by Tim Severin
Kari was now outside the law and every man’s hand was against him, but he refused to give up his campaign of retribution. Driven by the Norse sense of honour I mentioned earlier, he skulked in hiding for months, either living on the moors or staying with friendly farmers. He found another comrade-in-arms in a smallholder named Bjorn the White, a most unlikely associate as Bjorn was known as a braggart who boasted much and did little. Indeed, Bjorn’s reputation was so low that even his wife did not think he had the courage for a stand-up fight. But Kari was a natural leader and he inspired Bjorn to excel. The two men ranged the island, tracking down the Burners and confronting them. Each time the combination of Kari and Bjorn won the day. Bjorn guarded Kari’s back while the expert dueller tackled the Burners. By now fifteen of the original gang of Burners had been killed, and the rest had decided that it was wiser to begin their own period of exile and leave Iceland rather than be hunted down by Kari. In late summer the last of the Burners had departed from Iceland, intending to sail to Norway, and nothing more had been heard from them. Now, I guessed, Kari was planning to begin his own period of exile.
I told Thrand of Kari’s message as soon as we got back to Thrand’s cabin. My mentor’s response was unhesitating. ‘Of course you have to go with Kari,’ he said decisively. ‘There is a bond between you. Kari has kept in mind his promise he made to you at the Althing. With this offer of a passage to Orkney, he is honouring his pledge. In turn, you should acknowledge his nobility of spirit, accept his offer and go with him.’ Then he made a remark which showed how – all this time – he had been aware of what was troubling me. ‘If there is to be a final lesson which I want you to take away with you, let it be this: show and maintain personal integrity towards any man or woman who displays a similar faith and trust in you and you will find that you are never truly on your own.’
KOLBEIN THE BLACK sailed south from Eyrar at the end of November. It was late in the year to be making the voyage, but we had weather luck and the trip was uneventful. En route to Orkney Kari asked if we could stop at the Fair Isle, which lies between Orkney and Shetland, as he wanted to visit another of his friends, David the White, whom he had known from the days when both men were in the service of Earl Sigurd of Orkney. It was while we were staying at Fair Isle that a fisherman brought news that the Burners were nearby on Mainland, as the chief island in Orkney is called. The Burners had sailed from Iceland two weeks before us, but where we had good weather the Burners had encountered a heavy gale. Driven off course, their vessel was wrecked on the rocks of Mainland in poor visibility and they only just managed to scramble ashore. The mishap put Flosi and his colleagues in a real predicament. One of their victims at the Burning, Helgi Njalsson, was formerly a member of Earl Sigurd’s retinue. There was every chance that if they were caught by the earl’s people, the earl would put them to death for murdering one of his sworn men. The worried Burners spent a very uncomfortable day on the seashore, hiding in rocky clefts, camouflaging themselves under blankets of moss and seaweed, before Flosi decided that they had no choice but to walk across the island to Earl Sigurd’s great hall, present themselves before the ruler of Orkney and throw themselves on his mercy.
Earl Sigurd knew at once who they were when the Burners arrived. Most of the Norse world was talking of the Burning of Njal. The earl was renowned for his violent temper and, as the Burners had feared, his initial reaction was to fly into a rage and order the visitors to be arrested. But Flosi courageously spoke up, admitting his guilt for Helgi Njalsson’s death. Then, invoking an old Norse tradition, he offered to serve in Helgi’s place in the earl’s retinue. After some grumbling, Earl Sigurd agreed. The Burners had then pledged obedience to the earl and now were under his protection.
‘Sigurd the Stout’, as he was popularly known, was a pagan Norseman of the old school and proud of it. He always attracted fighting men. It was said that his two favourite seasons of the year were spring and autumn because at the first sign of spring he would launch his warships and go raiding his neighbours. He then came home for the summer to gather the harvest, and as soon as that was done he promptly put to sea again for a second round of viking. His most celebrated possession was the battle banner that his mother, a celebrated volva, had stitched for him. Its insignia was Odinn’s emblem, the black raven. It was claimed that whoever flew the banner in battle would be victorious. However, in keeping with Odinn’s perverse character, the person who carried the banner in battle would die while winning the victory. Given this warning, it was hardly surprising, that only the most loyal of Earl Sigurd’s retainers was prepared to be his standard-bearer.
This was the man, then, in whose long hall at Birsay my mother had conducted her affair with my father Leif the Lucky, and the woman who had stitched the raven banner was my mother’s confidante, Eithne the earl mother. According to the fisherman who brought us the news about the Burners, the earl mother was well advanced in years but still very much alive.
Kari decided that the most prudent time for us to cross to Mainland and arrive at Sigurd’s great hall was during the Jol festival, when there should be several days of feasting and oath-taking. Sigurd still followed the old-fashioned tradition of having a large boar – an animal sacred to the fertility God Frey – led down his great hall so that the assembled company could lay hands on the bristly animal and swear their solemn oaths for the coming year. Then that evening the oath boar would be served up roast at a great banquet, at which the earl displayed his bounty by distributing vast quantities of mead and beer for his retainers and guests. For Sigurd the festival was a proper celebration in honour of Jolnir, another of Odinn’s names, but he had no objection if the Christians chose to combine the earthy celebration of Jol with one of their holy days, provided they did not interfere with the priorities of eating, drinking, story-telling and carousing. Indeed, it occurred to me that it might have been under similar circumstances, fifteen years earlier, that I was conceived.
Kolbein’s boat had a favourable tide under her and carried us across the strait between Fair Isle and Mainland in less than ten hours. Kolbein knew of a quiet sandy beach for our landing place, and he, Kari and I went ashore in the boat’s tender, leaving a few men aboard at anchor watch. It was less than a half-hour walk over the rolling sand dunes to reach the earl’s long hall, and there was still enough daylight left for me to have my first glimpse of an earl’s residence. After hearing so much about the wealth and power of an earl, for which there is no equivalent rank in Iceland, I was frankly rather disappointed. I had expected to see a grand building, something with towers and turrets and stone walls. What I saw was nothing more than an enlarged version of the longhouses that I already knew from Iceland to Vinland. The only difference was that Earl Sigurd’s long hall was considerably bigger. In fact it was almost three times larger than the largest home I had yet seen, with side walls that were over four feet thick. But the rest of it, the stone and turf walls, the wooden supports and the grassy roof, were identical to the domestic structures I had known all my life. The interior of this huge building was just as gloomy, smoky and poorly illuminated as its more humble cousins, so Kari, Kolbein and I were able to slip quietly in through the main doors without being noticed in the crowd of guests. We took up our positions just a few paces inside. There we could see down the length of the great hall, yet we were far enough from the central hearth, where Sigurd, his entourage and chief guests were seated. In the half-light and surrounded by a jostle of visitors, there was little chance that Kari would be recognised.
I had forgotten about Kari’s exalted sense of self-honour. We arrived in the interval between the parading of the oath boar and the time when it would be served up with an apple in its mouth. This long intermission lasts at least three hours, and the assembled company is normally entertained with a programme of juggling, tumbling and music. It is also a tradition for the host of the Jol banquet to call on each of his chief guests to contribute a tale from his own experience. Scarcely had the three of us fou
nd our places in the audience than Earl Sigurd called on one of the Burners, a tall, gangling man by the name of Gunnar Lambason, to recount the story of Njal’s death and the events leading up to it. Clearly Earl Sigurd thought that a first-hand account of this famous and recent event, told by one of the chief participants, would impress his guests.
From the moment Gunnar Lambason started speaking, I knew he was a poor choice for a saga teller. The Icelanders can be somewhat long-winded when it comes to narration, but Gunnar made particularly heavy going. He had a nasal voice that grated on the ear, and he often lost the thread of his tale. He also skewed the story so that it showed the deeds of the Burners in the most favourable light. As Gunnar Lambason recounted it, the Njalssons had brought their fate on themselves and throughly deserved to die in the flames and smoke of their home. When Gunnar finished his recitation, Sigurd’s most important guest, a sumptuously dressed chieftain with a splendidly lustrous beard, asked how the Njalsson family had endured their final hours. Gunnar answered dismissively. They had fought well at first but then begun to cry out, begging for quarter, he said. His reply was more than Kari could stomach. Standing next to him, I had heard his deep, angry breathing as Gunnar’s dreary tale proceeded. Now Kari gave a roar of fury, broke out from the little knot of bystanders and raced half the length of the hall. Like everyone else, I stood and gaped as Kari jumped over the outstretched legs of the men seated at the side benches until he was level with Gunnar Lambason, who had just seated himself and turned to see what was the commotion was. Everyone was so startled that there was no time to react. Kari had his famous sword Leg Biter in his hand. With a single sweep of the blade Kari cut Gunnar Lambason’s head from his shoulders.
Sigurd, the veteran warrior, was the first to react. ‘Seize that man!’ he shouted, pointing at Kari, who stood there confronting the crowd, with a pool of Gunnar Lambason’s blood seeping around his feet. There was a shocked murmuring, followed by an uncomfortable silence. No one got up from their seats. At banquets it is customary for weapons to be hung up on the walls as a precaution against drunken brawling leading to bloodshed. Kari had only managed to bring Leg Biter into the hall because we arrived so late that the gatekeepers were already drunk and had failed to search him. The only other people with any weapons were Sigurd’s bodyguard, and they were men who had previously served with Kari and were wary of his prowess as a fighter. Kari looked straight at Sigurd and announced loudly, ‘Some people would say that I have just rendered you a service by killing the murderer of your former servant, Helgi Njalsson.’ There was a mutter of approval from the onlookers and Flosi, the leader of the Burners, rose to his feet. He too turned towards Sigurd and said, ‘I can speak on behalf of the Burners. Kari has done no wrong. He never accepted any settlement or compensation we offered for the deaths of his family, and he has always made it public that he intends to seek blood revenge. He only did what is his duty.’
Sigurd quickly sensed the mood of the assembly. ‘Kari!’ he thundered. ‘You have offended our hospitality gravely, but in a just cause. With my permission, you may leave this hall unharmed. But I declare that by your action you have brought upon yourself the same outlawry for which you were condemned in Iceland. For that reason you must leave Orkney without any delay, and not return until your sentence of exile has been fully served.’
Kari said nothing, but turned on his heel and, the blood-streaked sword still in his hand, walked back quietly down the hall to where Kolbein and I were still standing. As he passed us, we both made a movement to step forward and join him. Kari nodded to Kolbein and said quietly, ‘Let’s go,’ but to me he said firmly, ‘you are to stay. I have brought you to Orkney as I promised, but you have not had time to carry out your own mission. I hope everything goes well for you. Perhaps we will meet again some day.’ With those words, he stepped out of the door and into the darkness of the night. I stood watching him walk away, with Kolbein at his shoulder, until I could no longer see them in the gloom.
The earl was quickly back to his role as a genial host. Even as Sigurd’s guards hauled away Gunnar Lambason’s body, the earl was calling for more drink to be brought and a moment later was shouting at the cooks, demanding to know how much longer it would be before they could serve up the oath boar. I suspect that he was secretly delighted that the spectacular events would make his Jol festival remembered for years to come. The housemaids and thralls washed down the tables, and to his great credit Flosi stood up and in a loud voice asked the earl if he might have permission to retell the story of Njal’s Burning, but this time with proper regard for the heroism of Njal and his family. When Earl Sigurd waved his hand in agreement, Flosi turned to the audience and announced that he would start the tale all over again, right from the beginning. His listeners nodded approvingly and settled themselves down for a lengthy discourse. Not only do Norsemen have an insatiable appetite for such narratives, but the more often a tale is told the better they seem to like it.
Flosi had barely started when Sigurd’s steward was pushing through the crowd to where I was standing. ‘Are you the young man who arrived with Kari Solmundarson?’ he asked. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘The earl wants a word with you, and so does his guest of honour.’ I followed the steward through the crush of people, and found myself standing beside the earl’s high seat.
Sigurd looked me up and down and asked my name.
‘Thorgils,’ I replied.
‘How long have you known Kari?’ asked the earl.
‘Not very long, sir,’ I answered respectfully, ‘I helped him last year before the Althing, but just for a few days. Then he invited me to join him on his voyage to Orkney.’
‘Why was that?’ asked Sigurd.
‘Because he knew that I wanted to come here to enquire about my family.’
Before Sigurd could ask me what I meant, the man seated on his right interrupted, ‘What a remarkable fellow that Kari is,’ he said, ‘walking straight in, and carrying on his blood feud under our noses, with no thought for his own safety. Great courage.’
‘Kari has always been known for his bravery,’ replied Sigurd, and his slightly deferential tone made me look more closely at his guest. He was the most expensively dressed man I had ever seen. He wore at least three heavy gold rings on each arm, and his finger rings glittered with magnificent coloured stones. Every item of his clothing was of the finest material and in bright colours. His shoes were of soft leather. He even smelled richly, being the first man I had ever met who used body perfume. His sky blue cloak was trimmed with a broad margin of gold thread worked in an ornate pattern, and the precious brooch that held the cloak to his left shoulder was astonishing. The pattern of brooch was common enough. The pin pivoted on a slotted ring, and the wearer drove the pin through the cloth, turned the ring and the cloth was held in place. My father Leif had worn one very similar at feasts. But he had never worn one anything like the brooch displayed so ostentatiously by Sigurd’s guest. The brooch was enormous. Its pin was nearly the length of my forearm, and the flat ring was a hand’s span across. Both the pin – spike would be a better description – and the flat ring were of heavy gold. Even more amazingly, the surface of the gold ring was worked with intricate interlacing patterns, and set into the patterns was a galaxy of precious stones carefully picked for their colours – amethyst, blue, yellow and several reds from carmine to ruby. The brooch was a masterpiece. I guessed that there was probably no other piece of jewellery quite like it in all the world. It was, I thought to myself, a work of art fit for a king.
Earl Sigurd had already turned back to his dandified guest without waiting to hear my further explanation about why I wanted to visit Orkney. He was deep in conversation with him, and I caught a scowl from Sigurd’s steward, who had been hovering in the background. Realising that my presence next to the high seat was no longer required, I made my way quietly back to the steward.
‘No eavesdropping on matters of state,’ he growled, and for a moment I thought he might know about
my role as a spy for Kari at the Althing.
‘Who’s the man wearing the superb brooch?’ I asked him.
‘That’s Sigtryggr, King of Dublin, and he’s come here to negotiate with Earl Sigurd. Sigtryggr’s looking for allies in his campaign against the Irish High King, Brian. Knowing Sigurd the Stout, I doubt that he’ll be able to resist the chance of winning loot, even without the added attraction of that meddling hussy, Kormlod.’
The steward noticed that I had not the least idea what he was talking about, and beckoned to one of the hall servants. ‘Here, you. Look after this lad. Find him something to eat and a place to sleep. Then something useful to do.’ With that I was dismissed.
The Jol ended with the ceremonial quenching of the Julblok, a large burning log whose flames were doused with ale to ensure the fertility of the coming year, and when most of the guests had left I found myself assigned to domestic duties. Twelve days of uninterrupted revelry had left a remarkable mess in the great hall and the surrounding area. I was employed in sweeping up the debris, collecting and burning the rushes that had been fouled on the floor, raking out the long hearth, swabbing down benches, and digging out patches of sodden earth where the guests had relieved themselves without bothering to go to the outside latrines. At times I wondered whether the cattle in the byres at Brattahlid had not been more sanitary.
King Sigtryggr was still with us and some sort of negotiation was going on because I noticed that he and Sigurd the Stout spent a good deal of time in Sigurd’s council room, often accompanied by their advisers. Among these advisers was Sigurd’s mother Eithne. As had been reported, the celebrated volva was surprisingly well preserved for her advanced age. She must have been over seventy years old, but instead of the bent old crone that I had expected, Eithne was a small, rather rotund old woman full of energy. She bustled about, turning up at unexpected moments and casting quick glances everywhere and missing very little that went on around here. Only her thin, scraggly grey hair gave away her age. Eithne was almost bald, and she had a nervous habit of adjusting her headscarf every few moments so that no one would see her pate.
