Tag Archives: The Complete Sagas of Icelanders

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Saga of Grettir the Strong,’ part 2

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The father and son parted with little love lost between them. Many people wished Grettir a safe journey, but few a safe return.

I have finished reading The Saga of Grettir the Strong, in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. I have much to say about it, though I fear a lot of it strays into the deep grass.

My main takeaway from the saga, as I stated yesterday, is that the real-life hero, Grettir Asmundarsson, seems to have been a psychopath, very likely suffering from PTSD. Even in a book written in the 14th Century, his status echoes ancient tribal attitudes. The heroes of ancestral times were not admired for their moral virtue. A remnant of this world view remains, in residual form, even in our English language. Our word “great” has two meanings. The common one (in our time) is that of “important” or “admirable.” But its older meaning was “large.” We still speak of a Great Hall or a greatcoat. In the same way, old heroes like Sigurd the Dragon Slayer could massacre whole villages of innocent people and still be considered heroes and great men. Because greatness was about magnitude, not virtue. Likewise, Grettir is a hero because he does things in a big way, whether it’s killing men or lifting heavy objects.

Reading the saga from a historical perspective, I noted that most of the episodes where Grettir comes off as heroic by our standards – a virtuous hero – are implausible scenes involving either invulnerable berserkers or supernatural creatures like witches or ghosts. Even the scenes of Grettir’s death, which are likely to have some factual base, are embroidered with elements of witch’s curses, which the saga writer found necessary in order to explain his invulnerable hero’s death at the hands of common men. (Though in an odd interpolation, Grettir finds a friend who’s even stronger than himself. No actual magic is attributed to this character, but one gets the feeling he’s not entirely human.)

The only plausible episode where Grettir exhibits mercy is one calculated to advance his own interests. He spares the life of a son of Snorri the Godi [Chieftain] (an important saga character who makes a brief appearance in my novel, West Oversea), who has come out after him as a sort of bounty hunter. Grettir understands that winning Snorri’s friendship through letting his son live could win him a powerful friend, something he badly needs by now.

Indeed, one remarkable thing about Grettir’s saga is the fact that he had all kinds of prominent connections – “Almost all the chieftains in the country were related to Grettir… either by blood or by marriage.” He’s related to the Norwegian royal family too. And yet he can’t seem to catch a break with the law. (For all I’ve written and said about the importance of the Law to the Norse, your father’s status and who you knew counted for a lot. Rich men’s sons could usually find a way to wiggle out of legal scrapes with their skin intact, even as today. The fact that Grettir couldn’t make this old boy network work for him, seems to have convinced his family and friends that he must have been under some unique curse).

There’s a hint of character development in the later chapters, when Grettir, formerly entirely reckless of consequences, now searches for a way to attain a peaceful life. He’s been outlawed, which means he can’t leave the country and is legal prey for killing. In the end, he will hold the record for survival in an outlaw state – 20 years (though there’s some inconsistency about that figure in the text here). He holes up on the natural fortress of Drangey island, where he fights off repeated attacks. It’s at this point that he becomes a more sympathetic character. He’s terrified of the dark and of being alone – though he knows from experience that few men are to be trusted. Still, I couldn’t help wondering what his killers’ real story is – Grettir has been living by robbery, and he never hesitated to use violence. Stealing sheep and other food could have serious consequences in a marginal economy  The charge that his killers employed witchcraft is not impossible (at least technically – I don’t believe their magic actually worked), but it seems to me more likely the witchcraft stuff was added by the author (who was possibly related to Grettir) in order to make his hero more sympathetic. No small task, with this guy’s record.

An element in the saga which I’d never noticed before (perhaps it was bowdlerized in previous translations I’ve read, or maybe I just forgot) is a couple sexual situations. In one scene, which would have played better in the 14th Century than it does today, a serving woman makes fun of Grettir’s physical endowment, so he rapes her to teach her a lesson. In another, he spends some time sharing a house with a woman whose husband is away, saving her from a monstrous troll woman who’s been ravaging the farm. He leaves a souvenir behind:

Towards the end of that summer, Steinvor from Sandhaugar gave birth to a boy named Skeggi. At first he was said to be the son of Kjartan…. Skeggi was distinguished from all his brothers and sisters by his strength and build. By the age of fifteen he was the strongest person in north Iceland, and then his paternity was attributed to Grettir. Everyone thought he would grow into an outstanding man, but he died at the age of sixteen and there are no stories about him.

In sum, the Saga of Grettir the Strong is a powerful and memorable tale, and an amateur psychologist like me can spend unlimited time picking out clues concerning its underlying facts. That game can go on forever, because there’s no way to prove them wrong.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Saga of Grettir the Strong,’ part 1

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This is a partial review. The book I’ve been reading is one of the longer sagas in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, and (as I’ve said before) my reading time has been limited lately. But I’m about half way through with this one, so I thought I’d do what I’ve done with some other longer works in the past. This is an incremental review, my thoughts on what I’ve read so far. The saga under consideration is The Saga of Grettir the Strong, one of the great classics.

I’ve read Grettir’s Saga at least three times before, so the material is familiar. But my response this time is a little different from previous ones. Perhaps it’s this translation, which is more literal than most. I’m not generally a booster of literal translating, but possibly it’s conveying some nuances I’ve missed in the past. In any case, I find I have less sympathy for the hero this time around.

The Icelandic sagas are classic stories of violence on the frontier, stories that anticipate the American Western. One of the standard themes of the Westerns is, “What do we do with violent men, who are valuable but expensive?” We want the gunfighter to come in and clean up the town, but then we’d prefer him to ride off into the sunset and bother somebody else.

Grettir Asmundarsson is often referred to in the saga as “an accomplished man.” But the only accomplishments of his (aside from composing poetry) that we observe are fighting and lifting heavy objects. His family and friends support him (cautiously) because of his value in a brawl, but his impulse control seems poor, and he shows little indication of ever being domesticated, or wanting to be.

In fact, he shows all the signs of PTSD. He’s quick to react violently, he’s suspicious and socializes poorly, and he suffers night terrors. In the saga, this weakness is explained by a nightmarish fight with a revenant, what I called a “walker-again” in my novels – the Scandinavian ghost that’s kind of like a vampire or zombie. Grettir’s nightmarish fight with Glam, the ghost, is portrayed as an experience of such overwhelming horror that even our bold hero can’t undergo it without emotional scars (though he does, needless to say, “kill” the ghost.) What happened to the real-life Grettir we’ll never know, but fighting monsters is a pretty good metaphor for a traumatic experience in combat.

And that’s about all I can really say in Grettir’s defense. The rare occasions in the saga where he appears sympathetically are the most fantastic and implausible – like the ghost-fight, or his rescuing of a houseful of defenseless women from rapist berserkers. These are saga set pieces, the kind of episodes that show up again and again in sagas to keep things lively. I doubt they actually happened in the man’s life.

What I do believe is the stories of his murders, which generally seem to be acts of impulse and overkill.

More on Grettir tomorrow.

Fiction, Reviews

Saga reading report: ‘Gisli Sursson’s Saga’

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Gisli, his wife Aud, and their foster-daughter from Dasent’s 1866 translation. The weird headdress is (I believe) based on a much later Icelandic folk costume.

Today, we return to the world of the sagas as I report on Gisli Sursson’s Saga from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. It’s one of the more popular sagas, though the manuscript versions we have (there are three) exhibit a fair number of textual problems.

The story begins, as so many sagas do, with the hero’s ancestors in Norway. One of those ancestors, also named Gisli, borrows a sword from a thrall (how did a thrall get a sword? Outside of one of my novels, I mean?). He refuses to return the sword, he and the thrall kill each other, and the sword ends up broken. The shards are kept, and are later forged into a spearhead. But the metal carries the thrall’s curse.

The family relocates to Iceland, where Gisli is born. He grows up to be a tall man and a great warrior. But he finds himself in a classic honor dilemma – his sister’s husband kills his wife’s brother (who is also his best friend), and Gisli is torn between loyalties (Note: this line has been edited, thanks to a correction by Matt McKendrick). He finally kills his sister’s husband, in his bed, with the cursed spear.

This is an odd element in the saga for me, because I’ve often read that a murder at night was considered shameful murder among the Norse. However, in this translation, it’s explained that if the weapon is left in the body, that mitigates the crime.

In any case, eventually the truth comes out, and Gisli is outlawed. He manages, with the help of a couple rich friends and (especially) his wife, to avoid the avengers for many years – surviving second longest of any Icelandic outlaw, after Grettir the Strong. His last stand is legendary, and his killers go home without honor.

Gisli’s Saga has a high reputation among Icelanders, though there are elements that make it hard for the modern reader to appreciate. Part of the trouble is moral. Gisli (and he’s not alone among saga heroes) has a sense of humor that looks pretty cruel to us. In particular, on two occasions he switches clothes with a thrall to confuse avengers – in one case getting the thrall killed. In both cases, the thralls are described as very stupid – to the original saga readers, the killing of a stupid thrall seemed a triviality.

Another problem is story gaps. At one point, we’re told that Gisli drops his sword as he’s fleeing his enemies. Later on, he has it again. How that happens is not explained. Twice Gisli receives leg wounds under identical circumstances, but they lead to nothing.

What sets the saga apart for the modern reader, I think, is the prominence of Gisli’s wife Aud in the plot. That’s especially remarkable considering that Gisli killed her brother. Aud is utterly faithful, even refusing a large bribe to betray him, and he acknowledges at one point that he wouldn’t have lasted so long without her help.

Gisli Sursson’s Saga is an important outlaw saga, but I don’t think it’ll ever be one of my favorites.

Writing

A skald’s reward

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Egil Skallagrimsson, from a 17th Century Icelandic manuscript.

Egil sat down and put his shield at his feet. He was wearing a helmet and laid his sword across his knees, and now and again he would draw it half-way out of the scabbard, then thrust it back in. He sat upright, but with his head bowed low…. He wrinkled one eyebrow right down onto his cheek and raised the other up to the roots of his hair…. He refused to drink even when served, but just raised and lowered his eyebrows in turn.

King Athelstan was sitting in the high seat, with his sword laid across his knees too. And after they had been sitting there like that for a while, the king unsheathed his sword, took a fine, large ring from his arm and slipped it over the point of the sword, then stood up and handed it over the fire to Egil. Egil stood up, drew his sword and walked out onto the floor. He put his sword through the ring and pulled it towards him, then went back to his place. The king sat down in his high seat. When Egil sat down, he drew the ring onto his arm, and his brow went back to normal. He put down his sword and helmet and took the drinking horn that was served to him, and finished it. Then he spoke a verse….

The passage above comes from the Saga of Egil Skallagrimsson (from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders). It’s a rather famous scene, in which we get to observe some of the nuances of the ancient poet-king dynamic. Egil is considered the greatest poet (skald) in the world, and he’s well aware of it. Even at the court of Athelstan the Great of England, one of a skald’s A-list gigs, he feels entitled to a certain level of appreciation. At this point he doesn’t feel he’s been getting it, and his passive-aggressive show produces a mollifying response from the great king. Egil is a prima donna, and prima donnas must have their due.

All of this is only vaguely connected with my theme tonight, but it came to my mind as an illustration. My own case is that I don’t feel unrewarded. I feel rewarded in the very best way.

It came to me during my morning writing session today. There are few satisfactions in life to match that of reading something you’ve composed and being able to say, “You know, that’s pretty good. That’s what I’d like to read in a book myself.”

And I thought, what rewards do I have as a author? There’s the pleasure of seeing my work published (though I have to admit there’s less satisfaction in viewing an e-book than in holding a genuine printed volume. But I’ve had that pleasure too). There’s money – though my books have brought little of that. There’s fame – which has eluded me thus far. Has the king withheld my gold ring?

No, I realized. The work itself is my best reward. I know I’m writing this book for myself when I was twelve years old, desperately longing for a good Viking novel to read. And I think I’m getting the job done. No amount of money could buy that satisfaction.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll take money and fame if they’re offered. But in a pinch this is enough.

Fiction, Reviews

Saga reading report: ‘The Tale of Thorvard Crow’s-Beak’

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13th Century illustration of the Battle of Stamford Bridge from Matthew Paris. It looked nothing like this.

I’m still slogging through a Very Long Book (a good book, but comprehensive), so tonight I’ll report on another tale from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. This is the last story in Volume I, which means I’ll be coming to longer sagas again in the next one. I’m not sure what I’ll do to vamp while I’m reading future long books.

To my delight, this tale turned out have considerable personal interest. It involves Erling Skjalgsson’s grandson, Eystein Orre (son of Erling’s daughter Ragnhild and Thorberg Arnesson – you may remember the story of Thorberg’s courtship from King of Rogaland). Eystein had a sister named Thora who would, in time, become concubine (or wife, sources differ) to King Harald Hardrada, and would die with him following a legendary charge at the Battle of Stamford Bridge in England.

Our tale is the Tale of Thorvard Crow’s-Beak. Thorvard is a wealthy Icelandic merchant. He sails to Norway where he speaks to King Harald, inviting him to come down to his ship and accept the gift of a sail. (According to this article from the Viking Herald, the manufacture of one sail for a Viking ship could take as long as fifty years [!] Perhaps they mean 50 years in man-hours).

I’ve mentioned previously that King Harald appears uncharacteristically genial in most of these saga tales. But in this one we see him in his usual temper. He tells Thorvard, curtly, that he got an Icelandic sail once before, and it tore apart under wind pressure. So he’s not interested in another such gift.

However, Thorvard then offers the sail to Eystein Orre, the king’s best friend, and Eystein, on examining it, recognizes it as an excellent specimen. He accepts it with thanks and invites Thorvard to stop and see him at his own home when he sails back to Iceland. When Thorvard does so, Eystein gives him generous gifts.

And to cap it we are told that, on a later occasion, Eystein’s ship outsails the king’s. And when the king asks where he got this fine sail, Eystein tells him it’s one he had turned down. A nice final note for the storyteller – it could even be true.

I was surprised to see “Eystein Orre” translated as “Eystein Grouse” here. Orre does mean grouse, even in modern Norwegian, but I’m sure I read somewhere that Eystein got his nickname from Orre farm in Jaeder. Perhaps that’s the meaning of the farm’s name. If Eystein lived there, it would likely have been due to inheritance from Erling.

The Tale of Thorvard Crow’s-beak is one of the more plausible stories in the collection, just trivial enough to believe.

Fiction, Reading, Reviews

Saga reading report: Tales of Three Thorsteins

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King Olaf Trygvesson, as painted by my friend (okay, my acquaintance) Anders Kvaale Rue. I’ve never asked him why he pictures Olaf with a haircut documented as being popular with Danes.

Tonight, three more tales from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. Oddly, they’re all about guys named Thorstein. Perhaps the name was a statistical favorite among Icelanders. Or perhaps the name was becoming a go-to for storytellers, like “Jack” in so many British folk tales.

First, there’s “The Tale of Thorstein of the East Fjords.” We’re told that he was “young and fleet of foot,” though those qualities don’t really figure in the story. He is on a pilgrimage to Rome, and while traveling through Norway he comes upon a richly dressed young man defending himself against four attackers. Thorstein decides to intervene and kills three of the attackers. The young man he rescued tells him that once he gets back from Rome, he should go to King Magnus’s (Magnus the Good, I assume) court and see him. Just ask for Styrbjorn. (Styrbjorn was the name of a famous Swedish hero. I don’t know of more than one man who bore that name, and he was long dead by this time.)

One assumes that Thorstein goes to Rome and returns to Norway, though the saga writer fails to mention that. The next scene shows Thorstein showing up at the king’s hall, where he sends a message in, asking for Styrbjorn. All the kings’ men have a good laugh at somebody asking for Styrbjorn (like somebody today asking for Eliot Ness or Frank Sinatra, I suppose), but eventually the king himself silences them, explaining that he himself is this “Styrbjorn.” Thorstein ends up going home to Iceland with a lot of money.

The second tale is “The Tale of Thorstein the Curious.” This Thorstein went to Norway and joined the court of King Harald (Hardrada, I suppose). One day the king assigns him to watch his clothing while he’s taking a bath, and Thorstein can’t resist looking into his bag. There he sees a couple knife handles made from a strange, golden wood. When the king comes out of the bath, he intuits that Thorstein has peeked. Displeased, he demands that Thorstein fulfill a quest or lose his favor. He must fetch the king two more knife handles of the same wood – but he won’t give him a clue as to where such trees grow (considering Harald Hardrada’s history, it might have been anywhere in the Middle East, the Mediterranean, Eastern Europe, or Scandinavia). Thorstein eventually fulfills the quest, but only by way of escaping a giant serpent. In an oddly prosaic epilogue, we’re informed that this Thorstein died with Harald in England.

Finally we encounter “The Tale of Thorstein Shiver.” This Thorstein has joined the household of King Olaf (at first I assumed this would be Saint Olaf, but by the end it’s clear that it’s Olaf Trygvesson). One night the king gives a command (for no apparent reason) that no man is to go out to the privy without a buddy. Thorstein wakes in the middle of the night and is reluctant to wake anyone else, so he sneaks out alone. In the privy he encounters a demon. Then follows a sequence in which he asks the demon three times about which damned souls scream the loudest in Hell. The demon tells him about three famous Nordic heroes, describing their sufferings in the fires of perdition, and (at Thorstein’s request) each time screaming in imitation of that hero. Meanwhile, with each question the demon inches closer to Thorstein. But just before the demon can grab him, the church bells start ringing, and the demon flees back where he came from.

In the morning, the king asks how everyone slept. Thorstein confesses his disobedience, but King Olaf isn’t much bothered over that. He explains that he heard the diabolical screaming, and therefore ordered the bells rung, saving Thorstein from Hell.

There’s an interesting addendum. The king asks Thorstein if he felt frightened at any point, and Thorstein says he doesn’t know what fear feels like, though he shivered a little during the demon’s final scream.

This seems to anticipate a motif we find in several Scandinavian folk tales catalogued in the 19th Century – “The Boy Who Did Not Know Fear.” It seems to me that what we’re observing in these stories is a stage in the evolution of the folk tale – the point where stories are still connected to actual historical figures (likely the storytellers’ ancestors), but are growing increasingly extravagant and fabulous in the process of retelling.

Fiction, Reading, Reviews

Saga reading report: ‘Thorarin Nefjolfsson’s Tale’

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Illustration by Christian Krohg of the tale of Thorarin Nefjolfsson’s foot. This is not the tale we’re considering in this post.

I’ve got another saga tale for you tonight, from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. This one presented certain problems for me as a reader. In the first place, I found it poorly written (I’m blaming the original saga writer, not the translator) and rather hard to follow (all the saga writers couldn’t be geniuses). Secondly, it told me new things about a character I thought I knew pretty well, which didn’t quite fit my picture of him (can’t have original sources contradicting my assumptions!).

This one is “Thorarin Nefjolfsson’s Tale.” At first glance, anybody fairly familiar with saga literature will assume he knows what the story will be. I recounted it myself, in The Elder King (or was it King of Rogaland? Can’t keep my own books straight). It’s the story of how King Olaf caught a glimpse of Thorarin’s ugly foot in the morning light (illustration above), and bet him that there wasn’t an uglier foot in town. Then how Thorarin showed him an uglier foot, but got suckered anyway. It’s a great story. But this isn’t it.

Or then there’s the story I used for the climax of King of Rogaland, where Thorarin helps Erling Skjalgsson and his son Aslak (I think it was Aslak) to save Asbjorn Seal’s-bane from hanging. Also a great story. But this one isn’t that one either.

The somewhat disjoined story we’re dealing with here starts with Thorarin at the court of King Knut of Denmark (I didn’t know he ever went there), where he makes friends with a fellow named Thorstein. They agree to always stay in the same lodgings whenever they find themselves in the same country. As a result, they eventually join King (Saint) Olaf Haraldsson’s court in Norway together. There they are accused by jealous companions of treason against Olaf, and they have to go through the iron ordeal (which I’ve mentioned a couple times in my books) to prove their good faith. Thorstein turns out to have a miraculous mark on his palm which vindicates them.

I’m not sure what to think about this story. It’s not very plausible in its details, though I suppose it could have a core of fact, plus (as I mentioned) it’s kind of hard to follow.

What bothers me most, though, is the statement at the end that Thorarin died in battle alongside Olaf at Stiklestad. I always imagined Thorarin surviving to old age in Iceland, telling his grandchildren the marvelous stories of his life that eventually would be included in sagas. Also, I find it hard to imagine that Thorarin would have been allowed to stay in Olaf’s court after the fast one he pulled in the matter of Asbjorn Seal’s-bane.

Still, I suppose even a minor saga writer would have information about how Thorarin died. Now I’m hunting for more data, but the internet (even the Norway part of it) doesn’t have much to say.

Fiction, Reading, Reviews

Saga reading report: ‘The Tale of the Story-wise Icelander,’ and ‘Ivar Ingamundarson’s Tale’

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12th Century bust of King Eystein I of Norway.

I have a couple more saga tales for you tonight, and then I expect I’ll be able to do some regular reviews again. I have finished at last the endless book I was reading (which will be reviewed elsewhere) and am back on my usual reading schedule. Except that I’m busy with a couple projects too. And that’s a nice problem to have, especially after this year of idleness and indigence.

Anyway, each of tonight’s two tales from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders is short, but they also offer points of interest.

The first tale is peculiar in that neither the Icelandic hero nor the king he served is mentioned by name. However, it’s not impossible to guess the latter.

“The Tale of the Story-wise Icelander” introduces us to an unnamed young Icelandic man who goes to Norway to serve an unidentified king. When the king asks him what he can offer in return for a place at his table, he says he knows many stories he can tell. Given the chance to “sing” for his supper, he proves to be as good a raconteur as advertised.

However, as Christmas approaches, the king notices that the young man’s spirits are low. The king guesses that he’s run out of stories. The young man admits that he has only one story left to tell, and he’s reluctant to repeat that one. It turns out it’s the story of the king’s own travels. The king says he’s particularly eager to hear this story. The young man may, he says, tell a part of it (serial-wise) every night during the Christmas season, and the king will help him to space the episodes out so they’ll last through the season.

When it’s all over, the young man is reluctant to hear what the king thought of it, but the king tells him he liked it very well. He asks where the young man heard it from, and the young man says he heard it from Halldor Snorrasson.

And that’s how we can figure out who the king is. Your average modern reader won’t know this, but you are fortunate to have me for your guide. For Halldor Snorrasson was a companion to King Harald Hardrada (who keeps turning up in these stories). Moreover, Halldor and Harald parted company under strained circumstances, Halldor not entirely sure Harald wasn’t planning to hang him.

So that’s the first story.

The second story is possibly my favorite saga fragment of them all. It’s a pure human interest story, featuring my favorite Norwegian king – who seems to have invented modern counseling techniques in the 12th Century. King Eystein I was the quieter brother of King Sigurd the Crusader, and left a reputation for kindness and Christian charity.

The story is called “Ivar Ingamundarson’s Tale.” Ivar was a member of King Eystein’s court, a poet and a friend to him. He had a brother who came to join him in Norway, but soon grew jealous of Ivar’s place at court and decided to go home. Ivar asked him to give his love to the girl he hoped to marry in Iceland, but the brother, out of jealousy, courted the girl himself and married her. When Ivar learned this, he was plunged into depression.

King Eystein, noticing this, asked Ivar what he could do to help. He made a number of suggestions – he could introduce him to some nice girls; he could give him property to manage; he could give him money to travel. Ivar isn’t interested in any of these things.

Now read this speech, from King Eystein’s mouth:

“It’s getting difficult for me now because I have tried everything I can think of. There’s only one thing left now and it’s not worth much compared to those which I’ve already offered, and yet one can never tell what’s best. So come and see me every day after the meal when I am not engaged in urgent business and I will chat with you. We’ll talk about this woman in every way you like and we can think of. I’ll make time for this, because it sometimes happens that people can cope more easily with their grief by talking about it. And I’ll also make sure that you never leave my presence without a gift.”

It probably won’t surprise you to learn that this plan worked, and after a time Ivar was his old self again.

Now I ask you – did you expect to find something like that in a 13th Century book?

Fiction, Reading, Reviews

Saga reading report: ‘Hreidar’s Tale’

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Saga illustration of King Magnus the Good.

More saga-licious awesomosity tonight, from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. This entry is unquestionably a different kind of story – more of a “clever yokel” yarn than an epic of feud and vengeance.

Hreidar, our unlikely Icelandic hero, is (we are told) neither handsome nor intelligent. But he’s tall and strong, and a notably fast runner. He has a brother named Thord, who is good-looking and smart, but very short. They’ve inherited property from their father and are quite well to do – but Hreidar leaves the management of all that to his smarter brother.  He is, however, able to get his way when he wants it, simply because Thord lacks the strength to dominate him physically.

Hreidar decides he wants to accompany Thord on a merchant trip to Norway. He wants to meet Thord’s friend, King Haakon the Good, and to go somewhere where there are a lot of people around. Thord is dubious; he’s pretty sure Hreidar doesn’t know how to act in society – especially in a king’s court. But Hreidar asks him – essentially – “How you gonna stop me?” So Hreidar sails with Thord.

Once in Norway, Hreidar proceeds to act exactly as Thord has feared, but his disingenuous manner amuses Magnus, and he even manages to get himself invited to spend the winter in the king’s court. There he gradually acquires some polish, manages to kill one of the men who serve Magnus’ co-king, Harald Hardrada, and contrives (with the help of his remarkable speed as a runner) to get out of the country with his life and a nice profit.

According to Wikipedia, Hreidar’s Tale is considered by scholars one of the earliest written saga stories. My impression is that it may be based on true events, but probably got heavily embroidered over time. Full text (in a different translation) here.

Fiction, Reading, Reviews

Saga reading report: ‘The Tale of Thorleif, the Earl’s Poet.’

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Jarl Haakon, headed back to Norway from Denmark, jettisons a load of Christian priests who were forced on him. Illustration by Christian Krogh from Heimskringla.

Tonight, another report on one of the skalds’ sagas (technically a tale) from The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. “The Tale of Thorleif, the Earl’s Poet” is interesting primarily, I think, because of the picture it provides of its writers and editors. It’s taken from the 14th Century saga collection known as the Flatey Book (of which I’ve written here before). The tale may incorporate genuine old legendary material, but it’s been thoroughly massaged to conform to medieval Christian thinking.

The tale begins with a synopsis, in which the writer makes it extremely clear that (trigger warning!), although this story includes elements of heathen beliefs, magic, and cursing, the ultimate moral is going to be a good one – avoid that stuff or it’ll come back to bite you.

Our hero is Thorleif Asgeirsson, the son of a well-to-do Icelander, who shows early aptitude for poetry. After some preliminary adventures, he gets outlawed (learning magic while a fugitive) and manages to sail for Norway in a merchant ship his father buys for him and stocks with trading goods.

Thorleif arrives in Norway, where he meets the current ruler, Jarl Haakon (whom you may recall from The Year of the Warrior and Death’s Doors), at the wharf. Haakon offers to buy his cargo, but Thorleif prefers to offer his goods on the open market. His blunt refusal offends Haakon, who takes revenge by having his men burn Thorleif’s ship and steal all his goods. Thorleif then flees to King Svein Forkbeard in Denmark, and begins planning his magical revenge, which he achieves finally. However, the ultimate repercussions will bring disaster back on him.

The tale contains snippets of skaldic poetry, which probably indicates some basis in true events. However, the story as we have it is pretty fantastic. It contains, for instance, the old fairy tale motif of someone concealing a bag under his shirt (camouflaged by a false beard in this case), down which he shovels large quantities of food, amazing the spectators with his appetite. This motif is often capped in the fairy tales by the cutting open of the bag, mimicking disembowelment, allowing the hero to fake his own death – but nothing like that happens here.

Another point of interest is a mention of Thorgerd Altar-Bride (Holgabrud), who is identified as Jarl Haakon’s personal patron goddess. I’ve read of Thorgerd (who may be Freya under a different name) elsewhere, but I think this was the first time I’ve come across her in an actual saga story (Snorri never mentions her in Heimskringla). If this were the only source of information about her, I’d wonder if she wasn’t just an authorial invention – but I think she’s mentioned in at least one other place in Flatey Book. Just another indication of how much knowledge has been lost about Viking religion.

Final verdict: “The Tale of Thorleif, the Earl’s Poet” is not a well-told story. And it’s not very plausible as a historical source either. But it does offer some points for the curious to ponder.