The Real Valkyrie

by Nancy Marie Brown

  Singing and drinking

  have brought sorrow to many:

  to some, death;

  to some, bad fortune.

  The evils of drunkenness are repeated in the Viking creed, The Words of the High One:

  It’s not as good

  as everyone says,

  ale, for anyone.

  The more you drink,

  the less aware

  you are of yourself …

  Oblivion is the bird

  hovering over the ale-hall:

  It steals your good sense.

  But if the sagas can be trusted, the Vikings, in general, ignored such advice. The value of a feast was measured by how much beer (or wine or mead) was poured, and the beer was judged by how drunk everyone got. To drink and drink but not grow drunk was itself an insult, implying your host had not served strong-enough beer. When Queen Gunnhild met Egil the Poet on Atley Isle, he insulted their host in that way. Gunnhild took it personally and sent a girl—perhaps Hervor—to hand him a horn of poisoned beer.

  8

  THE FEUD

  Hervor is the fastest runner of all the children in Gunnhild’s care. Taller than her age-mates among Gunnhild’s sons, it is she who is chosen to run the queen’s errands when they attend the Gula Assembly.

  Make way! Make way for the queen’s runner! she calls as she slips through the packed crowd, searching for this man or that woman summoned to see the queen. In a sweaty hand she clutches the queen’s royal token.

  Up to the edge of the dark woods she runs, where the craggy hillside looms over her. Down to the lip of the fjord, narrow here, a silver ribbon leading east toward blue ranks of mountains, the farthest and highest showing teeth of snow. She weaves among the market stalls that clutter the harbor, ignoring the pungent scents of simmering horsemeat and warming ale, ignoring the flash and dazzle of goods for sale. She circles the law court in the center of the great open field: The sacred space within which petitioners can safely stand is clearly defined by hazel poles and horsehair ropes.

  There, at one end of the law court, Queen Gunnhild sits on her throne, King Eirik beside her, their warriors and counselors ranked behind them. Likewise, on the other three sides of the square sit the chieftains of Hordaland, Fjordane, and Sognefjord.

  The Gula Assembly is the yearly meeting for the people of these three districts in western Norway. Eirik’s father, Harald Fairhair, set it up so the farmers could meet him in a neutral spot and resolve any differences. Laws are debated here and fixed in memory. Lawsuits are settled. The chieftain of each district chooses twelve judges, to take oaths and rule on the legal issues of each case. Though the king has the final say, his decision is based on the numbers who swear oaths in support of each side—or who are willing to fight. Weapons are barred from the assembly grounds for good reason.

  The assembly’s location has been carefully chosen too, Hervor sees. The place itself reinforces the king’s promise of peace. No one can feel trapped here: It is the best sort of meeting place and the worst battleground. The land at the mouth of the Sognefjord is cut up into countless points and islands, some linked by land bridges at low tide. Safe harbors are scattered behind every headland, and each seems to have its own escape route, around this island or that, out to the North Way. High, wooded hills hide entire inlets. Secret coves offer ample hiding places. Numbers—of ships, of warriors—do not equal victory, when it is so easy for small boats, skillfully sailed or rowed, to slip away.

  Recognizing the big ugly man Queen Gunnhild tried to poison at the Winter Nights feast on Atley Isle, Hervor stops and stares when Egil the Poet steps over the holy ropes and enters the law court.

  After he killed the queen’s friend Bard, Egil was exiled from Norway. But here he is now, an outlaw, asking King Eirik to grant him half the wealth of a chieftain, recently deceased, whose granddaughter Egil has married.

  And he is backed by Arinbjorn, the young chieftain of Sognefjord—Eirik Bloodaxe’s foster brother and closest friend.

  But Egil’s opponent in this lawsuit is backed by Queen Gunnhild.

  Returning to the queen’s side to await her next errand, Hervor feels the tension in the air. The packed crowd that surrounds the law court is about to burst into action. It is wise, she thinks again, that they are all weaponless.

  The argument turns on Egil’s wife’s legal status: Her mother eloped, marrying without the approval of her brother, Chieftain Thorir—Arinbjorn’s father and King Eirik’s foster father. Egil swears the marriage was, eventually, made valid. But his wife, the other side argues, was born before that. She is the child of an elopement, which gives her the low status of a slave. She cannot inherit. The judges bandy the matter back and forth.

  Arinbjorn wants to call witnesses to swear the marriage was legalized, but King Eirik will not say yes or no. It is all too complicated for him. He is famous for brawn, not brains. He wants nothing more to do with the case.

  Queen Gunnhild is disgusted. It amazes me, she says, how you let Egil, this big nobody, tie up your law court. Would you have anything to say, I wonder, if he decided to take the whole kingdom off your hands?

  The queen sends Hervor to find her most loyal henchman. Tell him to break up the court, she whispers, and passes Hervor a token.

  Hervor runs to where the man waits, beside a hazel pole. Seeing the token, he yanks the pole out of the ground, draws his knife, and cuts the holy rope. As Hervor watches, the court falls into chaos. The judges dart this way and that, as Egil, stranded in the middle, bellows with rage.

  * * *

  The feud between Gunnhild and Egil that began at the Winter Nights feast on Atley Isle lasted their entire lives. If Hervor was Gunnhild’s foster child, it colored her life as well, teaching her not only the power of a queen, but also the limitations of the law. In one of his poems, Egil names his nemesis Gunnhild the Grim. To my mind, it was Egil who made her so, by murdering her ten-year-old son in cold blood, as we will see.

  To Snorri Sturluson, the grim queen was a convenient villain. While in his Edda Snorri names a goddess who practiced law and controlled access to justice, he wrote Egil’s Saga to glorify his ancestor and justify his own control, like Egil’s, three hundred years earlier, of one-fourth of Iceland. He had no interest in Gunnhild as a person. Even so, his account of her feud with Egil reveals another side of this powerful Viking queen. She was not only a witch—a cult leader or shaman—and the mother of many children. She was also a politician, lawyer, counselor, and judge, with an excellent sense of strategy.

  A good queen, say several sagas and songs, should offer her advice, on military as well as household matters. She should be wise and farseeing, bold and eloquent, persuasive in making her case, and have good political instincts, knowing when to negotiate and when to strike. She should be assertive and firm, taking matters into her own hands when necessary. She should know how to raise an army and how to defend—or take—a town.

  The connection between women and wisdom is deeply embedded in Norse lore. The god Odin is taught witchcraft by the goddess Freyja and consults an anonymous wisewoman to learn the future. Sigurd the Dragon-Slayer asks the valkyrie Brynhild for news and advice.

  A detailed picture of the wise Viking queen appears in the Saga of Hrolf Gautreksson. Like the Saga of Hervor, Hrolf’s Saga is the story of a warrior woman; for this reason, among others, it has long been considered “unacceptable as history,” though it might “contain historical elements.” Taught to see the Viking world in terms of men’s actions, scholars classify Hrolf’s Saga as a Bridal-Quest Romance, reducing the saga’s strong women to objects for the men to win. They tag it as “late,” “popular,” and—in case you didn’t notice those words were insults—“entirely frivolous.”

  I fully agree that Hrolf’s Saga is not a literary masterpiece like Egil’s Saga, but it may have been written down no later than this exemplar of “realistic fiction in the classical saga tradition.” Egil’s Saga (with its magic spells, runic charms, curses,
half trolls, berserks, and werewolves) is thought to have been written by Snorri Sturluson shortly before he died in 1241; the oldest manuscript, a fragment not in Snorri’s handwriting, dates from about 1250. A bit of Hrolf’s Saga appears on two scraps of parchment dated to around 1300. In another of the oldest saga manuscripts, dated 1300 to 1325, Hrolf’s Saga and Egil’s Saga appear together. The medieval scribe who collected and copied the stories clearly did not find the two sagas so very different in quality.

  Just as clearly, readers’ tastes have changed. Hrolf’s Saga was extremely popular in the Middle Ages—it is still preserved in more than sixty manuscripts, while Egil’s Saga is found in only thirteen.

  When Hrolf’s Saga was written, and for whom, is unknown. But one word choice hints that the author was a woman. The saga concludes, “People say this saga is true. Although it has never been skrifaði í tabula, wise people have kept it alive in their memories.” Translators read skrifaði í tabula as “committed to parchment,” but the word tabula—Latin, not Norse—is elsewhere used in the sagas to mean an embroidered altarpiece or other woven picture, while the verb skrifa, “to write,” can also mean “to weave.” Is the author saying this saga “has never been woven into a tapestry”? Weaving or embroidering a series of pictures, like the cartoons in the famous Bayeux Tapestry from eleventh-century England, was the best way of preserving a tale until writing became commonplace. In Hrolf’s Saga, Hervor’s Saga, and many other texts, such pictorial weaving was important cultural work assigned to women.

  As for the tale’s “frivolous” nature, the saga author addressed this point directly:

  It may be so for this saga as for many another, that not everyone tells it the same way. But people are of many kinds, and some travel widely. One hears this and one hears that, and each may be true, though neither is quite the whole truth.… It seems to me best to not find fault with a story if you can’t better it. Whether it’s true or not, let those who enjoy it do so, while those who don’t can look elsewhere for entertainment.

  Stories told over and over and laboriously handwritten on parchment for generations are never “frivolous.” They have meaning for someone.

  Like all good stories, Hrolf’s Saga both informs and entertains. Through five examples, the saga shows how a kingdom suffers without a wise queen—or when the king doesn’t listen to the queen’s advice—though, pointedly, the one kingdom ruled by a woman alone functions perfectly well until attacked by the bride-seeking hero. Overall, Hrolf’s Saga is an extraordinarily feminist saga, affirming the ability of women to compete with men on all levels. More, it affirms the necessity for the sexes to share power. Though today it is known as the Saga of Hrolf, Son of Gautrek, it was likely known in Hervor’s day by the name of its true hero, as the Saga of Thornbjorg.

  * * *

  The saga’s theme is clear from the start: Once upon a time, King Gautrek had been a fine king, famous for his generosity; then his queen died. Now he spent his days sitting on her grave mound talking to her bones, and “his kingdom was like a ship with no one steering.” His people convinced him he must remarry, so he asked for the hand of Ingibjorg of Norway. But negotiations were already underway for Ingibjorg to marry a young king from a neighboring land. Her father said, “I can avoid this hassle if I let her choose her own husband, as she’s asked me before.” Ingibjorg made her decision using reason and logic. She chose the well-tested older king, Gautrek, over the youthful but untried one, saying, “It’s a bad idea to bet on hopes.”

  Later, both she and the anonymous queen of Denmark chastise their kings—and not gently, either—for being disloyal to a friend. Gautrek and Hring fell out when slanderers convinced each king the other was preparing to attack. “That’s foolish talk,” said Hring’s queen. “You’ve long been the best of friends. Will you now listen to evil tongues and break up your friendship?” She suggested Hring sail to Gautrek’s kingdom of Gautland (in what is now southern Sweden) in a single ship and patch up their friendship by offering to foster Gautrek’s young son Hrolf. Hring followed her advice; but when his ship was spotted, Gautrek began spouting off about an attack. Queen Ingibjorg let him talk. “There’s little wisdom in that diatribe,” she said when he had finished. “Look at it this way, would King Hring come here with so few followers if he no longer trusted you?” They should welcome him with a feast, but keep a close eye on him to see if he seemed guilty of anything. Gautrek followed her advice, and the kings’ friendship was saved.

  Ingigerd, the third virtuous queen in the tale, not only demonstrates good logic and political skill; she could see the future in her dreams. When her husband, King Eirik of Uppsala, failed to listen, she predicted dire consequences—then told him how to repair the damage. “Well, that’s turned out badly,” said the queen, when she learned Eirik had insulted the saga’s hero, Hrolf, then a young king seeking their daughter’s hand in marriage. It would be “hard going to contend against him in any contest,” she said of Hrolf, “since he has the backing of the Danish king, his foster father, King Hring, with whom he discusses everything.” King Eirik had apparently not known of Hrolf’s powerful connections. He answered, “It may be that I have made a mistake. What can I now say or do to placate him?” The queen said, “Here’s my advice…”

  Ingibjorg of Ireland, the final example, is perceptive enough to see through a spy’s disguise. She shows compassion and kindness, rewards courage and honorable behavior, and is loyal to her father, despite his evil deeds, negotiating a peace that preserves his life.

  * * *

  The central queen of the saga, Thornbjorg of Sweden, shows all these good qualities (except for the prophetic dreaming), while adding to them skill in the martial arts. Says one character, “As far as her womanly accomplishments go, you could not find yourself a finer match anywhere in the North, while in some things, like jousting and fencing with shield and sword, she equals the hardiest knights. In that way she surpasses all other women I’ve heard of.” The mention of knights, jousting, and fencing shows that Hrolf’s Saga was written down after 1226, when French romances of chivalry became popular in the North; in those earlier versions preserved in the memories of learned people, Thornbjorg’s skills in horseback riding and sword fighting were described in different terms.

  A flavor of French romance (or Christian teaching) appears again, when her father finds her warrior training unwomanly and orders her to spend her days in the women’s skemma like other kings’ daughters. Skemma is one of those Old Norse words I can’t adequately translate. A skemma was a small building, easily heated yet lavishly appointed, in which women gathered to work on fine weaving and embroidery; it may also have been used to store clothing and jewels. Some translators call it a “boudoir,” but that word has unnecessary sexual overtones.

  Thornbjorg did not scorn the work of the skemma; the saga says, “She was as accomplished at women’s work as any girl anyone knew of.” But she had also learned to handle weapons as well as any knight. She said to her father, “Given that you have no more than one lifetime to rule this kingdom and, as your only child, I will inherit everything after your death, it’s likely I will have to protect the realm from other kings and their sons, once I have lost you.”

  Her father was so impressed with this argument that he gave Thornbjorg a third of Sweden to govern, letting her practice ruling while he was yet alive to advise her. He chose as her headquarters a fortified town near Uppsala—it could even be Birka—and provided her with “strong, hardy men who were willing to obey her and follow her orders.” Not content with being appointed to rule, Thornbjorg held an assembly at which she presented her credentials and asked the local landowners to vote. After she was elected king (not queen), she assumed the masculine form of her name and insisted on the proper courtesy. At this point, as in the Saga of Hervor, the saga author begins referring to her as “he.”

  When a visitor to the town rudely pointed out the king was a woman and proposed marriage, Thornbjorg pretended not to und
erstand. She said, “It seems to me that these ‘delightful pleasures’ that you crave from us are food and drink, and those we will deny to no needy person who asks them of us. You may direct your requests to the one who handles that task for us.” When he persisted in addressing her, not her steward, she grabbed her weapons and chased him out of the hall.

  Having learned that her impudent suitor was the famous Hrolf, king of Gautland, however, she prepared for his return. “Call for the smiths,” she said, “and have them build walls around our whole town, with strong and sturdy defenses, and ready them with such devices that no one can break through, neither with fire nor iron.” Afterward, the town was “so well protected that most people thought it unconquerable, so long as valiant warriors defended its walls.”

  After a hard-fought battle, however, Hrolf did manage to take the town and to capture Thornbjorg—though not in a fair fight. Hrolf’s brother, Ketil, warned not to injure her, slapped Thornbjorg on the buttocks with the flat of his sword. She retaliated in the same fashion, turning her axe to hit him with the blunt end under his ear. Scholars often comment on the shameful sexual overtones of that slap on the ass but fail to react to the equally shameful way Thornbjorg treated Ketil: “He was flung head over heels. ‘We beat our dogs like this when we’re tired of their barking,’ she said.” Nor is it commonly noticed that, while Thornbjorg was proving herself an equal fighter to Ketil, matching her axe to his sword, Hrolf dishonorably snuck up behind her and wrestled her to the ground. To his credit, though (and her surprise), he did not press his advantage. If she agreed to a truce, he said, he would allow her father to decide if she must marry him.