Wayward Heroes Page 4

  Þórelfur welcomed her son gladly and asked him the news, but he had little to tell.

  “Did you stop at Skeljabrekka?” the woman asked.

  “The highroad cuts through their hayfields,” said he.

  “Did you meet anyone there?” the woman asked.

  “Less I,” said he, “than my spear and my ax.”

  He then asked her to walk with him into the light, where they could see that his clothes were bloody and his weapons and hands were smeared with gore, and that his face was spotted with the blood that spouted from the bodies of the Skeljabrekka men under his blows. Now he poured out every detail of the slayings to his mother. Hearing his report, Þórelfur embraced Þorgeir tenderly, before ordering a servant to slaughter a lamb, declaring that she would hold a feast for her son.

  The law decreed that a killer was compelled to make his slaying public before sundown of the same day, on pain of being deemed a murderer and deprived of the law’s aegis. It was his duty to go to the nearest habitation where he felt his life was safe, and to announce the deed to a resident there.

  “Here we have neither the manpower nor the wealth to keep you from the clutches of the Borgarfjörður men a single day more,” said Þórelfur. “Now eat your fill of the lamb, and I shall bundle up the remains for you for the road. Return as quickly as you can to my kinsman Þorgils – the bonds of kinship ensure that he will take you back in, though little love is lost between you two. Men have come here by boat from the Borgarfjörður dales, on their way westward to Snæfellsjökull to buy stockfish. They have been waiting out the headwinds in an empty hut nearby, but now the wind is shifting, it seems, to a light southerly. I will ask them to give you passage, and you must announce the slaying to the first man that you meet west of Mýrar. Those there will hardly think it news. Then you must find your own way over Breiðafjörður to your kinsman at Reykjanes.”

  Nothing is told of Þorgeir’s journey westward to Reykjahólar, except that Þorgils Arason’s brow darkened when he saw his kinsman again. To him, Þorgeir’s arrival boded nothing but ill. “What mess have you gotten yourself into?” he asked.

  Þorgeir told him freely how he avenged his father.

  “That case was settled long ago, and compensation duly paid,” said Þorgils Arason. “Am I now to be hounded by lawsuits from distant parts of the country for your nighttime slaying, you fool?”

  Þorgeir replied: “It is clear now how weapons become me, kinsman, even when their edges are flawed. My mother always told me that I should be a killer.”

  “No surprise there,” said Þorgils. “In none do the Viking ideals of piracy and pugnacity wax stronger than in old widows in remote valleys. In our day and age, little distinction is to be had in costuming oneself like a long-dead sea-king from Norway – there is far more to be found in following the example of the lord of Rome, who offers good men profit through peace. Yet many might excuse you for the deed you have now described – stupid man that you are.”

  7

  THE STORY SPREAD widely – and was thought most heroic – that in the space of one night, a mere youth had struck down both a champion of the caliber of Jöður Klængsson and his son, the most promising of men, and in doing so fulfilled the ancient, sacred, and legal obligation of avenging one’s father. It was not long until news of Þorgeir’s redoubtable deed was reported at Laugaból in Djúp. Þormóður the skald was highly impressed by this achievement, and sat down immediately to compose Þorgeir’s Revenge, a lay of twenty stanzas. He asked his father’s leave to go south to Reykjahólar for the Yule festivities, to present the lay to his friend. Bessi said that for now, he was free to travel as he chose, yet he had an inkling that Þormóður’s occupation was as little needed elsewhere as at home.

  Þormóður was nearly full-grown when he made his trip to Reykjahólar. At that time, most men in Iceland were short and bandy-legged, gaunt and swollen-jointed, knotted and twisted by gout, blue of complexion and shriveled. Their plight was to toil away in that inimical land, in storm, wind, and rain, on mountainsides and at sea. Most had no fatty meat to sustain them. Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld was supple of limb and slender of build, straight-legged and light of foot, pale-skinned, bushy-browed, and dark-haired. At that time, it was common to overwork children at their chores, scarring them early, but Þormóður bore no signs of such excess. He was genial to all and ready-tongued with women.

  After his arrival in Reykjahólar, Þormóður recited Þorgeir’s Revenge for the gathered household. Few had anything to say about the poem except Þorgeir himself, who stated that it would be on people’s lips as long as the North was inhabited. Yet he deeply lamented that his poverty should prevent him from granting its skald a fitting reward, and declared that instead, Þormóður would have his friendship as long as they both lived. These two friends, however, seemed less to enjoy the commoners’ respect than their own for each other.

  More than once, while sitting outdoors, they bandied visions of ancient kings consecrated to the gods: Jörmunrekur, King of the Goths, Helgi Hundingsbani and Sigurður Fáfnisbani, King Hálfur’s champions, and other outstanding men. At times, Norns flew by in swan dress, stretching their necks and singing, and they heeded their songs, feeling as if some were sung precisely to them. Eagles flew by as well.

  Their conversation frequently turned to the contemptible state of things in Iceland, when free men were forced to haul fish or chase sheep in place of pursuing wealth through war, heroism, and manslaughter, or doing other deeds worthy to be praised in poetry, such as those their forefathers had accomplished in Norway. Their lives, they felt, would be worse than unlived if they failed to carry out exploits that would be unforgettable to unborn generations. They deemed it a shame and an abomination that the land should be kingless, with not a man fit to raise an army and campaign in longships. They agreed to lead warriors’ lives, paying not a whit of regard to the opinions of churls and slaves, making enemies in the manner of true gallants and building their fortunes through stout-heartedness, enduring no taunt and sparing no man, near or far, who considered himself capable of defying them or calling himself their equal.

  As so often happens, those who travel their own road find it fraught with obstacles, and it was far from clear to the two how to attain the glory their hearts were set upon. They thought they might try taking passage with merchants, to seek out Vikings or kings whom it would be an honor to serve in the lands of the North, the British Isles, or east of the Baltic. At that time, no monarch of great fame ruled Norway. Since the fall of Olaf Tryggvason, the land had been governed by Danish jarls, along with Norwegian freeholders who were styled petty kings but who lived under the jarls’ wings and ate from their hands. To the Icelanders, it seemed there was little glory to be gained in that old fatherland of theirs. In Ireland, the Norse chieftains were tottering. The parents of both comrades had dwelt there for a time before being driven out by the Irish. Many a Norseman felt it a cruel fate to be expelled from the bliss of the Isles, after having courageously founded a kingdom there, and to be borne bereft of joy to a land rising obstinately and imposingly from the outermost sea.

  One day the two comrades went to see Þorgils Arason.

  He asked what they had on their minds. They said:

  “We have had quite enough of idling here fameless in Iceland, eager as we are to do deeds of renown. Will you arrange for us to meet a chieftain abroad who would avail himself of the backing of doughty fighters?”

  Þorgils said: “Nothing but harm and misfortune result when killers and skalds come together, and landless liegemen should concern themselves more with honing their skills in hooking flounder and hunting seals than in sword-rattling and palaver.”

  They told him they found this answer wanting, and of no avail for their needs.

  “If you wish to pledge yourself to foreign lords,” said he, “then go to the king for whom I am building a house of glory here at Reykjahólar. It is my advice that if you serve a king, it be him. He is so g
reat a sovereign that the very emperor in Constantinople is but his foot-page. I will now give you the chance to quit the company of my dogs, and lodge instead with my priest.”

  For some time it had been the law in Iceland that all should be Christian in name, and the land’s leading men had bound themselves to covenants with foreign lords and merchants requiring the baptism of the commoners. For this task, they engaged itinerant clerics and wandering bishops that merchants had found on the loose in foreign lands. The Pope had decreed that Iceland belonged to the see of Bremen. At that time, however, it was uncustomary for envoys in the North to carry letters, and in any case, the Pope himself had spent little time issuing them. Nor had our countrymen in Iceland learned the Latin alphabet, and few could tell for certain whether the clerics that the merchants brought with them from foreign marketplaces had any backing from the archbishopric or the Lord Pope. It meant little for these men to produce written tokens to corroborate their stories, for at that time, most letters that passed from land to land were forged, and what is more, few could decipher them. In that century, as long before, the preaching of Christianity was carried out more by eccentrics and doltish adventurers than by the true stewards of the Holy Church. For Icelanders, the best choice was to take these traveling prelates at their word, or else remain unbaptized. Frequently these men of God proved to be murderers, thieves, or excommunicates. Some were English or Irish, and others Saxon, while several called themselves Armenian – these were black and ugly and lay with every woman they could get their hands on. Folk say that they were heretics. These clerics often had gangs of ruffians in tow to assist them with baptisms and Masses, as well as the extortion, murders, and other acts of aggression that followed. Things went on in this way until better-placed men in Borgarfjörður established a learned school at Bær and brought in Rudolf of Rouen, a worthy Frenchman, to teach Icelandic clerics the arts of book-learning and music.

  At that time, the old religion was very much in decline, as folk began heeding the new. Most, in fact, soon abandoned the old gods. Noble chieftains vied to build churches and baptize as many people as they could, in order to increase the numbers of their liegemen. They promised each and every churl manifold boons in Heaven when he was dead, if he would come to church to hear the paternoster and learn about the champions of White Christ.

  Although instruction in the paternoster and other sacred lore was somewhat patchy at first, due to the scarcity of priests, and unintelligible in the mouths of foreign clerics, the chieftains took pains to fasten bells and crosses to their churches, to the people’s delight. Some placed statues of the champion John the Baptist in the middle of their churches, in the place that Thunder-Þórr had previously occupied in the temples. The Irish, and those who had lived among them, esteemed Patrick and Columbkille, otherwise known as Columba, above most of the Lord’s champions, while others from the British Isles and the lands of the North venerated fair Cecilia and the little maidens Sunniva and Belinda. At the time, Mary was less loved by the Lord Pope than she later came to be. It was also considered obligatory for a comely crucifix to be fastened above the chancel entrance of all churches, or at the door to the nave. It was not yet customary to depict the Crucified One naked, with a forlorn face and pitiful expression, as later became common. Rather, he was decked out in an elegant, knee-length royal mantle and splendid cordovan hose. On his head he wore a tall, imperial crown, and he stood two-footed on a block on the cross, grave in his bearing, like a great landowner, or fierce, like a warrior-king.

  It was the opinion of many that Christ could serve them no worse than the gods that they had brought from Norway: Þórr the Thunderer, King Freyr of the Grand Phallus, and Óðinn the Evil of Ásgarður, all of whom had helped them least when the need was greatest. More than one peasant said that it cost him nothing to believe in whatever gods the rulers chose, as long as he was left in peace to worship the crags and rocks, bluffs and peaks, hills and mounds that his forefathers had occupied when they died. What is more, there were those who put faith in their own might and main, and asserted that nothing availed them but their own strength. Some believed in their breeding stock: stallions, bulls, rams, or boars, and some in ravens, claiming that the gods were reborn in these creatures. Those who had spent time voyaging, however, declared it far more profitable to barter with foreigners peacefully than to fight them. Through peaceful trade, their friendship could be purchased as well. Yet this they could not do unbaptized, for Christians were forbidden to engage in commerce with heathens. To a man, they said that overseas, folk were considered mere fools if they did not know that White Christ wears the tallest gold crown of all sovereigns. Even the emperors in Constantinople had laid their necks beneath his heel.

  A priest named Jörundur lodged in a storehouse at Reykjahólar. At the far end of it was a platform, and there stood his bunk. This man was scarcely over twenty and had done more shepherding than schooling, but a wandering English bishop had ordained him as priest to Þorgils’ church, and taught him a few Latin letters and one antiphon, to whose tune he sang most of the verses that he knew and could not be avoided, such as the paternoster and Credo. Jörundur had a stole, or a brocaded scarf, to lay over his shoulders when he sang, but no other vestments. He also had a tattered copy of the Psalter, which Þorgils had bought for him. Written on several leaves in the back of this book were the holy Pope Gregory’s dialogues with Peter the deacon, in which Gregory imparts sacred wisdom by means of wondrous tales. The end was missing, but it was no matter, because Jörundur could not read, though he did spend long hours racking his brain over the book.

  Christianity in Iceland was then still poor and feeble, without lands or a bishopric of its own, and lacking any appeal to youth. When the sons of better men showed little interest in joining the clergy, lowly folk were chosen for the job, namely the sons of freedmen, slaves, or crofters, who served lay chieftains who had built churches, singing Masses in them to the best of their ability and receiving their pay in stockfish or seaweed. These clerics could be beaten with impunity, like any other paltry folk, if ever they shirked their tasks.

  Jörundur the priest was cheerful, frail, meek, and beardless. He had carved a crucifix for himself from a block of wood, but the man hanging on it was quite unimposing, with only a thin fringe of beard and wearing a wretched, stubby crown. Slack and scrawny, this god hung on the cross, where he ruled Heaven and Earth in an everyday tunic. On the torso of the Lord God there was room enough only for the sword that the Romans thrust into his heart, and Jörundur had carved the wound into the wood and daubed it with red. Most were of the opinion that this image bore less resemblance to the King of Heaven than it did to Jörundur’s father, who was a slave.

  The sworn brothers had one bunk between them and the cleric another, but these new roommates were suspicious of each other and exchanged few words at first. Þorgeir Hávarsson’s habit was to sleep sitting up in bed, rather than lying down. He kept his shield strapped to him as he slept, with one hand on its handle and the other on his sword hilt, and his ax on his knees. It was his belief that heroes slept in this position, and never lay down.

  Twice a night, Jörundur had the task of getting up, lighting a lamp, and singing from the Psalter to his friend Christ, son of Mary, as well as commemorating the begetting of the Lord in his mother’s womb, and repeating the exhortations that the Archangel Gabriel and Queen Elizabeth, mother of the champion John the Baptist, gave to the maiden when she conceived immaculately.

  On the first night that the two comrades slept in the cleric’s lodging, they were woken from sleep by loud, piercing singing in Latin. As might be guessed, this rude awakening agitated them to no small degree.

  Þorgeir said: “We have heard that Christ is craven in a fight.”

  The cleric finished his office, bowed his head and carefully made the sign of the cross, and then asked: “Are you men unbaptized?”

  They said that they could not be certain what clerics had gabbled at them before they we
re old enough to talk. “What was White Christ’s greatest battle?” they asked.

  Jörundur the priest reached into his trunk and pulled out the crucifix, held it up to them, and said: “This was his greatest battle. And this wound, which oozes blood and water, is a sign of his victory.”

  “There is little glory in dying without killing someone first. What battle did he fight that he could personally boast of?” they asked.

  The cleric said: “He rose from the dead, livelier than ever before. Indeed, though he submitted himself to torment and death, no creature could do him harm, since he himself had created everything in the beginning, when he dwelt in the Kingdom of Heaven in his youth. He is so skilled a craftsman that he made the entire world from nothing. Though his kingdom may be good here on Earth, it is but a flimsy bubble compared to his kingdom in the next world, where a light shines fairer than the sun.”

  Þorgeir asked: “How did he treat his enemies after leaping down from the gallows?”

  The cleric said: “Although Christ was fastened to the cross by evildoers and then pierced with a spear, no one could keep him captive in Hell any longer than he himself willed. He has made all men his sons, both good and evil. This is why he does not grow angry with his creation when it treats him ill, but instead takes pity on it.”

  “How many women has he had?” asks Þormóður.

  “The souls of men and women sprang from his head and played at his feet as he sat enthroned in joy in the Kingdom of Heaven before the creation of the world,” said the priest.

  Þorgeir said: “Our mothers told us that the only truths are those backed by swords, and the only great man is he who either slays his enemy or makes him his slave.”

  “Greater,” said the cleric, “was the victory of Christ the son of the Virgin when he gave all men equal share in his birthright, than that of the kings who burdened men with the yoke of slavery, and a greater deed of prowess it was when he first fashioned men’s souls, lavishing the same precious fabric on both king and slave, than it is to make war on folk and send them to their deaths.”