The Long Ships

CHAPTER NINE

HOW KING HARALD BLUETOOTH CELEBRATED YULE

GREAT men from all over the north came to Jellinge to celebrate Yule with King Harald, so that there was less than room enough for them at the tables and in the bedchambers. But Orm and his men did not complain of this overcrowding, for they had received a good price for their slaves and had sold them all before the festival commenced. When Orm had divided up the proceeds of the sale, his men felt rich and free indeed, and they began to yearn for Lister and to know whether Berse’s two ships had come home, or whether they themselves were the only survivors of Krok’s expedition. They offered no objection to staying in Jellinge, however, until the festival was over, for it was regarded as a great honor, and one that added luster to a man’s name for the rest of his days, to have celebrated Yule with the King of the Danes.

The principal guest was King Harald’s son, King Sven Fork-beard,1 who had arrived from Hedeby with a large following. Like all King Harald’s sons, he was the child of one of his father’s concubines; and there was little love lost between him and his father, so that in general they avoided each other as much as possible. Every Yule, though, King Sven made the journey to Jellinge, and everybody knew why. For it often happened at Yule, when the food was richer and the drink stronger than at any other time in the year, that old men suddenly died, either in bed or on the drinking-bench. This had been the case with old King Gorm, who had lain unconscious for two days after a surfeit of Yuletide pork and had then died; and King Sven wanted to be near the royal coffers when his father passed over. For many Yules now he had made the journey in vain, and each year his impatience increased. His followers were a rough crew, overbearing and quarrelsome, and it was difficult to keep the peace between them and the men of King Harald’s household, all the more so now that King Harald had turned Christian and many of his men had followed suit. For King Sven still clung to the old religion and made spiteful mock of his father’s conversion, saying that the Danes would have been spared all this folly if the old man had had the sense to know when he had lived long enough.

He did not trumpet his opinions too openly when he was at Jellinge, however, for King Harald was easily roused to anger, and when this happened he was liable to do anything to anybody. They wasted no words on each other once they had made formal salutation, nor, from their seats of honor in the great hall, did they toast each other more than the conventions of politeness absolutely required.

There was a snowstorm on Christmas Eve, but it passed, and the weather grew calm and cold; and on Christmas morning, while the priests were singing Mass and the courtyard of the palace lay shrouded in good steam from the preparations afoot in the kitchens, a great long-ship rowed up from the south and made fast to the pier, its sail tattered and its oars glazed with ice. King Harald was at Mass, but they sent a messenger to inform him. Wondering who these new guests could be, he went up the stairs to look at the ship. It was steeply built, with a red dragon’s head poised arrogantly upon a curved neck at the prow, its jaws caked with ice from the cruel seas it had passed through. They saw men climb ashore wearing garments barked with ice, among them a tall chieftain in a blue cloak and another, of equal stature, clothed in red. King Harald scanned them as closely as he could from where he stood, and said: “It looks like a Jomsviking or perhaps a Swedish ship, and it is boldly manned, for its crew approach the King of the Danes with no shield of peace upon their masthead. I know of but three men who would dare to come thus: Skoglar-Toste, Vagn Akesson, and Styrbjörn. Moreover, they have brought their ship alongside without removing their dragon-head, though they know well that the trolls of the mainland do not love dragon-heads; and I know of but two men who do not care what the trolls think, and they are Vagn and Styrbjörn. But I see from the ship’s condition that its captain disdained to seek shelter from last night’s storm, and there is but one man who would have refused to bow to such a tempest. It is my guess, therefore, that this must be my son-in-law Styrbjörn, whom I have not seen these four years; one of them wears a blue cloak, moreover, and Styrbjörn has sworn to wear blue until he has won back his inheritance from King Erik. Who this other with him may be, the man who is as tall as he, I cannot surely say; but Strut-Harald’s sons are taller than most men, all three of them, and they are all friends to Styrbjörn. It cannot be Jarl Sigvalde, the eldest of them, for he takes little pleasure in Yule celebrations now, because of the ignominy with which he stained his name when he rowed his ships away from the battle at Jörundfjord; and his brother Hemming is in England. But the third of Strut-Harald’s sons is Thorkel the Tall, and it may be that this is he.”

Thus King Harald surmised in his wisdom; and when the strangers reached the palace and it became evident that he was right, his spirits rose higher than they had been at any time since King Sven arrived. He bade Styrbjörn and Thorkel welcome, ordered the bathhouse to be heated for them at once, and offered mulled ale to them and all their men.

“Even the greatest of warriors,” he said, “need something to warm themselves after such a voyage as you have endured: and there is truth in the old saying:

Mulled ale for the frozen man,

And mulled ale for the weary:

For mulled ale is the body’s friend

And makes the sick heart merry.”

Several of Styrbjörn’s men were so exhausted by their voyage that they were hardly able to stand: but when tankards of mulled ale were offered them, their hands proved to be steady enough, for not a drop was spilled.

“As soon as you have bathed and rested,” said King Harald, “the Yule feast shall begin: and I shall go to it with a better appetite than if I had only my son’s face to look at across the table.”

“Is Forkbeard here?” said Styrbjörn, glancing around him. “I should be glad to have a word with him.”

“He still cherishes the hope that some day he will see me die the ale-death,” said King Harald. “That is why he has come. But if I ever should die at a Yule feast, I think it will be because I am sick of looking at his misshapen face. You will have your chance to speak with him in good time. But tell me one thing: is there blood between him and you?”

“No blood as yet,” replied Styrbjörn, “but as to the future I cannot say. He has promised me men and ships to help me against my kinsman in Uppsala, but none have yet arrived.”

“There must be no fighting in my house during the holy festival,” said King Harald. “You must understand that at once, though I know that you will find it tedious to keep the peace. For I am now a follower of Christ, who has been a good ally to me; and Christ will tolerate no strife on Christmas Day, which is His birthday, nor on the holy days that follow.”

Styrbjörn replied: “I am a man without a country, and as such cannot afford the luxury of being peaceful; for I would rather be the crow than his carrion. But while I am your guest, I think I shall be able to keep the peace as well as any man, whichsoever gods are presiding over the feast; for you have been a good father-in-law to me, and I have never had cause to quarrel with you. But I have news to bring you: namely, that your daughter Tyra is dead. I wish I could have come with more joyful tidings.”

“That is sad news indeed,” said King Harald. “How did she die?”

“She took it amiss,” said Styrbjörn, “because I found myself a Wendish concubine. She became so wrathful that she began to spit blood; then she languished and, after a time, died. In all other respects she was an excellent wife.”

“I have noticed of late,” said King Harald, “that young people cling less keenly to life than old people. But we must not allow this grief to weigh down our spirits during the Yule feast; and in any case I have more daughters left than I know what to do with. They are a fine-spirited bunch and will not marry any man who is not of noble birth and high renown; so that you need not remain a widower for long if you should find any girl among them who takes your fancy. You shall see them all—though I fear that, when they hear that you are single again, they may have some difficulty in keeping the Yule peace.”

“Something other than marriage is uppermost in my mind just now,” said Styrbjörn, “but we can speak of that later.”

Many glances were cast at Styrbjörn from doorways and loopholes, as he went with his men to the bathhouse; for he rarely accepted hospitality, and was held to be the greatest warrior that had been seen in the north since the days of the sons of Ragnar Hairy-Breeks. He had a short, fair beard and pale blue eyes, and men who had not seen him before murmured with surprise at finding him so slim-built and narrow-waisted. For they all knew that his strength was such that he cleft shields like loaves of bread and split armed men from the neck to the crotch with his sword, which was called Cradle-Song. Wise men said that the ancient luck of the Uppsala kings was his, and that it was this that gave him his strength and success in every enterprise he undertook. But it was also known that the curse of his family and their ancient ill luck had in part descended on him, and that it was because of this that he was a chieftain without a country; and that it was for this reason, too, that he was often afflicted with a great heaviness and melancholy. When the fit attacked him, he would shut himself away from all company and sit sighing and mumbling darkly to himself for days on end, unable to endure the presence of any of his fellow beings, save for a woman to comb his hair and an old harpist to give him ale and play him sad music. But so soon as the fit passed from him, he would be eager to go to sea again, and to battle, and then he would bring the strongest of his men to weariness and despair by his recklessness and his bad weather-luck.

So he was feared as no other chieftain in the north was feared, almost as though something of the power and majesty of the gods dwelt in him; and there were those who believed that some time in the future, when he reached the zenith of his might, he would sail to Miklagard and crown himself emperor there, and voyage in triumph along the round edge of the earth with his terrible navies.

But there were others who claimed that they could see it written in his eyes that he would die young and unlucky.

At length everything was ready in King Harald’s great dining-hall for the Yule feast, and all the men were assembled there in their numbers, seated on benches. No women were allowed to be present at so tremendous a drinking-bout, for it was difficult enough, King Harald thought, to keep the peace when men were by themselves, and it would be many times harder if they had women to brag to in their cups. When everyone was in his place, the groom of the bedchamber announced in a gigantic voice that the peace of Christ and of King Harald reigned in the hall, and that no edged implements might be used except for the purpose of cutting up food; any cut, thrust, or open wound caused by weapon, ale-tankard, meat-bone, wooden platter, ladle, or clenched fist would be reckoned as plain murder, and would be regarded as sacrilege against Christ and as an unpardonable crime, and the miscreant would have a stone tied round his neck and be drowned in deep water. All weapons apart from eating-knives had been left by order in the vestibules, and only the exalted personages who sat at King Harald’s own table were allowed to retain their swords; for it was felt that they would be able to control themselves even when drunk.

The hall was built to hold a good six hundred men without crowding, and in the middle stood King Harald’s own table, with the thirty most eminent of the company seated at it. The tables for the other guests stretched down the length of the hall from one end to the other. Styrbjörn sat on King Harald’s right hand, and Bishop Poppo on his left; opposite them King Sven had Thorkel the Tall on his right, and a red-faced, bald old jarl from the Small Islands called Sibbe on his left. The others sat according to their rank, King Harald himself having settled each man’s place personally. Orm, though he could not be reckoned as one of the great chieftains, had yet been allotted a better place than he could have expected, and Toke likewise, for King Harald was grateful to them for their gift of the great bell, and was an admirer of Toke’s poetry. So Orm sat three places from the Bishop, and Toke four; for Orm had told King Harald that he would like, if possible, to sit next to Toke, in case the latter became troublesome through drink. Facing them across the table were men of King Sven’s company.

The Bishop read grace, King Harald having commanded him to be brief about it, and then they drank three toasts: to the honor of Christ, to the luck of King Harald, and to the return of the sun. Even those of the company who were not Christians joined in the toast to Christ, for it was the first of the toasts and they were thirsty for their ale; some of them, however, made the sign of the hammer over their tankards and murmured the name of Thor before they drank. When the toast to King Harald’s luck was drunk, King Sven got ale in his windpipe and had a coughing fit, causing Styrbjörn to ask whether the brew was too strong for his taste.

Then the Yule pork was brought in, and warriors and chieftains alike fell silent when they saw it appear, and took a deep breath and sighed with joyous anticipation; many loosened their belts, to save doing so later. For though there were those who whispered that King Harald was in his old age less openhanded with gold and silver than he had been of yore, this accusation had never been leveled at him in the matter of meat and drink, and certainly never by anyone who had celebrated Yule in his palace.

Forty-eight acorn hogs, well fattened, were slaughtered for his pleasure every Yule; and it was his custom to say that if this did not see them through the whole feast-tide, it would at any rate be sufficient to provide a tasty entrée for every guest, and that they could then fill up with beef and mutton. The kitchen servants entered in a long line, two by two, each pair bearing a great smoking pot, except for some who carried troughs of blood-sausage. They were accompanied by boys armed with long forked spits, which, once the pots had been set beside the tables, they plunged into the stew, fishing out large hunks of meat, which they gave to the guests in order of precedence, so that each had his fair share; in addition to which, every man received a good ell’s length of blood-sausage, or more if he wanted it. There were bread cakes and fried turnips set out on clay plates, and at the foot of each table there stood a butt of ale, so that no man’s horn or tankard need ever be empty.

As the pork approached Orm and Toke, they sat quite still, with their faces turned toward the pot, watching the boy closely as he fished for the meat. They sighed blissfully as he lifted out fine pieces of shoulder pork to put on their plates, reminding each other how long it was since they had last eaten such a dinner, and marveling that they had managed to survive so many years in a country where no pork was allowed to be eaten. But when the blood-sausage arrived, tears came into their eyes, and they declared that they had never eaten a meal worthy of the name since the day they had sailed away with Krok.

“This is the best smell of all,” said Orm in a small voice.

“There is thyme in it,” said Toke huskily.

He plunged his sausage into his mouth, as far as it would go, bit off a length, and slowly closed his jaws; then he swung hastily round, grabbing at the boy’s coat as he attempted to move on with the trough, and said: “If it be not contrary to King Harald’s orders, give me at once another length of that sausage. I have for some years past now fared indifferently among the Andalusians, where they have no food worthy of the name, and these seven Yules I have longed for blood-sausage and had none.”

“My case,” said Orm, “is the same.”

The boy laughed at their anxiety and assured them that King Harald had enough sausage for everybody. He ladled out on each of their plates a good length of the thickest that he had; then they were contented and began to eat in earnest.

For some time now, nobody spoke, either at the King’s table or anywhere else in the hall, except when somebody asked for more ale or mumbled a word between bites in praise of King Harald’s Yuletide meat.

On Orm’s right sat a young man who cut his meat with a knife that bore an engraved silver hilt. He was fair-skinned and had very long and exquisite hair, carefully combed. He belonged to Thorkel the Tall’s company, and evidently came of good family, for he was honorably placed at the King’s table although he had as yet no beard; besides which his nobility was apparent from his fine clothing and silver sword-belt. After the first flush of eating was over, he turned to Orm and said: “It is good at a feast to sit next to men who have traveled widely; and I think I heard that you and your neighbor have voyaged farther afield than most of us here.”

Orm replied that this was correct, and that Toke and he had spent six years in Spain.

“For various reasons,” he added, “our journey took longer than we had anticipated; and many of those who set out with us never returned.”

“You must have had many adventures worth the telling,” said the other. “I myself, though I have not traveled as far as either of you, have also recently been on a voyage from which few came back.”

Orm asked him who he was and what voyage he referred to.

The other replied: “I come from Bornholm, and my name is Sigurd; and my father was Bue Digre, of whom you may have heard, despite your long sojourn abroad. I was with him at Jörund-Fjord when he was killed, and I was captured there, together with Vagn Akesson and many others besides. Nor should I be sitting here tonight to tell the tale if it had not been for my long hair; for it was my hair that saved my life when orders had been given for all the prisoners to be killed.”

By this time a number of their table companions had eaten their fill and were beginning to regain the freedom of their tongues for the purpose of speech. Toke now joined in the conversation, remarking that what the Bornholmer had just said had an unusual ring about it and promised a good story; for his part, he had always regarded long hair as being more of a handicap to a soldier than an advantage. Thorkel the Tall sat picking his teeth in the aristocratic manner that was now beginning to be fashionable among great men who had traveled widely, with his face turned to one side and the palm of his hand raised before his mouth. He overheard their conversation and observed that long hair had proved unlucky to many a soldier in the past, and that sensible men always took good care to bind their hair up carefully beneath their helmets; however, he added, Sigurd Buesson would show by his story how a shrewd man might take advantage of the length of his hair, and he hoped that everyone in the hall would listen to what he had to say.

King Sven, by this time, was in a better humor, the appearance of Styrbjörn having shadowed his spirits for a while. He sat lolling backwards in his chair, gnawing a pig’s trotter, the bones from which he spat out on the straw that covered the floor. He noted with satisfaction that King Harald, who was engaged in a discussion with Styrbjörn about women, was eating and drinking more than anyone else. He, too, overheard what was being said farther down the table and joined in the discussion, pointing out that a wise soldier also always remembers his beard, for when a battle was being fought in windy weather a man’s beard could easily get into his eyes just when he was preparing to parry a sword-thrust or to avoid a winging spear; wherefore, he told them, he always made a point of having his hair plaited before marching into battle. But now he would be interested to hear how Sigurd Buesson had taken advantage of his long hair, for men who had fought at Jörundfjord usually had adventures worth relating.

Bishop Poppo had not succeeded in finishing all that had been placed before him, and the ale that he had drunk had given him hiccups; nevertheless, he was capable of utterance and he, too, joined in the discussion, saying that he would be happy to tell them the story of Prince Absalom, whose long hair had proved to be his downfall. This, he said, was a good and instructive story, which stood written in God’s own holy book. But King Sven cut him off promptly with the comment that he could keep such stories for women and children, if he could persuade them to listen to him. Words were then exchanged between him and the Bishop on this score; but King Harald said:

“A feast such as this, which lasts for six days, will allow us all time in which to tell our stories; and few things are better than to listen to good stories when a man has eaten his fill and has ale left in his cup. For it helps the time to pass easily between one meal and the next, and makes for less quarreling across the tables. But let me say this in the Bishop’s favor, that he has good tales to tell, for I myself have listened to many of them with pleasure, concerning saints and apostles and the old kings that used to reign in the Eastern lands. He has told me many stories about one of them whose name was Solomon, who was greatly beloved by God and who seems to have been very much like myself, though it is true that he had more women. I think that the Bishop should tell his story first, before the food and drink make him sleepy, for our Yule drinking does not have the same good effect on him that it has on us, since he has not had sufficient time to accustom himself to it. After him, let other men tell of their adventures at Jörundfjord, or with Styrbjörn among the Wends, or elsewhere. We have, besides, here among us, men who have been as far abroad as Spain, whence they have sailed to my court bearing with them a holy bell, which has been of great service to me; and I wish to hear them tell their story before this feast is done.”

They all agreed that King Harald had spoken wisely, and it was done as he suggested; so that evening, after the torches had been brought in, the Bishop told the story of King David and his son Absalom. He spoke loudly, so that everyone could hear him, and he told his tale cunningly, so that all the company except King Sven enjoyed it. When the Bishop had finished talking, King Harald observed that his story was well worth storing away in one’s memory, for one reason and another; and Styrbjörn laughed, and raised his glass to King Sven and said: “Be wise, O Prince, and pay heed to this tale, and cut thy hair short as bishops do.”

This remark appealed to King Harald, who smote his thigh and fell into such a fit of laughing that the whole bench on his side of the table shook; and when his men and Styrbjörn’s followers saw their masters laughing, they all joined in, even those of them who were unaware of the cause, so that the whole hall rang with merriment. King Sven’s men, however, were displeased; and he himself glowered sourly and mumbled something into his cup and gnawed his lip-beard and had a dangerous look about him, as though he might at any moment leap to his feet and break into violence. Styrbjörn leaned forward in his seat and stared at him out of his pale eyes, which never blinked, and smiled. There was considerable unrest in the hall, and it looked as though the Christmas peace might shortly be ended. The Bishop stretched out his hands and cried something that nobody heard, and men fixed their eyes upon one another across the table and groped for the nearest thing that might serve as a weapon. But then King Harald’s jesters, two small Irishmen who were famed for their skill in trade, jumped up on the King’s table in motley-colored tunics, wearing feathers in their hair, and began to flap their broad sleeves and puff their chests and stamp their feet and stretch their necks; then they crew at each other exactly like cocks, so that no man present could remember ever having heard a cock crow as finely as they did; and within a few seconds they had all forgotten their anger and were lolling in their seats helpless with laughter at their antics. So the first day of the feasting ended.

On the next day, when the eating was over and the torches had been carried in, Sigurd Buesson told them of his adventures at Jörundfjord, and how he had been saved by his long hair. They all knew about this expedition; how the Jomsvikings, with men from Bornholm, had sailed out in a mighty fleet under the command of Strut-Harald’s sons, with Bue Digre and Vagn Akesson, to win Norway from Jarl Haakon, and how few had returned from that enterprise; so Sigurd did not waste many words on this part of his story, and made no mention of how Sigvalde had fled with his ships from the battle. For it would have been churlish to have spoken of Sigvalde when Thorkel the Tall was among his audience, though they all knew Thorkel to be a bold fighter and were aware that he had been struck on the head by a large stone during the battle soon after the opposing navies had come to grips, so that he had not been conscious when his brother had rowed away.

Sigurd had been aboard his father’s ship, and confined himself to such parts of the battle as he himself had been directly concerned in. He told them of his father’s death; how Bue had fought fiercely, but at last, when the Norwegians had boarded his ship in overwhelming numbers, had received a slash on his face from a sword which had taken away his nose and the greater part of his jaw; and how he had then seized up his great treasure-chest and leaped overboard with it in his arms. He told, too, how Bue’s kinsman, Aslak Holmskalle, had gone berserk, casting aside his shield and helmet, which was something one seldom saw nowadays, and hewing about him with both hands, impervious to the touch of iron, until an Icelandic bard, a follower of Jarl Haakon’s son Erik, had picked up an anvil from the deck and with it had split his skull.

“After that,” continued Sigurd, “for such of us as remained alive on my father’s ship, there was little left to do; for we were few in numbers and very fatigued, and all our ships had now been over-powered, save only Vagn’s own ship, which still fought on. We were hemmed in the forecastle, so weary that before long we could lift neither hand nor foot; and at last there were but nine of us left, all wounded, and there they pinned us with their shields and so took us. We were disarmed and brought ashore; and soon the survivors of Vagn’s ship were dragged to join us, Vagn himself being among them. Two men carried him, and he bore both sword- and spear-wounds, and was pale and weary and said nothing. They made us sit on a log on the beach, with our legs tied together with a long rope, though they left our hands free; and there we sat and waited, while men were sent to Jarl Haakon to discover what should be our fate. He commanded that we were instantly to be put to death, and Jarl Erik, his son, and many of his followers came to watch our end; for the Norwegians were curious to see how Jomsvikings would conduct themselves in the face of death. There were thirty of us on the log, nine from Bue’s ship, eight from Vagn’s, and the rest from other ships. Vagn himself sat on our extreme right; and I shall tell you the names of such of the others as were known to me.”

Then he gave them a list of all those whose names he knew, in the order in which they sat on the log; and all the company in the great hall listened in silence, for many of those he named were men whom they had known, and some of his listeners had kinsmen among the dead.

He continued: “Then a man came with a beard-ax and stood in front of Vagn and said: ‘Do you know who I am?’ Vagn glanced at him, but did not seem to notice him and said nothing, for he was very weary. Then the other man said: ‘I am Thorkel Leira. Perhaps you remember the vow you made to kill me and bring my daughter Ingeborg to bed?’ Now this was true, for Vagn had vowed thus before setting out, since he had heard that Thorkel’s daughter was the most beautiful girl in Norway, besides being one of the richest. ‘But now,’ continued Thorkel Leira, with a broad grin, ‘it looks rather as though I am going to kill you.’ Vagn curled his lip and said: ‘There are yet Jomsvikings living.’ ‘They shall not live long,’ replied Thorkel, ‘and I shall see to it myself, so that there shall be no mistake. You will see all your men die beneath my hand, after which you will shortly follow them.’ Then he went to the other end of the log and proceeded to behead the prisoners, one after another as they sat there. He had a good ax and went to work with a will; and he never needed to strike twice. But I think that those who were watching the scene had to admit that Vagn’s and Bue’s men knew how to conduct themselves in the face of death. Two who were seated not far from me began a discussion as to what it would feel like once one’s head was off, and they agreed that it was one of those things that are difficult to foretell. One of them said: ‘I have a brooch here in my hand. If my brain is still working after I have lost my head, I shall stick it into the ground.’ Thorkel arrived at him; but as soon as the blow fell on his neck, the brooch dropped from his hand. That left only two men between Thorkel and myself.”

Sigurd Buesson smiled quietly at his listeners, who sat in silent excitement. He raised his cup and drank a deep draught.

King Harald said: “I see that you still have your head on your shoulders; and anyone can hear by the sound of your swallowing that there is nothing wrong with your neck. But that was a sorry situation you were in on that Norwegian log, and it is no easy thing to guess how you managed to escape to tell the tale, however long your hair. This is a fine story, and do not keep us waiting to know how it ended.”

They all raised a shout of agreement, and Sigurd Buesson continued: “As I sat there on the log, I do not think I was more frightened than the others were; but I felt it would be a pity to die without having done something worthy for men to speak of after I had gone. So when Thorkel came to my place, I said to him: ‘I am afraid for my hair; I do not want it to be stained with blood.’ So saying, I drew it forward over my head; and a man who was walking behind Thorkel—I heard later that he was his brother-in-law—ran forward and wound my hair round his fingers and said to Thorkel: ‘Now, strike!’ He did so; but in the same instant, I pulled my head back as quickly as I could, so that the ax fell between me and his brother-in-law and cut off both his brother-in-law’s hands. One of them remained hanging in my hair.”

Everyone in the hall burst into a great roar of laughter. Sigurd himself laughed with them; then he proceeded: “You may well laugh, but your laughter, loud as it is, is as silence compared with the merriment of the Norwegians when they saw Thorkel’s brother-in-law writhing on the ground, with Thorkel standing scowling above him. Some of them laughed so much that they fell over. Jarl Erik came forward and looked at me and said: ‘Who are you?’ I replied: ‘My name is Sigurd, and Bue was my father; there are yet Jomsvikings living.’ The Jarl said: ‘You are truly of Bue’s blood. Will you accept your life from me?’ ‘From such a man as you, Jarl,’ I replied, ‘I will accept it.’ Then they untied me. But Thorkel, ill-pleased at this, roared: ‘Shall it be thus? Then it were best I lose no time in dispatching Vagn.’ Raising his ax, he rushed toward him as he sat quietly on the end of the log. But one of Vagn’s men, named Skarde, a good man from Kivik, was seated four places from Vagn; and it seemed to him wrong that Vagn should lose his head before his proper turn arrived. So he threw himself forward over the foot-rope as Thorkel rushed by him, so that Thorkel fell full length over his body and lay at Vagn’s feet. Vagn leaned forward and took up the ax, and there was little weariness to be seen in his face as he buried it in Thorkel’s head. ‘I have fulfilled half my vow,’ he said; ‘and still there are Jomsvikings living.’ The Norwegians laughed louder than ever; and Jarl Erik said: ‘Will you have your life, Vagn?’ ‘If you grant it to us all,’ replied Vagn. ‘It shall be so,’ said the Jarl. So they freed us all. Twelve of us escaped from the log with our lives.”

Sigurd Buesson was loudly acclaimed for his story, and everyone praised the good use he had made of his hair. They all discussed his story across the tables, admiring his good luck and that of Vagn; and Orm said to Sigurd: “There is much that is common knowledge in these parts which Toke and I are ignorant of, because we have been out of the country for so long a time. Where is Vagn now, and what happened to him after he escaped from the log with his life? From all that you say, his luck sounds to me greater than that of any other man I ever heard tell of.”

“That is so,” replied Sigurd, “nor does it stop halfway. We rose high in Jarl Erik’s favor, and after a while he sought out Thorkel Leira’s daughter, whom he found to be even more beautiful than he had imagined her; nor did she offer any objection to helping him to fulfill the remainder of his promise; so that now they are married, and are well contented. He is thinking of coming back to Bornholm with her, as soon as he can find the time to do so; but the last heard of him was that he was still in Norway and was complaining that it would be many months before he could return home. For he became master of so many fine houses when he married the girl, and of so many great estates attached to them, that it will be no swift matter to sell them for the prices they deserve to command; and it is not Vagn’s custom to sell things cheaply when he does not have to do so.”

Toke said: “There is one thing in your story that I cannot help wondering about. I mean, your father’s, Bue’s treasure-chest, which he took with him when he jumped overboard. Did you fish it up before you left Norway? Or did someone else get there before you? If it is still lying on the sea-bed, I know what I should do were I to go to Norway. I should drag the sea for that treasure-chest, for Bue’s silver must have been worth a great fortune.”

“They fished long for it,” said Sigurd, “not only the Norwegians, but also such of Bue’s men as survived. Many men dragged for it with grappling hooks, but they caught nothing; and one man from the Vik who dived down with a rope was never seen again. Then all of us concluded that Bue was such a Viking as would wish to keep his treasure with him on the sea-bed, and that he would have no mercy on any man who tried to take it from him; for he was a strong man, and he loved his wealth. Wise men know that those who dwell in the Great Halls are stronger than when they were alive; and this may also be true of Bue, though he does not dwell in the Great Halls but on the deep sea-bed beside his treasure-chest.”

“It is a pity that so much silver should be lost,” said Toke. “But, as you say, even the boldest of men would not willingly choose to be at the bottom of the sea with Broad Bue’s arms locked about his waist.”

So that evening drew to its close.

The next evening King Harald wanted to hear about Styrbjörn’s adventures among the Wends and Kures. Styrbjörn said that he was no story-teller; but an Icelander who was of his following took up the tale. His name was Björn Asbrandsson, and he was a famous warrior, besides being a great poet to boot, like all wanderers from Iceland. Although he was somewhat drunk, he managed to improvise some highly skillful verses in King Harald’s honor in a meter known as töglag. This was the latest and most difficult verse-form that the Icelandic poets had invented, and indeed his poem was so artfully contrived that little could be understood of its content. Everybody, however, listened with an appearance of understanding, for any man who could not understand poetry would be regarded as a poor specimen of a warrior; and King Harald praised the poem and gave the poet a gold ring. Toke plunged his head between his hands on the table and sighed disconsolately; this, he muttered, was real poetry, and he could see that he would never be able to succeed in writing the sort of verses that won gold rings.

The man from Iceland, whom some called Björn Champion-of-the-men-of-Breidifjord,2 and who had been a follower of Styrbjörn for two summers, then went on to tell them of Styrbjörn’s various campaigns and the notable things that had occurred during them. He was a fine talker and continued for several hours without anyone wearying of his story; and everybody knew that what he was telling them was the truth, since Styrbjörn himself was among his listeners. He gave them many examples of Styrbjörn’s boldness and of his great luck, and also spoke of the rich booty that his followers had won. Finally he concluded by reciting an ancient poem about Styrbjörn’s ancestors, beginning with the gods and ending with his uncle Erik, who was now reigning in Uppsala. To this poem he had himself added a final strophe, which ran as follows:

Northwards soon

To crave his birthright

Styrbjörn shall row

With a hundred keels.

His gallant men

With victory flaming

Shall make full merry

In Erik’s halls.

This was greeted with tremendous applause, and many of the diners jumped up on their benches to drink to Styrbjörn’s luck. Styrbjörn ordered a costly drinking-cup to be brought to him, and presented it to the poet, saying: “This is not your bardic crown, O Icelander; that shall be set upon your brow when I sit on my throne in Uppsala. There shall be wealth worth winning there for every man of my followers; for my uncle Erik is a thrifty man and has hoarded much that we can put to better use than by allowing it to tarnish in his coffers. When the spring buds open, I shall sail northwards to open those coffers, and any man who wishes to accompany me shall be welcome.”

Both among King Harald’s followers and among King Sven’s there were many whose blood was fired by this challenge, and who roared at once that they would keep him company; for the extent of King Erik’s wealth was famous throughout the north, besides which, Uppsala had not been plundered since the time of Ivar of the Broad Embrace. Jarl Sibbe of the Small Islands was drunk and was having difficulty in controlling both his head and his wine-cup, but he joined in the thunder of acclamation, roaring that he would bring five ships to row north with Styrbjörn, for, he said, he was now beginning to grow stiff and sleepy, and it was better for a man to die among warriors than upon straw like a cow. King Harald said that he was, alas, too old to take the field, and that he had to keep his soldiers at home to maintain peace in his kingdom; however, he would not stand in the way of his son, Sven, if the latter wished to ally his men and ships to Styrbjörn’s enterprise.

King Sven spat meditatively, took a swig from his cup, fingered his beard, and said that it would be difficult for him to spare either men or ships, since he could not neglect his obligations toward his own people, whom he could not leave a defenseless prey to the Saxons and Obotrites.

“I think it fairer,” he added, “that if any assistance be lent, it should be provided by my father; for now that he is old, his men have little to do but wait for the next mealtime and listen to the twittering of priests.”

King Harald exploded with fury at this remark, and there was uproar in the hall; he said that it was easy to see that Sven would be glad to see him left defenseless in Jellinge. “But it shall be as I command!” he screamed, and his face was scarlet; “for I am the King of the Danes, and I alone! So, Sven, you shall lend ships and men to Styrbjörn!”

Hearing these words, King Sven sat silent, for he was afraid of his father’s wrath; besides which, it was clear that many of his men were eager to follow Styrbjörn to Uppsala.

Then Styrbjörn spoke. “I am delighted,” he said, “to see how anxious you both are to help me. I think the best solution would be that you, Harald, should decide how many ships Sven shall send; and that you, my good friend Sven, shall determine the extent to which your father shall aid me.”

This suggestion caused great merriment among all the feasters, so that the tension in the hall decreased; and finally it was agreed that Harald and Sven should each send twelve well-manned ships to fight with Styrbjörn, in addition to whatever help he might succeed in persuading the Skanians to lend him; in return for which, Harald and Sven were to have a share of the treasure that lay in King Erik’s coffers. So that evening, too, drew to its close.

The next day, since they had finished the Yule pork, cabbage soup and mutton appeared on the tables, which they all agreed to be an excellent change. In the evening a man from Halland told them about a great wedding that he had been present at in Finnveden, among the wild people of Smaland. During the celebrations a dispute had broken out concerning a horse deal, and knives had quickly appeared; whereupon the bride and her attendant maidens had laughed delightedly and applauded and had encouraged the disputants to settle the matter there and then. However, when the bride, who belonged to a well-known local family, saw her uncle’s eye gouged out by one of the bridegroom’s kinsmen, she had seized a torch from the wall and hit her bridegroom over the head with it, so that his hair caught fire. One of the bridesmaids, with great presence of mind, had forced her petticoat over his head and twisted it tight, thereby saving his life, though he screamed fearfully and his head, when it appeared again, was burned black and raw. Meanwhile the fire had caught the straw on the floor, and eleven drunken or wounded men lying in it had been burned to death; so that this wedding was generally agreed to have been one of the best they had had for years in Finnveden, and one that would be long remembered. The bride and bridegroom were now living together in blissful happiness, though he had not been able to grow new hair to replace that which he had lost in the fire.

When this story was finished, King Harald said that it was good to hear of such merry goings-on among the Smalanders, for they were in general a sour and treacherous people; and, he went on, Bishop Poppo ought to thank God every time he said his prayers that he had been sent to Denmark, where men knew how to behave themselves, when he might have fallen instead among the robber folk of Finnveden or Värend.

“But tomorrow,” he concluded, “let us hear about the country of the Andalusians, and the strange adventures that befell Orm the son of Toste and Toke the son of Gray Gull on their voyage; for this, I think, will amuse us all.”

So that evening ended.

The next morning Orm and Toke debated which of them should tell the story of their travels.

“You are our chieftain,” said Toke, “so you must also be our historian.”

“You were on the expedition before I joined it,” said Orm. “Besides which, you have a readier gift for words than I. Anyway, it is time you had a chance to talk your fill, for I seem to have noticed during these last evenings that once or twice you have found difficulty in listening in silence to all these stories that we have had to hear.”

“It is not the speaking that worries me,” said Toke, “for I think I have as ready a tongue as most men. The thing that troubles me is that I cannot tell a story unless I am well supplied with ale, for my throat becomes dry easily, and our story is not one that can be told in a few sentences. I have managed to control myself for four evenings, on each of which I have quitted the King’s table soberly and peacefully. None the less, it has not been easy for me, though I have had little occasion for talking. It would be a pity if I were to lapse into one of my melancholy moods and gain the reputation of being an ill-conducted man, and one unworthy to eat at the tables of kings.”

“Well,” said Orm, “we must hope for the best. Even if you should become tipsy during your narration, I do not think that such fine ale as King Harald provides will be likely to make you violent or quarrelsome.”

“It shall be as it shall be,” said Toke, and shook his head doubtfully.

So that evening Toke told the story of Krok’s expedition and of all that had befallen them on their travels; how Orm had come to join them, how they had discovered the Jew in the sea, and how they had plundered the fortress in Ramiro’s kingdom; of the sea battle they fought against the Andalusians, and how they had become galley slaves; and he told them how Krok had died. Then he described how they had been freed from their slavery, and the services that the Jew had performed for them, and how they had received their swords from Subaida.

When he reached this point in his story, both King Harald and Styrbjörn expressed their wish to see these swords; so Orm and Toke passed Blue-Tongue and Red-Jowl up the table. King Harald and Styrbjörn drew them from their scabbards and weighed them in their hands, studying them carefully; and both agreed that they had never in their lives seen finer swords than these. Then the swords were passed round the whole table, for many of the guests were curious to examine such fine weapons, and Orm fidgeted nervously until he had Blue-Tongue back at his waist again, for he felt half naked without her cheek against his thigh.

Almost opposite Orm and Toke there sat two of Sven’s followers named Sigtrygg and Dyre, who were brothers. Sigtrygg belonged to King Sven’s own ship. He was a huge, coarse-framed man, with a broad and extraordinarily bushy beard, which reached right up to his eyebrows. Dyre was younger, but he, too, was rated one of King Sven’s boldest warriors. Orm had noticed that Sigtrygg had, for some time during Toke’s account of their adventures, been throwing dark glances in their direction and had once or twice appeared to be about to interrupt with some remark. When the swords reached him in the course of their passage round the table, he examined them closely and nodded to himself and seemed reluctant to pass them back.

King Sven, who liked to hear about distant lands, now exhorted Toke to proceed with his story. Toke, who had been utilizing the interval well, replied that he would be glad to continue as soon as the men opposite him had finished looking at his sword and that of Orm. At this, Sigtrygg and Dyre returned the swords, without saying anything, and Toke took up his tale again.

He told them of Almansur and of his might and wealth, and how they had entered his service as members of his Imperial bodyguard and had had to worship the Prophet, bowing toward the east each evening and renouncing many of the good things of life; and he told of the wars in which they had partaken, and of the booty they had won. When he came to the story of their march through the Empty Land toward St. James’ burial place and described to them how Orm had saved Almansur’s life and how Almansur had given him the great gold chain as a token of gratitude, King Harald said: “If you still have that chain, Orm, I should be interested to see it; for if it is as surpassing an example of the goldsmith’s art as your sword is of the smith’s, it must indeed be a marvel to look upon.”

“I have it still, King Harald,” replied Orm, “I intend to keep it always; and I have always thought it wise to show it to other men as little as possible, for it is of such beauty as to awaken the covetousness of any man who is not a king or the wealthiest of lords. It would be churlish of me to refuse to show it to you, O King, and to King Styrbjörn and King Sven and the jarls; but I beg that it shall not be passed round for the other guests to see.”

Then he opened his tunic and drew out the chain, which he wore around his neck, and handed it to Sigurd Buesson. Sigurd passed it to Hallbjörn, the groom of the bedchamber, who sat on his right, and Hallbjörn passed it across Bishop Poppo’s place to King Harald; for the Bishop’s place now stood empty, he having had his fill of the Yuletide drinking and being now confined to his bed, where Brother Willibald was tending him.

King Harald measured the chain, and held it against the light, that he might the better examine its beauty. Then he announced that he had spent his whole life collecting jewels and precious ornaments, but that he could not remember ever having seen a finer work of art than this. The chain consisted of thick lozenges of pure gold, each lozenge being long and narrow, a good thumb in length and the breadth of a thumbnail at its middle point, where it was widest, and from which it tapered inwards toward its ends; and each lozenge was joined to its fellow by a small gold ring. The chain comprised thirty-six such lozenges; every first lozenge had a precious red stone set in its center, and every second, a green.

When Styrbjörn held it in his hand, he said that this was worthy to have come from Weland’s smithy; he added, however, that there might be articles of equal beauty in his uncle’s coffers. When it reached King Sven, he observed that it was the sort of prize for which warriors gladly gave their blood, and the daughters of kings their maidenheads.

Then Thorkel the Tall examined the chain, and after he had praised it as the others had done, he leaned down the table to hand it back to Orm. As he did so, Sigtrygg thrust out his hand to take it; but Orm was quicker, and his hand reached it first.

“Who are you to snatch at it?” he said to Sigtrygg. “I have not heard that you are a king or a jarl, and I do not want it to be handled by any but them.”

“I wish to fight with you for this ornament,” said Sigtrygg.

“I can believe that,” replied Orm, “for you are plainly a covetous and unmannerly churl. My advice to you is to keep your fingers to yourself and not to meddle with people who know how to behave themselves.”

“You are afraid to fight with me,” thundered Sigtrygg. “But fight you shall, or else surrender your chain to me; for you have long stood in debt to me, and I demand this chain in payment.”

“You have a weak head for ale, and it makes you talk foolishly,” said Orm, “for I never saw you in my life before this feast began, so that I cannot possibly be in your debt. The best thing you can do,” he added sharply, “is to sit still and hold your tongue, before I beg King Harald’s leave to tweak your nose where you sit. I am a man of peace, and loath to dirty my fingers on such a snout as yours; but even the most patient of men would feel an urge to teach you manners.”

Now, Sigtrygg was a renowned warrior, feared by all for his strength and ferocity, and by no means accustomed to being addressed in such a manner as this. He leaped up from his bench bellowing like a bull and pouring out a flood of abuse; but louder still rang King Harald’s voice through the hall as he called furiously for silence and demanded to know the cause of this disturbance.

“Your good ale, O King,” said Orm, “together with this man’s greed for gold, have combined to drive his wits out of him; for he screams that he will have my chain and claims that I stand in his debt, though I have never before set eyes on him.”

King Harald said angrily that Sven’s men were always making trouble, and he demanded sternly of Sigtrygg what had driven him to take leave of his senses and lose control of himself, when he had heard it plainly proclaimed that both the peace of Christ and the peace of King Harald were to be respected in this hall.

“Royal King,” said Sigtrygg, “let me explain how this whole matter stands, and you will see that my claim is just. Seven years ago I suffered a cruel wrong, and now, here at your feast, I have heard that these two men were among the perpetrators of it. That summer we were sailing home from the southern lands in four ships, Bork of Hven, Silverpalle, Fare-Wide Svensson, and myself, when we met three ships sailing southwards. We held converse with them, and from this man Toke’s story I now know whose ships they were. Now, on my ship there served a Spanish slave, a dark-haired, yellow-skinned man. While we were speaking with the strangers, this man jumped overboard, dragging with him my brother-in-law Oskel, a good man; and nothing more was seen of either of them. But now we have all heard that this slave was taken up on board their ship, and that he was this man whom they call Solomon; and that he served them well indeed. These two men who sit here, Orm and Toke, were the men who pulled him out of the water; we have heard as much from their own lips. For such a slave I could have got a fine price. This man Orm is now the chieftain of such as survive from Krok’s company, and it is no more than justice that he should repay me for the loss I thereby incurred. I therefore demand of you, Orm, that you surrender me this chain in payment for the loss of my slave and my brother-in-law, peacefully and of your own free will; failing which, that you meet me in single combat outside this hall, on trodden earth, with shield and sword, now and without delay. Whether or not you give me the chain, I shall in any case kill you; for you have said that you wish to tweak my nose—and to me, Sigtrygg, the son of Stigand, and kinsman of King Sven, no man has ever addressed impertinences and lived to see the end of the day on which he uttered them.”

“Two things only have kept my temper cool as I listened to your words,” replied Orm. “The first is that the chain is mine and shall remain so, whoever may or may not have jumped from your ship into the sea seven years ago. And the second is that Blue-Tongue and I shall have a say in the matter of which of us two shall live to see tomorrow’s sunrise. But first let us hear King Harald’s pleasure regarding this affair.”

Everyone in the hall was happy to see that there was a good prospect of an armed combat; for a fight between two such men as Orm and Sigtrygg was sure to be worth the watching. Both King Sven and Styrbjörn expressed their opinion that this would add pleasant variety to the Yuletide drinking; but King Harald sat pondering the matter deeply, stroking his beard and wearing an expression of perplexed uncertainty.

At length he said: “This is a difficult case on which to pronounce judgment. I think it doubtful whether Sigtrygg can fairly claim compensation from Orm for a loss that he sustained through no fault of Orm’s. On the other hand, it cannot be denied that no man may reasonably be expected to lose a good slave, to say nothing of a brother-in-law, without expecting to receive some compensation for his loss. In any case, now that insults have been exchanged, they are bound to fight it out as soon as they are out of my sight; and such a chain as Orm wears must surely have been the cause of many combats in the past, and will certainly be the cause of many more in the years to come. In the circumstances, therefore, I see no reason why they should not be permitted to settle it here, in armed combat, where we can all enjoy watching them. Therefore, Hallbjörn, see to it that a combat ring be trodden out and roped off here, outside our hall, where the ground is most even, and see to it also that it be well lit with flares and torches; and tell us as soon as it is ready.”

“King Harald,” said Orm, and his voice sounded strangely unhappy, “I am not willing to be a party to such a contest.”

They all stared at him in amazement, and Sigtrygg and a number of King Sven’s followers burst out laughing.

King Harald shook his head sadly and said: “If you are afraid to fight, then there is no alternative but that you surrender your chain to him and hope that it may divert his wrath. To my ears, your voice had a bolder tone in it than this a few minutes ago.”

“It is not the fighting that worries me,” said Orm, “but the cold. I have always been a man of delicate health, and cold is the thing that I can least endure. Nothing is more dangerous for my health than to go out from a hot room, after heavy drinking, into the cold night air, especially now that I have spent so many years in southern climes and am unaccustomed to the northern winter. I do not see why, to please this Sigtrygg, I should have to endure being racked with coughs for the rest of the winter; for coughs and colds tend to hang about me, and my mother always used to say that they would be the death of me if I did not take good care of myself. Therefore, O King, I humbly propose that the fight take place here, in the hall, before your table, where there is plenty of space, and where you yourself will be able to enjoy the spectacle in comfort.”

Many of those present laughed at Orm’s anxiety; but Sigtrygg did not join in their mirth, bellowing furiously that he would soon settle any fears Orm might cherish concerning his health. Orm, however, paid no attention to him, but remained quietly seated with his face turned toward King Harald, awaiting his decision.

At last King Harald said: “I am sorry to see that young men are growing soft nowadays. They are not what they used to be. The sons of Ragnar Hairy-Breeks never bothered about such trivial considerations as their health or the weather; nor, indeed, did I myself, in my younger days. Really, I do not know of any young man today who is of the old mettle, apart from Styrbjörn. I confess, however, that, now that I am old, it would be a convenience for me to be able to watch the fight without having to move from my present chair. It is lucky that the Bishop is ill in bed, for he would never permit this to take place; still, I do not see that the peace that we have come here to celebrate can be said to be broken by anything to which I give my assent; nor do I think that Christ could have any objection to a contest of skill, provided it be conducted with due propriety and the correct formalities. Therefore let Orm and Sigtrygg fight here in the cleared hall before my table, with sword and shield, helmet and chain shirt; and let no man assist them, except with the putting on of their armor. If one of them be killed, the matter is decided; but if either of them be no longer able to stand upright, or throw down his sword, or seek shelter beneath the tables, his adversary shall not continue to strike at him, for he shall then be deemed to have lost the fight and the chain with it. And I and Styrbjörn and Hallbjörn my groom shall see that the contest is fairly fought.”

The men hastened to fetch armor for Orm and Sigtrygg, and the noise in the hall was very great as the rival merits of the champions were extolled and challenged. King Harald’s men deemed Orm the better fighter of the two, but King Sven’s men were loud in Sigtrygg’s praise and said that he had slain nine men in single combat without sustaining a single wound serious enough to require bandaging. Among those who talked loudest was Dyre. He asked Orm whether he was not afraid that the cold of the grave might make him cough; then he turned to his brother and bade him be content to have Orm’s chain for his share of the compensation and allow him, Dyre, to have Orm’s sword.

All this while, since they had first interrupted his story, Toke had been sitting in heavy silence mumbling to himself and drinking; but when he heard Dyre’s words, life seemed to return into his brain. He plunged his eating-knife into the table in front of Dyre’s place, so that it stood quivering in the wood, and tossed his sword, still in its sheath, beside the knife; then he leaned forward across the table, so quickly that Dyre had no time to draw away, seized him by the ears and the beard on his cheeks, and forced his face downwards toward the weapons, saying: “Here you see weapons as good as Orm’s; but if you wish to have them, you must win them yourself and not beg them from another.”

Dyre was a strong man, and he took hold of Toke’s wrists and tried to dislodge his grip, but only succeeded in intensifying the pressure on his ears and beard, so that he groaned and grunted but could not free himself.

“I am holding you here in amicable converse,” said Toke, “because I have no wish to disturb the King’s peace in this hall. But you shall not go free till you have promised to fight with me, for Red-Jowl likes not to hide her beauty from men’s eyes when her sister dances naked.”

“Let me go,” snarled Dyre, his mouth pressing against the table, “that I may waste no time in closing your mouth.”

“That is a promise,” said Toke, and as he spoke he released his grip and blew from between his fingers the wisps of beard that he had dragged from their roots.

The whole of Dyre’s face, apart from his ears, which were scarlet, was white with fury, and at first he seemed to have lost the power of speech. He rose slowly to his feet and said: “This matter shall be settled without delay; and your suggestion is a good one, for by this means my brother and I shall have a Spanish sword apiece. Let us go out and piss together, nor forget to bring our swords with us.”

“That was well spoken,” said Toke. “You and I can dispense with the formalities of kings. For your acceptance of my suggestion, I shall remain in your debt as long as you live; how long that may be, we shall shortly know.”

Then they descended the length of the King’s table, each on his opposite side, and strode shoulder to shoulder down the aisle between the long tables that faced each other across the hall, and out through one of the doors in the short wall at the bottom. King Sven saw them go and smiled, for it pleased him to see his men behave arrogantly, because this increased his fame and the fear in which his name was held.

Meanwhile Orm and Sigtrygg had begun to arm themselves for combat, and the part of the floor where they were to fight had been swept, so that they should not slip on the straw or stumble over the bones that had been thrown there for King Harald’s dogs to gnaw. The men who had been eating at the top and bottom of the hall now crowded forward to get a better view, squeezing into spaces on the benches and the long tables on both sides of the cleared square, as well as behind King Harald’s table and along the wall on the remaining side. King Harald was in high good humor and could scarcely wait for the fight to begin; and when, on turning his head, he noticed two of his women peeping eagerly in at one of the doors, he issued a command that all his women and daughters should come and watch the sport; for it would be a hard thing, he said, if they should be denied the pleasure of witnessing such a spectacle. He made room for some of them on his own royal bench, by his side and on his knees, and for others in the Bishop’s empty seat; the two most beautiful of his daughters, however, managed to find a space on either side of Styrbjörn and found nothing to complain of in the tightness of the crush that pressed them against him; they giggled coyly when he offered them ale, and drank it with a bold air. For those women who could not find room on the royal bench, another bench was placed behind the table in such a position that the King and his companions did not impede their view.

Hallbjörn the groom then commanded a fanfare to be blown, and called for silence. He proclaimed that everyone should keep absolutely still while the fight was in progress, and that no man might shout advice to the contestants, or throw anything into the arena. Both the contestants were now ready, and they entered the arena and stood facing each other. When it was seen that Orm held his sword in his left hand, an excited hubbub of discussion broke out, for a fight between one right-handed and one left-handed man provided difficulties for both of them, since it meant that the blows fell on their sword-arm sides, to which their shield offered less protection.

It was plain that neither of them was the sort of adversary that a man would choose to find himself pitted against; nor did either man appear to cherish any anxiety regarding the outcome of the contest. Orm was half a head taller than Sigtrygg and had the longer reach, but Sigtrygg was more squarely built and looked rather the more powerful man of the two. They held their shields well forward across their breasts and high enough to be able to cover their necks promptly, should the necessity arise; and each kept his eyes fixed on his opponent’s sword, so as to be able to anticipate the other’s blows. As soon as they came within striking distance of one another, Orm aimed a slash at Sigtrygg’s legs, but Sigtrygg evaded the blow nimbly and replied with a vicious swing that landed with a ringing crash on Orm’s helmet. After this opening, both men proceeded more cautiously, parrying each other’s blows skillfully with their shields, and King Harald was heard to observe to his women that it was good to see experienced swordsmen such as these at work, instead of the sort who rushed crazily into the fight leaving themselves open; for this meant that the spectacle would last longer.

“It is no easy thing to forecast which of these two is likely to prove the master,” he said. “But the red man looks to me to be as safe a swordsman as I have seen for many a month, for all his fear of the cold; and I shall not be surprised if Sven is one kinsman the poorer tonight.”

King Sven, who, like both the jarls, was sitting on the edge of the table to get a better view of the fight, smiled contemptuously and retorted that nobody who knew Sigtrygg need have any fears regarding the outcome. “Although my men are not averse to the sport of armed combat,” he said, “it is seldom that I lose one of them, except when they fight against one another.”

As he spoke, Toke re-entered the hall. He was limping badly and could be heard muttering a verse to himself; and as he climbed over the bench to his place, it could be seen that one of his legs was black with blood from his thigh to his knee.

“How went it with Dyre?” asked Sigurd Buesson.

“It took time,” replied Toke; “but he finished pissing at last.”

Everybody’s eyes were now on the fight, which Sigtrygg seemed eager to bring to a quick conclusion. He was attacking Orm savagely, trying to pierce his defense and concentrating on his legs and face and the fingers of his sword-hand. Orm was defending himself ably, but did not appear to be able to achieve anything very positive himself; and it could be seen that he was having trouble with Sigtrygg’s shield. This was larger than his own and was of tough wood, strengthened with leather; only the center boss was of iron, and Orm had to take care that his sword should not become embedded in the edge of the shield, for if that were to happen, it would give Sigtrygg the chance to snap it or wrench it from his grasp by a twist of his arm. Orm’s shield was made entirely of iron, with a sharp spike in its center.

Sigtrygg sneeringly asked Orm whether it was warm enough for him. Blood was pouring down Orm’s cheek from the first blow on his helmet, and he had besides received a thrust in the leg and a slash across the hand, while Sigtrygg was still unmarked. Orm made no reply, but retreated step by step alongside one of the long tables. Crouching behind his shield, Sigtrygg moved swiftly in to the attack, padding forwards and occasionally leaping to one or the other side, while his blows rained ever the more fiercely, so that it seemed to most of the spectators that the end could not now be far distant.

Then Orm suddenly sprang at his opponent and, taking Sigtrygg’s blow on his sword, drove his shield against Sigtrygg’s with all his strength, so that the spike on his own shield pierced through the leather and into the wood and remained embedded there. He forced the shields downwards so hard that the handles of both of them snapped, whereupon the two men both took a step backwards, freed their swords, and, leaping high into the air, slashed at each other in the same instant. Sigtrygg’s blow struck Orm in the side, piercing his chain shirt and causing a deep wound; but Orm’s sword buried itself in Sigtrygg’s throat, and a great shout filled the hall as the bearded head flew from its shoulders, bounced on the edge of the table, and fell with a splash into the butt of ale that stood at its foot.

Orm staggered, and supported himself against the table. He wiped his sword across his knee, replaced it in its sheath, and gazed down at the headless body lying at his feet.

“Now you know,” he said, “whose chain it is.”

1. The father of King Canute the Great.

2. A good poet and a strong fighter, who is supposed to have ended his days in America.