros witness the woeful state of this skald and countryman of theirs, they fetch an aged peasant woman, an expert healer, to treat the man, and he remains bedridden on a farm for the rest of the summer. The flesh grows back over the abscesses on his hands and feet, and his internal afflictions subside – those that he had contracted from the bizarre fare he lived on while dwelling in the troll-world. When he is finally able to return to his feet, he is, of course, quite unsteady, since both of his legs are lame, and neither his hair nor his teeth grow back, nor the fingers or toes that frostbite had taken. His youthful beauty can never be reborn, and the clothes that he wears, though gifts of mercy from goodhearted folk, are very shabby. In the fall he is left there penniless, after the other Icelanders have sailed away on their ships. Gone, too, from Nidaros is the nobleman Sigvatur, the king’s skald.
Wayward Heroes Page 28
