Northern Fiction - The Saga of Freydis Eiriksdattir
Chapter 3
“There once was an evil duke in Denmark (a readily accepted fact among the mostly Norwegian company), who had a Norwegian slave woman named Trondelag. This woman was a true worshipper of the Saint Olaf and believed steadfastly in his holiness. The duke sneered at her piety and disbelieved her tales of Olaf’s miracles, calling him a treacherous Norwegian who was merely praised because of hearsay and gossip by old women. Then one July twenty-eighth, the eve of Saint Olaf’s day, the duke demanded of Trondelag that she bake bread rather than observe the saint’s day in peaceful rest. She dared not refuse, but warned the evil duke that forcing her to labor on this holy day would lead to no good at all for him and his posterity. Then, much against her will, with great sighing and moaning, the woman baked the bread for her master. When he ate the bread it turned to stone in his mouth and choked him to death. The evil duke fell dead at the feet of an icon of Saint Olaf hanging beside the woman’s oven and word spread quickly of the miracle. Thereafter Saint Olaf’s day was celebrated in Denmark just as it is in Norway.”
Such holy justice was fully appreciated by the assembled company who greeted Snorri’s words with a roar of approbation.
The dwarfs made short work of the sod wall carving a tunnel through the ten foot thick walls in less time than it took Snorri to finish his tale. Then Thjodrerir turned to Aran and said: ”See you outside, my worthy leader.” Before Aran could object, the dwarfs were out the hole and into the yard, leaving him to put the wood paneling back in place to cover the tunnel.
Waving the church-boys out through the curtain, Aran followed them into the hall. Tittering and gabbling inanely amongst themselves they gamboled behind the feasting hoard at the tables. Then gibbering and giggling with uncontrollable excitement they ran the toward the entry where they bumped into a man returning from the latrines in the courtyard.
“Where are you boys going? Aran, what is going on here?” It was Hrolf. The boys froze.
Aran, grinning guilt, innocently said: ”Just outside for some air, Father. It’s getting late. We will see you back at Saint Olaf’s. But, . . .er, . . we may be just a bit rowdy tonight, so if we are late, please don’t be mad.”
Hrolf waved them off with a genial, and somewhat drunken, “God speed.”
Returning to the table he leaned over to Jon and said: “I’m going to regret letting them run off, but it is an exception night, don’t you agree?”
Morosely, Father Jon replied: “Indeed, a most exception night, Father.” Then he quickly turned his unsmiling attention back to a young girl across the hall engaged in the most shameful display of erotic dancing he had ever witnessed.
Father Toke, barely looked up from his gravy soaked trencher of bread, when Hrolf spoke. His attention was focused upon the heaped up buttered salt herrings and greasy stack of fritters, cabbage-in-pottage, turnips-in-broth, egurdouce of fish, blanc manger, a whole cony, a piece of larded boar’s head, chevettes of capon, forcemeats, sausage-urchins, and pork tarts. Briefly, he tilted his head with a wink of his pig’s eye, gleaming brightly between puffy lids, and burbled between great quaffs of ale,: “Boys will be boys. Time enough for grim and glum. Right Jon?” His hahahahaha trailed off into a choking seizure and a spraying of food across the table. Recovering, he loosened his belt and flailed his arms at a passing platter-laden serving girl struggling with a huge met piled with crisp slivers of roast pork and steaming golden apple rings. “Girl! Girl! Here with that meat.” Scooping a large portion from the platter, Toke asked, “Do you have any whale’s tongue, my dear?”
“One last story,” Snorri announced to the crowd. As the prospect of returning to serious drinking insinuated its way into their bleary attention the feasters yelled their approval of just one more story. Snorri prefaced his tale with the observation:
The deaf man can a fearless warrior be,
The blind man is better off than the body on the pyre,
The dead alone can do nothing to help themselves.
“Therefore, attend this story, wherein, once upon a time in France,” the bard began, “there was a man so crippled that he could only drag his body along with his hands. Then, it came to pass that one day he fell into a deep sleep in the gutter and dreamed that a noble man came to him asking why he lay in the filth of the roadway. (With a nod to Hrolf, Snorri continued) ‘Go to St. Olaf’s Church in London, where the Viking merchants worship when in that town,’ the noble gentleman told the cripple, ‘and, you shall be able to walk’ he said assuringly.”
“The man immediately took a boat to London town and crawing from street to street looked all about for the Church of Saint Olaf. Everyone he met said: ‘London has so many churches. I have no idea where Olaf’s chapel might be located.’ Then they went on their way leaving the cripple dragging his limbs about the town. Finally, the cripple came upon a Norse man in the street. He asked: 'Where is Saint Olaf’s Church?' The man said: ‘I am going to that very place. Come along with me.’ They went off together, the cripple and the Norseman. When they came to the Lichgate the stranger stepped over the threshold, but the cripple had to roll over it he was so tired. Immediately within the sacred grounds, the cripple sprang to his feet completely cured. Looking about him for the stranger he realized that he was alone.”
“Then, the newly healed man strode into the church and thankfully knelt in prayer at the feet of the saint’s statue. Then, looking up he recognized the Norseman’s visage in the face of the saint’s statue!”
The crowd thought this was the very best of the stories. After another round of drinks they even raised a clamor for one more tale. Snorri keenly surveyed the assembly, then he coyly agreed to one more story. “This will be a story of King Harald and his wisdom. It is the story of Brand the Open-Handed.”
The guests settled back in anticipation, relaxed, as Snorri began, “Remember:”
Gifts of a shield or a costly coat call for a return.
For, gift for gift, a man repays his friends.
No man is so rich, that it pains him to be repaid,
No man so poor, who does not deserve fair treatment.
Mutual giving bonds friendships, and makes life go well.
“King Harald was a generous host, but one day he was told of a man newly arrived at the court who had a great reputation for generosity and worthy enough to having him entered into the king’s service. The king wished to test the man and ordered Thjotholf the Skald to go to the man and say, ‘King Harald wants you to give him the mantle that you wear.’ Immediately, Thjotholf went to the man who was measuring linen with a yardstick. He addressed the man, and gave him the king’s message. Without looking up Brand the Open-handed let the mantle slip down off his shoulders. He said not a word, but kept to his work, and let the bard take the mantle without even looking up from his task. Thjotholf brought the mantle to the king and related the incident. ‘This is most curious, he did not even look up? Surely, he must be a proud-minded man.’ Then the king ordered his servant to go again to the man. This time he was to ask Brand for his gold trimmed ax. The skald relayed the message to the man that ‘Harald the King will accept your ax.’ Immediately, the man handed it to him, but remained silent. Harold was amazed that the man handed over such a valuable gift without question or expectation of return. ‘Go to this man again and demand of him his robe,’ he told Thjotholf.”
“The bard was much distressed. It embarrassed him to keep asking the man for gifts, but naturally, he obeyed the king. When he had asked the man for the robe, the man rose without a word. Taking off the robe he ripped off the right sleeve, then handed the robe to Thjotholf without a single word. When the skald brought the robe to the king, he told Harald how the man had torn off the sleeve and kept it, but gave the rest of the robe without comment. ‘Why has he done this without a word, my lord?’ asked the bard.”
“King Harald thought a minute, then said: ‘This man is both wise and generous. He must think that I have only one hand, and it is ever extended to receive gifts. Therefore, I do not need both sleeves.’ And,” Snorri concluded, “Harald went to the man in person, and gave him many fine gifts in exchange for his unquestioning generosity and for his wisdom.”
The lesson was not lost on the assembled guests, who immediately tossed the bard gold rings, and coins of copper and silver, in appreciation for tales well told. Then they called for more ale. As the horns circled the tables a general babble of enthusiasm filled the hall. Snorri directed his servant to pick up this shower of gifts while the bard turned to his host and acknowledged Thorir's hospitality. Then he took a place at the tables to catch up on the feasting and wet his throat after the evening of story telling.
Outside the night was clear and cold. Little clouds of vaporized breath stood before each boys face as he panting with excitement after the dash to the side of the hall to rejoin the dwarfs. With their noisy passage it was not difficult for the two groups to locate each other in the darkness. Indeed, the very racket they made probably enabled them to pass without hindrance, whereas attempts at stealth would have attracted Thorir’s henchmen. They were even ignored when they noisily scaled the compound wall. Clear of Thorir’s grounds they scurried after Thjodrerir, wildly racing under railings, darting down narrow twisting allies, forcing themselves between fence pickets, and scaling wattle hurdled yards. Loudly stumbling through a maze of stables, warehouses, paddocks and courtyards they noisily tipped over woodpiles, savagely battled entangling lines of laundry, and sent echoing-rain barrels rolling in the gloom. Every guard dog in Norumbega was soon barking and besotted watchmen, roused from their slumbers, stumbled cursing into the night.
Emerging from the nameless back allies the church-boys found that Thjodrerir had led them to the Aloalstraeti and Freydis’ fenced yard. Avoiding the gate, Thjodrerir passed along the pilings until he reached a spot where he was able to shimmy under the fence. Once inside, he crossed to the smithy where the forge glowed dull red and cast a circle of light before the low entry to the farrier and blacksmith’s shop. The light of the hearth illuminated a large chimney-like furnace dressed with clay where bog iron ore was mixed with charcoal and crystallized into a spongy iron that could be worked with a hammer into iron implements. Scattered about littering the room were the hammers, grippers, and other tools of the trade, a large bellows, and piles of old waste slag, unused nodules of raw bog iron, bars and ingots of imported Norse iron, and huge baskets of charcoal ready for the fire. A large stone stood at the fire to shield the stone anvil where the smith worked from the heat. Overhead was a rack of iron tools and arrayed against the walls, hanging from every conceivable hook and bracket, were several partially completed projects. Passing swiftly through the shop Thjodrerir pulled aside an enormous leather hide, that served as a hanging at the rear of the forge, and disappeared into a cavern that gaped as dark as the entrance to Hel.
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