Sworn Brother

Eight

'It's the strength in his arms that does it,' said Thorstein Galleon to me two weeks later. Grettir and I had finally found a ship, an Icelandic vessel and at a bandit's price, to take us to Tonsberg, where the three of us - Thorstein, Grettir and I - were now seated in the kitchen at Thorstein's farm. 'Look here, see my arm.' And Thorstein rolled back his sleeve. 'People would say that I'm well muscled. But take a look at Grettir's arms. They're more like oxen's hocks. And he's got the strength in his chest and shoulders to back them up. We used to have contests when we were children, seeing who could pick up the heaviest stones or throw them the furthest. Grettir always won and by the time he was in his early teens people started taking bets on whether he could lift a particularly heavy boulder they selected. Yet to look at him you would never know how strong he is. Not until he takes off his tunic, that is. That is why people misjudge him so often. They get into a fight with him or an argument, and finish up the worse off. If Grettir was a big man, massive and fearsome to look at, he would not have half the trouble he seems to attract. People would steer clear.'

Grettir, as usual, was adding little to the conversation. He sat there, listening to his half-brother ramble on. I could see that there was considerable affection between them, though for the

most part it was unspoken. We were lazing away the day, waiting for the captain who had brought us to decide whether he would risk sailing onward to Iceland. My friend had announced that he had decided to go home, even if it meant breaking the terms of his three-year exile. He had confided to me that although his sentence of lesser outlawry still had six months to run, as far as he was concerned the matter was over and done with. He felt he had spent enough time abroad to cancel the blood debt to the Icelandic family of the man he had killed. Now that I knew him better, I realised that his unfinished sentence had become an attraction rather than a deterrent. He was thinking he would gain fame - or notoriety - as the man brave enough to adjust his time of exile out of a sense of self-justice.

When Grettir told Thorstein of his decision to return home, his half-brother pondered the matter for several moments, then said in his deep rumbling voice, 'I doubt that your father will be too pleased to see you, or even speak to you. But remember me to our mother and tell her that I am well and prospering here in Norway. Whatever happens, I want you to know that you can always count on my support. And if worst comes to worst, and you get yourself unjustly killed, I swear that I will hunt down the killer and avenge you. This I pledge.'

Though Grettir had promised our avaricious captain that he would double his usual fee for the passage to Iceland, the skipper had already delayed his departure three times, not because he was fearful of Grettir's bad luck, but because he was uneasy about running into a late winter gale. He was mercenary but he was also a good seaman. Even now he was aboard his ship in the little creek close below Thorstein's farm, gazing up anxiously at the sky, watching which way the clouds were going, and offering up prayers to Njord, God of the winds and waves. He knew that an open-sea crossing to Iceland was not something to undertake lightly at that time of year.

Sailors give nicknames to their ships. I have sailed on 'Plunger', which pitched badly in the waves; 'Griper' was almost impossible to sail close to the wind, and 'The Sieve' obviously needed constant bailing. The ship we now expected to carry us to Iceland was known to her crew as 'The Clog'. The man who had built her many years earlier had intended a vessel nearly twice the size and he had constructed the fore part of the ship before realising that he was running out of funds. Iceland has no ship-building timber, and the wood for her vessels has to be imported from Norway. The price of timber soared that year, and 'The Clog's' builder was already deep in debt. So he had truncated his ship, making her stern with whatever material he had left over. The result was that the bow of 'The Clog' was a fine, sea-kindly prow. But the stern was a sorry affair, stunted, clumsy and awkward. And it turned out to be nearly the death of us.

Her captain knew that he needed six days of settled weather to make his passage in 'The Clog', as she was such a slow and heavy sailer. 'We could be lucky and have a week of favourable east winds at this season,' he said, 'but then again it can turn nasty in a few hours and we'd be in real trouble.'

Eventually his weather sense, or perhaps his enthusiasm for our passage money, persuaded him that the right moment had come and we set sail. At first everything went well. The east wind held and we plodded west, passing through an area where we saw many whales and knew we had cleared the rocks and cliffs of Farroes. Though I was a paying passenger, I took my turn to prepare meals on the flat hearth stone at the base of the mast, and I helped to handle sails, bail out the bilges, and generally showed willing. Grettir, by contrast, sank into one of his surly moods. He lay about the deck, wrapped in his cloak and picking the most sheltered spots, where he was in the way of the working crew. Even when it was obvious that he was a hindrance, he refused to shift, and the vessel's regular eight-man crew were too frightened of his brawler's reputation to kick him out of the way. Instead they glared at him, made loud remarks about lazy louts and generally worked themselves into a state of rightful indignation about his idleness. Grettir only sneered back at them and called them lubberly clowns, no better than seagoing serfs. Being Grettir's friend and companion I was thoroughly embarrassed by his churlish behaviour, though I knew better than to interfere. Anything I said when he was in that sullen mood was likely to make him even more obstinate. So I put up with the scornful remarks of my shipmates when they enquired how I managed to maintain a friendship with such a boor. I held my tongue and remembered how, without Grettir's intervention, I would probably have ended my life in a Nidaros tavern brawl.

'The Clog' trudged along. Despite her age, she was doing all that was asked of her thanks to the hard-working crew and the good weather. Unfortunately, though, the weather proved a cruel fraud. The same east wind which was pushing us along our route so satisfactorily, gradually grew in strength. At first no one complained. The increase in the wind was by small degrees and easily handled. The crew reduced sail and looked pleased. 'The Clog' was now moving through the water as fast as any of them could remember and in the right direction. In the evening the wind strength rose a little more. The sailors doubled the ropes which supported the single mast, lowered the mainyard a fraction, and checked that there was nothing loose on deck that might roll free and do damage. The younger mariners began to look slightly apprehensive. During the third night at sea we began to hear the telltale sound of the wind moaning in the rigging, a sign that 'The Clog' was coming under increasing stress. When dawn broke, the sea all around us was heaving in rank upon rank of great waves, their tops streaked with foam. Now the older members of the crew began to be concerned. They checked the bilges to see how much water was seeping through the hull's seams. The ship was labouring, and if you listened closely you could hear the deep groans of the heavier timbers in contrast to the shrieking clamour of the wind. By noon the captain had ordered the crew to take down the mainsail entirely and rig a makeshift storm sail on a short spar just above deck level. This storm sail was no bigger than a man's cloak, but by then the wind had risen to such strength that the tiny sail was enough to allow the helmsman to steer the ship. Only the captain himself and his most experienced crewman were at the rudder because each breaking wave was threatening to yaw the ship and send her out of control. In those vile conditions there was no question of trying to steer our intended course, nor of heaving to and waiting for the gale to blow itself out. 'The Clog' was too clumsy to ride the waves ahull. They would roll her. Our best tactic was to steer directly downwind, allowing the great waves to roll harmlessly under her.

This was when the original failure of her construction began to tell. A deep-sea merchant ship, properly built to our favoured Norse design, would have had a neat stern, so she rose effortlessly to the following waves, as a sea-kindly gull sits on the water. But 'The Clog's broad, ugly stern was too ungainly. She did not lift with the waves, but instead squatted down awkwardly and presented a bluff barrier to the force of the sea. And the sea responded in anger. Wave after wave broke violently against that clumsy stern. We felt each impact shake the length of the little vessel. And the crest of every wave came rearing up and toppled onto the deck, washing forward and then cascading into the open hold. Even the least experienced seafarer would have seen the danger: if our vessel took on too much water, she would either founder from the added weight or the swirl of the water in the hold would make her dangerously unstable. Then she would simply roll over and die, taking all of us with her.

Without being told, our crew - myself included — bailed frantically, trying to return the sea water to where it belonged. It was back-breaking, endless labour. We were using wooden buckets, and they had to be hoisted up from the bilge by one man to a helper on deck, who then crossed to the lee rail, emptied the bucket over the side, lurched his way back across the heaving and slippery deck, and lowered back the bucket down to the man working in the bilge. It became a never-ending, desperate cycle as more and more water came gushing in over 'The Clog's' ill-begotten stern. Our skipper did what he could to help. He steered the ship to each wave, trying to avoid the direct impact on the stern, and he ordered the now-useless mainsail to be rigged as a breakwater to divert the crests that leaped aboard. But the respite was only temporary. After a day of unremitting bailing, we could feel 'The Clog' beginning to lose the battle. Hour by hour she became more sluggish, and the man who stood in the bilge to bail was now up to his thighs in water. The previous day he had been able to see his knees. Our ship was slowly settling into her grave.

All the time, as we struggled to save the ship, Grettir lay on deck like a dead man, his face turned to the bulwark, soaked to the skin and ignoring us. It was difficult to credit his behaviour. At first I thought he was one of those unfortunates who are so seasick that all feeling leaves them and they become like the living dead, unable to stir whatever the emergency. But not Grettir. From time to time I saw him turn over to ease his bones on the hard deck. I found his attitude inexplicable and wondered if he was so fatalistic that he had decided to meet calmly whatever death the Norns had decreed him.

But I had mistaken my friend. On the fourth morning of our voyage, after we had passed an awful night, bailing constantly until we were so exhausted that we could scarcely stand, Grettir suddenly sat up and stretched his arms. He glanced over to where we were standing, our eyes red-rimmed with tiredness, muscles aching. There was no mistaking our expressions of dislike as we saw him finally take an interest in our plight. He did not say a word, but got up and walked over to the edge of the open hatch leading to the hold and jumped down. Silendy Grettir held out his hand to the man who was standing there, crotch deep in the water. He took the bailing bucket from him, waved him away, then scooped up a bucket full of water and passed it up to the sailor who had been emptying the bucket over the rail. Grettir made the lift look effortless even though he had to reach above his head. When the bucket was empty, it was handed back and Grettir repeated his action so smoothly and quickly that the full bucket was back on deck level before the startled sailor was ready to receive it. He staggered across the pitching deck and emptied its contents over the side, while my friend stood in the bilge and waited his return. Now Grettir caught my eye and gestured towards a second bucket lashed with its lanyard to the mast step. I saw immediately what he meant, so fetched the bucket and passed it down to him. He filled that bucket, too, and handed it back up to me so I could dump the water over the rail. Back and forth we went, the sailor and I, emptying our buckets as fast as the two of us could cross the deck while Grettir stayed below and went on scooping and filling our loads. When I was too tired to continue, I handed my bucket to a second sailor, as did my workmate. Grettir did not break his rhythm. Nor did he falter when the second pair of helpers had to rest, but kept on filling bucket after bucket with water from the bilge.

He kept up his amazing feat for eight hours, with only a short break after every five hundredth bucket. None of us would have believed such stamina was possible. He was tireless and kept pace with the crew as they worked in relays. The men who had glared and complained about his indolence, now looked at him in awe. Inspired, they found an endurance of their own and worked, turn and turn about, to win the race against the water level in the bilge. Without Grettir, they and their ship would be lost and they knew it. For my part, I knew that Grettir was saving my life for a second time and that I owed him my unswerving friendship.

'The Clog' nearly overshot Iceland altogether as she ran before that tyrannical east wind. When the gale finally eased, our shaken skipper managed to edge his ship into the lee of the land off the Hvit River and we found that, by 'The Clog's' lumbering standards, we had made a record passage. Our sailors went ashore boasting about their prowess, though their greatest applause was reserved for Grettir. He was the hero of the hour. The skipper went so far as to hand him back half our passage money and announced that Grettir was welcome to stay on board as long as he wished. After such a shockingly desperate voyage the skipper vowed that he would keep 'The Clog' safely at anchor until the proper sailing season.

'Why don't you take up his offer, at least for a day or two?' I suggested to Grettir. 'You stay on board. It will give me a chance to go ashore and find out what sort of a reception you may get when people learn that you have returned before completing your three-year exile.'

'Thorgils, you know very well that I don't care what people will do and say. I'm planning to go to see my mother, Gerdis, to bring her news about Thorstein, and find out how the rest of my family is getting on. I left two brothers here in Iceland when I went away, and I fear that I abandoned them just when they needed me most. We were in the middle of a feud with neighbours and there was talk of bloodshed and reprisals. I want to know how that quarrel turned out. If it is unresolved, then perhaps there's something I can do. So I'll find a good, swift horse to carry me across country to our family home.'

'Look, Grettir,' I told him. 'I spent some time in this district when I was a lad and I know the leading chieftain — Snorri Godi. Let me get his opinion about whether there is any way you can get the final part of your sentence waived.'

'It will be a wonder if Snorri Godi is still alive. He must be an old man now,' said Grettir. 'I know his reputation as a shrewd lawgiver. So he's not likely to approve of someone flouting the rules of outlawry.'

'Snorri always treated me fairly,' I answered. 'Maybe he'll agree to act as an intermediary if you offer to pay compensation to the family of the man killed in the quarrel over the bag of food. It wouldn't cost very much because you've already served most of the sentence.'

But when I put that suggestion to Snorri Godi two days later, his response came as a body blow. He said quietly, 'So you haven't heard the Althing's decision?'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

I had travelled a day's journey to Snorri's substantial farmhouse, and the farm looked even more prosperous than I remembered it. Snorri himself now had a head of snow-white hair, but his eyes were as I remembered them — grey and watchful.

'At the last meeting of the Althing, Thorir of Gard, the father of those lads who died in the fire in Norway, brought forward a new complaint against Grettir. He accused him of murdering his sons in a deliberate act. He was very persuasive and provided complete details of the outrage. He contended that the deed was so foul that Grettir should be declared skogarmadur.'

The word skogarmadur dismayed me. In Iceland it is never used in jest. It means 'a forest man', and describes someone found guilty of a crime so repugnant that the offender is condemned to live outside civilised society for ever. It means full outlawry and banishment for life. If the annual lawgiving assembly of the Icelanders, the Althing, passes such a sentence, there can be neither an appeal nor a pardon.

'No one at the Althing wanted to convict Grettir of such a heinous crime without hearing his side of the affair,' Snorri went on, 'but there was no one to speak up for him, and Thorir was so vehement that in the end Grettir was made a full outlaw. Now there is nothing that can be done to reverse the verdict. You'd better go back and warn your friend Grettir that every man's hand is against him. He will be hunted down like vermin. Anyone who meets him is entitled to kill him, casually or deliberately. In addition, Thorir is offering a handsome reward to anyone who executes him.'

'But what about Grettir's family?' I asked 'Weren't they represented at the Althing? Why didn't they speak up for him?'

'Grettir's father died while his son was abroad. And the most competent of his brothers, Adi, whom everyone liked and would have listened to, was killed in that deadly feud which the Asmundarsons are pursuing with the faction led by Thorbjorn Oxenmight. And, Thorgils, you'd better be careful too. Don't let yourself get drawn into that feud because of your relationship with Grettir. Remember that the law states that anyone who helps or harbours a forest man is an accessory to his crime and therefore forfeits his own goods. My advice to you is to have as little as possible to do with Grettir in the future. Once you have delivered your message to him, put as much space as possible between yourself and your murderous friend. Go and build yourself a normal life. Why don't you settle down, get married, raise a family, find your place in a community?'

I was aghast. Grettir had come home believing that he was entitled to live a normal life. Instead he stood condemned in his absence of a crime which I was convinced he did not commit. The effect of such injustice on his already brooding character would be calamitous. He would find himself even further isolated from normal society.

I knew that his chances of survival were negligible. No forest man had ever lived to old age unless he fled abroad and never returned to Iceland. In effect I had lost my friend. It was as if he was already dead.

To my surprise Grettir was not in the least perturbed to hear that he been declared a skogarmadur. 'Cheer up, Thorgils,' he said. 'Don't look so glum. If they are going to hunt down and kill their outlaw, they'll have to catch me first. I have no intention of running away and I've friends and allies in Iceland who'll ignore the Althing's decision and give me food and a roof over my head when I need it. I'll just have to be careful when I call on my mother. I'll have to do that in secret. Then I'll see how matters turn out once people hear that Grettir the Strong is back.'

'I'll go with you,' I said.

'No you won't, my friend,' he replied. 'Snorri was wise in that regard. You really ought to try settling down. You are at the right age for marriage, and you should look around for a wife and perhaps start a family. If I need your help, then I'll call on you for it. In the meantime I can look after myself very adequately.'

The two of us were standing on the brow of a low hill overlooking the anchorage where 'The Clog' was riding at anchor. In contrast to the foul weather of our voyage from Norway, it was a warm and sunny day, almost spring-like. I had suggested to Grettir that we walk up there as I had important news to tell him in private. Grettir reached down to pluck a wisp of grass, and tossed it nonchalantly into the air as if he didn't have a care in the world. The breeze caught the blades of grass and carried them away. 'I like this country,' he said. 'It's my home, and no man will chase me away from it. I believe I can live off this land and it will take care of me.'

'You'll need more than just the ability to live off the land,' I said.

'There's a saying that goes "Bare is the back of the brother-less,"' Grettir answered. He was carrying the sword we had plundered from the barrow grave, and now he pulled it from its scabbard and used the point to carve out a long strip of turf. He did not cut the ends but left them attached to the ground. Then he picked up his spear — since the attack at the tavern he never went anywhere unless fully armed — and used it to prop up the strip of turf so that it formed an arch. 'Here, hold out your right hand,' he said to me. When I did so, he delicately drew the blade of his sword across the palm of my hand. It felt like the touch of a feather, yet the blood began to flow. He shifted the sword to his left hand, to make a similar cut on his right palm. He held out his hand, and our palms met and the blood mingled. Then we ducked under the arch of turf, straightening up as we emerged on the other side. 'Now we are fostbraedralag,' said Grettir. 'We are sworn brothers. It is a loyalty that cannot be sundered as long as either of us is alive.'

Looking back on that ceremony under the arch of turf, I realise that it was another of the defining moments of my adult life. I, who had never really known my mother and whose father had been aloof and distant, had found true kindred at last. Had my life been otherwise, perhaps I would have natural brothers and sisters or, in the manner of many Norse families, I would have been fostered out and gained an alternative family of foster-brothers and -sisters with whom I could have been close and intimate. But that never happened. Instead I had gained a sworn brother by a decision made between two adults and that made our bond even stronger.

"Well, sworn brother,' said Grettir with a mischievous glint in his eye, 'I've got my first request of you.'

'What's that?' I asked.

'I want you to help me steal a horse.'

So before the next daybreak Grettir and I dressed in dark clothes and crept to a meadow where he had seen a handsome black mare. Under cover of darkness, we managed to coax the mare away from the herd, far enough for Grettir to put a bridle on her, jump on her back and begin his journey home. Thus a friendship which began with grave robbery celebrated its formal recognition with a horse theft.

Writing this memoir of my life I now come to one of its less happy episodes, namely my first marriage. Brief and cheerless, that marriage now seems so distant that I have to strain to recall the details. Yet it was to have important consequences and that is why I must include it in my tale.

Her name was Gunnhildr. She was four years older than myself, taller by half a head and tending to overweight, with milky pale skin, blonde hair of remarkable fineness and pale blue eyes which bulged when she was angry. Her father was a moderately well-to-do farmer up in the north-west district, and while he was far from pleased with the match, he knew it was the best that could be managed. His daughter, the third of five, had recently been divorced for reasons which I never fully discovered. Perhaps I should have taken this as a warning and been more cautious, for — as I was to find out — it is far easier for a woman to divorce a man in Norse society than the other way around and divorce can be a costly affair — for the man.

Before a marriage is agreed in Iceland, two financial settlements are made. One comes from the bride's family and is a contribution to the couple to help them get started. That investment remains the bride's property. If the marriage fails, she keeps it. By contrast the price put into the marriage by her husband's

side, the mundur, is held as common property, and in the event of divorce may be claimed by the bride if she can show that her husband was in any way at fault. Understandably, the haggling between the families of groom and bride over the size of the mundur can take up a considerable time before a marriage, but should the marriage collapse, the rancour over which partner was at fault takes even longer.

Why did I get married? I suppose it was because Grettir had recommended it and Snorri Godi, who was regarded as a very astute man, had done the same. That, at least, would have been my superficial reason, but deeper down I suppose that Grettir's departure to seek his own family had left me feeling insecure. Also Snorri, after making the initial suggestion, then proceeded actively to find me a wife, which left me little option. Like many men who are approaching the loss of their prestige and power, he could not resist meddling in the affairs of others, however insignificant they might be.

And I was certainly insignificant. Born illegitimate and sent away by my mother at the age of two to a father who had remarried and largely ignored me, I could offer neither support nor prospects to a wife. Nor would it have been wise to tell her that I was sworn brother to the most notorious outlaw in the land. So, instead, I kept quiet and let Snorri do the negotiating for me. I suppose his reputation as the foremost chieftain of the district was in my favour, or perhaps he had some hidden understanding with Gunnhildr's father, Audun. Whatever the background, Snorri invited me to stay at his home while he arranged the details, and all went smoothly until the matter of mundur came up. Old Audun, a grasping and pompous man if there ever was one, asked what bride price I was prepared to pay for what he called his 'exquisite daughter'. If Odinn had been kinder to me at that moment, I would have said that I was penniless and the negotiations would have collapsed. As it was, I foolishly offered to contribute a single jewel, but one so rare that nothing like it had been seen in Iceland. Audun was sceptical at first, then curious, and when I melted down the clumsy lead bird of my amulet and produced the fire ruby he looked amazed.

The greater impact was made on his daughter. The moment Gunnhildr saw that gem she had to have it. She was determined to flaunt it before her sisters. It was her way of paying them back for years of spiteful remarks about her frumpiness. And once Gunnhildr decided that she wanted something nothing would stop her, as her father well knew. So the last of old Audun's objections to our marriage disappeared and he agreed to the match. My future in-laws agreed to provide Gunnhildr and myself with a small outlying farmstead as her dowry, while the gem was my mundur. At the last moment, either because the thought of parting with my talisman and its association with my life in England was so painful, or because of a premonition, I made Gunnhildr and Audun agree that if the marriage failed I would be allowed to redeem the jewel on payment of a sum which was the equivalent value of the farmstead. The price of the gem was set at thirty marks of silver, a sum that was to cloud my next few years.

Our wedding was such a subdued affair that it was barely noticed in the neighbourhood. Even Snorri was absent, having taken to his bed with an attack of fever and Gunnhildr dressed up only in order to display the fire ruby. I was taken aback to discover that the ceremony was to be conducted by an itinerant priest. He was one of those Christian holy men who had begun to appear in increasing numbers in the countryside, travelling from farm to farm to persuade the women to accept their faith and baptise their children, and railing all the while against what they described as the barbaric and heathen Old Ways. During the wedding ceremony I realised that my bride was a rabid Christian. She stood beside me, sweating slightly in her wedding finery, and calling out the responses in her unmelodious voice so devoutly and harshly that I knew she believed the priest's every incantation. Now and again, I noticed, she fondled the fire ruby possessively as it dangled between her ample breasts.

The wedding feast was as skimpy as my father-in-law could get away with, and then my wife and I were conducted to our farmstead by a small group of her relatives, then left alone. Later that evening Gunnhildr made it clear that physical relations between us were out of the question. She had given herself to the White Christ, she informed me loftily, and close contact with a non-believer like myself was repugnant to her. It was a reaction which I did not care to challenge. On the walk to our new home I had been pondering on the fact that my marriage was probably the worst mistake I had yet made in my life.

Matters did not improve. I quickly learned that my in-laws' wedding gift of the farmstead was self-serving in the extreme. The farm lay just too distant from their own home for them to work it themselves. My father-in-law had been too parsimonious to hire a steward to live there and run it, and too jealous of his neighbours to rent them the lands and pasture. By installing a compliant son-in-law he thought he had found his ideal solution. I was expected to bring the farm into good order, then hand on to him a significant portion of the hay, meat or cheese it produced. In short, I was his lackey.

Nor did Gunnhildr intend to spend much time there with me. Once she had acquired a husband or, rather, once she had got her hands on the fire ruby, she reverted to her previous way of life. To her credit she was a competent housekeeper, and she was quick to clean up the farmhouse, which had been left unoccupied for several years and make the place habitable in a basic way. But then she began to spend more and more time back at her parent's house, staying the nights there on the excuse that it was too far to return to her marital home. Or she went off on visits to her gang of women friends. They were an intimidating group. All were recent and ardent converts to Christianity, so they spent a good deal of their time congratulating one another on the superior merits of their new faith and complaining of the coarseness of the one they now spurned.

I must admit that Gunnhildr would have found me a thoroughly unsatisfactory helpmeet had she stayed at home. I was completely unsuited to farm work. I found it depressing to get up every morning and pick up the same tools, walk the same paths, round up the same cattle, cut hay from the same patch, repair the same rickety outhouse and return to the same lumpy mattress, which, thankfully, I had to myself. To put it bluntly, I preferred Gunnhildr in her absence because I found her company to be shallow, tedious and ignorant. When I compared her to Aelfgifu I almost wept with frustration. Gunnhildr had an uncanny ability to interrupt my thoughts with observations of breathtaking banality, and her sole interest in her fellow humans appeared to be based on their financial worth, an attitude she doubtless learned from her money-grubbing father. To spite him, I did as little work on the farm as possible.

Naturally the other farmers in the area, who were hardworking men, thought me a good-for-nothing and shunned my company. So rather than stay and mind the cattle and cut hay for the winter, I went on excursions to visit my mentor Thrand, who had instructed me in the Old Ways when I was in my teens. Thrand lived only half a day's travel away and, compared with white-haired Snorri, I found him remarkably little changed. He was still the gaunt, soldierly figure whom I remembered, plainly dressed and living simply in his small cabin with its array of foreign trophies hung on the wall. He greeted me with genuine affection, telling me that he had heard that I was back in the district. He had not attended my wedding, he added, because he found it difficult to support the prating of so many Christians.

We slipped back easily into the old routine of tutor and pupil. When I told Thrand that I had become a devotee of Odinn in his role as traveller and enquirer, he suggested I memorise the Havamal, the song of Odinn, 'Let the Havamal be your guide for the future,' he suggested. 'In cleaving to Odinn's words you will find wisdom and solace. Your friend Grettir, for example: he wants to be remembered for what he was, for his good repute, and Odinn has something to say on that very subject,' and here Thrand quoted:

'Cattle die, kinsmen die,

you yourself die,

But words of glory never die

for the man who achieves good name.

'Cattle die, kinsmen die,

you yourself die.

I know one thing that never dies,

the fame of each man dead.'

On another day, when I made some wry comment about Gunnhildr and her disappointing behaviour, Thrand promptly recited another of Odinn's verses:

'The love of women whose hearts are false is like driving an unshod steed over slippery ice, a two-year-old, frolicsome, badly broken, or like being in a rudderless boat in a storm.'

This led me to ask, 'Have you ever been married yourself?'

Thrand shook his head. 'No. The idea of marriage never appealed to me, and at an age when I might have married, it was not allowed.'

'What do you mean "not allowed"?'

'The felag, the fellowship, forbade it and I took my vows seriously.'

'What fellowship was that?' I asked, hoping to learn something of Thrand's enigmatic past, which the old soldier had never talked about.

But Thrand said only, 'It was the greatest of all the felags, at that time at least. It was at the height of its glory. Now, though, it is much reduced. Few would believe how much it was once admired throughout the northern lands.'

On occasions like this I had the feeling that Thrand sensed that the beliefs he held, and had taught me, were in final retreat, that an era was drawing to a close.

'Do you think that Ragnarok, the great day of reckoning, is soon?' I asked him.

'We haven't yet heard Heimdall the watchman of the Gods blow the Gjallahorn to announce the approach of the massed forces of havoc,' he answered, 'but I fear that even with his wariness Heimdall may overlook the closer danger. His hearing may be so acute that he can hear the grass growing, and his sight so keen that he can see a hundred leagues in every direction by day or night, but he does not realise that true destruction often creeps in disguise. The agents of the White Christ could prove to be the harbingers of a blight just as damaging as all the giants and trolls and forces of destruction that have been foretold for so long.'

'Can nothing be done about it?' I asked.

'It is not possible to bend fate, nor can one stand against nature,' he replied. 'At first I thought that the Christians and the Old Believers had enough in common to be able to coexist. We all believe that mankind is descended from just one man and one woman. For the Christians it is Adam and Eve, for us it is Ask and Embla, whom Odinn brought to life. So we agree on our origins, but when it comes to the afterlife we are too far apart. The Christians call us pagans and dirty heathens because we eat horseflesh and make animal sacrifice. But, for me, a greater filthiness is to dig a pit for the corpse of a warrior and put him in the ground to be eaten by worms and turned to slime. How can they do that? A warrior deserves his funeral pyre, which will send his spirit to Valholl to feast there until he joins the defenders on the day of Ragnarok. I fear that if more and more warriors take the White Christ faith, there will be a sadly depleted army to follow Odin, Frey and Thor at the great conflict.'

Throughout that summer and autumn I heard reports of my sworn brother Grettir. His exploits were the main topic of conversation among the farmers of the region. Whenever I called

on my father-in-law, Audun, to discuss my progress with the out-farm, I was regaled with the latest episode in Grettir's deeds. Audun's gossip made my visits bearable because I was missing my sworn brother, though I was very careful not to reveal that I knew that 'cursed outlaw', as Audun called him. I learned that Grettir had succeeded in visiting his mother without alerting anyone else in the household. He had called at her house after dark, approaching the farmhouse along a narrow ravine that led to the side door, from where he found his way along the unlit passage to the room where his mother slept. With a mother's intuition she had identified the intruder in the darkness, and after greeting him had told him the dismal details of how Atli his older brother had been murdered by Thorbjorn Oxenmight and his faction. Grettir had then hidden in his mother's house until he was able to confirm that Thorbjorn Oxenmight was on his own farm and accompanied by only his farm workers.

'And do you know what that scoundrel Grettir did then?' said Audun, snorting with indignation. 'He rode right over to the Oxenmight's place, in broad daylight, a helmet on his head, a long spear in one hand and that fancy sword of his at his belt. He came on Oxenmight and his son working in the hayfields, gathering up the early hay and stacking it. They recognised Grettir at once and knew why he had come. Fortunately they had brought their weapons with them to the meadow, and so Thorbjorn and his lad devised what they thought was an effective defence. Oxenmight would confront Grettir to distract him, while his son armed with an axe worked his way round behind the outlaw and struck him in the back.'

'And did the plan work?'

My father-in-law let out the self-satisfied grunt of a storyteller who knows he has his audience on tenterhooks. 'It nearly did,' he said. 'A servant woman saw the whole affair. She saw Grettir stop, then sit down on the ground and start fiddling with the head of the spear. Apparently he was removing the pin which holds the spear head to the shaft. If he missed his throw, he didn't want

Oxenmight pulling the spear out of the ground and using it against him. But when Grettir threw the spear at Oxenmight the head came off too early and the spear went harmlessly astray. That left Grettir armed with his sword and a small shield against the grown man and the youth. Oxenmight did not get his name for nothing, so it seemed that the odds were now against Grettir.'

'I've heard that Grettir is not the sort of man to back off from a fight,' I said.

'He didn't. Grettir went up to Oxenmight and the two men started to circle one another, holding their swords. Oxenmight's lad saw his chance to slip around behind Grettir and bury the axe in his spine. He was just about to make his stroke when Grettir lifted up his sword to hack at Oxenmight and saw the lad out of the corner of his eye. Instead of bringing the sword forwards, he kept swinging it up and over and brought it down back-handed on the boy's head. The blow split the lad's skull like a turnip. Meanwhile his father had seen his opening and rushed forward, but Grettir deflected his sword blow with his shield, and then took a cut at his opponent. That Grettir is so strong that his sword smashed right through Oxenmight's shield as if it was made of straw, and struck his opponent in the neck. Killed him on the spot. Grettir returned immediately to his mother's house and announced to her that he had avenged the death of her oldest son Atli. She was delighted and told Grettir that he was a worthy member of her family, but that he had better be careful as Oxenmight's people would be sure to seek retribution.'

'Where's Grettir now?' I asked, trying not to seem too interested.

'Can't be sure,' Audun answered. 'He went over to see Snorri Godi and asked if he could stay there, but Snorri turned him down. There's a rumour that Grettir is hiding out with one of the farmers over in Westfiords.'

Later my obnoxious father-in-law informed me that Grettir had surfaced on the moors, living rough and keeping himself fed by making raids on the local farmsteads or sheepstealing. He was moving from place to place, usually alone but sometimes in the company of one or two other outlaws.

It was not until the spring that I met Grettir again and then completely unexpectedly. I was on my way to visit Thrand when I encountered a large group of farmers, about twenty of them. From their manner I saw at once that they were very excited, and to my surprise I saw Grettir among them. He was in the middle of the group, being led along on a rope with his hands tied behind his back.

'Can you tell me what's going on?' I asked the farmer at the head of the group.

'It's Grettir the Strong. We finally caught him,' said one of the farmers, a big, red-faced man dressed in homespun clothes. He was looking very pleased with himself. 'One of our shepherds reported seeing him on the moors, and we got together and stalked him. We had been suffering from his raids and he had got overconfident. He was asleep when we found him, and we managed to get close enough to overpower him, though a couple of us got badly bruised in the scuffle.'

'So where are you taking him?' I asked.

'We can't decide,' said the farmer. 'No one wants to take charge of him until we can bring him before our local chieftain for judgement. He's too strong and violent, and he would be a menace if kept captive.'

I glanced over at Grettir. He was standing, with his hands still bound behind his back and looking stone-faced. He did not acknowledge that he knew me. The rest of the farmers had halted and were continuing with what was obviously a long-running argument, whether to hand Grettir over to Thorir of Gard for the reward or to the local chieftain for a trial.

'Let's hang him here and now,' said one of the captors. Judging by the bruise on his face, he was one of the men whom Grettir had hit during the capture. 'That way, we can take the corpse to Thorir of Gard and claim the reward.' There was a murmur of agreement from some of his companions, though the rest were looking doubtful. In a few moments they would reach a decision and there would be no chance to influence them.

'I want to speak up for Grettir,' I called out. 'I sailed with him last year, and if he hadn't been on board our ship would have foundered. He saved my life and the lives of the rest of the crew. He's not a common criminal and he was convicted at the Althing without a chance to defend himself. If any of you have suffered from his robberies, I promise I will make good the loss.' Then I had an inspiration. 'It will be to your credit if you are generous enough to spare his life. People will talk about how magnanimous you were and remember the deed. I suggest that you make Grettir swear that he will move away from this district, and not prey on you any more. And that he'll not take his revenge on any one of you. He's a man of honour and will keep his word.'

It was the mention of honour and fame that swayed them. In every farmer, however humble, there lurked a shred of that same sense of honour and thirst for fame that Grettir had expressed to me. There was a general muttering as they discussed my proposal. It became clear that they were relieved that they would not have the dirty work of taking the outlaw's life. Finally — after a long and awkward pause - their spokesman accepted my suggestion.

'All right, then,' he said. 'If Grettir clears off and agrees never to trouble us again, we'll let him go.' Looking at Grettir, he asked, 'Do you give us your word?'

Grettir nodded.

Someone untied Grettir's bonds, loosening the knots cautiously and then stood back.

Grettir rubbed his wrists and then walked across to embrace me. 'Thank you, sworn brother,' he said. Then he stepped aside from the path and struck out across the moor.

Grettir kept his word to the farmers. He never came back into the district, but stayed away and made his home in a cave on the far side of the moor. For my part, the revelation that I was Grettir's sworn brother put an end to my quiet life. Some of my neighbours now looked at me with curiosity, others gave me a wide berth, and Gunnhildr flew into a rage. When she heard what had happened, she confronted me. Not only was I an unbeliever, she shrilled, I was consorting with the worst sort of criminals. Grettir was the spawn of the devil, a creature of Satan. He was twisted and evil. She had heard that he was a warlock, in touch with demons and ghouls.

Accustomed to my wife's ready grievances, I said nothing, and was vaguely relieved when she announced that she would in future live with her parents, and that if I continued my friendship with Grettir she would seriously consider a divorce.

My promise to pay compensation to the farmers Grettir had robbed contributed significantly to Gunnhildr's anger. The truth was that I could not afford the reparations. I was penniless and little more than a tenant for my father-in-law. Gunnhildr was very much her father's daughter, so prising money out of her grasp in order to pay the farmers was nigh impossible. It was useless to ask if she would let me use any of our joint property to settle the farmers' claims, and the only item of value which I had ever owned - the fire ruby - was now Gunnhildr's mundur, and no longer mine, even as surety for a loan. For a few days after my encounter with Grettir I was hopeful that his victims would not hold me to my promise, and I would see nothing more of them. But though the farmers had an appetite for honour and renown, they were still peasants at heart and they valued hard cash. A succession of men showed up at my door, claiming that they had been robbed by my sworn brother and asking for recompense. One said he had been held up on the roadway and his horse stolen from him; another that valuable clothing had been stripped from him at knife point; several claimed that Grettir had rustled their sheep and cattle. Of course there was no way of knowing whether their claims were genuine. The sheep and cattle might have wandered off on their own, and I was fairly sure that the values the owners put on their losses were often exaggerated. But I had appealed to their sense of honour when obtaining Grettir's freedom and, after taking such a high-minded stance, I was hardly in a position to quibble over the precise cost of their claims. I found myself faced with a sum that I had no hope of paying off.

Thrand, of course, had heard what had happened. On my next visit to his house, he noticed that I looked distracted and asked the reason. When I told him that I was worried about my debts, he merely asked, 'How much is it that you owe?'

'A little less than seven marks in all,' I said.

He walked across to his bed where it stood against the wall, reached underneath and pulled out a small, locked chest. Placing it on the table between us, he produced a key. When he threw back the lid, I found myself looking at a sight I had last seen when I had worked for Brithmaer the moneyer. The strong box was two-thirds full of silver. Very little was in coin. I saw bits and fragments of jewellery, segments of silver tores, broken pieces of silver plate, half a silver brooch, several flattened finger rings. They were jumbled together where Thrand had tossed them casually into his hoard chest. From my days as a novice monk I recognised part of a silver altar cross, and — with a little lurch of my heart — I saw a piece of jewellery inscribed with the same sinuous writing that had been on the silver coins of Aelfgifu's favourite necklace.

'You know how to use this, I imagine,' Thrand asked, picking something out from the clutter. At first sight I thought it was one of the metal styluses that I had used in my writing lessons in the monastery. But Thrand was searching for two more items. When he put them together I recognised a weighing scale, similar to the ones that Brithmaer had used, but smaller and constructed so that it could be dismantled, suitable for a traveller.

'Here,' Thrand said. 'Hold these.'

He sifted through his hoard, picking out the pieces for me to weigh as I told him how much I owed to each farmer. Once or twice, when he could not find a piece of silver that matched the sum, he took out his sword, laid a larger piece of silver on the table, and chopped off the correct weight. 'That's how we did it in the old days,' he commented, 'when we divided up the spoils. No bothering with coins; a mark of silver is just as good by weight as when it is stamped with a king's head.' Sometimes more so, I thought, remembering Brithmaer's forgeries.

I was tactful enough not to ask Thrand where he had acquired his treasure and said only, 'I give you my word that I will repay your generosity when I have the chance.'

In reply he said, 'This is a gift, Thorgils. It does me no good locked away here in a box,' and he quoted the Havamal again:

'If wealth a man has won for himself

Let him never suffer in need

Oft he saves for a foe what he plans for a friend

For much goes worse than we wish.'

When I had paid off the last of Grettir's victims, I decided it was time to pay a visit to my sworn brother. I had no idea where to find him, so I set off across the moors in the direction that he had taken when I had saved him from the angry farmers. As it turned out, Grettir saw me coming from a distance away. He had made his lair in a cave on high ground, from where he could keep a watch for the approach of strangers, and he came down the hillside to greet me. He led me back to his cave, the two of us scrambling up a near-vertical rock face to reach his home. He had hung a grey blanket across the entrance, the colour matching the rock so that you did not realise that the cave was there until you were a few paces away. Inside were a fireplace, a place to sleep, where he had laid out his leather sleeping sack, and a store of dried food. He took his drinking water from a small rill that drained at the foot of the cliff. When I commented on a pile of fist-sized rocks that he had stacked near the entrance of the cave, he explained that he had collected them to use as missiles. 'If anyone tries to storm the cave,' he said, 'there's only one approach, and that is straight up the cliff. I can keep them at bay for hours.'

I noticed a second leather sleeping sack, thrown in a heap on the far side of the cave. "Who does that belong to?' I asked.

'A man called Stuv Redbeard. He's an outlaw like myself. He's gone off to raid for food. He should be back soon.'

Redbeard returned that evening, carrying a shoulder of dried lamb and a bag of whey he had stolen from an unguarded shepherd's hut. From the moment that I laid eyes on Stuv Redbeard I was worried. There was a shiftiness about him which put me on my guard. When he left the cave for a moment, I took the chance to ask Grettir about him.

'How long have you known Stuv? Do you trust him?' I asked

'Not entirely,' Grettir replied. 'I know there are men who would kill me for the price on my head. Last autumn a man came to the moor and joined me, claiming to be an outlaw like myself and needing shelter. One night he crept up on me, thinking I was asleep. He had a dagger in his hand, and intended to stab me, but I awoke in time, and managed to grab the weapon from him. I made him confess that he was a professional killer, hoping to win my blood money from Thorir of Gard.'

'Thorir is offering twenty-four marks of silver for your head and Oxenmight's family have promised to match that sum for anyone who kills you,' I said. 'It's twice as much as the highest reward ever offered for the death of a skogarmadur.'

'Well, that night creeper didn't get to collect it,' Grettir said. 'I killed him with his own dagger, carried his body over to the nearest lake, weighed the corpse down with stones and dumped him in.'

'So why are you now taking the risk of sharing your lair with that Redbeard? He could also be after the reward money.'

'It's a risk I'm prepared to take,' Grettir replied. 'I make sure that I keep an eye on him, but I would rather have company, however suspect it might be, than live here out on the moors by myself. At least after sunset.'

I remembered that, for all his ferocity and reputation, Grettir was still mortally afraid of the dark. I knew it was useless to try to persuade him that his childish dread was putting his life in danger.

My fears were well-founded. Over the next few weeks I was rarely at my father-in-law's farm as I was spending most of my time on the moor. I brought Grettir regular deliveries of food and clothing, and the two of us would sit for hours at the entrance to the cave, looking out across the moor as I relayed to him news of what was happening in the outside world. Grettir's family and friends had been negotiating with Oxenmight's people in an attempt to settle their feud, and the two sides had agreed that the deaths of Oxenmight and Grettir's brother Atli should cancel each other out. Grettir's supporters even collected enough money to offer a heavy compensation to Thorir of Gard for the death of his sons. But Thorir refused to be placated. Nothing less than Grettir's death would satisfy him.

It was on one of these visits to carry supplies to Grettir that I found the cave unoccupied. It was a warm day and I guessed that he had gone to the nearby lake to bathe and wash his clothes. Leaving my parcel of food, I started off across the moor to find him. The lake lay on the far side of a low rise in the ground. As I came to the top of the slope, I found myself looking down on a shallow expanse of water fringed with reeds and with one or two small islands in the centre. From my vantage point I could see Grettir in the water, far out from the shoreline. Much closer to the bank was his fellow outlaw, Stuv Redbeard. Clearly they had both decided to go for a swim, stripped off their clothes and left them on the bank. I watched Redbeard wade out of the water, return to his pile of clothes and get dressed quickly. There was something about his hasty movements which was suspicious. I saw him pick up his sword, unsheathe it and then slink back to where he could crouch down among the reeds in ambush. The distance was too great for me to shout a warning to Grettir, who was now approaching the landing place. I saw him reach the shallows, stand up and begin to wade towards the bank, pulling at the reeds for support as his feet moved through the slippery lake bottom. He was naked and I realised that this was the moment that Redbeard had been waiting for, perhaps for months. He had Grettir at his mercy.

Even as I watched, I saw Redbeard suddenly rise up from his ambush and the flash of his blade as he slashed at Grettir. Grettir's reaction was astonishingly swift. He must have sensed the blow coming, for he flung himself backwards into the water with a tremendous splash, and the sword stroke missed. Redbeard immediately raised his sword for a second strike. But Grettir had disappeared. The ripples still spread out from where he had flung himself back into the water, and Redbeard stood poised, head thrust forward, watching for his prey to surface, his sword at the ready. He watched and watched, and both of us became increasingly puzzled as Grettir did not reappear. For a moment I wondered whether Grettir had been caught by the tip of the sword and drowned. It was too far for me to see whether there was any blood floating to the surface. The water of the lake was a dark peaty brown, and the only sign of the struggle was the broad patch of dirty yellow where Grettir's feet had disturbed the mud as he fell backwards. This opaque patch was my sworn brother's salvation. As time passed, Redbeard concentrated his gaze in that area.

Then I noticed the reeds quiver a short distance to Redbeard's left. From my vantage point I saw them bend and stir gently: their movement was tracing a line from the water's edge to where Redbeard was standing. I realised that Grettir must have swum underwater to the bank, hauled himself out and was stalking his prey. In his eagerness Redbeard stepped forward, wading up to his knees in the water, still holding his sword with the point downward, ready to stab. But now it was Redbeard who was edging into danger. He was facing the lake, ready to pounce, when Grettir burst from the reeds behind him. I was reminded of the way that the boar had charged from the thicket when I was hunting with Edgar in England. Once again the charging animal was lethal. Grettir, stark naked, flung himself out of the reeds and onto Redbeard's back. The force of the impact knocked Redbeard into the lake. I saw Grettir reach forward right-handed, and pluck the sword from his attacker's hand. Then with his left arm, Grettir spun Redbeard over in the water, and plunged the sword in the man's belly. By then I was running down the slope, heart pounding, until I slithered to a stop beside Grettir and clasped him to me. Redbeard's body lay face down where he had intended my sworn brother to die.

Again, I was more badly shaken by the attack than Grettir. He was so accustomed to violence and assault that he recovered quickly from the ambush. Nevertheless, seeing him so narrowly escape death made me distraught. I was shaking with relief as we walked back together to the cave, leaving his would-be killer's body drifting on the surface of the lake for all to see. 'It will be a warning to others,' Grettir said. 'My whereabouts is not a secret any longer.'

'You'll have to find another refuge,' I told him. 'Staying on the moor is getting too dangerous. Sooner or later, you'll be trapped here and find yourself outnumbered.'

'I know, Thorgils,' he answered. 'I need to find somewhere so remote that no one will plague me, a place where the landowner is discreet and willing to ignore my presence.'

'Why don't we consult your mother? She may know someone who will offer you the hideaway you need. Until we get her answer, come and stay with me. Gunnhildr, my wife, is hardly ever at home. I can smuggle you into the house and you can hide there until we can pick the moment to travel to your mother's place.'

As matters turned out, Grettir stayed with me for more than two weeks. Redbeard's body was found and Oxenmight's friends assembled to make a sweep of the moor nearby, looking for Grettir. They eventually discovered his cave, and I had a feeling that they suspected that I was harbouring the fugitive, for more than once I thought I saw a watcher on the hillside above my house. Only when the hunt had been abandoned did I think it safe for Grettir to make the journey to his mother's home, and even then I insisted that I accompany him in case we encountered trouble on the road.

My caution was justified. We had gone only half a day's travel when we came face to face on the path with a man I recognised. He was one of Snorri Godi's sons, a tall, well-set-up man in his thirties by the name of Thorodd. I remembered him as a rather quiet, decent fellow. Yet as he drew level with us, he suddenly stepped right into Grettir's path, drew his sword and announced, 'Guard yourself, skogarmadur.' I must have gaped with surprise, for I did not remember Thorodd as being the least belligerent.

'What are you doing, Thorodd?' I blurted. 'Don't you recognise me? I'm Thorgils. We used to know one another when I lived at your father's farm.'

'Stay out of this,' he snapped back at me. 'Everyone knows of your association with Grettir. I'll attend to you later. Right now I intend to deal with the outlaw.'

'Don't be mad,' I insisted. 'You've got no quarrel with Grettir. Let us pass on peacefully. Just forget you've seen us.'

For his response, Thorodd struck me hard in the stomach with the pommel of his sword, knocking the wind out of me. I sat down abruptly on the roadside, clutching my guts.

Grettir had not moved until he saw me hit. Then he drew his own sword and waited for Thorodd to strike the first blow. I could see from the way Thorodd advanced on Grettir that he was a competent fighter. The speed and accuracy of the hilt blow that had knocked me down was impressive and I guessed that Thorodd had received enough weapon-training to deal with the average farmer. But Thorodd was not fighting an ordinary opponent. He was attacking the man reputed to be the strongest in Iceland.

Thorodd launched his first blow, a high cut that, if it had landed, would have separated Grettir's head from his shoulders. Almost nonchalantly Grettir raised his small wooden shield and deflected the blow as if he was swatting aside an insect. Thorodd recovered his balance and launched a second stroke, this time aimed at Grettir's legs in the hopes of laming him. Again Grettir warded off the blow, using his sword to block the attack. The two sword blades met with a ringing clash. For his third stroke Thorodd tried using all his strength to swing back-handed at Grettir's right side. Without even moving his feet, Grettir moved his wooden shield across to stop the blow. Thorodd, now panting with exertion, tried a direct stab. He lunged, with the point of his sword aimed at Grettir's belly. Again, the shield blocked the attack.

Thorodd stepped back, calculating how he could get past Grettir's guard. At that moment Grettir decided he had had enough of the onslaught and that his opponent was serious about killing him. In absolute silence, which was more terrifying than if he had given a berserker's battle roar, my sworn brother advanced on Thorodd and rained down on him a series of heavy sword blows that resembled a blacksmith beating on a forge. There was nothing subtle about Grettir's assault. He did not bother to feint or conceal the direction of the next blow, but relied entirely on brute strength. He moved forward, striking downward repeatedly on his hapless victim's defence. Thorodd raised his shield to block the blows, but each time Grettir's sword struck the shield I saw the arm shake beneath it and Thorodd stagger slightly. Grettir could have swung below the shield to cut at Thorodd's body, or struck at Thorodd's head. But he did not bother. He simply hammered on the shield, his blows so fast and so hard that Thorodd was forced to give ground. Step by step Thorodd was driven back, and I saw that Grettir was not even trying to kill his enemy, only to pound him into submission. After twenty or thirty heavy blows, Thorodd could withstand the onslaught no longer. First his shield arm began to droop, then his backward steps became more and more shaky, until he sank to his knees, still desperately trying to keep up his defence. Finally his shield, which had begun to splinter and crack, broke in half, and Thorodd was left kneeling defenceless on the soggy ground.

'Stop!' I shouted at Grettir, for I had got my breath back. But my warning was unnecessary. Now that Grettir had belaboured his opponent into submission, he stood back. He was not even out of breath.

I went across to where Thorodd was still kneeling, his body bowed forward in exhaustion. Putting an arm around his waist, I helped him to his feet.

'What on earth possessed you?' I asked. 'Did you really think that you could defeat Grettir the Strong?'

Thorodd was gasping for air. His shield arm was so numb that it hung uselessly. 'I hoped to win back my father's favour,' he groaned. 'I quarrelled with him so badly that he ordered me out of his house, saying that I had to prove my worth before he would accept me back again. He shouted at me that I had to do something spectacular - like dealing with an outlaw. I had no idea that I would run into Grettir. That was something the Gods put in my way.'

'Go back to your father,' I advised him, 'and tell him what happened. The wreckage of your shield should prove that you are telling the truth, and surely he'll accept that anyone courageous enough to tackle Grettir single-handed has proved his worth. Tell him also that Grettir's quarrel is only with those who have harmed his family. If he has robbed others or caused them injury, the sole motive has been his own survival.'

When Thorodd had limped away, Grettir insisted that I turn back to my house. 'It's less than half a day's walk from here to my mother's place,' he said, 'and that is just where my enemies will be on the lookout for me. It will be easier for one man to approach unobserved than for two of us. And after I have spoken to her and decided where I will go next, I will send you word where to find me.'

'I think we should have some way of checking that any message that passes between us is genuine,' I said. 'Now I have been seen in your company, people may use our friendship to lure you out of hiding and trap you.'

'You're always the clever and cautious one, Thorgils,' said

Grettir with a slight smile. 'Any time a message passes between us, the bearer can begin by quoting one of Odinn's sayings. That should keep you happy.'

I walked back home, worrying that Grettir would fall into an ambush as he approached his mother's house. But it was I who found calamity waiting at my door.

I almost walked right past them without noticing. Only when I was level, within touching distance, did I realise they were there. They were waiting for me and, though they were motionless, they were as dangerous as any killer waiting to pounce with a dagger.

Scorn poles - two of them were planted upright in the ground just beside my front door. I could guess who had erected them there because one was a likeness of myself carved with physical details that only someone intimate could have known. The second wooden pole was less elaborate, but there was no mistaking the broad shoulders of the man it portrayed. To make sure, the carver had scratched in runes the name 'Grettir'. The two poles were adult height, very obviously male, and both faced in the same direction, towards the door. One scorn pole was placed close behind the other, almost touching. The message was explicit, obvious to every passer-by: Grettir and Thorgils were lovers.

My initial shock of comprehension was quickly replaced by cold fury. I was outraged. I felt cheated and damaged, my closest friendship defiled. I knew, of course, that Gunnhildr must have arranged for the scorn poles to be carved and then planted for all to see. It was a public accusation, and — worse — in the same way that the sentence of full outlawry can never be appealed against, so the public accusation of man-love can never be effectively denied if it is made from within a marriage. In that regard I now shared Grettir's fate: he had been found guilty of a crime he did not commit and which he had no opportunity to deny; I had been accused unjustly of acts against which there was no way to defend myself.

Disgusted, I pushed open the door of the house and gathered up a few clothes, thrusting them angrily into a travelling satchel.

I vowed that I would never again enter that odious house, or work one more hour on the farm for old Audun's benefit, or speak to my treacherous wife. Slinging the satchel over my shoulder, I stormed out of the building feeling utterly betrayed.

Of course I went to Thrand. Of all the people who had ever guided and advised me, Thrand had always been the most staunch. When I told him about the scorn poles and asked how I could fight back against the slur, he brought me to my senses.

'The more you stamp on a turd,' he said bluntly, 'the further it spreads. Let the matter alone, there's nothing you can do about it.'

It was good advice, but I was too angry and resentful to accept it outright.

'What about Grettir?' I said. 'Should I tell him? And how will he react?'

'Grettir's got far more serious threats to think about,' said Thrand. 'Of course, he will get to know about the scorn poles like everyone else. All you can do is make sure that he hears the news before it is common gossip. Then it is for him to decide if he wants to do anything about it. But, as I said, a public denial is useless. Let the matter drop, ignore it, wait for the uproar to die down and for the next new scandal to erupt and smother it. If you tell me where to find him, I'll go to see Grettir and talk with him.'

'He'll still be hiding out at his mother's house,' I replied. 'Should I do anything about Gunnhildr?'

'Well, for a start you can expect that she will bring divorce proceedings against you. She's probably lined up some hostile witnesses already, rehearsing them to appear at the next district gathering to support her claim.'

'I'll go there myself and deny the accusation,' I said defiantly, still stung by the injustice of my predicament.

'I doubt that will do much good,' said Thrand calmly. 'For

any chance of success you'll need to be represented by skilful advocates at the court, and there's no one you know who can act in that capacity.'

'Maybe I could ask Snorri Godi,' I suggested.

'Snorri Godi is unlikely to act on your behalf. He helped to arrange the match in the first place and he will look foolish trying to act for an aggrieved spouse. The best you can expect from him is that he might help to recover your mundur, the fire ruby. And when it comes to keeping the jewel from falling permanently into Gunnhildr's hands, I think I can be of use.'

'How can you help?' I asked, but Thrand did not answer. He only advised me to get a good night's sleep so as to have a clear head in the morning. That was impossible. It was long after nightfall before I fell into a restless slumber, plagued by black dreams in which I was pursued by a death hag. When I woke, it was to find Thrand gone.

He came back four days later, and in his absence I alternately seethed with anger at Gunnhildr and concocted wild plots to avenge myself for her perfidy, or I felt sorry for myself and wondered how to escape from this crisis.

Thrand was as calm as always when he returned. 'Gunnhildr has announced publicly that she is seeking a divorce,' he confirmed. 'She and her father are claiming back the farm. It was her dowry, so that is just a formality. But they also want to keep your mundur, the fire ruby, as you are the one at fault.' My face must have showed my vexation and despair.

'The divorce is all but guaranteed,' Thrand went on, 'but for the moment you need not worry about the fire ruby. It is in safe hands.'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Snorri Godi has it. I went to see Snorri Godi and reminded him about the initial agreement at the time of your marriage: that the mundur was to be valued at thirty marks and could be redeemed in the event of a divorce. He said that his inclination was not to get involved in such a messy business, but because Grettir had spared his son Thorodd's life he would use his influence to get Audun and Gunnhildr to hand the jewel over to him, and he would hold it in safe keeping until you could provide thirty marks to redeem it.'

'I'm surprised that Gunnhildr or that miserly father of hers agreed to such a proposal,' I said. 'They are so grasping that they wouldn't accept a verbal assurance. They know that I could never raise thirty marks.'

'Snorri Godi told them that the sum is guaranteed. He is holding a surety for that amount.'

'What do you mean? Snorri won't lie about something like that.'

'He didn't,' said Thrand. 'I've left thirty marks of hack silver with him.'

I was stunned.

But Thrand had not finished. 'I also went to see Grettir and had a talk with him, told him about the scorn poles and asked him what he wanted to do about it. As I expected, he took the matter in his stride. Commented that far worse things were being said about him and one more false accusation would make no difference. When I suggested that he could solve all his problems by leaving the country and that you would probably go with him, he answered that he had no intention of running away from his enemies, which you knew already. Also to tell you that his younger brother, Illugi, has now grown to manhood, and that he felt he should stay to protect him. Grettir still feels guilty that he deserted his older brother Atli, who was killed during his first outlawry. He asked me to wish you well on your travels.'

'My travels?' I asked.

'Yes,' Thrand replied 'I told Grettir that you and I were leaving Iceland for a while, long enough for the scandal to die down and for you to have a chance to win the thirty marks to redeem your mundur.'

'Thrand,' I said, 'I'm deeply grateful to you for the money you have left with Snorri Godi, but there's no reason for you to desert your farm.'

Thrand shrugged. 'I have been sitting too long in this quiet corner. I feel the wanderlust coming back, and I want to return to the places I knew as a young man, the places where I won my silver. Who knows — you may do the same.'

'You never told me where or how you got your hoard,' I said.

'Until now there was no need. Besides, I had my reasons for remaining silent,' he answered. 'But you should know that I fought with the felag, with the Jomsvikings.'

Every boy in Iceland who dreamed of plunder and martial glory had heard about the Jomsvikings, but I had not known whether they were mythical or whether they really existed. If Thrand said they were real, then I was prepared to take his word on it.

'What did Grettir say when you told him that you and I would be going abroad?'

'He quoted some lines from the Havamal:

"A better burden may no man bear

For wanderings wide than wisdom

It is better than wealth on unknown ways

And in grief a refuge it gives."'

Thrand looked at me and with a note of compassion in his voice said, 'Appropriate, don't you think?'

Jomsburg was an indistinct smudge on the horizon for half a day. Since first light our ship, a weather-beaten merchantman owned by a syndicate of Wendish traders, had been edging slowly towards the home of the Jomsvikings, yet by noon we did not seem to have come any closer. After the dramatic cliffs and rocky shores of Iceland and Norway, I was disappointed by the apparently featureless Baltic coast ahead. Its monotony was accentuated by the grey overcast sky reflected in murky water under our keel. Thrand and I had already spent two weeks on the voyage and I was impatient to reach our destination. I stood gripping the weather shrouds as if I could drag the vessel bodily forward.

"We'll arrive at the time the Gods have decided, and that will be soon enough,' said Thrand, noting my mood.

'Is that where you won your hoard?' I asked, staring towards the dark line on the horizon where the sky met the sea.

'Not here, but in the company of comrades who lived here,' he replied.

"When was the last time you saw them?'

'Not since the great battle in Jorunga Bay against Earl Haakon of Norway more than thirty years ago.'

'Do you have any idea what might have happened to them since then? Have you heard anything?'

'No, not after our defeat,' he answered and walked away to the far side of the deck and stood staring down into the water, his face expressionless.

I would have left the matter there if one of the Wendish sailors had not sidled up to me. Ever since Thrand and I had joined the ship as passengers, the man had been glancing at my taciturn companion, trying not to let his curiosity show. Now as our ship crept closer to Jomsburg, the sailor took his chance to ask the question that had been on his mind for days.

'Old Jomsviking, eh?' he enquired in his heavily accented Norse, jerking his head at Thrand.

'I don't know,' I replied.

'Looks Jomsviking, sure,' said the sailor. 'Going to Jomi. Maybe for his friends. But not many to find now. They liked to die.'

I waited for a few moments and then crossed to where Thrand stood watching the water rippling gently past our scuffed hull and asked him what the sailor had meant. There was a long silence before the tall Icelander finally replied and he spoke so quietly that I had to strain to hear him. For the first time in all the years I had known him, Thrand's voice had a tremor of emotion. Whether it was sorrow, pride or shame, I could not tell.

'Only eighty came out of the sea battle alive; eighty of all those who did not turn their backs on the enemy. They took refuge on an island and ten of them died of exposure before the enemy hunted them down and brought the survivors before their executioner. Thorkel Leira was his name. Earl Haakon had ordered that no Jomsviking was to be left alive. Their hands and legs were bound so tightly that a stick had to be thrust through their hair — they took great pride in braiding their hair before battle — and each man was half-carried to his fate, as if he was a dead animal brought home on a pole after the hunt. The headsman asked the same question of each man, "Are you afraid of dying?"'

'What did they reply?'

'Some answered, "I am content to die," or words to that effect. Others insisted that they be allowed to face the headsman's sword so they could see the blow coming. One man's last request was that his hands should be untied so he could hold a dagger in the air while his head was lopped from his shoulders.'

'Why such a strange request?' I commented. 'What could he have been thinking of?'

'He said that in the Jomsviking barracks he and his companions had often discussed if the mind resides in the head or in the body, and now he had the chance to settle the matter. He had decided to hold up the dagger after death, so if he let it drop when his head left his body, then his head was the seat of his decision. However, if the dagger stayed clutched in his hand, then his body had made the decision and was sticking to it.'

'And what was the outcome of the experiment?'

'The dagger hit the ground before his body.'

'If I understood the Wend properly, he said that a few of the Jomsvikings survived. So why did Earl Haakon spare their lives when he had sworn to kill them all?'

Thrand smiled grimly. 'It was Sven the son of Bui's doing. He had exceptional yellow hair, long and glossy, and he was very proud of it. He grew it almost to his waist and spent a great deal of time combing and arranging it. When his turn came to go before the executioner he asked for someone to be assigned to hold up his hair so it did not get bloodstained when his head came off. Thorkel Leira agreed, and told his chief assistant to hold the hair to one side. Then just as Thorkel made his sword stroke, Sven jerked his head forward, pulling the assistant off balance so the sword struck the man's wrists, cutting off a hand. Of course Thorkel Leira was furious and was about to take a second cut at Sven and behead him properly when Earl Haakon, who had seen what happened, intervened. He said that the Jomsvikings were proving so awkward even in the manner of their death, that it would be easier to set the remainder free if they promised never to take up arms against him again. He knew that a Jomsviking honours his word.'

'How many were left alive to make that promise?'

'Just twenty-five of the eighty who were captured,' Thrand answered, and before I could put the obvious question he added, 'and, yes, I was one of them.'

It was dusk by the time our ship entered the channel leading to Jomsburg itself, and by then I realised I had been mistaken about the apparent monotony of the coastline. The final stages of our approach revealed a long line of cliffs, not ragged and raw as in Iceland, but a regular wall of brown and grey rock. At its foot a beach of rocks and boulders gradually changed to a long strip of white sand backed by dunes. Here we turned into a river mouth to find a town built on an island where a steep hill rose close to the bank. Its summit provided the site for the stronghold of the Jomsvikings. Watchtowers dominated a palisaded citadel and two long breastworks extended down the slope of the hill to enclose a military harbour within the protective perimeter. Heading for the commercial wharves, our ship continued upstream, and I noticed Thrand look into the mouth of the Jomsviking harbour as we passed. He must not have liked what he saw. The pilings which fronted the river were in poor condition, their timbers soggy and rotten. Two massive wooden gates faced with iron plates had formerly protected the entrance - in times of siege they could be swung closed, sealing off the harbour inside. Now they were sagging and askew, and the ramparts which had allowed the defenders to hurl missiles at their attackers were crumbling. The stronghold of the Jomsvikings looked rundown.

As soon as we docked, Thrand and I left the ship and set off for the citadel. The town looked prosperous enough and was far larger than I had expected, with a regular grid pattern of streets and numerous stalls, warehouses and shops, now shuttered up for the night. It was when we began to climb the hill towards the Jomsviking citadel that signs of neglect reappeared. The roadway was potholed and weeds grew along each side. Nor was the main gateway leading into the citadel properly guarded. A trio of bored soldiers made no attempt to stop us as we walked through the gate into the main enclosure. The space inside was a large oval and in its centre was a parade ground. On each side stood four large barn-like structures, which were clearly barracks. Each building was at least eighty paces in length, and solidly built from heavy tree trunks in blockhouse construction, with a roof of wooden shingles. I noted that three of the barracks were derelict. Their roofs had holes and in several places the roof ridges sagged. Only the fourth barrack block, the one nearest the entrance gate, was still in use. Its roof was neatly patched, smoke arose from several chimney holes, and at least a score of men were seated on benches at the main doorway, talking or playing a board game set on a trestle table between them.

As Thrand and I walked towards them, they looked up. Thrand was still twenty paces away when I saw one of the men rise to his feet. He was a leathery-looking character, dressed in sombre civilian clothes but with the unmistakable bearing of a professional warrior. Judging by his grey hair, he was about the same age as my companion. Suddenly he slammed his hand down on the table, making the game pieces jump into the air. 'Thrand!' he called. 'By the head of Hymir's ox! it must be Thrand. I would know those long shanks anywhere!' He hurried across to my companion and seized him in a bear hug. 'I never thought to see you again!' he cried. 'Where have you been all these years? I heard rumours that you were with a raiding party in the Irish Sea, but that was at least ten years back and since then there was no further news.'

'I've been living quietly in Iceland,' answered Thrand, 'until I felt it was time to see what had happened to the old felag.'

'Things aren't at all what they used to be, as you can see,' said the old soldier, waving at the empty barrack buildings. 'But never mind, that will change. We're gaining recruits, though not as many as I would wish and we are not as strict as before about their qualifications. Here, let me introduce you.'

Proudly he steered Thrand towards the group of loungers and began to make introductions. Thrand, he boasted to them, had been a member of the brotherhood in the glory days, had fought Earl Haakon's men at Jorunga Bay and survived. He was a warrior of experience and knew what it was like to be a true Jomsviking. His description of my companion was so extravagant that I began to wonder if there was a purpose behind it, and looked more closely at his audience. They were a mixed lot. Some were scarred warriors, while others were considerably younger without a martial bearing. Nor, judging by their appearance, were they all Norsemen. Several had square Wendish faces; others were narrow jawed with foxy eyes and probably came from the Permian regions further north. Their only common feature was that they all wore good daggers, and many were dressed in the padded jerkins which are worn beneath the chain-mail shirt the northerners call a byrnie.

'Who's your companion?' asked Thrand's acquaintance, whose name I later found out was Arne.

'He is called Thorgils. He came with me from Iceland.'

'Is he a fighting man?'

'More of a traveller and observer,' said Thrand, 'He is a devotee of Odinn the Far-farer.'

'Well, Odinn is the God of battles, too, so he may find himself at home among us—'

Thrand interrupted him. 'To whom should I report?'

Arne checked his enthusiasm and looked a little awkward. He drew Thrand away from the group, out of earshot, and I followed.

'It's not like the old days, at least not yet,' Arne told us. 'The felag all but disintegrated after the disaster against Earl Haakon. There were so few left to continue the fellowship — only a couple of dozen who were on sick leave or had stayed behind to garrison Jomsburg, plus the handful of battle survivors. And many of them, like yourself, we never thought to see again. Of course, the others were too ashamed to return.'

'You had better explain to Thorgils,' said Thrand. He had noticed that I was listening. 'If you want to recruit him to the fellowship, he should know the truth.'

Arne spat in the dust. 'Sigvaldi, Thorkel and the others — they and their crews withdrew from the battle line when they saw that our ships were heavily outnumbered by the Norwegians. They broke their solemn vow as Jomsvikings and retreated, leaving the likes of Thrand to face the enemy unsupported. Their bad faith did more damage to the felag than losing the battle. Defeat and death we were prepared for, but against cowardice and dishonour we had no defence.'

Thrand later told me his comrades were so ashamed when several Jomsviking ships deserted the battle line that they debated whether to challenge their colleagues and fight them in order to obliterate the dishonour. As it was, they hurled spears and stones at their retreating boats and shouted curses in their wake, before turning to face the Norwegian onslaught.

Arne continued. 'Sigvaldi was among the first to run away, and the worst thing about it was that he was our leader. In those days we all swore to follow just one man as our absolute commander. He decided everything for the felag, whether it was the division of our booty or the settlement of quarrels between us. And when a leader fails so abjectly, it is difficult afterwards to regain respect for leadership. That is why now we rule ourselves by council — a gathering of the senior men decides what we should do. I've little doubt, Thrand, that you will be elected to that council.'

Thrand was looking across at the barracks where a couple of women were loitering. 'I see there are other changes too,' he remarked.

Arne followed his gaze. 'Yes,' he said, 'but you know as well as I do that the regulation forbidding women into the fortress was frequently ignored. Women were smuggled into the barracks and Sigvaldi turned a blind eye to the practice. He said that it was better to have the women here than for the men to slip away into the town and stay there without permission.'

Thrand said nothing, but every line of his face showed his disapproval.

'There's one rule which you will be glad we have set aside,' Arne added slyly. 'We no longer insist that every member of the felag must be between the ages of eighteen and fifty. You and I are getting long in the tooth, and the council has agreed to admit every man who has battle experience, whatever his age, provided he is still fit enough to hold spear and shield in the first or second line. To back them up, we've put in place a training programme for all our new recruits.'

Over the next four weeks I learned what he meant. I was assigned to the training platoon, while Thrand was received back into the ranks of the Jomsvikings and, as Arne had predicted, voted onto their council within days. My fellow recruits were a ragbag assortment of volunteers — Saxons, Wagrians, Polabians, Pomeranians and others. Their reasons for joining the fellowship were as varied as their origins. I found myself learning the rudiments of warfare alongside malcontents and misfits, fugitives escaping justice and opportunists who had come to Jomsburg in the hope of winning plunder. There was also a handful of adventurers and romantics who genuinely hoped to restore the past glory of what had once been the most famous and respected military brotherhood of the northern lands.

We came under the authority of a crop-headed, irascible instructor who reminded me of one of Edgar's hunting dogs, the short-legged variety we put down a badger hole to flush out the occupant, which has a habit of suddenly twisting round and giving its handler a nasty bite. Like the little yapping dogs, our instructor had a loud and incessant bark. He was an Abodrite, a member of the tribe on whose territory Jomsburg had been built, and he never lost an opportunity to show up our ignorance. On the very first day of training he took us into the Jomsviking armoury. We looked around in awe. The Jomsviking weapons store had once equipped a battle group of a thousand men and it still held an impressive array of arms. Many were now rusty and blunt, but the best of them were still greased and arranged on their wooden racks by a crippled armourer, who remembered the days when a dozen smiths and their assistants had wrought and repaired hundreds of swords, axes and spearheads to equip the felag.

'Pick out the weapon you would take into battle if you could carry only one weapon and nothing else,' snapped our instructor, pointing to the largest man in our group, a big shambling Dane, who stood bemused by the choice. After a moment's hesitation, the Dane reached out and selected a heavy sword. Its blade was as long as my arm, and it had a workmanlike brass handle. It seemed a sensible selection.

Without a word our instructor took up a shield with a metal rim and told the Dane. 'Now take a swing at me.'

The Dane, irritated by the instructor's cocksure manner, did as he was told. He lashed out at the instructor, who deftly interposed his shield, edge on. The heavy sword blade met the metal rim and promptly snapped, the blade spinning away from the handle. The instructor stepped up close to the Dane, rammed his shield boss into the Dane's stomach, and the big man fell on the ground in a heap.

'Swords may look good,' announced the instructor, 'but unless you know their true quality don't trust them. They're treacherous in your hand, and you won't find the very best blades in an armoury.'

He caught my eye. 'Here you, the Icelander, what should he have chosen as his weapon?'

The answer was obvious. 'He should have chosen a good spear,' I said.

'And what would you do with it? Throw it at your enemy?'

I remembered how Grettir had lost the head of his spear when he threw it at Oxenmight. 'No, I would use it like a lance, thrusting at my opponent, keeping him at a distance, until I found an opening.'

'Right. So that's what I'm going to teach you lot. Swords are first-class weapons when they are in skilled hands and under the right circumstances. But for well-trained troops the real killing tool is the humble spear, straight and true, and with a shaft of hardened ash.'

So for the first ten days he drilled us only with the spear. He taught us to hold the weapon high in our right hands, the shaft projecting behind the shoulder, so that we could thrust downwards and use our body weight behind the thrust. It was tiring work, but nothing as exhausting as when we were issued with round limewood shields. 'Close up! Close up! Close up tighter!' he ranted as we shuffled sideways on the parade ground, shoulder to shoulder, holding our shields before us and trying to fill every gap in the line to make a wall. 'Closer together, you louts!' he would scream, and then come charging at us and deliver a massive flat-footed kick at the weakest man in the line. When his victim staggered back, leaving a gap, the instructor charged in, wielding a heavy baton and lashing out at the two men on each side who were now exposed. As they rubbed their bruises, he would bellow at the unfortunate man who had wilted, 'You fall and the comrades on each side of you die! Shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield, that's your only hope.'

Gradually we became better at withstanding his frenzied assaults. The line buckled, but did not break, and we learned when it was safe to stand with our shields rim to rim or — in the face of a massed charge — to form up in even closer order, our shields overlapping so that the rim touched the shield boss of the man to our left. Then our shield wall, the burg as our instructor called it, seemed to be nearly impregnable.

We became so confident in our defensive skills that the big Dane felt bold enough to question our instructor when he told us that we had to repeat all our training, but this time dressed in byrnies, the hot and heavy chain-mail shirts.

Our instructor smiled grimly. He ordered us to set up a shield on a wooden frame and place behind it a pig's carcass. He then went to the armoury and fetched a throwing spear. Marking off twenty paces, he took aim and threw the first javelin. The missile struck the shield, the metal head passed clean through and pierced the dead pig a hand's breadth deep. 'Now,' barked our instructor, 'you can see why in future you will drill wearing Odinn's web, your byrnies.'

So it was back to the armoury to try to find byrnies that would fit us, and then we spent an entire day scouring and oiling their metal rings so they slid more smoothly and restricted our movements to a minimum. I still felt like a crab in its shell after I had tugged the mail shirt over my head and put on the cone-shaped metal helmet that the armourer issued to me. The helmet's central noseguard made me squint and I tried easing the chin strap and shifting the helmet so that I could see straight. A moment later a blow from behind me sent the helmet spinning to the ground and my instructor was snarling in my face.

'See this scar here?' he yelled, pointing at a groove that ran across his scalp. 'Got that from Courlander's sword when I left my helmet strap too loose.'

Recalling those sweaty, dusty days of training on the parade ground, I now understand that our instructor knew we were too raw to be any use on the battlefield unless we could be trained to work in unison. So he made us rehearse again and again the basic battlefield manoeuvres — staying in a tightly packed group as we wheeled to left or right, retreating in good order one step at a time, or forming a disciplined front when the first rank dropped on one knee so the spears of the second rank projected over their shoulders in a bristling hedge. Then, on his command, we all sprang to our feet and went charging forward, spears at the ready. Even in close combat, our instructor did not trust us to fight singly, one on one. He made us fight as pairs, one man knocking aside his opponent's shield, while his comrade stabbed a spear through the gap.

Only after we were reasonably proficient with the spear did he allow us to handle axes and swords. Then he showed us how to aim our blows rather than chop, hack and thrust indiscriminately. For our graduation class we learned the 'swine array', an arrowhead formation, a single man at the point, two men behind him in the second rank, three men in the third rank, four men behind them and so forth. On his command we all lumbered forward and to our amazement, for we were rehearsing against a shield burg of the older men, the weight of our charge broke their line, and our point man, the beefy Dane again, was thrust right through the opposition.

Each day, after drill and training, the recruits joined the senior members of the felag for the evening meal. I never imagined that so many words could be expended on discussing, for instance, the relative merits of the spear with a broad flange against the narrow-bladed spear, or whether it is better to sling a sword scabbard from the right or the left shoulder, and whether it should hang vertically or horizontally. Usually these discussions were accompanied by practical demonstrations. Some burly warrior would get up from his bench and strike a pose, grasping his spear shaft or sword hilt to show what he considered the proper grip, then making a series of mock passes with the weapon. After much drink had been consumed and arguments arose, it was remarkable that these differences of opinion did not lead to open fights between armed men who were both boastful and belligerent. But the rules of the Jomsviking fellowship held: each man considered the others to be his brothers.

Thrand, like myself, found many of these discussions tedious, and the two of us would leave the barracks and spend the evening strolling about the town of Jomi. Our initial impression of its prosperity had been correct. The place was thriving. Traders came from as far afield as the Greek lands to purchase the amber carvings for which the place was famous, though the majority of the merchants were from the other major Baltic ports — Hedeby, Bjorko, Sigtuna and Truso. Besides their pottery, furs, leather goods and other wares, they brought news of what was going on in the outside world. Knut, it seemed, had grown so powerful and rich that there was talk he might proclaim himself emperor of the north. Already he held both England and Denmark, and he was claiming sovereignty over Norway as well. The merchants, whose trade depended on continued peace, were divided as to the merits of Knut's ambition. Some thought it would be beneficial if all the northern lands were united under a single ruler; others feared that Knut's pretensions would lead to war. The traders who arrived from Sweden were the most sceptical. They were followers of the Old Ways and pointed out that Knut was increasingly under the influence of the followers of the White Christ, and that where Knut ruled the Christians followed. Among the townsfolk of Jomi, the Swedes had a sympathetic hearing, for although Christians were allowed to practise their religion in Jomi, the city council had ruled that their observances must be done discreetly. No church bells were allowed.

The traders had a finely tuned instinct for politics. One evening Thrand and I had gone to visit the temple of Svantevit, the local four-faced Wendish God. His sacred animal is a white stallion used for divination, and we had seen the priests lead out the horse and coax him between three rows of wooden stakes as they watched anxiously, believing that if the horse steps first with its right foot then their presaging is true. As Thrand and I re-entered the Jomsviking citadel, we found a delegation from Knut himself. To my delight the embassy was led by a man I recognised — one-legged Kjartan who had stood beside me when Edgar died in the boar hunt and had assisted my escape from London.

'Thorgils!' he exclaimed, thumping me on the shoulder with his fist. 'Who would have thought to find you here! It's good to see you.'

'How's Gisli the One Hand?' I asked.

'Fine, fine,' Kjartan replied, looking around at the parade ground. 'You can't imagine how good it is to be here, away from those canting Christians. I've still got those wax coins you gave me. I suppose you know that Archbishop Wulfstan, that wily schemer, died.'

'No, I hadn't heard.'

'Last year he finally went to meet his maker, as he would have

put it, and good riddance. But sadly his departure to join his precious angels has had little effect on the king's court. There seem to be just as many Christians in positions of power, and they are making life difficult for the Old Believers. Queen Emma encourages them, of course. She goes nowhere unless she is accompanied by a pack of priests.'

'What about Aelfgifu?' It was a question I could not hold back.