Wayward Heroes Page 2

  Once at day’s end when folk were gathered in the hall at Vatnsfjörður, Þormóður sat for a long time singing verses, regaling the company with lays on noble kings, famous battles, and many a valiant slaying. As is wont when evenings draw on, calls came for tales of the love that men won from shieldmaidens of yore.

  One man said: “What a rotten scandal, to be forced to listen over and over to the story of when Lady Sigrún trod the road to Hel to kiss the dead Helgi, or of when Freyja clamped her thighs around Loki, or yet again of when Sigurður came upon the armor-clad maiden asleep on the mountain, slit her byrnie down to her crotch, and ravaged her before she woke up, while nobody ever sings love-verses on the noblest women in the Vestfirðir in our day and age. What would suit us all better is a lay about what is on everyone’s lips: how the housewife in Hrafnsfjörður beds her slave Loðinn twice a year; first when only nine nights of winter remain and the ravens have laid their eggs, and later when summer begins to fade and the hay has been gathered from the homefields.”

  Many others joined in, pointing out the need for verses composed in honor of such a noble lady as Kolbrún of Hrafnsfjörður. At that time, however, poetry about women was held in very low esteem, and it was considered such an affront to address verses to a woman that her relatives had the right to avenge it with murder.

  “I am not much good at making love songs,” said Skald Þormóður, “and besides, I see little use in slandering a woman who has done no wrong.”

  The gathered company said that it was unnecessary to put the woman’s name into any verses he composed – whoever was meant would be plain.

  Mistress Kolbrún of Hrafnsfjörður scoffed at this conversation and declared that men who composed love songs were incapable of enjoying women in other ways.

  Þormóður said: “My father Bessi Halldórsson told me that it ill beseems a real man to make up lays about women’s loves – such poems are for pansies alone, and paltry fellows who lie about in inglenooks sucking curd-teats.”

  The conversation in the hall at Vatnsfjörður now died down for the night, and folk went off to bed.

  But the next evening after supper, Þormóður stepped forth and asked for silence, announcing that he had composed a poem about Mistress Kolbrún of Hrafnsfjörður, as requested by the assembly the previous night.

  Many of them had forgotten last evening’s gibes, and were not keen on continuing. They had gone to bed late, and that, plus work and all the curds they had just downed, made them quite drowsy. Yet some of them stayed up to hear the poem, giving Þormóður the nickname Kolbrúnarskáld: the Skald of Coal-Brow. Some of the women, however, said that the name he deserved better was Kolrössuskáld, the Skald of Coal-Rump, and they always used that name for him whenever he came up in conversation later. No one remembers clearly how the poem the young Þormóður composed for this woman went – it has been removed from most books or scratched out. Some folk of old must have thought it unseemly, yet it more likely smacked of youthful frivolity than the earnest effort of a full-grown man who makes verses on loves denied him. Most written accounts agree, however, that Kolbrún from Hrafnsfjörður neither cursed the poem nor praised it – and as the lad went off to bed in an outlying shed where his kinsman Vermundur put beggars, rascals, and dogs, he ran his hand along the bedframe of the mother and daughter from Hrafnsfjörður. The mistress lay nearest the frame, and the girl against the wall behind her. The woman bade the lad stop. “How old a man are you, Skald Þormóður?” she asked.

  He told her his age, which some say was fourteen at the time, and others twelve.

  She reached for the skald and sat him down beside her on the bed. Reliable sources say that the lad had never before known that so great a woman could exist in the world.

  “It astonishes me,” said she, “that such a young man should foist verses on us women, against which we have little recourse. And it is unexampled in all the world for a little boy to make a woman his laughingstock – we women find it dishonorable enough to hear poems about us composed by men with more to them than you. But in this case, the precept shall prevail that words rule over works, and from this moment on, you shall never be able to escape me. This is my reward for your poem. I also declare that when you have become a man, Þormóður, you shall ever and always be drawn to me, wherever you go, yet shall never be nearer than when you set your course farthest.”

  Having spoken these words, the woman let the skald go for the time being.

  3

  ÞÓRELFUR, ÞORGEIR Hávarsson’s mother, came from Hordaland in Norway, a region harsh and forlorn, where it had long been the custom for men’s sons who had little chance to thrive to travel abroad and acquire wealth through plunder. Some went to Russia, others to the British Isles. In Hordaland, those who never undertook a Viking raid were deemed worthless. Yet none knew more valiant tales of the trials of the Vikings, their battles and sea-voyages, than those who never ventured from home. Among these, it was the nursemaids who had the best stocks of lore. In fair verses, they extolled the Vikings’ feats: the prowess, valor, and gallantry that true men display in distant lands, yet do so more rarely the closer they are to women. For the young sons of Hordaland crofters, such lore was the only provision and dowry that they received from their mothers before leaving home – and likewise, Þórelfur had little else to lavish on her son than tales of the prowess of champions of yore and paeans to kings who win the devotion of ambitious crofters’ sons with their bounteousness, rewarding stout hearts with weighty rings.

  Never once did Mistress Þórelfur mention when Hávar Kleppsson, the Viking from Hordaland, fell by his homefield wall without raising a hand in his own defense. As a rule, she spoke of Hávar as an intrepid hero who had ravaged distant lands with fire and fought at the forefront in the battles of noble kings. The only tales that Þorgeir heard of his father placed him firmly beneath the banner, making it quite clear to the boy that the kings owed everything to Hávar, even treating him as their confidant at fateful moments. For the boy, Farmer Hávar was the living embodiment of a “battle rouser,” a name given by skalds to men of swords and slaughter. Housewife Þórelfur taught her son that glibness is best left to the waifs, geezers, and crones who begged from door to door. Words, she declared, are entirely worthless but for the praise befitting kings, swords, and battle. A hero, she stated, says little about most things, neither commending nor disparaging, uttering not a word beyond what he is prepared to back with arms. She insisted that the only persuasions capable of solving a dispute are the truths spoken by swords. A man’s doughtiness in conflict, his valor and cunning, prove his worth. Whether his life is long or short, whether he stands or falls in battle, makes no difference, if his deeds are resplendent with glory. His value lies in his stoutheartedness, whether fighting against overwhelming odds or taking his enemy unawares and striking him dead. Nobleness means enduring no man’s taunts, avenging injury, making open foes of traitors, and striking first. Þorgeir’s mother said that a valiant man should pledge truest faith to the most freehanded king, for good fortune attends such a king. If, on the other hand, the king grows tightfisted, then it is best to break that pledge. Never must a courageous man see his name disgraced for choosing peace when it is time for a fight. His mother said too that a good Viking never spares a woman or a child in war. The fame of any man who followed this sound advice would resound throughout the world as long as the Midgard Serpent was bound.

  In her poverty, Þórelfur nurtured the lad as best she could, doting on him as though he were a guest of high esteem, long anticipated and a hundred times welcome, and upon whom the family’s honor and prosperity depended. The few blessings that their rather barren patch of earth could provide were always her son’s first. If she found a berry on the slope, she brought it home for him. She never burdened him with chores, instead teaching him that farm work was for beggarly folk and fishing was for slaves. She did, however, encourage him to sail, and to learn to steer a ship, so that someday he could set his o
wn course across the world.

  Mistress Þórelfur’s greatest grief was that she had no weapon to give her son, apart from Farmer Hávar’s club. When Þorgeir asked why his father had no assortment of fine weapons, as great a warrior as he had been, the housewife replied that he had lost his sword in a shipwreck.

  Although French swords have hardly ever held a higher place than in Icelandic poetry, it is commonly believed that the Icelanders’ poverty at the time the sworn brothers grew up was such as to prevent almost everyone in the land from owning a decent weapon – apart from the wealthy, who purchased them abroad for vanity’s sake or received them as gifts from great lords.

  When Þorgeir Hávarsson was twelve winters old, his mother sent him west to her kinsman Þorgils at Reykjahólar, to give the lad a chance to learn the manners and customs of chieftains. There was little joy at Reykjahólar when southern horse-traders delivered the lad there. Þorgils Arason owned and oversaw a great many farms and trading ships, leaving him little time to tend to this kinsman of his who had shown up at his door, and he sent word to the maids to lodge the newcomer with the farmhands.

  Next morning, the foreman announces that Þorgeir is to go with the other boys to feed the pigs. To this, Þorgeir says little, and sits tighter in his seat.

  That day and those following, Þorgeir continues to mope, obstinately ignoring any chores assigned to him. When Þorgils is informed of his kinsman’s reluctance to work, he sends for him and tells him that his workmen are finding it quite hard to budge him. “Would you prefer, kinsman,” says Þorgils, “that I assign you a task?”

  Þorgeir replies: “My mother never said that I was to feed pigs.”

  “What job would she have you do?” asks Þorgils.

  “Slay with a sword,” replies Þorgeir Hávarsson.

  “And where shall you begin?” asks Þorgils.

  “No need for you to ask,” answers Þorgeir.

  “Yet your mother is fully aware that the men of Borgarfjörður compensated your father’s slaying, to the satisfaction of all, long ago,” says Þorgils. “Nor do we have much heart for killing. The days are long past when men earned their keep through conflict.”

  “You certainly do not sound like much of a chieftain to me,” says Þorgeir Hávarsson. “It is time for me to go home to Borgarfjörður.”

  “No sense in that,” says Þorgils. “If the pigs are not to your liking, go and watch the men butcher seals or flense whales, smelt bog iron or make charcoal. Or go to the forge to see our good smiths at their craft. We are also busy erecting a timber church to Christ, the lord who is peer to the emperors in the lands where we trade. We would have both his friendship and his mother’s, who steadfastly supports all merchants, and is a sight better than your mother, our kinswoman Þórelfur. Pay a visit to the housewrights shaping boards for our church, and learn to use a saw or a plane. Or will you join a ship’s crew, and haul cargo for the merchants? Here many a man, both old and young, labors at useful industry. Sword-rattling profits us little.”

  Things then went as they had seemed likely to from the start, with little love lost between the two kinsmen. Yet Þorgils cautioned his foremen not to express their annoyance with the boy or raise his hackles. Þorgeir did not change his ways. He was disinclined toward almost all work, and paid little heed to others’ opinion of him. When the smiths forged hot iron, however, they would occasionally allow the boy to handle the hammer or pump the bellows – for which he turned out to have quite a knack. Þorgeir grew so fond of iron that if he found rusty scraps lying around, he would bring them home to his bed and sleep on them. It was customary then to ration out stockfish and butter to the workers by the week. Þorgeir traded the farmhands his share of butter for iron, saying that he thought it beggarly to eat butter – “Iron is more to my taste.” He took a great liking to those who wielded weapons, and always turned up for games, soon proving his mettle in them. Otherwise, he never showed whether he liked things or not, and nothing enjoyed by other youngsters seemed to make him happy.

  One day in early summer, between the weaning of the lambs and the start of haymaking, a group of men came riding from the north, over the heaths. It was Vermundur Þórgrímsson, the chieftain of Vatnsfjörður, on his way to the Alþingi. Vermundur stayed the night with Þorgils at Reykjahólar. These two chieftains were on good terms, each holding his own share of the Vestfirðir. As usual, Bessi Halldórsson of Laugaból accompanied his kinsman Vermundur, sticking close by his side. Þormóður Bessason had joined them as their groom. Early the next morning at Reykjahólar, Þormóður was woken to tend to the horses. The sun was still in the north and there was dew on the hayfields, the sea glistened, and white vapor hung lazily over the hot spring in the still of morning.

  As Þormóður, bleary-eyed, looked out the door, he noticed a young man standing in the yard, with a shark knife hanging from his belt, a heavy meat cleaver perched on his shoulder, and a kettle lid in his hand, as a shield. This fellow was as shoddily dressed as he was armed. Þormóður held nothing but a poor whip and a bridle. His drowsiness drained from him the second he caught sight of this youth, who seemed of similar age, all accoutred for battle on such a mild morning. He walked over to him, standing there with his weapons, and looked him up and down. The weapon-bearer gave no indication that he wished to converse with him, or that he noticed him at all.

  Þormóður greets him and asks: “Why are you wide awake at night, fellow, when most folk are enjoying the great blessing of sleep?”

  “I cannot sleep,” answers the warrior, “because I am constantly pondering where I might find men worthy of dying by my weapons.”

  Þormóður asks: “Are you he who shall avenge his woes?”

  Þorgeir replies: “Of that I am not certain, at least not as certain as I am that you are the Þormóður who climbed into the old crow’s bed. Folk are puzzled as to why you made verses about an ogress instead of praising the women from southerly lands who soar high in the sky in the likeness of swans and spin the fates of men.”

  Þormóður says: “That lay will not prevent me from lauding your valiant deeds once word of them spreads. Due to my youth, the only indulgence I could grant a woman was poetry.”

  Þorgeir replies: “When word comes to you of deeds of mine that you deem fit for praise in verse, I will be your friend.”

  “Will you permit me to handle your weapons, fellow?” asks Þormóður.

  “My weapons could stand improvement,” says Þorgeir. “I myself banged out this old cleaver, but the day will come when I serve a king who shall present me with a Frankish sword.”

  “Have you chosen a king, by any chance?” asks Þormóður.

  “I will back the king who spares neither savagery nor stoutheartedness in carving out a kingdom for himself in the North,” replies Þorgeir.

  “It seems to me,” says Þormóður, “that in you, Þorgeir Hávarsson, a great warrior has been born into this world. Therefore, I vow and declare that when you have done your very first deed of renown, worthy of the gift of Óðinn, I shall journey wherever you may be and deliver you a lay. Thenceforth we shall never part company, but together seek out the ring-breaker we know to be noblest, and pledge ourselves to him.”

  Of their conversation at that time, no more has been recorded.

  4

  AT ÖGUR IN Djúp lived a widow named Katla, whose husband had perished at sea. She was a wealthy woman. When this story begins, she had a young daughter, named Þórdís, called Þórdís Kötludóttir after her mother. Among Mistress Katla’s household was an Easterling by the name of Skati, who had missed his ship one day and hired on as one of her laborers. He was an enterprising man and quickly took over management of Katla’s farmstead. Skati was considered a demanding taskmaster, and was unpopular with the household and slaves. Many people said that the only thing Skati was after in reward for his service to Katla was the satisfaction of seeing her farm’s wealth grow.

  Skati was a great one for talking. He had m
any tales to tell of warfare and plundering, and often regaled folk with stories of his exploits on Viking expeditions, when he threw in his lot with sea-kings. They had come away victors in numerous battles, in the Baltic as well as in Ireland.

  Þórdís Kötludóttir loved listening to Skati’s tales. He often had the girl on his lap, his hands clasped around her ankles, as he sat in his mistress’s bower at evening. Skati told of the Vikings’ raids on foreign lands, how they burned people’s houses to cinders and cut down any man who could fight and posed them a threat, as well as old folk, infants, and anyone else who proved a hindrance. There was no better plunder to be had, however, than living women, who could be traded for silver in England and Denmark. Skati also told of perilous battles he had fought as a Viking, when, of his entire band, only he and the king were left standing in the end, and were seized and led to a dungeon in chains. Their only hope then was in the intercession of a dís, or one of those good women known as princesses in foreign lands. The girl, sitting there on the Viking’s lap, often dozed off before Skati and the king were rescued from prison. She liked falling asleep listening to the tales told by this man, whom she did not doubt was the greatest warrior in the North.