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  Commencing upon his lay, he felt her knee move welcomingly, as if this were not the very first time a man had touched it. “How can this be?” he asked.

  The woman remained silent for a long time in the dark, but shed a few tears. When he pressed her for an answer, she replied coldly: “I will never tell a soul.”

  He sulked and shrunk back from her, saying that no man should trust women. She dried her eyes on her arm and the back of her hand, and sat up straight. “Why not ask me instead what I thought of the lay?” she said.

  “Tell me, if you think it is of any worth,” he replied.

  “It has less to say of the women who shine in the sky in swan-likeness and spin the fates of valiant men than it does of hags who halter men’s necks and ride them by night – and I am no such woman.”

  10

  SUMMER ARRIVED AND Þorgeir Hávarsson lingered in the south, delaying the sworn brothers’ plans for Viking marauding in the west. At the Alþingi, a lawsuit was brought against Þorgeir for the slaying of the Skeljabrekka men, and his kinsman Þorgils Arason spoke in his defense. Þorgeir avoided outlawry – the killings were judged excusable, since the father and his son had forfeited their rights when they murdered Hávar, yet full recompense was to be made for them, and Þorgils paid the penalty.

  As summer wore on, Þormóður Bessason began hankering after his sworn brother, and felt that Laugadalur was a wearisome abode for a stouthearted man who sought fame and glory. He showed little interest in work and was reproached for it by all. In those days, nearly everyone was obliged to labor for a living, apart from champions who dwelt on outlying skerries and ate seabirds for their sustenance, or who lingered in mountain gullies, tracking the pack trains – not to mention the pampered and pompous dames who lived with hardly a care.

  It was the custom of Mistress Katla of Ögur to supervise the farm work in summer and rake hay with the women on fine-weather days, particularly after banishing her foreman, the Easterling. Her daughter Þórdís stayed indoors, skimming milk or spinning wool. On serene midsummer days, when the cat lay on its back on the slates before the farm door and the workers were out in the hayfields, Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld came over the mountain to visit the maiden. He sat with her for long periods of time, though no one knew what they discussed.

  One day, Þormóður goes to meet Þórdís and tarries with her so long that the workers are returning from the fields for the evening just as he is leaving the farm. At the door he runs into Mistress Katla, who is the stateliest of women. He greets her. Mistress Katla returns his greeting amicably, asks how he is faring, and invites him to join her in her sitting room. He goes in with her. She asks him to sit. Then she says:

  “Your visits here, Þormóður, are now of such a nature that I simply cannot sit by any longer and do nothing. Everyone can see that you are seducing Þórdís. You are taking advantage of the fact that my daughter and I have little by way of support from kin, to defend us when we are dishonored, while you have the backing of your kinsman Vermundur when pestering widows and folk of low means.”

  He replies: “I meant not to vex you and Þórdís, and in all truth, she is dear to me.”

  Katla says: “In that case, Þormóður, I give you the opportunity to take her as your wife. Here we have land aplenty: wide hayfields, copses and meadows in the valley, fat sheep, horses, and cattle – our own mouse-gray cattle of merman stock.1 Eiderdown and eggs in the spring, fish in the lakes, rivers, and sea, banks of flounder in the deep, seal hunts in the fall. Either that, or you desist from your visits and harm the girl no more than you already have done.”

  Þormóður replies: “I am a man meager in wealth, and most would call it an unequal match if I were to gain such a goodly wife as Þórdís, when I have neither cut another man down nor voyaged by sea. It would suit me better to go and do battle for a king and take others with me into death than to pledge myself now to a wife and farm.”

  With that, he goes home to Laugaból.

  A few days later, just as he was leaving to cross over the mountain, his father Bessi called to him from the farmyard and asked for a word with him. Þormóður turned and walked back to his father in the homefield. Bessi said:

  “When I was young, it was hardly thought heroic to be trysting with women by night – and even less so in broad daylight. Such a thing was certain to harm a young man’s fame, wasting his manhood in such a way.”

  “It seems to me, father, that I am old enough to determine my own comings and goings,” said Þormóður.

  “Never did I hear my parents say that trysting suited the young any more than the old,” said Bessi. “Good men take wives – they do not dally with women. My kinsmen and I will support you in your courtship of a wife, if you wish. But you will have neither my support nor others’ against Katla’s bravoes.”

  After reprimanding his son, Bessi walked off, leaving Þormóður sitting at the outskirt of the homefield, mulling over his options. It seemed certain that he would be much better off complying with his father in this matter. Þorgeir’s tardiness in returning still nagged at him, and this dawdling around for lack of ships in the district got very much on his nerves. Finally, he fell asleep in the field.

  How often has it happened that men’s plans lose steam as they sleep? So it was with Þormóður. When he woke, neither Bessi nor anyone else was in sight – only the sun in the northwest over Greenland. The cows lowed eleven times in succession, which betokened dry weather. Þormóður picked up his ax from the grass, and then headed for the mountain.

  It was dusk by the time Þormóður came to Ögurdalur, and he waited until bedtime before descending the slope. When he felt that the household was asleep, he went to the girl’s window. She unbolted the frame and let him in. They spoke together quietly in her loft for a long time. Near dawn, they heard the sound of someone riding from the farmyard, and the cock crowed. Þormóður jumped up at the clatter of hooves, and asked who would be riding at that time of day.

  Þórdís replied: “That would be our slave Kolbakur, taking weft for my mother to Heydalur in Mjóifjörður. The good weavers there have a cloth of hers on their loom.”

  A short time later, sunlight shone through the girl’s window. Þormóður said that it was time he went home. She said: “I want you to take another path home to Laugaból. Go round the inlet at the foot of the slope – not over the mountain.” She said that she had dreamed many things.

  He said that he would take his customary route. Of two things she could be certain: he neither feared for his life, nor did he put faith in dreams.

  “Will you take some hanks of blue yarn for me to Mjóifjörður?” she asked.

  “What do you want with homespun?” asked he.

  “It may well be,” said she, “that I have need of some homespun for patching. Here in the west, women have won verses from skalds for doing as little as stitching gores to the seats of their breeches.”

  He said that it would be as she chose. She wound the hanks of yarn very carefully about him, underneath his shirt.

  Early that same morning, an old gelding stood in a grassy hollow beneath the scree on the mountainside. It had a worn saddle and rope bridle, and plucked listlessly at the dewy grass. Þormóður saw no sign of the person in charge of this steed. As he started clambering up the scree, rocks both big and small began tumbling down toward him, skipping into the air and clattering as they struck, giving off sparks, smoke, and a burning smell. Þormóður had the feeling that this was no normal landslide, and that he would be reckoned a coward if he turned aside, so he stuck to his course up the slope. On the top stood a large boulder, with a man peeking out from behind. It was Kolbakur. He had stopped toppling rocks and made a breastwork of the boulder – whence he pointed his spear. Þormóður climbed up to the boulder and hewed the ambusher’s spear in two. Then he hoisted his ax and swung it down on the slave’s shoulder, but the weapon bit no better than a piece of whalebone. Kolbakur struck back with his ax at Þormóður’s chest
, but he might as well have been thrashing a sack stuffed with wool, for all the harm he did. To their wonder, iron could bite neither of them in this battle. Þormóður flung down his ax and charged his ambusher, and they began grappling hand-to-hand. For some time they wrestled in this way, yet both were lithe and young, and neither could get the better of the other. In the midst of the scuffle the slave’s smock was torn, revealing the blue weft underneath. Þormóður laughed and said: “Let us sit down and unravel our webs.” They stopped brawling and sat down. Kolbakur cast off his smock and pulled out twenty hanks of yarn. Þormóður took off his tunic and unwound just as many. “The same Norn spun for us both,” said he.

  Kolbakur did not reply, but plucked a piece of sorrel from the scree and stuck it in his mouth to chew on. Lying close by was his spear, in two pieces, and Þormóður’s blunt ax was wedged between two rocks. The yarn was strewn around them like newly felled trees.

  Þormóður said: “You are a courageous man to battle against me, as unskilled as you are with weapons. I have no heart to kill you, though it is well within my grasp. You have this yarn lying here to thank. I would like for us to make peace. But first you shall tell me what there is between you and Þórdís.”

  Kolbakur said: “I am a slave. She is a woman.”

  “Have you ever spoken such words to her as others may not hear?” asked Þormóður.

  Kolbakur replied: “Master Hólmkell bought me in the Hebrides when I was ten years old. She was too young to know the difference between a free man and a slave. We played together as children.”

  “Have you set foot in her loft since she grew up?” asked Þormóður.

  “It was I who fashioned the window through which you slip late at night,” said Kolbakur.

  Þormóður asked: “Have you ever laid hold of Þórdís’s knee?”

  “I ask for no mercy from you,” said Kolbakur, chewing his sorrel.

  “Remember that you are a slave, and that your life is in my hands,” said Þormóður.

  “I am not dependent on the favors of others,” said Kolbakur. “There is but one who will not only free those who are fettered, but also resurrect the dead.”

  Þormóður asked who this might be.

  “Josa mac De is his name,”2 replied Kolbakur. “All who are bound shall greet him in joy, for he casts those who oppress others into burning fire.”

  “Is this fool that you speak of akin to the craven son of the Virgin, who dwells in his hall in Rome and has a gallows for a high-seat?” asked Þormóður.

  “I am an Irishman,” said the slave. “I have no interest at all in the hall that you mention, or in who is in charge there. What I do know is that Josa mac De has more than enough dukes to do battle for him: Patrick the farmer and Columbkille the priest, Columba the seafarer and Kilian the skald. His beautifully-inscribed stone crosses tower higher than the peaks of my home in Ireland.”

  “What news this is,” said Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld, and he fell into thought. “Will you then swear an oath, Kolbakur,” says he, “by Josa mac De the Stout, that you have never slipped in through the window that you yourself fashioned for the maiden?”

  “Cut down her slave right here, if you will,” said Kolbakur, “and I will rise once more as her king.”

  Þormóður Kolbrúnarskáld stared long at the slave, astonished at such speech. Then he got to his feet slowly, weary as he was. He said no more to the slave, but walked off toward home, leaving his ax behind. The slave remained sitting there on a rock, chewing his sorrel. Lying at his feet were their blunt weapons and the blue yarn. Once Þormóður was out of sight, the slave stood up, gathered the yarn from the scree and tossed it over his shoulder.

  11

  AFTER HIKING a short distance, Þormóður’s leg begins to feel peculiar, though more with numbness than pain, and he finds it hard to walk. At the same time, he feels ill. He is also surprised to find that his leg is wet, as if he had stepped into a lukewarm mire. He sits down on the mountainside to see what is wrong, and finds that his shoe is full of blood – it has clotted on his stocking, too, and is oozing from his leg. He has a wound on his calf, by no means a slight one: most of the flesh had been ripped from the bone when one of the tumbling rocks hit him. He tears a strip from his linen tunic and wraps it around his leg, then scrambles down from the mountain, making it home with great difficulty, and great loss of blood.

  This injury left Þormóður bedridden for a long time – the gash simply would not heal properly. He was unable to get to his feet before winter, and then could only hobble. He was extremely anxious about Þorgeir Hávarsson’s absence. The champion must either have gone overseas, or else was dead, and things were not looking promising at all for his own fame. No sooner, however, was he fit once more to be up and about than his attention turned toward seeking out the comforts of his ladylove at Ögur, and in doing so, to let courtship replace the deeds of fame and glory that looked likely to remain forever unaccomplished. Nine weeks had passed since his last visit to the girl. The fall brought obstinate weather: ceaseless sea winds and snowsqualls. One stormy night he could no longer sit quiet. When the household was asleep, he took his father’s best horse and rode to Ögur. He descended the slope behind the farmstead and whistled at the girl’s window. She woke, frightened, and asked who went there in such weather.

  “Who do you think?” said he.

  “It could be so many,” said the girl.

  “I am cold,” said he. “Let me in.”

  “Why you rather than the wind?” said she, yet she unfastened her window in the storm, and he slipped in. She fastened it again and lit a lamp, but said nothing to him. He asked her why she was so dispirited. Dressed in a long shift, she sat down on her chair, began weeping bitterly, and hid her face in her hands.

  “Why must I see you again? How I have scolded my slave for not killing you!” she said.

  He asked her why she spoke so coldly to him.

  “I have not yet mentioned the greatest disgrace you have done me: that you did not kill my slave, and instead have become the laughingstock of the district – such a champion as you presume to be.”

  “How can you be astonished,” said Þormóður, “that I did not slay your slave, nor he me, after you wrapped us both in the same web? It was not due to cowardice that I did not slay him, but because I chose to share half a living slave with you rather than to allow you to have him whole – but dead.”

  She said: “Now I know that you do not love me, since you spared him. I will free my slave and make him your equal, and your better.”

  “Do not weep so miserably,” said the skald. “One day, when the sun is shining on land and sea and Mistress Katla is sitting at home with all her household, I will ride through the main gate at Ögur.”

  The girl dried her tears on the hem of her shift.

  “Will you be riding alone, then?” she whispered. “For my mother will set the dogs on you.”

  “That day, I will ride in fine company,” said he. “My father will be with me, as will Chieftain Vermundur of Vatnsfjörður. They will send word to your mother, and she will invite us in and serve us ale. They will make their proposal in proper form, requesting that her daughter be made my wife. On our behalf, Vermundur will offer great amounts of land and chattels.”

  “It is astonishing how much you can lie,” said she. “Yet it is said to be a sign of love when a man lies to a woman – and a woman loves a man when she believes him though she knows he lies. It is good to hear you lying. Lie to me!”

  “Our marriage contract will be sealed with sage words and shaking of hands,” said he.

  By now the girl had almost completely dried her eyes.

  “On that fine day,” said she, “when you ride through the main gate to us, accompanied by your father, Farmer Bessi, and Chieftain Vermundur, and all the bounties of the land in Ögur are granted me as my dowry – on that day, will you love me, Þormóður?”

  “On that day, we will waste no time in vain
prattle,” said he.

  “Will you deliver me a lay, then,” asked she, “that I know for certain is meant for me and no other woman?”

  “Men take wives to make poetry unnecessary,” said he. “From that day on, neither you nor your mother shall ever be disgraced.”

  The girl was now consoled, and she rose from her seat and embraced him tenderly. She said: “I have heard women say that it is better to be wed to a man than to have a lay from him. It must be true. From that moment on, I will never ask you for another lay.”

  Squalls hammered mountain and sea with a tumultuous din, and clouds drew over the moon. In the midst of the storm a door opened, letting the wind shriek through the house as if a whistle were being blown. A ruckus was heard from the vestibule. “Visitors! Out the window, quick as you can!” she exclaimed, jumping into bed and pulling the bedclothes up over her head.

  He said: “I am not moving. I run from no man.”

  From below came men’s voices and the clanking of weapons, mixed with the howls of the storm. A frightened servant was ordered to tell where the widow’s daughter had her bed, and then the ladder was tramped by hard-frozen shoes.

  The visitor who stepped into the girl’s loft looked more like a sea-monster than a man: he was iced over with snow and sea spray, and the house creaked beneath his hooves. His spear was ice-coated as well, up to its tip. Þormóður stood by the window, his ax raised. But when the visitor lifted his icy hood, and the light fell on his weatherbeaten lips, hairless as a youth’s, Skald Þormóður dropped his ax, sprang toward the man, and greeted him warmly.

  When the girl realized what this meant, she swept back the curtain surrounding her bed, stuck her long legs out from beneath the bedclothes, and smoothed down her shift as she got to her feet. The girl was bare to the nipples, and her hair flowed about her shoulders. Fire burned in her eyes as she spat these words at the visitor: “Dead man!”