“Here have I brought you,” says Grímkell, “the belated first-fruits of my bishopric in Norway – gold and silver from myself and King Olaf Haraldsson.”
At the sight of these tokens, His Apostolic Lordship’s tongue is tied, as are those of his cardinals. The Pope steps from his throne and lies down on the floor to examine the coins, followed by the cardinals. Emperor Conrad’s monk, however – he who knows how to use a pen and manages the Apostolic Camera – says that at present, there is no question whatsoever of them making a vagabond or itinerant cleric an equal to the spiritual leaders of Norway – the bishops of Bremen, or those of Cnut Sweynsson, King of the English, who, in the eyes of God and all Christendom, is the rightful possessor of Norway. “On the other hand,” he says, “it is right that Grimkell be granted a letter declaring that the archiepiscopal see of Bremen and other lawful successors of the apostles are not to do him any harm, and he is neither to be excommunicated nor sentenced to death by them – rather, they are to recognize and tolerate their poor brother, who is replete with good will, until it be revealed whom Christ wishes to hold the throne in Norway.
“But on the day,” says this monk, “when King Olaf Haraldsson attains the throne and the kingdom of Norway by the will of God, or is exalted by means of remarkable confession and penance, or above all by a special death that may be reckoned martyrdom, so that the heavenly angels rejoice and the clerics and the commons see that the Lord has chosen Olaf to bear him witness with various exceptionally clear signs – on that very day, Brother Grimcetillus shall be elevated to the rank and dignity that beseems him.”
49
IN NORWAY, the bird cherry blossoms last of all trees. Whereas birch, linden, and other trees bud before the spring nights regain their full light, the blooms of the bird cherry do not open until summer wanes. Olaf Haraldsson now spent an inordinate amount of time making preparations for his expedition from Sweden, reinforcing the troops and fortifying their leadership, stilling quarrels among his men, and stocking up on various necessities. He sent word to his friends and kin in Norway that they were to gather forces in secret and join him after his march westward over the mountains from Jämtland that summer. Their watchword was to be that they should be fully prepared by the time the bird cherries blossomed.
Although these messages were to be delivered secretly to King Olaf’s men in Norway, the old adage, that many a man has an enemy among friends, seemed to be proved true again: news of the king’s intrigues spread no less among his foes. On hearing these rumors, the peasants grew restless. They were convinced that if Olaf regained a foothold in their land, his rule in Norway would soon be enforced in the same old way: he would start burning and murdering, torturing, seizing property, and committing other such injustices. They denounced Olaf Haraldsson as a criminal, forfeit of his life according to the laws upheld at most Norwegian assemblies throughout the land’s history. Now, as before, the peasants vowed to end this king’s days as soon as they had the opportunity to do so.
As regards Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld, the story goes that he returned from down south in Denmark and traveled from district to district seeking out leaders who had won honor and fame, and inquiring as to where champions might be found who, with intrepid hearts, had distinguished themselves in battle. He wished to compose quatrains about some, rhapsodies about others, and lays for those that deserved them. Yet it was the dawn of a new time in the North, when leaders relied less on valor and heroism than on the favor of kings and bishops. They considered it more advisable to become the vassals of sovereigns, or to buy their way out of the clutches of the monster Christians call “sin” than to earn the praise of skalds – thus, limping vagrants were not called upon to extol sovereigns. The skald often pondered whether his sworn brother Þorgeir Hávarsson had not been the last true warrior in the North, apart from King Olaf Haraldsson, who had been driven from his kingdom by crofters.
Now this wayfarer gets wind of the news that King Olaf Haraldsson is expected from the east that summer, to lift Norway out of its ignominy. At this revelation, life returns to Þormóður’s limbs, which had been frozen in Greenland. There seemed to be hope that the North would be freed from the fetters in which it had been festering for some time, now that the sworn brothers’ king was to lead an invincible army into Norway to reclaim his heritage. The skald envisions the king at the head of his retinue, rising in the east with the radiant crown of his glory, consecrated to the gods. Now Þormóður speeds, though lame, through wood and meadow, from district to district, heading north to Trøndelag, for it is there, he hears, that the king will be descending from the mountains at the blossoming of the bird cherry. When he comes to the long, deep valleys of Norway, where the paths follow rivers and lakes over great distances, drawing ever nearer to the mountains that form the country’s natural boundaries, it looks to Þormóður as if there are more folk out on the roads than ever before. Most of the travelers are poor people, carrying their belongings on their backs, laborers and crofters. Some lead packhorses, most often traveling two by two, and never in groups larger than five, always with a short distance between them. They hardly ever acknowledge each other or exchange more than a few words when they happen to meet. Yet there are even more men roaming off the highroads, leading their horses or carrying their loads through forests and over heaths. All these men appear to be running their own errands, rather than those of any authority. When Þormóður addresses them, they reply curtly. One says that he is moving house with all his possessions, another is going to trade his labor for butter and flour. There are, in addition, many saltmakers out and about, and salmon fishermen, as well as herring fishermen and others on their way home from the fishing stations.
One day, after coming down from a mountain, a saltmaker turns to Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld and says:
“What beggarman are you who so often crosses our paths of late, and where are you heading?”
He says: “I am an Icelandic skald, seeking your king.”
The saltmaker replies: “Strange that Icelanders should now wish to have arsonists lording it over them, after having fled from Harald Tanglehair’s rule here in Norway.”
Þormóður replies: “Stranger that Norwegians do not want rulers that win them glory through stoutness of heart.”
The saltmaker replies: “We have had plenty of kings in Norway, but the only ones that proved of any use to us were those that we sacrificed for good harvests and peace.”
Þormóður says: “From my father and other good men in Iceland I learned most of the lays that have been composed in the Norse tongue, and none of them ever told of any man winning glory for this land apart from its kings and their champions, after slaughtering their enemies and setting their lands and property aflame. These are the men most extolled in Icelandic poetry, though few of them were born for long life – not salmon fishermen and saltmakers.”
A crofter says: “The mill that my grandfather built on his homefield, Jarl Haakon Sigurdarson demolished. My father built another mill, and King Olaf Tryggvason knocked it down. I myself built a little mill when I was young. King Olaf Haraldsson burned it when he harried us in Romsdal.”
A backwoodsman says: “I kept three cows in a clearing and the king’s men salted them all down, calling it their tax.”
Among this group is a stately, ruddy-faced old man, who says: “I had toiled hard to dig a well, deep and clear, when King Olaf Haraldsson turned up with fifteen of his commanders, bearing the sign of the cross. The three highest in rank, he called his Wise Men from the East. The other twelve, he called his Apostles, after the great squires who paid homage to Christ. All of these men, both the commanders of his army and the king himself, came and pissed in my well.”
A herring fisherman says: “Great misfortune has befallen us Norwegians ever since we stopped sacrificing our rulers and started eating whale meat.”
Þormóður grips one of the peasant’s clubs, laughs, and says: “What do you think you wretches can do with your
staves against the king’s men’s storm of steel?”
The peasant replies: “In war, those get the worst of it who put faith in steel.”
From exchanges such as this, Þormóður came to realize that other company would serve him better in his quest to meet the king, but when he arrived in Trøndelag, no matter where he turned, he encountered people quite unlikely to share his path. Groups of them emerged from every gully and rift, from behind trees and boulders, or edged their way along overgrown forest paths, shieling paths and cattle tracks, all seemingly with one and the same destination. For the most part, they looked alike, with unkempt beards and their hair tucked into the necks of their tunics. There were also young men with downy cheeks and chins, poorly shod, sunburned, and loudmouthed. Sticking out of their saddlepacks were clubs, spades, and forks, as well as the occasional spear. At nightfall, they all lay down to sleep wherever they found themselves. Some donned hair sacks, while others lay on the bare ground. They were all Christians, and the next morning clerics rode among the sleepers, holding their crosses aloft and ringing bells for the men to rise and heed the sacred song. They exhorted the men, bidding them never, as long as Christ lived, to forget the murders, burnings, and pillaging committed by the malefactor who was now headed for Norway with a foreign force to make war on them anew. They declared the native army assembled here greater than had ever been seen in this poor country, and bade the Norwegian peasants stand fast and rely on their numbers to drive out that band of foreign brigands. Snorri relates the words of the bishop who addressed the peasants of Norway on behalf of Christ: “The time has come,” said the bishop, “to slaughter this rabble for the eagle and the wolf. Unless you prefer to drag the carcasses under mound and cairn, let each man lie where you cut him down.”1
50
IN NORD-TRØNDELAG lies Verdal, at the border between the kingdom of Norway and Jämtland in Sweden. It is there that the highroads meet, and there that the waters flow, where mountains and ridges overlook a broad valley dotted with forests, fields, and rivers. Ewes and lambs graze among the thickets, while cows lie chewing the cud at the base of ancient cairns. In the middle of the valley stands a farm, backed by a copse of aspen and maple, birch and linden, and bird cherry as well. The dandelions growing there are the same as in Iceland. This farm is called Stiklestad. Learned men say that it is often a valley, where the landscape slopes down to a place of rest like the benches in the Hippodrome of Constantinople, that is the stage for events that determine the destinies of kings – and it is here, in just such a valley, that King Olaf Haraldsson fell, the day after this book ends. When we who composed this narrative came to Verdal one day a thousand years later, and beheld the blue heaths to the east – whence the king led his final march into Norway, bereft of clerics, forsaken by skalds, abandoned by friends and lovers, but backed by a foreign, heathen army – the stones were then silent in Stiklestad, of course, and nothing remained of King Olaf’s saga but a soughing in the leaves.
Now to tell of the eve of King Olaf’s fall, when the peasant army has assembled at Stiklestad, beneath the holy cross, and the king’s forces are on their way down from the mountains. An Icelandic skald has also made his way to Verdal, seeking the king he has chosen as his own. No book says what gift of divination allowed this skald to envision that this king, whom the peasants of Norway now meant to crush, would someday become the only king in the North surpassing Cnut the Great in glory and praise – and his praise flourishes no less in Heaven than on Earth. To him have bowed not only earthly dukes and emperors, bishops and popes, but also saints, martyrs, and virgins, as well as all the heavenly powers, archangels, thrones, dominions, and cherubim. Yet King Olaf has never been cherished by anyone as much as by Icelandic skalds – for in fact no book has ever been written in the world about kings, or about Christ himself, that can hold a candle to the account that Snorri the Wise composed, called the Saga of Olaf the Saint.
Skald Þormóður Bessason hobbles about Verdal, wondering what door in the camp of his king’s enemies he shall knock upon to beg for the supper he needs to prepare him for what is forthcoming. The men have pitched their tents on the bank of the river and lit fires, and physicians have gathered there around their kettles to simmer grasses and herbs. A man crosses Þormóður’s path. He has a gray beard and is wearing a worn tunic with a long hood pulled over his head, looking like most other peasants gathered there. Yet when he speaks, his voice sounds familiar to Þormóður’s ears.
“Nearby is a woman,” says the man in the tunic, “who has gotten wind of your coming, Þormóður, and she wishes to meet with you.”
Þormóður asks where this woman might be. The man in the tunic tells Þormóður to follow him. Squatting by a hearth near the river is a woman wearing a skin kirtle, simmering herbs in a kettle. Her face is ogrish and her eyes bigger than most women’s. She stands and welcomes Þormóður eagerly, but when she tries to greet him with a kiss, he turns away, saying that he has no idea who she is. “Who are you,” he asks, “and why are you here?”
She says: “I am Kolbrún, your lover, who has your life-egg in her keeping. I have come from Greenland to kill my rival, Olaf Haraldsson, the king chosen by you and your sworn brother. I am preparing healing potions for those who carry out this deed.”
He says: “You shall be cursed for it.”
“It remains to be seen who will be cursed when it is done,” says the woman. “But I will promise,” says she, “to spare your king, as long as you rework his lay in my praise.”
“What will you reward me for that lay?” says he.
She replies: “I have a thatched cottage in the heather and two young she-goats,” she said, handing her guest a cup of goat’s milk.
He says: “I once had a manor in Djúp, more bounteous and brighter than any other place in the world: the sea full of flounder, flocks on the slopes, mouse-gray cows of the stock of mermen, their udders full to bursting, waddling to the milking-shed at sundown. There I loved a swan whose like has never been seen among queens. In my hayfield in Djúp, I bade farewell to two girls, ever so small. I handed it all over to a foreign slave for the sake of the glory that is superior to every other possession, and the praise that the skald is elected to offer to a mighty king and his champions, so that he may live among gods and men throughout the ages. Now, after I have squandered everything out of devotion to the heart that alone of all hearts in the world knew no fear, and to the king who ruled that heart, and have finally come within reach of my king, you offer me a hovel in the heather and two kids!”
“Never,” says the woman, “will the king you seek come to possess the kingdom in Norway that is mine.”
To these words he makes no answer, but thanks the woman for the fare she has given him, and then hobbles off toward the mountains in search of his and his sworn brother’s king, whom he, with his skaldic foresight, knows will become the most renowned and glorious king, honoured with more praise than any other Norse king throughout the ages.
Twilight was at hand. After it grew dark, the mistress summoned her slave, Loðinn, who was sitting a short distance away among a group of peasants busy fashioning clubs from roots or whittling sticks into arrows. She said:
“We arrived too late to prevent the coming of that vagabond who betrays us – that skald of Olaf the Stout, so devoted to folly. What would you suggest we do with him?”
“I am unaccustomed,” said Slave Loðinn, “to being asked for advice on how you should deal with your vagrants.”
She admitted that was true. “I have long been a stingy mistress to you – and even less a woman,” said she. “That man who just now walked away from me is to blame.”
“I am your slave, Mistress,” said he.
“If that be true, it is time to finish it,” said she, taking something from beneath her belt and handing it to him. “Here is my knife. Go now and do not come to my tent until you can show me Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld’s dying blood on its edge. At that hour, it will be revealed whether
you are a man or a slave.”
51
ÞORMÓÐUR Kolbrúnarskáld now leaves the rebel encampment for the mountains to find the king. Having reconnoitered Olaf Haraldsson’s army, the peasants knew that he was near. That day, the horses’ bundles had been untied, the chests opened, and the weapons dealt to the king’s troops. King Olaf had not trusted his men to keep the peace among themselves, should they have gotten hold of weapons before the time came for the armies to clash. Shoes were also handed out to those whose feet had suffered in the mountains, and tunics to those who had marched to Norway shirtless. Now that they had reached Norway, the men’s thoughts and hopes focused more and more on their shares in the booty of food and clothing and valuables promised them by the king.
Þormóður has not gone very far before he meets one of the king’s outposts. These men speak in the dialect then common in the East, and now, upon encountering someone who can speak the Norse tongue, they ask Þormóður his name and business. He tells the truth – that he is an Icelandic skald, come to meet King Olaf Haraldsson and deliver him a lay. One of the men says:
“We have been ordered to treat any man who does not trip over his words when speaking the language of this land of Norway like any other usurper and traitor to his king.”
The sentry who speaks the Norse tongue replies, saying:
“No order was given about how to treat an Icelandic skald who asks leave to rattle off rhymes to the king. What do you think, comrades?”
A third sentry says: “I think it is a good idea for us to try out the spears they gave us tonight on this tramp.”
More king’s men, all heavily armed, gather round to have a look at this skald. Some come and poke at him to determine whether he is concealing a knife or other dangerous implement, but soon find that he has nothing on him apart from his staff. Several officers step up and question the newcomer concerning the Norwegians’ war capabilities: what their numbers are and what weapons they bear. Þormóður answers frankly that it is the most un-warlike army that he has ever seen, lacking in most of the things that help bring victory in battle. None in that army has weapons of the sort praised in poetry, whereas clubs and root-bludgeons are prominent, as well as churn-staves and beams. “It is sheer recklessness,” says he, “for porous wood grown from the soil to challenge royal steel to battle.”
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