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  “I wish to thank you first with words, Sire Thorkell and our other Norse brothers and doughty Vikings,” he says, “and then with gold and silver and other splendid objects, for the support that you have given us in discomfiting, albeit in small measure, Odo of Chartres, one of the greatest lechers in France. Yet for the moment, we shall do no more, since Robertus Capetus, King of the Franks, our friend, and, after Christ and the Pope, our overlord, wishes his vassals not to be slain, for he fears that such a deed would be detrimental to the common folk. Though it was tragic misfortune that Odo escaped with his life, and that Chartres Cathedral burned along with most who sought refuge there, you are not to think that the deeds of renown that I had in store for you are completed, or that your hope of gaining wealth has been reduced to nothing, despite things here having taken a turn for the worse – peerless champions and illustrious warriors as you are. I now have an exploit for you that promises to be far more gallant and profitable than any you have so far accomplished. I have heard that when you pledged to unleash your forces on Odo of Chartres, you thought my army, which I intended to ally with yours, rather paltry. Not to beat around the bush: even those men here in Normandy that have not been recruited by the King of the Franks but are capable of bearing arms, are treacherous churls. They hold White Christ in low regard, and instead have Cabbage-Christ and Onion for gods, choosing to toil away in the dirt like worms or to stroke their wives’ bellies rather than accomplish anything to the glory of their king. They care not a whit when men who despise the sacraments pillage our lands and wealth, and they stubbornly resist paying taxes, squandering their labor instead in ditch digging and other earthwork, or erecting fences and building bridges and mending roads, or many other kinds of miserable drudgery, instead of maintaining my barons and their castles. In the rare times that we have managed to muster the peasants to make war on our enemies, they have betrayed me, and taken women to wife in the lands of our enemies, and begun worshiping their Cabbage-Christ and Onion according to their despicable, childhood habit, instead of fighting and dying for their king or returning victorious. Now the peasant leaders have been meeting behind our backs to discuss how best to promote their own advantage at the expense of ours. My request to you, Sire Thorkell my brother, and to you, my kinsmen and successors of my great-grandfather Rollo, is that you cross back over the river into Normandy and wreak vengeance on the traitors and turncoats that have conspired against our kingdom and the royal office invested in us, the dukes of Normandy, at the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, by the Frankish king Carolus Simplex, the Pope, and Christ, Son of Mary, and the archangels, to be held in the sight of Almighty God as long as the world lasts.”

  Upon Richard’s finishing his speech, King Thorkell Strutharaldsson’s anger abates. The Vikings are better disposed toward Richard now than they were just a short time ago, and they heartily welcome being entrusted with new deeds of glory to perform. “Has anyone,” they ask, “ever heard of a Viking going back on his pledge to an open-handed king?” Moreover, the Vikings declare their willingness to have bishops accompany them, ready to deliver Christ’s verdict whenever necessary, such as when they might burn churches, as well as to offer them absolution if they burned them unjustly.

  28

  THE INHABITANTS of Normandy whom we call the peasants of Rouen had heard the news that their ruler, Duke Richard, had brought a Viking army to Chartres to do away with Count Odo. The peasants had no apprehension of danger until the king turned this army on them and began pacifying the land: beating or maiming the common folk, burning their houses, and hanging those whose loyalty he questioned. At first, the peasants put up little defense, to the elation of the Vikings – it was as if they suddenly found themselves licking ladles full of honey. Each and every object made of silver that they found in people’s houses, struck or unstruck, as well as of tusk or bone, they grabbed and carried off. They tortured lowly folk into pointing their fingers at the firebrands conspiring against the duke, and wherever they settled for the night, the first thing they did was erect a gallows and hang the peasants that they had taken captive that day. They were very fond of halting in the vicinity of cathedrals and monasteries and ordering all the bells rung, trumpets blown, and God’s word preached. In general, people avoided going anywhere near the executions, apart from the king’s barons, who sat clad in plate armor atop their horses, visors shut, their gold-inlaid swords raised, as the bishops and the other prelates, arrayed in their vestments, stood gathered around the gallows, chanting. The lower clergy had their hands full granting absolution to those about to lose their lives. A curious crowd of commoners had assembled to watch the executions, to gaze upon the glory of the barons and high clergy, witness the pomp and ceremony, and hear the chanting and solemn formulae used in the blessings. Gathered there too were various hangers-on, harlots, and vagabonds, and those eyeservants of chieftains that are found everywhere and can always be paid to shout and jeer when folk are strung up, willing and eager to clap their hands for anyone in command of fire and the gallows.

  By now, the peasants of Rouen had had more than enough, having for some time witnessed their houses being reduced to ashes. News flew from village to village that their ruler was leading a horde of Norse Vikings against them – Rollo risen anew. The Rouen peasants assembled in groups, moving by night but hiding by day in woods or marshes or haystacks. Their weapons were cudgels, which have always served peasants well – all manner of billets and implements that could be used as clubs, most of wood, but some clad with iron. Books on the art of war state that nothing is more perilous for a valiant warrior wielding a sword or other noble weapon than to find himself pitted against a peasant armed with a post or a tree stump, and indeed, learned men believe that Þórr’s hammer Mjölnir was made of wood. The Vikings had known since days of old that even if their weapons were both longer and stronger than swords, it was folly for them to launch an assault against gangs of men fighting with clubs.

  One evening, after darkness had fallen and the day’s catches had been hoisted properly on the gallows as food for the ravens, accompanied by confessions, extreme unction, paternosters, Ave Marias, Misereres and other sacred hymns, and the barons had invited men to a feast, the peasants came rushing out of the woods en masse. Some of them brandished implements such as shovels and pitchforks, and others various cudgels – poles and fence posts, bludgeons and rammers. The latter began trouncing the Vikings, while the former started slashing and stabbing them.

  The Vikings had had no forewarning of this assemblage, and thought that they were under attack by a countless throng. Many a doughty Norseman was knocked unconscious and pummeled into mush by base weapons of a kind never glorified in poetry. Fishing nets were dragged over some, and after they were entangled and rolled up in the nets, women came and flung their boiling, liquid weapons at them – weapons that have kept many a Viking and glorious hero warm indeed in far-flung lands, but which are never named in books or other lore chronicling major battles. Scores of valiant fighters lost their lives there, ingloriously. Many more, however, took the course of action that has always served Vikings best in a pinch: not to wait for the worst. Each fled as fast as he could from his spoils and his share in the booty, and let darkness and night conceal him. The barons of Rouen spurred their horses and rode off, too, and Duke Richard did the same. In addition, the folk that had gathered for pastime, vagrants and wenches, vanished like dew beneath the sun, while the bishops went off to the church to chant the completorium.

  As for Þorgeir Hávarsson, there is this to tell: when the chieftains bid each man save himself, and most take to their heels and vanish, he alone stands his ground, calmly, in Icelandic fashion. After standing there for a time, he observes folk approaching him with lighted lanterns. These men holler something in the Frankish tongue at him, which he suspects is a question about who he is and why he has not fled like the others. He hollers back in the Danish tongue, which he had learned at his mother’s knee:

  “I am an Icel
ander,” says he, “and I do not recall old tales ever mentioning valiant fighters fleeing from battle. It has always been the vow and war cry of us Vikings that, when we enter the fray, we shall fight to the end and never desist as long as any man of our company remains standing. Others may do as they will, but I will never be made to belie what I learned from my mother in my childhood, and from my sworn brother Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld and other good skalds in the North.”

  Upon saying these things, Þorgeir Hávarsson raises his ax, meaning to have at these men, but all they do is jab at him with boles and posts and laugh and mock him. The more enraged he becomes, like a berserker, the more they ridicule him. A large crowd gathers, women and children, to enjoy the unfolding scene, making Þorgeir Hávarsson feel as if he has ended up in a bad dream. Since, however, he shows no sign of abandoning his assault, they raise their shields, press upon him, seize him, and strip him of his weapons. They chop the blades off his spear and ax, toss the shafts aside, and keep the iron. His short sword, his most treasured possession and the only thing he saved when he was shipwrecked in Ireland, they take from him. One of the peasants raises it, still in its sheath, and breaks it in two over his knee. These things being done, they let Þorgeir go, ordering him to scram like a stray dog, and snapping and wagging their fingers at him. Then they turn their lanterns away from him and are gone.

  Throughout the night he wanders in unknown territory, weaponless and in a miserable plight. He strays onto marshy ground and tumbles into a ditch. He then finds himself entangled in a large, thorny thicket, and struggles for a long time to push through it. Next he comes to a dense forest, where stinging nettles grow from the sward and serpents wriggle in the grass. He has no idea what destiny awaits him, because he cannot hear the din of wings of those women who fly in swan-dress to determine heroes’ fates – and now an adder coils round his foot and bites him.

  He rambles through the forest for a time, but his foot starts throbbing with pain. A wave of dizziness and nausea hits him, and then regret for how the things that he learned at his mother’s knee are in fact turning out. Finally, he loses all his strength, breaks out in a cold sweat, and lies down in a glade. He finds it quite ludicrous to be laid low by an adder’s bite rather than a weapon, and that the wolves will have only what the snake leaves behind.

  29

  THAT NIGHT PASSES like any other, and day dawns over the forest in Rouen. Þorgeir Hávarsson is woken from sleep by a huge flock of sheep trampling him where he lies. A young lad with a long staff is herding the flock. Just then, the boy finds himself staring at a man who looks anything but able-bodied, rising to his feet among the sheep and cursing whomever it was that drove the stupid animals over him. The lad tells him that it is foolish beyond belief to lie down on a sheep track, and bids him who did so to clear off immediately. Since neither of them understands the other, however, nothing happens between them for some time apart from an exchange of exclamations, until they finally have nothing more to say. The lad then drives his flock to pasture. But on his way back home, he sees the champion leaning against a tree trunk, head hanging. The boy thinks he must be ill, and, taking pity on this foreigner in the name of Christ, son of Mary, lays hold of the hem of his tunic to lead him to the nearest house. Þórgeir’s foot is very swollen, his entire body aches from the bite, and he is shivering violently. The lad from Rouen has to hold the Viking up. The sun now rises over the forest. After walking a little way down the forest path, they come across a low farmhouse under a tall tree, its leaves waving in the breeze over the roof. Smoke drifts slowly and lazily from the chimney in the morning calm, as dew-drenched cows chew their cuds in their nighttime pasture.

  The boy helped the champion to the house and opened the door. The interior consisted of a single room, and lying in one corner was a huge sow, with piglets suckling her as she dozed. In another corner slept a woman in a shift, an infant child in her arms and a cauldron of milk simmering over a low fire next to her. Stout butter pats and hefty cheeses stood on a shelf. From the rafters hung bunches of Cabbage-Christ and Onion, as well as meaty carcasses.

  The shepherd boy woke the housewife, showed her the sick man he had found, and entrusted him to her care before going his own way. The woman rubbed the sleep from her eyes, got up straightaway from her bed and greeted the visitor, bidding him come in and sit down. She removed his clothing and bathed him, rubbed a suitable ointment into his swollen foot, and then bandaged it and prepared a bed for him. She brought him cheese and butter and turnips, but he did not eat a single bite. He said:

  “Here Norsemen have had little glory.”

  The woman did not understand what he was saying. She put on her overclothes and went out to milk her cows, asking Þorgeir Hávarsson to look after her baby in the meantime.

  As Þorgeir Hávarsson was lying there that day, seriously ill, visitors showed up at the door: neighbors of the housewife, come to speak to her. Between them they bore a dead body, which they delivered to the woman. The corpse had been brought from the gallows and had a noose round its neck – it was the woman’s husband. Þorgeir thought he recognized him as one whom the king’s men had accused of taking part in the peasant gatherings, and thus of being disloyal to Duke Richard. The Vikings had hung him yesterday. The Norman woman burst into woeful tears when she saw what they had delivered her. She was overwhelmed with sorrow, and women from neighboring farmsteads came to succor her, lest she be alone in bearing her grief.

  Þorgeir suffered so miserably from the adder’s bite that he could not move. He was feverish and delirious, forced to lie bedridden in this woman’s house, along with a corpse, a suckling infant, and a sow. Around the same time that the farmer was laid in his grave, Þorgeir began to show signs of recovery. A wake was held for the farmer, attended by the wife’s in-laws, relatives, and neighbors – cheese and meat, leeks and wine were served at the gathering. During the feast, it struck the sick man that the housewife did not look too kindly on him, and there were altercations between the widow and her kinsmen. Þorgeir sensed that it had to do with him – they were likely discussing the most suitable way to kill him. Some drew gleaming knives, which led to further ruckus, causing the sow to stir and start grunting. Þorgeir was fairly certain that he could expect less mercy from the spear side of this family than from the distaff side. Some of the widow’s female kin came to his bed, lifted the bedcover off him and took a close look at his foot, and then at his build, commenting to each other as they did, but no misdeed was done him for the time being. Several of the widow’s guests lingered late into the night, but when the last finally left, she shut and bolted the door at their backs, went to her guest’s bed, sank to the floor before him, and wept bitterly.

  Þorgeir Hávarsson, the warrior, was little practiced in comforting women, and he did nothing. She sensed clearly that her guest did not understand her tears, any more than the words that she attempted to speak to him – instead, he lay immobile as a block of wood, with a stunned expression, like a man who has woken from sleep to discover that a terrifying lion has crawled into his bed as he slept, ready to grip him in its claws and devour him if he blinks. Finally, the woman decided to dry her tears. Then she opened the door and walked out into the night.

  The housewife was away for quite some time, while the candle burned faintly in its holder. When she returned, she brought with her a wretched, raggedy old crone. This woman could speak the Norse tongue, and the housewife sat her down at Þorgeir Hávarsson’s bedside. The old woman asked first how he was feeling, and then his name and where he was from. He told her all of these things.

  “You take great risks, poor devil, journeying such long distances over the churning sea, or forcing your way through briers and vipers’ nests in distant lands, only to burn down the houses of poor foreigners you know nothing about, or string up farmers on their own land in southerly regions of the world, along with other distinguished men who have never before come before your eyes or harmed you in any way. What is it you want,
Þorgeir?”

  He said: “I am a Viking. We were hired by your masters to defend them in Normandy. Yet it is no secret that the battles we have fought have been most unlike those described in the stories and lays of old that I learned from my mother and other noble persons in Iceland.”

  The crone replied: “The only kind of lore I have no time for are those lays made by skalds when they shirk most what is nearest the truth. But Christ has created all men to be men of peace, even though rulers and heroes constantly want to kill us.”

  Þorgeir replied: “I do not know what sort of person you are, old woman, and will thus never admit that your Christ is wiser than my mother Þórelfur or my sworn brother Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld, and I hope that we sworn brothers will never be beguiled into making peace with others.”

  She said: “I am an old woman from Rouen and you a young lad from the North – but it may be time that I tell you a tale, you simpleton. You are hardly anything new to us in Normandy. You Norsemen have been visiting our coasts for ages, to destroy our lives and plunder our food, and even when the countryfolk here gathered men to oppose you and sent you packing, you always showed up again after your chieftains assembled another handful of robbers to harry us. When it seemed hopeless that we would ever be free of the plague of your raids, our foremothers took things into their own hands. Instead of letting Norsemen continue to cut down the common folk here for ages on end, many a fine woman in this country upped and pulled one of those foul miscreants into her bed and bore him Frankish sons. Unspoiled farmers’ daughters and noble damsels joined in this action, along with prostitutes and tramps, as well as widows of men the Norsemen had killed. Even King Charles’ daughter, Poppa, bedded the pirate and outlaw from Norway named Rollo, who was so stupid and fainthearted that he neither could nor dared to ride a horse. She turned him into a man, and made his sons and daughters Frankish.”