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  GUDRUDA RAGNARSDOTTIR had been born thirty-five winters earlier, to a family of Freyr-worshipers, in Reydarfirth in the East Firths. Her father Ragnar was slain in a feud when she was still a child; her two brothers never deemed that the terms of payment had been enough, and sought to get blood-geld from the killers, though their godi would give them no backing. The younger was killed in that fight; the elder fled, but at the Althing was given lesser outlawry, and banished from Iceland for three winters. He got a seat on a ship bound for Norway, but must first pay back an insult put upon him at the Thing. He barred the doors of the halls of his foes one night and set it afire. His luck though did not return: storms held the ship at Hornafirth for a week, and his enemies broke open a door at the end of their hall and got out all living. They rode to the strand and hunted him from firth to firth. No skipper would give him a seat because his foes were such strong men, and among them two godar.

  In the end he rode deep into the barren inland, up among the rocks and glaciers and lava-fields. In the holes of Surtshellir he found shelter. At the Thing he was given greater outlawry for trying to burn men in their hall. No man might shelter him nor give him food nor drink: any man might kill him and owe no payment.

  The farm was taken. Half went to the suitors, half to the men of the district; and Gudruda went to live with kinfolk who lived nearby.

  That winter was long and harsh, and her brother all but starved up in the fells. In the summer he lived off the kindnesses of some friends and kin, hiding in one farm after another, never staying long. But that next winter was all the harsher; and he went sneaking back to Reydarfirth to beg shelter of his sister. Gudruda was scared but hid him in the barn and fed him in darkness, but gave him none of the mead that had been his bane.

  So it went for twenty-three nights. But there were many guests at that stead for yule; and after yule a mort of men came to the stead: broke into the barn and dragged forth Gudruda’s brother, clad only in a long shirt. They pinned him beneath a heap of stones on a bundle of twigs and driftwood, then set the pile alight. He fought against the stones but they only heaped them higher. Gudruda ran to help him but they held her back: thereafter she abode in the hall with her hands over her ears. She had then twelve winters.

  Three winters later she was wed to Lambi Agnarson, a kindly man, not wealthy but with a good farm, three cows and some sheep. Gudruda was happy with him, and he never dealt ill with her. She bore him three sons, and all of them live; and she prayed and gave offerings to Freyr and to Freyja as theretofore. So some winters sped, and her sons were grown men and strong. Then their godi came by looking for men: there was a feud and some of the sheep had been stolen. Lambi and the two older boys went with the godi, and gave blood-offering to Odin at the district temple.

  Erik, the youngest, did not go with them, though he was old enough, because Gudruda would not let him. The three men did not come back. She got a goodly milch-cow for an atonement.

  With only one man about, the farm fell from bad to worse. There was some help from the godi and Gudruda’s kin, but that was another ill winter, and there was no great plenty of flour or of fish. Erik did all he might but he was yet only a boy. Gudruda fought and managed to keep them from starving; but toward that winter’s end they lived only by eating moss. They kept only the milch-cow, and had her in the main hall with them: but in the second winter they might not borrow enough hay for her, and the cow fell ill and died. Gudruda made offering after offering at the temple.

  It was at the end of that winter she took the cross. There were priests sent from Norway, from the new King Olaf Trygvason: they were at the local Thing that spring, and were giving water to men. Gudruda heard their words: then and there forsook Freyr and all the home-gods. She vowed her life to the Christ if he would but save her family now. That summer she heard a voice in her prayers, and it told her to sell the farm and gather all goods and go to the Althing. She was awestruck at this: Freyr had never spoken to her. She did as the voice had bade her, though there was great fear in her heart of it; for if nought came of it, then she would have been homeless and must live as a gangrel woman, wandering from hall to hall, doing odd bits of work for meat, and living on the handouts of others: and that was the hardest living.

  At the Althing she met Olaf Sigurdarson, the wealthy godi of Hof nearby Kirkjubaer: he wooed her, and as a widow, she said yes to him. That summer, in a great bidding, they were wed. In her wonder and the great readying for the feast, Gudruda forgot to be wed by a priest, and was wedded instead in the handfast way, hallowed by the hammer of Thor. And that had been a soreness in her heart ever since.

  Gudruda rose, her knees stiff with the damp cold of the earth. As she brushed the dirt from the front of her skirts, she felt the warmth of the sun’s rays, beaming kindly on her face. She smiled. She would let no past sorrows sour the sweetness of this day. With a glance to the west, she went back down the hill. The north face, steeped in violet light, might now be seen: the turf-roofs of the farm buildings, the dark lava wall, the muddy garth. She saw it all now as if for the first time. The roofs of the buildings were like little ridges off the side of the hill, clustered about the level place of the garth where most of the stead’s outdoor work was done. The turf roofs, dark green and brown, gleamed with ice. Faint waves of heat rose through the hall’s smoke-hole into the sky. One of the swine grunted and rolled over happily. From the dairy crept forth the smells of cheeses and fresh-churned butter. There was lowing from the barn: the milch-cows yearned to be milked. The household was slow arising after the lateness of the night. Gudruda walked around the hall and looked up to the frontward gable, and thought how well it should look set with a cross.

  She gathered some driftwood in her arms and slipped in through the small back door. For a moment she was sightless in the hall’s inner darkness. Softly she stepped to the cooking end of the longfire and laid in the wood. That crackled and hissed and caught fire, and Gudruda held herself over it, basking in the heat. She saw the sleeping forms stretched out round the walls of the hall. How late they were to rise! She went round the firebed fretfully, to begin the morn-meal’s cooking.

  Someone sat in the highseat. Wondering, Gudruda went near: made out Olaf’s form. He had fallen asleep there, his hands upon his knees, his great head bent over his chest, the unbraided beard like a mantle drawn about his chest. He was filthy. All about him, the carvings on the highseat crawled like worms and adders. Then Olaf turned his head and snorted, as if in dream.

  She stepped close to him and reached out with one hand. She tugged at his thick horned hand. ‘Olaf,’ she murmured, ‘Husband, awake!’

  He stirred him in the seat, rolling his shoulders. ‘Witch-eyes,’ he muttered uneasily, ‘Is that truly you? Do you come to haunt me then?’

  Gudruda let go the hand; went back to the wall and took down the cooking-things loudly. Olaf started and opened his eyes. He moved one hand over his brow and blinked, twisted back his neck painfully. He sat up yawning as Gudruda went before him.

  ‘Hello, good-wife,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning husband,’ she answered. She took out the stores and set to cooking. Olaf stood up, bent back his shoulders, sighed and sat again. All about the hall men were stirring.

  ‘Olaf,’ she said after a while. ‘Did you truly mean those words of yours last night? You will take the Cross?’

  ‘Yes, wife. I have sworn it. It was a part of the settlement with Njal.’

  ‘Yet was that all there was of it? Do you feel no love of the Christ in your heart?’

  He shook his head. ‘Maybe that will come. This I can say to you in truth: I feel no fondness for our own gods.’

  She sighed. ‘That is enough, I hope. I know I should not grumble. This is a big step you take: it should answer me. Yet—could you also do me one other favor? It may mean nought to you, yet for me it would be much.’

  ‘Of course, wife. What would you that I do?’

  She paused. ‘Would you wed me
again, in the right Christian way? Kjartan could enact it: and there need by no great feasting.’

  ‘Well,’ he answered at length. ‘It is only fitting, I gather. It can be done this very day after we take the water, if that pleases you.’

  ‘Greatly indeed does it please me.’ Gudruda stood up. In one hand she held an iron kettle: in the other a heavy ladle. She swung the ladle against the base of the kettle so that it rang.

  ‘Awake!’ she cried. ‘Awake!’

  Eight

  SOUTHAWAYS FROM HOF the land slopes down into a small shallow bay, whereof the bound and shield is the large hillock of green land, Ingolfshofdi. There Ingolf, the first settler of Iceland, stayed a winter while he searched for his pillar-seat. That next summer he found his pillar-seat far off to the west, and there he took land and settled, and left this land empty: so it remained until Hardbein came ashore here. Beyond the long hump of Ingolfshofdi was the sea.

  Toward the mid-part of the day a horseman rode down toward that bay, and that was Erik Gudrudarson. He skirted the bay, went westaway above the shore, and brought his pony to a halt upon a grassy ridge. With his hand he shielded his eyes against the sun’s glare. Below him the long line of the strand stretched empty of life save for here and there a skua gull. Beyond that, farther to the west, was the beginning of the Skeidararsands: that was a waste of black mud flooded with rain and meltwater, a treacherous place, whose few tracks led into hungry bogs. Erik shuddered: new to the district, he liked that place little.

  He looked back to the strand. Then he saw a lone dark figure moving between the sea-stones and the black sands. A pony trailed behind. Olaf’s daughter gathered in the driftage for her father’s hall.

  The big waves, angry and storm-fed, broke like giants’ fists upon the shore. The girl faced those waves and threw back her head; the long black strands of her unbound hair gleamed like dark rainbows. She leapt from rock to rock, dancing in and out of the waves’ grasp. There was a piece of wood awash there in the salt: the girl did up her skirts about her hips and waded after it. She was in and out of the water between Dufa and Unn, the kindest waves of Ran’s nine daughters. Out she came with the driftwood proudly towed behind. Erik leaned forward in the saddle, his mouth agape. The girl’s long white legs shone against the dark sands like icicles in dawn-light.

  When Erik reached the level of the strand, the girl had let down her skirts again, so that only her shoes might be seen. She had not seen him yet, nor heard him in the thunder of the waves. He waved, and bellowed her a greeting with all his lungs.

  She stopped. Her head came round, quick as a bird’s: the long eyes widened. The shoulders went down somewhat. She came up toward him grudgingly.

  Erik loped down to her and took the line in hand. He wound it round his fists and over his shoulder and pulled the heavy driftwood up beyond the tide-mark. ‘Is not this day fair?’ he shouted happily to her.

  She went past him and sat upon a flat lava-rock. ‘More than fair enough for shepherds and swine-keepers,’ she said. She stood up and led her pony down the beach. Erik unbound the log and threw it easily onto that pile she had made, and followed.

  They went down the shore as far as Olaf had driftage-rights, and gathered the wood together; but Swanhild said little. Nor did she dance before the waves nor lift her skirts again. Erik too soon fell into stillness. Now he was sorry he had come down from his watching-place.

  It was noontide, and all the storm-wood was gathered up into neat piles above the tide-marks. Swanhild took a wood-axe and a whetstone from her pony’s bag. Erik wiped at his brow.

  ‘Surely you do not mean to cut the wood yourself?’ he asked. ‘Would you not wish a rest?’

  She answered, ‘If you are weary, then rest.’ She stroked the blade with the stone and began chopping at the wood. Her slender arms and thin shoulders had little more than bird’s-thew in them: not for that flew the axe any the slowlier. Only the smaller branches she cut: the large would be cut up at the stead, and their chips used for kindling. The biggest would be adzed and used for building.

  Erik drew an axe from his bag and joined her. He matched her stroke for stroke and more: and his blows cut deeper. Soon her blows struck the ground more than the wood, and he knew she grew weary. Then he said, ‘Swanhild, it is late, and I would rest.’

  She stuck the axe in a big log and wiped at her brow with her sleeve. Erik went to his pony and got out a skin of goat’s-milk and a half-loaf of bread. These they shared: sat on a rock and ate. Swanhild looked out to sea, but Erik did not. The stiff breezes caught the long black hair and threw it about: a few strands hit Erik in the face and whipped past. He thought of the tales they told at Hof of the girl’s mother. She must have been an odd one! It was said the Finns were the most sorcerous and trollwise folk in the world. He wondered if the daughter knew any of the mother’s spells.

  Below them, quite close, a few terns went skittering across the sand. The girl swept up the crumbs in her skirts and cast them out to the birds. The terns took fright at this, but soon came back to peck charily at the brown crumbs.

  ‘I saw you not this morn at meat,’ he said. ‘No one knew whither you had gone. Then your father told me it was likeliest you were here. He said that this was a chore you ever liked.’

  She did not look back at him, but asked the waves, ‘What do they, back there?’

  He shook his head. ‘They are still talking over your father’s plan, like as if it were a house-thing. Yet Gudruda readies matters for giving the water with the holy priest. Olaf says they will take the water this afternoon.’

  The black-haired girl cast out more crumbs.

  ‘Was it not freezing cold there in the waves?’ he asked.

  ‘Colder than it will be for them this afternoon.’

  ‘You must love those birds greatly, Swanhild, you feed them so much.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she gave answer. ‘Sometimes I love them so, I wish I might take them in my hands and break off their little heads. But they only titter and fly off, and next season return to mock me more.’

  ‘Swanhild! What do you mean, that you say such a thing?’

  ‘What I say.’ She wiped her hands, and stood. Her skirts caught the wind and billowed wide behind her. ‘I am no tern, Erik: call me skua rather.’ She went down to the water’s edge and gathered a handful of stones: cast them down into the maw of the waves. Erik had never seen a girl throw so well: she must have done this a great deal. Erik followed after her and sat above her in the sand.

  ‘It was said they might take out the fish-boat later, but the sea looks over-rough to me,’ he said over the billows’ roar. ‘I wonder what it is, that makes men sail out of sight of the land, where they cannot pick their days. What do they do in storms? That seems wondrous to me, and frightening.’

  ‘That seems wondrous to me, and thrilling,’ she mocked. ‘The land is dull,’ she said then, turning: ‘the sea will ever eat it whole. But those men that live upon the sea’s very face, and snatch livelihood from its jaws, they defy one greater. What are we here but clever beasts, little better than our flocks? But a sailor, be he chapman or rover…’ She caught his look and colored; turned again to the sea.

  ‘There was a sailor at Breidamerk, an Easterling,’ Erik said. ‘The men told his tidings this morn at meat. They told many of his tales.’

  ‘Yes?’ she asked carelessly. ‘And what man-gossip did he spread.’

  Erik thought on it. ‘One tale he told, was how Jarl Haakon the Mighty died two summers ago.’

  She looked to him, and he smiled. ‘Tell it me then, Erik: for ever did I love the tales of that great man, of how he battled Gunnhild’s sons and defied the kings of the Danes, shattered the Jomsvikings’ host, cast out the Cross priests and upheld the gods in all his ways, and gave the finest blood-offerings. That he died have we heard; of the true facts, none. No doubt he died in a manner seemly to his state.’

  ‘I knew not you put such store by him,’ Erik said. ‘Then this tale will please
you ill; yet the Easterling knew of it firsthand, so we may well trust in it. He said, that Jarl Haakon took the wife of a man named Brynjulf for his bedmate; and when he had his fill of her, sent her back home with gold and gifts, as was his custom; and it was said she went unwillingly. But then had Haakon set his eye upon Gudrod: she was the wife of Orm Lyrgja; he was a mighty bonder.

  ‘Haakon sent men to Orm, and they bade Orm send his wife with them to the jarl. But Gudrun says she will not go unless Jarl Haakon sends Thora of Rimol to fetch her. Then Orm sent out the war-arrow; and Brynjulf met with him, and there was then such ill-will against the jarl from all these husbands that all the bonders rose up and went against the jarl. The jarl gets word of this: goes with his men into a deep dale, and there hides. Therefrom he sent his men to seek his son Erlend, that had the jarl’s ships.

  ‘But by then Olaf Trygvason was come to Norway, and he sought the kingdom: he fights against Erlend Haakonarson and slays him. Then came Olaf Trygvason before the bonders and he said, ‘Long have I harried in the Eastlands, and have great strength in Wendland and in England: from England have I come. And you may not know me now, but my father you knew, and he was King Trygvi Olafson: and my father’s grandfather you knew, and he was King Harald Hairfair the Mighty.’ The farmers took him for their king: and he bade them scour the lands and get for him Haakon the jarl.

  ‘Haakon lay now in the dale with but one man beside him, and that was his thrall Thormod Kark. One night Kark has a dream; and Haakon deemed the meaning of that dream was that his son Erlend was slain. Therewith he made his way a’nights to Rimol. There Haakon sent Thormod Kark in to Thora: she was foremost of the jarl’s mistresses. She came out and greeted the jarl with great show of happiness. She told him the bonders then met with Olaf Trygvason, but she would shelter him: but that that was a place they would soon come upon. She hid him then beneath her swine-sty. Over the cave-mouth Thora put boards and muck and drove swine over it, and none might know of it. Haakon abides there with Thormod Kark the thrall, and they had food and a lamp.

  ‘That next day Olaf Trygvason comes with his men to Rimol and looked in all those buildings, but found not the jarl. He gathered Thora’s servants in the garth, before the swine-sty, and told them he would reward with the greatest honor and wealth any man that slew Jarl Haakon or brought him to Hladir. Haakon and Thormod Kark lay in the swine-sty and heard Olaf’s words; then Haakon stood and called on Odin, and vowed him all for victory; for Haakon knew Olaf Trygvason for a follower of the Christ. But Odin gave the jarl no answer, no matter what he promised. Then Haakon sits again and was gloomy. Thormod Kark looked at him, and said no word.

  ‘That night Olaf Trygvason went from Rimol to Hladir. Thormod Kark awoke in the middle-night, and Jarl Haakon says to him, ‘Poor dreams have you had: for while you slept, your face was now white as whey and now black as earth.’ Thormod Kark said it was a thing of no matter: ‘Only I dreamt I was before King Olaf Trygvason in Hladir, and he put a gold necklet over my head.’ Jarl Haakon answered and said, ‘Olaf Trygvason will set a blood-red ring about your throat that time you come before him. We two were born of an hour: now you would not betray me?’ Kark said nay; but after that they lay both awake, and did not snuff the lamp.

  ‘At length Haakon the jarl fell asleep, and Kark watched him. The jarl twitched horribly in his sleep, and shrieked so that Kark waxed sick with terror: leaps up and draws his knife from his belt and sticks it in the jarl’s throat and cuts it out.

  ‘That even Thora came to the cave-mouth and called down to Haakon. Kark answered and said the jarl slept. ‘Why then does your voice quaver so?’ asked Thora: and straightway bids her men uncover the cave. Kark leaped out with the jarl’s head before him; and they all shrank back, even Thora. So Kark ran into the woods. The next day he reached Hladir, and there Olaf Trygvason had set himself as King and outlawed all those men yet faithful to Jarl Haakon. Thormod Kark gave the King Haakon’s head, and told him all that had gone on between Jarl Haakon and himself. The Easterling at Njal’s was there then: he heard this tale of Kark’s own mouth.’

  Swanhild asked in a low voice, so that Erik was unsure he heard her rightly above the waves, ‘And what did young King Olaf Trygvason then?’

  ‘He bade his men take Kark away and strike off his head. And afterward he takes both heads to Nidarholm. That, they say, is an island where they hang thieves and mankillers of the Thrandlaw. King Olaf strung up the two heads, and all his men cast stones at them and made many a jest.’

  ‘And Thora of Rimol?’

  ‘She saw that the day had been lost for her, and bade all her folk go from Norway into the Swede-realm. But she had dug a great howe, and there lay with the body of Jarl Haakon and died. Later the bonders dug up the howe and drew out the jarl’s body and burned it; but Thora’s body they would not touch, for that they said she looked as though she only slept.’

  ‘That was a noble lady,’ said Swanhild. ‘Such an end befits her. Yet of this tale of the Easterling’s, I know not whether I would believe it.’

  ‘There were others at Breidamerk, they say,’ Erik told her. ‘And the skipper was there as well: and all held to that tale.’

  The blackhaired girl shrugged, and put her face back to the sea. She took up another handful of stones and threw them singly into the waves. Now her arm threw harder and more awkwardly to Erik’s eye.

  ‘So much will I well believe,’ she said: ‘and that is what was said of that Christ-loving King. His deeds do not amaze me.’

  ‘He labors well for his god and faith. Now they say he has ordered that the home gods should be banished from his realm, and his armies tear down the temples and take the lands from all men that still give blood-offerings.’

  Swanhild laughed. ‘So did King Haakon Athelstane’s-Fosterling, and King Harald Graypelt and those others of Gunnhild’s sons; yet little more will this new King win, I trow. Soon, Erik, I think the bonders will be little-pleased in their bargain, that they traded Jarl Haakon the Mighty for this Olaf Trygvason.’

  ‘Swanhild,’ Erik asked then, haltingly, ‘should I now follow the Christ?’

  She looked at him, and straightway he rued asking. ‘I thought that was all set out.’

  ‘It is in my mother’s eyes. I took the water with her, and I bear a cross. But now I am a man. I must choose my path. So I ask your rede.’

  ‘You should not ask me that.’ Her manner now was odd, and Erik did not know how to understand her.

  ‘But why not? You are clever, Swanhild, more than I. You would not give me ill counsel.’

  ‘I never give aught but ill counsel. Ask my father that.’

  ‘But you seem to think so ill of it. And yet I have never seen you give an offering at the temple, either; and you will drink no mead nor ale. What then is so wrong with the Christ? Our ways are well, but they are more stories of dead men than of God. Did you ever see any of them, Odin or Thor or Freyr or Freyja or Frigga or any of them? Did you ever see land-sprites or Norn-women or elves or dwarfs or Valkyries?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what is there in this, that you look down on it? Why does your father’s will wound you so? There are heathen in Norway and the Swede-realm, Iceland, and the new settlements on Greenland: nowhere else. All else in the world are Christ’s men. What strength can Odin have that he is unable to halt the priests? What good did it do for Jarl Haakon, that he so supported the temples?’

  ‘Erik, you ask no questions I do not.’

  ‘And doesn’t your father like this as well? Hasn’t he said so?’

  ‘He has said so.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand you. I know that you will never take the Cross; nor do I think that seemly. Yet—you have nought against the Christ?’

  She sat beside him on the black sand and bent her head over her knees: and her hair fell like a cloak about her and covered the sand; only it was blacker than the sand.

  ‘Erik, you are a goodly young man, and you should make a home in this world
. This outland cult will come: it came to the Dane-land, and it has come to Norway; now it reaches these shores. Ships bring it, and the chapmen. All the traders bow to it: even the men that vow by Thor and Niord will be prim-signed, so that they may trade with the southern kingdoms. Iceland will not stand against it: that I see plain, now my father has yielded. Would you put yourself apart, like Thorgrim or Orvar-Odd? They are old men, and will be forgiven old men’s ways. You, Erik, are young. Your mother would grieve if you went not her way: so too my father. And it would win you the love of none. So would it set you amongst men as if you rode a little boat far out to sea, and sought a land you would never reach to, for that the waves had already gulped it down. Would that be your wish?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Well then.’ She lifted her head and put back the long strands of hair from her eyes. Down among the sands of the barrier-islands some skuas were fighting over fish-heads washed up by the storm.

  She said, ‘Once I saw a whale upon this beach. Rare are they hereabouts. A storm drove him in, up over the sand-isles; yet then the tide slacked, and the whale might not swim back, and so he died in the sun. Then came my father and all the carles with axes, and hewed the meat and blubber off him in great chunks, like as if they cut peat. There were Easterlings in a boat, and a quarrel started; yet my father was their master, and made them take his leavings. In the end there was left nought but the bones, and them the skuas perched upon. But the carlines followed their husbands and gathered up the bones as well; and that is why our knives have all bone handles hereabouts. There his bones lay—there.’ And she pointed.

  Erik saw the outline of her face, wan and bleak, bone-hued, set against the wind like a flat sail. She put her arms about her knees and stared out over the waves. All at once Erik felt a great sadness for her.

  ‘Swanhild,’ he said, ‘why do you ever gaze out to sea? Even from Hof you are scarce able to keep from looking that way. What hope you to find there? What is there to see?’

  She smiled, but did not look at him. One arm stretched forth. ‘There.’

  ‘Where?’ He shaded his eyes and peered into the blue-gray glitter. Far, far out, a tiny red sail bobbed. ‘That is but a ship.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And I am but a woman, and the sea but water, and Odin but a god.’

  He could not riddle her words, but feared to ask their meaning. He did not like her very much then. Away out on the horizon the ship went on, crossing to the west. It was likely she went to the West Firths; else maybe the storm had blown her northward, and she was bound for Greenland. Swanhild sat staring at it as if she had forgotten all about Erik.

  ‘Swanhild—guess what else the Easterling told.’

  ‘Is that a riddle, Erik?’ she asked after a bit. ‘I am unskillful at them.’

  ‘No, but it was why those men were at Breidamerk. They had come to give Njal this word, that Skarphedin abode in Norway, and sought passage back to Iceland.’

  She turned and stared at him. He grinned, pleased.

  ‘Skarphedin the outlaw? Kalf-Back’s son?’

  He nodded.

  She shook her head. ‘Now I know those men for liars. Skarphedin was given the greater outlawry. It would mean his life to come back. There may be those outlaws that cannot get away; none such has ever returned. He has not been in Iceland for many years. He could not be so foolish. He would be slain.’

  ‘Ask your father. I am sure it was Skarphedin they named. But no skipper would give him a berth as yet.’

  She stood and stepped to the waves’ reach. ‘Would he come on such a ship then, and easy as that, dare all men to kill him? He has no kin here I heard of. His wits are surely weak. Twenty years ago and more he was outlawed, when I was still a little girl. I can scarce remember it. Why should anyone want to come back?’ She shook her head wearily. ‘Come, Erik. They will look for us at home.’ She went to the woodpile.

  Erik brushed the black sand from his knees. ‘I will swear by Christ, then,’ he said with firmness. ‘So a man believes in one, it little matters which. From faith come courage and mighty deeds. So Kjartan says. Yet Swanhild, this too I wish, that you might take the Cross too and be sprinkled with us.’

  ‘Think you I don’t wish that too?’ she asked. ‘Erik, if I might believe in a wave in the sea, and that it smiled or scowled at me, then you should never have known me here.’ She did not let him answer, but mounted her pony and rode on up the hill.

  Nine

  AT HOF THE hall was all astir, readying Olaf and Gudruda’s wedding. So busy was it there that Olaf, sitting moodily with both legs stretched out from the highseat, was in the way of all who went by. At length, after the third bondmaid had tripped over his feet, he stood, girt on his sword and a brown cloak and went into the day.

  They slaughtered a swine there: in the sunlight the men and women shone in the plain white linen tunics of the newly-baptised. For a full week must they wear these, in a sign of steadfastness for their vows. Olaf let hitch the hay-cart: drove it with some down to the strand, and filled it with the driftage; but Swanhild and Erik had already gone from there. Against the black sands those men all seemed ghosts. When all the wood was in they drew it up to Hof.

  In the garth Olaf could see new ponies tied and saddled: that meant more of his neighbors and thingmen had come to ask if the news were true. He shook his head, let the others bring down and stack the wood, and rode off to the north. On the top of a hill he went by the old temple that Hardbein Oxen-Hand had built up and upheld. The temple had given the stead its name: Olaf’s kin had been the leaders at offerings ever since. Olaf rode from there farther upland.

  He rode by a tongue of the glacier, up beneath the Svinafell. Many streams, swollen by the rain, cut down the sides of the high fell. Skillfully Olaf led his pony through the scrub-woods. The trail cut back, and Olaf came out from the green up onto the upper reaches of the fell. The winds were stronger here; the airs brisker, chilled by the great glacier beyond. Before him rose a great broken cliff and ice-walls, gray and blue, hollowed out by many a low and darksome cave; behind him the land fell steeply off on all sides. A short ways before him a spread of grass rolled with big built-up mounds: they might have been the turf-roofs of round houses sunken in the risen earth-sea of the fell.

  Olaf stepped down onto the grass. Thoughtlessly he stroked his pony’s muzzle, then let her roam. He walked up to the mound-field. Half-sunk in the ground was a lava-rock: there sat Olaf, his back to the faraway sea, and gazed upon the grassy knolls. His eyes were red and clouded, and he sneezed. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. A hawk flew overhead, and went into the fell.

  A sound came from the wood below; half Olaf turned: saw who it was and turned back. Swanhild stepped down from her pony and walked up beside him. She was well dressed in a black-blue gown and deep red undershift. Her long hair was braided: the ends of the braids were bound with dark red ribands and tucked beneath her belt. That was a belt of goodly workmanship, cunningly wrought out of silver and gold, of beasts’ heads, jaws and tongues and looping leaf-work.

  ‘I knew I should find you here,’ she said.

  ‘It is maybe where I belong.’

  She sank to her knees and sat upon her heels. ‘I like this place,’ she said. ‘This seems more truthful here. If I ever wed, it is here I will look for my husband.’

  He laughed gloomily at that, and took her hand. ‘Little life will you find in him then. Yonder is where your mother lies.’

  She frowned, and answered, ‘No, father. Do you not remember? There is Hardbein, there Sigurd, there Ragnhild, Bui, Grim, Glum. That one there is mother’s howe.’

  He took the braids of his beard in hand and tugged at them. He shook his head. ‘You know them better than I,’ he muttered. He coughed and spat. ‘Swanhild, he said, ‘you know it is time and beyond you took yourself a husband. Many girls younger than you have children already afoot. And yet, it is not for want of asking.’

  ‘I have found no man that pleases me. An
d I liked the life at Hof.’

  ‘Yet now I have a new wife, you find it not so fair. Now you do not always get your way. Yet if you were wed, you would run your own household.’

  ‘Now you have a new wife,’ she said after him. ‘You went winters enough without a wife before: life was better then. Why did I not go to the Althing last summer? Orvar-Odd might have seen to those sheep.’

  Olaf coughed again. The sun was wheeling down in the west, and the shadows grew and gathered up around them, stretching toward the cliff beyond. ‘You do not give Gudruda what you ought, Swanhild. Kindly she is and strong—stronger than I, though you will gainsay that. And when I saw her, then there was an Easterling preaching, and there was such a look in her eye… An old man gets cold in his bed a’nights, and needs a proper helpmeet.’

  ‘Was not Rannveig enough for you?’

  ‘Sweet is Rannveig, and warm-breasted: as fair now as when I first took her to bed. But she has no kin. And tell me then, if you deem her able to run the stead.’

  ‘It is true, she has no head for figures. Yet I did make up for all she lacked.’

  ‘You will not be with me always, daughter. Soon I hope will you meet a man comely and strong enough for your pride; then you will leave, and I will fare on alone. But now I have Gudruda, and need not fear that, and may hope for it as I ought. And who knows? She is still of a childbearing age.’

  ‘Father, tell me again of the first time you met her.’

  He was still for a space, to show he knew it was not Gudruda she had meant. ‘That too is a tale you know better than I,’ he said. ‘I could not tell it fairly now: that is not my mood. Besides, it is not seemly. This is my wedding-eve.’

  She let go his hand and fell still. Then lowly she bade him, ‘Tell me then of Skarphedin Kalfback’s-son.’

  ‘Ah.’ He looked down and took the hem of his tunic in his fist. ‘I feared you would hear of that. He will not come back. A man of such a heart would win great wealth in the courts of kings;—that, or death. What could he look for here?’ The girl said nought, waiting. ‘How much do you remember of him, daughter?’

  ‘Only the name. Nought else.’

  ‘Once he held you on his knee and gave you a field-flower he had plucked: then you blushed, and went to the far side of the fire. Then your mother was yet alive, and Skarphedin a wild, roistering lad. Well: I shall tell you the tale then. That will fit my mood well. You will like it: your mother has a part of it. So I will tell it you, even in the right saga style:

  ‘The beginning of it is that there was a man named Yngvar: he dwelt in Norway in the Uplands. He was a carle there; but his wife died and his herds sickened, and he had little luck withal. One summer he took all his land in fee and got faring to Iceland. That was in the rule of Haakon Athelstane’s-Fosterling; but in the next summer there fell King Haakon at Stord, when Gunnhild’s sons won again the kingdom of Harald Hairfair.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Swanhild, ‘that King I know: Harald bade the English King Athelstane foster him, and Athelstane must swallow that. Was not this Haakon a Cross-man, and would have nought to do with the gods? But then the bonders grumbled, and the men of the Thrandlaw slew the Christ-priests and made the King stand over all blood-offerings. Was he not this one?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Olaf shortly. ‘Yngvar came aland at the Hornfirth. He had cattle and timber but little silver; but he found all the land thereabouts was held.

  ‘Thorold Skeggison was then godi over the Breidamerkur, and was the greatest of landowners in the Side. He was a big man, great of strength and fame: and he harried as a youth all the sea-ways of Norway and the Western Isles, and got great fee therefrom. And Thorold takes in Yngvar for that winter with his kin. Thorold was an Odin’s-man, but Yngvar vowed by none but Thor.

  ‘Thorold was a man not to matched for strength: greatly he loved the glima. That winter he wrestles Yngvar on the ice-pond below the stead. Thorold was so great of bulk he was not to be moved; yet not for that might he budge Yngvar. Then Yngvar went somewhat slowly at Thorold, so the onlookers thought he held off, and called words at him. Then says Thorold, ‘That you should not go light-handed with me, Yngvar: for in nowise can such as you throw me. Never has any man had the putting-down of me, not even the champions of King Erik Bloodaxe.’

  ‘Then Yngvar wiped his nose, and huffs and puffs till his cheeks were all round and red. Then he grips Thorold about the waist, and takes him up and hurls him to the ice. Thereat was a great sound of cracking. But Thorold stood, albeit slowly: shook the snow from his head and owned Yngvar the win. Yngvar says that never had he a harder lifting than that, and it seemed to him his arms were loose in their joints. At that Thorold lightens his mood, and there was cheer again.

  ‘They held drinking-bout then, those next three nights: this was about the Yule. But here Yngvar was nowise an outstanding man, and Thorold drank off his horns quick as curds, and seemed nought the worse for it. Then they had sport with Yngvar, Thorold and his men; Yngvar smiled fondly and let them have their way. At the end of the feast Yngvar gives to Thorold a goodly cloak, of that stuff we call “crimson:” bound it was with a pin of gold-work, and fairer far than any Yngvar was seen to wear. Thorold took this, but said no more than was needful.

  ‘That summer Yngvar let gather his goods, to seek some place where the land was not all taken. But Thorold said that nowise would he let such a man go to another district: gave him land up beyond Breidamerkursfell beneath the Oraefajokull, and it looked over Jokulsa’s lake: that place Yngvar names, Jokullsknoll. Thereafter Yngvar and Thorold were the fastest of friends. Thorold gave Yngvar his son Njal to foster, in hope that Njal should grow up with goodly strength—thus Njal was reared in Yngvar’s hall with Yngvar’s son Skarphedin. And between these brethren too was fair friendship.

  ‘That summer Yngvar drove his cattle up to Jokullsknoll; and he came to a spot in the river where it was full so that the cattle durst not cross. Each time Yngvar drives them to it, then shy they away; then he gathers them again and drives them to it again, and again they shy away. Not Summer’s-day in the Finnmark should be long enough for this.

  ‘It happened Thorold rode by and watched Yngvar. Then Thorold rode down and spoke some words with Yngvar, and asks him how it was. Yngvar tells him. There was a low ford down the stream, but Thorold will not tell him that. “Well,” says he, “so it seemed to me last winter, Yngvar, that you were a stronger man than to be bettered by two cattle.”

  ‘Then Yngvar wiped his nose, and huffs and puffs, and lifted one of the cows in his arms. Then he walks to the stream and takes up the other cow: half over his back they were. Then he wades across the stream, and not even middle-stream is enough to halt his step. He sets the cattle on the far bank, prods them with his stick and went on to Jokullsknoll. And from this they called him Yngvar Kalf-back.

  ‘Skarphedin grew, and was every bit as strong of body as his father; but little work he did on the stead. Yngvar worked each day in the fields, for he had no man to help him. But Skarphedin slept to forenoon, and sat about the hall, and drank and played at draughts. Sometimes Njal went to help Yngvar in the field, but mostly he did as Skarphedin. Thorold called them two coal-biters; but Yngvar said nought.

  ‘One night they sat about the fire and a cow got in Skarphedin’s way. That was the Mother Night, and the snow fell in great dark drifts up on the fell. Skarphedin nudged the cow with his foot but the cow lay down and did not budge. Then Skarphedin put his arms about the cow’s legs and threw it over the fire at the door, so that its head struck against the door-stone and all its brains gushed out: and that was the death of that cow.

  ‘Skarphedin sat him down in place again, and Yngvar said no word. Only Njal said aloud, “It seems to me there will be less milk for us this winter.”

  ‘Then Yngvar did not hold his peace but said, “That was a hard throw, Skarphedin: but somewhat better would it be if you did more with your strength hereabouts than lift cows.”

  ‘Quoth Skarphedin, “Rare is
son unlike his father.” But they spoke no more on that. There was the greatest wonder at Skarphedin’s strength, for he was not yet man-grown.

  ‘That winter they played ball on the ice-pond by Breidamerk. Skarphedin went against Raud, a thrall of Thorold’s and a big man: they were a good match for strength, and there the greatest interest lay. Njal was matched with Einar Four-fingers, a boy much the stronger: self-willful and nasty in anger. Njal was not so big nor strong, but quick and sharp-eyed, and clever at tricks.

  ‘It fell out that Raud hit the ball and Einar went fast to catch it on his bat; it was on this the game hung. But Njal strikes Einar’s bat with his and the ball goes past. Then Einar put down his bat and threw Njal down on the ice and says, “That was a sly trick, but needful. For had I caught the ball I’d have struck it so strongly none would have stopped it.”

  ‘ “You should not have struck it half so strong as this,” says Skarphedin, and smites him with his bat so hard his head broke off his body, and that is his death-sore.

  ‘Then Thorold laughed—I was there to see it—and gave Skarphedin a penny and a blue cloak. “Nor need you worry as to Einar’s kin, nor fines nor lawsuits,” says he, “but I will undertake your defense so that they will be dropped.” Then Njal came back from staring at the body, and Thorold sets them both on the seat opposite his, and toasts the boys thrice. Njal was somewhat pale, but Skarphedin drank his ale like a full man. So they go back to Jokullsknoll for the rest of winter.

  ‘Folk looked for great things from Skarphedin after this; but in the summer he showed no more willingness to work than theretofore. He went up walking on the fells a’nights, and that was thought no good thing. But that summer Njal went oftener out into the fields, and hung about Skarphedin less. Yngvar spoke thankfully to Njal for his help, but for Skarphedin had few words.

  ‘That was late in the hay-making, that a storm came off the glacier, dark and fearsome. Great was the hail and sodden the fields. When it was done, then comes Yngvar back into the hall and flings a mowing-axe at Skarphedin’s feet. Then says he, “The stack would be full high now if you but knew the use of this.”

  ‘Skarphedin took up the mowing-axe and put on his blue cloak; went out of the hall, but said no word.

  ‘There is an outlaw in the fells; Ketil Lambison was his name. He was outlawed for the killing of Flatnose Arnbjorn. Ketil wrote love-verses about Arnbjorn’s wife and Arnbjorn struck him; but Ketil lived from that, and Arnbjorn did not. In the law-court Ketil had no support, for Arnbjorn had been a kinsman of godi Yrsi; and besides, Arnbjorn’s blow was deemed proper after those verses. Afterward Ketil could get no faring out of Iceland, nor none durst shelter him, not even his half-brother. Then he went up into the fells, and he wrought much ill on the wethers and all travelers; and none had thought Ketil a good fighter until now. It was said he was berserk-gang and that no weapon would bite him, and he had offered-up his son to Odin. Yrsi put a price upon his head, of twenty-four ounces of silver, or three marks. And nine men did Ketil slay that went against him.

  ‘Skarphedin fared unto the cave and found him Ketil Lambison. Skarphedin had now twelve winters, but was of such growth you would have took him for a full man: all but his beard. Ketil saw him and laughed and said, “Do they send me women now, and I need not even write them love-verses?”

  ‘ “Yes,” says Skarphedin, “and here in my hands I hold your dowry.” Thereat he rushes upon him and deals him a blow with the mowing-axe, and that was the bane-wound of Ketil Lambison. Then Skarphedin dragged the corpse down to the strand and buried it below the tide-mark, beneath a cairn of stones. Then he went home.

  ‘Then there was peace in the East Firths, and none heard more of Ketil; whereat folk wondered. That was the end of summer, near the winter’s day offering, that a many men went up to the fells, and found the outlaw’s cave. Then one at length went in: he found no Ketil, only his goods. There on the floor was a field-axe, and it was brown with blood, and lay beneath runes upon the wall. So the stave went:

  Weary I was with farm,

  Work fit more for thralls.

  Fared I to the earth-isles

  Fit for more than hay-ties;

  Met the ravens’ cook

  Did mighty sea’s-bestrider

  (The wound-flow would not halt):

  The wand return this winter.

  ‘These were a riddle to them: they had not the wit to read the verses. They went to Thorold and spoke the stave to him. Thorold rises out of his seat and asks to see the field-axe. Straightway he knew it for one of Yngvar Kalfback’s and says, “I have no mind now but that Skarphedin slew Ketil. He it is who merits the fee.”

  ‘From this Skarphedin had great fame, and the greatest love Thorold showed any man. But when the word went to Yrsi he said, “It seems to me that men are grown big with pride, that are nought but the sons of poor men. Surely Skarphedin now will deem himself above all others and unmasterable. But it was the head of Ketil I vowed fee for, and where is that?” And nowise would he pay the silver to Skarphedin unless the body were shown or witnesses to the deed. But the crabs ate Ketil’s body, and so Skarphedin got nought. That next summer some verses went round, and all of them scathed Yrsi vilely; none knew who had made them, but it was thought it was Skarphedin. After this there was coldness between Skarphedin and the men of Yrsi’s district.

  ‘After this Yngvar died; Skarphedin and Njal went and dwelt with Thorold. Thorold set two thralls to work Jokullsknoll, and did not ask Skarphedin to do any work. Thorold tried to get the silver from Yrsi for Skarphedin, and there was a lawsuit; but Yrsi won that, and put sharp words on Thorold, and now is a harshness between the Breidamerkurs and the East Firthers. Afterward matters waxed no better. Skarphedin was the strongest and boldest of men, and a good friend to your mother and me: but still he was a man of short word and long deed. Three men of Yrsi’s he slew, but got off on all suits. Njal was now a clever lawyer, and defended his foster-brother most skillfully; and the end of that was, that those suits not undone on flaws in the proceedings were overcome by Njal’s shrewdness and the strength of his father’s following. But not for this went things any the more peacefully.

  ‘Yrsi had a son, and he was called Hoskuld, and by all men deemed the gentlest of men. One winter was both harsh and long, and many were like to starve. But Hoskuld gave out meal and hay to them. Yrsi betrothed him to Hallgerd, she was the daughter of Vemund Agnar’s son: she was the fairest of maids, and her brow could have matched Balder’s; but hard of heart, and overproud. This saying she laid down to Hoskuld: that he would never have the enjoyment of her until he had paid off these slights against his father. Hoskuld took an oath on it and sought Skarphedin.

  ‘Hoskuld came to Breidamerk, and with him went three men: and they all wore blue cloaks. They found Skarphedin before the door of the hall. Hoskuld held in his hand a birch-switch, and asked if Skarphedin would go apart with him. But Skarphedin laughed and said wolves need not fight hall-dogs without cause. Hoskuld leaned over and laid the switch up against Skarphedin’s cheek so that the blood spurted out. Then he asked whether this were cause enough. Quoth Skarphedin, “Only a slave takes vengeance right away; only a coward never. And I think I see a woman’s skirts behind this.” Now Hoskuld was unwilling to press the matter any further, so he must go back home and seem only the worse for it.

  ‘For three nights Skarphedin abode there at the hall, and seemed very restless. On the third night, Skarphedin takes three men, and rides in secret up to the East Firths. This was of a summer, and men were in the shielings. Hoskuld was there with them. Skarphedin came to the shieling so swift none was ware of him: then he and his men laid up stones against the doors and kept watch so none within might venture forth or reach the privy. Five nights Skarphedin held them so: then scattered their sheep and went back to Breidamerk. Hoskuld was not quick to venture down again; and when he did, then he was made the greatest mock of…’