Northern Fiction - The Saga of Freydis Eiriksdattir
Chapter 3
Another horn of ale was handed to him, and Aran drained it in what he hoped would seem an accustomed exuberance. He was starting to feel the effects of the wassailing when he felt a hand gently rub on his thigh. He turned quickly hoping it was the girl. It was Magnus, a year Aran’s junior, well built, ever smiling, and obviously drunk. Magnus leaned close to Aran, breathed a sour breath in his face and belched loudly. He waved away the belch and gestured broadly down the hall indicating the arrival of the bard, drawling: “Behold, the proud sayer of poems and tales.”
The skald Snorri was the principal entertainer for the feast and a man of easy charm and some imagination. He was a man of strong and warlike figure, with a dark and sensuously ugly appearance and he exuded a manner suggestive of the instability of temperament commonly said to accompany the gift of poetry. Even at first glance, Snorri seemed unpredictable, obstreperous, ruthless, alternately frenzied and ambivalently melancholy. He was the type of man who could attract and arouse a strange woman and betray a life-long friend’s trust in the passing of a single evening. He was dressed in a long cloak of wolfskin and a blouse of green. On his chest was a chain of massy red gold formed in the dual shape of both a hammer of Thor and a cross of the Lord Jesus Christ. His hands were heavy with Heimal’s teeth, gold from the mouth of the god Heimal’s horse, named Golden Head, that glimmered with ray’s like the glancing spray of sun-lit waves. On his brow a golden fillet gleamed like sparkling sunshine.
Snorri, the skald, boldly took a place before Thorir at the high table; and, the chieftain-host held his hand up for attention and quiet. In an authoritative voice Thorir declared: “This is a great honor. We welcome the famed skald, Snorri Thorsson. The Norns have brought him, unsolicited, to our home. He comes from far across the seas, to feast with us at the very ends of Mitgar. So, from the great halls of kings and jarls I present to you, for your enjoyment and enlightenment the famed Snorri Thorsson. The bard to kings, and story master for the great, from Norumbega to far off Novgorod.”
The bard bowed low to the host and then with a sweeping gesture to the assembled company. Quoting the skalds of old, he said:
In which seat shall sit?
Rash is the man who knocking at unknown doors
Relies solely on his good luck.
Snorri said, “My young lord, I shall address you in my words tonight with selections from 'The Words of the High Ones'. Hear the sayings, for:
I waxd wise and throve well:
Word from word gave words to me,
Deed from deed gave deeds to me.
Snorri looked up and down the long tables, then focused on Thorvald. “First let me caution you as follows”:
A wolf that grins, a boar the grunts,
A raucous crow, a rootless tree,
A wave that breaks, a kettle that boils,
An arrow in flight, a tide at ebb,
An adder coiled, an icy night,
A young bride’s words, a sword’s bright blade,
A bear at play, a prince’s child,
A welcoming witch, a slave with wit,
A calf that is sick, a corpse that is fresh,
A brother’s murderer met, a house in flames,
A war horse with a wrenched leg,
Are never safe: Place no trust in them.
Then Snorri looked back at Thorvald, and smiling genially he said: “A young man certainly needs a more specific warning. A few choice words therefore about the wiles of women”:
Avoid her bed and sweet embraces,
She’ll cast her spell, you’ll loose all care,
To meet with men, go off to war,
Feast no food, drink no drink,
Only in sorrow weep, then sleep.
Then, Snorri said:
All men’s lives are mortal:
The thing I know that never dies,
Are the deeds of the great dead.
“It is well that now I mention some deeds of your noble father Agdi, and his adventures with the great king of Norway, Harald Hardrahdi, in Sicily. I begin with the words of the poet Thjodolf”:
Ventured his life each day,
Capturing eighty cities
In the land where Saracens held sway.
The hero Hardrahdi,
Scourge of the Saracens,
Waged his wolf’s ravening
On the cities of Sicily’s shores.
Then Thorir blurted out: “Clever we all were in those days, but the Greeks called us Varangians the wine-bags: vinbelja. I guess we could down a few!”
Thorund Agdisson added: “My father always said you were the wildest youth in the guard Thorir, and the hardest drinker.”
“Hardest to be sure, go ask some of those Greek girls! Many a young man there has me to blame for his abandoned mother! But I rose to the rank of Imanglavite, and Harald who was called ‘Burner of the Bulgars’ was promoted to Spatharicandidatus by the emperor himself! Wine-bags we were, but mix with us and your head was sure to ache!”
The crowd enjoyed the personal interjection by Thorir, but Snorri was visably put out by loss of the audience. He strummed his lyre for attention and launched into one of the more popular tales of the Varangians’ cleverness in war.
“Hardrahdi realized that the town was too strong to be taken by force with the army he had with him in the field. Then Agdi came to his commander and presented a scheme: ‘Let our men capture the small birds that nest in the city and fly out from their nests each morning to feed in the fields. Set bird-catchers to the task at once and bring the birds to me at the camp,’ he said to Harald. When this was done, Agdi attached small shavings of fir to each bird's tail. The shavings were smeared with sulfur and pitch and wax. When all the captured birds were readied, the shavings were set on fire and the birds were released. The terrified birds flew up and winged straight toward the town. Home to their nests built under the straw and reed thatched eaves of the roofs. The thatched roofs caught fire from the burning pitch shavings. And, although each bird carried but one tiny flame, the flock of birds soon had many roofs ignited. The fire spread out of control from house to house all over and soon the entire town was ablaze. Their town aflame, the people opened the gates and came out begging for mercy. Hardrahdi spared those who begged for mercy but put the rest to the sword, and the town was sacked by the victorious Varangians.” He concluded, noting: “Agdi was given first pick among the treasures and the captives by Harald and was hailed by all as a strategist of deep wisdom.”
During the tale, Aran looked up and saw the Skraeling serving girl standing by his side. She gave him a hot look and a subtle nod. While he was not that experienced with women, nevertheless he recognized it immediately; it was the very look and nod that Hrolf had given him so many nights before they retired discretely to his cell. Then she nodded toward the curtained sleeping recess behind the row of seats, just as Hrolf was also wont to do! Aran had no doubts of what was expected of him: Unnoticed by the company, he quietly slipped away, and joined her at the alcove curtain. She drew back the tapestry. They entered the dark recess, at once alone and secluded, amidst the throng. No words were exchanged. She let her robe slide from her shoulders and stood in the dim light for him to see her slender and smooth body. Stepping to him she pressed her open mouth to his and enfolded him in a surprisingly strong embrace. He excitedly responded to her advances. They fumbled his trousers to his ankles and immediately fell upon the cushions in a tangle of limbs. There was no foreplay. She lay back. He lay between her thighs. She dug her fingernails into his firm smooth buttock cheeks, drawing him to her. Immediate penetration. A brief and wildly bucking ride brought orgasm. Heavy breathing, resurrection and re-penetration, all in a rush of youthful heat. Then, after three rapid courses, he lay exhausted and giddy with the girl on the now rumpled heap of bedding. He had not even asked her name, she had not offered. Aran just lay there on his belly, his trousers caught in a knot on his left foot, and nodded off into a contentedly drunken slumber. She rose and quietly dressed, ran a comb through her long shinning black hair, kissed him on the forehead, and departed.
Thorir was now all caught up in “the good old days” nature of Snorri’s tales and decided to relate an experience of his own. “Not every Viking raid came off so well, sometimes men bite off more than they could chew. I’ll tell you one story where we were not the raiders, instead we were the raided. Toward the end of the days when I was with Harald and Agdi at Miklagard together, in . . . lets see, when Hadrade blinded the deposed Emperor Michael V in April of 1042 and the Varangians helped Constantine IX to come to the throne with Empress Zoe. She was a fine sight to see, let me tell you all, . . well, yes, let me see, yes in the Christian year 1043 it was, anyway, as I was saying: A large force of the Rus, the Swedes who traded in the east, under King Yaroslav of Kiev and Novgorod (who the Greeks did not know was Harald’s foster-father and future father-in-law) had decided to take on the great city and attack Miklagard itself. They gathered a great fleet, crossed the Black Sea, and entered the Bosporus. They demanded a thousand stater for each ship to be bought off, that was three pounds of gold for every sailor! Constantine Monomachus told them ‘to rot in Hell before that day’ and decided to fight. The Rus formed their ships up in a line all chained together in a wall of battle. I was on the walls of the city, I know it was a grand sight, a terrifying sight indeed. In the morning they attacked and all Constantine could counter with were a few triremes. It looked like the end of Miklagard that day for sure. But the Greeks have a scret weapon: It is called ‘Greek Fire.’ They spurt liquid flames from tubes! The trimeres sailed right up to the Rus ships and shot out this burning goo that sticks to everything, ships, rigging, even men, and burns all. It cannot be put out, it even floats on the water and you burn if you try to swim from a sinking ship!”
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