Social Norms in Medieval Scandinavia 9781641892414

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SOCIAL NORMS IN MEDIEVAL SCANDINAVIA

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BEYOND MEDIEVAL EUROPE Beyond Medieval Europe publishes monographs and edited volumes that evoke medieval Europe’s geographic, cultural, and religious diversity, while highlighting the interconnectivity of the entire region, understood in the broadest sense—​from Dublin to Constantinople, Novgorod to Toledo. The individuals who inhabited this expansive territory built cities, cultures, kingdoms, and religions that impacted their locality and the world around them in manifold ways.

Series Editor Christian Alexander Raffensperger, Wittenberg University, Ohio

Editorial Board Kurt Villads Jensen, Stockholms Universitet Balázs Nagy, Central European University, Budapest Leonora Neville, University of Wisconsin, Madison

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SOCIAL NORMS IN MEDIEVAL SCANDINAVIA Edited by

JAKUB MORAWIEC,  ALEKSANDRA JOCHYMEK, AND GRZEGORZ BARTUSIK

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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

© 2019, Arc Humanities Press, Leeds

The authors assert their moral right to be identified as the authors of their part of this work.

Permission to use brief excerpts from this work in scholarly and educational works is hereby granted provided that the source is acknowledged. Any use of material in this work that is an exception or limitation covered by Article 5 of the European Union’s Copyright Directive (2001/​29/​EC) or would be determined to be “fair use” under Section 107 of the U.S. Copyright Act September 2010 page 2 or that satisfies the conditions specified in Section 108 of the U.S. Copyright Act (17 USC §108, as revised by P.L. 94–​553) does not require the Publisher’s permission. ISBN: 9781641892407 e-​ISBN: 9781641892414 www.arc-​humanities.org

Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . viii Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix JAKUB MORAWIEC, ALEKSANDRA JOCHYMEK, GRZEGORZ BARTUSIK

Introduction. The goðar and “Cultural Politics” of the Years ca. 1000–​1150. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 ​JÓN VIÐAR SIGURÐSSON

PART I: PRE-​CHRISTIAN RITUAL PRACTICE AND LITERARY DISCOURSE Chapter 1.

The Use of Silver by the Norsemen of Truso and Wolin: The Logic of the Market or Social Prestige?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 DARIUSZ ADAMCZYK

Chapter 2.

Silk, Settlements, and Society in Íslendingasögur. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 ​ANITA SAUCKEL

Chapter 3.

Being Óðinn Bursson: The Creation of Social and Moral Obligation in Viking Age Warrior-​Bands through the Ritualized, Oral Performance of Poetry—The Case of Grímnismál. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 SIMON NYGAARD

Chapter 4.

Elements of Satire and Social Commentary in Heathen Praise Poems and Commemorative Odes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 DAVID ASHURST

Chapter 5.

Friendship and Man’s Reputation: A Case of Odds þáttr Ófeigssonar. . . 91 MARTA REY-​RADLIŃSKA

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Contents

PART II: RECEPTION AND CULTURAL TRANSFER

Chapter 6.

Cultural Transfer of Cognitive Structures of Fortune in the Latin and Old Icelandic Literatures and Languages: The Case of the Metaphor Fortune is a Wheel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 GRZEGORZ BARTUSIK

Chapter 7.

Dating, Authorship, and Generational Memory in Ljósvetninga saga: A Late Response to Barði Guðmundsson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 YOAV TIROSH

Chapter 8.

Quid Sigurthus cum Christo? An Examination of Sigurd’s Christian Potential in Medieval Scandinavia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 ŁUKASZ NEUBAUER

Chapter 9.

Jómsborg and the German Reception of Jómsvíkinga saga: Introducing Masterhood as a Social Norm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 MICHAEL IRLENBUSCH-​REYNARD

PART III: OUTSIDERS AND TRANSGRESSORS Chapter 10.

The Unfamiliar Other: Distortions of Social Cognition Through Disguise in Two Íslendingasögur. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 ALEXANDER J. WILSON

Chapter 11.

A Deviant Word Hoard: A Preliminary Study of Non-​Normative Terms in Early Medieval Scandinavia. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 KEITH RUITER

Chapter 12.

Enchanting the Land: Monstrous Magic, Social Concerns, and the Natural World in the Íslendingasögur. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213 REBECCA MERKELBACH

Chapter 13.

Social Margins in Karlamagnús saga: The Rejection of Poverty . . . . . 229 ALEKSANDRA JOCHYMEK

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Contents

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Chapter 14.

Þótti mǫnnum … hann myndi verða engi jafnaðarmaðr: The Narrator, the Trouble-​Maker, and Public Opinion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 239 JOANNE SHORTT BUTLER

Chapter 15.

Discipline or Punish? Travels and Outlawry as Social Structures in Medieval Iceland . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255 MARION POILVEZ

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Map 1. Map 2. Map 3.

Bishop seats and major churches in medieval Iceland.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

Early dirham finds in Eastern and Northern Europe.������������������������������������ 22 Tenth-​century dirham finds from Poland.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Figure 3.1. Detail of reconstruction of the early seventh-​century Sutton Hoo helmet-​mask. ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 58 Figure 3.2. Jens Peter Schjødt’s five-​phase initiation sequence.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Figure 3.3. The Snoldelev rune stone.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68

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PREFACE

THE RICHNESS AND diversity of the preserved literary tradition, together with the spiritual and material culture of medieval Scandinavia, have encouraged scholars of various fields to engage in searching analytical enquiry into the histories of past societies of the North. At the same time its disparities and fragmentation leave many aspects without final answers. This is especially relevant in the case of normative behaviour and reasoning which are mainly preserved orally, performatively, or ritually, and rarely in a written or material shape, making their transmission dependent on ongoing cultivation. Since no state in the North now follows the laws of past societies, they would have been inaccessible to us if it were not for new research methods that allow us to get a glimpse of these lost worlds preserved fragmentarily on archaeological sites and in literature. For centuries studies undertaken in the field of Old Norse–​Icelandic culture have embraced many issues: developments in material culture, religious change, processes of power consolidation, to name only a few. While individual and singular historical events and figures have perhaps for too long been the main subject of historical inquiries, the immense corpora of preserved texts and objects can reveal the regularities and recurrences of everyday life of both social elites and ordinary people, embodied in a set of implicit norms that determined behaviour and common understandings of social coexistence. History is built on the great battles and wars, but the past consists in large part of the everyday struggles of ordinary, very often anonymous, people. Values cultivated by them such as honour, prestige, loyalty, fidelity, manhood, authority, and duty, were even more important than prescriptive norms superimposed by wishful thinking elites and rulers, because their meaning, practice, and evaluation exceeded legal provisions and law codes, expressed instead in rituals, habits, customs, religion, literature, language, and social cognition, revealing those norms that were actually internalized and performed by the society. These implicit rules and laws ultimately motivated human actions and were crucial as much for the pursuit of personal ambitions and goals as for everyday survival. There are numerous instances in which Scandinavian literature of the Middle Ages can be used to reveal the core meaning of these ideas. It is a rich source of representations of characters both maintaining and obeying the norms, as well as transgressing and breaking them. The Icelandic sagas, the Sagas of Icelanders (Íslendingasögur) in particular, constitute the main source of insight into the normative phenomena of morality, ethics, and legality. Thus, unsurprisingly, the vast majority of chapters of this volume deal with the Old Norse–​Icelandic literary corpus and its classical subgenres, Íslendingasögur and konungasögur. Naturally, analyses of particular narratives of the sagas are undertaken here with methodological awareness of certain limitations of the sagas, when it comes to reconstructing the past society in a distant time. The origins of particular stories have

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their beginnings in now lost oral tradition, whereas most of their literary incarnations are dated to the late twelfth and thirteenth centuries onwards, which were preserved mainly in the manuscripts from the late Middle Ages, (most of them from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries), and the early Modern Ages. Moreover, their stylistic flavour, often triggered by a will to provide entertainment rather than genuine historical accounts, and additionally motivated by certain needs and expectations of the potential audience concerning saga characters and their dealings, results in a literary approach to various behaviours and/​or social norms rather than allowing us to decipher pure and unaffected insights into the “social reality” of Commonwealth Iceland. Despite these limitations, the Old Norse–​Icelandic literary corpus, with Íslendingasögur at its helm, remains both the exclusive and the most coherent source of our present-​day knowledge of social development in the medieval North. Preserved, compiled, and finally written down by those with their own ancestors in mind, the corpus consists of stories that were told to invoke particular values and norms found to be relevant and reliable, in order to fulfill their main role: the preservation of local lore and tradition treated as the main instigator of self-​identity of the whole community. Literary depiction of social developments in the medieval North can be, to some extent, confronted and corroborated or disproved by the relics of material culture. Such work also requires methodological awareness, particularly when the work is interdisciplinary. Still, this exclusive insight into specific aspects of economy, culture and everyday habits of medieval Scandinavians allows one to supplement a picture of the society and its norms with important and intriguing elements. The desire to explore these issues in greater depth stands behind the present volume. Articles collected in this book address varied and complex matters to do with the functioning of Scandinavian society, such as lawmaking, pre-​Christian ritual practices, the symbolic importance of economy and artifacts, the status of the ruler, interpersonal relations (from enmity and conflict to friendship), social cognition, and literary reflection on environmental developments. Together they shed light on multifarious aspects of medieval Scandina via normative values and how they changed over time, with the Christianization and Europeanization of Scandinavia as important steps in the development of northern societies. Several years ago a fruitful cooperation started between the Institute of History at the University of Silesia in Katowice and the Andrzej Kaube Museum in Wolin, which resulted in a cycle of conferences and other scholarly endeavours aimed at popularizing the history of Wolin, the Baltic zone, and Scandinavia in the Middle Ages. The success of the original initiatives inspired representatives of both institutions to introduce a series of cyclical, international, and interdisciplinary conferences known as the Jómsborg Conference. The first such gathering took place in Wolin on April 20–​22, 2017, dedicated to the topic of “Defining and Applying Social Norms in Medieval Scandinavia.” The conference brought together a group of scholars representing various international institutions and disciplines (history, archaeology, linguistics, literary studies, legal studies). The papers presented and the lively discussions that followed resulted in this collection of chapters, which seek to decipher social norms in medieval Scandinavia from a variety of

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angles and their significance to everyday life. The editors and contributors believe that research on such a multifaceted and potentially elusive phenomenon calls for cooperation between diverse disciplines to conduct a cross-​methodological investigation. The book therefore offers the audience a variety of methods, approaches, and, expectedly, results. The structure of the book proposes therefore a division into three thematical sections, preceded by introductory remarks on political developments on eleventh-​to twelfth-​century Iceland by Jón Vidar Sigurdsson (University of Oslo).

Part I: Pre-​Christian Ritual Practices and Literary Discourses

The normative structure of a society is often expressed through its material culture. Certain social practices, trading and fashion among them, are reflected in material remains such as coins and clothing. Dariusz Adamczyk (German Historical Institute in Warsaw), in an article entitled “The Use of Silver by the Scandinavians of Truso and Wolin: The Logic of the Market or Social Prestige?,” uses silver finds from these ports-​of-​ trade as his point of departure for discussing the varied roles of silver and different economic, social, and political contexts of its usage. Anita Sauckel (University of Iceland), in her article entitled “Silk, Settlements and Society in Íslendingasögur,” takes into account clothing and social norms at the thing-​assemblies as depicted in Íslendingasǫgur, an occasion on which exclusive fabrics played an important role. Social norms are implicit in the texture of certain literary works. The conventions a society follows in its forms of worship, mourning, and commemoration can be isolated from the text itself for close examination. Poetry, performed orally and ritually, resembles religious practices by mirroring its structures. Simon Nygaard (University of Aarhus), in an article entitled “Being Óðinn Bursson: The Creation of Social and Moral Obligation in Viking Age Warrior-​Bands through the Ritualized, Oral Performance of Poetry: The Case of Grímnismál,” argues that pre-​Christian Scandinavian rituals featured oral performances of Eddic poetry, that, like ljóðaháttr poems (e.g. Grímnismál) contained ritualized performatives, crucial to the formation and upholding of pre-​ Christian Scandinavian religions. Mourning practices were captured by a distinctive subgenre of skaldic poetry, the funerary ode. David Ashurst (University of Durham), in his article entitled “Elements of Satire and Social Commentary in Heathen Praise Poems and Commemorative Odes,” discusses the submerged and pervasive strains of satire and commentary on social norms in tenth-​century funerary odes composed amid the intellectual turmoil of the late heathen period. The main focus is laid on Eiríksmál, Eyvindr skáldaspillir’s Hákonarmál and the group of Egill Skalla-​Grímsson’s utterances (particularly Sonatorrek but reference is also made to Arinbjarnarkviða and Höfuðlausn). The ideals embodied in the roles of friend, warrior, and king were among the most important of Old Norse–​Icelandic society, as reflected in its tales of people succeeding or failing to live up to them. They are characterized by binary thinking such as the distinctions good versus bad friend /​warrior /​king; a mode of expression which is regularly encountered in the Icelandic sagas. In an article entitled “Friendship and Man’s Reputation: A Case of Odds þáttr Ófeigssonar,” Marta Rey-​Radlińska (Jagiellonian

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University) provides a case study based on one of the þættir preserved in the Morkinskinna, the oldest collection of the kings’ sagas. The analysis focuses both on the motive of friendship in the story and the stylistic devices used to achieve an emotional effect—​a deviation from objectivity in the narrative, and deployment of language that highlights negative emotions.

Part II: Reception and Cultural Transfer

Human behaviour is primarily influenced by cognitive processes, with metaphorical thinking at the core of human understanding of the world, influencing our experience of being in the world. Grzegorz Bartusik (University of Silesia in Katowice), in an article entitled “Cultural Transfer of Cognitive Structures of Fortune in the Latin and Old Icelandic Literatures and Languages: The Case of the Metaphor Fortune is a Wheel,” explores questions concerning influences of Latin culture on Old Norse–​Icelandic language and literature and the potential influence of classical ideas on Old Norse–​ Icelandic ones. He looks for evidence of the transfer of social norms, in the form of cognitive metaphors, from continental Europe in the sagas of antiquity (Antikensagas) and the vernacular sagas. With the increasing alphabetization introduced to Scandinavia by the Catholic Church and the development of written literature, Scandinavians adapted new literary modes of commemoration and cultivation of social memory through the medium of written language. The commemorative function of a saga is analyzed by Yoav Tirosh (University of Iceland), who, in “Dating, Authorship, and Generational Memory in Ljósvetninga saga: A Late Response to Barði Guðmundsson,” returns to the hypothesis that Þórðr Þorvarðsson was the author of Ljósvetninga saga, and, interpreting it through the prism of the thirteenth-​century society that generated the text, emphasizes its functional value as a form of cultural memory. Łukasz Neubauer (Koszalin University of Technology), in “Quid Sigurthus cum Christo? An Examination of Sigurd’s Christian Potential in Medieval Scandinavia,” examines various features of Sigurd Fáfnisbani’s character that might have influenced the transformation of the legendary Germanic hero into the essentially St. George-​like figure depicted by the anonymous late twelfth-​or early thirteenth-​century artist responsible for carvings on the portal doors of the Hylestad stave church. The society depicted in sagas, with its norms, values, and behaviours, has attracted not only scholars but also people of widely defined culture and politics for centuries. It resulted, inevitably, with its idealization and rise of certain myths defining the Viking Age and the Middle Ages in the North as a golden era, free from evil and deceit of the contemporary world. Such attitude can be traced in numerous means of art (painting, literature) and political views that have been produced throughout recent centuries. Even if the picture it provided was biased, unreliable, and hence rejected by present-​day scholarship, its popularity serves to inspire research questions aiming to find deeper and more coherent understanding of the phenomenon. Michael Irlenbusch-​Reynard (University of Bonn), in his article “Jómsborg and the German Reception of Jómsvíkinga saga: Introducing Masterhood as a Social Norm,” examines the legend of the famous warrior band in the

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context of the political and ideological conditions of late nineteenth-​and early twentieth-​ century Germany. Various works of propaganda that used the saga as a crucial point of reference were responsible for an important transformation in the depiction of Jómsborg—​from the residence of a romantic warrior community to the symbolic affirmation of a genuine Germanic socio-​cultural institution, culminating in the suggestion of a normative epicentre for the whole North.

Part III: Outsiders and Transgressors

Sometimes, we are only able to distinguish a normative code when it is being transgressed. A norm is known by what it is not: a deviance, perversity, monstrosity, or rejection. Alexander J. Wilson (University of Durham), in his article “The Unfamiliar Other:  Distortions of Social Cognition Through Disguise in Two Íslendingasögur,” analyzes the way in which two narratives, Droplaugarsona saga and Fóstbrœðra saga, portray violent conflicts between different communities as expressions of the distortion of social cognition. This serves as a method of interpreting the way people constructed and deployed identity at various levels, both individually and within their communities, to structure perceptions of the world around them. Keith Ruiter (University of Nottingham), in his article “A Deviant Word Hoard: A Preliminary Semantic Study of Non-​Normative Terms in Early Medieval Scandinavia,” considers some of the particular lexical choices in early medieval Scandinavian texts in order to better understand the contemporary web of associations surrounding deviance and deviants. Utilizing philological, historical, literary, and legal methodologies, the article sets out to consider some words used to describe non-​normative peoples and behaviours in three categories: terms relating to law, honour, and morality. Rebecca Merkelbach (University of Zurich), in an article entitled “Enchanting the Land: Monstrous Magic, Social Concerns, and the Natural World in the Íslendingasögur,” analyzes the way magic-​users in Íslendingasögur are depicted as socially monstrous figures operating within and through the natural world to cause harm to society. The thirteenth and fourteenth centuries were a time of growing climatic variability, which must have caused significant anxiety to contemporary Icelanders, an anxiety that found its expression in the monstrous practitioners of magic. Aleksandra Jochymek (University of Silesia in Katowice), in “Social Margins in Karlamagnús saga: The Rejection of Poverty,” examines the two sides of medieval poverty in Scandinavian society, as expressed through the Historia Caroli Magni et Rotholandi and its northern counterpart, translated into a part of Karlamagnús saga. In the Icelandic sagas there are several distinctive figures who put laws to the test by breaking them. Trouble-​makers and outlaws hold a prominent place among them. In “Þótti mǫnnum … hann myndi verða engi jafnaðarmaðr: The Narrator, the Trouble-​Maker, and Public Opinion,” Joanne Shortt Butler (University of Cambridge) explores the ways in which public opinion is invoked by saga narrators through the frequently occurring figure of the ójafnaðarmaðr (“inequitable person”), who is described as acting against the social norms of the society depicted in the sagas. Marion Poilvez (University of Iceland), in “Discipline or Punish? Travels and Outlawry as Social Structures in Medieval

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Iceland,” discusses outlawry as a social structure from an inclusive perspective, arguing that many forms of outlawry did not function as outright exclusion, but were social structures made to respond in a didactic way to anti-​social behaviours, with the goal of re-​educating wrongdoers, or at least providing them with a fitting function to suit the dynamics of a given society. The present volume could not have been completed without the contributions and support of particular individuals. We would like to express our deep gratitude towards Ryszard Banaszkiewicz, the head of the Andrzej Kaube Museum in Wolin; Christian Raffensperger, Erin T. Dailey, and Anna Henderson from ARC Humanities Press; Miriam Mayburd from the University of Iceland for her stylistic advice; and all participants of the First Jómsborg Conference. Jakub Morawiec Aleksandra Jochymek Grzegorz Bartusik

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Introduction

THE GOÐAR AND “CULTURAL POLITICS” OF THE YEARS CA. 1000–​11501

Jón Viðar Sigurðsson AS STATED IN the preface, the chapters in this volume address numerous and intricate questions regarding Old Norse culture; rituals, social ties, social norms, outlaws, lawmaking, and cognitive structures. The main sources for the discussion are the Icelandic family sagas, the kings’ sagas, as well as Eddic poetry, laws, and sagas such as Karlamagnús saga. The diversity of topics is the strength of the volume. This is possible due to the exceptional source situation that offers us almost endless opportunities of discussing different aspects of the Old Norse culture. This richness, from a population which was probably not larger than 50–60,000 during the High Middle Ages, is the main reason for the global interest in this culture. The scholarly debate over the last few decades has to a large extent focused on the High and Late Middle Ages. Little attention has been paid to the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and the events which triggered the processes of the time. That will be the focus of this chapter, and particularly the roles played by the major churches, and Haukdælir and Oddaverjar, the two most important goðar families in the Free State Society (930–1262/​64). The introduction of Christianity in the year 999/​1000 will mark the beginning of the period in question, which will last until the foundation of the archbishopric in Nidaros in 1152/​53.

Skálholt, Haukadalur, Oddi, and Hólar

Christianity became the official religion of Iceland in the year 999/​1000. It was the control the goðar held over the Old Norse religion which made this possible. During the following years several foreign bishops arrived in the country,2 but nothing is known regarding their general impact. In Hungrvaka it is stated that Gizurr Teitsson of the Haukdælir family, who had supported the introduction of Christianity, took his son Ísleifr Gizurarson (1006–​1080) to the nunnery Herford (Herfurða) in Westphalia,3 a renowned centre of learning.4 He returned ordained as a priest before 1030, and immediately, or soon thereafter, took over the goðorð his father had controlled.5 The þáttr about Ísleifr 1  Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, University of Oslo, email: [email protected]. 2  Íslendingabók, 18; Jóns saga ins helga, 177. 3  Hungrvaka, 6; Jóns saga ins helga, 176–​77.

4  Turville-​Petre, “Notes on the Intellectual History of Icelanders,” 111. 5  Ísleifs þáttr byskups, 335–​36.

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and Hungrvaka does not mention whether he had been learned in Latin before he travelled to Herford. The fact that he belonged to one of the most important families in the country, however, makes it likely that one, or several, of the foreign bishops had tutored him in the language.6 In the process of Christianization the first and most important step was to convert the goðar, which then in the next stage would result in their friends and followers following suit. In 1056, Ísleifr Gizurarson became the first bishop of Iceland. And when chieftains and good men perceived that Ísleifr was far abler than other clerics who could then be obtained in this country, many sent him their sons to be educated and had them ordained priests. Two of them were later consecrated bishops: Kolr, who was in Vík in Norway, and Jóan at Hólar. Ísleifr had three sons, who all became able chieftains: Bishop Gizurr and the priest Teitr, father of Hallr, and Þorvaldr. Teitr was brought up by Hallr in Haukadalur, a man whom everyone described as the most generous layman in this country and the most eminent in good qualities. I also came to Hallr when I was seven years old, one year after Gellir Þorkelsson, my paternal grandfather and my foster-​father, died; and I stayed there for fourteen years.7

In the quotation above from Ari fróði Þorgilsson’s Íslendingabók (the Book of Icelanders) written 1122–​1133, it is mentioned that “many” householders sent Ísleifr “their sons to be educated.” Jóns saga ins helga confirms this and states that many “hǫfðingjar” (goðar) and respectable (“virðulegir”) men send their sons to Ísleifr to be fostered and educated (“fóstrs ok til lærlingar”), and were subsequently ordained as priests. Many of them became “hǫfuðkennimenn” (major clerics), and two of them became bishops, Jón and Kolr.8 We have little information about the school in Skálholt, but it is likely that it became an important part of the bishopric’s activity, and it must have been kept on regular basis. When Ísleifr died, his son Gizurr (1042–​1118), also educated at Herford,9 replaced him as bishop in 1082. Kristni saga claims that when Gizurr was bishop, most of the 6  One of the missionaries, Þangbrandr, not only baptized members of the Haukdælir family, he also stayed with Gizurr inn hvíti in Skálholt (Íslendingabók, 21; Kristni saga, 19, 23–​24; Kristniboð Þangbrands, 137). 7  Íslendingabók, 20:  “En es þat sá hǫfðingjar ok góðir menn, at Ísleifr vas miklu nýtri en aðrir kennimenn, þeir es á þvísa landi næði, þá seldu hónum margir sonu sína til læringar ok létu vígja til presta. Þeir urðu síðan vígðir tveir til byskupa, Kollr, es vas í Vík austr, ok Jóan at Hólum. Ísleifr átti þrjá sonu; þeir urðu allir hǫfðingjar nýtir, Gizurr byskup ok Teitr prestr, faðir Halls, ok Þorvaldr. Teit fœddi Hallr í Haukadali, sá maðr es þat vas almælt, at mildastr væri ok ágæztr at góðu á landi hér ólærðra manna. Ek kom ok til Halls sjau vetra gamall, vetri eptir þat, es Gellir Þorkelssonr, fǫðurfaðir minn ok fóstri, andaðisk, ok vask þar fjórtán vetr.” All translations from Íslendingabók and Kristni saga are from Íslendingabók. Kristni saga. Cf. Jóns saga ins helga, 181–​83.

8  Jóns saga ins helga, 181. Cf. Kristni saga, 39. The term hǫfðingi was frequently used about goðar (Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Chieftains and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth, 49). 9  Jóns saga ins helga, 182.

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influential men in the country were ordained as priests.10 The saga lists ten men, and out of them as many as seven were goðar. The high educational level among the goðar can also been seen in a register from about 1143, probably written by Ari fróði Þorgilsson,11 which mentions forty of the most significant priests in the country. As many as thirteen of the men listed were goðar, and at the time there were only about twenty-​seven goðar in the country.12 In addition it is very likely that the other goðar also were educated as clerics, without being ordained. In the power game it was usually the best son who took over the goðar, not the oldest. If the goðar did not have any sons, their power base evaporated. Besides the school in Skálholt three other active schools in Iceland are known from this period and to ca. 1110:  Haukadalur, Oddi, and Hólar.13 It is not known when the school in Haukadalur, which was controlled by the Haukdælir, was established, but it was probably sometime around 1070.14 It has been argued that goði Hallr Teitsson (ca. 1085–​1150) was the author of The First Grammatical Treatise,15 and goði Gizurr Hallsson (ca. 1125–​1206) might have been the author of Veraldar saga.16 Gizurr is, as Ari and Sæmundr from the Oddaverja family, described as “fróðr maðr.”17 He was goði, lawspeaker and King Sigurðr munnr’s, King Sverrir’s father, stallari. Gizurr was wise (“vitr”) and eloquent (“málsnjallr”). He travelled often to the continent and was highly esteemed (“betr metinn”) in Rome for his skill and prowess (“mennt sinni ok framkvæmð”). He possessed extensive knowledge about “suðrlöndin” (Germany and France) and wrote a book called Flos peregrinationis (Travel Flowers), in Latin,18 which unfortunately has been lost. In the prologue to Hungrvaka Gizurr is mentioned as one of the sources.19 The best-​known pupil known to have been educated at the school in Haukadalur is without a doubt the goði Ari fróði Þorgilsson (1067–​1148), who lived at Staðastaður at Ölduhryggur. He showed his Íslendingabók, written 1122–​1133, for approval to the 10  Kristni saga, 42–​43:  “virðingamenn lærðir ok vígðir og lærðir til presta þó at hǫfðingjar væri, svá sem Hallr Teitsson í Haukadal ok Sæmundr inn fróði, Magnús Þórðarson í Reykjaholti, Símon Jǫrundarson í Bœi, Guðmundr sonr Brands í Hjarðarholti, Ari inn fróði, Ingimundr Einarsson á Hólum, ok Ketill Þorsteinsson á Mǫðruvǫllum [in Eyjafjörður], ok Ketill Guðmundarson, Jón prestr Þorvarðarson ok margir aðrir þó at eigi sé ritaðir.” 11  Diplomatarium Islandicum I: no. 29.

12  Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, “Frá goðorðum til ríkja: Þróun goðavalds á 12. og 13. öld,” 45–​54.

13  Ellehøj, Studier over den ældste norrøne historieskrivning, 15–​84; Bekker-​Nielsen, “Den ældste tid,” 9–​26; Bekker-​Nielsen, “Frode mænd og tradition,” 35–​41; Jónas Kristjánsson, Eddas and Sagas, 117; Guðrún Nordal, Íslensk bókmenntasaga I, 268; Gunnar Harðarson, “Old Norse Intellectual Culture,” 40–​41. 14  Hungrvaka, 22.

15  The First Grammatical Treatise, 203.

16  Jónas Kristjánsson, Eddas and Sagas, 132. 17  Kristni saga, 3.

18  Sturlunga saga, I:60. 19  Hungrvaka, 3.

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bishops Þorlákr Runólfsson in Skálholt (1118–​1133), Ketill Þorsteinsson (1122–​1145) in Hólar, and the goði Sæmundr Sigfússon fróði (the Learned, 1056–​1133).20 Sæmundr, as well as Ari fróði and Kolskeggr vitri, contributed to the first version of Landnámabók.21 Sæmundr, along with his grandson goði Jón Loftsson (1124–​1197), were two of the most renowned leaders of the Oddaverjar family. This family controlled the church at Oddi, which was to become another important centre of education. A school was established there around 1080 after Sæmundr returned from studying abroad in either France or Franconia. In addition to being mentioned as one of the authorities consulted by Ari Þorgilsson when he wrote Íslendingabók, Sæmundr also played an important role when the tithe was introduced in the years 1096/​97. He himself wrote a short work about the Norwegian kings in Latin. This is now lost, but was used as a source by later authors, including Snorri Sturluson.22 Snorri Sturluson, also a goði, is without a doubt Oddi’s most famous pupil. For both the Haukdælir and the Oddaverjar the schools were not only important symbols showing off their social position, but they were also important pieces in the power game. By fostering future goðar, the sons of the social elite, the goðar in Haukadalur and Oddi were able to build up a network they could activate in case of disputes. It is striking that schools are not associated with any other goðar families. If we look at the political situation in Iceland around 1100, five families controlled almost half of the country: Ásbirningar in Skagafjörður, Austfirðingar and Svínfellingar in the Quarter of the Austfirðingar, and Oddaverjar and Haukdælir in the south. The reasons why, for example, the Ásbirningar did not found a school is an open question, which we will not address here. Jón Ögmundarson, the first bishop of Hólar (1106–​21) and a pupil of Bishop Ísleifr, travelled according to his saga widely around Europe, his goal being to observe the ways of good men and to advance his learning.23 Jón established a school at Hólar, and got Gísli, a man from Sweden (or Gaut) to teach Latin, and Ríkina, a Frenchman, to teach music and poetry.24 As only one monastery was established in Iceland before 1150, Þingeyrar in Hólar bishopric ca. 1130, the possibility of institutions such as this playing major roles in the process of establishing schools can be ruled out. In the beginning of the twelfth century, 20  Íslendingabók, 3. 21  Landnámabók, 395. Cfr. Sturlunga saga I:59; Ellehøj, Studier over den ældste norrøne historieskrivning, 15–​84. 22  Turville-​Petre, “Notes on the Intellectual History of Icelanders,” 112. Sæmundr was, accoring to Hungrvaka (16–​17), “forvitri og lærðr allra manna bezt” (very wise and the most learned of all). See Anderson, “Kings’ Sagas (Konungasögur),” 197–​238; Ellehøj, Studier over den ældste norrøne historieskrivning, 16–​25; Foote, Aurvandilstá: Norse Studies, 101–​20. 23  Jóns saga ins helga, 184: “að sjá góðra manna siðu ok nám sitt at auka.” 24  Jóns saga ins helga, 217.

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after the foundation of the bishopric at Hólar, there were thus four schools in the country, at Skálholt, Hólar, Haukadalur and Oddi.

The Major Churches25

Bishop Gizurr shaped the future of the Icelandic Church. In 1096/​97, in cooperation with the goði Sæmundr fróði Sigfússon and the lawspeaker Markús Skeggjason, he convinced the Althing to accept the tithe, and that “everyone should reckon up and value all their property and swear an oath that it was correctly valued, whether it was in land or in movable possessions, and pay a tithe on it afterwards.” Gizurr “also laid down as law that the episcopal see in Iceland should be at Skálholt, whereas before it had had no fixed location, and he endowed the see with the estate at Skálholt and many other forms of wealth both in land and in movable possessions.” Finally, he “gave more than a quarter of his diocese,” that is the Quarter of the Norðlendinga, to the foundation of the Hólar bishopric, established in 1106.26 When the tithe was introduced in 1096/​97 the number of churches in the country was significantly higher than the 330 churches which were chosen to become parish churches,27 a decision made by the bishops and the goðar. Churches not becoming parish churches became half-​ churches (hálfkirkjur), quarter-​ churches (fjórðungskirkjur) and chapels (bænhús). In the parish churches mass was to be sung every Sunday and every day during Lent, the Christmas season, and on Ember days.28 In a half-​church, as the name suggests, 25  Skálholt bishopric: Staður in Steingrímsfjörður; Vatnsfjörður in Vatnsfjarðarsveit; Skarð in Skarðsstrandarhreppur; Helgafell in Helgafellssveit; Staður in Staðasveit; Hítardalur in Hraunhreppur; Stafholt in Stafholtstungur; Gilsbakki in Hvítársíðuhreppur; Garðar in Akraneshreppur; Bær in Bæjarsveit; Reykholt in Reykholtsdalur; Viðey in Seltjarnarneshreppur; Haukadalur in Biskupstungnahreppur; Oddi in Rangárvallahreppur; Breiðabólstaður in Fljótshlíðahreppur; Holt in Eyjafjallasveit; Þykkvabæjarklaustur in Leiðvallahreppur; Kirkjubæjarklaustur in Kleifahreppur; Svínafell in Hofshreppur; Rauðalækur in Hofshreppur; Valþjófsstaðir in Fljótsdalur. Hólar bishopric: Grenjaðarstaðir in Reykjadalshreppur; Múli in Reykjadalshreppur; Háls in Fnjóskadalshreppur; Munkaþverá in Öngulsstaðahreppur; Möðruvellir in Saurbæjarhreppur; Saurbær in Saurbæjarhreppur; Hrafnagil in Hrafnagilshreppur; Möðruvellir in Hvammshreppur; Vellir in Svarfaðardalshreppur; Staður in Reynistaðarhreppur; Þingeyrar in NeðriVatnsdalshreppur; Breiðabólstaður in Vesturhópshreppur 26  Íslendingabók 22–​23: “allir menn tǫlðu ok virðu allt fé sitt ok sóru, at rétt virt væri, hvárt sem vas í lǫndum eða í lausaaurum, ok gørðu tíund af síðan. […] lét ok lǫg leggja á þat, at stóll byskups þess, es á Íslandi væri, skyldi í Skálaholti vesa, en áðr vas hvergi, ok lagði hann þar til stólsins Skálaholtsland ok margra kynja auðœfi ǫnnur bæði í lǫndum ok í lausum aurum. […] gaf hann meir en fjórðung byskupsdóms síns.” Cf. Kristni saga, 41; Jóns saga ins helga, 193–​94.

27  Sveinn Víkingur, Getið í eyður sögunnar, 134–​36; Orri Vésteinsson, “Íslenska sóknaskipulagið og samband heimila á miðöldum,” 147–​66; Orri Vésteinsson, The Christianization of Iceland, 58, 288; Orri Vésteinsson, “The Formative Phase of the Icelandic Church ca. 990–​1240 ad,” 71–​81; Sigríður Sigurðardóttir, Kirkjur og bænhús í Skagafirði; Sigríður Sigurðardóttir, Miðaldakirkjur 1000–​1318: Skagfirska kirkjurannsóknin. 28  Orri Vésteinsson, The Christianization of Iceland, 60.

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only half of the normal number of masses was sung, while in quarter-​churches only every fourth mass was sung, and in a chapel (bænhús) mass was sung only once every month.29 In Iceland there were two types of parish churches, bændakirkjur and staðir. If a church owned the entire farm it was established on it was staðr, and if it owned less it was called a farmer’s church or bændakirkja. The staðir parish churches were therefore usually wealthier than the bændakirkjur. Those who founded churches dedicated them to a saint (or several), and God, on the condition that they and their heirs should control the gift for all eternity. The gift was divided into four parts and given to the bishop, the priests at the parish churches, the maintenance of the parish church, and the poor. Those who owned or governed the churches, before the bishops gained control over the parish churches in 1297, had a great deal of freedom with controlling their incomes and fortunes. They received half of the tithes, the share belonging to the priest and the church, and could also control the funeral fees. In addition to this the administrators for example also kept the profits from the land tax of church-​owned farms.30 For the goðar and the social elite it was important to gain control over the new religion, and one way to do this was to build churches that were larger than those affordable to common householders. The thirty-​three wealthiest churches in Iceland, which I have labelled as major churches, have, beside their wealth, two other important aspects in common: they employed three or more clerics, among the best educated in the country,31 and many of them, like Haukadalur and Oddi, became centres of learning. It is difficult to determine exactly when these major churches were founded. There are no sources that bear evidence to it, but there is reason to assume that most of them were established in the first half of the eleventh century, after the introduction of the tithe.32 Out of the thirty-​three major churches, over two-​thirds can be associated with goðar families, which tells us that almost all goðar families built such churches. In the power game it became important for the goðar to show their status through their churches, as well as their education. Two of the major churches, Kirkjubær and Oddi, are described as hǫfuðstaðr, and in the case of Oddi, even as the hæsti hǫfuðstaðr.33 This terminology may indicate a superior status in the Church hierarchy. However, it is difficult to prove that these churches, or indeed other major churches, has had any special tasks which other churches has not. On the other hand Kirkjubær and Oddi both had backgrounds which possibly make them 29  Þormóður Sveinsson, “Bæjatalið í Auðunarmáldögum,” 26; Magnús Stefánsson, “Islandsk egenkirkevesen,” 236; Gunnar F. Guðmundsson, Íslenskt samfélag og Rómakirkja, 185–​86.

30  Magnús Stefánsson, “Kirkjuvald eflist,” 72–​81; Magnús Stefánsson, “Frá goðakirkju til biskupskirkju,” 210–​26; Magnús Stefánsson, “Islandsk egenkirkevesen,” 234–​54; Magnús Stefánsson, Staðir og staðamál, 191–​216. 31  Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, “Høvdingene, storkirkene og den litterære aktiviteten på Island fram til ca. 1300,” 190–​94.

32  Magnús Stefánsson, “Kirkjuvald eflist,” 87; Hjalti Hugason, Frumkristni og upphaf kirkju, 199–​ 201; Benedikt Eyþórsson, “Í þjónustu Snorra,” 21. 33  Kirkjubær (Þórlaks saga byskups yngri, 149), Oddi (Þórlaks saga byskups in elzta, 49; Þórlaks saga byskups yngri, 145).

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S – Skalhólt H – Hólar Major churches Map 1. Bishop seats and major churches in medieval Iceland (copyright Jón Viðar Sigurðsson).

deserving of the title hǫfuðstaðr. Oddi was without a doubt the country’s richest church in the second half of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and it was, as has been discussed above, one of the most important schools in the country. Kirkjubær was, if we are to believe Landnámabók, an important Christian religious centre from the time of the settlement. It is difficult to look to Europe for models of the major churches. The most obvious parallels can be drawn to the so-​called “minster churches” in England and the main churches (hovedkirker) in Norway. Minsters were founded by kings and served by several priests who were in charge of pastoral care in a large geographical area. They were also important as literary–​administrative centres.34 However, it is difficult to argue in favour of these churches being used as models for the major churches in Iceland, since their heyday was over by the time the goðar started to build their churches. In Norway the main churches were erected by the kings, and as they held a supreme position in the church hierarchy, we can rule out the possibility of the main churches there being an inspiration for the goðar. 34  For an overview of the discussion about minster churches, see: Blair, “Secular Minster Churches in Domesday Book,” 104–​42; Blair, Minsters and Parish Churches; Blair and Sharpe, Pastoral Care before the Parish; Blair and Pyrah, Church Archaeology.

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Where do we draw a line between Haukadalur and Oddi, and the other major churches, after the introduction of the tithe? It is problematic to distinguish one from the other. The main difference between them was probably that the “schools” in Haukadalur and Oddi received more “students” from other goðar families than the other major churches, whose students were recruited more locally. Because the goðar and the social elite in general got involved with the new religion as heavily as they did, and so many of them received clerical learning in addition to being trained as lawyers and skalds, the educational level in Iceland was high. A significant feature in Icelandic medieval society was that only a select few went abroad in order to receive an education. Sons, and daughters, of the social elite were usually educated at the major churches, and at the bishoprics.

The Lawspeakers

So far the focus has been on goðar and bishops, but another group of men also played an important role in this process: the lawspeakers. The lawspeakers belonged to the social elite, with both strong family and friendship ties to the goðar, and in some cases (although not in the period we are focusing on) the goðar were also lawspeakers. In the period ca. 1050–​1150 there were eleven lawspeakers,35 and in these years three important legal steps were taken: in 1096/​97 the law of the tithe was accepted; in the winter of 1117/​18 a part of the secular law was written down at Breiðabólstaður; and in the years 1122–​1132 church laws were introduced. Probably all of these law codes were written in the vernacular, and the two latest ones most definitely. In the following paragraphs we will have a look at the lawspeakers in office when these three laws were made. As mentioned above, the law of the tithe was introduced when Gizurr Ísleifsson was bishop, in cooperation with the goði Sæmundr Sigfússon and the lawspeaker Markús Skeggjason.36 We know that both Gizurr and Sæmundr were well educated, and it is probable that Markús, in addition to his in-​depth knowledge of Icelandic law, was educated as a cleric, though he was not ordained to be a priest. Little is known about the lawspeakers’ education. They, obviously, must have been thoroughly learned in the laws, and is likely that most of them also received a clerical education.37 In Kristni saga it is stated that Markús had been “the wisest of Iceland’s lawspeakers apart from Skapti [Þóroddsson]”.38 Markús is the only lawspeaker listed in Skáldatal,39 and in Hungrvaka 35  Gellir Bǫlverksson (1054–​1062); Gunnar hinnspaki Þorgrímsson (1063–​1065); Kolbeinn Flosason (1066–​1071); Gellir Bölverksson (1072–​1074); Gunnar hinnspaki Þorgrímsson (1075); Sighvatr Surtsson (1076–​1083); Markús Skeggjason (1084–​1107); Úlfhéðinn Gunnarsson (1108–​1116); Bergþórr Hrafnsson (1117–​1122); Guðmundr Þorgeirsson (1123–​1134); Hrafn Úlfhéðinsson (1135–​1138); Finnr Hallsson (1139–​1145); Gunnar Úlfhéðinsson (1146–​1155). 36  Íslendingabók, 22.

37  Cfr. Burrows, Literary–​legal Relations in Commonwealth-​period Iceland, 42.

38  Kristni saga, 40, “vitrastr verit lǫgmanna á Íslandi annarr en Skapti [Þóroddsson]” Cfr. Íslendingabók, 22. 39  Edda Snorra Sturlusonar.

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he is described as “a very wise man and skald.”40 That Hungrvaka characterizes him as skáld underlines that his social position was associated not only with his role as a lawspeaker. Fyrsta málfræðiritgerðin (The First Grammatical Treatise) claims that: “The skalds are the authorities in all [matters touching the art of] writing or the distinctions [made in] discourse, just as craftsmen [are in their craft] or lawmen [lǫgmenn] in the laws.”41 The distinctions often made between “saga authors,” skalds, legal specialists (either lögmenn and lawspeakers), clerics, and goði are misleading since most of skalds and “saga authors” we know of from this period belonged to many of these categories, Sæmundr fróði being an example of this. This can also clearly been seen in the term guðspjallaskáld,42 a word used to describe the four evangelists: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Being a skald meant that one had to travel abroad to meet kings, and in Markús’s case Ingi Steinkelsson of Sweden (d. 1105), the Danish kings Knútr helgi (d. 1086), and Eiríkr Sveinsson (d. 1103).43 It is likely that it was on his journeys abroad that Markús learned about the tithe system. When brought back home it was, as previously stated, probable that the laws were written in the vernacular, since they would probably not have been accepted at the Althing otherwise. For the Icelandic Church it was important to create a secure economic foundation, and the introduction of the tithe was a precondition for that. It was therefore vital that these laws were made in the vernacular, in close cooperation with the lawspeaker, and the goðar. In 1117 it was decided at the Althing that the laws should be written down, and Ari fróði narrates in Íslendingabók that this was done in a book at the home of Hafliði Másson [Breiðabólstaður, a major church] the following winter, at the dictation and with the guidance of Hafliði and Bergþórr, as well as of other wise men appointed for this task. They were to make new provisions in the law in all cases where these seemed to them better than the old laws. These were to be proclaimed the next summer in the Law Council, and all those were to be kept which a majority of people did not oppose. And it happened as a result that the Treatment of Homicide Law and many other things in the laws were then written down and proclaimed in the Law Council by clerics the next summer. And everyone was very pleased with this, and no one opposed it.44

Hafliði Másson was one of the most powerful goði in the country. Lawspeaker Bergþórr Hrafnsson was the grandson of the lawspeaker Gunnar Þorgrímsson spaki, and nephew to 40  Hungrvaka, 17: “inn mesti spekingr ok skáld.”

41  The First Grammatical Treatise, 224–​27: “Skalld erv hofvndar allrar rynní ęða máálʃ greinar ʃem smiðir [ʃmíðar] ęða lǫgmenn laga.” 42  Íslensk hómilíubók, 81, 231, 258, 262, 266. 43  Edda Snorra Sturlusonar.

44  Íslendingabók, 23–​24: “Et fyrsta sumar, es Bergþórr sagði lǫg upp, vas nýmæli þat gǫrt, at lǫg ór skyldi skrifa á bók at Hafliða Mássonar of vetrinn eptir at sǫgu ok umbráði þeira Bergþórs ok annarra spakra manna, þeira es til þess váru teknir. Skyldu þeir gørva nýmæli þau ǫll í lǫgum, es þeim litisk þau betri en hin fornu lǫg. Skyldi þau segja upp et næsta sumar eptir í lǫgréttu ok þau ǫll halda, es enn meiri hlutr manna mælti þá eigi gegn. En þat varð at framfara, at þá vas skrifaðr

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the lawspeaker Úlfhéðinn Gunnarsson. We know nothing about Bergþórr’s education, but to be able to take on this task he had to be able to read and probably also write. Kristinnalaga þáttr (Christian Law Section) was made in the period 1122–​1123,45 at which time Guðmundr Þorgeirsson was lawspeaker. Nothing is known about him, and even though the country’s two bishops, with the aid of an archbishop, made the laws,46 it is unlikely that Guðmundr and the goðar had not been involved in the process. The assembly men at the Althing had to accept the laws in the end, and for this reason it is unthinkable that Guðmundr Þorgeirsson was not able to read. This would also have been the case with all of the lawspeakers in the period ca. 1060–​1150. The situation regarding literary activity in Iceland around 1150 is well known. This is because of a statement in Fyrsta málfræðiritgerðin that lists up, at the time it was made, “laws and genealogies, or interpretations of sacred writings, or also that sagacious (historical) lore that Ari Þorgilsson has recorded in books with such reasonable understanding.”47 This proves that around 1150 Icelanders were writing extensively in the vernacular, and it was the goðar, under the initative of the Haukdælir and the Oddaverjar, who, together with the bishops, were the driving forces behind this process. In his prologue to Heimskringla Snorri Sturluson claims that Ari was the first Icelander to write in the vernacular (“at norrœnu máli”).48 This statement and the prologue have been debated extensively, and we will not be engaged in that discussion at this time, and can only conclude that Snorri is not referring to the laws.49

Vernacular

One central feature of social development in the Middle Ages is the transition from oral to written communication. It was the Church which provided contact between Iceland and the literary communities in Western Europe. Writing in the vernacular started around 1100 in Iceland, and it soon became the dominant writing form, superseding Latin. It is complicated to explain why the vernacular became so important in Iceland. It has been argued that this may have been due to Benedictine influence.50 However, as we have seen, the first and only monastic house was established ca. 1130 at Þingeyrar, years after Icelanders started to write in the vernacular. As mentioned above, the focus was strongly on writing down the laws, in the vernacular, and when the problem of adapting Vígslóði ok margt annat í lǫgum ok sagt upp í lǫgréttu af kennimǫnnum of sumarit eptir. En þat líkaði ǫllum vel, ok mælti því manngi í gegn.” 45  Hungrvaka, 23–​24.

46  Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder, 9.304–​6.

47  The First Grammatical Treatise, 209: “bæði lög ok á áttvísi eða þyðingar helgar eða sva þav hín spaklegv fræðí er ari þorgilsson hefir a bøkr sett af skynsamlgv viti.” 48  Heimskringla, 5.

49  Turville-​Petre, “Notes on the intellectual history of Icelanders,” 113.

50  Borgehammer, “Sunnivalegenden och den benediktinska reformen i England,” 129–​ 35; Johansson, “Philology and Interdisciplinary Research,” 35–​37.

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Introduction

11

the Latin alphabet to fit dǫnsk tunga had been solved, the next steps were easy. It is likely that these steps were taken among the learned Icelandic social elite, bishops, goðar, lawspeakers, lawmen, and the most educated priests. What is also significant is the Icelandic dominance regarding leading positions in the church: until 1238 all bishops in Iceland were Icelanders, whereas in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark most of the bishops were foreigners up to the middle of the twelfth century.51 The cult of saints was an important aspect of the new religion, and there can be little doubt that this had a significant impact on society.52 A clear testimony to this is found in Íslendingabók. Here Ari froði claims that Iceland was settled in the year Edmund the Holy was killed, as is written in the “saga” dedicated to him. It is uncertain whether this saga was Passio Sancti Eadmundi from around 1000 or De miraculis Sancti Eadmundi from approximately 1100.53 Either way, the legend about the Holy Edmund was known in Iceland at the beginning of the twelfth century. Other evidence is clearly found in Fyrsta málfræðiritgerðin, which lists “þýðingar helgar” (sacred writings) as one of the genres which existed in Iceland around 1250.54 “Þýðingar helgar” could be used about vitas, sagas about holy men and women. In the survey The Saints in Iceland. Their Veneration from the Conversion to 1400 Margaret Cormack mentions approximately seventy-​five saints used as patron saints of churches in Iceland.55 Of these, only seven do not have a saga in Old Norse. A number of Icelandic medieval manuscripts have been lost, and it is therefore not unlikely that all the patron saints had their legends translated. Every single parish church probably owned a saga about its patron saint,56 maybe in the vernacular. It is hard to explain why the goðar, in contrast to lords abroad, were so keen on the new Christian book culture. It could probably be associated with the possibility of learning, books etc. being used as a means of creating social differences. In other words, there was a political motif behind the interest. An important difference between the political game in Iceland and in Europe was that the society in Iceland was more peaceful. This can easily be seen in the adjectives the sagas use in their descriptions of the goðar: skills regarding weaponry were only used regarding one or two of them, and instead their most important personal abilities were generosity and wisdom.57 The peace in Iceland is clearly demonstrated through the period between ca. 1030 and 1118 has been called friðaröld (the age of peace) by scholars.58 This view stems from the scarcity of sources from the period and from an account in Kristni saga which states that when Gizurr Ísleifsson was bishop (1082–​1118), he looked after the country so well that 51  Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Kristninga i Norden 750–​1200, 67–​68. 52  Grønlie, The Saint and the Saga Hero. 53  Íslendingabók, xxii–​xxiii.

54  The First Grammatical Treatise, 209. 55  Cormack, The Saints in Iceland.

56  Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, “Legender om hellige kvinner på Island i høymiddelalderen,” 116. 57  Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Chieftains and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth, 85–​95.

58  Maurer, Island von seiner ersten Entdeckung bis zum Untergange des Freistaats, 98; Jón Jóhannesson, Íslendinga saga I. Þjóðveldisöld, 177, 269–​73; Björn Þorsteinsson, Ný Íslandssaga, 207.

12

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Jón Viðar Sigurðsson

“no major disputes arose among the goðar, and the practice of carrying arms was to a large degree abandoned.”59 Even though this is an exaggeration,60 no major disputes are known from this period. It was the goðar who made the first steps into the new Christian world, a world they could use in order to advance their own social superiority. The schools at Skálholt, Haukadalur and Oddi played a significant role in the second half of the eleventh century, and after the introduction of the tithe other chieftains followed suit. Another crucial driving force in the literary process was the major churches, which became centres of learning under the control of the goðar. Learning and “saga writing” became important aspects of the culture of the social elite, and also gradually developed into a national popular culture. There is a strong continuity of this culture through to the present time, the main reason for this being that the literary works were written in the vernacular language, which hardly changed since the first settlers came to Iceland around 870.

References

Primary Sources Diplomatarium Islandicum. Íslenzkt fornbréfasafn I–​XVI. Edited by Jón Sigurðsson, Jón Þorkelsson, Páll Eggert Ólason, and Björn Þorsteinsson Copenhagen: Hið íslenzka bókmenntafjelag, 1857–​1972. Edda Snorra Sturlusonar. Nafnaþulur og Skáldatal. Edited by Guðni Jónsson. Reykjavík: I slendingasagnaútgáfan, 1954. Heimskringla I. Edited by Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson. Íslenzk fornrit 26. Reykjavík:  Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1941. Hungrvaka. In Biskupa sögur II. Edited by Ásdís Egilsdóttir. Íslenzk fornrit 16. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2002. Ísleifs þáttr byskups. In Biskupa sögur II. Edited by Ásdís Egilsdóttir. Íslenzk fornrit 16. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2002. Íslendingabók. Kristni saga. The Book of the Icelanders. The Story of the Conversion. Edited by Siân Grønlie. London:  Viking Society for Northern Research, University College London, 2006. Íslendingabók. Edited by Jakob Benediktsson. Íslenzk fornrit 1. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1968. Íslensk hómilíubók fornar stólræður. Edited by Guðrún Kvaran, Sigurbjörn Einarsson, and Gunnlaugur Ingólfsson. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1993. Jóns saga ins helga. In Biskupa sögur I. Íslenzk fornrit 15. Edited by Sigurgeir Steingrímsson and Ólafur Halldórsson. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2003. Kristniboð Þangbrands. In Biskupa sögur I. Íslenzk fornrit 15. Edited by Sigurgeir Steingrímsson and Ólafur Halldórsson. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2003. 59  Kristni saga, 42: “at þá urðu engars með hǫfðingjum, en vápnaburðr lagðisk mjǫk niðr.”

60  Gunnar Karlsson, “Goðar og bændur,” 34–​35; Gunnar Karlsson, “Frá þjóðveldi til konungsríkis,” 38.

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Introduction

13

Kristni saga. In Biskupa sögur I. Íslenzk fornrit 15. Edited by Sigurgeir Steingrímsson and Ólafur Halldórsson. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2003. Landnámabók. Edited by Jakob Benediktsson. Íslenzk fornrit 1. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1968. Sturlunga saga I–​II. Edited by Jón Jóhannesson, Magnús Finnbogason, and Kristján Eldjárn. Reykjavík: Sturlunguutgafan, 1946. The First Grammatical Treatise. Introduction, Text, Notes, Translation, Vocabulary, Facsimiles. Edited by Hreinn Benediktsson. Reykjavik: Institute of Nordic Linguistics, 1972. Þórlaks saga byskups in elzta. In Biskupa sögur II. Edited by Ásdís Egilsdóttir. Íslenzk fornrit 16. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2002. Þórlaks saga byskups yngri. In Biskupa sögur II. Edited by Ásdís Egilsdóttir. Íslenzk fornrit 16. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2002. Secondary Literature

Anderson, Theodore M. “Kings’ Sagas (Konungasögur).” In Old Norse–​Icelandic Literature: A Critical Guide, edited by Carol J. Clover and John Lindow, 197–​238. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985. Bekker-​Nielsen, Hans. “Den ældste tid.” In Norrøn fortællekunst: kapitler af den norsk-​ islandske middelalderlitteraturs historie, edited by Hans Bekker-​Nielsen et al., 9–​26. Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1965. —​—​. “Frode mænd og tradition.” In Norrøn fortællekunst: kapitler af den norsk-​islandske middelalderlitteraturs historie, edited by Hans Bekker-​ Nielsen et al., 35–​ 41. Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1965. Benedikt Eyþórsson. “Í þjónustu Snorra. Staðurinn í Reykholti og klerkar þar í tíð Snorra Sturlusonar.” Sagnir. Tímarit um söguleg efni 23 (2003): 20–​26. Björn Þorsteinsson. Ný Íslandssaga. Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1966. Blair, John. “Secular Minster Churches in Domesday Book.” In Domesday Book. A Reassessment, edited by Peter Sawyer, 104–​42. London: Edward Arnold, 1985. Blair, John, ed. Minsters and Parish Churches. The Local Church in Transition 950–​1200. Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology, 1988. Blair, John, and Carol Pyrah, eds. Church Archaeology. Research Directions for the Future. CBA research report 104. York: Council for British Archaeology, 1996. Blair, John, and Richard Sharpe, eds. Pastoral Care Before the Parish. Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1992. Borgehammer, Stephan. “Sunnivalegenden och den benediktinska reformen i England.” In Selja—​heilag stad i 1000 år, edited by Magnus Rindal, 123–​59. Oslo: Universitets forlaget, 1997. Burrows, Hannah. Literary–​ legal Relations in Commonwealth-​ period Iceland. York: University of York, 2007. Cormack, Margaret. The Saints in Iceland. Their Veneration from the Conversion to 1400. Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1994. Ellehøj, Svend. Studier over den ældste norrøne historieskrivning. Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1965.

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Foote, Peter Godfrey. Aurvandilstá: Norse Studies. Odense: Odense University Press, 1984. Grønlie, Siân E. The Saint and the Saga Hero: Hagiography and Early Icelandic Literature. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2017. Íslensk bókmenntasaga I. Edited by Guðrún Nordal et al. Reykjavík: Mál og menning, 1992. Gunnar F. Guðmundsson. Íslenskt samfélag og Rómakirkja. Kristni á Íslandi II. Reykjavík: Alþingi, 2000. Gunnar Harðarson. “Old Norse Intellectual Culture: Appropriation and Innovation.” In Intellectual Culture in Medieval Scandinavia, c. 1100–​1350, edited by Stefka Georgieva Eriksen, 35–​73. Turnhout: Brepols, 2016. Gunnar Karlsson. “Frá þjóðveldi til konungsríkis.” In Saga Íslands II. Edited by Sigurður Líndal,1–​54. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka bókmenntafélag, 1975. —​—​. “Goðar og bændur.” Saga 10 (1972): 5–​57. Hjalti Hugason. Frumkristni og upphaf kirkju. Kristni á Íslandi I. Reykjavík: Alþingi, 2000. Hødnebø, Finn et  al, eds. Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder I–​XXII. Oslo, 1956–​1978 (2. oppl. 1980–​1982). Johansson, Karl Gunnar. “Philology and Interdisciplinary Research—​ the Sturlungs, Benedictine Monasteries and Manuscript Tradition.” In Reykholt in Borgarfjörður. An Interdisciplinary Research Project. Workshop held 20–​21 August 1999, edited by Guðrún Sveinbjarnardóttir, 35–​41. Reykjavík: Þjóðminjasafn Íslands, 2000. Jón Jóhannesson. Íslendinga saga I.  Þjóðveldisöld. Reykjavík: Almenna bókafélagið, 1956. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson. Chieftains and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth. Translated by Jean Lundskær-​Nielsen. Odense: Odense University Press, 1999. —​—​. Frá goðorðum til ríkja:  Þróun goðavalds á 12. og 13. öld. Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa Menningarsjóðs, 1989. —​—​. “Høvdingene, storkirkene og den litterære aktiviteten på Island fram til ca. 1300.” In Den kirkehistoriske utfordring, edited by Steinar Imsen, 181–​96. Trondheim: Tapir Akademisk Forlag, 2005. —​—​. Kristninga i Norden 750–​1200. Oslo: Samlaget, 2003. —​—​. “Legender om hellige kvinner på Island i høymiddelalderen.” In Kirkehistorier. Rapport fra et middelaldersymposium, edited by Nanna Damsholt et al., 115–​33. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Forlag, 1996. Jónas Kristjánsson. Eddas and Sagas. Iceland’s Medieval Literature. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka bókmenntafélag, 1992. Magnús Stefánsson. “Frá goðakirkju til biskupskirkju.” In Saga Íslands III, edited by Sigurður Líndal, 109–​257. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka bókmenntafélag, 1978. —​—​. “Islandsk egenkirkevesen.” In Møtet mellom hedendom og kristendom i Norge, edited by Hans-​Emil Lidén, 234–​54. Oslo: Universitets forlag, 1995. —​—​. “Kirkjuvald eflist.” In Saga Íslands II, edited by Sigurður Líndal, 55–​ 144. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka bókmenntafélag, 1975. —​—​. Staðir og staðamál: studier i islandske egenkirkelige og beneficialrettslige forhold i middelalderen. Bergen: Historisk institutt, Universitetet i Bergen, 2000. Maurer, Konrad. Island von seiner ersten Entdeckung bis zum Untergange des Freistaats. Munich: Christian Kaiser, 1874.

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15

Orri Vésteinsson. The Christianization of Iceland:  Priests, Power, and Social Change, 1000–​1300. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. —​ —​ . “The Formative Phase of the Icelandic Church ca. 990–​ 1240 ad.” In Church Centres: Church Centres in Iceland from the 11th to the 13th Century and their Parallels in Other Countries, edited by Helgi Þorláksson, 71–​81. Reykholt: Snorrastofa, 2005. —​—​. “Íslenska sóknaskipulagið og samband heimila á miðöldum.” In Íslenska söguþingið I, edited by Guðmundur J.  Guðmundsson and Eiríkur K.  Björnsson, 147–​66. Reykjavík: Sagnfræðistofnun Háskola Íslands, 1998. Sigríður Sigurðardóttir. Kirkjur og bænhús í Skagafirði. Sauðárkrókur: Byggðasafn Skagfirðinga, 2008. —​—​. Miðaldakirkjur 1000–​1318:  Skagfirska kirkjurannsóknin. Glaumbær: Byggðasafn Skagfirðinga 2012. Sveinn Víkingur. Getið í eyður sögunnar. Reykjavík: Kvöldvökuútgáfan, 1970. Turville-​Petre, Gabriel. “Notes on the Intellectual History of Icelanders.” History 28 (1942):  111–​23. Þormóður Sveinsson. “Bæjatalið í Auðunarmáldögum.”Árbók hins íslenzka fornleifafélags 53 (1954): 23–​47.

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Chapter 1

THE USE OF SILVER BY THE NORSEMEN OF TRUSO AND WOLIN: THE LOGIC OF THE MARKET OR SOCIAL PRESTIGE?1

Dariusz Adamczyk IT IS WELL known that Viking expansion included the southern shores of the Baltic Sea. In the ninth century we can distinguish between the Norsemen, who probably originated from Uppland and settled in Middle Pomerania near Kolobrzeg, and various trader and craftsmen’s groups from, among other places, Denmark and Gotland, who were active in the vicinity of Elblag, establishing a trading outpost at Janów Pomorski/​Truso. By the tenth century, the next stage of Scandinavian activity had begun, this time on the other side of the Pomeranian coast, in Wolin, which was inhabited by both Nordic merchants and warriors from the 970s/​980s onwards. In both areas many silver finds have been excavated. It is also well known that precious metals played a significant role in Old Norse societies. The redistribution of goods was one of the major social principles, and relations were cemented by the circulation of silver among members of kinship groups as well as between these groups. Gift-​giving accumulated social prestige and created bonds between people. The gifts from treasury enabled warlords, chieftains, and kings to affirm social ties with their retinues, helping to create the symbolic capital necessary for reproduction of power. Rulers, who possessed silver, demonstrated leadership ability and may have strengthened their political situation towards rivals and competitors for power. The redistribution of precious metals consolidated prestige and authority.2 The cultural and symbolic significance of displaying luxury goods can be illustrated by fragments of Old Norse sources that show the ruler as “a lord of rings”—​for instance in the Laxdoela saga where King Hakon takes from his arm a particularly noteworthy gold ring and gives it to Höskuld, one of his loyal followers.3 The ruler’s generosity was scrupulously observed not only by followers, but also by potential petitioners. It was necessary for kings and jarls to be lavish in order to establish and maintain alliances. This raises several questions. Was silver primarily a means of payment or marker of prestige? Can these silver finds be explained via economic or rather socio-​political contexts? And, last but not least, did the use of silver differ between Truso and Wolin? 1  Dariusz Adamczyk, German Historical Institute in Warsaw, email: [email protected]. 2  Adamczyk, Silber und Macht. 3  Laxdoela saga, 91.

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Dariusz Adamczyk

The Norse Trading Community of Janów Pomorski/​Truso In the late eighth or early ninth century, there was established a trading place, located at the lake of Drużno, found in present-​day Janów Pomorski, just a few kilometres from Elbląg. The settlement at Janów has been identified as Truso, well known from Wulfstan’s late ninth-​century account. Archaeological finds from the area include different types of brooches, Hnefi game stones, gold and silver finger-​rings as well as Walkiria figures, distinctly illustrative of Norse presence there. Further, crafting activities typical for Viking societies are attested in the region by finds of small hammers, anvils, files, pins, melting pots, and unfinished amber products. Consequently, there can be little doubt that Janów Pomorski (Truso) was inhabited by Scandinavians in the above-​specified time frame, among others of Danish origin.4 The first Arabic coins (dirhams) began to flow into Warmia, Masuria, and the eastern parts of Pomerania in the early ninth century. These coins were mostly struck by the Abbasids in Iraq and Iran, but included some older coins in the mix. The Norsemen’s redistribution of these early dirhams along the southern shores of the Baltic is evidenced by the finds of single coins or coin fragments at Truso. In addition to 996 dirhams, thirteen deniers, sceattas, or pennies from Hedeby, Ribe, Frisia, the Frankish and Anglo-​Saxon realms (Northumbria and Wessex) have been found, all struck before 870.5 Additionally, a small hoard of sixteen dirhams with terminus post quem 815/​816 has surfaced inside the trading centre.6 Finds of some 1,110 weights and few scales, possibly used to weigh silver fragments, emphasize the importance of trade at the emporium.7 However, some coins were worn as necklaces or melted down and then re-​used as ingots.8 Several dirham hoards dated to the 810s, 820s and 840s have been found in the vicinity of the emporium at Janów Pomorski (Table 1). It is evident that local Norsemen created a trading network which linked Staraia Ladoga, the main centre for dirham redistribution in north-​western Rus’, with the Baltic and Slavic societies populating the interior of Warmia, Masuria, and eastern Pomerania. Locations of these hoard finds are all roughly within a 100 km radius of Truso: Gdańsk lies around 70 km north-​west of Elbląg, Mokajmy-​Sójki and Zalewo between 20–​40 km to the south, Braniewo some 50 km to the east, and the most remote deposit from Ramsowo is around 110 km south-​east of Truso (Table 1). The placements of these early dirham hoards, as well as context of archaeological finds from Janów Pomorski (Truso), lead us to believe that the emporium functioned mainly to exchange dirhams and dirham fragments for raw materials from the Slavic and 4  Jagodziński, Wczesnośredniowieczna osada rzemieślniczo-​handlowa w Janowie Pomorskim; Jagodziński, Truso. Między Weonodlandem a Witlandem; Jagodziński, “The Settlement of Truso,” 193. 5  Frühmittelalterliche Münzfunde aus Polen, no. 19A and 19B. 6  Frühmittelalterliche Münzfunde aus Polen, no. 18 and 120.

7  Auch, Bogucki, and Trzeciecki, “Osadnictwo wczesnośredniowieczne na stanowisku Janów Pomorski 1,” 121.

8  Bogucki, “Coin Finds in the Viking-​Age Emporium at Janów Pomorski (Truso) and the Prussian Phenomenon,” 80, 92.

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The Use of Silver

Table 1 Hoards with at least ten coins from Janów Pomorski and its hinterland*

21

Find-​spot

Terminus post quem of hoard

Number of dirhams or dirham fragments

Zalewo

811/​812

40

Krasnołąka

813/​814

10

Stegna

Janów Pomorski I Braniewo

Mokajmy-​Sójki

Ramsowo

Gdańsk –​vicinity

811/​812 815/​816 816/​817 817/​818 828/​829 849/​850

17 16 47

124 336 22

* Based on the inventories Frühmittelalterliche Münzfunde, Inventar II: Pomerania and Inventar V: Ermland-​Masuria.

Baltic Prussian hinterland (Map 2).9 These, in turn, could either be used by inhabitants of Truso, or re-​exported to the Arab world via networks of Rus’ and other Norse groupings living in the lands of northern Rus’. Raw materials included amber, salt, iron, and beaver furs—​possibly also slaves—​ and later on swords manufactured at Truso.10 These are the sorts of goods the Persian geographer Ibn Khurradadbih (d. 912) notes in his description of the Rus’ trading expeditions to the markets in Khazaria, the Caspian Sea and even Baghdad as early as the 840s (and probably based upon earlier sources).11 Thus, demand for furs, amber, swords, and slaves in the Abbasid caliphate and Staraia Ladoga was the main reason for dirhams flowing into the southern Baltic. The Scandinavians of Truso used silver not only as payment for raw materials from the hinterland, but also as money in the transit trade between Staraia Ladoga and various settlements to the west of Janów Pomorski. It is clear from available sources that Scandinavian and Slavic merchants from the western Baltic visited Truso. Wulfstan himself, commonly thought to have been a seafarer of Anglo-​Saxon origin, sailed to Truso via Hedeby by ca. 880/​890. Moreover, pottery characteristic of Pomerania and Mecklenburg has been found in Janów Pomorski.12 Concentration of early dirham hoards in the area, together with a number of single coin finds in Janów Pomorski, suggest this emporium to have been a key nodal point for the surrounding communities in the first phase of silver inflow. These communities included settlements such as Kołobrzeg (Kolberg), Menzlin, 9  Adamczyk, “Fernhandelsemporien, Herrschaftszentren, Regional-​und Lokalmärkte,” 117–​19. 10  Biborski et al., “Sword parts from a Viking Age Emporium of Truso in Prussia,” 19–​70. 11  Źródła arabskie do dziejów Słowiańszczyzny, 76–​77.

12  Auch et al., “Osadnictwo wczesnośredniowieczne na stanowisku Janów Pomorski 1,” 96.

22

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Karte 1 Phase I 786/787 – 839/840 Silver hoards from Eastern Europe featuring at least 10 dirhems

0

500

1000 km

Quellen: Küste und Gewässer nach Diercke, Bl. 78 Europa von 1904

Map 2. Early dirham finds in Eastern and Northern Europe (after Adamczyk, Silber und Macht, 67).

23



The Use of Silver

23

Ralswiek, Dierkow-​Rostock, and Reric (Groß Strömkendorf). Many of the dirhams found in Pomerania and Mecklenburg could have been purchased in Truso. The unique position of Janów Pomorski/​Truso is even more striking when we consider finds from other early ports of trades along the southern shores of the Baltic and the North Sea. In Menzlin, in the mouth of the Piana, only sixty-​one coins and nearly the same number of weights have been excavated. More than eighty coins are known from Groß Strömkendorf/​Reric, all struck over the course of the seventh and eighth centuries. From Ribe, 204 sceattas issued between 700 and 850 have been accounted for. Last but not least, in the most important emporium of the North Sea, Dorestad in the mouth of the Rhine, archaeologists have excavated at least 375 sceattas and Carolingian deniers.13 The notable absence of dirham hoards in Prussian hinterland after 830 and in eastern Pomerania after 850, as well as absence of single coin finds inside the emporium after ca. 870 (but mostly after 850) implies a deep shift in silver redistribution within the Baltic region.14 However, it does not necessarily mean that coins and coin fragments stopped circulating in Truso in the second half of the ninth century. 98 per cent of all dirhams found inside the port of trade appear in the form of fragments. We should also consider 1,100 weights found in the same area. Among those which have been examined to date, more than 50 per cent belong to the so-​called cubo-​octahedral weights, and several to ball-​shaped weights. According to common chronology, such weights were in use at trading outposts in Birka and Torksey by the 860s/​870s.15 If we assume the same chronology for Janów Pomorski, we can safely stipulate that dirhams, which flowed to Truso in the early ninth century, were still in use by Norse traders and craftsmen after 860. This invites the question: why did various ethnic groups in the Truso hinterland collect Arabic silver? Wulfstan gives us a hint, in his description of the funeral rites of an Old Prussian chieftain: Then the same day that they wish to carry him to the funeral pyre, they then divide up his property [or money], what there is left over after the drinking and the entertainment, into five or six parts, sometimes into more, according to the amount of property there is.16

Dirhams and dirham fragments may have been markers of prestige and used for ritualistic purposes; the above description is reminiscent of the potlatch. During this gift-​ giving ceremony, common to many indigenous peoples, members of the elite would redistribute or destroy their property in order to maintain or strengthen their own 13  Kleingärtner, Die frühe Phase der Urbanisierung, 365–​67; Coupland, “Carolingian Single Finds and the Economy of the Early Ninth Century,” 287–​319; Feveile, “Series X and Coin Circulation in Ribe,” 53–​67. For the data from Groß Strömkendorf I would like to thank Ralf Wiechmann from the Numismatische Abteilung des Hamburger Museums. 14  Adamczyk, “Koniunkturalne cykle czy strukturalne załamania?,” 104–​5.

15  Steuer, “Gewichtsgeldwirtschaft im frühgeschichtlichen Europa,” 405–​527; Kilger, “Mitqal, Gewichte und Dirhems,” 21. 16  Wulfstan’s Voyage and his Description of Estland, 16 (text), 24–​25 (comm.).

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Dariusz Adamczyk

social status. By redistributing goods, social ties could be particularly reinforced within a kinship group.17 The collapse of demand for silver in Truso’s hinterland around 830 could be interpreted as a saturation of “the prestige market” after only one generation. Let us now move to Wolin, almost 400 km west of Truso.

Traders, Warriors, and Warlords in Wolin

According to archaeological data, a settlement on the island of Wolin emerged and grew in strength from the early tenth century onwards, in tandem with the inflow of Arabic silver. In contrast to older trade emporia like Truso, Wolin’s merchant elite were not just traders of amber and slaves: their rise was indicative of an important political factor in the region.18 Widukind of Corvey reports that Wolinians fought against Mieszko, while Adam of Bremen calls Wolin “the largest European town.”19 Ibrahim ibn Ya’qub describes Wolin in the 960s thus: They [the Wolinians] have a great city on the Surrounding Ocean. It has twelve gates and a harbour […] They make war on Mieszko and are very courageous. They have no king […] their judges are their old men.20

The town underwent considerable development in the first quarter of the tenth century, when the core settlement and southern suburb were fortified, and a rampart built to protect “silver hill” to the north (Srebrne Wzgórze). At the same time, a new suburb to the west of the emporium was fortified and a harbour settlement emerged on the southern slopes of “gallows hill” (Wzgórze Wisielców) to the south. The scale of these fortifications is in contrast to other emporia in the mouth of the Oder, such as Menzlin, and hints at strong power structures forming in Wolin. Archaeological material points to Slav merchants and chieftains controlling trade there for much of the tenth century, with Norsemen only becoming more actively involved around 970 and onwards.21 Why did Wolin rise in the first half of the tenth century? Błażej M.  Stanisławski has suggested an “ideological revolution” occurring among the Wolinians, reflective in the development of the settlement complex, the emergence of new elites and the appearance of dirham hoards22 —​all phenomena seen in Wielkopolska, too. We should take into account a fundamental transformation that was taking place to the west of Wolin in this period. Between 928 and 934 the formidable king of East Francia, Henry the Fowler (919–​936), imposed tribute on all the Polabian Slavs and Bohemians. A huge area was brought under Saxon control—​from the Baltic rim in the north to Prague in 17  Mauss, Die Gabe.

18  Adamczyk, “Wollin und sein Hinterland im kontinentalen und transkontinentalen Bezie­ hungsgeflecht um das Jahr 1000,” 299–​317. 19  Widukind, Res Gestae Saxonicae, 172–​73.

20  Ibrāhīm ibn-​Ya’qūb on Northern Europe 965, 166.

21  Stanisławski, Jómswikingowie z Wolina-​Jómsborga, 244–​45. 22  Stanisławski, Jómswikingowie z Wolina-​Jómsborga, 231–​40.

25



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25

the south, from the Elbe in the west to the Oder to the east—​and in 934 Henry also captured the important emporium of Hedeby.23 The pressure Henry put on the Polabian tribes and Danes between 928 and 934 created opportunities for Wolinian expansion into the Polish interior as well as in the Baltic region. It is probably no coincidence that Wichmann, a member of the Saxon House of Billung, fled to the Wolinians after banishment by Henry’s son Otto I and led them against Mieszko in the 960s. According to Adam of Bremen, the trading centre of Birka was plundered by pirates,24 and there is no reason why some Slavic ships arriving in Birka should not have hailed from Wolin.25 In contrast to Janów Pomorski, the “ideological revolution” in Wolin was created by Slavs in the first half of the tenth century. However, there can be little doubt that Norsemen were active in various parts of this settlement complex:  in the later 960s probably as traders and from approximately 980 onwards also as warriors. For the latter, some evidence can be seen in Ogrody, “Gardens.” We may note, among other local finds, a sword, an axe, and, last but not least, a spearhead. Alongside some Norse everyday items, these suggest a presence of warriors and traders.26 Further, several finds from Pomerania indicate connections to Scandinavia:  the hoard from Świnoujscie-​Przytór (terminus post quem around 975), some 20 km from Wolin, and the hoard of Białogard II (983) included almost exclusively Danish coins possibly struck in Hedeby.27 We should add evidence from written sources to this discussion. Óláfr Tryggvason, king of Norway between 995 and 1000, stayed in Wolin for some years and possibly took part in Viking-​like expeditions in the Baltic Sea area himself.28 The connections between Wolin and Scandinavia, especially Denmark, are also confirmed by various Old Norse texts.29 According to the so-​called Jómsvíkinga saga, the Norsemen settled in Wolin, protecting surrounding land and organizing predation raids.30 They kidnapped Sveinn I Forkbeard and demanded much gold for ransom.31 Near the island of Rugia, on the beach of Hiddensee, a hoard dating to the 980s has been discovered. It is one of the largest gold finds of the Viking Age, weighing almost 600 g and containing jewellery originating from Hedeby or Denmark at large. It stands to reason that this gold was the ransom for which Sveinn should have been freed, but was lost on its way to Wolin.32 And last but not least, we have to mention Harald Bluetooth, who fled from Denmark 23  Regesten zur Geschichte der Slaven, Teil II, no. 25, 40; no. 27, 43–​44; no. 30, 47–​48; no. 36, 55; no. 37, 56; no. 42, 61; no. 43, 62. 24  Adam of Bremen, Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum, 230–​31. 25  Regesten, no. 16, 30.

26  Stanisławski and Filipowiak, Wolin wczesnośredniowieczny, 187. 27  Frühmittelalterliche Münzfunde, Pommern, no. 225 and 5.

28  Morawiec, “Kontakty Olafa Tryggvasona z Jomsborgiem,” 19–​42; Słupecki, “Jom, Jomsborg, Wolin, Wineta w pieśniach skaldów, w islandzkich sagach i w łacińskich kronikach,” 47–​62. 29  Morawiec, Wolin w średniowiecznej tradycji skandynawskiej. 30  Jómsvíkinga saga, 19–​20.

31  Regestenzur Geschichte der Slaven, Teil III, no. 241, 43–​44. 32  Filipowiak, “Der Goldschatz von Hiddensee,” 337–​45.

26

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Phase III 900 – 989/990 (The Great Poland and neighbouring regions) ch ar M Silver hoards featuring at least 10 dirhems

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Map 3. Tenth-​century dirham finds from Poland (after Adamczyk, Silber und Macht, 173).

27



Table 2 Larger hoards from Western Pomerania*

The Use of Silver

27

Find-​spot

Terminus post quem of hoard

Number of coins or coin fragments

Łabędzie (Drawsko)

929–​932

390

Daleszewo/​Piaski Wielkie (Gryfino)

942/​943

at least 880

Bielkowo (Stargard Szczeciński) Dramino (Kamień Pomorski)

Trzebianowo (Kamień Pomorski)

938/​939 949/​950 955/​956

247

10.532 g 3.120 g

* Based on the inventories Frühmittelalterliche Münzfunde, Inventar II: Pomerania.

to Wolin.33 Consequently, archaeological evidence appears to correlate well with the written sources. It was primarily the long-​distance trade boom of the tenth century that stimulated the rise of this emporium. Several hoards have been found in the region between Kamień Pomorski and Szczecin, about 20 km north and 80 km south of Wolin respectively (Table 2). In Wolin itself, 18 silver hoards have been discovered to date (Table 3). They contain coins (mainly dirhams), jewellery, ingots and silver wires (Table 3). In contrast to Truso, jewellery finds in Wolin suggest the existence of prestige and gift-​based economy. The hoard Wolin XVII, dated to the tenth/​eleventh centuries, includes ninety-​nine pieces of jewellery, ingots, and silver wires, mostly fragmented. In addition, it contains a Thor hammer pendant. The find known as Wolin XXII, found on the so-​called “silver hill,” consists of 120–​150 coins and five pieces of jewellery. Several hoards from the hinterland hold jewellery as well:  for instance, the find at Dramino comprises 588 fragmented arm-​rings, neck-​rings, and ear-​rings together with twenty cut ingots.34 There are obviously other possibilities, beyond market needs, why silver in Pomerania was cut and fragmented. The fortified settlements at Wolin may have served both as centres for tribute collection by the elite and as places for various forms of exchange. This would explain why jewellery and dirhams were fragmented—​for use by weight in the form of bullion or hack-​silver, rather than holding a monetary value. Furthermore, some of the hacked coins and rings could have been gifts to express friendship and ensure political alliances—​particularly since many dirhams flowed into Eastern Europe as bullion. Precious metals may have been the universal medium of persuasion, and a significant mechanism for regulating relationships between Wolin’s elites and various 33  Regesten zur Geschichte der Slaven, Teil III, no. 240, 42. 34  Frühmittelalterliche Münzfunde, no. 257, 262 and 37.

28

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Dariusz Adamczyk

Table 3 Silver finds from Wolin* Find-​spot

Last coin

Number of coins or coin fragments

Wolin I (“silver hill”)

?

?

Wolin III (“near the town”)

10th century? “many” Arab coins

Wolin II (“silver hill” or “mill hill”) Wolin IV (“silver hill”) Wolin V (“silver hill”)

Wolin VI (“near the town”) Wolin VII (suburb Wik)

Wolin IX (“near the town”) Wolin X (suburb Wik)

Wolin XI (“gallow hill”)

Wolin XII (“near the town”) Wolin XVI (?)

Wolin XXII (“silver hill”)

Wolin-​Wyspa

Wolin XXV (?)

Wolin XIII (“near the town”)

Wolin XV (“mill hill”) Wolin XVII

?

?

909

2 dirhams

10th century

34 Islamic coins

10th century

?

10th century? many fragments; jewellery and jewellery fragments 944

4 dirhams

10th century? 34 dirhams 10th century? ?

10th century? fragments of dirhams und jewellery 10th century? 5 dirhams 982

120–​150 coins and jewellery

ca. 975

34 coins

?

2 coins

1024

350 coins and 56 arm-​rings

10th–​11th century

99 pieces of jewellery, ingots and wires

1050

22 coins and 65 g coins

* Based on the inventories Frühmittelalterliche Münzfunde, Inventar II: Pomerania and Inventar V: Funde aus Polen 2011–2013. Addenda et Corrigenda.

local clans. “Baugbroti” (ring-​breaker) is the name in the sagas for these chieftains and kings who were lavish and gave pieces of arm-​rings to their followers.35 The number of single finds in Wolin is negligible. Only close to seventy coins are known from the settlement complex, and approximately seven from burial grounds. To these we can add more than forty weights and balances. They show a certain importance 35  Die Edda. Göttersagen, Heldensagen und Spruchweisheiten der Germanen, hg. von Harri Günther (in der Übertragung von Karl Simrock), Wiesbaden 1987, 127. Reallexikon der Germannischen Altertumskunde, 1:180. However, it does not exclude that hack-​silver could have a negative connotation as “less worthy silver.” See, for example, the Bandamanna saga, 336–​37.

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29

of weighing silver for use in both long-​distance and regional trade. Wolinian chieftains may have paid in precious metal for slaves, furs, and possibly also timber supplied by inland groups, and it is no coincidence that in the first half of the tenth century high-​ quality pottery from western Pomerania also starts to appear in the Wielkopolska region.36 Additionally, workshops for glass, amber, metal, and antlers have been excavated. Intensive contacts with the Arabic world are attested not only by the numerous hoards containing Islamic coins and jewellery found around Wolin, but by the dirham finds in the settlement complex itself, as well as cowrie shells from the Indian Ocean, glass beads from Syria and Egypt, and silk fragments from Central Asia.37 One of the emporium’s most important exports was amber—​more than 270,000 pieces were found there.38 The emporium’s wealth lured the Piasts, a dynasty ruling in Wielkopolska, to move into Pomerania and attempt to impose tribute on the Wolinians.

Comparisons and Conclusions

Let us now compare Truso and Wolin. A different pattern of finds is attested by Table 4. More than 1,000 stray finds of coins have been discovered in Janów Pomorski, almost all of them dating between 750 and 850. Nevertheless, they may have remained in circulation until the second half of the ninth century. In contrast to Truso, only close to seventy single coins appear in Wolin, belonging to a time-​span from 815/​816 to 911/​ 912 for dirhams, and 1075 to1090 for cross-​deniers. Consequently, these reflect various silver inflows into Pomerania which generally encompassed the tenth and eleventh centuries. The number of single finds is a striking difference, even considering the fact that Table 4 Comparisons between Truso and Wolin Janów Pomorski/​Truso

Wolin

single coins: 1009 (700/​750–​870) time of inflow into Truso: 800s–​860s

single coins: ca. 70 (+ ca. 7 from burial grounds) (900s–​1090s) time of inflow into Wolin: 900s?–​1090s

weights: 1,110

weights: “more than” 40

hoards: 1 (810s) no jewellery

hoards: 18 (900s?–​1050s)

jewellery and fragments of jewellery

36  Kara, Najstarsze państwo Piastów, 255, 257.

37  Filipowiak, “Handel und Handelsplätze an der Ostseeküste Westpommerns,” 690–​719; Bogucki and Malarczyk, “Wczesnośredniowieczny skarb monet ze Srebrnego Wzgórza w Wolinie z 2. połowy X w,” 291–​317; Horoszko, “Monety wczesnośredniowieczne z badań archeologicznych w Wolinie,” 277–​90. 38  Wojtasik, “Bursztyniarstwo wczesnośredniowiecznego Wolina,” 235–​49.

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Dariusz Adamczyk

archaeologists have not yet excavated the central marketplace of the settlement complex to this date. The numerous weights and some scales found alongside many dirham fragments from Janów Pomorski indicate the use of silver as means of payment. There are no doubts that precious metals were being weighed in Wolin as well. However, the asymmetry between 1,110 weights from Janów Pomorski and a mere forty from Wolin is very impressive. This appears likely to correlate with the number of hoards. From Truso just one small dirham hoard dated to the 810s is known, while in Wolin eighteen hoards have been unearthed, covering a longer period between the first half of the tenth century and ca. 1050. Besides, Wolin’s hoards contain bullion, mainly jewellery and fragments of jewellery. This evidence suggests two completely different social contexts of redistributing silver. In Truso, Norse merchants and craftsmen used silver coins mainly as means of payment inside the emporium as well as in trade with the Baltic and Slavic population in its hinterland, as well as in transit trade with communities west of eastern Pomerania. Sometimes they wore dirhams and western deniers as pendants on necklaces or re-​used them as raw material for ingots which may have served as money as well. In sharp contrast to Janów Pomorski stands Wolin, where silver seems to have functioned as marker of prestige. By redistributing gifts and prestige goods, social ties could be reinforced within a kinship group or between several. In this sense the use of silver in Wolin was rather common to the hinterland of Truso.

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Regesten zur Geschichte der Slaven an Elbe und Oder (vom Jahr 900 an): Teil III; Regesten 983–​1013. Edited by Christian Lübke. Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1986. Widukind, Res Gestae Saxonicae. In Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters. Freiherr vom Stein-​Gedächtnisausgabe, edited by Albert Bauer and Reinhold Rau, 1–​183. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft WBG, 1977. Wulfstan’s Voyage and his Description of Estland.The Text and the Language of the Text. In Wulfstans Voyage: The Baltic Sea Region in the Early Viking Age as seen from Shipboard, edited by Anton Englert and Athena Trakadas, 1–​28. Roskilde: Viking Ship Museum, 2009. Źródła arabskie do dziejów Słowiańszczyzny, vol. 1, edited by Tadeusz Lewicki. Wrocław: Zakład im. Ossolińskich, 1956. Secondary Literature

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and Modern Times. Time, Range, Intensity, edited by Stanisław Suchodolski (with the collaboration of Mateusz Bogucki), 79–​108. Warsaw: Avalon, 2007. Bogucki, Mateusz, Peter Ilisch, Dorota Malarczyk, Michał Kulesza, Jerzy Piniński, and Tomasz Nowakiewicz. Frühmittelalterliche Münzfunde aus Polen. Inventar V: Ermland und Masuren. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo IAE PAN, 2016. Bogucki, Matuesz, Peter Ilisch, Dorota Malarczyk, Piotr Chabrzyk, Adam Kędzierski, Michał Kulesza, Tomasz Nowakiewicz, and Roksana Wawrzczak. Frühmittelaterliche Münzfunde aus Polen. Inventar V: Funde aus Polen 2011–2013. Addenda et Corrigenda, Warsaw 2016. Bogucki, Mateusz, and Dorota Malarczyk. “Wczesnośredniowieczny skarb monet ze Srebrnego Wzgórza w Wolinie z 2. połowy X w.” In Wolin średniowieczny, vol. 2, edited by Błażej Stanisławski and Władysław Filipowiak, 291–​317. Warsaw: Trio, 2014. Coupland, Simon. “Carolingian Single Finds and the Economy of the Early Ninth Century.” The Numismatic Cronicle 170 (2010): 287–​319. Feveile, Claus. “Series X and Coin Circulation in Ribe.” In Studies in Early Medieval Coinage, edited by Tony Abramson, vol. 1, Two Decades of Discovery, 53–​67. Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2008. Filipowiak, Władysław. “Der Goldschatz von Hiddensee. Eine Piratenbeute der Ranen?” In Studien zur Archäologie des Ostseeraumes. Von der Eisenzeit zum M ittelalter. Festschrift für Michael Müller-​Wille, edited by Anke Wesse, 337–​ 45. Neumünster: Wachholtz, 1998. —​—​. “Handel und Handelsplätze an der Ostseeküste Westpommerns.” In Oldenburg—​ Wolin—​Staraja Ladoga—​Novgorod—​Kiev. Handel und Handelsverbindungen im südlichen und östlichen Ostseeraum während des frühen Mittelalters (Bericht der Römisch-​Germanischen Kommission 69), 690–​719. Mainz:  Römisch-​Germanische Kommission des Deutschen Archӓologischen Instituts, 1988. Horoszko, Genowefa. “Monety wczesnośredniowieczne z badań archeologicznych w Wolinie.” In Wolin średniowieczny, vol. 2, edited by Błażej Stanisławski and Władysław Filipowiak, 277–​90. Warsaw: Trio, 2014. Horoszko, Genowefa, Jerzy Piniński, Peter Ilisch, Dorota Malarczyk, and Tomasz Nowakiewicz (in Zusammenarbeit mit Michał Kulesza). eds. Frühmittelalterliche Münzfunde aus Polen. Inventar II: Pommern. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo IAE PAN, 2016. Jagodziński, Marek F.  “The Settlement of Truso.” In Wulfstans Voyage. The Baltic Sea Region in the Early Viking Age as seen from Shipboard, edited by Anton Englert and Athena Trakadas, 182–​97. Roskilde: Viking Ship Museum, 2009. —​—​. Truso. Między Weonodlandem a Witlandem. Elbląg:  Muzeum Archeologiczno-​ Historyczne w Elblągu, 2010. —​—​. Wczesnośredniowieczna osada rzemieślniczo-​handlowa w Janowie Pomorskim nad jeziorem Drużno—​poszukiwane Truso? Elbląg: Muzeum Archeologiczno-​Historyczne w Elblągu, 1988. Kara, Michał. Najstarsze państwo Piastów—​rezultat przełomu czy kontynuacji? Studium archeologiczne. Poznań: Wydawnictwo IAE PAN, 2009. Kilger, Christoph. “Mitqal, Gewichte und Dirhems—​Aspekte monetärer Praxis in der frühmittelalterlichen Silberökumene des Ostseeraumes.” In Fernhändler, Dynasten,

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Kleriker. Die piastische Herrschaft in kontinentalen Beziehungsgeflechten vom 10. bis zum frühen 13. Jahrhundert, edited by Dariusz Adamczyk and Norbert Kersken, 17–​ 40. Wiesbaden: Harrasowitz, 2015. Kleingärtner, Sunhild. Die frühe Phase der Urbanisierung an der südlichen Ostseeküs te im ersten nachchristlichen Jahrtausend. Studien zur Siedlungsgeschichte und Archäologie der Ostseegebiete, Bd. 13. Neumünster: Wachholtz, 2014. Mauss, Marcel. Die Gabe. Form und Funktion des Austauschs in archaischen Gesellschaften. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1990. Morawiec, Jakub. “Kontakty Olafa Tryggvasona z Jomsborgiem—​pomiędzy legendą a historyczną rzeczywistością.” Średniowiecze polskie i powszechne 1 (2009): 19–​42. —​—​. Wolin w średniowiecznej tradycji skandynawskiej. Kraków: Avalon 2010. Reallexikon der Germannischen Altertumskunde, edited by Johannes Hoops and K. J. Trübner. 4 vols. Straßburg, 1911–​19. Słupecki, Leszek P.  “Jom, Jomsborg, Wolin, Wineta w pieśniach skaldów, w islandzkich sagach i w łacińskich kronikach.” In Mare Integrans. Studia nad dziejami wybrzeży Morza Bałtyckiego, edited by Michał Bogacki, Maciej Franz, and Zbigniew Pilarczyk, 47–​62. Toruń: Marszałek, 2005. Stanisławski, Błażej. Jómswikingowie z Wolina-​Jómsborga—​studium przenikania kultury skandynawskiej na ziemie polskie, Wrocław: Wydawnictwo IAE PAN, 2013. —​—​. “Obecność skandynawska w Wolinie w świetle źródeł cheologicznych.” In Wolin średniowieczny, vol. 2, edited by Błażej Stanisławski and Władysław Filipowiak, 325–​ 49. Warsaw: Trio, 2014. Stanisławski, Błażej, and Władysław Filipowiak, Wolin wczesnośredniowieczny, vol. 1. Warsaw: Trio, 2013. Steuer, Heiko. “Gewichtsgeldwirtschaft im frühgeschichtlichen Europa—​Feinwaagen und Gewichte als Quelle zur Währungsgeschichte.” In Untersuchungen zu Handel und Verkehr der vor-​und frühgeschichtlichen Zeit in Mittel-​und Nordeuropa, vol. 4, edited by Klaus Düwel et al., 405–​527. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987. Wojtasik, Jerzy. “Bursztyniarstwo wczesnośredniowiecznego Wolina.” In Wolin wczesnośredniowieczny, vol. 1, edited by Błażej Stanisławski and Władysław Filipowiak, 235–​49. Warsaw: Trio, 2013.

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Chapter 2

SILK, SETTLEMENTS, AND SOCIETY IN ÍSLENDINGASÖGUR1

Anita Sauckel ALTHOUGH THE LAST ten years have witnessed a number of relevant publications, a broader scholarly discussion of the literary significance of clothing in Icelandic saga literature is required to facilitate better understanding. In an attempt at stimulating further debate, I will focus on the complex narrative of clothing in Íslendingasögur through an examination of the fabric silk. Exclusive, fashionable garments made from costly materials play an important role within the saga-​plot, influence its outcome and reflect social norms within the “saga-​society.” In recent decades Scandinavian fashion has often been regarded as idiosyncratically distinct from continental fashion, especially when the fashions of Insular-​Nordic countries such as Iceland, the Faroe Islands, and Greenland are taken into account. For instance, in March 2014 the exhibition The Weather Diaries was shown at the Museum Angewandte Kunst in Frankfurt am Main, Germany. Artists Sarah Cooper and Nina Gorfer had been studying the impact of nature as well as tradition on fashion design in Iceland, Greenland, and the Faeroe Islands.2 In the official catalogue, Matthias Wagner K., the director of Museum Angewandte Kunst, offers an explanation of fashion’s exceptional position in the Far North: The comprehensive transformation in the fashions of Central Europe, owing to radical changes in society’s values during the French Revolution, barely left a mark on the Nordic countries […] When clothing became fashion on the Faroe Islands, Iceland and Greenland, it did not however mean the rejection of the notion of fashion as something aristocratic, elegant, luxurious and beautiful—​ because that notion had never existed. The historical development of fashion on the European mainland had not rubbed off on those who, until well into the twentieth century, with arduous labour and at the risk of their lives, had wrested a living from the barren soil and, to an even greater degree, the sea.3

However, this does not accord with the medievalist’s understanding of perceptions of clothing in the Far North in the past. Contrary to Matthias Wagner K.’s thesis, the use of clothing as a medium to express aristocracy and sovereignty is in fact detectable. 1  Anita Sauckel, University of Iceland, email: [email protected].

2  Museum Angewandte Kunst, www.museumangewandtekunst.de/​de/​museum/​ausstellungen/​ the-​weather-​diaries-​3rd-​nordic-​fashion-​biennale.html. 3  Wagner, “In the Face of Creativity,” 12–​13.

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Moreover, clothing plays an important role in Old Norse mythology. Whereas in the book of Genesis, disguising the human body is a consequence of the Fall of Man, within Old Norse mythology clothing is treated as an essential part of pagan anthropogony and therefore an essential part of being human. Snorri Sturluson (1179–​1241) recounts in Gylfaginning how the first humans Askr and Embla get “dressed”: Þá er þeir Bors synir gengu með sævar strǫndu, fundu þeir tré tvau, ok tóku upp tréin ok skǫpuðu af menn. Gaf hann fyrsti ǫnd ok líf, annarr vit ok hrœring, þriði ásjónu, málit ok heyrn ok sjón; gáfu þeim klæði ok nǫfn. Hét karlmaðrinn Askr, en konan Embla, ok ólusk þaðan af mannkindin þeim er bygðin var gefin undir Miðgarði.

(As Bor’s sons walked along the sea shore, they came across two logs and created people out of them. The first gave breath and life, the second consciousness and movement, the third face, speech and hearing and sight; they gave them clothes and names. The man was called Ask, the woman Embla, and from them were produced the mankind to whom the dwelling-​place under Midgard was given.)4

Moreover, stanza 49 of the eddic poem Hávamál (from around 1270) tells us how two wooden men are given clothes: Váðir mínar gaf ec velli at tveim trémǫnnum; rekkar þat þóttuz, er þeir ript hǫfðo—​ neiss er nøkkviðr halr.

(My clothes I gave in the countryside /​to two twig-​men. /​Great fellows they thought themselves /​when they had garments—​/​a man is mortified naked.)5

As this stanza shows, humans become cultural beings only through clothing. An unclad, naked body is described as “mortified.” These examples demonstrate the importance of clothing in Old Norse mythology, and thus, arguably, for medieval Icelandic society. However, Old Norse literary scholarship has been largely disregarding depictions of clothing in Íslendingasögur for decades, downplaying its importance for saga writers and their audiences. In 2009, the famous German saga-​scholar and translator of Laxdæla saga, Rolf Heller, stated: Zu den ins Auge fallenden Besonderheiten der Darstellung in der Laxdœla saga gehören ausführliche Beschreibungen kostbarer Kleidung und reich

4  Snorri Sturluson, “Gylfaginning,” 13; English translation: Snorri Sturluson: Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning, 13. 5  “Hávamál,” v. 49, 12.

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verzierter Waffen. Kein anderer Verfasser einer Isländersaga läßt eine so starke Vorliebe für prächtige Auftritte erkennen. Er verleiht ihnen aber nur selten handlungsförderndes Gewicht; sie erscheinen eher als glänzendes Beiwerk.

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(Among the prominent characteristics of Laxdæla saga there are elaborate descriptions of precious clothing and richly ornamented weapons. No other writer of an Icelandic family saga shows such a large interest in splendid appearances. However, he does rarely see them as literarily significant; rather, they serve as decoration.)6

However, it is hard to imagine medieval Icelanders, who considered clothing important enough to include into mythological passages, not being interested in depicting clothing in their family sagas in equally significant way. As early as the nineteenth century, the sagas’ manifold descriptions of clothing and weapons indeed raised huge interest among scholars. However, such depictions were only regarded as sources of an early medieval material culture.7 “Literary” textiles were welcomed by archaeologists and textile historians as additional material for the reconstruction of Viking Age clothing.8 However, using Íslendingasögur as sources for Viking Age material culture is problematic: Unfortunately, the temporal gap between the Saga Age and the time of saga writing has not attracted enough critical consideration in such studies. Furthermore, the depictions of female garments especially do not correspond with archaeological finds from the Viking Age; important elements of the Viking Age female costume, such as the so-​called oval brooches, common in Scandinavia and Iceland, are never mentioned in the texts.9 Oval brooches were worn in pairs in combination with a long woollen strap-​ dress that reached the armpits; the shoulder straps were fastened on the front with the brooches.10 Moreover, Old Norse terminology is ambiguous, as several terms describe both male and female garments; not even their precise length and cut can be identified by these terms. Because of this, it must seem rather strange that saga-​clothing has only been recognized by literary scholars as “regalia,” serving as splendid illustration of the medieval saga-​environment. My doctoral thesis on the literary significance of clothing in Íslendingasögur and Íslendingaþættir provides a thorough analysis of the topic regarding the clothing’s social and cultural dimension;11 Icelandic family sagas provided valuable 6  Heller, “Überlegungen zur Brünne in der Laxdœla saga,” 169. English translation: Anita Sauckel.

7  See Falk, Altwestnordische Kleiderkunde; Valtýr Guðmundsson, “Litklæði,” 171–​98; Weinhold, Altnordisches Leben. 8  See Ewing, Viking Clothing; Owen-​Crocker, Dress in Anglo-​Saxon England.

9  Among the most important textile finds of the Viking Age are the finds from Birka and Hedeby: On Birka, see Geijer, Birka. Die Textilfunde aus den Gräbern; on the Hedeby finds, see Hägg, Die Textilfunde aus dem Hafen von Haithabu; Hagg, Die Textilfunde aus der Siedlung und aus den Gräbern von Haithabu. 10  See recently Jesch, The Viking Diaspora, 95.

11  See Sauckel, Die literarische Funktion von Kleidung.

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case studies, given their numerous detailed descriptions of diverse garments—​details that are mostly absent in other saga genres. The term “significance” is of course problematic. I define it as extended social and psychological characterization. Saga writers built upon symbolic meaning of clothing by integrating it into typical elements of saga style; among such elements are foresight and the expression of emotions and feelings through a character’s outer appearance. Clothing’s literary significance may be evidenced in scenes and episodes, where clothing serves as a means to express social stratification, gender, and emotions; my analysis was mainly focused on clothing and social stratification, clothing and gender, as well as clothing and emotions. Although recent years witnessed emergence of several relevant publications discussing the literary significance of clothing,12 a broader scholarly discussion is still due. Aiming to stimulate further debate, I present below some relevant topics of my research. Furthermore, I will focus in particular on a special and very rare fabric, namely silk.

Texture and Terminology of Saga-​Clothing13

The attire of male saga characters usually consists of breeches (brœkr), a shirt called serkr or skyrta, a tunic, the kyrtill, and a coat of different kind of qualities, which carries several different names I will refer to later. The breeches could reach to the knees or ankles (ökulbrœkr) and sometimes even included footlets, so they can be imagined as tights (leistabrœkr). A pair of gaiters or knee-​length socks (hosur), which were covered by leg bindings (vafspjarrar) made from (woven) fabric, clothed the lower legs. The long shirt or tunic which was worn over the (linen) shirt and the breeches had a little neckline and sleeves, which could either reach the elbows or the wrists. Its lengths varied from hip length to knee length. The width could be adjusted by using a belt (belti). Women in the sagas wear an undergarment called “shirt” in Old Norse (skyrta, serkr) just like the corresponding male piece of clothing. The lower legs are covered by stockings (sokkar), fastened with a ribbon under the knees. An ankle-​length dress of the same name as the male tunic, namely kyrtill, is worn over the undergarment. A garment exclusively worn by women is the so-​called námkyrtill; this dress consists of a tight-​ fitting top and a slightly loose fitting bottom. The bottom may be veiled by an ornamented apron or cloth called blæja. A characteristic feature that sets apart a married woman’s attire is a headdress named faldr or sveigr; made from linen; on special occasions a veil (called höfuðdúkr) may be added. Moreover, women of Íslendingasögur also wear plain headscarfs (like the sveipa), and in bad weather a fur-​lined cap, the kofri. Both men and women wear cloaks, which for the most part are customizable for either gender: semi-​circular cloaks, skikkja, made from one piece of cloth may be closed either frontally or on the right shoulder by using brooches or sewn-​on cords. The sagas 12  See D’Ettore, “Clothing and Conflict in the Icelandic Family Sagas,” 1–​14; Zanchi, “ ‘Melius abundare quam deficere’,” 21–​37; Ballif Straubhaar, “Wrapped in a Blue Mantle,” 53–​65; Hansen, “Benbrud og bane i blåt,” 13–​24; Snell, “Die höfischen Züge,” 249–​57; Wolf, “Transvestism in the Sagas of Icelanders,” 675–​84; Wolf, “The Color Blue in Old Norse–​Icelandic Literature,” 55–​78. 13  In the following, see Falk, Altwestnordische Kleiderkunde.

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additionally mention round circular cloaks with a hole for the wearer’s head in the middle. Many models have hoods (kápa, hekla, ólpa) and some of them even include a mask (gríma) attached to the hood. Whereas most models are described as made from wool, the oft-​mentioned feldr (worn exclusively by males), consisted of sheepskin. The feldr is also depicted in use as bedspread at night. Saga characters’ shoes (skór) and boots are made from skin and untanned hide of diverse domestic animals. Most of the outer garments as described in the texts as made from different woollens. The most common one used in Iceland is certainly the frequently referenced vaðmál. Despite this term’s frequent usage in reference to Icelandic homespun woollen cloth, vaðmál does not in fact describe a certain quality of the fabric: it is actually a unit of length.14 When Icelanders travelled to Norway, they had to pay a portion of their homespun wool as a tribute to the Norwegian king. Sagas and legal texts alike mention a certain amount of ells of vaðmál, which had to be paid. Other fabrics, such as more valuable woollens, luxury garments made from silk, and most of the linen had to be imported. The most extraordinary woollen cloth was scarlet (skarlat in Old Norse). The earliest appearance of the noun scarlet is to be found in the Old High German commentary Summarium Heinrici (1007–​1032), where it is called scarlachen (shorn cloth). Modern audience tends to identify the term scarlet with a bright red colour. However, scarlet is not a colour, but a fabric; the term refers to a thin, finely shorn woollen cloth. Its texture is comparable to merino wool and to that of cashmere. According to John H. Munro, one of the leading experts in the field of scarlet research, close shearing resulted in texture as fine as silk.15 However, such cloth was said to be very stout (strong in structure). After shearing, it was dyed with kermes, hence the reason for scarlet’s association with a bright red colour. This dye was made from a female scale insect, the kermes lice, which lives in kermes oak; the lice are dried and crushed to yield this dye. Kermes provides the bright red colour that does not fade out. Non-​fading colours were the most expensive ones in the Middle Ages. Before being dyed, the woollen cloth was of its natural colour—​grey, brown, black, white—​or already pre-​dyed with woad or another dyestuff. White scarlet, however, does not refer to the white cloth, but to an undyed variant.16 The medieval scarlet was therefore a very expensive, luxury, woollen broadcloth, always woven from the finest English wools, and always dyed with kermes. There is no evidence for the use of the term scarlet for other textiles, even though silks were also dyed with kermes. The most important producers and exporters of woollen scarlets were the draperies of the southern Low Countries (Flanders and Brabant) and of northern Italy, first and foremost Florence. Furthermore, finest English woollens were used to produce scarlet.17 14  An Icelandic-​English Dictionary, s.v. vaðmál; Fritzner, Ordbog over det gamle norske Sprogs.v. vaðmál; see Falk, Altwestnordische Kleiderkunde, 50–​51. 15  See Munro, “The Medieval Scarlet,” 27–​28; Munro, “Medieval Woollens,” 212–​14. 16  See Munro, “The Medieval Scarlet,” 53; Munro, “Medieval Woollens,” 215. 17  See Munro, “Medieval Woollens,” 216.

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A Short Note on Silk in Viking Age Scandinavia The rarest and most expensive fabric mentioned in Íslendingasögur is, of course, silk. There are several Old Norse terms for silk, the neuter silki being the most common. The masculine guðvefr and the neuter pell are also referenced as “silks” in scholarly literature. However, an exact translation for these terms does not exist;18 silk clothing is not described in a particularly different way in the sagas than garments made from other materials. Producing raw silk is a complex and expensive business. Caterpillars secrete raw silk in the process of spinning into cocoons. A number of different species produce silk threads in this way. The most important one is the so-​called Bombyx mori from the Bombicidae family. This species only feeds on the leaves of the white mulberry tree; cultivating the tree for its leaves is called moriculture. The white mulberry grows in a fairly limited range and requires a special soil.19 The overland Silk Road trade between China and the West was initiated during the Han Dynasty (220 bc–​ad 202) and lasted through the seventh century. The Silk Road trade marked the spread of silk weaving and sericulture (the production of silk) outside China to Central Asia including, for instance, the Persian Empire of the Sassanids. The term sericulture derives from antiquity when the peoples of Western Europe believed silk grew on trees in a distant land called Seres (Greek for “China”), which was located in the Far East. Within the same time frame, knowledge of silk weaving and sericulture reached into the Greco-​Roman world and the Byzantine Empire, where most of the silk discovered in Viking Age Scandinavia was produced. During the Islamic conquests in the seventh century, silk production was forced to move west. Travelling Arab merchants brought knowledge of sericulture and silk weaving along with them throughout the northern Mediterranean region including Cyprus, Sicily, southern Italy and southern Spain, and Tripoli in Africa. Finally, Italians entered the silk market.20 In Scandinavia, twenty-​three archaeological sites containing silk finds have been registered to date. These finds date to the ninth and tenth centuries and are mostly grave goods. The largest concentration of Viking Age graves containing silk is to be found in Birka, where forty-​nine burials include silk. The largest silk deposit in a single grave, however, is the Oseberg ship burial. Over a hundred fragments from different fabrics have been detected on Oseberg site. Altogether, five silk deposits are situated in Norway, eight in Sweden, seven in Denmark, and two in Finland.21

Clothing and Social Stratification

Varied descriptions of clothing in Íslendingasögur enable a more nuanced understanding of characters’ social diversity as sagas present them. It is a well-​known sociological 18  See Vedeler, Silk for the Vikings, 111–​12. 19  See Vedeler, Silk for the Vikings, 48–​49.

20  See Woodward Wendelken, “Wefts and Worms,” 60. 21  See Vedeler, “Silk Trade to Scandinavia,” 78.

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phenomenon that clothing allows social members to assess the wearer’s status. Looking at style, quality, and material of the garments, it is possible to note their wearer’s social standing, gender, and age.22 This holds especially true for societies with a strong hierarchy, such as medieval societies of Europe and Iceland. Clothing is an excellent indicator of social differences, as it is always in closest possible proximity to its wearer. Furthermore, diversity of clothing continuously generates new possibilities for social differentiation. It must be specified that for the purpose of the present analysis of clothing, the saga society to which I refer is the literary creation of thirteenth-​century saga writers and not a the actual tenth-​century society of the Viking Age. Several social strata may be noted, ranging from upper-​class aristocracy to lower-​class farmers and slaves. Aristocracy is represented through the powerful chieftains the goðar and their families, whereas poor farmers, slaves, beggars, and vagrants form the sagas’ underclasses. Outlaws are, of course, excluded from the community.23 Distinctive functions of clothing are vividly displayed in saga episodes taking place at regional þing assemblies. Such public occasions yielded auspicious settings for wearing exclusive garments, thereby reinforcing and highlighting social status.24 All possibilities to achieve social goals depended on social rank. Because of this, status had to be enhanced, expressed, and of course, defended. At social events, where numerous members of aristocracy assembled, hierarchy was given to symbolic displays, whereby it was recognized and stabilized. Nonverbal means of communication, such as parading in precious clothing, achieved this goal.25 One vivid example of a powerful and wealthy character is Eyjólfr Bǫlverksson, whose high social rank is reflected by his appearance and attire. Brennu-​Njáls saga introduces him in the following way: Eyjólfr var virðingamaðr mikill ok allra manna lǫgkœnastr, svá at hann var inn þriði mestr lǫgmaðr á Íslandi. Hann var allra manna fríðastr sýnum, mikill ok sterkr ok it bezta hǫfðingjaefni […] [Eyjólfr] hafði skarlatsskikkju á herðum ok gullhlað um hǫfuð ok øxi silfrrekna í hendi.

(Eyjolf was held in great respect and was so clever in the law that he was one of the three greatest lawyers in Iceland. He was an unusually handsome man, big and strong and very likely to become a great chieftain […] [Eyjolf] had a scarlet cloak over his shoulders, a gold [braid] around his head and a silver inlaid axe in his hand.)26

As evidenced by such description, the saga narrator demonstrates subtle appreciation for Eyjólfr’s congruency of clothing, body, character. One could add the beauty of mind, which 22  See Simmel, “Philosophie der Mode (1905),” 7–​37; Bourdieu, Distinction, 200–​202.

23  On social structure in Íslendingasögur, see Meulengracht Sørensen, Fortælling og Ære, 148–​ 64; Meulengracht Sørensen, Saga and Society, 17–​41; Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age, 27–​30. 24  See Magnús Stefánsson et al., “Ding,” 461–​64. 25  See Althoff, Die Macht der Rituale, 18.

26  Brennu-​Njáls saga, 363 and 366; “Njal’s saga,” 172–​74.

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comes through in Eyjólfr’s competency as chieftain. These characteristics comply with the ancient Greek ideal of kalokagathía (καλοκαγαθια), used since the times of Herodotus to describe an ideal of gentlemanhood. It is composed of the two adjectives, “beautiful” (καλός) and “good” or “virtuous” (ἀγαθός). In the Middle Ages kalokagathía became equivalent to “the chivalrous ideal of the complete human personality”.27 In addition to Eyjólfr’s illustrious character, he boasts an ancestry of an outstanding saga-​aristocrat. Not only is he a relative of Snorri goði Þorgrímsson, but also said to descend from Miðfjarðar-​Skeggi and even Ragnarr loðbrók. Njáls saga’s audience is twice reminded of Eyjólfr’s noble birth—​when he first enters the scene and when he converses with Flosi Þorðarson and his ally Bjarni Brodd-​Helgason. On this latter occasion, Flosi and the burners of Njáll’s homestead are searching for counsel at the Alþing. Due to severity of the crime of burning, Flosi and his allies need a competent and highly esteemed lawyer, to prevent being sentenced with full outlawry. Eyjólfr’s legal expertise, combined with his social status, culminates in the noble description of his outer appearance in line with the ideal of kalokagathía. Among the numerous narrative mentions of splendid scarlet cloaks and headgear woven with gold thread, a question arises as to where those saga protagonists obtained such garments. In most cases, they were valuable gifts received abroad at royal courts, particularly in Norway, the British Isles, Ireland, and even Byzantium, granted in exchange for skaldic poems, for serving in a ruler’s retinue, and for extraordinary talents. By granting such tokens of favour, the ruler enhances young Icelanders’ social rank, so that they can return to Iceland as fully grown men. The sagas not only mention gifts of clothing from kings to their followers, but also between men of the same high social rank. In ­chapter 67 (according to the Íslenzk fornrit edition) of Egils saga, Egill Skalla-​Grímsson and his friend Arinbjörn affirm and improve their friendship through exchanging textile gifts of high value: [Arinbjǫrn] gaf Agli at jólagjǫf sloeður, gǫrvar af silki ok gullsaumaðar mjǫk, settar fyrir allt gullknǫppum í gegnum niðr; Arinbjǫrn hafði látit gera klæði þat við vǫxt Egils. Arinbjǫrn gaf Agli alklæðnað, nýskorinn, at jólum; váru þar skorin í ensk klæði með mǫrgum litum.

([Arinbjörn] gave Egil a silk gown [robe] with ornate gold embroidery and gold buttons all the way down, which was cut especially to fit Egil’s frame. He also gave him a complete set of clothes, cut from English cloth in many colours.)28

Egill’s gift to Arinbjörn is an ornate sail especially made for his longship. It is no coincidence that Egill’s silk robe is described in detail. The gown not only displays the material “value” of the two men’s friendship; it also represents power, wealth, and taste. It plays,

27  Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, s.v. “kalos k’agathos,” https://​plato.stanford.edu/​entries/​ plato-​aesthetics​; https://​plato.stanford.edu/​entries/​episteme-​techne​; Dürrigl, “Kalokagathia,” 209. 28  Egils saga Skalla-​Grímssonar, 213; “Egils saga,” 134.

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moreover, an important role later in the saga, when Egill has already become an old man. Egill keeps the floor-​length silk tunic in his storage chest, and is never said to wear it. One summer, however, his wife Ásgerðr and his son Þórsteinn decide to take the tunic out of the chest, and Þórsteinn wears it at the Althing.29 The slœður’s train is very long and when Þórsteinn walks to the Law Rock, the garment drags along the ground, becoming dirty, and is ruined. Finally, Ásgerðr puts the silkislœður back into her husband’s chest. In this episode the slœður not only reflect its wearer’s social status but also symbolize the difficult relationship between father and son. By wearing a garment made from extraordinary fabrics in a public place, Þórsteinn represents the social status he claims as the highborn son of a famous chieftain; the saga narrator’s remarkable comment in ­chapter 79 that “Egill was not very fond of him,”30 is preceded by the depiction of Þórsteinn as a handsome man with fair hair and a fair outer appearance.31 These characteristics are carried into description of the garment itself: the silk glimmers and glistens just like its wearer. Given this connection of clothing, social status, and family relationship, the dirty dress eventually foreshadows the then ruined relationship with Egill, who, when he discovers his once-​precious gift, feels all the more justified in disliking and mistrusting his son. In a verse of the lausavísa spoken, after discovering the dirty silk gown, Egill goes as far as calling Þórsteinn a betrayer and accusing him of treachery. The dirt-​stained slœður not only symbolize a problematic family relationship, but also reflect Þórsteinn’s immaturity: Egill’s son has not yet become the powerful chieftain his father used to be. A grown-​up male of high social status, who has travelled abroad and who has been introduced to courtly manners and fashions abroad would have known how to wear such a garment in an appropriate way. This assumption is confirmed in ­chapter 82: When Þórsteinn Egilsson’s conflict with his neighbour Steinarr Önundarson threatens to end in outlawry, it is Egill himself who arrives to the spring assembly clad in splendid armour to support his son and display his family’s power. In the end, the case is deferred to the fathers of both rivals, Egill and Önundr, who have to negotiate potential compensation.

Silk, Skarpheðinn, and the Unsuccessful Settlement in Brennu-​Njáls  saga

Returning once more to Brennu-​Njáls saga, silkislœður feature as the centre of attention in a climatic scene fraught with perilous consequences for characters involved. In ­chapter 123 the Njálssons’ attempt to reach a settlement for killing their foster-​brother Hǫskuldr Hvítanessgoði grinds to halt. A peaceful solution can no longer be achieved; Hǫskuldr’s relative Flosi seeks blood revenge. The cause of failure behind this carefully arranged settlement has often been a matter of discussion in saga scholarship; a convincing interpretation, however, is still due. 29  See Egils saga Skalla-​Grímssonar, 274.

30  Egils saga Skalla-​Grímssonar, 274: “Egill unni honum lítit.” 31  See Egils saga Skalla-​Grímssonar, 274.

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One of the most common interpretations is the derogatory gender connotation of the silkislœður article of clothing, which Njáll adds to the silver compensatory payment for the killing: “Njáll tók silkislœður ok bóta ok lagði á ofan á hrúguna” (Njáll took a [dress with train made from silk] and a pair of boots and placed them on top of the pile).32 This assertion has been objected,33 as the described type of long silk gown could be worn by both sexes in the Middle Ages. Yet the early written sources notably display an ambivalent attitude towards silk. One of the Church Fathers, Johannes Chrysostomus, for instance, considered silk “a fabric of worms.”34 Nevertheless silk enjoyed usage in “dressing up” the Catholic Church’s greatest treasures, namely, its relics. Moreover, silk has never been regarded unsuitable for people of elaborate social rank: both Peter Cantor (d. 1197) and Walter Map (1140–​1210) comment in the late twelfth century on the quality of silk as a fabric fit to dress kings in order to express kingship. To keep royal power from degenerating and losing the fear of its subjects, rulers are even encouraged to wear it.35 Furthermore, Walter Map calls God in his De nugis curialium an explorer of hearts, not of clothes.36 Yet another cause for the failed peace settlement between the Njálssons and Flosi proposed by saga scholarship is Skarpheðinn Njálsson’s colourful insult of Flosi. However, in the crucial scene of ­chapter 123, Flosi himself has to be called a peace-​breaker, as he attacks Skarpheðinn publicly, in front of Iceland’s most outstanding men: Flosi mælti: Hvárt er þat, at engi yðvarr veit, hverr þenna búning hefir átt, eða þorið þér eigi at segja mér? Skarpheðinn mælti:  Hvat ætlar þú, hverr til hafi gefit? Flosi mælti: Ef þú vill þat vita, þá mun ek segja þér, hvat ek ætla: þat er min ætlan, at til hafi gefit faðir þinn, karl inn skegglausi—​því at margir vitu eigi, er hann sjá, hvárt hann er, karlmaðr eða kona.

(Flosi said, which is it, that none of you knows whose garment this is or that you don’t dare to tell me? Skarphedin said, Who do you think might have given it? Flosi spoke: If you want to know, then I’ll tell you, what I think: it’s my guess that your father gave it, the Old Beardless, for there are many who can’t tell by looking at him whether he’s a man or a woman.)37

With his oft-​quoted outburst of rage, Njáll’s son is only reacting to Flosi’s infamous insult of his own father: 32  Brennu-​Njáls saga, 312; “Njal’s saga,” 148. 33  See Miller, Why is Your Axe Bloody?, 218.

34  Sauckel, Die literarische Funktion von Kleidung, 111.

35  Baldwin, Masters, Princes and Merchants, 2:162 reference 146: “Etiam sericis vestibus uti licet non pro se sed pro regibus ne vilescat regia potestas et minus timeatur” ([The ruler] is also allowed to wear clothes made from silk; not for himself but for royal powers sake, that it will not become vile and be feared less). Translation: Anita Sauckel.

36  Map, De nugis curialium, I:28, 116–​17:  “Sicut enim cordium scrutator est non pannorum, sic animi bene dispositi amator est non vestimenti” (For as he [God] is a searcher of hearts, not clothes, so is he the lover of a well-​disposed mind, and not of apparel). 37  Brennu-​Njáls saga, 313–​14; “Njal’s saga,” 148.

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Skarpheðinn mælti: Illa er slíkt gǫrt at sneiða honum afgǫmlum, er engi hefir áðr til orðit dugandi maðr. Meguð þér þat vita, at hann er karlmaðr, því at hann hefir sonu getit við konu sinni. […] Síðan tók Skarpheðinn til sín slœðurnar, en kastaði brókum blám til Flosa ok kvað hann þeira meir þurfa. Flosi mælti: Hví mun ek þeira meir þurfa? Skarpheðinn mælti: Því þá—​ ef þú ert bruðr Svínfellsáss, sem sagt er, hverja níundu nótt ok geri hann þik at konu.

(Skarphedin spoke: That’s a wicked thing to do, making slurs about him in this old age, and no man worthy of the name has ever done this before. You can tell he’s a man because he has had sons with his wife. […] Then Skarphedin picked up the [silk dress] and threw a pair of [dark blue] trousers at Flosi and said that he had more need of these. Flosi said, Why do I need them more? Skarphedin spoke: Because if you are the sweetheart of the troll at Svinafell, as is said, he uses you as a woman every ninth night.)38

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It is striking that this dramatic episode at the Althing, as depicted in ­chapters 119–​23, starts with Skarpheðinn insulting four potential supporters who could have aided Njáll’s cause had they not been affronted. The Njálssons’ visit to these powerful lawyers and chieftains is recounted in the following manner. Ásgrímr Elliða-​Grímsson, one of Njáll’s close friends and supporters, accompanies the brothers to every chieftain’s booth, where they ask for help; Skarpheðinn is instructed to walk behind the others and to control his temper. After Ásgrímr has stated their concern, the addressed person responds in an either positive or negative way. Only Gizzurr hvíti, however, provides them immediate support, whereas the other chieftains either withhold support or refuse a definitive answer. Lawspeaker Skapti Þóroddsson, Snorri goði, Hafr inn auðgi, and Þorkell hákr all comment on Skarpheðinn’s outer appearance in a disrespectful way, calling him warlike, sinister, and a troll.39 Njáll’s son, however, has the proper reply to their insults: he reveals compromising details concerning unmanliness and cowardice about every single chieftain. Þorkell hákr, the last of their potential supporters, shows the worst behaviour, so that Skarpheðinn and the chieftain threaten each other with death. Finally, the Njálssons and Ásgrímr return to their booth. Due to this detailed delineation of mutual slander and the constant repetition of accusing each other of effeminacy, the saga-​audience keeps Skarpheðinn in mind as serious trouble-​maker. Consequently, the Njálssons’ fateful verbal attack on Flosi follows the same pattern of deliberate provocation and reaction, which has been introduced during the visit to the chieftains: as a result, Skarpheðinn appears to be the ideal scapegoat for the unsuccessful settlement. However, what is the reason for the broken settlement? In his 1971 monograph Njáls saga. A literary masterpiece, Einar Ólafur Sveinsson points out an important detail which modern saga-​audience may not remember due to the dramatic events at the 38  Brennu-​Njáls saga, 314; “Njal’s saga,” 148. 39  See Brennu-​Njáls saga, 298.

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Althing: namely the inflammatory speech (hvǫt) delivered by Hildigunnr Starkaðardóttir, Hǫskuldr’s widow, in which she demands nothing else than blood revenge for her husband’s murder.40 After all, Hildigunnr’s lament is the real reason for the failed settlement, which Flosi was never willing to accept. Due to the social norms concerning male honour (as depicted in Íslendingasögur), Flosi is even obliged to take blood revenge and would become a níðingr if he refuses.41

Silk and Íslendingasögur

The depictions of clothing in Íslendingasögur have so far often been regarded as nothing but mere decoration, serving to illustrate the general ambience of medieval environment. However, I hope to have shown that the saga writers deployed clothing rather mindfully as a narrative element with literary significance. Depictions of vestments propel the plot and function as a tool of psychological and social characterization. Saga writers made careful use of clothing, which emerges as an important element of saga style. The same observations hold true for garments made from rarely mentioned fabrics such as silk. Despite prevalence of ambiguous attitudes towards the silk fabric in theological contexts, no particular symbolic connotation for this fabric can be traced in Íslendingasögur, apart from pragmatic concerns with exclusiveness and high economical value. Saga writers deployed it in their narratives in the same way as other fabrics representing a wearer’s high social status. The aforementioned episode regarding Njáls saga’s broken settlement has to be dissected from a different perspective. Instead of discussing the probable ambiguous connotation of silk, Skarpheðinn’s narrative (and normative) role within the saga has yet, to be analyzed in greater detail.

References

Primary Sources Brennu-​Njáls saga. Edited by Einar Ólafur Sveinsson. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1954. Egils saga Skalla-​Grímssonar. Edited by Sigurður Nordal. Íslenzk fornrit 2. Reykjavík: Hið Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1933. “Egils saga.” Translated by Bernard Scudder. In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders including 49 Tales, edited by Viðar Hreinsson, vol. 1, 33–​177. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997. “Hávamál.” In The Poetic Edda Volume III. Mythological Poems II, edited and translated by Ursula Dronke, 3–​35. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011. 40  Brennu-​Njáls saga, 313, reference 4: “Flosa fannst tvíbent merking klæðanna, svo sem storkað sé karlmennsku hans; samtímis kemur honum í hug frýja Hildigunnar” (Flosi recognizes the dress’s ambiguity, which threatens to mock his male honour; at the same time he recalls Hildigunnr’s lament). Translation: Anita Sauckel. See Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Njáls saga, 153. 41  See Meulengracht Sørensen, The Unmanly Man, 11.

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“Njal’s saga.” Translated by Robert Cook. In The Complete Sagas of Icelanders Including 49 Tales, edited by Viðar Hreinsson, vol. 3, 1–​220. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997. Snorri Sturluson: Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning. Translated and edited by Anthony Faulkes. London: Everyman, 1995. Snorri Sturluson. “Gylfaginning.” In Snorri Sturluson. Edda:  Prologue and Gylfaginning, 2nd ed., edited by Anthony Faulkes, 7–​55. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Walter Map. De nugis curialium. Courtiers’ Trifles. Edited and translated by M. R. James. Oxford: Clarendon 1983. Secondary Literature

Althoff, Gerd. Die Macht der Rituale. Symbolik und Herrschaft im Mittelalter. Darmstadt: WBG, 2003. Baldwin, John W. Masters, Princes and Merchants. The Social Views of Peter the Chanter and his Circle. 2 vols. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970. Ballif Straubhaar, Sandra. “Wrapped in a Blue Mantle: Fashions for Icelandic Slayers?” Medieval Clothing and Textiles 1 (2005): 53–​65. Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Translated by Richard Nice. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987. D’Ettore, Kate. “Clothing and Conflict in the Icelandic Family Sagas: Literary Convention and the Discourse of Power.” Medieval Clothing and Textiles 5 (2009): 1–​14. Dürrigl, Marija-​Ana. “Kalokagathia:  Beauty is More Than Just External Appearance.” Journal of Cosmetic Dermatology 1 (2003): 208–​10. Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Njáls saga: A Literary Masterpiece. Edited and translated by Paul Schach. With an introduction by E.  O. G.  Turville-​Petre. Lincoln, NE:  University of Nebraska Press, 1971. Ewing, Thor. Viking Clothing. Stroud: Tempus, 2007. Falk, Hjalmar. Altwestnordische Kleiderkunde mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Terminologie. Videnskapsselskapets Skrifter 2.  Historisk-​Filosofiske Klasse 1918, 3. Oslo: A. W. Brøggers Boktrykkeri A. S., 1919. Fritzner, Johan. Ordbog over det gamle norske Sprog. Nytt uforandret opptrykk av 2. utgave (1883–​1896). Med et bind tillegg og rettelser redigert av Didrik Arup Seip og Trygve Knudsen. Oslo: Tryggve Juul Møller Forlag, 1954. Geijer, Agnes. Birka. Die Textilfunde aus den Gräbern. Birka Untersuchungen und Studien 3. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksells Boktryckeri-​Aktiebolag, 1938. Hansen, Finn. “Benbrud og bane i blåt.” Scripta Islandica 30 (1979): 13–​24. Hägg, Inga. Die Textilfunde aus dem Hafen von Haithabu. Mit Beiträgen von Gertrud Grenander Nyberg und Helmut Schweppe. Berichte über die Ausgrabungen in Haithabu 20. Neumünster: Wachholtz, 1984. —​—​. Die Textilfunde aus der Siedlung und aus den Gräbern von Haithabu. Beschreibung und Gliederung. Berichte über die Ausgrabungen in Haithabu 29. Neumünster: Wachholtz, 1991. Heller, Rolf. “Überlegungen zur Brünne in der Laxdœla saga.” In Analecta Septentrionalia. Beiträge zur nordgermanischen Kultur-​und Literaturgeschichte, edited by Wilhelm

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Heizmann et  al., 169–​84. Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 65. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009. An Icelandic-​ English Dictionary. Second Edition with a Supplement by Sir William A.  Craigie. Edited by Richard Cleasby and Gudbrand Vigfusson. Oxford:  Clarendon Press, 1957. Jesch, Judith. The Viking Diaspora. London: Routledge, 2015. Magnús Stefánsson et al., “Ding.” In Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde, edited by Heinrich Beck et al., vol. 5, 461–​64. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1984. Miller, William Ian. “Why is Your Axe Bloody?” A  Reading of Njáls saga. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2014. Meulengracht Sørensen, Preben. Fortælling og Ære. Studier i Islendingesagaerne. Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 1993. —​—​. Saga and Society: An Introduction to Old Norse Literature. Odense: Odense University Press, 1993. —​—​. The Unmanly Man. Concepts of Sexual Defamation in Early Northern Society. Translated by Joan Turville-​ Petre. The Viking Collection. Studies in Northern Civilization 1. Odense: Odense University Press, 1983. Munro, John H. “The Medieval Scarlet and the Economics of Sartorial Splendour.” In Cloth and Clothing in Medieval Europe: Essays in Memory of Professor E. M. Carus-​Wilson, edited by Negley B. Harte and Kenneth G. Ponting, 13–​70. London: Ashgate, 1983. —​—​. “Medieval Woollens:  Textiles, Textile Technology and Industrial Organisation, c. 800–​1500.” In The Cambridge History of Western Textiles, vol. 1, edited by David Jenkins, 181–​227. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Museum Angewandte Kunst. Homepage. www.museumangewandtekunst.de/​de/​ museum/​ausstellungen/​the-​weather-​diaries-​3rd-​nordic-​fashion-​biennale.html. Owen-​Crocker, Gale R.  Dress in Anglo-​Saxon England. Revised and Enlarged Edition. Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2004. Sauckel, Anita. Die literarische Funktion von Kleidung in den Íslendingasǫgur und Íslendingaþættir. Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 83. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014. Simmel, Georg. “Philosophie der Mode (1905).” In Georg Simmel Gesamtausgabe, vol. 10, edited by Michael Behr et al., 7–​37. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1995. Snell, Gesa. “Die höfischen Züge—​insbesondere die Kleidungsbeschreibung—​als Stilmittel in der Laxdoela saga.” In Arbeiten zur Skandinavistik. 13. Arbeitstagung der deutschsprachigen Skandinavistik 29.7.–​3.8.1997 in Lysebu (Oslo), edited by Fritz Paul, 249–​57. Texte und Untersuchungen zur Germanistik und Skandinavistik 45. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2000. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, s.v. “kalos k’agathos.” https://​plato.stanford.edu/​ entries/​plato-​aesthetics​; https://​plato.stanford.edu/​entries/​episteme-​techne​. Valtýr Guðmundsson. “Litklæði.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 9 (1893): 171–​98. Vedeler, Marianne. Silk for the Vikings. Ancient Textiles 15. Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2014. —​ —​ . “Silk Trade to Scandinavia in the Viking Age.” In Textiles and the Medieval Economy: Production, Trade and Consumption of Textiles 8th–​16th Centuries, edited by Angela Ling Huang and Carsten Jahnke, 78–​85. Ancient Textiles 16. Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2016.

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Vésteinn Ólason. Dialogues with the Viking Age: Narration and Representation in the Sagas of Icelanders. Translated by Andrew Wawn. Reykjavík: Heimskringla, 1998. Wagner K., Matthias. “In the Face of Creativity.” In The Weather Diaries. A  Book in Celebration of The Nordic Fashion Biennale 2014, edited by Sarah Cooper and Nina Gorfer, 12–​13. Berlin: Gestalten, 2014. Weinhold, Karl. Altnordisches Leben. Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1856. Woodward Wendelken, Rebecca. “Wefts and Worms: The Spread of Sericulture and Silk Weaving in the West before 1300.” Medieval Clothing and Textiles 10 (2014): 59–​78. Wolf, Kirsten. “The Color Blue in Old Norse–​Icelandic Literature.” Scripta Islandica 57 (2006): 55–​78. —​—​. “Transvestism in the Sagas of Icelanders.” In Sagas and the Norwegian experience. Sagaene og Noreg. Preprints of the 10th International Saga Conference Trondheim 3.–​9. August1997, edited by Jan Ragnar Hagland, 675–​84. Trondheim:  Senter for Middelalderstudier, 1997. Zanchi, Anna. “ ‘Melius abundare quam deficere’: Scarlet Clothing in Laxdoela Saga and Njáls Saga.” Medieval Clothing and Textiles 4 (2008): 21–​37.

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Chapter 3

BEING ÓÐINN BURSSON: THE CREATION OF SOCIAL AND MORAL OBLIGATION IN VIKING AGE WARRIOR-​BANDS THROUGH THE RITUALIZED, ORAL PERFORMANCE OF POETRY—THE CASE OF GRÍMNISMÁL1

Simon Nygaard THE ORAL NATURE of Old Norse poetry and indeed Old Norse society is almost a commonplace within scholarship today. Recently the idea of the performance2 aspect of these poems has been re-​examined and re-​actualized by the folklorist and dramaturg Terry Gunnell,3 who aptly terms his approach “performance archaeology.”4 While Gunnell’s theories have been criticized,5 his research is nonetheless thought-​provoking and a valuable contribution to academic discourse, as the performance aspect Gunnell highlights is entirely in keeping with oral poetries throughout the world.6 Indeed, we may benefit from viewing much of Old Norse poetry as a form of oral-derived poetry, which the late scholar of orality John Miles Foley terms “voices from the past”; that is, oral-​poetic traditions that are long dead and transferred on to vellum “leaving us with textual shards of a once-​living work of verbal-​art.”7 Taking this stance allows us to draw inspiration from orality research, which prompts us to investigate any given oral tradition according to its own internal oral-​poetic rules, language, register, and idiomatic meaning systems in order to comprehend the tradition in its own right8 and also to pay heed to the context of any given oral poem: “The performance, the audience, the poet 1  Simon Nygaard, Aarhus University, email:  [email protected]. A  shortened version of this article including a short analysis of the skaldic poem Eiríksmál (Words about Eiríkr) has been published in the Interdisciplinary Viking Symposium Series: Nygaard, “… nú knáttu Óðin sjá.” See also Nygaard, “Poetry as Ritual in Pre-Christian Nordic Religion” for further analyses of both poems.

2  I understand performance to be the recital or communication—​be it from text or memory, melodically or droningly—​of a text in the widest possible sense of the word by a trained performer or performers to an audience, be it implicit or explicit (see Schechner, Performance Studies, 28; Finnegan, Oral Poetry, 118–​26).

3  Gunnell, Origins of Drama; “The Drama of the Poetic Edda”; “The Performance of the Poetic Edda”; “Vǫluspá in Performance”; “Eddic Performances” on eddic poetry; “Performance Archaeology” on skaldic poetry. Research on pre-​Christian skaldic poetry using a “performance archaeology” approach has also recently been done by Anna Millward (“Skaldic Slam”). 4  For example, Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 95; “Performance Archaeology.”

5  For example, Mitchell, “Review of The Origins of Drama”; Walsh, “Reviewed Work: The Origins of Drama.” 6  Foley, How to Read an Oral Poem, 79–​94; Finnegan, Oral Poetry, 28. 7  Foley, How to Read an Oral Poem, 45.

8  Foley, How to Read an Oral Poem, 85, 113–​23; Immanent Art.

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[…] the ritual and the myriad other aspects of the given poem’s reality.”9 What I propose to examine in this article, and what has not been sufficiently researched and reassessed in recent times, is the possible ritual10 framework behind these proposed oral performances in pre-​Christian Nordic religion.11 The interest in the possible rituals that may lie behind some Old Norse eddic poetry is not new, the prime example being Dame Bertha Phillpotts’s seminal 1920 work.12 In this book, Phillpotts concluded that several of the extant eddic poems represented “actual shattered remnants of ancient religious drama.”13 Phillpotts, however, seems to be overly emphatic in her certainty. Being heavily inspired by the Cambridge myth-​and-​ritual school and their assumption that Greek drama evolved from a grand seasonal vegetation ritual pattern,14 Phillpotts tried to infer the existence of the same pattern in a Nordic context, filling in the blanks, so to say, with lost sources and assumed earlier, different versions of poems that did not fit the scheme. Generally, Phillpotts’s approach and conclusions are very interesting, but her methodology is not satisfactory to current scholarly standards. Gunnell’s research is in the same vein as Phillpotts’s, but is more cautious and more methodologically sound, and where Gunnell’s older research15 seems to focus on establishing the dramatic performance context of Old Norse poetry, the articles of a newer date seem to take more interest in the potential ritual aspects.16 In line with this, a new take on this subject focusing on the function of the proposed rituals17 and the role of the ritual specialist18 as a performer thus seems justified and relevant. 9  Foley, How to Read an Oral Poem, 60.

10  Inspired by Roy A. Rappaport, I understand ritual to be the performance of a series of formalised acts and utterances the meaning and origin of which is often not, and indeed need not be, clear to or defined by the performers (see Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 24. See below for a quotation of Rappaport’s definition of ritual).

11  Religion can be viewed as an adaptive symbolic system of meaning (Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 409–​10; Geertz, Interpretation of Cultures, 90) often drawing this meaning from feelings of community and togetherness or from otherworldly beings that are thought to influence this world from their Other World. Pre-​Christian Nordic religion may be viewed as the religion that existed in the North Germanic speaking cultural area roughly between ad 1–​1100 , after which Christianity was gradually accepted. 12  Dame Bertha S. Phillpotts, The Elder Edda. Other earlier and contemporary relevant works are surveyed in Gunnell, Origins of Drama, 1–​10.

13  Phillpotts, The Elder Edda, 114. See also Haugen, “The Edda as Ritual,” who treats a number of eddic poems—​including Grímnismál—​as being “very close to the cultic rituals” (“The Edda as Ritual,” 21). Insight from orality research prompts us to nuance this statement; ritual frameworks can certainly be found behind the oral-derived Old Norse poetry, although the medieval texts should not be viewed as direct recordings of oral, pre-​Christian rituals. 14  Evident from Phillpotts, The Elder Edda, vii–​viii. 15  Mainly Origins of Drama.

16  For example, “Vǫluspá in Performance”; “Eddic Performances”; “Performance Archaeology.” 17  See also Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 96.

18  Ritual or religious specialists (see Malefijt, Religion and Culture, 229–​45; Turner, “Religious Specialists”) are in various ways mediators between this world—​that of the group—​and the Other

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I propose that emphasizing the poems’ ritual dimension can prove fruitful since it would allow us to view ritual as a structured medium capable of transmitting cultural memory in some cases almost verbatim through generations and maybe longer.19 Ritual aspects of seemingly old, oral-derived works are, of course, a relevant place to search for traits of pre-​Christian Nordic religion.20 Ritual descriptions in the Old Norse corpus are nonetheless scarce, and collective rituals are only mentioned sporadically. If we want to know anything about how these rituals functioned and were originally performed, then reconstruction is necessary.21 The present author is of the opinion that such reconstructions can further our understanding of the function of pre-​Christian Nordic religion. In the case of this article, the focus will be on a reconstruction of the ritual performance that might lie behind the eddic poem Grímnismál (Grímnir’s Sayings). By applying the anthropologist Roy A. Rappaport’s ritual theory22 to this poem, I will argue not only that it was originally meant for oral performance, but also that it may contain ritualized performatives23 (see further below) that may produce high-​order meaning24—​functions crucial to the construction and continuation of pre-​Christian Nordic religion. Envisaging a Viking-​Age warrior elite as ritual participants, the proposition is that the ritualized performances of this poem will have involved a ritual specialist taking on the identity of Óðinn in a bid to secure the loyalty of his warriors and uphold their shared community underlining social and moral obligation towards the group in the ritualized setting of a Viking Age hall.

Theoretical Approaches

In order to argue that the function of pre-​Christian rituals may be discerned through a reading of medieval Old Norse texts, it is my claim that an approach based on Memory Studies, Performance Studies and Ritual Studies allows us to discern and examine the ritual framework which lies behind the Old Norse poetry in question. Memory Studies can provide us with a theoretical framework for understanding how religion may have functioned and been transmitted in an oral society. Following the Egyptologist World of the otherworldly beings. They are also often “specialized carriers of memory” (Assmann, “Communicative and Cultural Memory,” 114) and mythical traditions.

19  Assmann, “Communicative and Cultural Memory”. Verbatim—​or word for word—​may, however, mean different things in different cultural and religious contexts. In an oral context, a “word” is not necessarily what we literate, text-​users consider it to be (i.e. black signs separated by white spaces on a page); depending on the register it can be a set formula, a scene or an idiomatic expression (see Foley, How to Read an Oral Poem, 15–​16, 118). We are likely dealing with variation within limits. See also Harris, “Eddic Poetry as Oral Poetry.” 20  Nygaard and Schjødt, “History of Religion”.

21  Schjødt, “Diversity and its Consequences”; “Reflections on Aims and Methods.” 22  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion.

23  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 114–​19. 24  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 71–​72.

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Jan Assmann, religion can be seen as a primary constituent of what he calls cultural memory, especially in oral societies, this cultural memory having a crucial role in the forming of group identity and tradition in such societies.25 Performance Studies26 allows us to situate instances of cultural memory, such as that found in Old Norse poems, in a ritual context by viewing them as performed pieces of oral-derived poetry. This, in turn, allows us to analyze the poems using ritual theory27 to investigate how the proposed ritual performances that lie behind some Old Norse poetry may have functioned in pre-​ Christian Nordic religion. In the case of the present article, it is argued that this approach might enable us to provide plausible answers to the following two questions: First, how did a warring ruler legitimize his own rule and secure the loyalty of his warriors? And second, why did these warriors follow their ruler into war? Military historian John Keegan terms this phenomenon “the will to combat.”28 He mentions intoxication by drinking, the bond between military leaders and their followers, and the religious nature of the medieval society as important factors, but underlines the prospect of personal enrichment through ransom and loot as the chief reason for the medieval soldiers’ will to combat. In an Old Norse context intoxication probably also played a part, through, for example, the drinking of alcohol; the prospect of personal wealth was undoubtedly also the driving force behind many Viking expeditions. I will, however, focus on the bond between leaders and followers (which is described in the Roman historian Tacitus’ Germania ­chapter 14 (ad 98) and also in the Latin version of the poem Bjarkamál in the Danish chronicler Saxo’s thirteenth-​century Gesta Danorum 2, 7, 6). My opinion is that the bond which was established between the members of a warrior band was a further central reason for the Viking Age warriors’ will to combat.29 Orality and Religion

Since Old Norse society was an oral society, we need some knowledge about how religion in oral societies functions in order to understand what type of religion we are dealing with. To gain this understanding, we can utilize the traits highlighted by various typologies of religion, such as Gro Steinsland’s distinction between folkereligion (ethnic religion) and universalreligion (universal religion),30 which is comparable to Jan Assmann’s 25  Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory; “Communicative and Cultural Memory”; Cultural Memory and Early Civilization.

26  For example, Gunnell, Origins of Drama; “Performance of the Poetic Edda”; “Vǫluspá in Performance”; “Eddic Performances”. Cf. Schechner, Performance Studies. 27  For example, Rappaport, Ritual and Religion. 28  Keegan, The Face of Battle, 113–​16.

29  See also Raffield et al. 2016, “Ingroup Identification Identity Fusion”.

30  Steinsland, Norrøn Religion, 31–​34. Though not explicitly acknowledged by Steinsland, this is most certainly based on the distinction between folk-​religious societies and universal religions of Russell in The Germanization of Medieval Christianity. Thanks to Terry Gunnell for pointing this out to me.

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distinction between primary and secondary religion.31 Pre-​Christian Nordic religion would be classified as an ethnic or primary religion, which means that we can expect various traits to be present: it is collective in its main aim, polytheistic, undogmatic, and diverse,32 rooted in tradition, primarily orally transmitted and firmly grounded in cult or ritual. Such a typologization thus gives us an idea of which type of religion we are working with.33 Cultural Memory, Religion, and Ritual Reconstruction

As noted, religion and cultural memory are intrinsically connected, and one might even follow scholar of religion Hans J. Lundager Jensen in viewing religion as memory,34 especially in primary religions.35 Nonetheless, following Assmann, memory in oral societies can be classified into the two following types: (1) individual memory, or an embodied storehouse,36 that is, memory kept in the minds of trained specialists; and (2) collective memory, which is social and shared within the group. Assmann speaks of both communicative and cultural memory as being collective,37 but it is cultural memory which is most relevant to the study of religion. In oral societies, cultural memory consists of the sum of all the things one needs to know about the tradition, culture, and religion of the group—​ everything is remembered, learned, taught, examined, and interpreted by ritual and memory specialists because it is necessary.38 The cultural memory of the group is mediated and transmitted by these ritual and memory specialists to the group through modes of reconstruction. And without writing, ritual becomes the chief mode of reconstructing and transmitting the cultural memory in an oral society.39 It has been argued that oral societies are founded upon the principle of ritual coherence and immanence, that is, “the idea of the need to maintain the world.”40 If the rituals are not performed properly, 31  Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 122–​25; inspired by Sundermeier, “Religion, Religionen.” See Nygaard, “Religion og sakrale herskere,” 9–​12; “Religion and Sacral Rulers,” where the need for and usefulness of these typologies and typologization of religion in general is argued for. 32  See DuBois, Nordic Religions in the Viking Age; Brink, “How Uniform Was the Old Norse Religion?”; Schjødt, “Diversity and its Consequences”; “Reflections on Aims and Methods”; Nordberg, “Continuity, Change and Regional Variation”; Gunnell, “Pantheon? What Pantheon?”; cf. Murphy, “Between Unity and Diversity.”

33  Such typologies are always a form of Ideal type and universal or secondary religions certainly also contain rituals. Their main focus, however, is (ideally) on dogmatic, canonized written records (cf. Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 122–​25). This canon then forms the basis of the rituals that, of course, are part of secondary religions like Islam or Catholicism. 34  Lundager Jensen, “Religion, hukommelse og viden,” 4, 7. Lundager Jensen argues for this stance by situating Assmann’s use (Assmann, Ägypten, 7) of semiotician Yuri Lotman’s statement: “Kultur ist Gedächtnis” in a Durkheimian understanding of religion, like that mentioned in footnote 11. 35  See also Nygaard and Schjødt, “History of Religion.” 36  Hermann, “Memory, Oral Tradition, and Sources.”

37  Assmann, “Communicative and Cultural Memory.” 38  Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 24.

39  Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 39–​40.

40  Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 126. See also Nygaard and Schjødt, “History of Religion.”

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then it is believed that the world will suffer and ultimately come to an end, and since the group strives towards its own durability and resists change in this pursuit,41 the ritual reconstruction needs to be as stable as possible. Thus, because of the idea of immanence and the group’s wish for durability, ritual can be viewed as a structured, stable medium for cultural memory.42 According to Assmann,43 three functions have to be fulfilled in order for this ritual transmission and reconstruction of cultural memory to take place in oral societies: (1) preservation through poetic form, which makes the cultural memory relatively stable and easier to remember;44 (2) retrieval through ritual interaction between the ritual specialist and the group; and (3) communication maintaining the world view and coherence of the group through ritual participation. Thus, it is through this ritual reconstruction of cultural memory in oral societies—​in other words, through oral transmission—​that we can argue for some degree of continuity in religion from at least the early Iron Age until the end of the Viking Age. This has been substantiated by archaeological finds throughout the North in the first millennium.45 Nonetheless, when the rituals cease to be performed—​for instance, when a change in religion takes place—​the tradition is broken and the group risks forgetting. In spite of this, no oral tradition disappears overnight, and motifs and crystallized images of the past can survive in, for instance, myth, folklore, and later writings as various descriptions of rituals. As scholars, these crystallizations are what we are left to work with. Continuity aside, which functions might the original ritual reconstruction mentioned above have had? Obligation and Ritual Performativity

Rappaport stresses the importance of performance in ritual “defining it [ritual] as the performance of more or less invariant sequences of formal acts and utterances not entirely encoded by the performers.”46 Ritual, he argues, is central to human interaction and performance is central to ritual acts.47 According to Rappaport, the central function of ritual 41  Assmann, Cultural Memory and Early Civilization, 26. See also Nygaard and Schjødt, “History of Religion.”

42  Assmann, “Communicative and Cultural Memory”; however, see footnote 19. See also Nygaard and Schjødt, “History of Religion.” 43  Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory, 39.

44  Skaldic poetry in particular is traditionally viewed as having been an especially stable form of poetry due to its very strict metric requirements, and the written versions are thought to reflect the oral tradition rather closely, while eddic poetry is less rigid in its metrics and therefore less stable, if only to a slightly lesser degree. In their now lost oral form, both are essentially thought to be instances of memorised literature with varying degrees of room for improvisation (lse Mundal, “Introduction,” 2; Meulengracht Sørensen, Saga and Society, 76–​77). And while every performance of an oral poem may essentially be viewed as a new poem (Foley, How to Read an Oral Poem; Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 93), some stability and continuity can be expected in both forms (Harris, “Eddic Poetry as Oral Poetry”). 45  Gräslund, “The Material Culture of Old Norse Religion.” 46  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 24.

47  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 107.

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is the creation of social and moral obligation between the participants in the given ritual. Through what Rappaport calls auto-​communication, each individual communicates this obligation to him-​or herself by participating in the ritual, while all the participants communicate their obligation to each other through allo-​communication via their collective participation in the ritual. This creates commitment and solidarity between the participants, and exacts the necessary conformity and acceptance of the performed ritual act from both the ritual specialist and the remaining participants. This conformity is a key characteristic of ritual performativity. In the end, this process may lead to what Rappaport calls high-​order meaning, which creates a sense of unity in the collective of people who have taken part in the ritual.48 Standing in a special relationship with ritual are the utterances termed performatives by Rappaport.49 These ritual utterances “transform ourselves or the conditions surrounding us”—​if the rituals are properly performed by authorized specialists, then the performatives in the rituals come into being.50 This capacity of change and transformation inherent in the ritual is what I understand as ritual performativity. Combining these considerations with Gunnell’s performance archaeology approach mentioned above, I will argue that these functions—​the creation of social and moral obligation towards the group perhaps resulting in the creation of high-​order meaning and ritual performativity through the use of performatives—​may be found in the ritual framework which lies behind the performance of the ljóðaháttr poem Grímnismál.

Grímnismál as Ritual

The context in which I aim to examine this poem is the following: a ruler in the Viking Age is involved in war, and he needs his warriors to fight for him in order to win this war. This raises the question of how the ruler in pre-​Christian North persuaded his warriors to follow him into war instead of staying at home tending to their farms and families without the imminent risk of dying a violent death? The promise for elite warriors of Valhǫll with its never-​ending meat and mead, violence and valkyrjur was most likely part of it, as Gunnell has suggested.51 Additionally, it should be remembered, Old Norse society seems permeated by an ethics of honour and shame, and the undying fame of performing well in battle,52 always tinged by the religious notions that seem to have influenced all parts of life in the pre-​Christian North.53 Tacitus states that if disgraced in battle a warrior loses his rights to participate in rituals and councils (Germania ­chapter 6), and in all likelihood this kind of notion also 48  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 71–​72.

49  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 114–​15; following Austin, How to Do Things with Words; cf. Searle, Speech Acts; Making the Social World. 50  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 114–​19. 51  Gunnell, “From One High-​One,” 167.

52  Meulengracht Sørensen, Fortælling og ære; Lindow, “Ethics”. This is, however, not noted by Gunnell in his article “From One High-​One.” 53  Hultgård, “The Religion of the Vikings,” 212.

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Figure 3.1. Detail of reconstruction of the early seventh-​century Sutton Hoo helmet-​mask by Dave Roper of the Wulfheodenas living history group (photo by Lindsey Kerr; courtesy the owner, Paul Mortimer of the Wulfheodenas living history group).

applied to the individuals who did not go to war at all—​staying at home tending the farm means forfeiting your honour and chance at undying fame.54 Also, as we shall see, the social and moral contract set up in the participation in a ritual55 will have played a large role—​at least as a means of securing the loyalty of the warrior band. In this way, religion and war seem intrinsically linked.56 As Gunnell has argued,57 many of the Old Norse poems may have been performed in a ritualized hall setting, in which the construction of the hall could have represented a microcosm of the mythological landscape. Furthermore, a ritual specialist could have used ritual props, like the Sutton Hoo helmet-​mask (Figure 3.1) playing on externalized 54  Possibly also echoed in the famous stanzas 76–​77 of the eddic poem Hávamál.

55  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 107; see also Gunnell, “From One High-​One,” 165–​68. 56  Kershaw, The One-​Eyed God, 18; Price, The Viking Way. 57  Gunnell, “Hof, Halls, Goðar and Dwarves.”

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memory to become Óðinn in the ritual moment.58 In the following, I will explore and further argue for this transformation taking place through ritual performativity.59 The ljóðaháttr poems,60 of which I will use Grímnismál as an example, seem particularly well suited for such ritualized, oral performance and contain several performance markers. In performance, the poems in the ljóðaháttr metre seem to make past and present appear at the same time through the performer, whom we can assume to have been a ritual specialist of some kind, taking on the roles of the gods and heroes of the poems in the first person, bringing them into the presence of the audience—​in other words, making them seem real to the participants in the ritual. Sound patterns stressed in the alliteration are used to create additional aural sense impressions, underpinning the poem’s narrative content.61 The wording also helps stress that the poems actually take place inside the ritual space of the present hall using expressions such as hér and inn. While this also makes sense from a purely literary, narrative standpoint, such instances of what linguistics call space deixis62—​that is, expressions that have a fixed semantic meaning but denote different things depending of the context of their use—​function very well in a performance context. Used in the proposed setting of a hall-​based, oral performance they may function to establish what Foley terms the virtual performance arena, which makes the participants know that the oral-​poetic language, or register, now applies and instigates the ritual of oral poetry.63 In Grímnismál,64 Óðinn, in disguise, visits the ruler of the Goths, Geirrøðr, and stages a sort of wisdom monologue. His alias in the poem, Grímnir (“the helmeted or masked one”), could also hint at the use of a mask, like the Sutton Hoo helmet-​mask, in the ritual performance. Stanza 2 then sets the scene when Óðinn states that: 2. Átta nætr sat ek milli elda hér, […]

(Eight nights I sat between these fires here.) My emphasis.

The liminal action on the supernaturally charged ninth night65 takes place here by these fires, in this very hall as indicated by use of hér, which is substantiated by the similar use of inn in stanza 45: 58  Price and Mortimer, “An Eye for Odin?”; Gunnell, “Vǫluspá in Performance,” 167–​68. 59  See also Nygaard, “Poetry as Ritual in pre-Christian Nordic Religion.”

60  See Gunnell, Origins of Drama, 185–​94 on the pre-​Christian character of the ljóðaháttr metre (“metre of incantations” [Gunnell, Origins of Drama, 190] suggesting magical or mythical content). Also Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 97. See Fulk, “Eddic metres” on eddic metres in general. 61  Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 94–​96; “Vǫluspá in Performance”; “Performance Archaeology.” 62  For example, Fillmore, Lectures on Deixis; Hanks, Referential Practice, 4–​9. 63  Foley, Immanent Art; How to Read an Oral Poem, 114–​17.

64  All quotes from Grímnismál are from the 2014 Íslenzk fornrit edition (Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Goðakvæði, 368–​79). The translations of the Old Norse are my own.

65  Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 102. The general performance context of Grímnismál is explored in Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 101–​7.

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45. […] ǫllum ásum þat skal inn koma Ægis bekki á, […]

([…] to all the æsir, who shall come in here on Ægir’s benches […] [i.e. in the hall].) My emphasis.

Aural sense impressions underpinning the narrative are used in for instance stanza 19, where the r-​sounds resemble the growling of the wolves mentioned in the stanza:66 19. Gera ok Freka seðr gunntamiðr, hroðigr Herjafǫðr, […]

(Geri and Freki, the battle-​seasoned, glorious Army-​father satiates […].) My emphasis.67

This might all have been accompanied by ritualized gestures, such as the lifting and spreading of the burning cloak in stanza 1.68 So why is this not merely a dramatic play, in which the ritual specialist plays a role for the entertainment of others like an actor? Gunnell69 invokes Richard Schechner’s ritual-​ play dyad,70 stating that the narrative in Grímnismál is more a ritual than a play, and this seems beyond a doubt. We are definitely dealing with a ritual scene with a person posed between two fires in a hall in an initiation-​like ritual.71 The “smoking gun,” arguing for ritual transformation, as it were, seems to be stanzas 3, 24, 46–​50, 51, and 53–​54. I propose that they be read in the context of Grímnismál being a performative piece of oral-derived poetry drawing on cultural memory with the goal of the ritual specialist becoming Óðinn in the ritual moment. The stanzas mentioned above seem to represent a process of identity revelation taking place throughout the poem, where Grímnir gradually reveals himself as Óðinn—​a process by which the ritual specialist is transformed into Óðinn in the ritual moment.72 Of course all indications are that, if the performance of an oral version of Grímnismál should be viewed as a ritual—​that is, a series of acts and utterances not entirely encoded by the participants—​then the participants are in all likelihood aware of the fact that Grímnir (represented by the ritual specialist) is actually Óðinn in disguise. The ritual efficacy of the performance nonetheless still depends on the correct execution of the 66  Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 101–​2.

67  Following Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 102. 68  Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 103–​4.

69  Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 95, 102. 70  Schechner, Performance Studies, 71.

71  Grímnismál does not seem to represent an actual initiation, at least not for Grímir/​Óðinn. See Schjødt, “The ‘Fire Ordeal’,” on this discussion. 72  See also Larrington, “Vafþrúðnismál and Grímnismál.”

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ritual acts and utterances, and as such the gradual revelation of identity is crucial to the ritual performativity of the ritualized oral performance. The transformation begins by Grímnir greeting Agnarr in stanza 3, announcing that: 3. Heill skaltu, Agnarr, alls þik heilan biðr Veratýr vera […]

(Blessed shall you, Agnarr, be since Veratýr [“god of men”73] bids you be blest […].)

At this point, it is not clear whether Grímnir himself is Veratýr or whether he is just invoking the name of a god, perhaps commonly known to be Óðinn. This statement is nonetheless the first allusion to the actual identity of Grímnir and by extension the ritual specialist. Grímnir then proceeds to relate cosmological knowledge interspersed with cosmogonic and eschatological hints in stanzas 4–​44,74 during which the audience receives the second allusion. This happens in stanza 24, which states that: 24. Fimm hundruð gólfa ok um fjórum tøgum, svá hygg ek Bilskirni með bugum; ranna þeira er ek rept vita míns veit ek mest magar.

(Five hundred floors and forty, so I  think Bilskirnir has; of those halls that I know to be roofed, my son’s I know to be greatest.)

Here, the identity is revealed with steadily increasing clarity, although still indirectly and clouded in references to familial relations and ownership of property. Who owns Bilskirnir? Þórr. And who is Þórr’s father? This is, of course, Óðinn, but it is not stated explicitly, and depends on the degree of mythological knowledge possessed by those present. A key shift then occurs in stanza 45, where Grímnir seems to lift his head and summon the æsir75 to the performance space to witness the climax of the poem. In stanzas 46–​50, Grímnir starts listing the names he has used in the past, several of which are actually used for Óðinn throughout the Old Norse textual corpus (for example Bǫlverkr

73  Larrington translates Veratýr as “Odin” (The Poetic Edda, 49), although this line is the only example suggesting this outside the þulr (here referring to the poetic genre of lists) of the names Óðinn apparently uses for himself given later in Grímnismál (mainly stanzas 46–​51), also used by Snorri in Gylfaginning, 22. 74  This section of the poem is analyzed and grouped convincingly by Olsen (“Fra Eddaforskningen”), who highlights the continuous shifting between cosmological and eschatological information as a characteristic of the poem’s composition. 75  Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 103.

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(Skáldskaparmál, 4–​5), Fjǫlnir (Reginsmál, stanza 19) and Þundr (Ǫgmundardrápa, stanza 1)). The hints at Grímnir’s actual identity are nonetheless still indirect, and the ritual identity revelation progresses slowly.76 In stanza 51, however, the picture becomes slightly clearer, when Grímnir states that: 51. […] miklu ertu hnugginn er þú ert mínu gengi, ǫllum einherjum ok Óðni hylli.

([…] much are you denied when you lose my support, that of all the einherjar and Óðinn’s favour.)

It is nevertheless still not completely clear whether Grímnir’s support and Óðinn’s favour are the same thing, but in all likelihood it is beginning to become apparent that this is indeed the case. The identity revelation then finally culminates in the last half of stanza 53 and the first half of stanza 54, where Grímnir at last formally reveals himself as being Óðinn, now using the present tense, thereby simultaneously suggesting that the ritual specialist and the god are one in this ritual moment. That these stanzas carry ritual significance can be substantiated by the following: the stanzas 46–​50 and 54 contain a number of emphatic, formulaic “I”s (ek) that could be reminiscent of cultic utterances.77 Here, the ritual specialist uses these “I”s – what may also be called person deixis78 – to tell the audience that he was Grímr, Gangleri, Herjan, Hjálmberi, and so on, finally revealing himself to be Óðinn, demonstrating his supreme wisdom surrounded by the invisible valkyrjur and æsir, conjured up in stanzas 36 and 45. These instances of emphatic ek may be a form of aretalogy,79 a self-​praising “recitation” of a god’s attributes (here names) by a ritual specialist traditionally found in Egyptian and Iranian contexts. If we view Grímnismál as involving cultural memory consisting of cosmological, cosmogonic, and eschatological knowledge related by a ritual specialist for an audience of bearers of pre-​Christian Nordic religion, then the self-references (in for instance stanza 46) and lastly the words in stanzas 53–​54 along with the gradual revelation of identity mentioned above would have had an important function. 46. Hétumk Grímr, hétumk Gangleri

76  As modern readers of the poem (including the prose introduction), we are, of course, told that Grímnir is Óðinn. However, as Gunnell has argued convincingly (Origins of Drama, 223–​35; “Eddic Performances,” 99) one should be wary of considering the prose introductions and interpolations in the dialogic eddic poems as a part of the “original” oral versions of these poems. This is partly because much of it can be traced back to Snorri’s Edda, and when viewing the poems in an oral performance context they seem largely superfluous. This also seems the case with Grímnismál (Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 101; Nygaard, “Poetry as Ritual in Pre-Chrisitan Nordic Religion”.). 77  Fillmore, Lectures on deixis.

78  This may also be the case in the eddic poem Hávamál, for instance. The use of ek in Hávamál has been examined by McKinnell, “Personae of the Performer in Hávamál.” See Nygaard, “Poetry as Ritual in Pre-Christian Nordic Religion” for a separate “performance archaeological” treatment of this paper. 79  Sundqvist, Kultledare i fornskandinavisk religion, 205–​9, on the runic appellative erilaR.

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(I was called Grímr, I was called Gangleri). My emphasis.

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53–​54. nú knáttu Óðin sjá […] Óðinn ek nú heiti’

(now you can see Óðinn […] Óðinn I am now called.) My emphasis.

These personal utterances given in first person present would have effectively transformed the ritual specialist into Óðinn in the ritual moment, functioning as performatives,80 making what is said a reality rather than a pretence for the participants in the ritual. Furthermore, ritual performance can also be seen as being potentially personality transforming.81 Additionally, it is worth bearing in mind Rappaport’s statement that what makes a ritual performance radically different to a dramatic performance is the fact that the ritual performativity requires conformity and acceptance of the performed ritual by both the participating audience82 and the performer.83 By stating that he is called Óðinn, the ritual specialist becomes Óðinn, something accepted by any audience that accepts the reality of this statement. It might also be borne in mind that the recurrent mention of the einherjar (mentioned directly in stanzas 18, 23, 36, and 51; indirectly in stanzas 8 and 14) may also have prompted a ritual transformation of the warrior-​audience into Óðinn’s mythological warriors.84 In addition, the continuous mentions of Valhǫll (in stanzas 8–​10, 23, 25–​26) along with the cosmological information which is centred on Óðinn’s hall—​for instance the mythological cook Andhrímnir’s preparing of the pig Sæhrímnir for the einherjar in stanza 18—​may also have helped transport the warrior-​audience temporarily into this Otherworldly hall described in detail in the poem;85 they would perhaps even have identified the sounds and smells of their own meal with the information given in the ritual performance, possibly transforming their meal as well.86 These ideas are accentuated by the transformation of space that such a hall performance entails:87 we start in a ruler’s hall and are gradually taken into a mythological space, perhaps even representing a microcosm of the mythological landscape.88 The mention of such known mythological locations as the World Tree—​Læraðr (and the animals biting at its leaves in stanzas 25–​26) or Yggdrasil (which is the subject of stanzas 29–​30)—​or 80  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 114–​19.

81  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 136; Bellah, “Durkheim and Ritual,” 193; Schechner, Performance Studies, 63–​64; Durkheim, Elementary Forms, 378. 82  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 135–​36. 83  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 248–​85.

84  Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 104, 107.

85  This also seems to be the case in for instance the skaldic poem Eiríksmál (Gunnell, “Performance Archaeology”; “Eddic Performances”; Nygaard, “…nú knáttu Óðin sjá”). 86  See also Nordberg, “Handlar Grimnesmål 42 om en sakral måltid?”

87  Gunnell, “The Drama of the Poetic Edda”; Nygaard, “…nú knáttu Óðin sjá.”

88  Gunnell, “Hof, Halls, Goðar and Dwarves”; Nygaard, “…nú knáttu Óðin sjá.”

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the body of water Hvergelmir (sometimes equated with Urðarbrunnr from e.g. Vǫluspá stanza 19) may have been mirrored by the high-​seat pillars or, for instance, Urnes stave church-​like carvings, or the kettle on the hearth respectively. In addition, one can imagine the ritual specialist using a prop like the Sutton Hoo helmet-​mask. A mask of this kind would change his voice, and in a dark hall where the fire is the only light source, it has been noted that only the left eye of this specific helmet—​decorated with garnets on gold leaf—​would light up, suggesting Óðinn’s one-​eyedness.89 This feature would have added to the believability of the ritual and to the idea of the ritual specialist being Óðinn. Thus, in this performance, the pre-​Christian audience is not told of animals biting at the leaves of Læraðr or the names of the abodes of the æsir by a mere ritual specialist: they are instructed by Óðinn himself, who grants them direct access to their shared religious cultural memory, which is burned deep into their minds by means of the ritualized performance in the hall. But what kind of ritual may have been performed?90 One possibility is that we are dealing with the initiation of a future ruler, represented by Agnarr, who needs to acquire all of the numinous knowledge conveyed in Grímnismál in order to be able to take over from his father, represented by Geirrøðr, as Grímnir foretells in stanza 2—​an initiand in an original, oral ritual performance of this poem may then have taken on the identity of Agnarr. Jens Peter Schjødt91 has been critical towards earlier scholarship on Grímnismál and its ritual context—​both as evidence of the idea of shamanism in pre-​Christian Nordic religion (in line with Jere Fleck’s92 criticism of Franz Rolf Schröder)93 and as an initiation of Óðinn94—​mainly because Óðinn gains no new knowledge and because Schjødt sees no notion of liminal space in Grímnismál. However, by viewing the poem in its performance context, as argued above, I would suggest that the ritual transformation of the hall space does constitute a liminal space. I agree that Óðinn undergoes no initiation, but by applying Schjødt’s four criteria for initiation95 to the poem here, I will argue that the figure represented by Agnarr does. 1. Irreversibility. In initiations, Schjødt states that a change of status is vital and that “the status that the individual obtains in the final situation is irreversible.”96 Agnarr is the son of the ruler Geirrøðr and presumably the next in the line of succession in what we may surmise is the initial situation where Grímnir is sitting between the fires. Agnarr then grants Grímnir a drink which unlocks a virtual treasure trove of

89  Price and Mortimer, “An Eye for Odin?”; Gunnell, “From One-​High One.” 90  See also Nygaard, “Poetry as Ritual in Pre-Christian Nordic Religion.” 91  Schjødt, “The ‘Fire Ordeal’.”

92  Fleck, “Knowledge Criterion in Grímnismál.” 93  Schröder, “Grímnismál.”

94  Both Fleck and Schjødt suggest that a transmission of knowledge to—​but not an explicit initiation of—​Agnarr takes place. 95  Schjødt, Initiation, 72–​84. 96  Schjødt, Initiation, 72.

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Initial phase

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Final phase

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This World

The Other World

Re-integration

Separation

The liminal phase (the acquisition of numinous powers) Figure 3.2. Jens Peter Schjødt’s five-​phase initiation sequence. After Schjødt, Initiation, 83 (courtesy of Jens Peter Schjødt).

numinous knowledge imparted upon him by Grímnir. After this his father dies and Agnarr becomes the ruler of the Goths, which must be said to be a new, irreversible social and religious status; especially considering the role of the ruler as a sacral figure in pre-​Christian Nordic religion.97 2. The tripartite (or five-​phase) structure (Figure 3.2). Schjødt proposes to expand Arnold van Gennep’s98 structure for passage rituals to, in the instances of initiation rituals, consist of an initial phase, a separation phase, a liminal phase, a reintegration phase, and a final phase.99 Agnarr is the son of the ruler in the initial phase, then he grants Grímnir the drink that represents the separation phase. In the liminal phase, he is present in the ritual, microcosmic liminal space of the hall, as argued above (and has as such symbolically entered the Other World), and a ritual specialist gradually revealing himself to be Óðinn grants him first hand access to numinous knowledge. The implied reintegration happens at the death of Agnarr’s father Geirrøðr and after this—​in the final phase—​Agnarr is the ruler of the Goths. 3. Binary oppositional pairs analogous with the liminal/​non-​liminal. Schjødt highlights the move between the categories the liminal and the non-​liminal as vital to the idea of an initiation ritual, and this is represented by binary oppositional pairs in the myths.100 The liminal has by Victor Turner, from whom Schjødt draws inspiration,101 97  For example, Sundqvist, An Arena for Higher Powers; Nygaard, “Sacral Rulers.” 98  Van Gennep, Les rites de passage. 99  Schjødt, Initiation, 74.

100  Schjødt, Initiation, 74–​78. 101  Schjødt, Initiation, 34–​43.

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been described in general as anti-​structure or inversion of social norms:102 in Grímnismál, the torturing of a guest in one’s own hall seems to exemplify the breakdown of social order by inverting the trope of hospitality and the sanctity of the hall.103 As far as the transformation of the ruler’s hall into a ritual, liminal space is concerned we may argue for the existence of the oppositional pair of ritual hall space/​everyday hall space and an implied move between these. This move also symbolically represents a move from this world to the Other World adding this oppositional pair to the list of binary oppositional pairs in Grímnismál. 4. The numinous knowledge-​object. In the liminal phase a certain knowledge is usually gained, which is described by Schjødt as “fundamentally secret or unknown to those who are not initiated.”104 Furthermore, Schjødt describes this numinous knowledge in part as something, which the initiand lacks in the initial phase, but is in possession of in the final phase and that “it may be a matter of verbally transferred knowledge of cosmic events […]”105 The numinous knowledge, which Grímnir relates to Agnarr and the remaining ritual participants, fits this description of what numinous knowledge may look like very well. Information about the abodes of the gods, the mythological landscape, the creation and end of the world surely fall in under the category of numinous knowledge and it is acquired by Agnarr during the liminal phase, as argued above. This knowledge can be viewed as the deciding factor for Agnarr to be able to shoulder the responsibilities of being a ruler and for him to gain an irreversibly higher status.

Thus, according to the criteria for dealing with an initiation ritual so convincingly put forth and analyzed by Schjødt, the ritual occasion of the performance of Grímnismál may in fact be the initiation of Agnarr into his new role and status of ruler of the Goths. Certainly, there are also problems, even though all the criteria seem to be in place. One point of contention is why Grímnir is the one placed between the fires and not Agnarr? Besides creating a very dramatic performance situation, the fires may have acted as an ordeal of endurance in place to augment Grímnir or the ritual specialist’s numinous capabilities as in seen in other, comparable rituals across the world, like the Sun Dance ritual of the North American Plains Indians106 or the Indian tapas rites.107 To my mind, the analysis above seems equally as convincing as for instance the analysis Schjødt himself makes of Óttarr in Hyndluljóð, where he concludes that this myth has at least something to do with initiation.108 He is hesitant to go further because of the lack of ritual context for the events of Hyndluljóð—​a thing that seems clear enough in the case of Agnarr in 102  Turner, “The Centre out There,” 216.

103  See Kuusela, “Hallen var lyst i helig frid.” 104  Schjødt, Initiation, 78. 105  Schjødt, Initiation, 79.

106  Gunnell, “Eddic Performances,” 102–​3.

107  Fleck, “Knowledge Criterion in Grímnismál,” 65. This has been criticised by Schjødt, who sees the fires as an attempt at annihilating Óðinn (“The ‘Fire Ordeal’,” 40–​41). 108  Schjødt, Initiation, 251–​57.

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Grímnismál—​along with the lack of a clear final phase; this is also clearly implied by Agnarr’s becoming the ruler of the land of the Goths. With Grímnismál, it seems that viewing the poem in its oral performance context and considering its place in what we might call practiced religion allows us this reading: Agnarr represents the initiand and Grímnir represents the initiator in an initiation ritual. Who may then have been the actual ritual specialist performing this possible initiation ritual? A likely candidate would be the þulr.109 The main role of the þulr seems have been that of an orator of numinous knowledge110—​etymologically substantiated (from Old Norse þylja, to recite, speak)—​perhaps in a ritualized hall setting as implied by, among other sources, part of the Viking Age Snoldelev runic inscription (Figure 3.3, DR 248; Old Danish “þulaR ā Salhaugum,” (þulr at sal-​mounds)). The noun salr, it has been argued, often describes a ritual hall,111 and this would indeed fit the setting proposed here for Grímnismál. Whoever the ritual specialist may have been, the transformative qualities of ritual performativity would have aided his transformation into Óðinn, the hall’s transformation into a ritual space,112 and the warrior band audience’s own transformation into Óðinn’s einherjar, perhaps a mythological pendant to their comitatus status and even the initiation of the ruler represented by Agnarr.

Concluding Remarks

This reconstructed ritualized performance of the Old Norse poem Grímnismál could, in the end, have produced the form of unity that Rappaport terms high-​order meaning; the feeling where in its ultimate manifestations […] that which is meaningful and she for whom it is meaningful, is obliterated in […] the experience of unification with another, or others, or the cosmos, or the divine […] participation is the way to high-​ order meaning […] participation is a sine qua non of ritual.113

This is what creates the social and moral obligation towards the group—​a group that now also counts the otherworldly beings of the performed poem. This collective effervescence, to use the Durkheimian equivalent,114 entails a participation in the sacred, which is key to the formation and upholding of groups. In short, the ritual participants and the 109  As proposed by Fleck, “Konr, Óttarr, Geirrǫðr.”

110  See Vogt, Stilgeschichte der eddischen Wissensdichtung; “Der frühgermanische Kultredner”; de Vries, “Om eddaens visdomsdigtning,” 58–​59; Poole, “Þulr”; Sundqvist, Kultledare i fornskandinavisk religion. 111  Brink, “Political and Social Structures in Early Scandinavia,” 255–​58.

112  This was a feature which played a prominent role in pre-​Christian Nordic religion. See for instance Jørgensen, “Pre-​Christian Cult at Aristocratic Residences and Settlement Complexes in Southern Scandinavia”; Murphy, “Continuity and Change.” 113  Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 72. 114  Durkheim, Elementary Forms.

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Figure 3.3. The Snoldelev rune stone (DR 248; ca. ad 700–​800) (photo by Roberto Fortuna; courtesy of Nationalmuseet (CC-​BY-​SA)).

ritual specialist signal a conformity towards themselves and each other, through auto-​and allo-​communication. By participating and accepting the ritual as real and meaningful, they form a community. The ritual specialist bringing about this act of unity in Grímnismál “is” Óðinn. At the same time, the warriors may through this religious experience envision themselves as einherjar for the duration of the ritual; they may even have gotten an idea of what would happen to them if they died in battle—​the undying fame of Valhǫll would await. The participation and plausible achievement of high-​order meaning means that they are socially and morally obliged to go to war �nd fight for their ruler and for each other, thereby strengthening their will to combat, their comitatus, and group coherence and solidarity.115

115  This could be what was at work in the odinic Männerbünde or warrior bands we hear of in several sources (e.g. Hrólfs saga kraka; cf. Kris Kershaw, The One-​Eyed God). We might also anticipate that the warriors had been ritually initiated into the warrior comitatus as is posited by Schjødt

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The social and moral obligation created by participating in such reconstructed rituals in the Viking Age ruler’s hall would then serve to strengthen this allegiance and the warriors’ sense of communitas.116 For one named participant, represented by Agnarr, this performance may additionally have meant the initiation into a new and irreversibly higher social and religious status.117

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117  I owe thanks to my supervisors, Jens Peter Schjødt and Terry Gunnell, for competent and useful feedback on both language and content of this article as well as to Luke John Murphy and Ross Downing for valuable comments and suggestions during the final stages of the editing process. Any shortcomings remain my own.

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—​—​. “Religious Specialists.” In International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, vol. 13, edited by David Sills, 437–​44. New York: Macmilliam Company and The Free Press, 1972. —​—​. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-​Structure. London:  Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1969. Van Gennep, Arnold. Les rites de passage. Paris: Émile Nourry, 1909. Vogt, Walter Heinrich. “Der frühgermanische Kultredner. þulr, þula und eddische Wissensdichtung,” Acta Philologica Scandinavica 2 (1927): 250–​63. —​—​. Stilgeschichte der eddischen Wissensdichtung:  Erster Band:  Der Kultredner (þulr). Breslau: Ferdinand Hirt, 1927. Vries, Jan de. “Om eddaens visdomsdigtning.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 50 (1934): 2–​59. Walsh, Martin W. “Reviewed Work: The Origins of Drama in Scandinavia by Terry Gunnell.” Comparative Drama 31 (1997): 304–​9.

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Chapter 4

ELEMENTS OF SATIRE AND SOCIAL COMMENTARY IN HEATHEN PRAISE POEMS AND COMMEMORATIVE ODES1

David Ashurst SKALDIC VERSE HAS a justified reputation for being difficult—​difficult for non-​Icelandic speakers to translate, difficult to interpret even when the individual words have been understood, and exceedingly difficult to appreciate for its aesthetic qualities. Getting to grips with it, therefore, is a serious matter. Saga literature indicates that composing such verse was also a serious matter, one that, in the courts of rulers, could earn a skald high status and considerable wealth. The poetry itself, nevertheless, is very far from maintaining a serious tone: skalds are apt to say startling, discordant, or positively bizarre things en passant, so that even a praise poem composed for a living prince can be flecked with gibes against the skald himself or the subject of his praise. In a tenth-​century praise poem for Hákon jarl Sigurðarson, for example, Einarr skálaglamm Helgason refers to his own magnificent art as austr (bilge-​water): “Hljóta munk, né hlítik, /​ hertýs, of þat frýju, /​ fyr ǫrþeysi at ausa /​ austr vín-​Gnóðar flausta” (I shall be obliged to bale out the bilge-​water of the wine-​Gnóð [wine-​ship] of army-​Týr [Óðinn] for the brave speeder of ships; I shall not submit to abuse for that).2 The use of this apparently self-​deprecating metaphor is striking in the context of an exceptionally long and highly wrought poem intended as a gift to the man who turned out to be the last great heathen ruler in Norway; it is all the more so when one considers that the poem’s medieval title, attested in Heimskringla and Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in mesta,3 is “Vellekla,” meaning “Dearth of Gold,” which most probably indicates that the work was understood as belonging to the genre of “begging poems,” whose purpose was to remind the recipient of his duty to reward the skald. In such a context, is it not self-​ defeating, at least momentarily, to refer to one’s poetic offering in this way? The reader’s or audience’s precise response to the bilge-​water metaphor will depend on their response to the kenning of which austr is the base-​word: the wine-​ship of army-​ Týr is the vat of Óðinn, and its austr is thus the mead of poetry; hence the act of baling out the bilge-​water is that of pouring out the mead of poetry when reciting a composition. Faulkes, in fact, cites a version of the above lines, which occur as stanza 18 in Snorri Sturluson’s Skáldskaparmál, as evidence that poets habitually speak of pouring out the 1  David Ashurst, University of Durham, email: [email protected].

2  Einarr skálaglamm Helgason, “Vellekla,” 280–​329, at st. 5. All translations are mine. 3  See Einarr skálaglamm, “Vellekla,” 280.

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mead, rather than of drinking it, in connection with poetic effusion.4 In a different context, but in the same paper, Faulkes also offers the reminder that the primary function of a kenning is to conceal the thing to which it refers, and that it does not necessarily function as a true metaphor that conveys its referent’s particular characteristics.5 One way of responding to the word austr, therefore, would be to subsume it wholly into the kenning and to dismiss its particular connotations as irrelevant. It should be noted, however, that the kenning as a whole appears to have been carefully worked, with consistent nautical imagery that is highly appropriate to Hákon as a bold speeder of ships, but in that case the very appropriateness of the whole kenning to the seafaring jarl draws attention to the inappropriateness of “bilge-​water” to the skald’s praise offering. A different kind of unexpected and possibly discordant note, one that depends on the substance of what is said rather than on the connotations of a passing word, can be found in Þorbjǫrn hornklofi’s praise poem “Haraldskvæði,” otherwise known as “Hrafnsmál,” composed ca. 900 for no less a potentate than the Norwegian king Haraldr hárfagri (Fairhair). Throughout twenty-​one stanzas, Þorbjǫrn treats Haraldr to all the battle pomp of blood, berserks, and ravens before asking about in-​house entertainment and naming a certain Andaðr: “At hundi elskar Andaðr ok heimsku drýgir /​eyrnalausum ok jǫfur hlœgir” (Andaðr makes love to a dog with no ears and practises folly, and the king laughs).6 The poem ends or breaks off at the close of this stanza; if it ends, it does so with magnificent bathos. Whatever it was that Andaðr actually did with the (male) dog, and no matter how much sober scholarly interest this may have excited as evidence that Haraldr maintained entertainers at his court, there is no mistaking the poet’s shift into a far lower gear, or of missing the implication that this was the imperious king’s idea of a good night in. It would make little sense as invective, however; rather, with its obscure phrasing about a yet more obscure act redolent of almost the worst kind of pornography, it has the look of an in joke shared between the king and his skald—​and indeed Þorbjǫrn, as noted by Clunies Ross, is said in Fagrskinna to have been an old friend of Haraldr’s, one who had been at his court constantly since childhood.7 Viewed in this light, the final stanza, with its unexpected swipe at the king’s sense of humour, can be seen as an assertion of old camaraderie, perhaps of intimacy, between lord and retainer. Thus it elevates the poet’s status and provides what may well be a fitting, though wry and quizzical, conclusion to a splendid encomium. A well-​known example of a heathen praise poem in which a mocking intent is not limited to occasional details but may covertly be sustained throughout is Egill Skalla-​ Grímsson’s “Hǫfuðlausn,” apparently composed for Eiríkr blóðøx (Bloodaxe) when he was king of Northumbria in the mid-​tenth century. It is a virtuosic display of formal technique, being one of the first surviving examples of the measure known as runhent, which 4  Faulkes, Poetical Inspiration, 5–​6. See Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Skáldskaparmál, 1:10. 5  Faulkes, Poetical Inspiration, 8–​9.

6  Þorbjǫrn hornklofi, “Haraldskvæði,” 91–​117, at st. 23. Fulk, following Kershaw, Blöndal, and Jón Helgason, renders elskar at as “fondles.” 7  Clunies Ross, Poetry and Poetics, 46. See Fagrskinna, 59.

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essentially imposes end-​rhyme on fornyrðislag:8 it may well be that such a sustained display of innovative ingenuity in the service of the king is sufficient tribute for him, especially as it is probably this aspect of the poem to which Egill himself directs Eiríkr’s attention when he says, “Hygg, vísi, at […] hvé ek þylja fet” (Pay attention, prince, to the manner in which I manage to recite).9 Particularly relevant to this poem, however, is Whaley’s suggestion that the best skaldic verse “gives ample opportunity for ‘reader response’ readings”:10 indeed, Egill all but hints that the poem can be responded to as mockery, by declaring that he has carried praise before the king “ór hlátra ham” (out of the enclosure of laughs)11—​where the potentially offensive phrase is saved from being an overt declaration by the fact that it is, so to say, a mere kenning for “breast.” The aspect of the poem that may answer to Egill’s hint and prompts suspicions of a daring though covert satirical intent is that the praise offered, for all its sonorous splendour, is almost wholly generic, with little or nothing that definitely connects it to Eiríkr. Concerning skaldic poetry in general, Hollander noted that “we should look in vain for particularizing accounts of such battles as are rehearsed,” but he was thinking of strategy and tactics;12 even with this in mind, it is difficult not to be struck by the fact that, in “Hǫfuðlausn,” the single reference to Eiríkr as “fárbjóðr Skota” (harm-​bidder of the Scots) is as close to anything particular about him as this poem gets.13 The praise, it could be said, is grandiloquent and certainly plentiful, but beside the point. Readers may be able go further than this in their responses, however, depending on how much blood they can stomach with enjoyment: the long sequence, stanzas 4–​15, that rings the changes over and over on the themes of carnage and the fauna of battle, can be taken to suggest that, stripped of circumstances and reasons for action, the king, who feeds the scavengers to the point of satiety again and again, is himself driven by an obsessive-​compulsive appetite for slaughter; thus it serves to effect a “bestialising of Eiríkr as another animal gorging on the spoils of conflict […] in a depoliticised orgy of violence.”14 Egill adverts to his English encounter with Eiríkr again in his praise poem “Arinbjarnarkviða,” the composition of which Egils saga places a good many years later, in the reign of the Norwegian king Haraldr gráfeldr (Greycloak) and during the lifetime of the intended recipient, Egill’s friend and patron, Arinbjǫrn Þórisson.15 Despite the fact that the work reads as something of a proleptic commemoration that encapsulates 8  Clunies Ross, Poetry and Poetics, 22–​23. As always, there is room to doubt the authenticity of the poem; however, Clunies Ross takes as genuine both it and the formal development it represents, attributing the latter to contact with Latin hymnody. 9  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Hǫfuðlausn,” 185–​92, at st. 3.

10  Whaley, “Skaldic Poetry,” 488; she is not referring to “Hǫfuðlausn” in particular. 11  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Hǫfuðlausn,” st. 20. 12  Hollander, The Skalds, 19.

13  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Hǫfuðlausn,” st. 10.

14  The point and the wording here are gratefully borrowed, with permission, from an as yet unpublished paper on Egill by Tom Morcom. 15  Egils saga Skalla-​Grímssonar, 257.

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genuine gratitude towards a noble ally, Egill manages to tuck in what may well be a discreet gibe at the expense of Eiríkr, Arinbjǫrn’s own one-​time patron.16 The king’s eye is said to be “ormfránn” (snake-​or dragon-​glittering) and to shine “œgigeislum” (with terror-​rays);17 in this respect Eiríkr shows the aggressive masculinity that is found, for example, in Vǫlundr or Sigurðr Fáfnisbani.18 These heroic connotations, however, may be undercut to some extent by a slightly earlier description of Eiríkr sitting “und œgishjálmi” (wearing a helmet of terror), an object the most famous wearer of which was not Sigurðr but Fáfnir, as portayed in “Fáfnismál” and Vǫlsunga saga; Sigurðr, in fact, takes the œgishjálmr from Fáfnir but declares it useless.19 Whether the term had these connotations in Egill’s day cannot be known for certain but it is plausible that they did, given the wordplay, and they surely became dominant as the poem was transmitted.20 The image momentarily conjured up for the alert reader is therefore suggestive of Eiríkr as a doomed dragon, and this in turn suggests the whimsical image of Egill, seeking him out, as a suitably large but ugly Sigurðr.21 The whimsical self-​deprecation, or even self-​mockery, hinted at here is made explicit in a sequence of three full stanzas, 7–​9, which focus on the aesthetically deficient qualities of Egill’s ransomed head, referred to in toto as his “hattar staup” (knobbly lump for a hood);22 these include his eyes, called “søkk sámleit / síðra brúna” (darkish depressions of pendulous brows; st. 8), and his ears, which are presumably extensive since they are referred to as “hlertjǫld” (listening canopies; st. 9). For a man to show rueful delight in the ugliness of his own body is a common masculine trait that can be seen, for example, in Snorri Sturluson’s story of the Icelander Þórarinn Nefjólfsson’s pride in having the two most repulsive feet ever seen by the Norwegian king Óláfr helgi (the Saint), who is filled with playful wonder at the sight;23 Egill’s poem, however, suggests a purpose beyond the indulgence of this male quirk, for it places heavy emphasis, throughout these 16  For the commemorative aspect of the poem, see Larrington, “Egill’s Longer Poems,” 50. Larrington also notes, 49, that similarities of theme and vocabulary suggest that it, “Sonatorrek,” and “Hǫfuðlausn” were all by the same poet. See also Finlay, “Elegy,” 122, for further comments on the poem as commemoration. 17  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Arinbjarnarkviða,” 155–​62, at st. 5.

18  See “Vǫlundarkviða,” 1:428–​37, at st. 17; Vǫlsunga saga, 41.

19  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Arinbjarnarkviða”, st. 4. The term œgishjálmi is the reading, from the Möðruvallabók manuscript, favoured by Bjarni Einarsson; Nordal favours “ýgs hjálmi” (helmet of a stern one): Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, 258–​67, at st. 4. Given the proximity of œgigeislum and the possible connection with ormfránn, the reading œgishjálmi is to be preferred. For the œgishjálmr worn by Fáfnir, see “Fafnismál,” in Eddukvæði, 2:303–​12, at st. 16–​17; Vǫlsunga saga, 32. 20  Larrington, “Egill’s Longer Poems,” 51, takes it as definite that the term “ýgs hjálmi” recalls the œgishjálmr of Fáfnir; she does not note the negative implications for Eiríkr or the implied humour of the passage.

21  This paragraph is based, with permission, on a further observation in the unpublished paper by Morcom, mentioned above. 22  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Arinbjarnarkviða”, st. 7. The remaining quotations are from this edition. 23  Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla II, 126.

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stanzas, on the relative values of the commodities involved in the head-​ransom transaction. Egill declares that no one thought the reward for reciting the poem, i.e. his head, was beautiful (st. 7), a fact that detracts to some extent from Eiríkr’s generosity in comparison with that of the rulers who reward their poets with such beautiful things as a fine cloak or an inlaid weapon; on the other hand, he goes on to declare that the king’s gift was reckoned (“heitin var”) better than gold (st. 9). Clearly Egill himself, in the face of death, would value life more highly than a gift of gold, but the passive construction used here suggests that others made the same value judgment, the basis for which has to be that the tongue and teeth (st. 9) are part of the mouth that spoke the head-​ransom poem (st. 8), and the mouth is part of the head that Egill accepted from the king “við Yggjar miði” (in exchange for the mead of Yggr, i.e. Óðinn; st. 7), which he had brought “at hvers manns / hlusta munnum” (to the mouths of the ears of every man; st. 6). In the context of a praise poem for Arinbjǫrn, therefore, Egill’s self-​mockery serves as a reminder of the value of poetry and of the central role it plays in the friendship of the two men, now advancing in years and separated by many miles of sea: by standing loyally beside Egill as he recited his head-​ransom (st. 10), thus helping to him to escape the king’s hatred (st. 11), Arinbjǫrn had not only rescued his friend’s easily disparaged person but also saved the poetry that was lodged in it, which was poured out to Eiríkr in exchange for something worth more than gold and is poured out now to Arinbjǫrn as a gift worth more than any gold he could give in return. The last of Egill’s long poems to be considered here, “Sonatorrek,” is fully a commemorative work. Despite the severe problems of text and interpretation that face the reader, it is widely regarded as one of the finest poetical achievements in Old Norse, full of extraordinary depths and interpretive possibilities. For Hollander it was “perhaps the most personal poem of Germanic antiquity;”24 Larrington is much in agreement, calling the work “a poem of unparalleled psychological depth”;25 Turville-​Petre took the view that “Sonatorrek, perhaps more than any other poem, illustrates the religious outlook of a man of Egill’s time”;26 Harris, in offering a most interesting “trial balloon for an hypothesis,” links the poem, at “a prelogical level” of Egill’s consciousness, to ancient and deeply rooted motives for child sacrifice to and by Óðinn;27 Finlay addresses Harris’s suggestions but, taking her cue from Nordal, foregrounds vengeance, and the difficulty of taking it for sons who did not die as a result of conflict, as one of the poem’s chief concerns.28 There is much to recommend all these views, but the suggestion to be made here, in the light of all the above discussion of mocking and self-​deprecating elements that seem to stand at odds with the apparent purposes of individual praise poems, is that the main oddities, near absurdities, and internal contradictions of “Sonatorrek” make sense if the work is seen as darkly self-​satirizing. 24  Hollander, The Skalds, 89.

25  Larrington, “Egill’s Longer Poems,” 62. 26  Turville-​Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 25.

27  Harris, “Homo necans borealis,” 153–​73, especially at 169–​70. 28  Finlay, “Elegy and Old Age,” 114–​21.

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The first oddity to bear in mind is that the author of Egils saga, plus later copyists and presumably the saga’s medieval audiences, accepted the poem as an erfikvæði composed in honour of one dead son, while mentioning another, and to be recited at his funerary feast, as indicated by the prose that attempts to provide a narrative setting for the work;29 this is not unreasonable, since the central part of the poem dwells at length on the loss of these two sons, yet no son is actually named, and scant praise is offered in their honour. This last point appears to be because the sons had died too young to achieve anything very remarkable, as the poem itself implies;30 the best Egill can do in the circumstances is to declare that one son “varnaði /​vamma varr /​við vámæli” (wary of blemishes, kept clear of criticism [or slander]), while the other “æ let flest /​ þat er faðir mælti /​þótt ǫll þjóð /​annat segði” (always valued most what his father said, even though the entire populace said something different).31 The ironies in this are that the first son is notably unlike Egill himself, who relished his own blemishes and neither escaped slander nor held back from it, on the evidence of the three poems discussed here let alone what is said in the saga, while the second son has the supreme merit of being his father’s constant yes-​man. Thus Egill, in this most personal and reflective of poems, characterizes himself as crushingly egocentric and quite blind to the realities of the relationships between his sons and him. Perhaps he really was blind to these things as he composed “Sonatorrek;” alternatively he was mocking himself with true self-​knowledge amid the grief of loss and the guilt that often accompanies it. The second oddity is related to the first, in that the poem dwells over and again on the idea that Egill must now stand alone, without supporters (see stanzas 7, 9, 13, 14, 15), and in stanza 17 he contemplates the need to beget another son, yet Þorsteinn, whom the saga represents as Egill’s surviving son at the time of the poem’s composition, is never alluded to.32 It is possible, of course, that the poem belongs to an earlier period in Egill’s life than the saga makes it seem, and that Þorsteinn had not yet been born (but note that the poet seems to characterize himself as an aging, or indeed elderly, man in stanza 9); however, if the broad outline of the saga’s story of the creation of “Sonatorrek” is accepted (as Turville-​Petre accepted it),33 the omission of any reference to Þorsteinn as a potential promulgator of the family’s male line (which stanza 4, in fact, says is at its end), and as an ally who would stand beside his father in possible conflicts, must be seen as a stiff rebuke or rejection. It may be from this omission and the implied hostility, indeed, that the saga gets its portrayal of Þorsteinn as the son whom Egill unjustly disliked. In view of the importance attached to the reciprocal duties placed on father and son in medieval Icelandic culture and law, however, so cruel a slight implying disrespect for the son’s masculinity might be regarded as unconscionable and thus need to be 29  Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, 245. 30  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Sonatorrek,” 24–​41, at st. 11.

31  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Sonatorrek,” st. 20 and 12 respectively.

32  For Þorsteinn’s presence, see Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, 245. See also Nordal’s suggested chronology for the events in the saga: Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, lii–​liii. 33  Turville-​Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 24.

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mitigated, in which case a generous reading might see this too as a case of Egill drawing attention disparagingly to his own quirks. A third issue is an absurdity that could be seen chiefly as a matter of extravagant rhetoric. In stanza 8 (if Nordal’s two minor emendations to the first half are accepted), Egill boasts that he would take blood vengeance for his drowned son by killing the sea-​god if he could.34 This expresses a recognizable and all-​too-​human emotion, the need to blame some supernatural power and with it the urgent desire for an impossible retribution. The rhetorical flourish comes in the next stanza, however, where Egill explains: “En ek ekki /​eigna þóttumk /​sakar afl” (But I did not think I could secure the force for the action) against the sea. The primary meaning of afl is “bodily strength” but here it probably means “a group of supporters,” as suggested by Egill’s remark, in the second half of the stanza, that everyone can see “gamals þegns /​gengileysi” (an old man’s lack of support).35 It is this passage that gives rise to the view, mentioned above, that a central concern of the poem is the impossibility of exacting vengeance in the circumstances. Finlay elaborates on the theme of situations in which a father cannot take vengeance for his son, and points to its nature as a traditional topos, by drawing analogies with Óðinn in the myth of Baldr’s death, and with passages in the Old English Beowulf;36 in accordance with the seriousness of this way of thinking, then, the uncomfortable image of a man, with or without a host of supporters, attacking or prosecuting the sea would serve to intensify the feeling of futility in what is a real but preposterous desire. Perhaps no more need be said. It is possible to note, however, that there is a bathetic shift between the vaunting of stanza 8 and the faux rationalism of stanza 9, which explains that getting into conflict with the sea would be a bad idea, not because the sea is the sea but because the poet is getting too old to gather troops. Amid the seriousness of the theme, then, does this not remain as an element of self-​deprecating whimsy? The final two issues are connected since both concern Egill’s attitudes towards poetry, which is referred to, early in the poem, as “fagnafundr /​ Friggjar niðja, … /​ Lastalauss” (the joyful find—​faultless—​of Frigg’s kinsmen).37 The idea of poetry as something perfect, established here, is returned to in stanza 24, as will be discussed shortly. Egill’s desire for vengeance, which abides even when its achievement is impossible, has already been noted. Concerning the moral imperative to be satisfied with nothing less than blood vengeance, he also says that “niflgóðr /​niðja steypir /​bródur hrer /​við baugum selr” (a darkness-​good overthrower of kinsmen sells his brother’s corpse for 34  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Sonatorrek,” st. 8, notes; and see Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, 249n8. 35  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Sonatorrek,”st. 9; and see Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, 249n9. 36  Finlay, “Elegy and Old Age,” 116–​17.

37  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Sonatorrek,” st. 2–​3. In context, lastalauss, in st. 3, must refer back to fagnafundr in st. 2. The kenning alludes to the myth of poetry, as confirmed by the lines “ár borinn /​úr Jǫtunheimum” (borne long ago from Jǫtunheimar; st. 2) but here it effectively refers to poetry itself, as is shown by the clause “Era auðþeystr, … úr hyggju stað” (It [the joyful find] is not easily made to rush from the place of thought; st. 2). This conceit parallels one in st. 1, where the mead again stands for actual poetry.

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rings; st. 15).38 In other words, to accept compensation, rather to than take vengeance, for the death of a close kinsman is an evil deed. Towards the end of the poem, nevertheless, Egill does precisely that. Switching attention from the son who was drowned to the one who dies of fever, he also switches blame from the sea-​god to Óðinn: in stanza 21 he says that “Gauta spjalli” (the friend of the Gautar, i.e. Óðinn) took that son and thus, as said in stanza 22, “geirs dróttinn” (the lord of the spear—​Óðinn again) wrecked the friendship that the poet had with the god; as a result, he says in stanza 23, he no longer sacrifices to Óðinn willingly. But then, in the second half of the stanza, comes a volte face: “þó hefr Míms vinr /​mér um fengnar /​bǫlva bœtr /​ef hit betra telk” (nevertheless, Mímr’s friend [i.e. Óðinn] has given me compensation for my injuries, if I reckon better). The nature of the compensation is announced immediately in stanza 24. It is the perfect art of poetry: “Gáfumk íþrótt /​ ulfs um bági /​ vígi vanr /​vammi firrða” (The wolf’s enemy, accustomed to killing, gave me the art free of fault). Thus Egill accepts compensation after all. A death by drowning or by fever is not really a slaying, of course, nor is blood vengeance against Óðinn any more possible than against the sea-​god, and the “compensation” of poetry, furthermore, had been given to Egill long before the deaths of his sons; within the overt logic of “Sonatorrek,” nevertheless, the poet has declared himself niflgóðr (darkness-​good) for being a poet at all. The guilt declared here, viewed in the wider context, may prompt the recollection that the mead of poetry itself has come to mankind through varied wrongdoing in the form of killings, seduction, and robbery—​ indeed it is called “Viðris þýfi” (Viðrir’s [i.e. Óðinn’s] theft) in stanza 1—​but in particular it surely represents the poet’s astute reflection on the guilt that is commonly associated with bereavement, a guilt which the act of composing a commemorative poem makes more sharply felt even as it seeks to assuage it through praise and propitiation. There is more to say, however, because the nature of the compensation given by Óðinn is yet more complex than this. After declaring that he has been given the perfect art, Egill continues, in the same stanza: “ok þat geð /​ er ek gerða mér /​ vísa fjandr /​af vélundum” (and such a disposition that I made for myself known enemies out of tricksters). This is following the highly plausible emendation adopted by Turville-​Petre and Nordal;39 the manuscript reads at for af in the final line, giving the sense: “and such a disposition that I made my known enemies into tricksters.” Whichever reading is preferred, the implication is that Óðinn has given the poet, in compensation for his sons, the knack of fomenting yet more hostility, of one kind or another, on the part of those who hate him. The irony is therefore that, having spent much of the poem complaining that he has no one to support him in future conflicts, Egill now accepts as recompense the fact that he will provoke such conflicts himself and meet them alone; yet there is a certain psychological plausibility here, for many a stubbornly aggressive person can be seen to spring back with renewed belligerence after a temporary emotional collapse. In this case, furthermore, Egill is buoyed up in his renewal of fighting spirit by the gift of poetry, which the stanza clearly links to the art of provoking trouble: both are Odinic attributes

38  The term niflgóðr is a hapax legomenon that possibly means “evil”; see Egils saga SkallaGrímssonar, 151n15. 39  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Sonatorrek,” st. 24n8; Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, 256n24.

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given jointly as one compensation, and a poem can be the means of provocation while provocation can be the substance of a poem; indeed, if the two halves of the stanza are understood as being in parallel, Egill is coming close to asserting, in the rhetoric of the moment, that provocation is the essence of poetry. The propensity of poets to risk offence needs to be borne in mind even when approaching the richly mythological commemorative poems “Eiríksmál” and “Hákonarmál,” which will be the last works to be considered here. Composed ostensibly for the Norwegian kings Eiríkr blóðøx and his half-​brother Hákon góði (the Good) after the fall of each man in battle, both poems depict the warriors’ entrance into the afterlife in notably heathen terms, even though both men had been Christianized to a greater or lesser extent. Concerning Eiríkr, as Goeres notes, it would be difficult to believe that he could have become king of Northumbria after his loss of Norway if he had remained entirely heathen, and indeed Snorri Sturluson declares in Heimskringla that both he and his wife, Gunnhildr, were baptized at the behest of King Aðalsteinn of England;40 nevertheless, the Fagrskinna account that introduces “Eiríksmál” states that, after her husband’s death, which occurred ca. 954, Gunnhildr commissioned the poem and stipulated that it should speak as if Óðinn were welcoming Eiríkr to Valhǫll.41 Whether or not that was so, and whenever the poem was actually composed, the anonymous poet has by no means bequeathed to posterity a work of sycophantic praise untouched by irony. The poem’s most conspicuously questionable element is its startlingly abrupt end, which seems at first glance to imply an expected continuation:  “Konungar eru fimm (sagði Eiríkr); kenni ek þér nafn allra; /​ek em inn sétti sjalfr” (There are five kings [said Eiríkr]; I shall tell you the names of all; I myself am the sixth).42 The most obvious explanation for this feature is that the poem, as preserved, is a fragment that breaks off randomly; however, Fulk argues that the shortness of this stanza, the whole of which is quoted above, may have been an intentional “terminal device” and that the focus was on the number of the kings rather than their names, so that “we need not assume the loss of any material.”43 It is possible, also, that the mentioning of five kings who died in battle, but who are not actually named, was a traditional motif: it can be seen, for example, in the Anglo-​Saxon poem “The Battle of Brunanburh,” which has something of the nature of a praise poem in honour of King Æþelstan (i.e Snorri’s Aðalsteinn, mentioned above).44 Goeres, too, points out that it is unlikely that anything is missing if the poem is viewed as representing “a transformation from human monarch into mythical hero,” in which “the king himself is dead but the character Eiríkr is created as the poem comes into being;’ in 40  Goeres, The Poetics of Commemoration, 55. 41  “Eiríksmál,” 1003.

42  “Eiríksmál,” st. 9. Note that the phrase identifying Eiríkr as the speaker, being extrametrical, has been omitted from this edition but is present in the manuscript and has been restored here. 43  “Eiríksmál,” 1004.

44  “The Battle of Brunanburh,” 16–​20, at ll. 28–​29. See also Seeberg, “Five Kings,” 106–​13, where it is argued that the motif belongs to a biblical tradition.

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elaboration of this she notes that, in the previous stanza, Sigmundr’s formal welcome is a performative speech act that “locates [Eiríkr] within the physical space of Óðinn’s hall,” and that the ensuing invitation to name his companions “gives Eiríkr the opportunity to speak as a full member of Óðinn’s retinue;’ thus the act of replying in itself marks the completion of Eiríkr’s transition between two worlds and is more important than anything the dead king actually says.45 One could also argue, more simply, that it is enough for Eiríkr to indicate that he was able to name the five other kings who accompanied him in death, and that if the anonymous poet had actually gone on to name them it would have detracted from Eiríkr’s own glory, which is the focus of the work. For these reasons, then, it is likely that Gunnhildr and her retinue, if they had anything to do with the poem at all, could have accepted its extant ending as a deftly worked climax of praise. For any detractors of Eiríkr, nevertheless, there was surely room to observe that Eiríkr’s own performative speech act in the poem contains an unfulfilled promise, and to consider that this might reflect the unfulfilled potential of the man who was the favoured son of Norway’s greatest heathen king yet who achieved relatively little beyond the killings that gave him his nickname, and who lost not one but two kingdoms in his career. It is possible, at least, that there is irony earlier in the poem when Sigmundr and Sinfjǫtli are singled out by Óðinn as suitable representatives of the einherjar to meet and greet Eiríkr (st. 5), but this depends on whether the poet and his audiences in the second half of the tenth century already knew Sinfjǫtli’s reputation, as represented much later in Vǫlsunga saga, as the killer of his half-​brothers (and of being Sigmundr’s nephew as well as son);46 if they did, the foregrounding of this pair could be taken as hinting at Eiríkr’s reputation for disposing of his half-​brothers, as represented in Heimskringla.47 It should be noted, however, that the Anglo-​Saxon poem Beowulf, which may well be closer in date to “Eiríksmál” than is Vǫlsunga saga, references the pair, under the names Sigemund and Fitela, overtly as a means of praising Beowulf, and here there are no connotations of fratricide (or indeed incest).48 Firmer grounds for suspecting a double-​edged quality in the offered praise can be found in stanza 3, where the imagination of Bragi, god of poetry, is inflamed by the rumble of Eiríkr’s approach: “Braka ǫll bekkþili, sem myni Baldr koma /​ eptir í Óðins sali” (All the bench boards are creaking as if Baldr were coming back into Óðinn’s hall). Óðinn rather irritably orders Bragi not to talk nonsense (“Heimsku mæla skalat”), since it is clear that it must be Eiríkr who is arriving (st. 4). The command is striking and is bound to prompt consideration of why Óðinn speaks so testily. One reason is likely to be that the reference to Baldr’s return must awaken thoughts of Baldr’s death at the hands of his brother Hǫðr, as narrated in “Vǫluspá” and more fully in Snorri’s Edda;49 this would 45  Goeres, Poetics of Commemoration, 69–​70. See also “Eiríksmál,” st. 8. 46  Vǫlsunga saga, 12–​13.

47  Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla I, 139–​40.

48  Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg, at ll. 874–​97.

49  “Vǫluspá,” 291–​307, at st. 31–​32. Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning, 45–​46.

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be a painful memory for Óðinn, but for the poem’s audience it would raise the uneasy thought of fratricide and its possible association with Eiríkr, which may or may not subsequently be reinforced by the reference to Sinfjǫtli, as discussed above. Another reason, if “Vǫluspá” and Snorri’s Edda can be given credence, is that Óðinn and the poem’s audience know that Baldr will not return until after ragnarǫk, hence after Eiríkr and the einherjar have served their purpose and Óðinn himself is dead.50 A third reason, and the one that is uppermost in the poem’s strategy of praise, is that Óðinn is impatient with any other possibility, so keen is he to have the warlike king in his retinue: “Fyr Eireki glymr, es hér mun inn koma /​ jǫfurr í Óðins sali” (For Eiríkr it clatters, who must be coming in here, a prince into Óðinn’s hall).51 It would hardly be possible for the poet to devise greater praise than this, that Eiríkr’s arrival in Valhǫll should be likened to that of Baldr and that it should fill the greatest god with delighted anticipation, but the strategy comes with a risk of bathos, for it unavoidably prompts the contrary thought—​the god himself all but articulates it—​that Eiríkr is not the longed-​for Baldr, who will come with the renewal of the world, he is only Eiríkr, another fighter who will not save Óðinn. The above observations should not be taken as suggesting that “Eiríksmál” is really a satirical attack presented as a praise poem. Rather it is a praise poem in which the poet manages to acknowledge the difficulty of his subject by delivering the implied negatives simultaneously with the overt positives: he has the intelligence to see Eiríkr in the round, the courage to let this be known to anyone who cares to think about his words, and the sense of decorum that equips him to give the fullest possible endorsement to those qualities that Eiríkr genuinely possessed as a hardened warrior. It is an impressive achievement. Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson had an equally delicate, though potentially less dangerous, task ahead of him, and responded to it with no less circumspection, when he came to compose “Hákonarmál” following the demise of Hákon góði, king of Norway, who died in ca. 961.52 Since Hákon was the half-​brother of Eiríkr, had deposed him as king and driven him from Norway but eventually, after a lengthy and fruitful reign, met his death from wounds sustained in a battle instigated by Eiríkr’s sons, it is especially piquant that Eyvindr, well known for his constructive borrowings from other men’s poems, should have used “Eiríksmál” as the basis for his work about Hákon, as stated in Fagrskinna.53 It has sometimes been suggested that the Fagrskinna account is wrong and that “Hákonarmál” is in fact the earlier poem, but Fulk, editor of the most recent and authoritative edition, observes that Eyvindr’s poem “clearly responds to [‘Eiríksmál’] and surpasses it in praise for the fallen king.”54 Hence Eiríkr is greeted in Valhǫll by two of the einherjar, but Hákon by two gods; Eiríkr arrives with five kings, but Hákon has eight royal brothers waiting for him; Óðinn hopes the newcomer might 50  “Vǫluspá,” st. 60. Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning, 53. 51  “Eiríksmál,” st. 4.

52  Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, “Hákonarmál,” 171–​95. See 171 for the attribution and date. 53  Fagrskinna, 86.

54  Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, “Hákonarmál,” 172.

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be Eiríkr, who simply arrives, but valkyries in full panoply choose and summon Hákon; Eiríkr loses his battle along with his life, but Hákon is granted victory before his death.55 There is no overt reference to Eiríkr in “Hákonarmál,” yet Eyvindr’s poetic gambit is such, for those who catch the allusions, that he honours both him and his anonymous poet by taking the tropes of “Eiríksmál” as worthy models, but simultaneously he puts both warrior and poet in their place by going further; Eiríkr was great, he implies, but Hákon was greater. The subject of religion required more circumspection of Eyvindr than of the “Eiríksmál” poet, for Eyvindr himself was heathen while Hákon¸ known as Aðalsteinsfóstri (foster-​son of King Æþelstan), had been brought up as a Christian in England yet ruled his heathen subjects in Norway with generosity and tolerance, securing times of plenty, as they believed, through partial participation in their heathen rites; matters were made even more complicated by the fact that Eyvindr resided for a time in the court of Hákon’s successor—​Haraldr gráfeldr, son of Eiríkr—​a Christian who broke down heathen shrines and reigned in a time of dearth.56 Eyvindr responds with apparently emphatic heathenism, not only depicting the dead king’s arrival among the gods of Valhǫll but even describing those deities as “heathen” in the last lines of the poem: “Eyðisk land ok láð, /​ síz Hǫ́ kon fór með heiðin goð; /​mǫrg es þjóð of þéuð” (The land and country are being laid waste since Hákon went among heathen gods; many a nation is enslaved).57 It may be thought odd that a heathen poet, rather than a Christian, should refer to his own gods in this way, but it should be noted, for example, that Tindr Hallkelsson, another heathen poet from the end of the heathen period, refers to the Norwegian seaboard as the coast “heiðins dóms […] markar” (of the forest of heathendom) in “Hákonardrápa,” his praise poem composed for Hákon jarl Sigurðarson, who was, as observed earlier, the last great heathen ruler in Norway.58 Sigvatr Þórðarson, furthermore, reports in “Austrfararvísur” that a woman, correctly identifying him as Christian, ordered him out of her house and said, “Erum heiðin vér” (We are heathen).59 The likelihood must therefore be that heathen people adopted the term heiðinn as a means of labelling themselves proudly as Christianity encroached on them—​and these are surely the connotations of the word as used by Eyvindr. His portrayal of Hákon góði in the rest of his poem, however, is far less partisan than this might imply. Although Hákon’s Christianity is never mentioned in “Hákonarmál,” it is repeatedly hinted at by his brusqueness in questioning the valkyries when he hears them talking (st. 11–​12) and in rebuking Óðinn for seeming malevolent (“illúðigr”), when Ódinn has not yet addressed him but had a moment earlier been urging the gods to greet him 55  “Eiríksmál,” st. 5/​8, 9, 1/​2/​4, 7. Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, “Hákonarmál,” st. 14/​16, 16, 1/​ 10/​11/​12/​13, 12. 56  Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, “Hákonarmál,” 171–​72. See the accounts in Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla I, 145–​239, and Fagrskinna, 74–​109. 57  Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, “Hákonarmál,” st. 21. 58  Tindr Hallkelsson, “Hákonardrápa,” 336–​58, at st. 7.

59  Sigvatr Þórðarson, “Austrfararvísur,” 578–​614, at st. 5.

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(st. 14–​15). Above all it may perhaps be seen when, speaking in the royal plural, he refuses to relax with the einherjar or to remove his armour: “Gerðar órar […] /​ viljum vér sjalfir hafa; /​ hjalm ok brunju skal hirða vel” (I myself wish to keep my armour; helmet and mail-​coat one must mind well).60 Eyvindr points up the importance of this moment through some stage-​business concerning the king’s mail-​coat, which has been mentioned repeatedly: Hákon is putting it on when the valkyries first find him in stanza 2, but a short time later, as battle is about to be joined, he takes it off again for reasons that are not made clear (st. 4). Fagrskinna says he did so because it was a hot day;61 however, this detail is not found in the poem, where the action seems rather to result from a kind of battle-​related euphoria since Hákon is described as “gramr inn glaðværi” (the gladsome king) who was playing about (“lék”) with his men (st. 4)—​and one must wonder whether this was a fey mood, given the proximity of the valkyries. In any event, the dead Hákon seems to be wearing the mail-​coat again in Valhǫll. Why will he not set it aside and join his hosts in drinking the ale they offer him (st. 16)? The most obvious answer is because he does not trust the heathen gods or their men, presumably because he is a Christian. On one level, therefore, Eyvindr is having some dour fun at the expense of the king who passes through the narrows of death to find himself not in the bosom of Abraham but in the beer-​hall of Óðinn. It must be noted, however, that all the items of war-​gear that Hákon names are defensive, the implication being that he himself will honour “einherja grið” (the truce of the einherjar; st. 16), but he will stand ready to fight—​which is exactly what the einherjar are for and what they will turn to, come the morning, when their daily battle will resume.62 Thus Hákon is shown to be in death what he has been in life, a Christian warrior amid heathen warriors, participating in their heathen ways uneasily and partially but with courage and strength, ever ready for combat. And thus Eyvindr, on a second level amid a poem of heathen polemic, takes the very thing for which he is ribbing Hákon, and turns it to his glory. Hollander, translating a passage by Finnur Jónson, noted that “it is characteristic of the skalds that they knew how to preserve their independence of opinion and maintain an attitude of frankness and self-​possession which inspired respect” although, as Hollander goes on to say, it could also cause them to incur the wrath of those whom they served.63 Nowhere can this be seen more clearly than in the commemorative poems “Eiríksmál” and “Hákonarmál,” where the skalds’ readiness to indicate the faults of the men they set out to praise is plain to all who have an understanding of the backgrounds and are willing to think about them, and yet where the poets’ forthright intention to glorify their dead kings remains uppermost and rings true throughout both works. Both skalds achieve their effects because they are clever, sure-​footed, clear-​sighted professionals who can deliver what is required of them without surrendering the negatives among the positives in their social judgments on the deceased; and both have the courage to take 60  Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, “Hákonarmál,” st. 17. 61  Fagrskinna, 88.

62  “Vafþrúðnismál,” 356–​66, at st. 41.

63  Hollander, The Skalds, 6. Finnur Jónsson, Den Oldnorske, 338.

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the necessary risks, which they needed even if—​as is possible—​their roles as skalds gave them a certain licence to be contrary. Courage, along with a fine professional judgment of how his audience will react, is at a premium in Egill’s “Hǫfuðlausn,” where frankness is for once subordinated to the requirements of survival, yet the satirical undercurrents, based this time on personal animus, are surely there. Courage of a different kind is also strong in “Sonatorrek,” not in this case because Egill was in danger from some external potentate, and not because he ends by facing renewed hostility and eventual death with renewed vigour, but because here, as argued above, he turns the social commentary against himself, giving unparalleled insights into his insecurities and guilt-​consciousness. The flecks of whimsical negative comment in the poems of Einarr skálaglamm and Þorbjǫrn hornklofi, mentioned at the start of this discussion, stand as examples of how easily a skald could switch in and out of this mode of discourse, and hence of the extent to which it was an expected and licenced element of his art. In fact it was integral to how poetry was conceived of, as symbolized by the mead of poetry in Snorri Sturluson’s telling of the myth. When Óðinn had drunk the mead, says Snorri, he took the shape of an eagle and flew to Ásgarðr, where the gods had set out some vats in readiness; then, as Óðinn came in over the stronghold, “spýtti hann upp miðinum í kerin” (he threw up the mead into the vats).64 Since he was in bird form, one could say politely that he regurgitated it, but in human terms he vomited. Likewise, a skald must vomit in order to “pour out the mead” as he composes or recites. Evidence for this can be seen in Egill’s statement, in “Sonatorrek,” that “era auðþeystr /​ […] úr hyggju stað /​fagnafundr /​Friggjar niðja” (it is not easy to make the joyful find of Frigg’s kinsmen [the mead of poetry] gush from the place of thought [the chest—​not the head]), where the conceit is of the skald finding the mead within his body and trying to retch it up.65 Thus no poetry is all sweet and decorous, for even the most mellifluous praise is mixed with gastric acid.

References

Primary Sources “The Battle of Brunanburh.” In Anglo-​Saxon Minor Poems, edited by Elliott Van Kirk Dobbie, 16–​20. The Anglo-​Saxon Poetic Records 6.  New  York:  Columbia University Press, 1942. Beowulf and the Fight at Finnsburg. Edited by Fr. Klaeber. 3rd ed. New York: D. C. Heath, 1936. Egill Skalla-​Grímsson. “Arinbjarnarkviða.” In Egils saga, edited by Bjarni Einarsson, 155–​62. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2003. —​—​. “Hǫfuðlausn.” In Egils saga Skalla-​Grímssonar, edited by Sigurður Nordal, 185–​92. Íslenzk fornrit 2. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1933. 64  Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Skáldskaparmál, 1:5.

65  Egill Skalla-​Grímsson, “Sonatorrek,” st. 2. This parallels a similar thought in st. 1.

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—​—​. “Sonatorrek.” In E.  O. G.  Turville-​Petre, Scaldic Poetry, 24–​41. Oxford:  Clarendon Press, 1976. Egils saga. Edited by Bjarni Einarsson. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2003. Egils saga Skalla-​Grímssonar. Edited by Sigurður Nordal. Íslenzk fornrit 2. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1933. Einarr skálaglamm Helgason. “Vellekla.” Edited by Edith Marold. In Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas 1: From Mythical Times to c. 1035, edited by Diana Whaley, 280–​329. Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 1. Turnhout: Brepols, 2012. “Eiríksmál.” Edited by R. D. Fulk. In Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas 1: From Mythical Times to c. 1035, edited by Diana Whaley, 1003–​13. Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 1. Turnhout: Brepols, 2012. Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson. “Hákonarmál.” Edited by R. D. Fulk. In Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas 1:  From Mythical Times to c.  1035, edited by Diana Whaley, Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 1, 171–​95. Turnhout: Brepols, 2012. “Fáfnismál.” In Eddukvæði, edited by Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, 2 vols, 2:303–​12. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014. Fagrskinna. In Ágrip af Nóregskonunga sǫgum; Fagrskinna—​ Nóregs konunga tal, edited by Bjarni Einarsson, 55–​373. Íslenzk fornrit 29. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1985. Sigvatr Þórðarson. “Austrfararvísur.” Edited by R.D. Fulk. In Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas 1: From Mythical Times to c. 1035, edited by Diana Whaley, 578–​614. Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 1. Turnhout: Brepols, 2012. Snorri Sturluson. Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning. Edited by Anthony Faulkes. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1988. —​—​. Edda: Skáldskaparmál. Edited by Anthony Faulkes. 2 vols. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1998. —​—​. Heimskringla. Edited by Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson. 3  vols. Íslenzk fornrit 26–​28. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1941–​51. Þorbjǫrn hornklofi. “Haraldskvæði.” Edited by R. D. Fulk. In Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas 1: From Mythical Times to c. 1035, edited by Diana Whaley, 91–​117. Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 1. Turnhout: Brepols, 2012. Tindr Hallkelsson. “Hákonardrápa.” Edited by Russell Poole. In Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas 1:  From Mythical Times to c.  1035, edited by Diana Whaley, 336–​58. Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 1. Turnhout: Brepols, 2012. “Vafþrúðnismál.” In Eddukvæði, edited by Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, 2 vols, 1:356–​66. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014. Vǫlsunga saga:  The Saga of the Volsungs. Edited and translated by R. G. Finch. London: Nelson, 1965. “Vǫlundarkviða.” In Eddukvæði, edited by Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, 2 vols, 1:428–​37. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014. “Vǫluspá.” In Eddukvæði, edited by Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, 2 vols, 1:291–​307. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014.

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Secondary Literature

Clunies Ross, Margaret. A History of Old Norse Poetry and Poetics. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2005. Faulkes, Anthony. Poetical Inspiration in Old Norse and Old English Poetry: The Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture in Northern Studies Delivered at University College London 28 November 1997. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1997. Finlay, Alison. “Elegy and Old Age in Egil’s Saga.” In Egil the Viking Poet: New Approaches to “Egil’s Saga”, edited by Laurence de Looze, Jón Karl Helgason, Russell Poole, and Torfi H. Tulinius, 111–​30. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2015. Finnur Jónsson. Den Oldnorske og Oldislandske Litteraturs Historie. 2nd ed. 3 vols. Copenhagen: Gad, 1920–​24. Goeres, Erin Michelle. The Poetics of Commemoration: Skaldic Verse and Social Memory, c. 890–​1070. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Harris, Joseph. “Homo necans borealis: Fatherhood and Sacrifice in Sonatorrek.” In Myth in Early Northwest Europe, edited by Stephen O.  Glosecki, 153–​73. Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies 320. Tempe: ACMRS, 2007. Hollander, Lee M. The Skalds: A Selection of Their Poems with Introduction and Notes. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1945. Reprint, 1968. Larrington, Carolyne. “Egill’s Longer Poems: Arinbjarnarkviða and Sonatorrek.” In Introductory Essays on “Egils saga” and “Njáls saga”, edited by John Hines and Desmond Slay, 49–​63. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1992. Seeberg, Axel. “Five Kings.” Saga-​Book 20 (1979): 106–​13. Turville-​Petre, E. O. G. Scaldic Poetry. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976. Whaley, Diana. “Skaldic Poetry.” In A Companion to Old Norse–​Icelandic Literature and Culture, edited by Rory McTurk, 479–​502. Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture 31. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005.

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Chapter 5

FRIENDSHIP AND MAN’S REPUTATION: A CASE OF ODDS ÞÁTTR ÓFEIGSSONAR1

Marta Rey-​Radliń ska THERE IS NO doubt that in medieval Scandinavian society reputation was a primary consideration. It often served as the motivator for blood feuds, complicated lawsuits, and extended negotiations. The honour of the people and the family was to be protected at all costs, and we can trace many interesting examples in the course of reading the old Icelandic sagas. Those vendettas and judicial battles in defence of honour could be explained by, among other things, exceptionally strong bonds between family members, loyalty, and the firm belief that one could not survive outside the supporting clan. These obligations were often extended to foster-​children and close friends. There were two main types of friendship in medieval Scandinavia. Helgi Þorláksson distinguishes emotional friendship—​a relationship principally based on affection—​and pragmatic, mutually beneficial, friendship. The first kind of connection was unconditional and durable, lasting in spite of adversity. The latter was in need of constant renewal by reciprocal gift-​giving or feasts, and could be terminated if it was no longer beneficial.2 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson uses different terms of reference to distinguish between relationships based on friendship in vertical (superior-​subordinate connection) and horizontal relations (between equals).3 In this chapter I discuss the idea of friendship and the value of a man’s reputation. The case study is based on one of the þættir preserved in the Morkinskinna, the oldest collection of the kings’ sagas. The tale is called Odds þáttr Ófeigssonar and it is a story of an Icelandic merchant, Oddr Ófeigsson. The text contained in the Morkinskinna is partially unreadable. Missing fragments are usually supplied on the basis of the younger manuscript, Flateyjarbók. Placed in the saga of King Haraldr immediately after Stúfs þáttr and not far from Sneglu-​Halla þáttr, this story creates a counterweight to descriptions of naval battles and sublime poems of the court skalds, ipso facto preceding the series of stories of the invincible Icelanders. There are no female characters in the Odds þáttr, hence the focus on male friendship and reputation. Although the matter of the generic identity of þættir (sing. þáttr) is still debatable, for reasons of clarity and in order to prevent ambiguities I use the term þáttr to mean “short narrative in medieval Icelandic prose.”4 I am aware of the fact that this short 1  Marta Rey-​Radlińska, Jagiellonian University, email: [email protected]. 2  Helgi Þorláksson, Friends, Patrons, 293.

3  Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, “The Changing Role of Friendship in Iceland,” 43–​64. 4  See also Ashman Rowe and Harris, “Short Prose Narrative (þáttr),” 462.

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definition does not reflect the complexity of the phenomenon, but this is not the object of this study. Friendship is a common theme in þættir about Icelanders. The stories illustrate an ancient rule given—​according to tradition—​by Óðinn himself: To his friend a man should be a friend, and gifts with gifts requite. Laughter with laughter Men should receive, but leasing with lying.5

Friendship is essential for survival in the harsh reality of the Viking Age. Joseph Harris argues that in many tales “the hero’s survival depends entirely on the intervention of his friends” and agrees that friendship is “a practical reciprocal arrangement,” giving examples of Gull-​Ásu-​Þórðar þáttr, Þorsteins þáttr Síðu-​Hallssonar and Steins þáttr.6 However, he does not include Odds þáttr in this group, as it “for various reasons def[ies] assignment to one of the interpretative categories”7 he uses in his analysis. The plot of Odds þáttr is well-​structured and subversive. The main protagonist, Oddr, is a reputable merchant. On one of his voyages abroad, his ship accidentally ends up in Finnmark (northern Norway), where Odd’s crew start illegal trade. On their way south, as they sail past the island of Tjøtta, the Norwegian king Haraldr harðráði and his tax collector Einarr fluga catch them and demand an account of their ventures. Oddr, being aware of illegal trade which took place behind his back in Finnmark, attempts to save his crew from the ruler’s anger. He advises his men to conceal the goods. Despite multiple searches of their cargo, Oddr’s crew succeed in escaping detection with the help of one of King Haraldr’s retainers, Þorsteinn, who is also a good friend of Oddr and a relative of the famous rebel and chieftain, Þórir hundr. Oddr and his men in Iceland unharmed. As a token of gratitude, Oddr sends some horses to Þorsteinn—​which, ironically, proves to be a disservice to him. The Norwegian king hears of this gift and concludes from it that Oddr was dishonest and Þorsteinn disloyal, ordering the latter to be put to death. However, due to Þorsteinn’s popularity and at King Haraldr’s court, as well as absence of concrete evidence against him, the killing order is not carried out. Þorsteinn must take his leave of the court, parting with the king in hostility. The main protagonist of Odds þáttr appears also in other sources, featuring as one of the heroes of Bandamannasaga. Although these two texts do not share the same storyline, both mention that Oddr was a successful merchant and in both cases the protagonist appears quite shortsighted in his actions, yet genuinely caring for the well-​being of his subordinates. He is recurrently escaping trouble owing to advice from his friends and family. Oddr is prone to getting into conflicts: he finds himself 5  The Poetic Edda, 62.

6  Harris, “Theme and Genre,” 7.

7  Harris, “Theme and Genre,” 16.

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in two legal trials in Iceland, the first against Óspakr for his lands and goðorð,8 the second against the eight goðar—​chieftains—​who had joined Óspakr.9 These legal disputes, however, were not provoked by Oddr himself, neither by his actions nor his ill will towards anyone. Instead, they were prompted by jealousies of his land, his influence, and his wealth gained through trade. In this context, Odds þáttr is a variation on a theme of the story of the Bandamannasaga: the tale of a man who came to wealth through hard work, yet attracting trouble due to false friends. The dispute with the king described in the þáttr, resulting in the collapse of the merchant’s relationship with Norwegian court, had its origin in dishonesty of Oddr’s crew, whom he felt obliged to protect. Þorsteinn, Oddr’s friend and ally at King Haraldr’s court, plays the role of mediator in this story. He tries to protect his friend, ameliorating the king’s anger while at the same time deflecting harm from himself. The þáttr introduces this character using his relationship with Þórir hundr, one of the greatest Norwegian chieftains, an opponent of King Óláfr II (later Saint King Óláfr), and, according to Snorri Sturluson in Heimskringla,10 the king’s assassin.11 The combination of these two characters juxtaposes Þorsteinn to the oppressive power of the king. Haraldr harðráði, the harsh ruler of Norway, is the most intriguing character in this þáttr. What a reader encounters in this text is no mere face-​off between a cruel king, a resilient Icelander who cares for his own interests, but a complex network of emotions and motivations woven into the narrative itself, which stands out quite independently of its historical and literary context.When the royal tax collector Einarr reports on Oddr’s actions, king Haraldr vents his anger and regret on the Icelander, accusing him of disloyalty. The þáttr relates: But the king answered little and rather angrily and said that Oddr treated him badly, while he always welcomed him with honor, and now he traded with the Lapps without permission.12

It may be seen from this statement that relationship between Oddr and Haraldr has previously been more than just proper. Oddr frequented the Norwegian court before, and was graciously received by the king. Staying on good terms with the Norwegian ruler was a priority certainly not overestimated in Oddr’s merchant activities. As the narrative 8  Goðorð—​office of the “goði.”

9  Jónas Kristjánsson, Eddas and Sagas, 230–​31, 309. 10  Heimskringla, 456.

11  Earlier sources do not confirm that it was Þórir hundr who struck a deadly blow: Theodoric the Monk writes about 1180 in Historia Norvegiae that it is not clear whether Óláfr got one or more wounds and what kind of wounds they should have been. However, already in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the official version of the description of the death of the holy king became well-​founded: he was to die from three wounds: an axe in the thigh, a sword in the neck and a spear in the body. 12  Morkinskinna. The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of Norwegian Kings, 259.

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suggests, the merchant himself did not break the royal ban on trade; his fault resided solely in shielding his subordinates. Similarly, following Oddr’s conversation with Einarr, we can conclude that their earlier relations were positive, although Oddr knew about the darker side of Einarr’s character; he once mentions Einarr having a reputation of not being very lenient. It is intriguing that Einarr lays his suspicions on his people and not on Oddr himself:  “You know what is fitting, Oddr, but you have been among the Lapps this winter, and it may be that some of your men have not been so circumspect in dealing with the Lapps.”13 There is a suggestion here that Oddr himself is not suspected of breaking the law, probably due to his reputation of an honest merchant, which he managed to earn during some earlier expeditions. This sentence also contains the instigation to denounce the dishonest crew members to protect his own interests, but Oddr is not willing to do so. At a later point, Oddr admits to his friend about not trading in Finnmark himself, but as his crew has done it he feels obliged to protect them. He confesses that his crew is hiding the forbidden goods on the ship. His only “charge” is to protect the crew who committed a breach of the royal ban. In this way, the charge changes into merit—​because Oddr cares for his subordinates, putting their well-​being over his own good relations with the king and thus losing all chances of trading with Norway in the future. His loyalty to his crew wins over his so-​called friendship with the king. Odds þáttr’s technique of presenting its characters is worthy of particular consideration. The audience becomes acquainted with the protagonists solely through their own actions and words, without any comments from the narrator. The protagonists’ portraits are complex and reliable, their motivations concrete and their problems relatable. Yet their presentation is not altogether objective. Through skilful narrative devices, the reader is inclined to identify and sympathize with Oddr, who actually does break the law, rather than with Haraldr, who is a de facto victim. The þáttr equips its characters with distinct personalities that enliven and colour them. They are not, as in many other narratives of this kind, typical or even conventional. With their fallible imperfections, they are made the more human and are thus brought closer to the reader. The narrative use of language reveals the characters’ negative emotions. When Einarr finds out that Oddr had tricked him during the search of the ship, he breaks out in anger and calls him “wretch”14 (“allra manna armastr”).15 From this moment Einarr is confident that Oddr and his crew are hiding something from him. The initially calm and neutral narrative picks up speed as Einarr conveys a message to the king, presaging a sinister encounter that Oddr fears most: facing the wrath of Haraldr harðráði. Haraldr, being informed of the incident between Einarr fluga and the merchant, is determined to discover the deceit and punish the guilty. He is very angry, taking the 13  Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of Norwegian Kings, 258. 14  Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of Norwegian Kings, 258. 15  Morkinskinna, 294

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affront of his representative as a personal offence. The narrator emphasizes the king was “reiðr” (wrathful and offended). Anger and resentment imply further negative reactions of the king. “The king didn’t wait for niceties but went to meet them,”16 also without deliberating he goes to meet Oddr, who kindly welcomes him. However, Haraldr remains tight-​lipped and rather angry. The Icelander responds calmly and politely to the king, but it does not soothe the king’s anger. Although Haraldr has no evidence of Oddr’s crime yet, he is convinced of his suspicion and declares that Oddr and his crew deserve to be “strung up and hanged on the highest tree.”17 The narrative description of Þorsteinn is likewise noteworthy: he is presented as a handsome young man, a relative of one of the chieftains from a previous generation, and a good friend of Oddr. This description contrasts with the sinister attitude of the king. Male beauty in sagas is often combined with other positive qualities and attributed to heroes on the “good” side.18 When Þorsteinn stays on his friend’s ship in order to give him advice, he also helps him break the law and deceive the king. Due to stylistic approach of combining opposites, the reader automatically favours Oddr and Þorsteinn—​the “beautiful and young” men in opposition to the “bad and suspicious” Haraldr and Einarr, although the latter are legally justified in their reactions, while the former are in the wrong. The unfavourable characteristics of the king are fulfilled by the narrator’s words that he was so angry that he did not listen. Here is a clear contrast between Oddr’s calm and balanced statements and a fierce response of the king, despite the lack of evidence of his reason. When it turns out that Oddr escaped the royal jurisdiction, Haraldr’s anger switches on Þorsteinn. He accuses his retainer of a “family tendency to betrayal,” referring to Þórir hundr’s earlier revolt against royal authority. Heated words are once more contrasted with a calm answer supplied by Þorsteinn, quietly explaining that stopping a king from killing an innocent man was not a betrayal, but an act of loyalty. Haraldr is described by means of negatively marked expressions which reveal his anger and wrath. The king’s intellectual inferiority is underlined by the fact that he never has the last word and is still one step behind Oddr and Þorsteinn. As Lars Lönnroth argues in Rhetorical Persuasion in the Sagas, the narrative techniques used in Old Norse prose only appear objective on the surface. In fact, they skilfully control the sympathies and antipathies of the audience, discreetly manipulating their feelings in relation to characters and events. Lönnroth divides those techniques in three categories: commentary, stylistic variation, and staging.19 “Commentary” include all directly or indirectly expressed opinions. “Stylistic variation” is a tool consisting of a differentiation of language depending on whether the narrative concerns the positive or negative characters. “Staging” is both a narrative technique used to dramatize the important events and the selective process which determines what to tell and in what order. As 16  Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of Norwegian Kings, 259. 17  Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of Norwegian Kings, 259. 18  Lönnroth, “Rhetorical Persuasion in the Sagas,” 87.

19  Lönnroth, “Rhetorical Persuasion in the Sagas,” 104.

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we can see from this case study, the narrative of Odds þáttr is clearly differentiating the characters and by appropriate stylistic means, giving them positive or negative features. In medieval Scandinavian society, reputation was one of the most important values and a way to maintain high social standing. It could either help or hinder in achieving desired goals. Honour and prestige were not only matters of the person involved but also represented power and standing of people related to individual in question.20 “The fair fame,” praised in the ancient poem Hávamál, is present in almost all Old Norse texts: Cattle die, Kindred die, We ourselves also die; But the fair fame Never dies of him who has earned it.21

There are various ways to achieve immortality in human memory. One of them is the poetry giving the praised person what every skald, warrior and ruler wishes most: the possibility of writing his name in the pages of history. But the “fair fame” does not have to refer to the lofty ideas of heroes only. Equally, merchants, farmers, and everyday adventurers cared for their good reputation and the honour of their family and friends. The protagonists in Odds þáttr could make use of public opinion: Oddr is known as a successful merchant, wise and acquainted with rules of law. He has been a recurring guest at the king’s court, always welcomed—​until the events described. The good fame of Þorsteinn literally saves his life. When the king wants to kill him, his retainers refuse to fulfill the order. But it is his family reputation which triggers the king to suspect him of treason: as mentioned above, Þorsteinn is related to King Óláfr’s reputed slayer. Icelandic–​Norwegian political relations have often been described in literature as complicated.22 The hostile attitude of the Norwegian court towards Icelanders and vice versa, evidenced from many Old Norse texts, stems from ancient conflicts that began with Haraldr hárfagri attempts to unite Norway, often at the free farmers’ expense. Magnús Fjalldal describes this account as “love-​hateful”: Much of the time, medieval Icelandic writers loathed the court of Norway. They knew the Norwegian kings had schemes to gain control over the country (which they eventually did in 1262), and they also knew the Norwegian court was actively supporting certain players in what was virtually a civil war in Iceland during the first half of the thirteenth century. […] But thirteenth-​ century Icelandic writers also knew that if you wanted to be socially acceptable, kings and their courts were your key to success.23

20  Byock, “Choices of Honor,” 174. 21  The Poetic Edda, 68.

22  See, for example, Sverrir Jakobsson, “The Early Kings of Norway,” 171–​88 23  Fjalldal, Anglo-​Saxon England, 101.

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The “friendship” between these countries and their citizens was of the pragmatic-​ political type, based on mutual benefits as an arrangement to achieve political goals. It was a hierarchical relationship, with Norway acting as superior. Odds þáttr emphasizes the ambivalence of relations with the Norwegian court. Oddr faces a powerful adversary, and despite displays of courtesy he stands up to protect his people. Meanwhile Þorsteinn is one of the royal retainers, despite his family’s opposition to the throne. He is both respected and popular, yet draws the king’s accusation for being “true to [his] family with respect to treachery.”24 The narrative makes clear that Þorsteinn puts more value in his friendship with the Icelander Oddr, based on common experiences and on trust, rather than his friendship with the king, which mainly rests on mutual benefits. Unlike some other þættir of Morkinskinna, the purpose of this narrative is no mere affirmation of certain moral values, and no mere entertainment. Absent here are the motifs of loyal service, or of striving to maintain best possible relations with the king, as is the case in many other þættir. The main thread in this narrative is an Icelandic merchant’s resistance (not a skald, not a warrior, but an average man) against the ruler and his way of ruling. In the end, Oddr effectively slips away from the king’s power and manages to fool him—​with Þorsteinn’s help. The friendship between Oddr and Þorsteinn brings to mind the ideal of “noble friendship,” containing the element of selflessness and sacrifice, originating in antiquity and featuring in Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. He defines friendship as a concept that “is either virtue or involves virtue.”25 It is reckoned as superior to friendship within family. Later, Cicero re-​establishes it as a central topic of discourse through De amicitia, but in Roman culture the meaning of the term amicitia was closer to “alliance” than “friendship” in modern understanding of these terms. It encompassed relationships of more political than private nature, both between equals and patrons; subordinates required reciprocal obligations.26 The disturbance of this delicate balance could be a death blow for such relations. Cicero notes: “Yet tyrants are flattered with a false show of friendship as long as they can be made of use; but if, as often happens, they are overthrown, their lack of true friends is at once manifest.”27 In Old Norse literature, this pragmatic category of friendship is easily found. The presently discussed narrative of Odds þáttr constitutes a clear illustration of Cicero’s quote: as long as the king of Norway could use the friendship of Oddr and Þorsteinn for his own needs, both were considered his good “friends.” But the moment he began to suspect them of undermining his position and acting to his detriment, his “friendship” at once turns into fierce hostility. Not many centuries after Cicero’s De amicitia, theologian and philosopher Augustine of Hippo transformed the idea of noble friendship into a lasting friendship which may only come in and through Christ. Some decades later, Boethius in Consolation of 24  Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of Norwegian Kings, 260. 25  Pangle, Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship, 6.

26  Viðar Pálsson, Power and Political Communication, 5. 27  Marcus Tullius Cicero, De amicitia, 82.

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philosophy stated that noble friendship is unalloyed, and that misfortune may help discover who one’s true friend really is.28 The idea of noble friendship is recurrent in medieval romances, like The Song of Roland or Yvain. Warrior companions and friends appear in early Germanic epic, such as Beowulf, and in the saga literature, for example Njáls saga. The ideal of two men bound to each other, appreciating each other’s qualities, was a popular one. As close confidants, they find mutual refuge in each other; they are allies and counsellors in adversity, willing to die on each other’s behalf. Yet what is central in the Old Nordic cultural ideal of a long-​ lasting friendship is sharing and reciprocal gift-​giving, as emphasized in Hávamál.29 Odds þáttr touches the problem of ethics in the “friend-​to-​friend” and “subject-​to-​ king” relations. The first dynamic is posited as exalted, noble, and lasting despite the difficulties and dangers; the second is presented as secondary, easy to end, without affecting anyone’s feelings. Deceiving a king in order to help a friend is not only admissible but even glorious, this þáttr suggests. Guðrún Nordal30 distinguished loyalty to family members as a characteristic feature of pagan and early Christian societies of Iceland. In Odds þáttr, strong bonds of loyalty also apply to close friends. The reader observes, for instance, Þorsteinn’s attempts to save Oddr from Haraldr’s punishment, as well as the defence put on by members of Haraldr’s retinue to shield Þorsteinn from royal wrath when the king orders him slain. The ideal of noble friendship is also described in some sagas of Icelanders: Egils saga tells of the close relations between Egill and Arinbjörn, and Njáls saga is famous for depicting the friendship of Njáll and Gunnarr. In both cases one friend risks his health and life to help the other. Oddr and Þorsteinn thus emerge as part of this tradition. As may be observed, loyalty to a ruler is perpetually in need of enforcement as it relies on reciprocal benefits, making it vulnerable and temporal. The noble friendship, on the other hand, built through common experiences and mutual respect between two people of equal status, as well as through reciprocal gifts and favours, becomes as strong as a blood tie. Exchanging gifts or favours is intended to nurture, develop, and maintain both kinds of friendship. Yet it must be balanced and not overdone, as Odds þáttr cautions, lest the gift-​giving gesture become a disservice harming the recipient, as was the case of Oddr’s horses sent to his friend Þorsteinn, which almost caused his death.

References

Primary Sources Marcus Tullius Cicero. De amicitia (On Friendship). Translated by B. E. Smith. New York: The Century Co., 1906. Morkinskinna. Edited by Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson and Ármann Jakobsson. Íslenzk fornritt 23. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska fornritafélag, 2011. 28  Hill, “Friendship in the Middle Ages,” 566. 29  Hill, “Friendship in the Middle Ages,” 568. 30  Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action, 28.

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Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–​1157). Edited by T. M. Andersson and K. E. Gade. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000. Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla or the Lives of the Norse Kings. Edited by E. Monsen. New York: Kessinger Publishing, 2004. The Poetic Edda. Edited by B. Thorpe. Lapeer: The Northvegr Foundation Press, 2004. Secondary Literature

Ashman Rowe, Elisabeth, and Joseph Harris. “Short Prose Narrative (þáttr).” In A Companion to Old Norse–​Icelandic Literature and Culture, edited by Rory McTurk, 462–​78. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2005. Byock, Jesse, L. “Choices of Honor: Telling Saga Feud, Tháttr, and the Fundamental Oral Progression.”Oral Tradition 1 (1995): 166–​80. Fjalldal, Magnus. Anglo-​Saxon England in Icelandic Medieval Texts. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. Guðrún, Nordal. Ethics and Action in Thirteenth-​century Iceland. The Viking Collection 11. Odense: Odense University Press, 1998. Hallberg, Peter. The Icelandic Saga. Translated by P. Schach. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 1962. Harris, Joseph. “Theme and Genre in Some Íslendinga Þættir.” Scandinavian Studies 48 (1976): 1–​28. Helgi Þorláksson. “Friends, Patrons, and Clients in the Middle Ages.” In Friendship and Social Networks in Scandinavia, c.  1000–​1800, edited by Jón Viðar Sigurðsson and T. Småberg, 293–​303. Turnhout: Brepols, 2013. Hill, J. M. “Friendship in the Middle Ages.” In Handbook of Medieval Culture, vol. 1, edited by A. Classen. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015. Jónas Kristjánsson. Eddas and Sagas. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1988. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson. “The Changing Role of Friendship in Iceland, c. 900–​1300.” In Friendship and Social Networks in Scandinavia, c.  1000–​1800, edited by Jón Viðar Sigurðsson and T. Småberg, 43–​64. Turnhout: Brepols, 2013 Lönnroth, Lars. “Rhetorical Persuasion in the Sagas.” In The Academy of Odin: Selected Papers on Old Norse Literature, 77–​109. The Viking Collection 19. Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2011. Pangle, L. S. Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Sverrir Jokobsson. “The Early Kings of Norway, the Issue of Agnatic Succession and the Settlement of Iceland.” Viator. Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies 47 (2016), 171–​88. Viðar Pálsson. Power and Political Communication. Feasting and Gift Giving in Medieval Iceland. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010.

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Chapter 6

CULTURAL TRANSFER OF COGNITIVE STRUCTURES OF FORTUNE IN THE LATIN AND OLD ICELANDIC LITERATURES AND LANGUAGES: THE CASE OF THE METAPHOR FORTUNE IS A WHEEL1

Grzegorz Bartusik ACCORDING TO WOLFGANG Welsch’s model of transculturality,2 when different cultures collide, a process resembling an osmosis occurs between them, known as cultural transfer. The elements of given cultures gradually permeate broader cultural spheres and deeper social strata: people meet, communicate, and intermingle, exchange artifacts, ideas, texts, and languages. Consequentially, they come to share mindsets and worldviews, ways of thinking and understanding of the world and the human’s place within it. This article is particularly concerned with the cognitive phenomena which take place in between cultures. How are particular ways of thinking disseminated? What happens on a linguistic micro-​scale? To shed light on this mental layer of cultural transfer and place it under the magnifying glass of critical analysis, I use historical cognitive linguistics originating from the theories developed by Lakoff and Johnson,3 to analyze a text which may be considered a nodal point between Latin and Scandinavian civilizations, literatures, languages, 1  Grzegorz Bartusik is a doctoral candidate in the Institute of History at the University of Silesia in Katowice and a lecturer in Latin at the Silesian University of Technology in Gliwice, email: [email protected]. This article is part of a research project entitled Dissemination of the Latin Conceptual Metaphors in the Old Norse–​Icelandic literature as a Cognitive Manifestation of Christianization and Europeanization of the Mediaeval Scandinavia funded by the National Science Centre, Poland (grant no. 2017/​27/​N/​HS3/​00740). Many thanks are due for their sound counsels to Jakub Morawiec from the University of Silesia, Bernt Øyvind Thorvaldsen from the University of Southeast Norway, and Þorbjörg Helgadóttir from the University of Copenhagen, whose wisdom I followed in conducting this study, as a visiting scholar at the University of Southeast Norway, the University of Iceland, and the University of Copenhagen. 2  Welsch, “Transculturality,” 194–​213.

3  Lakoff and Johnson, “The Metaphorical Structure of the Human Conceptual System,” 195–​208. See also Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By; Winters, Tissari, and Allan, Historical Cognitive Linguistics; Díaz-​Vera, Metaphor and Metonymy across Time and Cultures; Musolff et al., Cognition and Culture; Musolff, “Metaphor in the History of Ideas and Discourse,” 233–​47; Musolff, “Is There Such a Thing as Discourse History?,” 1–​27; Musolff, “Metaphor in the Discourse–​Historical Approach,” 45–​66.

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and mindsets: Rómverja saga (The Saga of the Romans).4 Rómverja saga is an Old Norse–​Icelandic translation of Latin texts by Sallustius (86 bc–​ca. 35 bc) and Lucanus (ad 39–65), two ancient Roman writers. This translation emerged in late twelfth-​century Iceland, in the midst of accelerating Europeanization of Scandinavia in the Middle Ages. Focusing on this displaced text will allow me to shed light on cultural encounters between two seemingly unrelated historical times and locations: the Roman Empire of antiquity and the medieval Icelandic Commonwealth, which resulted from two civilizing processes unfolding in Scandinavia: Christianization and Europeanization. A change in mentalities is always recorded in language. In order to scrutinize the network of beliefs and attitudes underlying Rómverja saga and its texti recepti, Sallustius and Lucanus (which would otherwise remain invisible while always implicit in the saga’s texture), we may examine the text’s linguistic structure. A case study of this textual group in context of related literatures, languages, and their conceptual worlds will allow to identify traces of change in medieval Norse worldview, brought about by inflow of Latin learning to Scandinavia in the tenth and eleventh centuries in the wake of Christianity’s rise in the region. When worldviews of a given culture undergo a paradigm shift, this dynamic process is reflected in its cognitive composition—​namely, dissemination and integration of new cognitive patterns in the indigenous conceptual system. In the case of medieval Scandinavia, we detect Christian and Latin ideas interwoven into the canvas of vernacular Old Norse culture. Cognitive structures resemble templates of meaning based on shared understandings and experiences concerning the workings of the world. According to Cognitive Linguistics, among the recurrent patterns a mind distinguishes are schemata, scenes, scripts, models, stereotypes, and metaphors. A cognitive metaphor may be perceived as the smallest element in a conceptual world, the smallest meaningful unit of mentality. In colliding and coexisting languages and literatures, like Old Norse–​Icelandic and Latin, we may observe them percolating, mixing, and combining. Christian and Latin metaphors, as well as more complex cognitive structures, are gradually assimilated and integrated into Old Norse–​Icelandic. In the case of medieval Scandinavia undergoing assimilation into continental European culture, ancient Greek and Latin cognitive metaphors were simply integrated into Old Norse–​Icelandic conceptual world:  e.g. fortune is a wheel, Gr. ὁ κύκλος /​ὁ τροχός τῆς τύχης5 and Lat. rota fortunae,6 as ON–​I hamingjuhvel, hamingjuhjól, 4  Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga]”; Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “On the Sources and Composition of Rómverja Saga,” 203–​20; Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “On the Sallust Translation in Rómverja saga,” 263–​77; Gropper, “Sallust auf Isländisch,” 155–​73; Würth, Der Antikenroman.

5  Herodotos, Historiai 1.207: κύκλος τῶν ἀνθρωπηΐων ἐστὶ πρηγμάτων; Aristoteles, Physica 223b24: κύκλον εἶναι τὰ ἀνθρώπινα πράγματα.

6  Radding, “Fortune and her Wheel,” 127–​38; Heller-​Roazen, Fortune’s Faces; Galpin, “Fortune’s Wheel in the Roman De La Rose,” 332–​42; Magee, “The Boethian Wheels of Fortune and Fate,” 524–​33; Patch, “Fate in Boethius and the Neoplatonists,” 62–​72; Robinson, “The Wheel of Fortune,” 207–​16; Sanford, “Honorius and the Wheel of Fortune,” 251–​52; Walther, “Rota fortunae im lateinischen Verssprichwort des Mittelalters,” 48–​58.

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auðnuhvel, and auðnuhjól; fate is a woven cloth, Gr. Μοῖραι and Lat. Parcae as ON–​I Nornir. What is a cognitive metaphor? It is not merely a figure of style. It is a figure of thought and understanding. According to Vyvyan Evans, a cognitive metaphor is a form of conceptual projection involving mappings or correspondences holding between distinct conceptual domains. Conceptual metaphors often consist of a series of conventional mappings which relate aspects of two distinct conceptual domains. The purpose of such a set of mappings is to provide structure from one conceptual domain, the source domain, by projecting the structure onto the target domain. This allows inferences which hold in the source to be applied to the target. For this reason, conceptual metaphors are claimed to be a basic and indispensable instrument of thought.7

The essence of metaphor, therefore, lies in understanding and experiencing one notion in terms of another. As George Lakoff wrote in Metaphors We Live By, the human conceptual system, collectively constructed through the ages over the canvas of bodily experience, is predominantly metaphorical. Metaphors are at the heart of the human experience and understanding. When we interact with the world, we try to make sense of our experiences and actions, as homo sapiens sapiens, using metaphors deriving from our material surroundings, directly available to us. However, we also experience abstractions, things outside of our sensual and empirical world without physical embodiment, such as happiness, fate, fortune, justice, injustice, virtue, piety, faith, et caetera. What are these abstractions? To make sense of it, humans use metaphors rendering abstractions in the form of material objects. We imagine an abstract idea and have sense of it in terms of the material, sensual, empirical world: world as a tree, god as a father, fortune/​fate as a wheel, society/​world as a body or its members, fate/​life as a woven tapestry/​cloth, etc. A thing from our physical world metaphorically stands in place of such a concept. For some Greek, Roman, and Scandinavian imaginations, for instance, fate was conceptualized as a tapestry. People of those cultures regarded themselves as woven into the fabric of life by the Μοῖραι, the Parcae, or the Nornir respectively—​mythic figures who handle those threads. Others in the same cultures experienced fate as riding a wheel spun by a capricious and deceptive woman called Τύχη, Fortuna, or Hamingja. Cognitive metaphors affect human behaviour by shaping the way we think about the world. We live our lives by certain metaphors, internalizing them and acting in line with them. How does one behave when aware of having no power over one’s own life? The threads of events have already been woven into the fabric of one’s life by three old supernatural women. The warp and weft cannot be altered by human means. One is riding a wheel steered by Fortune, a deceptive goddess. It is not up to the individual in those cultures to decide on the course of one’s own life. This determinism undermines and negates human efforts, leading to pessimism and fatalism. 7  Evans, “Metaphor,” 136–​38.

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Cognitive metaphors constitute prototype worlds of meaning and understanding, which to some limited extent could be universal, such as an image of the body as a container (of qualities or character traits). Metaphors could also be based on embodied cognition, such as the physiological experience of up and down, where happy is up, sad is down. Such metaphors are nearly universal, occurring across a wide range of cultures. However, according to Andreas Musolff8 and the theoretical current of historical cognitive linguistics, cognitive worldviews have spatial, temporal, and historical dimensions. They can form a discourse limited to a certain period, territory, culture, or even social stratum. Some cognitive metaphors cannot be regarded as universal by-​products of human thought processes because they are too sophisticated and complex, too culture-​ specific, and too unevenly disseminated in space and time throughout human cultures, as evidence demonstrates.9 There are numerous examples of cognitive metaphors only periodically or locally concentrated in one specific culture or more cultures in closer contact with one another, and non-​existent in some other conceptual worlds of isolated civilizations.10 Therefore, if a given metaphor exists in different conceptual and literary imaginaria, it must have been integrated as a consequence of cross-​cultural exchange of knowledge, i.e. cultural transfer. A new metaphor integrated into existing system of metaphors has a potential to change the existing mentality. With the passing of centuries, increasing cross-​cultural encounters across the Mediterranean and continental Europe resulted in ancient Romans beginning to think like Greeks, Germans like Romans, and finally medieval Scandinavians like the other Christian European societies in continental Europe at that time. The medieval European cognitive worldview emerged as a patchwork quilt of many cultural-​specific metaphors. There were certain metaphors that shaped the European worldview and identity. Among them: society/​world as a body,11 fate/​life 8  See above, note 3.

9  In the light of the linguistic and archaeological evidence that Proto-​Indo-​Europeans most probably had wheels and wagons, it is worthy of reflection that in the Hindu culture of India we find the figure of wheel perceived as metaphorically resembling a human’s life, their cy clic e xistence of repeated birth, incarantions, which is represented there by the Bhavacakra भवचक्र sym bol, the wheel of life. In a Sanskrit poem from the fourth to fifth century ad entitled Meghadūta (मेघदू त), the Cloud Messenger, one can find this metaphor put to use to describe it: Life like a wheel’s revolving orb turns round; now whirled in air, now dragged along the ground (see The Mégha Dúta, 114–​15, v. 721–​ 22). For the wheel in the Proto-​Indo-​European language and culture, see Anthony, The Horse, the Wheel, and Language. 10  Kövecses, Metaphor in Culture.

11  Harvey, “Aesop and Others,” 4–​10; Hammond, Bodies Politic and their Governments; Rasmussen and Brown, “The Body Politic as Spatial Metaphor,” 469–​84; Musolff, “The Metaphor of the ‘Body Politic’ across Languages and Cultures,” 85–​99; Musolff, “Metaphor in the History of Ideas and Discourse,” 233–​47; Takashi Shogimen, “Treating the Body Politic,” 77–​104; Wiseman, “The Two-​ Headed State,” 25–​44; Musolff, “Cultural Differences in the Understanding of the Metaphor of the ‘Body Politic’,” 145–​53.

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as a woven cloth,12 the ship of state,13 god as architect/​artisan,14 god/​ruler as the shepherd of the people, the state as a household/​family, gods as kings, kings as gods, FORTUNE AS A WHEEL. This might have been the case with the transfer of an ancient Mediterranean metaphor across medieval Europe to Iceland: fortune is a wheel. Let us take a closer look at the carriers of these ideas: Sallustius, Lucanus, Rómverja saga, Antikensagas (the Sagas of Antiquity, namely Icelandic sagas translated from Latin text of ancient Roman provenance) and related vernacular Icelandic texts, all linked to Rómverja saga by a dense intertextual matrix. All of these formed nodal points of cultural transfer between Latin and Scandinavian civilizations, literatures, languages, and mentalities. The extent to which medieval Icelanders could have known the elements of the ancient Roman conceptual world was limited. Ancient Roman ideas were mainly textually transmitted. With the exception of receiving education in continental Europe, medieval Icelanders were exposed to ancient Roman concepts only through the corpus of ancient Latin texts imported to Iceland, the knowledge of which was narrowed to literary canon within reach. What did the corpus of ancient Roman literature known to Icelanders consist of?15 As far as classical Latin authors of the Republican and Augustan golden and imperial silver ages are concerned, Rómverja saga may have been the best that was preserved to this day from medieval Scandinavian libraries. It is the only extant Old Icelandic unmediated translation of classical Latin Roman literary texts to Old Icelandic: Bellum Iugurthinum and Bellum Catilinae by Sallustius, and Pharsalia by Lucanus. Rómverja saga in its oldest version (ÁM 595 a–​b 4o), being a direct translation of these texts, is an adaptation in the first degree, without intermediate stages, while its earlier version (ÁM 225 fol. and ÁM 226 fol.) should be regarded as an adaptation in the second degree (an abbreviated adaptation of a translation). 12  Eidinow, Luck, Fate, and Fortune; Shauf, The Divine in Acts and in Ancient Historiography; Giberson, Abraham’s Dice; Greene, Moira:  Fate, Good, and Evil, in Greek Thought; Dietrich, “The Spinning of Fate in Homer,” 86–​101; Sorensen, “Τύχη:  Fortune, Fate and Chance in Herodotus and Thucydides,” 24–​42; van der Horst, “Fatum, Tria Fata; Parca, Tres Parcae,” 217–​27; Cottica, “Spinning in the Roman World: From Everyday Craft to Metaphor of Destiny,” 220–​28; Harkness, “The Scepticism and Fatalism of the Common People of Rome,” 56–​88; Giannoulis, Die Moiren. Tradition und Wandel des Motivs der Schicksalsgöttinnen in der antiken und byzantinischen Kunst; Bek-​Pedersen, The Norns in Old Norse Mythology; Bek-​Pedersen, “Fate and Weaving,” 23–​39; Bek-​ Pedersen, “Are the Spinning Nornir Just a Yarn?,” 1–​10. 13  Isl. þjóðarskúta:  the ship of state. See also Alcaeus, frs. 6, 208, 249; Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes 1–​10; Plato, Respublica VI.488e–​489d; Horatius, Carmina I.14; Cicero, De domo sua 24, 129, 137, In Pisonem 4, 9, 20, Pro Sestio 16, 25, 45; May, “The Image of the Ship of State in Cicero’s Pro Sestio,” 259–​64; Thompson, The Ship of State. 14  For a discussion of deus creator/​artifex—​deus creator caeli et terrae—​himna smiðr, see Cavell, “Creation, Magic, and Fate,” 251–​79.

15  Lassen, “Indigenous and Latin Literature,” 74–​87; Würth, “Historiography and Pseudo-​History,” 155–​72; Jensen, “Scandinavia,” 252–​64.

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As for other ancient Roman texts translated from Latin, they have been preserved in Iceland as adaptations of adaptations, and in some cases even as adaptations of a third degree. This frequently resulted in textual palimpsests so multi-​layered that similarities between earlier and later works are remote to the point of being untraceable. Moreover, they were filtered through Christian reinterpretations of classical canon by Augustinus, Gregorius Magnus, the Fathers and Doctors of the Church. Among such reinterpretations is an adaptation of Curtius Rufus by Walter of Châtillon in France in the form of Alexandreis, imported to Iceland and translated into Old Icelandic as Alexanders saga. Another adapted Old Icelandic text, Trójumanna saga (the Saga of the Trojans), is based in its earliest version on Daretis Phrygii de excidio Trojae historia, a late ancient account of the Trojan legend, yet this Old Icelandic saga also contains interpolated fragments from Ovidius (Metamorphoses, Heroides),16 Vergilius’ Aeneis17 and Ilias Latina (an abbreviated Latin version of the Iliad of Homer). In yet another example, Horatius’ Carmina were reworked in a fourteenth-​century Icelandic hrynhenda.18 All of these texts were part of the curriculum of grammatica and rhetorica in medieval Iceland. Among the Latin texts of late antiquity known to medieval Icelandic audiences were Disticha Catonis, Boethius’ De consolatione Philosophiae, Augustinus’ De civitate Dei, and Gregory the Great’s writings. The attested Latin learned texts from later medieval centuries included Isidorus Hispalensis (Etymologiae), Honorius Augustodunensis (Elucidarius), or Peter Comestor (Historia scholastica). The Islandia Latina database, edited by Gottskálk Jensson from the Department of Nordic Research at the University of Copenhagen, provides an exhaustive register of Latin authors, mainly late antique and medieval, whose works were extant in medieval Iceland.19 Clearly, medieval Scandinavians were more up-​to-​date with their contemporary Latin literature than with 16  Jóns saga byskups hin elzta, 1:165. 17  The line Omnia vincit Amor, et nos cedamus Amori (Vergilius, Eclogae, 10.69) was well enough known to be quoted in Latin in a surviving runic inscription from Bergen (Database Runic Inscriptions from Bryggen in Bergen, inscriptions B145, B605, N605, from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries). See Spurkland, Norwegian Runes and Runic Inscriptions, 180–​84; Liestøl, “Runer frå Bryggen,” B145.

18  Helgi Guðmundsson, “Hóras,” 30–​33. See: Finnur Jonsson, Den Norsk–​Islandske Skjaldedigtning, vol. A 2, p. 463, vol. B 2, p. 496. “Páter ertu og princeps feiti, /​ prócussúl ertu svarta pússa, /​ rex heitir þú lifra ljóssa, /​ látprúðr ertu domnús húða, /​ preses ertu ok lofðungr lýsis, /​ leðrs kalla þik césarem allir, /​mágister ertu maks ok leista, /​margsvinnr ertu dúx fyr skinnum” (You are a pater [father] and a princeps [chieftain] in a fat, /​a proconsul [a governor of a province] you are of black belts, /​you are called a rex [king] of shining livers, /​ a dominus [lord] you are of gentle bearing towards hides /​a praeses [chief] you are and a prince of a train-​oil , /​ all hail you as a caesar of a leather, /​a magister [master] you are of matches and socks, /​ much befriended dux [prince] for skins). Horatius, Carmina, I.2.41–​52 (hic magnos potius triumphos, /​hic ames dici pater atque princeps, /​neu sinas Medos equitare inultos te duce, Caesar). Quotations in Latin remain untranslated in this chapter; published English translations are widely available. Translations of quotations in other languages are my own except where otherwise stated. 19  Database Islandia Latina, ed. Gottskálk Jensson, the Department of Nordic Research at the University of Copenhagen: http://​islandialatina.hum.ku.dk.​

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the classical one, as twelfth-​to thirteenth-​century fragments of Carmina Burana found carved into rune sticks from the old wharf in Bergen testify.20 The textual transmission of Sallustius and Lucanus ran a long course, from Rome to Iceland, from antiquity down to the medieval period. In the mid-​first century bc Gaius Sallustius Crispus, a Roman historian, and a homo novus, a new man, in the politics of the Roman Republic, wrote two historical treatises: Bellum Iugurthinum (about Rome’s war against the Numidians in Africa from 111 to 105 bc) and De coniuratione Catilinae (about a conspiracy contrived in 63 bc by Lucius Sergius Catilina to overthrow the Roman State). In the mid-​first century ad, Marcus Annaeus Lucanus, the court poet of the emperor Nero, composed The Pharsalia, also known as On the Civil War (Latin: De Bello Civili) and The Civil War (Bellum Civile), which told the story of the civil war between Julius Caesar and Pompey. They gained enormous popularity among the literate clergy and layfolk alike throughout the Middle Ages, and have been preserved in a vast range of continental European manuscripts. Sallustius survives in more than five hundred manuscripts divided into two families: one emanating from France, the other from Germany (Y: N, K, H, G: M, T, D, F).21 Lucanus is attested in more than four hundred complete and partial copies, of which the earliest were dated to the ninth and tenth centuries from Italy, France, and Germany, some of these including Carolingian copies of even older manuscripts.22 After centuries, these texts reached Scandinavia in a rather blurred line of transmission from Rome. As centuries passed, these texts were imported from continental Europe or the British Isles to Scandinavia and Iceland, ending up in some remote monastery or cathedral school. They were used as education aids in learning Latin and, possibly, history. In monastic scriptoria, they were also compiled and translated into the vernacular. Such transmissions encouraged production of texts in situ, facilitating both the education of the intellectual elites in the country and cultural change sensu largo. Sallustius and Lucanus ended up repackaged as Rómverja saga, a collection of Old Norse–​Icelandic translations of selected ancient Latin works. These included Sallust’s Bellum Iugurthinum and De coniuratione Catilinae, and Lucan’s De Bello Civili, interpolated with several other texts to form a synthesis of Roman history from the founding of Rome to the reign of Augustus.23 Following these narratives, Rómverja saga recounts episodes from the history of Rome, elaborating more extensively on the late Roman Republic in the last century of its existence. It narrates social struggles, civil wars, the overthrow of the Roman Republic, and the establishment of the Roman Empire by Augustus. 20  Gustavson, “Latin and Runes in Scandinavian Runic Inscriptions,” 319.

21  Reynolds, “Sallustius,” 341–​52; Reynolds, “The Lacuna in Sallust’s Jugurtha,” 59–​69; Turner, “Reading Sallust in Twelfth-​Century Flanders,” 198–​222.

22  Gotoff, The Transmission of the Text of Lucan in the Ninth Century, 1–​26; Deferrari, A Concordance to Lucan; Håkanson, “Problems of Textual Criticism and Interpretation in Lucan’s De Bello Civili,” 26–​51; Tarrant, “Lucan,” 215–​18; Werner, The Transmission and Scholia to Lucan’s Bellum civile; Sanford, “The Manuscripts of Lucan: Accessus and Marginalia,” 278–​95; Huelsenbeck, “A Twelfth-​ Century Manuscript of Lucan’s Bellum ciuile (Dukianus latinus 118),” 21–​59. 23  Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “On the Sources and Composition of Rómverja Saga,” 203–​20.

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Rómverja saga is preserved in several medieval Icelandic manuscripts. The earliest version is found in a single vellum manuscript ÁM 595 a–​b 4o from the first half of the fourteenth century (1300/​1325–​1350),24 produced in a scriptorium in northern Iceland, possibly at Þingeyrar or Munkaþverá.25 The younger and shortened version is found in ÁM 226 fol., copied 1360–​1370, perhaps in the Augustinian house at Helgafell á Snæfellsnesi in the west of Iceland,26 a location established by Ólafur Halldórsson on the basis of the common hand with manuscripts ÁM 239 fol., ÁM 350 fol., ÁM 233a fol., ÁM 73 b fol., ÁM 653 a 4o, ÁM 233a fol., ÁM 156 4o, ÁM 61 fol., ÁM 238 VII fol. Rómverja saga survived also in the manuscript ÁM 225 fol. (a direct copy of ÁM 226 fol, ca. 1400)27 and in a number of fragments: ÁM 598 III α (1525–​1575), β (1375–​1425), γ (1400–​1500) 4o,28 Holm. Perg. 24 4o (written at Hólar in the fifteenth century).29 The now lost first redaction of Rómverja saga must have been composed early in the second half of the twelfth century in Þingeyrar,30 which makes Rómverja saga one of the first sagas written in Old Norse–​Icelandic, and possibly even one of several prototype texts for saga literature. Despite recent resurgence of critical interest in learned origins of saga literature, the possible role of Lucanus and Sallustius in shaping emerging saga genre still remains to be explored.31 Rómverja saga was dated to ca. 1180 by Dietrich Hoffman, who posited it as a source text for Veraldar saga and a world history in the manuscript ÁM 764 4o. This intertextual relation was first discovered by Jakob Benediktsson but it was later proved wrong by Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir and Þorbjörg Helgadóttir. Þorbjörg Helgadóttir instead dated the saga to the second half of the twelfth century on the basis of its intertextual relations 24  Kålund, Katalog over den Arnamagnæanske håndskriftsamling, 1:763; Jakob Benediktsson, “Introduction [to Catilina and Jugurtha by Sallust and Pharsalia by Lucan in Old Norse],” 15; Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” xxxiii–​xxxiv. 25  Stefán Karlsson, “Saltarabrot í Svíþjóð með Stjórnarhendi,” 320–​22; Guðbjörg Kristjánsdóttir, “Íslenskt saltarablað í Svíþjóð,” 60–​67; Sverrir Tómasson, “Formáli málfræðiritgerðanna fjögurra í Wormsbók,” 221–​ 40; Johansson, Studier i Codex Wormianus, 66–​80; Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” xxxv.

26  Ólafur Halldórsson, Helgafellsbækur fornar, 37; Stefán Karlsson, Sagas of Icelandic Bishops: Fragments of Eight Manuscripts, 9–​ 22; Stefán Karlsson, “Helgafellsbók í Noregi,” 347–​49; Lönnroth, “Tesen om de två kulturerna,” 69–​70; Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” xlvi–​xlvii; Kålund, Katalog over den Arnamagnæanske håndskriftsamling, vol. 1, 182–​183. 27  Kålund, Katalog over den Arnamagnæanske håndskriftsamling, 1:181–​82; Unger, “Forord [to Heilagra manna søgur],” 1: xxiii; Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” xlviii. 28  Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” lviii–​lxxv. 29  Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” l–​li.

30  Hofmann, “Accessus ad Lucanum,” 148; Hermann Pálsson, “Bækur æxlast af bókum,” 35–​50; Hermann Pálsson, “Boklig lærdom i Sverris saga,” 59–​76; Þorleifur Hauksson, “Formáli [to Sverris saga],” lxiii; Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” cxciv–​cc. 31  Bagge, “The Old Norse Kings’ Sagas and European Latin Historiography,” 1–​38.

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with Sverris saga traced by Hermann Pálsson,32 a saga which was written partly during King Sverri’s reign, even in his own court, by Karl Jónsson, abbot at Þingeyrar from 1163 to 1213, and later perfected in the Þingeyrar monastery. This view has lately attracted a degree of dissent. It was challenged by Jonas Wellendorf in a recent article,33 problematizing Hermann Pálsson’s way of reasoning and arguing for dating the saga to the mid-​thirteenth century, resting upon the relation of Rómverja saga with Alexanders saga. This problem is yet to be addressed systematically, falling outside the scope of the present investigation. However, even if we set aside Rómverja saga’s relations with vernacular Icelandic sagas as too problematic, the earlier dating of the text could yet be backed up by Lucan’s intertextual links to Theodoricus Monachus’s Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium (dated to around 1177–​1187),34 and Vita sancti Thorlaci (written before 1200),35 from which we can see that the text of Lucanus was in use in Iceland and Norway as early as the twelfth century. Also, if we consider the provenance of the preserved Rómverja saga’s manuscripts, it is evident that they must have served scholastic needs, since they were found in the possession of scholastic institutions. The manuscripts ÁM 225 fol. and ÁM 226 fol. were in the possession of various chieftains and clergymen from the west and north of Iceland, while ÁM 595 a–​b 4o came from the east of Iceland.36 Furthermore, Lucan’s text must have served a didactic purpose in Iceland as it did on the continent, since it is possible to trace Lucan’s stylistic traits in Scandinavian Latin writings. On these grounds it becomes possible to link the transmission of this text in medieval Iceland with the establishing of ecclesiastical educational institutions in Iceland at the turn of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, which required a library of Latin literature at hand. On the grounds of its early dissemination, this text does not belong with the later inflows of manuscripts from continental Europe on the wings of emerging courtly culture in late medieval Iceland as it came under Norwegian rule. How did these Latin texts pass from Rome to Iceland? Via what lineages of transmission? Sallustius’ and Lucanus’ vertical lines of descent to Scandinavia have been rather obscure. However, on their way from ancient Rome, some traces of the intermediate steps could be found elsewhere: in Germany and Norway. Cultural transfer channels from the South to the North have also been established through analyses of extant manuscripts of textus receptus and Rómverja saga. As for the German trace, there are correspondences of lacunae and lectiones between Rómverja saga manuscripts and the Latin manuscripts containing Sallustius (family Y, 32  Hermann Pálsson, “Bækur æxlast af bókum,” 35–​50; Hermann Pálsson, “Boklig lærdom i Sverris saga,” 59–​76. 33  Wellendorf, “ ‘Ancient Traditions’ in Sverris Saga,” 1–​17.

34  Skard, “Eine Lucanreminiscenz bei Theodoricus Monachus,” 156–​57.

35  Gottskálk Jensson, “The Latin Fragments of Þorláks saga helga and Their Classical Context,” 257–​67; Gottskálk Jensson, “The Lost Latin Literature of Iceland,” 150–​70. 36  Kålund, Katalog over den Arnamagnæanske håndskriftsamling, 1:181–​83, 763.

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manuscripts from western Germany)37 and Lucanus,38 pointing to the families of manuscripts of German origin (Cod. Parisinus 7502, Cod. Bruxellensis 5330–​32, Cod. Leidensis Vossianus XIX F. 63, and Cod. Leidensis Vossianus XIX, Q.51, all from the tenth century).39 With respect to the Norwegian trace, in ad 1248–​49, Matthæus Parisiensis, Matthew Paris, a Benedictine monk and English chronicler, set out on a journey to Norway as messenger from Louis IX, king of France, to Hákon Hákonarson, bearing an invitation to share command of a crusade to the Holy Land.40 Matthæus Parisiensis, writing the narrative of his embassy in his Chronica majora several years later, praised King Hákon’s erudition, hailing him as “vir discretus et modestus atque bene literatus” (a discreet, modest, and well-​versed man). As an example of the king’s erudition, Matthæus Parisiensis wrote in his chronicle that Hákon quoted a Roman epic poem by Lucanus, De bello civili, delivering a speech in his answer to the call of the king of France: “Omnisque potestas /​ Impatiens consortis erit, /​ Omnisque superbus /​Impatiens consortis erit.”41 Apart from Matthæus Parisiensis and the few preserved manuscript witnesses, it is rather the intertextual relations that give some indication of how widely Rómverja saga was read in medieval Iceland, and how deeply it influenced medieval Icelandic culture. The intertextual matrix of Rómverja saga,42 its relationship to other texts, is considerable. It has well-​recognized and established intertextual links to Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium by Theodoricus Monachus, as well as to Vita sancti Thorlaci,43 Sverris saga,44 Veraldar saga,45 Trójumanna saga, Kirjalax saga46 and other vernacular Icelandic romances47 where passages from Rómverja saga or its textus receptus48 are directly cited and a number of allusions are present. 37  Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” lxxvii–​lxxx.

38  Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” lxxx–​lxxxiii. 39  Gotoff, The Transmission of the Text of Lucan.

40  Weiler, “Matthew Paris in Norway,” 153–​81; Leach, “The Relations of the Norwegian with the English Church,” 531–​60; Leach, Angevin Britain and Scandinavia, 105; Brégaint, Vox Regis, 216; Vaughan, Matthew Paris, 4–​7, 128.

41  Matthæus Parisiensis, Chronica maiora, IV.650–​652. Cf. Lucanus, Pharsalia, I.93: quid miscere iuuat uires orbemque tenere /​in medio? dum terra fretum terramque leuabit /​aer et longi uoluent Titana labores /​noxque diem caelo totidem per signa sequetur, /​nulla fides regni sociis, omnisque potestas /​ inpatiens consortis erit. nec gentibus ullis /​credite nec longe fatorum exempla petantur:/​fraterno primi maduerunt sanguine muri. /​nec pretium tanti tellus pontusque furoris /​ tunc erat: exiguum dominos commisit asylum. 42  Gottskalk Jensson, “The Lost Latin Literature of Iceland,” 159. 43  Brégaint, Vox Regis, 83.

44  Gottskalk Jensson, “The Lost Latin Literature of Iceland,” 159.

45  Hermann Pálsson, “Bækur æxlast af bókum,” 35–​50; “Boklig lærdom i Sverris saga,” 59–​76; Þorleifur Hauksson, “Formáli [to Sverris saga],” lxiii; Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, “Introduction [to Rómverja saga],” cxciv–​cc. 46  Hofmann, “Accessus ad Lucanum,” 121–​ 51; Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir, Universal History in Fourteenth-​century Iceland. 47  Divjak, Studies in the Traditions of Kirialax saga. 48  Barnes, The Bookish Riddarasögur.

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Let us now focus on the dissemination of Latin cultural influence by examining conceptual metaphors of Latin provenance in Old Norse–​Icelandic literature and language. The influence of ancient Roman and medieval Latin literature through Rómverja saga and other Antikensagas extended to even broader cultural spheres than manuscripts’ lineages and intertextual relations show. Language may be approached as one of the indicators of changes in the sphere of mentality. Changes in mentality come hand-​in-​hand with language changes. Significant cognitive phenomena are behind language changes. It appears that some vernacular Old Norse–​Icelandic words have acquired semantic meanings from Latin. Old Norse–​ Icelandic words for “luck” are good examples of this process. Under influences from ancient Roman literature and Latin language, the Old Norse–​Icelandic word hamingja (originally referring to a guardian spirit of a person, and denoting a quality of being fortunate) in the wake of Christianization and Europeanization of Scandinavia, came to be identified with the ancient Roman goddess of fortune and fate: Fortuna (a personified deterministic force ruling human lives that cannot be influenced, denoting a divine causation). Hamingja acquired not only the Latin meaning of Fortune but also the goddess’s attribute, a whirling wheel, the wheel of fortune: Gr. ὁ κύκλος /​ὁ τροχός τῆς τύχης49 Lat. rota fortunae, ON–​I hamingju·hvél, hamingju·hjól, auðnu·hvél, auðnu·hjól and, derived from them hverfanda·hvél and hverfanda·hjól. The wheel of fortune as hamingjuhjól and its related forms were integrated into medieval Icelandic language and other Scandinavian languages: in modern Icelandic the form is hamingjuhjól; Danish: lykkehjul, lykkens hjul, livshjul; Norwegian: lykkehjul; Swedish: lyckohjul, livets hjul, livshjul. Comparing idealized cognitive models of luck and fate, as understood by ancient Romans (the fatum–​felicitas–​fortuna–​fors–​infelicitas complex),50 and by medieval Icelanders (auðna–​gifta–​gæfa–​hamingja–​happ–​heill complex),51 it becomes clear that the two metaphors fortune is a wheel and fate is a woven cloth are Ancient Roman/​ 49  See above, note 6.

50  Eidinow, Luck, Fate and Fortune; Patch, The Tradition of the Goddess Fortuna, in Roman Literature and in the Transitional Period; Patch, The Tradition of the Goddess Fortuna in Medieval Philosophy and Literature; Frakes, The Fate of Fortune in the Early Middle Ages; Champeaux, Fortuna. Le culte de la Fortune à Rome et dans le monde romain; Stewart, “Sallust and Fortuna,” 298–​317; Long, “Lucan and Moral Luck,” 183–​97; Dick, “Fatum and Fortuna in Lucan’s Bellum Civile,” 235–​42; Ahl, “The Shadows of a Divine Presence in the Pharsalia,” 566–​90; Canter, “ ‘Fortuna’ in Latin Poetry,” 64–​82; Tiffou, “Salluste et la Fortune,” 349–​60; Friedrich, “Cato, Caesar und Fortuna bei Lucan,” 391–​423.

51  Meylan, “Fate Is a Hero’s Best Friend,” 155–​72; Bek-​Pedersen, “Fate and Weaving,” 23–​39; Bek-​Pedersen, “Are the Spinning Nornir Just a Yarn?,” 1–​10; Bek-​Pederson, The Norns in Old Norse mythology; Boyer, “Fate as a Deus Otiosus in the Íslendingasögur,” 61–​77; Thorvaldsen, “The Níðingr and the Wolf,” 171–​96; Thorvaldsen, “The Poetic Curse and Its Relatives,” 253–​67; Sommer, “The Norse Concept of Luck,” 275–​94; Hallberg, “The Concept of gipta, gæfa, hamingja in Old Norse Literature,” 143–​83; Hermann Pálsson, “Um gæfumenn og ógæfu í íslenzkum fornsögum,” 135–​53; Kanerva, “Ógæfa (misfortune) as an Emotion in Thirteenth-​Century Iceland,” 1–​26; Weber, Wyrd: Studien zum Schicksalsbegriff der altenglischen und altnordischen Literatur; Winterbourne, When the Norns Have Spoken; Wirth, Der Schicksalsglauben in den Isländersagas; Grønbech, The Culture of the Teutons, vol. 1; Ström, “Scandinavian Belief in Fate,” 63–​88.

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Latin concepts transplanted onto Old Norse–​Icelandic model with the arrival of Latin, literacy, and book culture. Historical focus on the frequencies of these metaphors in distinct genres of Icelandic literature is illustrative. The absence of metaphorical usage in the earlier, more oral literature, eddic and early skaldic poetry, is significant, while they appear in the later, more bookish and learned texts, as the following examples show.52 Thinking about luck, fortune, or fate as something resembling a spinning wheel might have been something new for the Norse, but it quickly gained popularity and persisted through the centuries. This metaphor was used by figures as diverse as the church painter Albertus Pictor in fifteenth-​century Sweden (ca. 1440–​ca. 1507, Härkeberga church), and several other anonymous Swedish church painters from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries,53 the poet Sturla Þórðarson in the mid-​thirteenth-​ century Norway, and several saga writers in thirteenth-​and fourteenth-​century Iceland, mainly the authors of the vernacular sagas,54 an anonymous illustrator of a late medieval Norwegian manuscript ÁM 79 4o (Norwegian Law Book from the sixteenth century), as well as by early modern seventeenth-​to eighteenth-​century rímur poets (Rímur af Illuga Gríðarfóstra by Davíð Jónsson). In their eyes, the fickle human condition resembled a whirling wheel: Latin rota fortunae and Ancient Greek ὁ κύκλος /​ὁ τροχός τῆς τύχης became the Old Norse–​Icelandic hamingjuhjól and hamingjuhvel. If the metaphor is originally Greek and Roman, how did it disseminate into Old Norse–​Icelandic? How did this way of thinking about fortune and fate proliferate from the South to the North? What was the connection there? Or what kinds of links are we looking at? Apart from the Greek writers Pindaros, Sophocles, and Aristotle,55 we find this metaphor in numerous texts by Roman authors for whom the metaphor of fortune is a wheel grew popular to the point of cliché. It occurs profusely in Cicero, Horatius, Vergilius, Ovidius, Tibullus, Pacuvius, Seneca, and other writers of Golden, Silver, and Late Latin.56 52  Although, there is one example of a connection between fate and threads in heroic eddic poetry; see Helgakviða Hundingsbana, 1–​3.

53  Enånger, Borreby i Skåne,1330–​1340s; Ösmo kyrka i Södermanland, 1450s; Funbo i Uppland, Husby-​Sjutolfts kyrka, Härkeberga kyrka i Uppland, Kumlas i Västmanland, Öjas i Skåne och Ytterlännäs gamla kyrka i Ångermanland, 1400s; Frötuna kyrka, Dannemora kyrka, 1500s.

54  Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta, Fóstbrœðra saga, Grettis saga, Kirialax saga, Adonias saga, Ectors saga, Maríu saga, Aevintyri, Barlaams saga, Hálfdanar saga Barkarsonar, Hjálmþés saga ok Ölvis. 55  Pindaros, Pythian II.89, Olympian XIII.6, Isthmian III.18; Sophocles, a fragment of Tantalus 286–​87; Herodotos, Historiai I.207; Aristoteles, Physica 223b24.

56  Plautus, Asinaria 727; Cicero, Epistula ad Atticum 9.6.4; Cicero, In Pisonem 22; Horatius, Carmina III.10.9, III.29.49; Ovidius, Fasti VI.569; Ovidius, Ex Ponto II.7.15, II.7.41, III.1.125, III.1.152; IV.6.7; Ovidius, Tristia I.5.27, I.9.13, V.8.15; Ovidius, Epistulae XV.59–​60; Tibullus, Elegia I.5.70, III.3.22; Vergilius, Aeneis XI.43; Tacitus, Dialogus de oratoribus 23; Plinius, Naturalis Historia II.22; Lucanus, Pharsalia I.82, I.226, VII.685; Seneca, Epistulae LXXIV.6–​7; Seneca, ad Polybium de consolatione XXII.4; Juvenalis, Satura III.38; Apuleius, Metamorphoses XI.15.

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A passage from one of Cicero’s invective speeches illustrates its use among ancient Romans. Cicero, in a speech delivered at the Roman Senate against his fellow senator Lucius Calpurnius Piso in 55 bc, denounced his way of life as unfit for a senator: Quid ego illorum dierum epulas, quid laetitiam et gratulationem tuam, quid cum tuis sordidissimis gregibus intemperantissimas perpotationes praedicem? Quis te illis diebus sobrium, quis agentem aliquid quod esset libero dignum, quis denique in publico vidit? cum conlegae tui domus cantu et cymbalis personaret, cumque ipse nudus in convivio saltaret; in quo cum illum saltatorium versaret orbem, ne tum quidem fortunae rotam pertimescebat. Hic autem non tam concinnus helluo nec tam musicus iacebat in suorum Graecorum foetore et caeno; quod quidem istius in illis rei publicae luctibus quasi aliquod Lapitharum aut Centaurorum convivium ferebatur; in quo nemo potest dicere utrum iste plus biberit an vomuerit an effuderit.57

Lucius Calpurnius Piso, while indulging in debauchery, inebriation, and gluttony, “had not much fear of any revolution of fortune.” The metaphor of fortune is a wheel grew even more popular in the Middle Ages and served as a warning to those who considered themselves fortunate. This metaphor is prevalent across medieval literature, in philosophical and theological treatises, encyclopedias, chronicles, mirrors for princes, chivalric and Arthurian romances, to name just a few genres. In more specific cases, it occurs in Boethius’ De consolatione philosophiae, Honorius Augustodunensis’ Speculum ecclesiae, Carmina Burana, Roman d’Alexandre, Guillaume de Lorris’s Roman de la Rose,58 Wirnt von Grafenberg’s Wigalois, Alan of Lille’s Anticlaudianus, Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, John of Salisbury’s Policraticus, Hortus Deliciarum (215r), Matthaeus Parisiensis’s Chronica Majora, Vincent of Beauvais’s Speculum historiale, Adam Le Bossu’s Le Jeu de la feuillee, Petrarch’s De remediis utriusque fortunae, Boccaccio’s Amorosa visione, Dante’s Inferno, François Villon’s Le Testament, John Lydgate’s Fall of Princes, Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, Ariosto’s L’ Orlando furioso.59 These texts, however, with the exception of Boethius60 and Honorius Augustodunensis,61 did not make their way to Iceland or, at least, there are no attestable traces of their having been read there in the Middle Ages. Carmina Burana was verifiably known in Norway, as attested by the rune sticks found in 57  Cicero, In Pisonem, 22.

58  Galpin, “Fortune’s Wheel in the Roman De La Rose,” 332–​42.

59  This subject has been well treated by several scholars: Patch, The Goddess Fortuna in Mediaeval Literature; Doren, “Fortuna im Mittelalter und in der Renaissance,” 71–​144; Radding, “Fortune and her Wheel,” 127–​38; Mann, “Chance and Destiny in Troilus and Criseyde and the Knight’s Tale,” 93–​111; Galpin, “Fortune’s Wheel in the Roman De La Rose,” 332–​42; Corrie, “Fortune and the Sinner,” 207–​19; Corrie, “ ‘God May Well Fordo Desteny’,” 690–​713; Heller-​Roazen, “Fortune, or the Contingent Figure,” 80–​116. 60  Johnson, Eyrbyggja and Icelandic Scholasticism. The Boethian Influence on Saga Narrative. 61  Honorius Augustodunensis, Speculum ecclesiae, Dominica XI post Pentecosten, 1057 C–​D.

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Bergen, bearing inscriptions of its fragments.62 Two of the poems included in Carmina burana, Fortuna imperatrix mundi and Fortune plango vulnera, contains the metaphor rota fortunae, but these fragments were not, however, preserved on the Bergen rune sticks. As far as strictly textual transmission is concerned, the exact missing links between the Latin tradition of rota fortunae and its Scandinavian variation, hamingjuhvel, cannot be found. But at the very least, it is nonetheless possible to detect the stream of texts involved in the process. The role of orality in facilitating cultural transmission was likely to have been significant, albeit gouging its impact is now completely out of reach. There is a plethora of lost conversations, lessons, lectures, and recitations (kvöldvökur). The Norse who studied in continental Europe may have afterwards told many stories back at home, which were never brought to Iceland in a form of written text. This possibility somewhat reduces the precision in analyzing the written evidence, and makes any firm conclusions difficult. However, one cannot hear even the slightest echoes of lost conversations now. It is not possible to retrieve these oral channels of cultural transfer. But even now, one can pick up the threads of the textual transmission, however scattered or obscure they may be. Manuscripts containing texts by Sallustius and by Lucanus might have functioned as transmission media of cultural information, bringing this knowledge from ancient Rome to medieval Iceland. In Sallustius and Lucanus, we have interesting instances of thinking about the course of events of life as a circle, wheel, whirling up and down, throwing humans down or raising them up. In the introductory chapters of Bellum Catilinae and Bellum Iugurthinum,63 Sallustius lectures on his historiosophical theory, which considered the development and degeneration of the Roman Republic. Explaining the Roman degeneration, he writes that they abandoned virtue and focused on the material world and on pursuing transient goods, subordinated to fortune and fate, and thus they failed, as is written in Bellum Iugurthinum, “for everything that is rising falls, everything increasing diminishes”: Postremo corporis et fortunae bonorum ut initium sic finis est, omniaque orta occidunt et aucta senescunt: animus incorruptus, aeternus, rector humani generis agit atque habet cuncta neque ipse habetur.64

Fortune and fate are quoted in several passus of the text as causative factors, the governing force in human life and universal history.65 A man can flee from them only in death and by practising virtues, i.e. by an inner emigration. Otherwise, they can turn him 62  Gustavson, “Latin and Runes in Scandinavian Runic Inscriptions,” 319. 63  Sallustius, Catilina, 1–​13; Iugurtha, 1–​4. 64  Sallustius, Iugurtha, 2.

65  See passages where fortuna is mentioned or implied in Sallustius: Iugurtha, 1; 2; 7, 1; 13; 14, 2; 14, 5; 14, 7; 14, 18; 14, 24; 23, 2; 24, 4; 56, 4; 62, 1; 63, 1; 64, 2; 83, 2; 85, 14; 93, 1; 95, 4; 102, 9; Catilina, 2,5; 8, 1; 10, 1; 16, 2; 20, 14; 25, 2; 33, 1; 34, 2; 39, 6; 41, 3; 51, 12–​14; 51, 25–​26; 52, 12; 53, 3; 57, 5; 58, 21.

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over at any time. Several examples from Lucanus are included below to illustrate the development of this metaphor:66 Fortune rotates in revolutions, some people rising high, others being layed down, reversing their fates and fortunes. Pondering how to respond to civil war between Caesar and the optimates, Marcus Junius Brutus, in the course of conversation with Cato Minor, praised him with lofty words “virtue will never be driven out of you by any revolution of Fortune”: omnibus expulsae terris olimque fugatae uirtutis iam sola fides, quam turbine nullo excutiet fortuna tibi, tu mente labantem derige me, dubium certo tu robore firma.67

Pompey, in his speech to the Roman senate, addressed the goddess of Fortune: “You do not set everything on so blind a course, nothing makes you, Fortune, so ashamed”: non tam caeco trahis omnia cursu teque nihil, Fortuna, pudet.68

But Fortune herself hastened to set Caesar above all the world:

quantum est quod fata tenentur quodque uirum toti properans inponere mundo hos perdit Fortuna dies!69

Afranius, having been defeated by Caesar at the battle of Illerda, surrendered to him, “considering how low was he laid by fate beneath his enemy”: si me degeneri strauissent fata sub hoste, non derat fortis rapiendo dextera leto.70

66  See passages where fortuna is mentioned or implied in Lucanus: Pharsalia, I, 81–​86; 109–​11; 121–​26; 129–​35; 160–​65; 223–​27; 248–​53; 254–​57; 262–​65; 309–​11; 392–​95; II, 40–​42; 71–​73; 93–​96; 131–​33; 192–​95; 230–​32; 242–​45; 263–​64; 286–​87; 320–​23; 460–​61; 516–​18; 567–​70; 699–​701; 725–​28; 734–​36; III, 21–​23; 50–​52; 95–​97; 169–​70; 290–​92; 392–​94; 448–​49; 509–​10; IV, 121–​23; 243–​45; 254–​59; 319–​20; 340–​47; 390–​92; 396–​99; 402–​3; 496–​97; 661–​65; 710–​12; 730–​33; 737–​40; 783–​85; 788–​90; V, 1–​3; 23–​27; 41–​44; 58–​62; 203–​8; 291–​92; 301–​3; 325–​27; 351–​55; 468–​71; 482–​85; 504–​7; 508–​10; 521–​23; 580–​83; 591–​93; 664–​68; 676–​77; 696–​97; 728–​31; 754–​56; VI, 140–​43; 158–​61; 189–​95; 590–​95; 611–​15; 783–​87; 817–​18; VII, 19–​24; 68–​71; 87–​90; 107–​9; 110–​11; 151–​52; 205–​6; 250–​51; 284–​87; 412–​19; 437–​41; 486–​89; 504–​5; 546–​47; 599–​602; 644–​46; 647–​51; 659–​69; 680–​89; 731–​36; 743–​46; 796–​99; 815–​19; VIII, 19–​23; 29–​31; 72–​74; 83–​85; 93–​96; 150–​55; 190–​92; 206–​9; 269–​71; 311–​14; 325–​27; 334–​35; 427–​29; 484–​88; 557–​60; 600–​602; 613–​17; 685–​86; 701–​8; 712–​14; 729–​35; 767–​70; 793–​95; 860–​62; IX, 55–​62; 201–​3; 212–​14; 222–​24; 236–​40; 242–​47; 265–​67; 550–​53; 569–​71; 593–​96; 881–​83; 890–​91; 1059–​62; 1081–​84; X, 1–​6; 20–​24; 338–​41; 373–​78; 382–​86; 480–​85; 524–​25. 67  Lucanus, Pharsalia, II.242–​45. 68  Lucanus, Pharsalia, II.567–​70.

69  Lucanus, Pharsalia, III.392–​94. 70  Lucanus, Pharsalia, IV.340–​47.

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At Pharsalos, in the last battle between Caesar and Pompey, Fortune, “taking little time to work such a mighty reversal, swept away the vast wreck with a flood of doom”: nec Fortuna diu rerum tot pondera uertens abstulit ingentis fato torrente ruinas.71

In this moment, Pompey’s auxiliary cavalry, in panic over facing Caesars’s legions, took fright and fled from the field, breaking their own ranks. There are several lacunae in the manuscripts of Rómverja saga, which limits occurrences of the fortune is a wheel metaphor.72 Unfortunately, Old Norse–​Icelandic translations of the passages above were not preserved. The only relevant Latin passages translated into Old Norse–​Icelandic and preserved in the manuscript reads as follows: Latin textus receptus

Rómverja saga

Sall., Iug. XIV, 2

→ Rómv 226, 7: ÞH 14: nú gerða ek þetta ‘boð feðr míns, enn Jugurtha tók mik brott af ríki ok ‘öllum auðæfum Masinisse.

Sall., Iug. LXII, 1

→ Rómv 595, XV, 6, 22–​24: ÞH 80: en konungrinn talar um hamingiulæysi sitt ok þraungvingar þær er hann hefir af Rómverium.

71  Lucanus, Pharsalia, VII.504–​5.

72  See passages where fortuna is mentioned or implied in Rómverja saga (ÞH = ed. Þorbjörg Helgadóttir): Rómv 226, 6: ÞH 14 (Sall., Iug. XIV, 2); Rómv 595, XV, 6, 22–​24: ÞH 80 (Sall., Iug. LXII, 1); Rómv 595, XVI, 2: ÞH 83 (Sall., Iug. LXIII, 1); Rómv 226, 20: ÞH 83 (Sall., Iug. LXIII, 1); Rómv 595, XVI, 11: ÞH 85 (Sall., Iug. LXIV, 2); Rómv 595, 22, 18: ÞH 110–​11, 58–​59 (Sall., Iug. LXXXIII, 2); Rómv 595, XXIV, 12: ÞH 114 (Sall., Iug. LXXXV, 14); Rómv 595, XXVIII, 4: ÞH 128 (Sall., Iug. XCIII, 1); Rómv 595, XXIX, 5: ÞH 134 (Sall., Iug. XCV, 4); Rómv 226, 29: ÞH 157 (Sall., Iug. CXI, 1); Rómv 595, XXXIX, 10: ÞH 162 (LucSch. II, 70); Rómv 595, XLVIII, 11: ÞH 194–​95 (Sall., Cat. XLI, 3–​4); Rómv 595, LIII, 4: ÞH 209 (Sall., Cat. LIII, 3); Rómv 595, LVIII, 18: ÞH 217 (Sall., Cat. LVIIII, 21); Rómv 226, 52: ÞH 236 (Luc., Phar. I, 225–​26); Rómv 226, 53/​52: ÞH 239, 14–​15 (Luc., Phar. I, 309–​11); Rómv 226, 56: ÞH 250 (Luc., Phar. II, 286–​87); Rómv 226, 60: ÞH 259 (Luc., Phar. II, 567–​70); Rómv 226, 61/​60: ÞH 261, 12–​14 (Luc., Phar. II, 725–​36); Rómv 226, 61: ÞH 262–​63 (Luc., Phar. III, 20–​23); Rómv 226, 62: ÞH 264–​65 (Luc., Phar. III, 95–​100); Rómv 595, LXVII, 16: ÞH 286 (Luc., Phar. IV, 496–​97); Rómv 226, 67: ÞH 293 (Luc., Phar. V, 40–​44); Rómv 595, LXX, 15; 226, 68: ÞH 297 (Luc., Phar. V, 292–​93); Rómv 595, LXXI, 3:  ÞH 301 (Luc., Phar. V, 468–​71); Rómv 595, LXXI, 23:  ÞH 307 (Luc., Phar. V, 696–​97); Rómv 226, 75: ÞH 325 (Luc., Phar. VII, 68–​71); Rómv 226, 75: ÞH 325 (Luc., Phar. VII, 87–​90); Rómv 595, LXXXI, 2: ÞH 328 (Luc., Phar. VII, 250–​52); Rómv 595, LXXXI, 10: ÞH 330 (Luc., Phar. VII, 285–​87); Rómv 226, 76: ÞH 337, 45–​55 (Luc., Phar. VII, 647–​66); Rómv 226, 77: ÞH 340, 44–​45, Rómv 226, 78: ÞH 342 (Luc., Phar. VII, 815–​18); Rómv 226, 79: ÞH 344–​45 (Luc., Phar. VIII, 138–​47); Rómv 226, 80:  ÞH 346–​47 (Luc., Phar. VIII, 269–​71); Rómv 226, 80:  ÞH 348 (Luc., Phar. VIII, 484–​87); Rómv 226, 81: ÞH 354 (Luc., Phar. VIII, 767–​70); Rómv 595, 84: ÞH 360, 22–​23 (Luc., Phar. IX, 201–​3); Rómv 595, LXXXV, 2: ÞH 361 (Luc., Phar. IX, 222–​24); Rómv 226, 84: ÞH 365 (Luc., Phar. IX, 550–​55); Rómv 226, 87: ÞH 372 (Luc., Phar. IX, 891–​95); Rómv 226, 90: ÞH 381 (Luc., Phar. X, 485).

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Latin textus receptus

Rómverja saga

Sall., Iug. LXIII, 1

→ Rómv 595, XVI, 2: ÞH 83: Marius braut styrktr af fortaulum blótgoðans ok af goðunum ok ræynir nú hamingiuna sem mest ok optaz ok falla aller lutir farsælliga.

Sall., Iug. LXIII, 1

Sall., Iug. LXIV, 2

Sall., Iug. LXXXIII, 2 Sall., Iug. LXXXV, 14

Sall., Iug. XCIII, 1

Sall., Iug. XCIII, 1

Sall., Iug. XCV, 4

Sall., Iug. CII, 9

Sall., Iug. CXI, 1 Luc. Sch. II, 70

Sall., Cat. XLI, 3–​4

Sall., Cat. LIII, 3

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→ Rómv 226, 20: ÞH 83: hann styrkiz nú mikit fyrirheitum guðanna ok treystir þegar sem mest á allar hamingjuraunir og ganga honum allir lutir farsælliga. → Rómv 595, XVI, 11: ÞH 85: fyrir vinfengis sakir vil ek minna þik á það að þú hef æigi huginn upp yfir hamingiuna svá að þú bæidiz rangra luta. → Rómv 595, 22, 18: ÞH 110–​11, 58–​59: ok liez þetta hafa gort fyrer saker uandræða Jugurthe.

→ Rómv 595, XXIV, 12: ÞH 114: síáíð nú þá, hvárt mæira er virðanda að mæla eða gióra. þæir apa nýlæik minn, en ek læita á úkiænsku þæira. mér heimtaz i mót *hamingiuverk en þeim brigðzli.

→ Rómv 595, XXVIII, 4: ÞH 128: en Marius varð dapr ok áhyggiufullr marga daga af þessu, hvárt hann skylldi frá hverfa eða skylldi hann træysta mæirr á hamingiuna þá opt hafði honum mikið tiéð fyrr. → Rómv 226, 26: ÞH 128: Marius færr nú áhyggju marga daga hvárt hann skyldi frá hverfa eða treysta enn meirr á hamingjuna.

→ Rómv 595, XXIX, 5: ÞH 134: ekki réð hann það er æigi yrði að hamingiu, fyrr hann dæilldi við siálfa Rómveria: æigi vissu menn, hvárt meirr var frá, sællífi hans eða brióststyrkt hann. → Rómv 595, XXXIII, 9: ÞH 147: en þvi að hamingian stýrir maurgum lutum með manninum, þí hefir hón þik látið vita bæði krapt várn ok vináttu; ok skyntu nú medan kostr er til várs vinfengis ok gakk sem þú hefir upp tekið. → Rómv 226, 29: ÞH 157: mjök hefir hamingjan yðr mikla sett.

→ Rómv 595, XXXIX, 10: ÞH 162: ok er sá hafði lokið upp dýflizunni ok hann skylldi hauggva hann, þá komz Marius út ok með auðnu ok hamingiu komz hann braut. → Rómv 595, XLVIII, 11: ÞH 194–​95: en er þæir vóru í þessum valkum, þá mátti hamingia alþýðuhagsins mæira, ok ráða þæir það af að koma til þess mannz er hét Quintus Fabius Sanga, ríkr maðr, ok haufðu borgarmenn af honum mikið fullting.

→ Rómv 595 LIII, 4: ÞH 209: er kann frá því að segia, að opt baurðuz þæir med lítið lið móti maurgum fylkingum –​ –​ –​ ok mest færðu þæir hamingiuna við ofrkapp.

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Rómverja saga

Sall., Cat. LVIIII, 21

→ Rómv 595, LVIII, 18: ÞH 217: en ef hamingian aufundar mátt yðarn, þá variz það, að æigi fallið þer óhefndir ok æigi látið þér haundlaz til kvala eða sé þér halldnir ok hauggnir sem fénadr.

Luc., Phar. I, 225–​26

Luc., Phar. I, 309–​11

Luc., Phar. II, 286–​87

Luc., Phar. II, 567–​70 Luc., Phar. II, 725–​36 Luc., Phar. III, 20–​23

Luc., Phar. III, 95–​100

Luc., Phar. IV, 496–​97

Luc., Phar. V, 40–​44

Luc., Phar. V, 292–​93

Luc., Phar. V, 468–​71

→ Rómv 226, 52: ÞH 236: nú skal treysta á hamingjuna ‘ok biðja æigi friðar vára úvini, ok láti guðin koma á ‘orrosto með oss’. → Rómv 226, 53/​52: ÞH 239, 14–​15: þa uilia gudín reyna hvart ver vilium verda sua miklír menn sem þau vilia oss gort hafa. → Rómv 226, 56: ÞH 250: er enn þat auðsýnt at *hamingjuguðit er reidt oss fyrir sakir illgerða vanðra manna ok rangra dóma.

→ Rómv 226, 60: ÞH 259: víst skammaðiz hamingjan þá engis er hón veitti Julio sigr í móti senatoribus.

→ Rómv 226, 61/​60: ÞH 261, 12–​14: enn þo uilia gudín æigi ræna þik föðurligum greptí. → Rómv 226, 61: ÞH 262–​63: þú vannt sigr meðan mið várom hjóna; enn nú hefir þú skipt hamingjunni með *rökknaskiptinu: hafa Cornelie ekki giptusamliga gengit verföngin þó at hón sé nú friðla þin.

→ Rómv 226, 62: ÞH 264–​65: sæti gudanna ok hafa hofðingiar þinir flyít fra þer orrosto laust. ok þorat æigi at hallda vpp orrosto. Vist se gudunum þock er þinir fiandmenn Roma borg. komu æigi or austruegí. meðan þu vart hofðingia laus. ok er þat skomm. ok skaði. er þu skylldir hafa huglausan her yfir þer. ok vist er þat fagnaðr er vęr hofum helldr hér med oss byriat þessa deilu. → Rómv 595, 67: ÞH 286, 37–​38: munu goðin vilia, að vér gefim þau dæmi dauðans, er oss sé frægð í fyrir því að næytt hofum vér vápnanna, meðan kostr var að beriaz. → Rómv 226, 67: ÞH 293: enn mér væntum oss fulltings af guðunum ok treystum á hamingju vára ok leggjum nú allan hug á at lægja úfriðinn æigi siðr enn þeir vekja hann.

→ Rómv 595, LXX 6: ÞH 297: nú vitum vér æigi, hverra giæðanna er ván fyrir vandræðin, en það fylgir, ad þú kannt þér aufúsu þess allz, hverngi sigr er vér vinnum. nú vilium ver siálfr leita fyrir oss að goðanna raði. væntum vér, að þetta mun til friðar snúaz, þót þú reiðiz. → Rómv 595, LXXI, 3: ÞH 301: svá segir Lucanus, að hamingjan fekk þenna stað til þess, að varð veita þessa tvá haufðingja heimsins er æztir váru ok skirra svá úhæfuna nokkura stund, þó að meiri kvaul yrði heiminum en svá að þessi dvaul kiæmi til sættar.

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Luc., Phar. V, 696–​97

→ Rómv 595, LXXI, 23: ÞH 307: ok yfrið miok ræynir þú þína hamingiu í orrostum.

Luc., Phar. VII, 68–​71

Luc., Phar. VII, 87–​90

Luc., Phar. VII, 250–​52 Luc., Phar. VII, 285–​87

Luc., Phar. VII, 647–​66

Luc., Phar. VII, 815–​18

Luc., Phar. VIII, 138–​47

Luc., Phar. VIII, 269–​71 Luc., Phar. VIII, 484–​87

Luc., Phar. VIII, 767–​70

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→ Rómv 226, 75: ÞH 325: þau laun höfum vær fyrir várn góðvilja, ef vær skulum ráða, at þú treystir á hamingjuna; ok e= = bæn konunga ok hertoga at þú megir sjá Julium mág þinn sigraðan. → Rómv 226, 75: ÞH 325: ef yðr líkar öllum betr at berjaz þá mun ek æigi lengr dvelja, ok látum nú at því góðir hálsar hamingjuna einn dag allra manna förlogum ráða ok mun hér margr maðr falla á einum degi. → Rómv 595, LXXXI, 2: ÞH 328: er sigraz hafa víða um heiminn með minni hamingiu.

→ Rómv 595, LXXXI, 10: ÞH 330: nú er undir yðru afli mín hamingia, þeira manna er ek hefi ræynðan hraustleik áðr í maurgum orrostum ok ek kenni nær hvers mannz vápn ok ek skil, hvar hvergi skýtr fram sínu spióti.

→ Rómv 226, 77: ÞH 337, 45–​55: Ok guðín uilldu suipta hann sigrínum. þa geck hann upp ꜳ hæð eína. ok sa þaðan til orrostonnar. ok sa þat hít mikla mannfall er vard i hanꜱ liði. þa mællti hann. Græði ꜱua godinn heimínn. at Roma borg hafi frelsi sitt. ok æigi drepiz niðr allar þiodir. þott þer gerít mik nu veslan af þeim heidri sem ek hefír adr haft. ok þott bædi fỏrumz ek ok allír minir fręndr. þa er þat þo litít hia allri heíms bygðínní. ok væri gott at æigi gylldi mínnar v gięfu ꜹll alþyða. → Rómv 226, 77: ÞH 340, 44–​45: ekki ríki hefir hamingja manna eptir dauðann. líkami hvers manns hverfr í jörðina enn öndin hefir slíkt sem hón hefir fyrir sér gert ok því er ekki undir hvárt heldr rifa dýr eðr fuglar sundr líkamina æða ferst i seó eðr vatni.

→ Rómv 226, 79: ÞH 344–​45: ek verð at leita hvárt er ek finn hamingju æða úgiptu, ok þess biðr ek guðin at allr lýðr líkiz því fólki er hér byddir. → Rómv 226, 80: ÞH 346–​47: enn hefir hamingjan minnr steypt minum veg enn hans.

→ Rómv 226, 80: ÞH 348: hann taldi það fyrir konungi at hann mundi bæði vera frægri ok ríkari ef hann réði Pompeio bánarað ok segir réttindin gera mann lítils háttar þann er þeim vill hjálpa er hamingjan vill steypa ok er það ráð at samþykkjaz guðunum ok fága æigi þá er farsælulausir ero. → Rómv 226, 81: ÞH 354: ef yðr er þetta bál nokkut þaegiligra enn liggja í sjónum ok hamingjan mætti mer þat veita at ek mætti þín hin helgu bein ok ösku færa til Rómaborgar ok bjöggi Cornelia þar um eptir verðleikum!

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Luc., Phar. IX, 201–​3

→ Rómv LXXXIV, 21: ÞH 360, 22–​23: nafn hans uar gaifugligt fyrer aillum þioðum.

Luc., Phar. IX, 222–​24 Luc., Phar. IX, 550–​55

Luc., Phar. IX, 891–​95 Luc., Phar. X, 485

→ Rómv 595, LXXXV, 2: ÞH 361: mun það fylgia fráfalli Pompeii, að aller vikingar munu leggiaz vilia í haf.

→ Rómv 226, 83: ÞH 365: svá hefir oss hamingjan til vísat at vér megum her nú leita ráða við goðit með eptirleitan slíks hertoga sem þu ert ok vita hvern enda eiga skulo þessar orrostor eðr torleiði sem vér höfum farit. → Rómv 226, 87: ÞH 372: ok sua mikil natura fylgdi þeim þioðum.

→ Rómv 226, 90: ÞH 381: enn hamingjan veitti skjól Julio.

Unfortunately, the track breaks off abruptly at this point and we can be sure of nothing until we come to the occurrences of the metaphor in Alexanders saga,73 also one of Antikensagas, transmitted in the same manuscripts as Rómverja saga: ÁM 225 fol. and ÁM 226 fol. Alexanders saga, the saga of Alexander the Great written in the mid-​thirteenth century, is an adaptation of Alexandreis by Walter of Châtillon (being itself a translation of Historia Alexandri Magni by Quintus Curtius Rufus). The wheel metaphor appears in this saga in two passages: a soliloquy of Fortune deciding the fate of Alexander when he falls ill during the campaign in Asia Minor, and a speech of the Scythian ambassador to Alexander the Great, wherein he says that Alexander should not tempt his Fortune. The metaphor of the wheel of Fortune was inserted to his poetic translation of Quintus Curtius Rufus’ Historia Alexandri Magni by Walter of Châtillon himself.74 The second book of Historiae Alexandri Magni by Quintus Curtius Rufus is missing. In Alexandreis, Walter of Châtillon translated the missing fragment thus: Audiit hec, ut forte rotam uoluendo fatiscens Ceca sedebat humi Fortuna animamque resumens Surgit et Argolicos subridens ore sereno Increpat usque metus ac secum pauca susurrat.75

The scribe of Alexanders saga islandicized it as “Þetta kvein þeirra Grikkjanna heyrði hamingjan þar, sem hon sat ok velti hvéli sínu” (Fortune heard this lament of the Greeks there, where she was sitting and whirling her wheel).76 The second episode from Quintus Curtius Rufus’ Historiae Alexandri Magni survived: 73  Ashurst, The Ethics of Empire.

74  For more on Fortune in Alexanders saga, see Ashurst, The Ethics of Empire, 72–​100. 75  M. Philippi Gualtheri de Castellione, Alexandreis, II.186–​90. 76  Alexanders saga, 24.

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Proinde fortunam tuam pressis manibus tene: lubrica est, nec invita teneri potest. Salubre consilium sequens quam praesens tempus ostendit melius: inpone felicitati tuae frenos; facilius illam reges. Nostri sine pedibus dicunt esse Fortunam, quae manus et pinnas tantum habet; cum manus porrigit, pinnas quoque conprehende. Denique, si deus es, tribuere mortalibus beneficia debes, non sua eripere; sin autem homo es, id quod es, semper esse te cogita: stultum est eorum meminisse, propter quae tui obliviscaris.77

In Alexandreis, Walter of Châtillon has it:

Proinde manu pressa digitisque tenere recuruis Fortunam memor esto tuam, quia lubrica semper Et leuis est numquamque potest inuita teneri. Consilium ergo salubre sequens quod temporis offert Gratia presentis, dum prospera luditur a te Alea, dum celeris Fortunae munera nondum Accusas, impone modum felicibus armis Ne rota forte tuos euertat uersa labores. Nostri Fortunam pedibus dixere carentem, Pennatamque manus et habentem brachia pingunt.78

In Alexanders saga it is translated as follows:

Fǿr nú þá svá í nyt þér hamingjunnar hollustu, at þú gerir enda nokkurn á ófriðinum, takir hvíld eftir langt erfiði, fǿrir þik sjalfr í hóf, fyrr en hon láti velta hvélit undir þér.79

(Make now rather some use of your fortune’s loyalty to you in that way, that you make an end for some time to the wars, take a rest after a long labour, fare you yourself with moderation, before she spins her wheel out from under you.)

I have included several examples from vernacular Icelandic literature to show the wide dissemination of the cognitive metaphor of fortune is a wheel in the indigenous literary works. In the mid-​thirteenth century, Sturla Þórðarson, an Icelandic skáld and sagawriter, as well as a courtier of the Norwegian king Hákon Hákonarson, composed a poem praising his reign—​Hákonarkviða, wherein several stanzas are dedicated to the king’s conflict with earl Skúli, Hákon’s father-​in-​law. Skúli failed because “the fickle fortune turned her wheel against him”: Þat er skröklaust, at Skúli var frægðarmaðr

77  Quintus Curtius Rufus, Historiarum Alexandri Magni Macedonis libri, VII.8.24–​25. 78  M. Philippi Gualtheri de Castellione, Alexandreis, VIII.448–​57. 79  Alexanders saga, 128.

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í frömu lífi, þótt hvarbrigð á hann sneri aldar gipt auðnu hvéli, þá er ofrausn öfgu heilli randa rjóðr reisa knátti, ok ólágt jöfra bági öðlings nafn á Eyrum tók.80

(It is not a lie that Skúli was a famous man in his outstanding life, although the fickle luck of mankind turned the wheel of fortune on him, when the reddener of shield-​rims [WARRIOR = Skúli] raised an excess of heroism with adverse luck, and the enemy of princes [= Skúli] took the not insignificant title of king at Øra.)81

This is the earliest example of the WHEEL OF FORTUNE metaphor attested in vernacular Icelandic literature. Except for Hákonarkviða, there are no instances of this metaphor in skaldic and eddic poetry, apart from a disputed passage in Hávamál (a poem from the thirteenth-​century Codex Regius Edda): Meyjar orðum /​skyli manngi trúa /​né því, er kveðr kona, /​því at á hverfanda hvéli /​váru þeim hjörtu sköpuð, /​brigð í brjóst of lagið.82

(The words of a girl /​no one should trust, /​nor what a woman says; /​for on a whirling wheel /​their hearts were made, /​deceit lodged in their breasts.)83

Below is a reflection that the scribe of Flateyjarbók (possibly Magnús Þórhallsson), inserted into his saga of Olaf Tryggvason, written between ca. 1387 and 1394. When king Olaf attempted to take a town by force, its townspeople falsely offered peace, only to lure him into town and kill him. They said to the king: þó at eftir boði náttúrunnar hafi farsælan oss fylgjusöm verit, þá er með engu móti treystanda á hennar hverfanda hvel, því at þat kann oft undan velta, þá er minnst varir.84

80  Sturla Þórðarson, Hákonarkviða, 699–​727. 81  Translation: K. E. Gade.

82  Hávamál, 84. See Kristján Albertsson, “Hverfanda hvel,” 57–​58; Larrington, “Hávamál and Sources outside Scandinavia,” 141–​57; Hagman, “Kring några motiv i Hávamál,” 13–​24; McKinnel, “Hávamál B: A Reconstructed Poem of Sexual Intrigue,” 103–​4. 83  Translation: Carolyne Larrington.

84  Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta, 114.

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(Although, on a summon of Nature, luck has been a faithful follower to us, however, her whirling wheel is still by no means to be trusted, because it can often turn down, when it is least to be expected.)

Fóstbrœðra saga tells us about two trouble-​makers, Þorgeirr and Þormóðr, the best of friends. After Þorgeirr was killed, Þormóðr sailed to Greenland to avenge the death of his sworn brother. He stayed at Brattahlíð. There, a woman called Sigríðr was assigned to take care of him. A slave Loðinn, with whom she used to share a bed, noticed that she spent too much time in the men’s hall. He remembered the following verse about a woman from the Poetic Edda: “Á hverfanda hvéli /​vóro þeim hiörto sköpoð, /​Brigð í brióst um lagið” (for on a whirling wheel /​their hearts were made, /​deceit lodged in their breasts).85 Grettis saga (an Icelandic saga written ca. 1310–​1320) tells about the life of Grettir Ásmundarson, a brave, although unlucky, Icelandic hero and an ill-​tempered, bellicose outlaw at the same time. On his deathbed, Grettir’s father Ásmundr said as his last words: “En til Grettis kann ek ekki at leggja, mér þykkir á mjǫk hverfanda hjóli um hans hagi var” (I have nothing to propose about Grettir, for all his doings seem at the mercy of the wheel of fortune).86 Kirialax saga (a bookish chivalric saga composed probably in the fourteenth century, preserved in MSS from the fifteenth century, ca. 1450–​1500) is devoted to Kirjalax, son of king Laicus of Thessaly. He leads a life of travel and adventures. Travelling through the Mediterranean, Kirjalax joins king Soba of Phrygia to fight the Muslim ruler Solldan of Babylon. When king Soldan is defeated in battle, he sends his messengers to ask for peace. Begging for peace, they deliver a speech in which they are referring to Fortune’s wheel twice: “er oss þat synt, hversu hamingian kann undarliga skiott at umturna sinu hioli” (it is seen very frequently how the world is fickle-​minded and unsettled, and it is shown to us how good fortune can turn her wheel with extraordinary swiftness);87 “[med] þvi at hamingian hefir nu svo vellt sinu hioli, at þer hafit hardla hatt á þat kli[frat]” (and since fortune has now turned her wheel in such a way that you have climbed very high).88 Adonias saga, a late medieval Icelandic romance from ca. 1450–​1500, tells a story of how a war broke out in Syria that arose from a dynastic conflict between Constancius and Adonias. When he is beaten by Adonias in a battle, Constancius says that “þat þicke mier uggligt seiger hann at hamingian mun sinu hiȯle ætla fra oss at snua” (it seems to me frightening—​he says—​that fortune must intend to turn her wheel away from us).89 Later on, when Adonias is out hunting, a knight called Albanus challenges him to a duel. When defeated, and spared, Albanus says: “hamingian er ostodvg og kann skiȯtt vmturna sinv hiȯli” (Fortune is untrusty and can quickly turn upside down her wheel).90 85  Translation: Carolyne Larrington.

86  Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 138. Translation: B. Scudder. 87  Kirialax saga, 55. Translation: A. Divjak. 88  Kirialax saga, 55. Translation: A. Divjak. 89  Adonias saga, 144. 90  Adonias saga, 151.

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Before the final battle, king Constancius delivers a speech to his soldiers, saying “tiȧr þat enn fyrir sinvm herr. at hann vænter enn fyrir tvenna grein at hamingian mune snua hiolinu odrv vis enn nu er til ætlat” (and he addresses his army, saying that he still hopes that of these two eventualities Fortune will turn [her] wheel otherwise than until now it was expected).91 Ectors saga, a late medieval Icelandic romance from ca. 1450–​1500, is a story about a knight’s search for adventures to test his prowess, with a plot based on reworked Arthurian materials: “hamjngían mælír svo vndjr þína vængí skal eg vellta mjnv hiolj ok þer skulu þiona allír konungar á austurlandum” (Fortune says so: under your wing I shall turn my wheel and all the kings in the eastern lands will serve you).92 In one of battles Ector fought in Asia, he had a badge with Fortune depicted with her wheel and with a phoenix: “þar uar.á. skrifud hamingían med sinu híolj þar uar a gíor fugl var” (there was Fortune inscribed with her wheel and there was also an apparel of a bird).93 Maríu saga is a biography of the Virgin Mary based mainly on the apocryphal and canonical gospels, Flavius Josephus, the Fathers of the Church, and preserved in MSS from ca. 1400–​ 1450. It includes numerous stories of miracles attributed to Mary. There is a miraculum narrated by the saga writer recounts how one priest Theofilos was chosen as bishop. Strolling down a garden path, he wondered how the wheel of Fortune turns around: “þetta færr honum miok mikils, hugleidandi ok þar med miok undrandi, huersu hiol hamingivnnar erv veltandi” (it came to him very much, thinking there with much amazement about how the wheel of Fortune is turning).94 And suddenly the Devil appeared before him. In the fourteenth-​century collection of exempla (Ǽfintýri or Dǿmisǫgur) in the manuscript ÁM 657 a–​b 4° (53r–​55v) there is a tale about unstable fate of the crown’s officials, when a new king ascends the throne of France:  “Tekr þá nýrr kóngr nýja ráðgjafa ok reiknar yfir sínu gózi ok vísaeyri, sem háttr er heimsins at allt leikr á hjóli: annat klífr upp en annat steypiz” (A new king takes then new counsellors and make up an account of his own goods and revenues, which is a habit of the world that all moves on a wheel: one climbs up, an another falls down).95 A sheriff of the French king reflects on the situation: Einn morginn sem hann vaknar í sínu solario ok liggr vakandi, hugleiðir hann daga sína hversu gengit hafa, hversu þeir hafa verit fagrir ok féligir, en þar í millim kemr honum nú til hugar, hversu hjólit hamingjunnar vallt með bráðum atburð ok hversu fljótt mót líkendum þat réttiz aptr.96

(One morning when he wakes up in his terrace and lays there awake, he thinks about his days and how they passed, how fair they were and worthy, but there

91  Adonias saga, 208. 92  MS ÁM 589 d 4° 44v18. Cf. Ectors saga, 175.

93  MSS ÁM 589 d 4° 44v10, Holm perg 7 fol. 47rb13. Cf. Ectors saga, 175. 94  Mariu saga, 1081.

95  Islendzk æventyri, 154. 96  Islendzk æventyri, 156.

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in the midst of it comes to him a thought of how the wheel of fortune turns and with how sudden a chance, and how quickly it rides back again against likelihood.)

Barlaams saga ok Jósaphats (MSS from ca. 1300–​1500) is a hagiographic saga about the lives of Saints Barlaam and Josaphat of India based on the life of the Gautama Buddha. The Christian hermit Barlaam converted, by preaching and learned disputes, Josaphat, the son of the king of India, against his father’s will, who only wanted to shield him from the evils of this world by hiding him from the world and the world from him. Later, Josaphat managed to convert his own father, after whose death he took the throne and converted the rest of India. Having accomplished that, he abdicated the throne, passed the crown to his faithful Christian servant Barachias, and withdrew into the desert to live as a hermit. Resigning the throne, Josaphat put Barachias on the throne, crowned him king, and said to him: Hugleið oc huerssu ymíslega vm stnyzt hamíngiu huel veralldlegra sœmda. oc stnyr ymsu vpp a. Sumir vaxa þeir er litlir varo aðr. en þeir lægeazt marger er aðr þottozt valldugir vera. Sva skiptizt oc hugr mannzens vm optlega oc iðulega.97

(And mind how diversely the fortune’s wheel of worldly honours turns itself around and alternately turns up. Some people grow who were but little people before. And yet many others are being laid low, those who used to deem themselves mighty. So turns as well mankind’s luck often and frequently.)

ÁM 736 III 4o (ca. 1550) contains fragments of various texts on cosmography, astrology, and computistics, the remains of a copy of an Old Norse encyclopedic collection or a specialized compendium, written in Iceland ca. 1400–​1499. There is a passage referring to the wheel of Fortune: “honum hefur um kastad hamingiu hiolid ok um lidin enn villdazta œfui” (have turned the wheel of Fortune around and yet never in a way as one wills the most).98 Hjálmþés saga ok Ölvis (ca. 1500—​Hermann Palsson, MSS witnesses from the sixteenth and eighteenth century:  Holm papp 30 4°—​ca. 1650–​1700, ÁM 109 a 8°—​ca. 1600–​1700, Holm papp 63 fol—​ca. 1650–​1700), is a late legendary saga about Hjálmþér, son of King Ingi, and his foster-​brother, Ölvir, earl Herrauðr’s son. After the death of his wife, King Ingi remarried a much younger princess from Serkland: Lúða, who later turned out to be a promiscuous man-​eater. The heinous stepmother took a liking to her stepson, Hjálmþér, at once. Lamenting her hard fate of being married to an old man, Lúða tried to seduce Hjálmþér to satiate her sexual appetite: Hví mun mér svá hamingjuhjólit valt orðit hafa? Betr hefði okkr saman verit hent, ungum ok til allrar náttúru skapfelldligum, ok minn kæri, þat má ek þér satt segja, at þinn faðir hefir mér enn ekki spillt, því at hann er maðr örvasa ok

97  MS ÁM 232 fol. 48rb3. Cf. Barlaams ok Josaphats saga, 179. 98  Fra AM. 736 III 4o, 199.

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náttúrulauss til allra hvílubragða, en ek hefi mjök breyskt líf ok mikla náttúru í mínum kvenligum limum, ok er þat mikit tjón veröldinni, at svá lystugr líkami skal spenna svá gamlan mann sem þinn faðir er ok mega eigi blómgast heiminum til upphalds. Mættu vit heldr okkar ungu líkami saman tempra eptir náttúrligri holdins girnd, svá at þar mætti fagrligr ávöxtur út af frjóvgast, en vit mættum skjótt gera ráð fyrir þeim gamla karli, svá at hann geri oss enga skapraun.99

(Why must the wheel of fortune have turned in this way for me? It would have been better to draw us together, young and well-​shapen in all nature, and my dear, that I may tell you assuredly, that your father has not yet violated me because he is a decrepit man, without potency for any intercourse, but I have very much a wanton life and much potency in my womanly limbs, and it is a great loss to the world that such an eager body must be spent on so old a man as your father and may not blossom for the world to support it. We might rather mingle our young bodies together according to the natural bodily desires, so that fair fruits may there multiply, but we should quickly take a counsel against this old man, so that he could not cause us any trouble.)

Hálfdanar saga Barkarsonar is a late legendary saga preserved in MSS from the eighteenth century. Hálfdan Barkarson came to Hörðafylki to claim his grandfather Rögnvaldr’s inheritance as his. Herfinnr, king of Hörðafylki, was unwilling to grant it to him, however, choosing to fight him rather than diminish his kingdom. His queen consort Gerðr gave him a sound counsel, that the wheel of Fortune should not be put to the test in this way, especially when the right was not on his side, which, in consequence, led him to change his mind: Ósanngjarnlegt er þeira, herra, er þér vogið svo á hverfandi hjól hamingjunnar, að synja þess, er hann beiðist réttilega, og er hitt heldr mitt ráð, að þér gjörið til hans sæmilega, þvíað eg veit, að hann er hinn mesti sómamaðr; mun honum þá vel fara til yðar. Vil eg að þér bjóðið honum fyrir sinn hluta eignir þær, er mér tilheyra og þér hafið að gæta i Svíþjóð; mun hann þá unna yðr að hafa óskert ríki þetta.100

(Unequitable it is of you, O Lord, which you risk on the whirling wheel of fortune, to deny this, what he lawfully requests, and it is my advice rather, that you act towards him becomingly, because I know, that he is the most respectable man; and it shall than dispose him well towards you. I want you to grant him for his part these possessions, which for me are due and by you have been protected in Sweden; he shall then allow you to have this kingdom undivided.)

The Rímur af Illuga Gríðarfóstra by Davíð Jónsson (1768–​1839), preserved in two manuscript witnesses: Lbs 2893 8o (ca. 1794/​the first half of the nineteenth century) and JS 477 8o (ca. 1675–​1900), is a ballad based on Illuga saga Gríðarfóstra. Illugi was a sworn brother to Sigurðr, Hringr’s son, son of Skjöldr Dagsson, king of Denmark. Once, Illugi and Sigurðr went 99  Hjálmþés saga ok Ölvis, 470. 100  Sagan af Hálfdáni Barkarsyni, 14.

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on a viking expedition, raiding in Scotland and Orkney. But when they steered home at last, they were driven away by a storm to an unknown sea to a bay called Gandvík. There, Illugi found a cave inhabited by what appeared to be trollwives, mother and daughter Gríður and Signý, in reality beautiful princesses cursed by an evil witch to live as trolls in a cave. Illugi broke the evil curse by telling three truths and showing no fear of death. Later, he married the daughter, Hildr, as a reward. When Illugi delivered them from the curse, she told him her sad story of being deprived of her husband and father, banished, cursed, and turned into a trollwife: Lóðins kvenndi, laxa ból, lifir, bærist, tefur, allt hvað myndast undir sól ellin skuldar krefur. Keppinn vestri vargs í mynd vasar heims um ranna Eðlispartar (útan synd) allir forðast hana. Synd og elli sýnast mér syrpur nauð skapandi Evu dætur út af sér álög hels fæðandi. Hjólið gæfu voða valt vinda á ýmsar síður. Margur af þeim kennir kalt kelling eins og Gríður.101

(Everything formed beneath the sun, on the woman of Óðinn (= land) or the bed of salmon (= sea), which lives, sways, lingers, is made to pay a debt to old age.

The contentious dwarf in the form of a wolf wanders the halls of the world. All natural beings (without sin) avoid her.

Those giantesses, sin and old age, seem to me to be creating hardship, likewise the daughters of Eve (= women) are giving birth to deadly curses. They spin the ever-​unsteady wheel of fortune in all directions. Many a man knows with little affection such a woman, a hag like Gríður.)

Matthías Jochumsson (1835–​1920), a renowned Icelandic poet of the Romantic era, wrote in his mournful poem Sorg, verse 19: Gekk ég að sænginni, signdi þitt lík, mitt sætasta, ljómandi yndi!

101  MSS Lbs 2893 8o (32v, 65hq) and JS 477 8o (34v, 79hq). I am indebted to Philip Lavender, who directed my attention to this passage and shared with me his unpublished transcription of this ríma. Translation: Philip Lavender.

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Ljós mitt var dáið, og lífsvonin rík liðin sem fokstrá í vindi. –​ Trú þú ei, maður, á hamingjuhjól, heiðríka daga né skínandi sól, þótt leiki þér gjörvallt í lyndi.102

(I went to the bed, glided down on your body, my sweetest, shining delight! My light was dead, and my life's mighty hope passed away as a straw in a wind. -​ Believe you not, O man, in the wheel of fortune, not in a cloudless day nor in a shining sun, even though it may play you all in temper.)

Even now, Icelanders read in the newspapers about victims of the wheel of Fortune. See, for example, newspaper articles in Morgunblaðið and Alþýðublaðið.103 Are all the above-​considered metaphors mere figures of style or rather figures of thought? In the case of translated and vernacular romance characters, it is tempting to conclude that it might have been stylization, an ornamental use of language—​the speech of outlandish folk made to sound outlandish. But when those words are put into mouths of saga characters or narrators from vernacular texts, this could not be the case of mere stylization; it indicates that the metaphor has already been integrated into the existing cognitive system. Literature exerts an effect on culture: it is actively involved in the making of society. Texts participate in creating the cultural moment in which they were read. A noteworthy feature of this phenomenon is the creation of hybrid cultures emerging as a result of cultural transfer, which can be understood in terms of “cultural transplantation”: elements become grafted from one “cultural body” to another and are in turn adapted to new cultural environments. Through an assimilationist approach towards foreign language and culture—​ Latinity and Christianity in the case of medieval Scandinavia—​they were willingly and knowingly embraced by leading medieval Icelandic intellectuals as a modus operandi in process of social integration into broader European culture, the civilizing process and Europeanization progressing at that time in Iceland. Ultimately, a hybrid identity was developed in the North, which consisted of the following substrates: Old Norse vernacular traditions, Christian traditions, and continental Latin culture. This is mirrored in the vernacular literature of Iceland: embedded deeply in the pre-​Christian traditions, it was at the same time strongly influenced by Christianity and 102  Matthías Jochumsson, Sorg, 19.

103  For example, “Meistaramót íslands: Þar var barizt um sekúndubrot og sentimetra,” Morgunblaðið (July 28, 1968, 159:21) and “Konungsstúkan,” Alþýðublaðið (February 8, 1955, 31:6), accessed in the Icelandic periodical database timarit.is.

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Latinity. Not infrequently, we encounter in sagas some pagan heroes presented from Christian perspective, recorded after arrival of literacy to Iceland, and they are described there by means of the cognitive instrumentarium of Christianity and Latin culture. Thus in Grettis saga, the renowned Icelandic folk hero Grettir Ásmundarson—​pagan, warrior, and outlaw—​falls victim to the Graeco-​Roman wheel of Fortune, Gr. ὁ κύκλος /​ὁ τροχός τῆς τύχης and Lat. rota fortunae.

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Huelsenbeck, Bart. “A Twelfth-​Century Manuscript of Lucan’s Bellum ciuile (Dukianus latinus 118).” A Journal for Manuscript Research 51 (2007): 21–​59. Jakob Benediktsson. “Introduction.” In Catilina and Jugurtha by Sallust and Pharsalia by Lucan in Old Norse:  Rómverjasaga:  ÁM 595 a–​b, 4o, edited by Jakob Benediktsson, 7–​24. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1980. Jensen, Minna Skafte. “Scandinavia.” In A Companion to the Classical Tradition, edited by Craig W. Kallendorf, 252–​64. Chichester: Wiley-​Blackwell, 2007. Jensson, Gottskálk. “The Latin Fragments of Þorláks saga helga and Their Classical Context.” In Scandinavia and Christian Europe in the Middle Ages, edited by Rudolf Simek and Judith Meurer, 257–​67. Bonn: Hausdrückerei der Universität Bonn, 2003. —​—​. “The Lost Latin Literature of Iceland: The Fragments of the Vita sancti Thorlaci and Other Evidence.” Symbolae Osloenses 79 (2004): 150–​70. Johansson, Karl G. Studier i Codex Wormianus. Skrifttradition och avskriftsverksamhet vid ett isländskt skriptorium under 1300–​ talet. Gothenburg: Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis, 1997. Johnson, Ryan Eric. Eyrbyggja and Icelandic Scholasticism. The Boethian Influence on Saga Narrative. Reykjavík: University of Iceland, 2014. Kanerva, Kirsi. “Ógæfa (misfortune) as an Emotion in Thirteenth-​Century Iceland.” Scandinavian Studies 84 (2012): 1–​26. Kålund, Kristian. Katalog over den Arnamagnæanske håndskriftsamling, vol. 1. Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1889. “Konungsstúkan.” Alþýðublaðið (February 8, 1955, 31:6), accessed in the Icelandic periodical database timarit.is. Kövecses, Zoltán. Metaphor in Culture. Universality and Variation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Kristján Albertsson. “Hverfanda hvel.” Skírnir 151 (1977): 57–​58. Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. “The Metaphorical Structure of the Human Conceptual System.” Cognitive Science 4 (1980): 195–​208. Lakoff, George, and M. Johnson. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980. Larrington, Carolyne. “Hávamál and Sources outside Scandinavia.” Saga-​Book 23 (1991): 141–​57. Lassen, Annette. “Indigenous and Latin Literature.” In The Routledge Research Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, Edited by Ármann Jakobsson and Sverrir Jakobsson, 74–​87. London: Routledge, 2017. Leach, Henry Goddard. Angevin Britain and Scandinavia. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921. —​—​. “The Relations of the Norwegian with the English Church, 1066–​1399, and Their Importance to Comparative Literature.” Proceedings of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 44 (1909): 531–​60. Liestøl, Aslak. “Runer frå Bryggen.” Viking: Tidsskrift for norrøn arkeologi 27 (1964): 5–​53. Long, Alex. “Lucan and Moral Luck.” The Classical Quarterly 57 (2007): 183–​97. Lönnroth, Lars. “Tesen om de två kulturerna:  Kritiska studier i den isländska sagaskrivningens sociala förutsättningar.” Scripta Islandica 15 (1964): 1–​97.

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Magee, John C. “The Boethian Wheels of Fortune and Fate.” Mediaeval Studies 49 (1987): 524–​33. Mann, Jill. “Chance and Destiny in Troilus and Criseyde and the Knight’s Tale.” In The Cambridge Companion to Chaucer, edited by Piero Boitani, 93–​111. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003. May, James. “The Image of the Ship of State in Cicero’s Pro Sestio.” Maia 32 (1980): 259–​64. McKinnel, John. Essays on Eddic Poetry. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2014. “Meistaramót íslands: Þar var barizt um sekúndubrot og sentimetra.” Morgunblaðið (July 28, 1968, 159: 21), accessed in the Icelandic periodical database timarit.is. Meylan, Nicolas. “Fate Is a Hero’s Best Friend: Towards a Socio-​political Definition of Fate in Medieval Icelandic Literature.” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 10 (2014): 155–​72. Musolff, Andreas. “Cultural Differences in the Understanding of the Metaphor of the ‘Body Politic’.” In Cognition and Culture. The Role of Metaphor and Metonymy, edited by Sonja Kleinke, Zoltán Kövecses, Andreas Musolff, and Veronika Szelid, 145–​53. Budapest: Eötvös University Press 2012. —​—​. “Is There Such a Thing as Discourse History? The Case of Metaphor.” In Cognitive Linguistics in Critical Discourse Analysis: Application and Theory, edited by Christopher Hart and Dominik Luke, 1–​27. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2007. —​—​. “Metaphor in the Discourse–​Historical Approach.” In Contemporary Critical Discourse Studies, edited by Christopher Hart and Piotr Cap, 45–​66. London: Bloomsbury, 2014. —​—​. “Metaphor in the History of Ideas and Discourse: How Can We Interpret a Medieval Version of the Body–​State Analogy?” In Metaphor and Discourse, edited by Andreas Musolff and Jörg Zinken, 233–​47. Basingstoke: Palgrave–​Macmillan, 2009. —​—​. “The Metaphor of the ‘Body Politic’ Across Languages and Cultures.” In Cognitive Explorations into Metaphor and Metonymy, edited by Frank Polzenhagen, Zoltán Kövecses, Stefanie Vogelbacher, and Sonja Kleinke, 85–​99. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2014. Musolff, Andreas, S. Kleinke, Z. Kövecses, and V. Szelid. Cognition and Culture. The Role of Metaphor and Metonymy. Budapest: Eötvös University Press, 2012. Ólafur Halldórsson. Helgafellsbækur fornar. Reykjavík: Heimspekideild Háskóla Íslands og Bókaútgáfa Menningarsjóðs, 1966. Patch, Howard Rollin. “Fate in Boethius and the Neoplatonists.” Speculum 4 (1929): 62–​72. —​—​. The Goddess Fortuna in Mediaeval Literature. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927. —​—​. The Tradition of the Goddess Fortuna in Medieval Philosophy and Literature. Northampton, MA: Smith College, 1922. —​—​. The Tradition of the Goddess Fortuna, in Roman Literature and in the Transitional Period. Northampton, MA: Smith College, 1922. Radding, Charles M. “Fortune and her Wheel: The Meaning of a Medieval Symbol.” Mediaevistik 5 (1992): 127–​38. Rasmussen, Claire, and Michael Brown. “The Body Politic as Spatial Metaphor.” Citizenship Studies 9 (2005): 469–​84. Reynolds, Leighton D. “The Lacuna in Sallust’s Jugurtha.” Revue d’histoire des textes 14 (1986): 59–​69.

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—​—​. Text and Transmission. A Survey of the Latin Classics. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983. Robinson, David. “The Wheel of Fortune.” Classical Philology 41 (1946): 207–​16. Sanford, Eva Matthews. “Honorius and the Wheel of Fortune.” Classical Philology 42 (1947):  251–​52. —​ —​ . “The Manuscripts of Lucan: Accessus and Marginalia.” Speculum 9 (1934): 278–​95. Shauf, Scott. The Divine in Acts and in Ancient Historiography. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2015. Skard, Eiliv. “Eine Lucanreminiscenz bei Theodoricus Monachus.” Symbolae Osloenses 33 (1957): 156–​57. Sommer, Bettina Sejbjerg. “The Norse Concept of Luck.” Scandinavian Studies 79 (2007):  275–​94. Sorensen, Benjamin. “Τύχη:  Fortune, Fate and Chance in Herodotus and Thucydides.” Saber and Scroll 3 (2014): 24–​42. Spurkland, Terje. Norwegian Runes and Runic Inscriptions. Translated by Betsy van der Hoek. Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2005. Stefán Karlsson. “Helgafellsbók í Noregi.” Opuscula 4 (1970): 347–​49. —​—​. Sagas of Icelandic Bishops: Fragments of Eight Manuscripts. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1967. —​—​. “Saltarabrot í Svíþjóð með Stjórnarhendi.” Gripla 5 (1982): 320–​22. Stewart, Douglas J. “Sallust and Fortuna.” History and Theory 7 (1968): 298–​317. Ström, Åke. “Scandinavian Belief in Fate.” In Fatalistic Beliefs, edited by Helmer Ringgren, 63–​88. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1967. Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir. Universal History in Fourteenth-​century Iceland: Studies in ÁM 764 4o. London: University College London, 2000. Sverrir Tómasson. “Formáli málfræðiritgerðanna fjögurra í Wormsbók.” Íslenskt mál og almenn málfræði 15 (1993): 221–​40. Takashi Shogimen. “Treating the Body Politic: The Medical Metaphor of Political Rule in Late Medieval Europe and Tokugawa Japan.” The Review of Politics 70 (2008): 77–​104. Thorvaldsen, Bernt Ø. “The Níðingr and the Wolf.” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 7 (2011): 171–​96. —​—​. “The Poetic Curse and Its Relatives.” In Along the Oral–​Written Continuum. Types of Texts, Relations and their Implications, edited by S. Rankovic, L. Melve, and E. Mundal, 253–​67. Turnhout: Brepols, 2010. Tiffou, Etienne. “Salluste et la Fortune.” Phoenix 31 (1977): 349–​60. Thompson, Norma. The Ship of State: Statecraft and Politics from Ancient Greece to Democratic America. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001. Turner, Andrew J. “Reading Sallust in Twelfth-​Century Flanders.” International Journal of the Classical Tradition 21 (2014): 198–​222. Van der Horst, Pieter Willem. “Fatum, Tria Fata; Parca, Tres Parcae.” Mnemosyne 11 (1943):  217–​27. Vaughan, Richard. Matthew Paris. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1958. Walther, Hans. “Rota fortunae im lateinischen Verssprichwort des Mittelalters.” Mittellateinisches Jahrbuch 1 (1964): 48–​58.

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Weber, Gerd Wolfgang. Wyrd: Studien zum Schicksalsbegriff der altenglischen und altnordischen Literatur. Bad Homburg: Gehlen, 1969. Weiler, Björn. “Matthew Paris in Norway.” Revue Bénédictine 122 (2012), 153–​81. Welsch, Wolfgang. “Transculturality: the Puzzling Form of Cultures Today.” In Spaces of Culture: City, Nation, World, edited by Mike Featherstone and Scott Lash, 194–​213. London: Sage, 1999. Wellendorf, Jonas. “ ‘Ancient Traditions’ in Sverris Saga: The Background of an Episode in Sverris Saga and a Note on the Dating of Rómverja Saga.” The Journal of English and Germanic Philology 113 (2014): 1–​17. Werner, Shirley. The Transmission and Scholia to Lucan’s Bellum civile. Berlin: LIT, 1998. Winterbourne, Anthony. When the Norns Have Spoken: Time and Fate in Germanic Paganism. Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2004. Winters, Margaret, Helli Tissari, and Kathryn Allan. Historical Cognitive Linguistics. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter, 2010. Wirth, Werner. Der Schicksalsglauben in den Isländersagas. Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1940. Wiseman, Timothy Peter. “The Two-​Headed State: How Romans Explained Civil War.” In Citizens of Discord: Rome and Its Civil Wars, edited by Brian Breed, Cynthia Damon, and Andreola Rossi, 25–​44. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Würth, Stefanie. Der Antikenroman in der isländischen Literatur des Mittelalters: Eine Untersuchung zur Übersetzung und Rezeption lateinischer Literatur im Norden. Basel: Helbing & Lichtenhahn, 1998. —​—​. “Historiography and Pseudo–​History.” In A Companion to Old Norse–​ Icelandic Literature and Culture, edited by Rory McTurk, 155–​72. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005. Þorleifur Hauksson. “Formáli.” In Sverris saga, edited by Þorleifur Hauksson, v–​cx. Íslenzk fornrit 30. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2007. —​—​. “Introduction.” In Rómverja saga, edited by Þorbjörg Helgadóttir, 1:xiii–​ccxiv. 2 vols. Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar í íslenskum fræðum, 2010. —​—​. “On the Sallust Translation in Rómverja saga.” Saga-​Book 22 (1987–​88): 263–​77. —​—​. “On the Sources and Composition of Rómverja Saga.” Saga-​Book 24 (1996): 203–​20.

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Chapter 7

DATING, AUTHORSHIP, AND GENERATIONAL MEMORY IN LJÓSVETNINGA SAGA: A LATE RESPONSE TO BARÐI GUÐMUNDSSON1

Yoav Tirosh LJÓSVETNINGA SAGA IS a saga that relates some of the major feuds in the Eyjafjǫrðr area in northern Iceland in the late tenth and eleventh centuries. The debate around the saga has, from the late nineteenth century to the late twentieth century, revolved mostly around the saga’s origins and composition. This is mainly due to the fact that Ljósvetninga saga’s transmission is unique;2 two differing medieval redactions exist: A-​ redaction, preserved only in the fragmentary fifteenth-​century vellum manuscript AM 561 4to, and C-​redaction, preserved in the extremely fragmentary fifteenth-​century manuscript AM 162 c fol. and its paper copies. Where at times the two texts are nearly identical, in other instances they differ in names, narrative structure, and possibly even in content.3 As such, the saga was one of the important argument pieces for the continental Freiprosa oral school of thought,4 which argued that this is evidence for differing oral origins for the saga, and the Buchprosa literary school of thought,5 also known as the Icelandic School, which argued that the differences between the two redactions were mainly due to artistic, authorial manipulation. When the debate between these two schools of thought subsided, so did the interest in Ljósvetninga saga, since its main point of discussion was around its origins. One scholar who looked beyond the issue of Ljósvetninga saga’s origins is the Icelandic scholar Barði Guðmundsson (1900–​1957), also an Alþingi (Icelandic Parliament) member. His reading went deep into the saga, suggesting that each detail described in it could be understood in light of thirteenth-​century Icelandic politics. His approach is a clear case of overdoing things, and it is clear from his writing that there is a certain conflation between 1  Yoav Tirosh, University of Iceland, email: [email protected]. 2  Liestøl, The Origin of the Icelandic Family Sagas, 48–​54.

3  It is scholarly consensus that the A-​redaction would likely never have included the þættir that are incorporated in the C-​redaction. One should be careful with this argument, however. As Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson points out, it is indeed possible that in earlier, no-​longer extant, manuscripts of A-​redaction, the þættir would have been included, partly or in full. Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson, “AM 561 4to”, 85.

4  See Liestøl, The Origin of the Icelandic Family Sagas, and Andersson, The Problem of the Icelandic Saga Origins, 150–​65. For more on the Bookprose-​Freeprose debate see Andersson, The Problem of Icelandic Saga Origins, 65–​81.

5  Reflected best in Björn Sigfússon’s Íslenzk fornrit edition of Ljósvetninga saga and Reydœla saga (Ljósvetninga saga).

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the way events in Sturlunga saga are described and how the actual historical events they describe took place. Nevertheless, his reading of Ljósvetninga saga reveals much of what still preoccupies saga scholars; namely issues of dating, authorship, and how the past is remembered in these texts. These three key issues are tied to one another; establishing dating is critical for establishing authorship, and vice versa. Finally, arguments regarding the memory of the past cannot ignore questions of authorship and dating; we need to understand who the people were who actually did the act of remembering embodied in the saga text. In the context of this volume, then, when we are talking about a certain society, we need to understand who and what the society reflected in the texts we are dealing with was. As such, questions of dating and authorship should always be on our skeptical minds; not to be ignored, but also not to be wholly trusted. Before we go on to discuss these issues it is important to qualify what we mean by the term “author.” While ties to the continental writings were stronger than scholars of the Buchprosa approach—​who emphasized the uniqueness of the medieval Icelandic writings—​believed, there is a lack of research in medieval Icelandic literary theory in general, and particularly on their approach to concepts such as auctor.6 The case of Ljósvetninga saga is even more frustrating for those in search of an author, since it will perhaps never be possible to establish which of the two redactions are closest to the saga’s archetype; if such a thing can be claimed to ever have existed. The shorthand plural form authors has been used by the present writer in the past when referring to the people involved in the composition of Ljósvetninga saga in its present form; however, in order to follow Barði Guðmundsson’s arguments’ logic, one should perhaps let go of these preoccupations and adopt a more casual approach to issues of terminology. As such, the term author is used in this article as a kind of speculative entity, a modern concept let loose on the past to do its havoc, with hopes that its ghost will not appear in our hotel rooms to haunt us as vengeance.

Swiping Left to Björn Sigfússon: Dating the Sagas?

One issue that stands out in the scholarly discussion about Ljósvetninga saga is the issue of its date of composition. Dating sagas is seen recently as a somewhat pointless undertaking. As most of the extant saga manuscripts we have date from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, it is becoming abundantly clear that the saga texts we hold originate at least in part from those centuries.7 Jürg Glauser pointedly notes: “The dating of a saga, on whatever basis it is made, can never represent more than a small section of the text’s development. It is—​to use an image from modern media history—​a photographical recording, or perhaps a still of a film, which otherwise is largely lost.”8 This is especially true for Ljósvetninga saga. As Einar Ól. Sveinsson asks, “can we rely on these manuscripts 6  On the meaning of continental medieval authorship see Minnis, Medieval Theory of Authorship. See also Clunies Ross, “Criticism and Literary Theory.” 7  Ármann Jakobsson, “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” 104. 8  Glauser, “What Is Dated, and Why?,” 28.

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to give evidence of the original text? One of them is certainly unreliable as a witness, but are they not both? Is not Ljósvetninga Saga what might be called a badly preserved saga?”9 This original text, or more specifically the archetype, is especially hard to come by in the case of a “two-​pronged stemma.”10 When this stemma represents two significantly differing redactions, as is the case of Ljósvetninga saga, matters are complicated even further; the debate over the two Ljósvetninga saga redactions seems like an unsolvable one, and based mostly on matters of the specific scholar’s specific taste and school of thought. In fact, the whole project of dating in the case of significantly differing redactions could be seen as inherently flawed. In Emily Lethbridge’s words, “attempting to pin the written composition of the saga onto one specific individual and thereby privileging one text of the saga—​that irretrievably lost original—​over others that exist shifts the critical focus away from this surviving evidence for the continuous, regenerative tradition of the saga narrative, to a single, hypothetical, irrecoverable articulation.”11 And yet, some benefit could still come from grappling with issues of dating and in search of an author. As Torfi Tulinius’s discussions of Egils saga’s connection with Snorri Sturluson have shown,12 sometimes assuming a text is connected with a certain author or a certain individual’s milieu can produce fruitful interpretative advancements. In many ways dating decisions tell us more about the scholar than about the saga they are trying to date.13 It seems, as is perhaps natural, that each scholar puts something of their own inclinations and prejudices into the suggested date’s logic.14 As Björn M. Ólsen subscribed to Bååth’s þættir interpretation of Ljósvetninga saga’s composition,15 he rather dated its parts separately. The compilation itself, according to Björn, is from the fourteenth century, but its various parts were written in different times. Because of misunderstandings of the law in c­ hapters 1–​4, these are dated to after 1300.16 Sörla 9  Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Dating the Icelandic Sagas, 28. Einar Ólafur also warns that because of the nature of writing in the Eyjafjǫrðr region which incorporated many loosely connected þættir, one should tread carefully when dating the sagas of this region (Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Dating the Icelandic Sagas, 38). While not necessarily agreeing with his opinion on the þættir issue, it should be noted that this saga dating authority recommended caution with sagas of this area. 10  Louis-​Jensen, “Dating the Archetype,” 135. 11  Lethbridge, “Dating the Sagas,” 104.

12  Tulinius, Matter of the North, 264–​68.

13  See Tulinius, “Dating Eyrbyggja saga,” 115–​32, where he discusses different considerations of scholars for dating sagas. One sentence in particular stands out: “Writing in 1978, Rolf Heller needed to date Laxdæla saga later than hitherto has been done, because he believed it echoes certain Icelandic events from after the middle of the thirteenth century” (Tulinius, “Dating Eyrbyggja Saga,” 127). This sentence reveals much about the kinds of considerations for and motivations behind scholarly decisions about dating. 14  See Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Dating the Icelandic Sagas, 95. 15  Bååth, Studier öfver Kompositionen, 1–​19.

16  “Ljósvetninga þáttur er því naumast samin fir enn svo sem einum mansaldri eftir að þjóðveldið og hin fornu lög þess liðu undir lok, eða ekki fir enn um aldamótin 1300” (Ólsen, Um Íslendingasögur, 386).

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þáttr, on the other hand, could be dated to the mid-​thirteenth century, based on its linguistic features.17 Ófeigs þáttr and Vöðu-​Brands þáttr, which he groups together following Bååth,18 could not be dated to before 1300 since they show a misunderstanding of the quarters-​system.19 Björn dates to a similarly later date the final part of the saga that deals with Guðmundr’s son Eyjólfr, since it shows a misunderstanding of Icelandic law.20 Björn Sigfússon dates the saga to no earlier than the last decade of the Icelandic Commonwealth,21 but by no means after 1275, due to the C-​redaction’s connections with Brennu-​Njáls saga.22 It is also important to bear in mind that the C-​redaction is dated later than the original A-​redaction since, according to Björn Sigfússon, the former is based on the latter. It is clear that Björn Sigfússon bases much of his dating on the Icelandic grand narrative of subjugation to Norwegian rule.23 The Norwegian king referring to the Icelanders as “mína þegna,”24 (my people), is inconceivable, according to Björn Sigfússon, before the very last years of the commonwealth,25 a point that Björn M. Ólsen agreed with, though in his case it caused him to advocate for an even later date.26 Björn Sigfússon’s arguments seem to be tied with his Buchprosa, or “Icelandic school,” approach towards the sagas, an approach he championed with his edition of the allegedly highly oral Ljósvetninga saga and Reykdœla saga.27 In the promotion of Ljósvetninga saga, or any other saga, as an authored piece rather than one where there are clear oral traces, it seems that the later the date the better.28 Theodore Andersson, influenced by the later trend of questioning the Icelandic grand narrative, counters by referring to a similar use of referring to the Icelanders as 17  Ólsen, Um Íslendingasögur, 386.

18  Ólsen, Um Íslendingasögur, 368. See Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature, 79 19  Ólsen, Um Íslendingasögur, 386–​87.

20  Ólsen, Um Íslendingasögur, 387–​88. Cf. Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature, 78–​79.

21  Ljósvetninga saga, xlii–​l. In his entry for the Kulturhistorisk Leksikon for nordisk middelalder Björn Sigfússon is much more conclusive, stating that it “är sannolikt författad o. 1260, möjl något senare” (Björn Sigfússon, “Ljósvetninga saga,” 653–​54).

22  Ljósvetninga saga, xlviii–​l, ft. 3. Einar Ól. Sveinsson (Dating the Icelandic Sagas, 35) also hints at this, and Paul Schach (“Character Creation,” 265–​67) expands on this in his discussion of the influences between these Íslendingasögur, and sees Guðmundr’s different representations as proof of literary rather than oral origins. But see Gísli Sigurðsson’s response to what he sees as a misunderstanding of the way oral stories work and are transmitted: Gísli Sigurðsson, “*The Immanent Saga of Guðmundr ríki,” 213–​17.

23  See Patricia Boulhusa’s response to this in Boulhosa, Icelanders and the Kings of Norway, and Helgi Þorláksson’s partial response to the legal issues Boulhosa raises in “Er Gamli sáttmáli tómur tilbúningur?” 24  Ljósvetninga saga, 97.

25  Ljósvetninga saga, xlvii–​xlviii.

26  Björn M. Ólsen, Um Íslendingasögur, 388.

27  See e.g. Andreas Heusler’s review of Björn in Literaturblatt für Germanische und Romanische Philologie, and Stefán Einarsson, “Publications in Old Icelandic Literature,” 46. 28  See Emily Lethbridge, “Dating the Sagas,” 82.

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the king’s “þegna” in Gísls þáttr Illugasonar,29 which is dated to early thirteenth century. “Such a sentiment was apparently felt to be quite appropriate in the commonwealth period, presumably because Icelandic service at the Norwegian court was a long-​ standing tradition. There was nothing new about a relationship between Icelanders and the Norwegian court.”30 Andersson’s dating of Ljósvetninga saga to circa 1220 is connected with his idea that the saga was a turning point in Icelandic storytelling,31 as well as his assertion of the Northern monastery Munkaþverá as a centre for saga production.32 Ljósvetninga saga must have been written ca. 1220 because of its relationship with Morkinskinna, its similarities with Reykdœla saga, which he prefers to date 1207–​ 1222,33 and the saga’s connections with Þorvarðr Þorgeirsson (d. 1207) and his family’s connections with Munkaþverá.34 Ljósvetninga saga reports to us Þorvarðr Þorgeirsson’s catchphrase: “Hǫfum nú Veisubragð” (Let’s try the Veisa grip)35 as a reference to a scuffle that occurs in the farm of Veisa in the eleventh century. Andersson says that an unwitty sentence like that would not have been remembered more than a decade after the man passed away.36 In response, however, one can point out that the scuffle that took place in Veisa itself is not very “exciting,”37 and yet it survived orally (presumably) for two centuries at least before it was committed to paper. As every creator of puns knows, we cannot always know which sentences will catch and which of our genius creations will be wasted and fall into oblivion, much like we cannot always assess which events will be remembered and which forgotten.38 In addition, as Einar Ól. Sveinsson points out, the phrasing of this sentence does not mean that Þorvarðr was necessarily dead when the line was put on parchment, but could also have been in the latter years of his life when “he was off the scene.”39 Nevertheless Einar’s inclination for dating Ljósvetninga saga was, like Andersson, towards a date close to Þorvarðr’s death.40 Björn Sigfússon argues that it is the people around Ögmundr sneis Þorvarðsson, the son of Þorvarðr

29  Interestingly, Andersson points out that Björn Sigfússon himself refers to Gísls þáttr Illugasonar in Ljósvetninga saga, 97n4. That this was relegated to a footnote by Björn rather than discussed in the main introduction is noteworthy. 30  Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature, 79.

31  Andersson, The Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas, 119–​31. 32  For example, Andersson and Gade, Morkinskinna, 67–​71.

33  Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature, 82, based on arguments made in Hofmann, “Reykdœla saga.” 34  Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature, 79.

35  Ljósvetninga saga, 73. Translation: Theodore M. Andersson and William Miller. 36  Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature, 83–​84.

37  Though the act of spying described does, of course, serve a purpose as part of the main narrative.

38  Einar Ól. Sveinsson also argues that the citation makes more sense when Þorvarðr was dead, or at least after his retirement to a monastery in the latter part of his life (Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Dating the Icelandic Sagas, 56–​57), but does not state how long a period after his death this would have been cited: “They could very well have been written in 1208, or 1218, or later” (57). 39  Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Dating the Icelandic Sagas, 56–​57. 40  Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Dating the Icelandic Sagas, 57.

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Þorgeirsson, who wrote Ljósvetninga saga. In many ways this could be a possible alternative explanation to Andersson’s dating; it is likely that people would remember their fathers’ terrible dad-​jokes long after their passing.

Counting Characters: Barði Guðmundsson and the Search for an Author

When she discusses the attempts to find Gísla saga Súrssonar’s author, Emily Lethbridge notes that these “are representative of the ways in which in modern saga scholarship the anachronistic desire to attribute a written narrative to an individual, thereby situating it firmly within an historical and ideological framework, often supersedes the evidence for that narrative itself and distorts our understanding of the distinctive nature of medieval and post-​medieval Icelandic textuality.”41 Despite being obviously less dismissive of the project of dating and even the discussion of authorship, Einar Ól. Sveinsson pointed out the trappings of dating based on a specific author, or specific occurrences: It must be said that all these attempts to find similarities between the sagas and events of the age in which they were written present exceedingly difficult problems. In the first place, similar incidents often occur in real life, without there being any relationship between them. Secondly, while there may be some literary relationship between a Family Saga and a story of contemporary life, it may be difficult to decide which is the borrower. If we can be sure that there is some direct relationship between a Family Saga and contemporary history, then it is certainly probable that the saga is the borrower, but it need not be so in every case.42

Barði Guðmundsson paid no heed to these kinds of thoughts and warnings. Ljósvetninga saga is seen by him as a roman-​à-​clef, meaning a text where each event can be read through a corresponding event or character in real life, in history.43 However, already these two terms are problematic, since the history Barði describes is tied directly with the literary representations of these events, rather than the real events themselves. As scholars such as W. P. Ker or Peter Hallberg have shown,44 Sturlunga saga should clearly be looked at as literature, and not just history.45 As such, we should be careful when 41  Lethbridge, “Dating the sagas,” 103–​4.

42  Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Dating the Icelandic Sagas, 74. Cf. Tirosh, “Feel the Burn”. See also Schach, “Character Creation,” 240.

43  For the meaning of the term “history” in the Íslendingasögur, see Ármann Jakobsson, “Tradition and the Individual Talent.” 44  Ker, Epic and Romance, 259; Hallberg, “Två mordbrånder,” 25–​45.

45  And of course one should always keep in mind Hayden White’s arguments regarding history and narrative, a discussion featured prominently in Úlfar Bragason’s Icelandic Ætt og Saga. See also White, “The Question of Narrative”; Tulinius, The Matter of the North, 187; O’Connor, “History or Fiction?,” 104–​5.

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discussing the elements in Ljósvetninga saga that were taken from real events. In many cases, even if similarities are found, these could also be corresponding with the representation of these events rather than with the events themselves. The premise of Barði Guðmundsson’s discussion of Ljósvetninga saga is therefore problematic from the onset. He suggests that Þorvarðr Þórarinsson wrote Njáls saga. Þorvarðr Þórarinsson of the Svínfellingar kin-​group is a less common household name of the Sturlung age than Snorri Sturluson, Sturla Þórðarson, or even Gizurr Þorvaldsson, and he is known mostly as the rather despicable killer of the almost saintly Þorgils skarði.46 The fact that this character is not very well known is especially striking considering that he had a major role in the introduction the legal code Jarnsíða in 1271,47 and from 1273 and until his death he had been given control of almost half of Iceland by order of King Magnús Hákonarson.48 Þorvarðr Þórarinsson was the target of slander, according to Barði Guðmundsson, through the Ljósvetninga saga’s author’s quill.49 In his reading of Njáls saga as a roman-​ à-​clef, he identified the saga villains Mörðr Valgarðsson and his father Valgarðr grái Jörundarson as stand-​ ins for Þórðr Þorvarðsson and Þorvarðr Þórðarson, of the farm Saurbær. Barði offers many arguments for this, some sound and some odd-​ sounding, such as the similarities between the names Mörðr and Þórðr in letter-​count and sound: “Nöfnin Þórðr Þorvarðsson og Mörðr Valgarðsson hafa ekki aðeins sama stafafjölda, heldur er og hljómfall þeira svo líkt sem verða mátti” (The names Þórðr Þorvarðsson and Mörðr Valgarðsson have not only the same number of letters, but rather also their intonation is as close as can be).50 Barði argues that Þórðr set out to redeem his and his father’s name and humiliate Þorvarðr Þórarinsson by writing Ljósvetninga saga. The saga, then, is a níðrit,51 a defamatory text meant to humiliate a clear target: Þorvarðr Þórarinsson. This is done through the humiliation of Guðmundr inn ríki. “Þorvarður Þórarinsson,” Barði decisively asserts, “er níddur undir nafni Guðmundar ríka forföður sins” (Þorvarður Þórarinsson is defamed using the name of his forefather Guðmundr ríki).52 As mentioned above, the scholarly debate around Ljósvetninga saga revolved and in many ways still revolves around the question of origins—​is this saga a collection of þættir, which represent clumsily put together oral stories, or is it a single, authored piece? While Barði makes no significant contribution to the important redaction debate, 46  Lönnroth, Njáls saga, 183–​84. 47  Lönnroth, Njáls saga, 180. 48  Lönnroth, Njáls saga, 176.

49  Björn Sigfússon states that Barði Guðmundsson’s thesis of reading Ljósvetninga saga as a libel against Þorvarðr Þórarinsson and Vigfúss Gunnsteinsson (who Barði Guðmundsson, Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar, 82–​90, describes as a traitorous fellow, who Ljósvetninga saga’s Hrafn Þorkelsson is modelled after) seems unconvincing (Björn Sigfússon, “Ljósvetninga saga,” 655.) 50  Barði Guðmundsson, Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar, 91. My translation. 51  Barði Guðmundsson, Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar, 114.

52  Barði Guðmundsson, Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar, 114. My translation.

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he does offer a left-​field Buchprosa answer to the oral vs authored debate surrounding the saga, though he does not position himself within this debate’s framework. He addresses those poor connections between the saga’s parts, which make it seem like a Þættir collection. Throughout his book these are treated like literary representations of events that are meant to invoke scenes in Iceland’s history, and more specifically scenes from Þorvarðr Þórarinsson’s life. One example of this is the scene where Rindill goes to Þorkell hákr’s house. Rindill’s function in the house as a spy is considered unclear by scholars (although this ignores the fact that he unlatches the door and allows Guðmundr and his men to burst into Þorkell hákr’s house in a dramatic fashion).53 Barði, however, has an answer for this perceived lack of clarity: Rindill’s role in the narrative is to invoke, rather, the memory of Halldórr skraf, the wretched fellow that allows Þorvarðr Þórarinsson to kill Þorgils skarði. This is supported, according to Barði, by the (actually persuasive) similarity between Halldórr’s name and the assumed name Rindill takes upon himself: Þórhallr.54 After Rindill is killed, Guðmundr inn ríki famously overreacts, and is so bent on avenging his henchman’s death that he is willing to burn a house where his wife and son are present. Barði compares this with the killing of Kolbeinn grön by Gizurr Þorvaldsson following the Flugumýrarbrenna, and Þorvarðr’s seemingly exaggerated reaction to this act.55 Guðmundr inn ríki’s victim Þorkell hákr is according to Barði designed after the character of Þorgils skarði, and both battle scenes where they are killed share many similarities as well.56 For this interpretation to be correct, one of the important points is that Þorvarðr Þórarinsson needs to be established as Njáls saga’s author. Responding to Barði Guðmundsson, Einar Ól. Sveinsson explained why Þorvarðr Þórarinsson could not have been the author of the text, stressing the Njáls saga author’s lack of knowledge about things Þorvarðr would be expected to know about, such as the geography of the south, 53  For example, Ljósvetninga saga, xxxix–​xl.

54  Barði Guðmundsson, Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar, 11–​12. 55  Barði Guðmundsson, Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar, 60–​63.

56  Like Þorgils, who is described as saintly towards his death, the description of Þorkell hákr is a rather positive one and means to somewhat redeem his character from his earlier provocations (Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature, 191n122). This interpretation, however, should be considered in light of the fact that this is actually Þorkell’s only significant appearance in the saga. Earlier he is named as the son of Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði, and as spreading defamatory speech about Guðmundr, but is never an actor in a scene. In addition, unlike Þorgils skarði, Þorkell hákr goes down after making a lewd gesture that was so provocative that some saga copyists had to remove it from their narrative. See Keens, “Scenes of a Sexual Nature”; Tirosh, “Argr Management”, 265–​66; Ljósvetninga saga, 52n4.; and Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature, 191n122, and 193n126, where they also refer to the Íslenzk fornrit footnote, and to Powell and Vigfússon, Origines Islandicae, where they state clearly about the expression written in the extant manuscripts: “Something missing […] something lost here”, Vigfússon and Powell, Origines Islandicae, 418. See also Barði Guðmundsson’s reading of Þorgils skarði and Þorkell hákr’s characters as einlyndi, stubborn (Barði Guðmundsson, Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar, 15–​21).

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and law.57 Þorvarðr lived in the region, and was the king’s agent in applying the law code Jarnsíða. The connections with Þorvarðr’s life, Einar Ólafur argues, could very easily be found in other sagas, as well as could be found with other living people.58 As Lars Lönnroth points out, this criticism is somewhat contradictory to the fact that Einar Ólafur himself proposed the author being one of Skeggi Njálsson’s sons, either Þorsteinn or his brother Klængr.59 Lönnroth reconsidered Njáls saga in this context quite extensively in his 1976 Critical Introduction, and there he finds that the connection of that saga to Þorvarðr Þórarinsson is quite a likely possibility. About this he states that “it is evident at least that Þorvarðr had better reason to feel personally involved in the character of Njála than most of his contemporaries.”60 A connection between Njáls saga and Þorvarðr, then, is very plausible, at least if we follow Lönnroth. Nevertheless, it is important to note, his direct authorship cannot be proven. A significant problem with Barði Guðmundsson’s arguments is Þórðr Þorvarðsson’s authorship of Ljósvetninga saga. While it is impossible to completely dismiss this, it is equally difficult in that we do not know much of the fellow, as he is only mentioned twice in the Sturlunga saga compilation.61 He could not have been an unimportant figure in Icelandic politics—​after all, he ended up marrying Sturla Þórðarson’s daughter Ingibjörg. Also, his father Þorvarðr úr Saurbæ was a minor figure in the Eyjafjǫrðr region associated mainly with the Sturlungar, but also rumoured to have aligned with Þorvarðr Þórarinsson before the killing of Þorgils skarði, reportedly giving him ill advice.62 Barði Guðmundsson suggests that in Njáls saga Mörðr’s convincing the Njálssynir to kill Höskuldr Hvítanesgoði is a way to incriminate Þorvarðr úr Saurbæ in the killing of Þorgils skarði. In Ljósvetninga saga, however, this blame is shifted back to Þorvarðr Þórarinsson. Indeed, the connection between the literary representations of Þorvarðr úr Saurbæ in Þorgils saga skarða and Mörðr Valgarðsson in Njáls saga is certainly plausible, though it is rather slight and it seems like Barði is building too much on it. After 57  See Brennu-​Njáls saga, cviii–​cxi.

58  “Barði Guðmundsson hefur sýnt í rannsóknum sínum mikla hugkvæmni og tengigáfu. En mér er spurn: Mundi ekki slíkur maður geta fundið með sama hætti líkingu og tengsl með atvikum úr ævi ýmissa annara kunnra manna og sögunni?” (Barði Guðmundsson has shown in his research much imagination and a propensity for finding connections. But I wonder: Could someone else not find the same degree of similarities and connections to events that occurred in the life of some other men and historical events?). Brennu-​Njáls saga, cix. 59  Einar Ól. Sveinsson, “Njála og Skógverjar.” See Lönnroth, Njáls saga, 176–​77n33. Note that here Lönnroth states that Sæmundr Ormsson died in a feud that took place in 1952. While this is clearly a mistake in the publishing process, it makes it no less amusing. 60  Lönnroth, Njáls saga, 181.

61  Barði Guðmundsson, Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar, 108.

62  “Þorvarðr ór Saurbæ var inn mesti vin nafna síns af bóndum í Eyjafirði; hafði Þorvarðr Þórarinsson jafnan tal við hann. Hann þótti vera nökkut óheill ok illráðr” (Of the Eyjafjörðr farmers, Þorvarðr úr Saurbæ was the greatest of friends with his namesake; Þorvarðr Þórarinsson frequently spoke with him. He was thought to be somewhat devious and incendiary). Sturlunga saga, 244; my translation.

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all, as Bjarni Einarsson astutely observes, if Ljósvetninga saga had been intended as a níðrit, then vengeance for it would presumably have been reported in Þorgils saga skarða.63 Furthermore, Bjarni argues, “Í Þorgils sögu skarða hafði Þorvarði Þórarinssyni verið reist slík níðstöng” (In Þorgils saga skarða such a níðstöng had been raised against Þorvarðr Þórarinsson),64 that there was very little need for further recap of the kin-​ murder. Ljósvetninga saga as a níðrit, then, appears to be somewhat redundant. Also, there remains the confusion between who is meant to be represented by Mörðr in Njáls saga—​Þórðr or his father? Barði remains rather contradictory in his different writings on this fact.65 Finally, when considering this argument, one must deal with the intertextual connection argued by scholars in regards to Njáls saga’s descriptions of Guðmundr inn ríki and Þorkell hákr being based on and responding to Ljósvetninga saga,66 which of course would mean the latter preceded the former.

Vertigo: Horizontal and Vertical Approaches to Memory and Authorship

Barði Guðmundsson’s approach of treating Ljósvetninga saga as a roman-​à-​clef has deep implications for the nature of the text. It sees the main goal of the saga as a defamatory document, meant to humiliate Þorvarðr Þórarinsson and to avenge the honour of Þorvarðr úr Saurbæ and his son Þórðr. It seems that the main issue dealt with here is how one approaches the past. Here the study of generation is a helpful concept to work with.67 It could be suggested that Barði’s model of reading the saga—​suggesting that every event described in the saga can be interpreted through the events of the turbulent Sturlungaöld—​is a horizontal one, an intra-​generational text written for the people of late thirteenth-​century Iceland, about the people of late thirteenth-​century Iceland, by the people of late thirteenth-​century Iceland. Or, in other words, a text meant for the “generational unit” of the saga’s time of composition.68 The reading of the text that accepts a genealogical connection—​suggesting that the text is an interaction between different generational units—​is a vertical one, suggesting an inter-​generational text that interacts between the tenth and eleventh century when the story takes place and the 63  Bjarni Einarsson, “Höfundur Njálu,” 88.

64  Bjarni Einarsson, “Höfundur Njálu,” 88. My translation. On the concept of níðstöng, see, most recently, Lawing, “The Forest Pleas of Rockingham.”

65  In an earlier study of Brennu-​Njáls saga (Barði Guðmundsson, “Örgumleiði, gerpir, Arnljótarson,” 87–​91), Barði Guðmundsson argues that Þorvarðr úr Saurbæ is meant to be represented by the character of Mörðr Valgarðsson. In his study of Ljósvetninga saga, however, as shown above, he firmly argues that Þórðr Þorvarðsson was represented in Njáls saga through the character of Mörðr, and his father Þorvarðr úr Saurbæ represented by Mörðr’s father Valgarðr. 66  See above, footnote 21.

67  See Reulecke, “Generation/​Generationality,” and Erll, “Generation in Literary History.” See also Vinitzky-​Seroussi, “Mannheim and the Sociological Problem of Generations.” 68  Reulecke, “Generation/​Generationality,” 120.

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thirteenth—​or, possibly, fourteenth—​century when the saga’s extant redactions were presumably put to writing.69 It could be argued that a horizontal model for viewing the saga uses the tenth-​ and eleventh-​century setting as mostly an ersatz, a meaningless background meant to convey a message about the real story, which is the drama of the thirteenth century, and the vindication of the Saurbæingar in face of their humiliation by Þorvarðr Þórarinsson. While the search for an author does not automatically invalidate the past, the kind of research conducted by Barði creates a very simple message for Ljósvetninga saga, something along the lines of “Þorvarðr Þórarinsson is a bad man.” A vertical model for reading Ljósvetninga saga requires that we study the thirteenth-​century society that produced it rather than focusing on the argued author’s background. By no means is it argued here that the description of the past in the vertical model is not constructed to say something about the present; whether intentionally so or through the subconcious process of the author’s work. But it is still acknowledged as the past, as the acts of the people of the past, reflecting on the present. In many ways, it seems like the vertical model offers a more interesting reading of Ljósvetninga saga, a saga that has much to say about the goðar system, about Norwegian and Icelandic relations, and about sexuality, gender, and honour. This is not to say that the saga does not function against the thirteenth-​century descendants of the Möðruvellingar and in favour of the thirteenth-​century descendants of the Ljósvetningar through their ancestors.70 But it does so by creating a contrast between the past and the present. The past is not meant to correspond in every detail with the present, but rather to be looked at as an example. It is no coincidence that Ljósvetninga saga ends with one of the few “punch lines” in saga literature: En þat er at segja frá Háreki, at hann fór at finna Skegg-​Brodda ok mælti: “Forvitni er mér á, hversu sterkr þú ert, því at mikit er af því sagt. En ek em kallaðr aflmaðr; mun ek þó eigi við þér hafa. Vit þú fyrst, hvárt þú kemr hǫndum ór hǫfði mér.” Skegg-​Broddi svarar: “Óskylt ætla ek þat.” Tók hann þó til ok svipti þegar í brott hǫndum hans. En er hann gekk at Skegg-​Brodda þá stóð hann fyrir kyrr og hafði hendr í höfði sér, ok kom Hárekr þeim hvergi í brott, er hann reyndi til. Mátti af því sjá, hvárr þeirra meiri maðr var. Þá mælti Skegg-​Broddi: “Eigi þykki mér þú maðr sterkr, en drengr góðr ertu.”

(Of Harek it can be told that he went to meet with Skegg-​Broddi and said, “I am curious to know how strong you are because you have quite a reputation. I  too am known for my strength, but I  won’t match you. You try first to pull

69  I am referring here to the differentiation made most recently by Astrid Erll between the horizontal generational relations of “cohorts,” and the vertical generational relations, i.e. genealogical ones. See Erll, “Generation in Literary History.”

70  Lars Lönnroth points out that Þorvarðr is connected to Guðmundr inn ríki in the Y-​Branch (Möðruvallabók) of Njáls saga. Lönnroth, Njáls saga, 187.

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my clasped hands from my head.” “That seems pointless to me,” Skegg-​Broddi replied. He nonetheless took hold and promptly pulled away his hands. But when Harek took hold of Skegg-​Broddi, he stood still with his hands clasped to his head and no effort of Harek’s could budge them. One could tell by this test which of them was superior. Then Skegg-​Broddi said, “I don’t think you are a strong man, but you are a sound one.”)71

“Eigi þykki mér þú maðr sterkr, en drengr góðr ertu.” This punch line has a lot to say about the author’s generation. But it says that through their understanding of the reality of their ancestors’ generation, of the kind of politics and world they had to deal with. Barði’s interpretation, in a sense, robs them of their genealogical perception, of their past.72

Under the Skin: Conclusion

When we talk about a society, especially one as distant as that of medieval Iceland, we need to be able to understand how to interact with the traces that that society left behind. Ljósvetninga saga leaves us, at times, with more questions than answers about its illusive nature, but that does not mean it should be ignored; it simply means that different questions should be asked when we approach it. It seems that Lars Lönnroth managed to find the perfect balance when he discussed Brennu-​Njáls saga’s authorship: It is […] important to point out that the genealogical and political implications of the saga constitute only a small part of its “meaning” as a whole—​an undercurrent easily disregarded by modern readers, who can enjoy the story of Gunnarr and Njáll without caring at all about the heritage of the Svínfellings or the political ambitions of Þorvarðr Þórarinsson. Yet it is safe to conclude that the Svínfelling activities of the late thirteenth century have made an imprint not only on the genealogies but on the saga as a whole.73

There is also the open question of why we continuously look within the limited list of known authors or prominent historical characters when seeking out saga authors.74 Some of those who dabbled in saga writing could easily have been grey characters or have led unexciting lives that would have allowed them to compose and/​or put to writing the stories of their ancestors. 71  Ljósvetninga saga, 106; English translation Andersson and Miller, Law and Literature, 245.

72  For a much more positive approach towards Barði Guðmundsson’s study, see Hallberg, “Nyare Studier,” 244–​47; and Hallberg, “Njálas författare.” 73  Lönnroth, Njáls saga, 187.

74  Ármann Jakobsson, Personal Communication. See also Bjarni Einarsson, “Höfundur Njálu,” 87.

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Barði Guðmundsson’s study of Ljósvetninga saga exposes us to questions that have been on scholars’ minds for many decades now; how do we date a saga? What kinds of questions should we approach the question of authorship with? While Barði’s over-​the-​ top answers do not offer us significant solutions, they help to articulate the problem. In addition, Barði is the one scholar who tried to provide an overall interpretation of the saga without paying too much heed to the question of redactions. While, in a way, this is an irresponsible act from a textual criticism standpoint, it is also a refreshing approach; if taken with careful skepticism, some of his points could even be seen as a significant contribution to scholarship. Mostly, Barði functions as a reminder to what it means to approach a text with a certain interpretative agenda; his advancing of a horizontal reading of the text, if it was to be accepted, could have wider reverberations all across our perception of the tenth and eleventh centuries and our ability to make any important observation about it. Luckily, for the moment, the reigning approach towards the sagas is still a vertical one, emphasizing the interactions between the generations rather than the younger generation erasing their ancestors and imposing their own stories on their deflated characters.

References

Primary Sources Brennu-​Njáls saga. Edited by Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954. Ljósvetninga saga. Edited by Björn Sigfússon. Íslenzk fornrit 10. Reykjavík: Hið íslenska fornritafélag, 1940. Powell, Frederick York, and Guðbrandur Vigfússon. Origines Islandicae: A Collection of the More Important Sagas and Other Native Writings Relating to the Settlement and Early History of Iceland, Vol. 2. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1905. Sturlunga saga including Islandinga saga of Lawman Sturla Thordsson & Other Works, Vol. 2. Edited by Guðbrandur Vigfússon. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1878. Secondary Literature

Andersson, Theodore Murdock. The Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–​1280). Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006. —​—​. The Problem of Icelandic Saga Origins: A Historical Survey. Yale Germanic Studies 1. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1964. Andersson, Theodore Murdock, and Kari Ellen Gade, ed. and trans. Morkinskinna: The Earliest Icelandic Chronicle of the Norwegian Kings (1030–​1157). Islandica 41. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000. Andersson, Theodore Murdock, and William Ian Miller. Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland:  Ljósvetninga Saga and Valla-​Ljóts Saga. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1989. Ármann Jakobsson. “Tradition and the Individual Talent: The ‘Historical Figure’ in the Medieval Sagas, a Case Study.” Viator 45 (2014): 101–​24.

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Bååth, Albert Ulrik. Studier öfver kompositionen i några isländska ättsagor. Lund: [Gleerup], 1885. Barði Guðmundsson. Ljósvetninga saga og Saurbæingar. Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfa Menningarsjóðs, 1953. —​—​. “Örgumleiði, gerpir, Arnljótarson.” In Höfundur Njálu: Safn Ritgerða, edited by Skúli Þórðarson and Stefán Pjetursson, 73–​91. Reykjavík: Menningarsjóður, 1958. Bjarni Einarsson. “Höfundur Njálu, safn ritgerða eftir Barða Guðmundsson.” Tímarit máls og menningar 20 (1959): 86–​90. Björn M. Ólsen, Um Íslendingasögur:  kaflar úr háskólafyrirlestrum. Edited by Einar Ól Sveinsson and Sigfús Blöndal. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka bókmenntafélag, 1939. Björn Sigfússon. “Ljósvetninga saga.” In Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, 653–​55. Kyrkorätt-​Ludus de S.  Canuto 10. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og Bagger, 1965. Boulhosa, Patricia Pires. Icelanders and the Kings of Norway. Mediaeval Sagas and Legal Texts. The Northern World 17. Leiden: Brill, 2005. Clunies Ross, Margaret. “Criticism and Literary Theory in Old Norse–​Icelandic.” In The Cambridge History of Literary Criticms, Vol. 2:  The Middle Ages, edited by Alastair Minnis and Ian Johnson, 345–​60. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Dating the Icelandic Sagas: An Essay in Method. Viking Society for Northern Research. Text Series. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1958. —​—​. “Njála og Skógverjar.” Skírnir 111 (1937): 15–​45. Erll, Astrid. “Generation in Literary History: Three Constellations of Generationality, Genealogy, and Memory.” New Literary History 45 (2014): 385–​409. Gísli Sigurðsson. “*The Immanent Saga of Guðmundr ríki.” In Learning and Understanding in the Old Norse World: Essays in Honour of Margaret Clunies Ross, edited by Judy Quinn, Kate Heslop, and Tarrin Wills, translated by Nicholas Jones, 201–​18. Medieval Texts and Cultures of Northern Europe 18. Turnhout: Brepols, 2007. Glauser, Jürg. “What Is Dated, and Why?” In Dating the Sagas: Reviews and Revisions, edited by Else Mundal, 9–​30. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum: University of Copenhagen, 2013. Guðvarður Már Gunnlaugsson. “AM 561 4to og Ljósvetninga saga.” Gripla 18 (2007): 67–​88. Hallberg, Peter. “Njálas författare och Hans Samtid.” Nordisk tidskrift för vetenskap, konst och industri 35 (1959): 524–​35. —​—​. “Nyare Studier i den Isländska Sagen.” Edda 53 (1953): 219–​47. —​—​. “Två mordbrånder i det medeltida Island.” Gardar 7 (1976): 25–​45. Helgi Þorláksson. “Er Gamli sáttmáli tómur tilbúningur?” In Þriðja íslenska söguþingið 18.–​21. Maí 2006. Ráðstefnurit, edited by Benedikt Eyþórsson and Hrafnkell Lárusson, 392–​98. Reykjavík: Aðstandendur Þriðja íslenska söguþingsins, 2007. Heusler, Andreas. Review of Um Ljósvetninga sögu by Björn Sigfússon. Literaturblatt für germanische und romanische Philologie 60 (1939): 18–​21. Hofmann, Dietrich. “Reykdœla saga und mündliche Überlieferung.” Skandinavistik 2 (1972): 1–​26.

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Ker, W. P. Epic and Romance. London: McMillan, 1897. Keens, Lucy. “Scenes of a Sexual Nature: Theorising Representations of Sex and the Sexual Body in the Sagas of the Icelanders.” PhD diss., University College London, 2016. Lawing, Sean B. “The Forest Pleas of Rockingham: A (Re) Discovered Instance of Sculptural Níð?” European Journal of Scandinavian Studies 44 (2014): 20–​42. Lethbridge, Emily. “Dating the Sagas and Gísla saga Súrssonar.” In Dating the Sagas: Reviews and Revisions, edited by Else Mundal, 77–​113. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum: University of Copenhagen, 2013. Liestøl, Knut. The Origin of the Icelandic Family Sagas. Translated by Arthur Garland Jayne. Instituttet for Sammenlignende Kulturforskning, Serie A: Forelesninger 10. Oslo: Aschehoug, 1930. Louis-​ Jensen, Jonna. “Dating the Archetype: Eyrbyggja saga and Egils saga Skallagrímssonar.” In Dating the Sagas: Reviews and Revisions, edited by Else Mundal, 133–​47. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum: University of Copenhagen, 2013. Lönnroth, Lars, Njáls Saga: A Critical Introduction. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976. Minnis, Alastair, Medieval Theory of Authorship: Scholastic Literary Attitudes in the Later Middle Ages. 2nd ed. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1988. O’Connor, Ralph. “History or Fiction? Truth-​Claims and Defensive Narrators in Icelandic Romance-​Sagas.” Mediaeval Scandinavia 15 (2005): 101–​69. Reulecke, Jürgen. “Generation/​Generationality, Generativity, and Memory.” In Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook, edited by Astrid Erll and Ansgar Nünning, 119–​25. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008. Schach, Paul. “Character Creation and Transformation in the Icelandic Sagas.” In Germanic Studies in Honor of Otto Springer, edited by Stephen J. Kaplowitt, 237–​79. Pittsburgh: K&S Enterprises, 1978. Stefán Einarsson. “Publications in Old Icelandic Literature.” Scandinavian Studies 17 (1942): 45–​65. Tirosh, Yoav. “Argr Management: Vilifying Guðmundr inn ríki in Ljósvetninga saga.” In Bad Boys and Wicked Women. Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, edited by Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt, 240–​72. Münchner Nordistische Studien 27. Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016. —​—​. “Feel the Burn: Lönguhlíðarbrenna as Literary Type-​Scene.” Średniowiecze Polskie i Powszechne 9 (2017): 30–44. Torfi H.  Tulinius. “Dating Eyrbyggja Saga:  The Value of ‘Circumstantial’ Evidence for Determining the Time of Composition of Sagas about Early Icelanders.” In Dating the Sagas: Reviews and Revisions, edited by Else Mundal, 115–​32. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum: University of Copenhagen, 2013. —​—​. The Matter of the North: The Rise of Literary Fiction in Thirteenth-​Century Iceland. Translated by Randi C. Eldevik. Odense: Odense University Press, 2002. Úlfar Bragason. Ætt og saga: Um frásagnarfræði Sturlungu eða Íslendinga Sögu hinnar miklu. Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2010.

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Vinitzky-​Seroussi, Vered. “Mannheim and the Sociological Problem of Generations: Events as Inspiration and Constraint.” In The Ashgate Research Companion to Memory Studies, edited by Siobhan Kattago, 117–​26. Farnham: Ashgate Publishing, 2015. White, Hayden. “The Question of Narrative in Contemporary Historical Theory.” History and Theory 23 (1984): 1–​33.

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Chapter 8

QUID SIGURTHUS CUM CHRISTO? AN EXAMINATION OF SIGURD’S CHRISTIAN POTENTIAL IN MEDIEVAL SCANDINAVIA1

Łukasz Neubauer EVEN IN ITS strict architectural sense, a church is a complex constructional organism, an intricate, if not always easily decipherable, combination of various symbolic elements whose meaning may depend upon a number of parameters and factors of locational, spatial, temporal and/​or, perhaps most importantly, cultural character. Since at least the second half of the fourth century, when the first tri-​and tetraconchal (i.e. three-​or four-​ apsed) basilicas are believed to have been erected,2 its cruciform floor plan has symbolically defined the very function of the church as a place of Christian worship. The cross-​topped towers, domes, cupolas, and spires were (particularly in the past) meant to dominate the urban and rural landscapes of Christendom, accentuating the enormous role that the Catholic Church had played in the formation and development of European identity. The usually elongated nave, forming the longer, descending, arm of the Latin cross, which in the early Middle Ages became the standard floor plan of the majority of Western European churches, was so constructed to provide room for the masses of the faithful.3 Finally, though by no means least significantly, the very often highly ornamented portals through which the worshipers entered the church, were originally thought of by their architects, carpenters and stonemasons as message-​laden doorways by means of which the threshold of spatially defined church could be crossed and the area of the sacred approached. One such message-​laden portal (or, rather, its fragments) with highly intricate, if not quite purely Christian, substance may be found today on display at the Museum of Cultural History (Kulturhistorisk museum) in Oslo. Saved from the Hylestad stave church,4 the renowned Sigurd portal is by far the most famous of all those that relate the story of Northern Europe’s most famous hero—​the posthumous son of Sigmund 1  Łukasz Neubauer, Koszalin University of Technology, email: lukasz_​[email protected]. 2  Jastrzębowska, Sztuka wczesnochrześcijańska, 116. 3  Volz, The Medieval Church, 166–​67.

4  The Hylestad stave church, in the Setesdal valley of southern Norway, ca. 100 km to the east of Stavanger (as the crow flies), is believed to have been built in the late twelfth or early thirteenth century. It was unfortunately dismantled in 1664, yet some of its most intriguing fragments containing high-​quality wood carvings were preserved and incorporated into a number of local buildings. Many of them may now be seen in the Kulturhistorisk museum in Oslo.

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the Vǫlsung5 and legendary slayer of Fáfnir. In its present state, which, in all likelihood, does not deviate from the original form, the portal consists of two parallel panels, the right one covering three and the left one four scenes (read from bottom to top) from the narrative that could otherwise be found in, particularly, two heroic lays of the Poetic Edda:  Reginsmál (Rm) and Fáfnismál (Fm) and the late thirteenth-​century Vǫlsunga saga (VS).6 In the first two scenes we find Sigurd and his foster-​father Regin forging the sword Gram (VS, chap. 15; Rm, prose after st. 14). In the third—​and most frequently reproduced one7—​Sigmund’s son may be seen killing the dragon Fáfnir with his newly forged blade (VS, chap. 18; Fm, introductory prose). The fourth one shows Sigurd and Regin roasting Fáfnir’s heart (VS, chaps. 19–​20; Fm, prose after st. 31), while the sixth scene reveals how the former ultimately gets rid of the latter (VS, chap. 20; Fm, prose after st. 39).8 The fifth scene—​sometimes overlooked for its lack of human characters—​depicts Sigurd’s animal allies: his treasure-​laden horse Grani and two of the six (or seven, depending on the source) nuthatches that revealed to him the treacherous schemes of his former mentor (VS, chap. 20; Fm, prose after st. 31, sts. 32–​38). The seventh and final section of the Hylestad portal presents a somewhat later episode of the legend. It shows Gunnar, Sigurd’s brother-​in-​law, who famously, but in the end unsuccessfully, plays a harp with his feet to lull the poisonous reptiles to sleep, when thrown into a snake pit by the Hunnic king Atli (Attila) (VS, chap. 39; Atlamál in grœnlenzku, st. 66). At this point one should perhaps begin to wonder at this intriguing selection of images on the Hylestad stave church portal and, echoing the famous remonstrance of the Northumbrian bishop Alcuin of York, ask: “Quid Sigurthus cum Christo?” (What has 5  Sigmund is not only the father of Sigurd—​whom, according to Frádauða Sinfjǫtla, the short prose piece in the Poetic Edda, and Snorri’s Skáldskaparmál (chap. 40), he begat with his third wife Hjǫrdis—​but also the eldest son of Vǫlsung, the eponymous ancestor of the Vǫlsung clan (and himself the great grandson of Odin). In the Anglo-​Saxon tradition the two heroes, father and son, appear to have merged into a single character, Sigemund the Wælsing, whom the Beowulf poet credits with the killing of the “wrætlicwyrm” (wondrous worm; l. 891), evidently synonymous with the Fáfnir of North Germanic tradition.

6  The story is also narrated, with varying degrees of detailedness, in, for instance, Old Norse Þiðriks saga af Bern and Middle High German Das Nibelungenlied (both from around the thirteenth century). A comprehensive list of the numerous versions of the Sigurd legend and its analogues in early European literatures may be found in Finch’s 1965 edition of the Vǫlsunga saga (ix–​xiii). 7  Apart from the Hylestad portal, the dragon-​slaying scene may also be seen portrayed on a number of objects, including, especially, Swedish and Manx rune stones. For more information on these and other early medieval depictions of Sigurd and Fáfnir, see Acker, “Dragons in the Eddas and in Early Nordic Art,” 53–​75.

8  Interestingly, the scene carved on the left panel of Hylestad stave church portal is somewhat different from the known literary tradition, in that in the former Regin is pierced with the sword, while in the latter he is evidently beheaded. And so, in the Vǫlsunga saga, Sigurd “høggrhǫfuðaf Regin” (strikes Regin’s head off; chap. 20). Likewise, in Fáfnismál, it is believed to have been “h[ǫggvið]” (hewed; prose after st. 39).

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Sigurd to do with Christ?).9 Why did the anonymous Norwegian craftsman once choose to adorn the church portals with the images of the legendary hero whose ancestry is believed to go back to Odin, the principal god of the Norse pantheon?10 The answer is, of course, far from being simple and straightforward, as it reflects the sometimes enormous complexity, cultural syncretism and theological ambivalence that could so often be detected in many a product of material culture dating back to the early days of Scandinavian (or, in fact, all Germanic) Christianity.11 Much as elsewhere on the European continent or, in fact, in the whole world, the process of Christianization of various Germanic peoples was only ostensibly expeditious. In reality, numerous heathen rituals and traditions are known to have lingered long, sometimes well into the modern era, though, obviously, they should no longer be examined in direct connection with their primary meanings and functions.12 This might also apply to certain mythological concepts which, as a result of diverse acculturational processes, came to lose their principal reasons for existence. Hence, for example, the manifestly pre-​Christian conception of fate-​weaving Wyrd13 appears to have absorbed certain Christian notions and in Old English poetry (e.g. Beowulf) practically became 9  Here, Alcuin evidently echoes the words of Tertullian who, in De praescriptione haereticorum, argues that there should be no room for the study of ancient philosophy in the Christian world; see, e.g. Ratzinger, Dogma and Preaching, 173–​74. It is not improbable, though, that the early Christian scholar from Carthage (d. 240) was, in his turn, inspired by the words of St. Paul: “What accord has Christ with Belial? Or what has a believer in common with an unbeliever?” (2 Corinthians 6:15). 10  Should we assume that Sigurd’s grandfather was indeed the great-​grandson of Odin, the later hallowed dragon-​slayer of the Vǫlsunga saga would be but five generations removed from the Alfǫðr “All-​Father” of the Germanic peoples. On the other hand, though, the practice of tracing one’s ancestry back to Woden was quite common, for instance in the Anglo-​Saxon royal genealogies, even two or three centuries after their conversion. See Thornton, “Royal Genealogies,” 199–​200.

11  For a comprehensive look at the various realizations of the spiritual syncretism in early Germanic cultures, see e.g. Murphy, The Saxon Savior, and Russell, The Germanization of Early Medieval Christianity, as well as the somewhat outdated but still very helpful Polish monograph, Stanisław Piekarczyk, Barbarzyńcy i chrześcijaństwo. Konfrontacje społecznych postaw i wzorców u Germanów (Confrontations of Social Attitudes and Patterns Among the Germans).

12  This naturally operates on at least two fundamentally independent, though frequently interlocking, planes: lexical and customary. It is quite ironic, for instance, that the English (as well as German, Danish, Dutch, etc.) equivalent of Latin Dies Passionis Domini, i.e. Good Friday (Karfreitag, Langfredag, Goede Vrijdag, etc.), one of the most important days in the Christian calendar, is in point of fact named after the Germanic goddess known in Old English as Frige (Old Norse Frigg, Longobardic Frea etc.). Likewise, such ostensibly Christian traditions as putting up a Christmas tree or decorating eggs on the occasion of Easter evidently do not have their cultural roots in the words of the Bible. 13  Etymologically, the Old English Wyrd—​and, consequently, Modern English weird, as in William Shakespeare’s Weird Sisters—​is obviously related to Old Norse Urðr, which, in turn, is the name of one of the three fate-​weaving Norns that, according to according Vǫluspá, could be found beneath

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synonymous with what Cædmon refers to as “meotodes meahte ond his modgeþanc” (the Lord’s might and His purpose of mind; Hymn of Creation, l. 2). Likewise, the fiery realm of Múspellsheimr (also known as Múspell),14 which in Norse mythology is said to be inhabited by the demon Surtr and other Eldþursar “Fire giants,” in the earliest known Christian texts of Old Saxon and Old High German provenance—​respectively, the Hêliand and Muspilli (both from the first half of the ninth century)—​become associated with an indefinite, though in some sense, perhaps, Satan-​instigated force expected to play its destructive part at the end of the world. This conflation of old pagan beliefs with the new Christian faith is, of course, a common phenomenon among the newly converted peoples, not necessarily restricted in its temporal and territorial horizons to the numerous flourishing realms of early medieval Europe. Nevertheless, it is particularly in the northern and western parts of the Old Continent, where, interestingly, the Christianizing efforts were of varied intensity and incentives,15 that some truly remarkable fruits of cultural cross-​pollination could be found, including the warrior-​like Christ and His loyal thanes in the Old Saxon Hêliand, the evidently sentient and, apparently, animate16 Cross—​or, in the poet’s own words, treow, and thus “tree”17—​of the Lord in the Old English poem The Dream of the Rood (eighth century), which might easily bring to mind the widespread practice of idolizing trees and sacred groves, and, last but not least, the rather superficial “hallowing” of certain, usually ethically (of course in the pre-​Christian sense of that word) clear-​cut figures in the mould of Beowulf, Hrothgar, and Sigurd, whither we shall now turn our attention. Leaving aside its numerous literary merits and other issues of cultural significance, the legend of Sigurd the Vǫlsung (and, in particular, his well-​known confrontation with the roots of Yggdrasill, where they “lǫgl[eggja], /​ […] líf k[jósa] /​aldabǫrnum, /​ [ok] ǫrlǫgseggja” (establish laws, choose lives of the sons of men and pronounce their fates; st. 20).

14  The etymology of Múspell remains uncertain, yet, given the apocalyptic sense of its Old High German equivalent Muspilli, it is not improbable that the first element (mú) is actually related to the Latin noun mundus (world) while the second (spell) refers to the act of destruction (cf. Old Norse verb spilla “to destroy”). Consequently, the word Múspell, as a curious compromise between a proper and a common noun, may simply mean the “destruction of the world.”

15  A good outline of the Christianizing processes in early medieval Europe may be found in Bartlett, “From Paganism to Christianity in Medieval Europe,” 47–​72. For the summaries of various strategies and methods of Christianization, see, for instance, Althoff, “Strategien und Methoden der Christianisierung einer kriegerischen Gesellschaft,” 310–​20; and Demacopoulos, Gregory the Great. There are also numerous books which take a more comprehensive look at the Christianizing efforts among the particular peoples of Europe in the early Middle Ages. One such publication, albeit in the Polish language, which may be an obstacle to non-​Polish scholars, is Jerzy Strzelczyk’s excellent book Apostołowie Europy (The Apostles of Europe). 16  Cf. the words of the Cross relating its emotional condition at the time of the Crucifixion: “Ealleic mihte feondas gefyllan, hwæðre ic fæste stod” (I could have felled all the foes, yet I stood firm; The Dream of the Rood, ll. 37–​38).

17  Interestingly, and perhaps not incidentally, the Old English noun treow also means “loyalty, fidelity.”

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the dragon Fáfnir)18 exhibits an indisputable potential to be made use of as a relatively pliable substance that could be tapped into something fitting the Christian paradigms of heroism and villainy, particularly in the not-​yet-​quite-​dogmatically-​ripened world of post-​Viking Age Scandinavia. Needless to say, the fearless son of Sigmund, with his easily discernible appetite for earthly treasures and recurring tendencies for hubristic excess would not automatically make an exemplary model for Christian imitation, even in the then dogmatically less restrained parts of Europe such as Norway, Sweden, or Iceland.19 Nonetheless, notwithstanding his actual motivation, Sigurd’s ultimately successful quest to slay Fáfnir could easily have prompted some nameless artist(s) to turn, by dint of subtle visual associations, the legendary hero into the essentially St. George-​, St. Theodore-​or even Archangel Michael-​like figure on the stave church portals in Hylestad (or elsewhere). So where could this evidently syncretized figure of twelfth-​ or thirteenth-​century Sigurd and Fáfnir be located on the adaptability scale of Christian associations in early medieval Scandinavia? To begin with, one should take into consideration the narrative context of the legend, both in terms of its literary and woodcarving realizations. When it comes to the former character, it is essential to remember that the intrepid son of Sigmund is quite consistently referred to—​in poetry and prose as well as in all sorts of visual depictions (i.e. rune stones, church portals etc.)20—​as a triumphant dragon-​slayer or “Fáfnisbani” (Fáfnir’s bane). Likewise, the latter is usually portrayed in connection either with the fabled hoard, which the dragon (and, before him, the spiteful dwarf Andvari) is held to have cursed (or, at least, pronounced the curse which had already been in effect), or with the protagonist of the central part of the Vǫlsunga saga. For this reason, it is only suitable to think of the two characters as virtually inseparable, so that the presence of one appears to be a prerequisite for the existence of the other. In other words, Sigurd, much as a great number of legendary Indo-​European (and other) heroes, would never have been elevated in his heroic status if it had not been for the distant but imminent threat of Fáfnir21 and, analogically, the dragon would not have automatically developed into the almost iconic representation of all evil in the early Germanic 18  Not surprisingly, the said scene makes by far the most popular Sigurd motif in early Scandinavian art. Apart from the Hylestad stave church portal, perhaps its best-​known depiction is to be found carved in the early eleventh century on the so-​called Ramsund stone in south-​eastern Sweden. 19  To this list of Sigurd’s “iniquities” one may also add some of his family’s past sins, in particular, incest—​Sigurd’s half-​brother Sinfjǫtli is a fruit of Sigmund’s union with his sister Signy—​and filicide—​Signy has her two cowardly sons by Siggeir killed by Sigmund—​which, on the one hand, were not unheard of in Viking Age Scandinavia, but on the other, were quite strongly opposed by the Church after the adoption of Christianity in Northern Europe. 20  Nordanskog, Föreställd hedendom, 236–​48 lists no fewer than seven existing church portals (or their fragments) with various Sigurd-​related motifs and fourteen other depictions of various episodes in the legend of Sigmund’s son (249–​57) which are to be found in various parts of southern Norway.

21  In the Vǫlsunga saga Sigurd maintains that “engi þorir at koma á mót honum fyrir vaxtar sakir ok illsku” (no one dares to face him because of his size and evil nature; chap. 13).

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world, if he had not been ultimately confronted by the son of Sigmund. Their interaction may therefore be described as being bidirectional, i.e. involving two inseparable agents whose reputation is not only in some way preconditioned, but also, more or less proportionately, appears to affect the importance of one another.22 It is for this very reason that the semantic weight of Sigurd’s Christian connotations depends primarily on the hero’s confrontation (martial as well as verbal) with the cunning beast. Here, of course, Fáfnir’s associations with Satan are beyond any reasonable doubt. After all, within the extant corpus of Old Norse literature, he is quite regularly referred to as an ormr (serpent; VS, chap. 14ff.; Rm, prose after st. 14; Fm, st. 19ff.), rather than dreki (dragon; as one may perhaps logically presume, knowing the etymology of most European “dragons”).23 Of course, the image of a treacherous serpent (albeit a monstrously huge one) is just as compelling, quite naturally bringing to mind, in particular, the Hebrew ‫שחנ‬ (Nahash) “serpent” which in the Book of Genesis slithers its way into the Garden of Eden in order to deceive our first parents (3:1).24 It must be observed, however, that in the early Middle Ages the semantic range of the word ormr (as well as its numerous cognates, such as Old English wyrm or Old Saxon/​Old High German wurm) actually comprised all sorts of serpentine creatures, including the likes of Greek δρᾰκεᾰ or Latin dracones.25 What is more, setting aside their actual zoomorphic manifestations in numerous literary and visual representations, the vile ormar in Old Norse culture—​Fáfnir, Níðhǫggr and the so-​ called Miðgarðsormr included—​do not automatically have to be perfectly equatable with the dragon-​like beasts one so often finds especially in the later Christian texts and iconography, where they are typically defeated by either the Archangel Michael (Revelation 12:9) or any of the host of dragon-​slaying saints, such as George or Theodore.26 22  For more insight into the dragon/​dragon-​slayer relationship, see particularly the opening chapter of Lionarions, The Medieval Dragon, 1–​22.

23  See, for instance, Dutch draak, French dragon, German Drache, Italian drago, Lithuanian drakonas, Russian дракóн, Spanish dragón etc., all of which derive from Ancient Greek δράκων (in most cases via Latin draco). The word dreki is, nevertheless, used a few times in connection with Fáfnir in the Vǫlsunga saga (chap. 15ff.), although it never appears in the heroic lays of the Poetic Edda.

24  In the modern Icelandic translations of the Book of Genesis, Satan is quite consistently called “höggormurin” (the stroke-​worm). Likewise, in the Swedish Bibles, the serpentine fiend of Genesis 3:1–​24 is usually referred to as ormen (the worm). In the Danish and Norwegian translations of the same passage Eve is tempted by slangen (the snake). 25  The Beowulf poet, for example, calls his dragon both “wyrm” (l. 2221 ff.) and “draca” (l. 2211 ff.), also in all kinds of substantive compounds such as “nið-​draca” (malevolent drake; l. 2273) or “wyrm-​hord” (dragon-​hoard; l. 2221).

26  The earliest known visual depictions of St. George as a dragon-​slayer are to be found in sixth-​or seventh-​century icons from present-​day Turkey. See, for instance, Kuehn, The Dragon in Medieval East Christian and Islamic Art, 108. The oldest visually identifiable images of Theodore the Martyr, a somewhat mysterious character, almost certainly identical with both St. Theodore of Amasea and St. Theodore Stratelates, in which he is portrayed as an equestrian warrior battling a dragon, are dated to the late ninth century (108).

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However, Fáfnir’s satanic potential clearly goes beyond his mere physical appearance and rather conventional cross-​cultural associations. Even the naturally brief and somewhat superficial depictions of the dragon and his foremost traits of character in, particularly, the heroic lays of the Poetic Edda (Reginsmál and Fáfnismál) and the Vǫlsunga saga (chaps. 13–​19) allow us to construct a fairly coherent image of the cultural amalgam that the post-​heathen Fáfnir appears to have gradually evolved into.27 One such notable trait is, for example, the dragon’s inclination for shape-​shifting, although it is never explicitly revealed in the written sources whether Fáfnir’s transformation into an ormr actually came as a result of his own metamorphosing abilities or was a more than just symbolic consequence of his covetous disposition and murderous tendencies.28 In any case, it is perhaps at least plausible that the Hylestad artist (or the local clergy who must have commissioned the creation of the portal, and so approved of its “theological programme”) was well aware of the numerous and sometimes variable biblical associations, visual and otherwise, that the familiar beast would have invoked in the more observant eyes of the local congregation. After all, in Christian theology, Satan is typically portrayed as the supreme deceiver who is notorious for taking on various forms29 and names30 with the invariable intention to trick one into his malevolent schemes. Certain doubts could be raised, of course, with regard to Fáfnir’s foremost reason for moral depravity. The anonymous author of the Vǫlsunga saga maintains that his transformation into an ormr was brought about by Fáfnir’s being “illr” (malevolent, spiteful; chap. 14). However, even a cursory look at the legend’s narrative unfolding (coupled, perhaps, with our modern conception of dragons, doubtlessly formed in part by the 27  Besides, as has been observed, there must have once been a widespread tradition in north-​ western Europe of imagining Sigurd and Fáfnir in all sorts of contexts, textual as well as visual. Although certainly not modest, the extant corpus of literature, rune stones, church portals etc. is, in all likelihood, but a tip of the enormous cultural iceberg of what appears to have been mostly pre-​ literate material. It is more than probable, then, that there were once certain descriptive subtleties and resonances, commonly known to the early medieval audiences etc., which are unfortunately no longer recoverable and which, if available, could provide us with further descriptive insight into the cultural framework of the Sigurd legend, including the characters’ personalities and their often complex backstories.

28  The Reginsmál poet is unfortunately silent on the matter of Fáfnir’s actual transformation. In the prose passage after st. 14, he simply states that Regin’s brother “lá á Gnitaheiði ok var í ormslíki” (was lying on the Gnita-​heath in the shape of a worm). Hence, it is mainly from the Vǫlsunga saga that we learn that Fáfnir actually turned into a dragon, although, here again, the nature of the transformation is not revealed, as the author confines himself to only one cryptic word “verða” (to become; chap. 14). It must be observed, though, that his brother Ótr was capable, on his own accord, of taking the shape of an otter (VS, chap. 14; Rm, introductory prose). 29  As has been observed, the scriptural Satan is sometimes depicted as a serpent (Genesis 3:1–​15), sometimes as a dragon (Revelation 12:9).

30  Among the many epithets of Satan, which is not itself a name—​the Hebrew ‫( הּׂשָטן‬ha-​satan) may be translated as “the enemy, adversary” (see Hankiss, Fears and Symbols, 149)—​are Lucifer (Isaiah 14:12), Beelzebub (2 Kings 1:2–​3ff.), and the Slanderer (Revelation 12:9).

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readings of, in particular, J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis)31 allows one to see that the actual basis for the creature’s ultimate corruption was Fáfnir’s unremitting greed for the earthly possessions. And so, Regin’s brother is not only reported to have “t[ekit] gullit allt” (taken all the gold; Rm, prose after st. 11) [that once belonged to the shape-​ shifting dwarf Andvari], but it is also maintained that, of all the kings in the world, even the oldest and most renowned ones, “eigi þarftu meira” (none might desire more; VS, chap. 13) than Fáfnir. In fact, his greed is so profound that everything he could put his hands (or, rather, talons) upon, he “vildi sitt eitt kalla” (would consider to be his own; VS, chap. 14).32 While avarice is, of course, one of the seven cardinal sins, it is not necessarily the one with which Satan is often automatically associated in the first place. According to various biblical commentaries and reference works as well as some notable literary renditions of the Hebrew Bible (e.g. the Old English narrative poem Genesis B or John Milton’s Paradise Lost),33 the Devil’s original transgression, as it is delineated in, particularly, but not exclusively, the Book of Revelation (12:7–​13), was triggered by his enormous pride (superbia) that made him repudiate any form of the Lord’s authority. While it is not quite what appears to have caused Fáfnir’s transformation and, in due course, his death at the hands of Sigurd, it should be noted that, much as avarice, pride is also listed as one of the seven cardinal (or deadly) sins,34 and so its indirect visual association with the legendary dragon would not, it seems, have significantly challenged its interpretative constraints. In the end, the two are often almost inseparable and might as well depend upon or even arise from one another, especially in the case of “inn verstr af ǫllum ormum” (the worst of all worms; VS, chap. 14) called Fáfnir. Yet another vital trait of character which is usually associated with the Devil and might have also been thought of in connection with the legendary dragon is the latter’s surreptitious machinations which inevitably bring to mind Satan’s attempts, successful 31  In Tolkien’s The Hobbit, the fearsome antagonist Smaug, evidently modelled upon both Fáfnir and the Beowulf dragon, is vividly depicted as a self-​important and avaricious creature whose fury at the loss of a single cup resulted in the destruction of Lake-​town (225–​29). In the sixth chapter of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the third published (but chronologically fifth) novel in C. S. Lewis’s seven-​book series The Chronicles of Narnia, which also visibly draws upon the Fáfnir episode in Reginsmál and the Vǫlsunga saga, the teenage boy Eustace Scrubb greedily fills his pockets with the gold and jewels he found in a dragon’s lair (95–​96). Finally, he puts on a large golden bracelet studded with diamonds and, as a result, gradually turns—​at first unwittingly—​into a dragon (97–​ 99), a potent symbol of moral corruption and greed. 32  Hence, perhaps, the dragon’s name. According to the Norrønordbok, 100, Fáfnir means “den somfemner (gullet)” (one who embraces (gold)), quite likely alluding to the fact that the ormr would normally be found lying in his lair, guarding the gold of Andvari.

33  The anonymous poet of Genesis B informs us that Satan “to dole wurdon, þæt him for galscipe god sylfawearð” (turned to folly, thinking in his pride that he himself should be like God; ll. 340–​41). According to Milton, “Th’ infernal Serpent […] set himself in glory above his peers, [trusting] to have equalled the Most High” (Paradise Lost, bk. I, ll. 34–​40). 34  The other ones are: lust, gluttony, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride.

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or not, to deceive Eve (Genesis 3:1–​5), Job (Job 1:6–​12), even Christ Himself (Matthew 4:1–​11) or, in fact, any other individual, biblical or not, who, confounded by Satan’s sophistic reasoning, might, under certain circumstances, fall prey to the Enemy’s false promises. In the case of Fáfnir it is, of course, his cunning efforts to elicit Sigurd’s real name (Fm, sts. 1–​4; VS, chap. 18), the sole motive for that being the dragon’s pre-​ mortem wish to exact revenge upon his soon-​to-​be slayer.35 Using, alternately, insults36 and flattery,37 the mortally wounded ormr manages to further feed Sigurd’s otherwise growing lust for the fabulous riches, and thus make him fall under the powerful spell of both his own deceitful words and the fabulous treasure which, as has been observed, was once and for all cursed by the spiteful dwarf Andvari. Worth noticing is especially the fact that, much as the biblical archenemy of God, Fáfnir seems perfectly aware of his ultimate defeat. However, even then, he does not slack off making the world a less comfortable place in which the original spell, in the long run, leads to a long chain of tragic events that does not come to an end even long years after the death of the hero.38 Finally, it should not be disregarded that, irrespectively of the above-​mentioned vices (many of which would not, in fact, be unusual in many an early medieval hero),39 Fáfnir is also guilty of patricide, a thoroughly despicable and one of the most socially unacceptable crimes, in Christendom as well as in the majority of pre-​Christian cultures and legal systems.40 According to the Vǫlsunga saga, the killing of Hreidmar—​the father of Fáfnir, Regin, and Ótr—​was by all means a premeditated murder. Here the author uses the rather unambiguous verb “myrða” (chap. 14), whose numerous cognates in 35  It was a common belief that the words of a dying man—​or, as for that matter, any other creature—​could have a powerful and lasting effect, provided, of course, that the opponent should be cursed by his real name.

36  As if to depreciate Sigurd, Fáfnir begins their verbal duel by calling his opponent “sveinn” (boy; Rm., st. 1). Once Sigmund’s son, in reply, overbearingly reveals his name and declares his heritage, the mortally wounded dragon goes on taunting him and claims that Sigurd is “haftr ok hernuminn” (a captive and prisoner of war; st. 7), and so one who is almost naturally bound to “bifa” (tremble [with fear]; st. 7). Few such people, Fáfnir claims, “er frækn til vígs” (make courageous fighters; VS, chap. 18). 37  On the other hand, the vile ormr admits that, despite his present woes, Sigurd did indeed have a “feðrsnarpan” (gallant father; VS, chap. 18). Furthermore, just before he breathes his last breath, Fáfnir concludes that, now that his opponent has turned out to be the victor, “manna þeira, ermoldtroða” (of all the men that tread upon the earth; Fm, st. 23) Sigurd is indeed by far the “óblauðastanalinn” (most valiant of all men; st. 23). 38  The long list of short-​term and delayed victims of Andvari’s gold is obviously very long and includes, among others, such noteworthy characters as Brynhild, Gudrún, Hǫgni, and Atli.

39  See, for instance, the concluding remark of the Beowulf poet that “leodum” (of all the people; l. 3182) the daring, though on some occasions evidently self-​important, ruler of Geatland was also “lof-​geornost” (most eager for fame; l. 3182).

40  Perhaps the best-​known instance of patricide (and its social repercussions) in the world of literature is the heart-​breaking tale of the Theban hero Oedipus, often recounted in the early Greek drama, particularly in the plays of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides.

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the Indo-​European languages make modern English translation simply dispensable. To make the matters even worse, the poet of Reginsmál adds that, while still in his pre-​ draconian form, Fáfnir actually “lagði sverði Hreiðmar, fǫður sinn, sofanda” (stabbed Hreidmar with a sword while his father was asleep; prose after st. 9). Not surprisingly, seen from the point of view of the recently converted Norsemen, the foremost (though on no account the only one) interpretative emphasis would have surely been laid upon the cowardice of Fáfnir’s deed.41 Conversely, in the later centuries, the Christian audience/​readers would have perhaps been somewhat more inclined to, first of all, disapprove of the patricidal thread in the Sigurd legend. This way or another, there could be no doubt that to the early medieval Norsemen, heathen and Christian alike, the man who had the courage to face and ultimately slay such a covetous cutthroat, impossible miser and archdeceiver (as well as, of course, an ormr, a monstrous serpent whose prevalently evil image must not be overlooked), should be regarded as a universal hero. Indeed, the wish to eulogize the brave deeds of Sigmund’s posthumous son must have been so formidable that the fact that in the surviving literary sources Sigurd turns out to be himself quite greedy for the cursed gold of Andvari appears to have been “forgotten” in order to make room for this one great feat of courage and strength that actually came to define his overall heroic status in the northern world (acting, no doubt, as a sort of rite of passage for the ambitious youth). After all, genuine heroes are rarely, if ever, completely flawless; they are, rather, those who are, in the first place, capable of overcoming their weaknesses. Even if, as was certainly the case with Sigurd, the said duty fell not so much upon the hero himself, but those who, in the early centuries of, in particular, Norwegian Christianity, opted for a symbolic reinterpretation of his traditional image, and, in doing so, made it more harmonious with the Christian values and ideals. Taken at face value, the young and as yet largely inexperienced Sigurd who is, for instance, first referred to in the thirteenth chapter of the Vǫlsunga saga42 may give the appearance of being a somewhat naïve, and thus innately good and innocent teenage boy, perhaps a bit like the youthful Perceval in Chrétien de Troyes’s unfinished romance Le Conte du Graal (and much of the subsequent Grail tradition).43 In fact, practically everything he knows, he is reported to have learned from his foster-​father. According to the Vǫlsunga saga, Regin “kenndi honum íþróttir, tafl ok rúnar ok tungur margar at mæla, 41  See, in particular, the evident praise and approval of Beowulf’s confidence prior to his duels with Grendel (Beowulf, ll. 677–​87) and the dragon (ll. 2418–​37). Likewise, the need to prove oneself in combat without any additional assistance or taking other unfair advantages is highlighted in, among others, The Battle of Maldon (ll. 89–​95) and The Song of Roland (sts. lxxix–​lxxxviii).

42  Taunted by Regin about his lack of valour and skill, Sigurd replies that he is still only “enn lítt af barnsaldri” (a little beyond his childhood; chap. 13). Likewise, in Fáfnismál, the title dragon at first calls his adversary a mere “sveinn” (boy, youth; cf. modern English “swain”; sts. 1, 5).

43  Raised by his overprotective mother away in the deep forests of Wales, Perceval has, at first, no knowledge of the civilized world or the concept of chivalry (Le Conte du Graal, ll. 382–​86). It is not until he chances upon a group of knights (whom he initially takes for angels) that the thirst for of adventure is eventually sparked in his heart (ll. 83–​334).

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sem þá var títt konunga sonum, ok marga hluti aðra” (taught him [numerous] skills, chess and runes and how to speak many languages, as was customary for the sons of kings, and many other [things] besides; chap. 13). It is perhaps justified to conclude that, ironically, if it had not been for Fáfnir’s brother (and his unquenchable thirst for fraternal vengeance), Sigurd would never have managed to accomplish his great deeds and become the hero of whom the author of the Vǫlsunga saga says was of all the “menn ok konungar í fornsǫgum” (men and kings in the ancient sagas; chap.  13) by far the greatest “um afl ok atgervi, kapp ok hreysti” (in strength and achievements, eagerness and courage; chap. 13). Likewise, the Beowulf poet maintains that Sigemund, the Anglo-​Saxon hero corresponding to Sigurd, was “wide mærost ofer wer-​þeode” (in all the nations of men far and wide the most famous; ll. 898–​9).44 Even more ironic, perhaps, is the fact that the deed for which Sigmund’s son is obviously most famous—​and, as has been observed, one that provides a fertile ground for his subsequent “sanctification” in the eyes of the local people—​is, at the same, the very first step in his ultimate and tragic downfall. This way or another, though, slaying Fáfnir turns out to be his proper rite of passage, in the light of which Sigurd’s heretofore bellicose accomplishments in the kingdom of the sons of Hunding (VS, chap. 17; Rm, prose after st. 25) appear to be of far lesser meaning and consequence. There is no doubt that both the killing of the dragon (VS, chap. 18; Fm, introductory prose and sts. 1–​22) and the accidental tasting of his blood (VS, chap. 19; Fm, prose after st. 31) have a powerful transformative effect upon the young hero. As a result, he not only begins to understand the speech of birds (VS, chaps. 19–​20; Fm, prose after st. 31 and sts. 32–​8), but also, most importantly, acquires some of Fáfnir’s own features (greed and murderous tendencies), the consequences of which are Sigurd’s subsequent inability to reject the corrupting power of Andvari’s treasure and the killing of Regin (VS, chap. 20; Fm, prose after st. 39 and st. 40). In other words, to paraphrase the titles of William Blake’s best known collections of poetry, his killing of the vile ormr almost instantly allocates Sigmund’s son from the world of (relative) innocence to the world of ever-​corruptive experience, the ultimate effect of which is, of course, his death (VS, chap. 32; Sigurðarkviða hin skamma, st. 21). Interestingly, the seven images that were carved upon the Hylestad stave church portal (as well as any other portals that once decorated the entrances to the sacred areas of Christian worship) also include these less glorious and—​from the point of view of Christian theology—​acceptable scenes from Sigurd’s life: his treasure-​loaded steed (5) and the killing of Regin (6).45 Even so, however, the focus seems primarily upon the killing of Fáfnir (with the first two scenes depicting the forging and testing of Gram and

44  It must not be forgotten, though, that, at least in the Norse tradition, perhaps none of these things would have ever come to pass if it had not been for Odin, the foremost instigator in many a tale from the north of Europe.

45  It is not at all improbable that to twelfth-​or thirteenth-​century Norwegians the sheer fact that Sigurd came into the possession of Fáfnir’s hoard and took the life of the man who was contemplating his own murder were not as distasteful as they would be to twenty-​first-​century Christians.

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the third one illustrating the actual slaying of the dragon; all of them on the right-​hand side), and so the deed that essentially defined Sigurd as the ultimate dragon-​slayer in early Germanic culture46 and, in consequence, the saint-​like figure of Christian art in twelfth-​and thirteenth-​century Scandinavia. However, no matter how appealing these images once were to the congregation in Hylestad (and elsewhere in early medieval Norway), in order to see the son of Sigmund in a more saintly light, it is necessary to go further, even beyond his iconic depiction as a famous dragon-​slayer. It has already been observed that, given his family’s past sins, including incest and filicide, as well as his own budding greed for gold, Sigurd would not, perhaps, qualify as an archetypal model of the Christian virtues. Nonetheless, there are certain traits of his character that, even if somewhat far-​fetched and overstressed, may, in fact, aid us in completing his portrait as a flawed and ultimately tragic, but, at least in the wishful eyes of early medieval apologetics, Christian-​like hero. First of all, it should be noted that, whatever he does, the son of Sigmund never even gives an impression of being in any way intimidated by the fact that practically every task he undertakes—​be it the expedition to take revenge upon the sons of Hunding (VS, chap. 17; Rm, prose after st. 25) or the quest to kill Fáfnir (VS, chap.  18; Fm, sts. 1–​22)—​might well be his last.47 Furthermore, whenever he decides to prove his strength in combat, we could assume—​with a little bit of interpretative imagination—​that the motives and impulses which prompt him to action stem directly from his intense sense of justice (such as the wish to avenge the grievances Regin claims to have suffered at the hands of his brother Fáfnir). Peculiarly understood, of course (after all Sigurd is not only a warrior of the pre-​Christian era, but also a descendant and future champion of Odin, the Norse god of warfare), yet a sense of justice it inevitably is. It may therefore be blood-​spattered but honourable, ruthless but principled (which could not be said of the numerous machinations performed by the often evil-​brooding dramatis personae of the Sigurd legend). The same could also be said of his ability to use reason. Despite the fact that, in the beginning, he is still only “enn lítt af barnsaldri” (a little beyond his childhood; VS, chap. 13), Sigurd somehow manages to get by in the harsh reality he finds himself in as an orphaned son of Sigmund. Stripped of his patrimony and with limited prospects to better his lot, the youth nevertheless thrives in his short life (avenges the death of his father, kills Fáfnir, acquires the enormous, albeit cursed, treasure, awakens Brynhild and marries Gudrún), i.e. before his divine protector chooses to bring him to Valhalla, where the hero could finally join the ever-​growing army of Odin’s einherjar (the “only” or great champions, the dead warriors in Valhalla brought to Odin’s hall by the valkyries). Needless to say, none of this would have been possible if it had not been for Sigurd’s martial preparation as well as his overall education and eloquence (courtesy of his foster-​father Regin) in addition to—​one may, perhaps, logically assume it to be a 46  It might be rather safely assumed that when the Beowulf poet implicitly compares his Geatish hero to Sigemund, the Anglo-​Saxon rendering of Sigurd, he actually pays the former the highest possible compliment (ll. 873–​914). 47  It is no wonder that, once the dragon has been slain, Regin calls his foster-​son “óblauðastan alinn” (most valiant of all men; Fm, st. 23).

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prerequisite to all of Sigurd’s achievements—​his overall innate intellectual dispositions (thanks, no doubt, to the lord of Ásgard).48 All in all, not just in the vigilant eyes of the nuthatches, the bold dragon-​slayer (and, in a little while, the killer of Regin) is indeed “spakr” (wise; Fm, sts. 32, 35), if not, in fact, “hverjum manni vitrari” (the wisest of all men; VS, chap. 20), as one of the birds, perhaps exaggeratedly, prophesies him to be after the hero’s tasting of Fáfnir’s heart. Courage, justice, and prudence. What are these if not three of the four cardinal virtues: fortitudo, iustitia, and prudentia?49 Of course, it would be a gross exaggeration, if not a complete misapprehension, to argue that the sole—​or even main—​rationale for the inclusion of Sigurd images in early Christian art of post-​Viking Age Scandinavia ought to be looked for in the works of the Church Fathers. It is, it seems, the combined applicability of Sigurd’s, roughly speaking, heroic merits, rather than their narrow allegorical (or otherwise figurative) reading that could ever have generated the Christian associations which ought to be taken into consideration in connection with the artwork of the Hylestad portal. After all, notwithstanding his most famous and oft-​depicted accomplishment, Sigmund’s son is not only a much more human character than, for instance, the thunder-​god Thor (likewise a celebrated ormr-​slayer),50 but also, perhaps most significantly in the context of the still-​ripening Christianity in twelfth-​ and thirteenth-​ century Norway, he does indeed have, as we have seen, certain traits of character that, with a bit of creative stretching, might have once led to his being reimagined as a well-​ nigh “saint” of Norwegian folklore of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.51 As a fearless dragon-​slayer, spurred by his sense of justice and guided by wisdom, Sigurd could therefore provide the local people with something they were certainly in need of while entering the sphere of the sacred: namely, a sense of spiritual security. Hence, though not necessarily apotropaic in its intention (but almost certainly in the 48  Moreover, both in Fáfnismál and in the Vǫlsunga saga, Sigurd proves to be an inquisitive young man, as he interrogates the mortally wounded dragon. It may be, however, that his “Segðumér, Fáfnir” (Tell me, Fáfnir; Fm, sts. 12, 15; VS, chap.  18) is, in fact, no more than a variation on the so-​called contest of wits, sometimes taking the form of genuine verbal battles over the various threads of mythological lore, a recurrent motif in, particularly, the eddic poetry (e.g. in Hárbarðsljóð, Vafþrúðnismál, or Lokasenna) and, to a certain degree, in Snorri’s Edda. 49  The fourth one is, of course, temperance, evidently Sigurd’s Achilles’ heel, particularly after his doom-​laden duel with Fáfnir. The four cardinal virtues were adopted (from Cicero) by the Church Fathers—​especially St. Ambrose and St. Augustine of Hippo—​as early as the fourth century. In the thirteenth century, St. Thomas Aquinas further developed our understanding of the virtutes cardinales in his disputations: De virtutibus in communi, De virtutibuscardinalibus and De spe (Shields, The Philosophy of Aquinas, 284–​96).

50  Thor’s apocalyptic duel with the Miðgarðsormr is alluded to in numerous texts, including, in particular, the eddic poems Vǫluspá (st. 53) and Hymiskviða as well as Úlfr Uggason’s Húsdrápa (sts. 3–​6). 51  Jesse L. Byock also speculates, although rather unconvincingly, that one of the reasons why the figure of Sigurd came to be so popular in the works of representational art that could be found in various ecclesiastical contexts may have been political and had its roots in the Norwegians’ “struggle to retain its independence from Danes and Germans.” See, Byock, “Sigurðr Fáfnisbani: An Eddic Hero Carved on Norwegian Stave Churches,” 621.

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overall effect), the Hylestad stave church portal (or, as a matter of fact, any church portal featuring the intrepid son of Sigmund) could serve as a figurative protection against some indefinite forces of evil. Since the church doors, Gunnar Nordanskog maintains, were at the time rather commonly believed (not just in northern Europe, of course) to be “the weak [if not the weakest] spot of the church building, [they] had to be protected by all means available.”52 The actual form of these protective motifs and symbols naturally varied, with the conventional Christian images of Christ, the Virgin Mary, the Angels as well as various biblical figures and saints dominating in the continental artwork of Carolingian, Ottonian, and Romanesque architecture. Some notable variations to this could often be spotted in the ecclesiastical stonework found in the British isles, where such manifestly unorthodox (and, perhaps, not in the least protective) figures as the enigmatic Green Man are not a complete rarity. Needless to say, in the far north of Europe, where the artistic canons appear to have been less restrictive, the image of a sword-​armed hero from the local, pre-​Christian folklore (albeit one whose heroic merits do not, for the most part, contradict any of the fundamental principles of the New Faith), perfectly visible to everyone entering the church, would not have raised too many eyebrows, thus providing a perfect illustration of the fact that Christian art could indeed be thematically flexible and semantically adaptable. Apart from their often clear-​cut protective attributes and aesthetic qualities, some church portals could also, symbolically, point to the fact that, notwithstanding God’s mercy, one’s individual salvation depends upon certain rigidly determined conditions, namely, repentance, confession, and expiation.53 In Hylestad, the presence of a compelling visual reminder that all evil (here, of course, exemplified by the vile ormr) should be fiercely resisted, sometimes with the greatest possible commitment (killing Fáfnir in combat), could therefore be seen as an almost indispensable constituent of the portal’s artistic “programme.” On the other hand, though, members of the local congregation may have also been reminded—​this time by means of Sigurd’s negative example—​that, regardless of their determination and efforts, their salvation would not quite be possible without their unconditional willingness to leave all their earthly possessions behind.54 Interestingly, as if in opposition to the more glorious deeds of Sigmund’s son, the less exemplary episodes from his legend are to be found on the left-​hand panel. There, studied from bottom to top, one could see, in succession, Sigurd and Regin roasting Fáfnir’s heart (in this way, it appears, the latter comes to acquire some of the dragon’s sinful qualities); the hero’s treasure-​laden horse (Sigurd’s inability to resist the evil allure of Andvari’s cursed gold) and two nuthatches (it is, in fact, the birds that incite the hero to kill Regin);

52  Nordanskog, “Misconceptions Concerning Paganism and Folklore in Medieval Art,” 308. Intriguing evidence of the need to protect individual parts of the church (including the doors) might be found, for instance, in the dedication sermon (from around 1200) believed to have been recorded in the Monkliv monastery in Bergen. See, for instance, Byock, “Sigurðr Fáfnisbani: An Eddic Hero Carved on Norwegian Stave Churches,” 622–​23. 53  Rożek, Idee i symbole sztuki chrześcijańskiej, 21.

54  See, for instance, the words of Christ: “Whoever seeks to gain his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life will preserve it” (Luke 17:33).

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Sigurd killing his foster-​father (whether he actually has to do it or is merely provoked to slay Regin by the birds is not in the least clear); and, finally, Gunnar, Sigurd’s brother-​in-​ law, prior to his death in the snake pit (of course, he would not have been thrown into it if it had not been for, in the first place, the gold from Fáfnir’s lair). It may therefore mean that the carvings on the left-​hand panel of the Hylestad stave church were, in fact, intended to remind the local congregation of the not-​quite-​sinless nature of their hero, and in this way the corruptible disposition of every individual, sinner or saint alike. If so, these images would provide an intriguing counterbalance of moral symbolism and theological implications to those that could be seen on the right, which is not, of course, an altogether unique artistic development in medieval Christian art, even in the distant north.55 They could then serve as an obviously indirect, though logical, extension of the soteriological admonition often (wrongly) attributed to St. Augustine: “Do not despair; one of the thieves was saved. Do not presume; one of the thieves was damned.”56 No doubt, regardless of the actual attribution of the above words and, perhaps, its anachronistic application to the Sigurd portal, its impeccable symmetry and argumentative strength could indeed provide a good illustration of what the Hylestad craftsman (and his patrons) possibly had in mind in devising the “theological programme” of their artistic creation: a solace (right) and a warning (left). All these and, naturally, many more aspects of the Christian faith and its visual realization in the works of post-​Viking Age art and architecture might have once been quite regularly taken into careful consideration, in southern Norway and everywhere else in early medieval Scandinavia where the memory of Sigurd was still very much alive. Of course, they may or may not have been fully congruent with the above-​delineated readings. Be it as it may, however, it cannot be denied that in each case—​and the Hylestad stave church in particular—​the point of artistic reference ought to be the military confrontation between the heroic son of Sigmund and his monstrous rival, a fertile ground for the development of a symbolic framework which could then be multiplied and, if need be, further remodelled in order to meet with the oft-​evolving artistic requirements of early medieval architecture, particularly in the post-​heathen milieux of northern Europe. This, no doubt, is where the nucleus of all Christian symbolism and iconography in connection with the main thread of the Sigurd legend, its moral implications and ethical reflections, 55  A good example of this sort of artistic expression might be seen in the bas-​relief figural images on two late twelfth-​or early thirteenth-​century columns in the Holy Trinity Church in Strzelno, in north-​central Poland. Carved in sandstone, are there two groups of eighteen figures personifying virtues and vices, respectively, on the right-​and on the left-​hand sides (and so, in the same sort of arrangement as in Hylestad). Zbigniew Sroka argues that the idea behind them was to remind the people, on their way to the altar, where they would receive the sacrament of the Eucharist, of the many faces of both good and evil. See Sroka, Romańskie kolumny figuralne w Strzelnie, 187–​200.

56  The above words might regularly be found quoted in connection with Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot (the Irish playwright claimed to have been intrigued by its perfect symmetry); see Pearce, “Symmetry/​Disruption: A Paradox in Modern Science and Literature,” 174. In reality, however, though the remark does indeed sound quite convincingly Augustinian, the Bishop of Hippo is not known to have used such wording.

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are to be found. Consequently, this should all be borne in mind while visiting the Museum of Cultural History in Oslo (or looking at some of the Norwegian postage stamps, etc.), where, extricated from its original ecclesiastical context, the celebrated portal is one of the highlights of the Norsk middelalder gallery. Still visually captivating and inspiring to the eyes of numerous modern, not only Nordic, artists, the Hylestad portal is, however, typically thought of as no more than a series of illustrations to the well-​known legend and not, as was almost certainly the intention of its nameless craftsman, a “hallowed” graphic commentary upon the conflict between good and evil, a conflict which has preoccupied our minds ever since the prehistoric times and which, in point of fact, defines us as human beings, the unceasingly fallible, but still cherished children of God.

References

Primary Sources The Battle of Maldon. Edited by Donald G. Scragg. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1981. Beowulf. Edited by Charles Leslie Wrenn and Whitney French Bolton. Exeter: Exeter University Press, 1992. Cædmon. “Hymn.” In Seven Old English Poems, edited by John C. Pope, 3. New York: Norton, 1981. Catholic Bible: Revised Standard Version. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2006. La Chanson de Roland. Edited by Pierre Jonin. Paris: Folio Classique, 1979. Chrétien de Troyes. “Le Conte du Graal,” In Romans, edited by Charles Méla, 937–​1209. Paris: La Pochotèque, 1994. The Dream of the Rood. Edited by Michael Swanton. Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2000. Eddukvæði I–​II. Edited by Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014. The Later Genesis and Other Old English and Old Saxon Texts Relating to the Fall of Man. Edited by Frederich Klaeber. Heidelberg: Carl Winters, 1931. The Saga of the Volsungs. Edited and translated by Ronald George Finch. London: Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1965. Tolkien, John Ronald Reuel. The Hobbit. London: Harper Collins, 2007. Úlfr Uggason. “Húsdrápa”. Edited by Edith Marold. In Poetry from Treatises on Poetics. Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages, vol. 3, edited by Kari Ellen Gade and Edith Marold, 402–​24. Turnhout: Brepols, 2017. Vǫlsunga saga. The Saga of the Volsungs. Edited and translated by Kaaren Grimstad. Saarbrücken: AQ-​Verlag, 2005. Secondary Literature

Acker, Paul. “Dragons in the Eddas and in Early Nordic Art.” In Revisiting the Poetic Edda: Essays on Old Norse Heroic Legend, edited by Paul Acker and Carolyne Larrington, 53–​75. New York: Routledge, 2015.

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Althoff, Gerd. “Strategien und Methoden der Christianisierung einer kriegerischen Gesellschaft.” In Christianisierung Europas im Mittelalter vol. 1:  Essays, edited by Christoph Stiegemann, Martin Kroker, and Wolfgang Walter, 310–​20. Petersberg: Michael Imhof, 2013. Bartlett, Robert. “From Paganism to Christianity in Medieval Europe.” In Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy: Scandinavia, Central Europe and Rus c. 900–​1200, edited by Nora Berend, 47–​72. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Byock, Jesse L. “Sigurðr Fáfnisbani: An Eddic Hero Carved on Norwegian Stave Churches.” In Poetry in the Scandinavian Middle Ages. The Seventh International Saga Conference, edited by Theresa Pàroli, 619–​28. Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi Sull’Alto Medioevo, 1990. Demacopoulos, George. Gregory the Great: Ascetic, Pastor, and First Man of Rome. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2015. Hankiss, Elemér. Fears and Symbols: An Introduction to the Study of Western Civilization. Budapest: Central European University Press, 2001. Heggstad, Leiv, Finn Hødnebø, and Erik Simensen, eds. Norrøn Ordbok. Oslo: Det Norse Samlaget, 1997. Jastrzębowska, Elżbieta. Sztuka wczesnochrześcijańska. Kraków: Wydawnictwo WAM, 2008. Kuehn, Sara. The Dragon in Medieval East Christian and Islamic Art. Leiden: Brill, 2011. Lewis, Clive Staples. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. London: HarperCollins, 2001. Lionarions, Joyce Tally. The Medieval Dragon: The Nature of the Beast in Germanic Literature. Enfield Lock: Hisarlik Press, 1998. Milton, John. Paradise Lost. London: Penguin Books, 2014. Murphy, G. Ronald, S.J. The Saxon Savior: The Germanic Transformation of the Gospel in the Ninth-​Century Heliand. New York: Oxford University Press, 1989. Nordanskog, Gunnar. Föreställd hedendom. Tidig medeltida skandinaviska kyrkportar i forskning och historia. Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2006. —​—​. “Misconceptions concerning Paganism and Folklore in Medieval Art. The Rogslösa Example.” In Old Norse Religion in Long-​term Perspectives:  Origins, Changes, and Interactions, edited by Andres Andrén, Kristina Jennbert, and Catharina Raudvere, 308–​12. Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2006. Pearce, Richard. “Symetry/​Disruption: A Paradox in Modern Science and Literature.” In One Culture: Essays in Science and Literature, edited by George Levine, 164–​79. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1987. Piekarczyk, Stanisław. Barbarzyńcy i chrześcijaństwo. Konfrontacje społecznych postaw i wzorców u Germanów. Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1968. Ratzinger, Joseph. Dogma and Preaching: Applying Christian Doctrine to Daily Life. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2011. Rożek, Michał. Idee i symbole sztuki chrześcijańskiej. Kraków: Wydawnictwo WAM, 2010. Russell, James C. The Germanization of Early Medieval Christianity: A Sociohistorical Approach to Religious Transformation. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994. Shields, Christopher. The Philosophy of Aquinas. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016.

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Sroka, Zbigniew. Romańskie kolumny figuralne w Strzelnie. Gniezno: Prymasowskie Wydawnictwo Gaudentium, 2000. Strzelczyk, Jerzy. Apostołowie Europy. Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2010. Thornton, David. “Royal Genealogies.” In The Blackwell Encyclopaedia of Anglo-​Saxon England, edited by Michael Lapidge, John Blair, Simon Keynes, and Donald Scragg, 199–​200. Malden: Blackwell Publishing, 2008. Volz, Carl A. The Medieval Church: From the Dawn of the Middle Ages to the Eve of the Reformation. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1997.

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Chapter 9

JÓMSBORG AND THE GERMAN RECEPTION OF JÓMSVÍKINGA SAGA: INTRODUCING MASTERHOOD AS A SOCIAL  NORM1

Michael Irlenbusch-​Reynard WHEN THE ORGANIZERS of the 1st Jómsborg Conference at Wolin pondered what name to give it, they perhaps did not have in mind the perception of a proud bulwark, a segregating stronghold that kept a sworn league of male warriors. They may rather have considered letting themselves be inspired by Adam of Bremen, who described its mythical successor Jumne (also known as Julin) as a multicultural meeting place where all kinds of merchandise of the North, both material and immaterial, were exchanged in a most thriving atmosphere.2 It appears that the latter is not exactly the first thing a typical German a couple of decades ago would see rising before his inward eye when the name of Jómsborg struck. Instead, two different images would be trying to merge: First, plainly romantic, a somewhat aesthetically fortified representative residence of noble knights with feathered helmets who then get replaced by heroic Viking raiders (with or without horned helmets), commonly supposed to be constantly on the move, but now settled down with a permanent address. This results in an exotic allurement which is zealously exploited in the titles of several German retellings of Jómsvíkinga saga published in the first half of the twentieth century:3 these adaptations appeared between the early 1920s and the early 1940s, culminating in the mid-​and late 1930s, and consisted frequently of more or less freely copied translation excerpts in thematic anthologies or ideological treatises, but there also exists a significant number of complete retellings in a narrative manner—​ that is, with plenty of liberties and embroideries applied, of a page range between pamphlet and small book size. However, as will be shown, those “liberties” are manipulative rather than artistic after all. 1  Michael Irlenbusch-​Reynard, University of Bonn, email: mir@uni-​bonn.de.

2  “Est sane maxima omnium, quas Europa claudit, civitatum, quam incolunt Sclavi cum aliis gentibus, Grecis et Barbaris […]. […] Urbs illa mercibus omnium septentrionalium nationum locuples nihil non habet iocundi aut rari” (This is truely the largest city of all Europe, inhabited by Slavs together with other tribes, Greeks and barbarians. […] That town, brimming with merchandise from all Nordic peoples, is lacking neither exciting nor rare items). Adam Bremensis, “Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum,” 252. All translations in this chapter are my own unless stated otherwise.

3  A concise overview is given in Irlenbusch-​Reynard, “Die deutschsprachigen Fassungen und Verarbeitungen der Jómsvíkinga saga,” 420–​28.

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The overall reception of Jómsvíkinga saga is mostly detached from any scientific awareness or scholarly opinions. It is confined to dramatizations of the saga text or at least exegetically seeking confirmation in scenic excerpts. This is the case with all of the motifs and aspects contained in Jómsvíkinga saga, for example the leagues of men, the valiant adolescent, or paganism, but the Jómsborg—​apart from the battle of Hjǫrungavágr—​is the only intersection of science, as the question of either its location or fictionality is mostly connected with the excavations at Wolin, and the kind of reception this article is going to discuss; we must be aware that we are dealing with propagandistic devices throughout so that reception here has to be understood rather as pre-​reception or, in other words, as the digestion of the material for the perception desired to be conveyed in order to result into a steered reception.

Defining the Jómsborg

The titles assigned to the retellings of Jómsvíkinga saga suggest the connection of Vikings and a Ritterburg (knight’s castle) in various ways: “Palnatoki und die Wikinger auf der Jomsburg” (Pálna-​Tóki and the Vikings of the Jómsborg),4 “Jomsburg. Eine Wikingergeschichte” (Jómsborg. A Viking tale),5 “Die Jomsburgwikinger” (The Jómsborg Vikings),6 “Die Wikinger von der Jomsburg” (The Vikings of Jómsborg)7 or even “Die Jomswikinger-​Helden von Wollin” (The Jómsviking heroes of Wolin).8 Such is in no way endorsed by the Old Norse tradition where we exclusively find Jómsvikings and their tale, Jómsvíkingar and Jómsvíkinga saga; it has possibly been influenced by the title of the virtually only translation used as raw material, namely “Die Geschichte der Seekrieger von Jomsburg” (The tale of the sea warriors of Jómsborg) by Walter Baetke, published for the Thule translation series in 1924.9 Nevertheless, Baetke stuck consistently to “Jomswikinger” (Jómsvikings) within his text. As for the Jómsborg itself, Jómsvíkinga saga presents in the first place the physical outlines of that castle and some scanty statements on the nimbus of the place and its occupants, that is a brief mentioning of the Jómsvíkings’ reputation and a hint at a certain attraction for young roughnecks. In the manipulation process, the first phenomenon 4  Fischer, “Palnatoki und die Wikinger auf der Jomsburg,” 203–​12. 5  Kath, Jomsburg.

6  Ball, Die Jomsburgwikinger.

7  Fahnemann, Die Wikinger von der Jomsburg. The novel by Elisabeth Hersen (Die Wikinger von Jomsburg), bearing the same title, is a German version of George Dasent Webbe’s “The Vikings of the Baltic. A tale of the North in the tenth century,” published in 1875, thus a Victorian witness featuring winged helmets in gold and silver, which does not fall within the scope of this article. 8  Lawrenz, Die Jomswikinger-​Helden von Wollin.

9  Apart from Baetke (“Die Geschichte von den Seekriegern auf Jomsburg”), Khull’s translation (Die Geschichte Palnatokis) is being used in a few cases. While there indeed exist certain differences between the two underlying saga redactions, these divergences are only of academic character in this context and have no consequences for the narrative products.

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we encounter is an enhancement of the Jómsborg’s appearance: From borg one may conclude something in the meaning of Latin oppidum, a fortified settlement, but Baetke’s Burg10 imperatively implies a high-​medieval type of castle to the naïve recipient, something impressive and tall. Therefore, as if to remind constantly that Vikings do not do anything small, mentioning the Jómsborg as a rule cannot go without hyperbolic amplifications of what the actual saga expresses quite soberly:11 “Free-​standing and massively it rose from the lowland, dominating confidently and defiantly over coast and sea,” as a school reader by Franz Fahnemann dating from 1937 presents it,12 and the idea of an “uprising” entity is stressed repeatedly here.13 This is one of two different ways of increasing the exploitable value of the Jómsborg: its solidity is the key to the herrisch (imperious)14 impression of “a huge Viking fortress, towering black and massive in the luminous red shine of the dawn,”15 as the same school reader has it, and as laid out in the retelling by Gerhard Ramlow, published in 1937, this surely involves its armament: “The catapults were so huge that five men had to labour hard when drawing the sling with big winches. […] Woe to that ship where it crashed onto the planks.”16 Already in 1904 this fascinated Paul Gerhard Heims, an enthusiastic propagandist of the German Kaiser’s navy, who in a maritime anthology dedicated to a young audience talked about “indirekter Schuß” (indirect fire) and “Kernschuß” (point-​ blank shot) when explaining that the Jómsvikings indeed used forerunners of modern naval artillery.17 The essence is simple and has as its direct aim to shed the outer solidity and steadfastness of the structure on the reputation of its inhabitants, but its complexity signals skills and civilization beyond the average. The other way points to the attitude to be read from—​or into—​establishing a both inwardly and outwardly isolated site like the Jómsborg. It is not just a claim, it is a manifestation of particularity. This stronghold is not only meant to keep attackers away, it 10  Die Geschichte Palnatokis calls it “Feste” (fortress or stronghold).

11  “[…] ok bráðliga lætr hann gøra þar eina borg mikla ok rammgørva” (soon he had a huge and strongly constructed city made there). The saga of the Jomsvikings, 17.

12  “Frei und gewaltig wuchs sie aus der Niederung empor, Küste und Meer beherrschte sie sicher und trotzig.” Fahnemann, Die Wikinger von der Jomsburg, 5. 13  When the rascal Vagn Ákason approaches the site, Fahnemann’s retelling lets him shiver with anticipation: “Größer und mächtiger, als er sie in vielen ruhlosen [sic] Nächten erträumt hatte, ragte sie nun wirklich vor ihm auf” (Larger and more impressive than he had ever imagined in many restless nights, it now rose up before his eyes). Fahnemann, Die Wikinger von der Jomsburg, 5.

14  “Von den Jomsburgwikingern kehrte keiner zu der herrischen Burg […] heim.” Ball, Die Jomsburgwikinger, 63.

15  “Die Sonne erhob sich gerade über dem Horizont und bestrahlte die gewaltige Wikingerfeste, daß sie schwarz und wuchtig gegen das leuchtende Frührot ragte.” Fahnemann, Die Wikinger von der Jomsburg, 4–​5. 16  “Die Schleudern waren so groß, daß fünf Männer schwer zu arbeiten hatten, den Schleuderarm mit starken Winden zu spannen. […] Wehe dem Boot, auf dessen Planken es krachend niederfuhr.” Ramlow, “Die Jomswikinger,” 115. 17  See Heims, Auf blauem Wasser, 106.

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enforces the deeper meaning of auto-​segregation inside the Jómsborg as well, that is the discipline of the (male) warrior league. The Jómsviking laws according to the saga are realistic enough to allow relief within certain limits,18 but the saga’s reception insists on seeing the application of an unconditional and exploitable elitism. What is more, it is regarded as indispensable to avoid any contact with the local population and its corrupting influence. The prerequisite of avoidance is the existence of the problematic object or possible situation, but in Jómsvíkinga saga there is no mention of a nearby settlement. So the Jómsborg is freely placed into the vicinity of mythical Vineta19 or rather Julin (Adam of Bremen’s Jumne mentioned above) which continues as Wolin (Wollin in German).20 That town itself has only a symbolic meaning and plays no further role in the story (re-​)told, but it delivers two ideological reasons for the emphasis on the importance of this auto-​segregation.

Applying Ideology

One reason is rooted in the religious ideas of the völkisch movement that emerged in the late nineteenth century, rejecting “Roman” clericalism and propagating its own “Germanic” religion, which did not necessarily mean turning to the Old Norse pantheon. Yet Christian faith is regarded as incompatible with the true Germanic mind: in founding the Jómsborg, Pálna-​Tóki “wanted to erect a stronghold against the proliferation of Christianity in order to maintain the ancient force and courage.”21 Once settled down, life had to be strictly separated from the outside world “like a fellowship aboard a travelling vessel”22 because “he was eager to protect them from the cross which he had

18  “Engi maðr skyldi konu hafa í borgina; ok engi í brott vera þrim nóttum lengr” (No one must have a woman in the city and no one must be away longer than three days). The saga of the Jomsvikings, 18 (this is definitely no rule of celibacy).

19  “Die Jomsburg, die unweit der sagenhaften Stadt Vineta an der Odermündung gelegen haben muß” (The Jómsborg, probably situated close to the legendary city of Vineta in the Oder estuary). Plaßmann, Wikingerfahrten und Normannenreiche, 22. This is one of the few cases where obvious fictionality gets revealed: “Zuverlässiger als die Sage [sic] ist freilich die nordische Geschichtsüberlieferung, nach der um 950 die Jomsburg von dem Dänenkönig Harald Blauzahn gegründet wurde” (Rather than the legend, Scandinavian historiography is to be trusted, according to which the Jómsborg was founded around 950 by King Harald Bluetooth of Denmark). Plaßmann, Wikingerfahrten und Normannenreiche, 23. 20  “Die Geschichte der Jomsburg und die der Stadt Julin, jetzt Wollin, gehören eng zusammen. […] Neben ihr [= Julin] wurde später die Jomsburg angelegt” (The history of the Jómsborg and the city of Julin, nowadays Wolin, are closely connected. […] The Jómsborg was constructed later adjacent to Julin). Lawrenz, Die Jomswikinger-​Helden von Wollin, 3.

21  “Er wollte mit ihnen ein Bollwerk aufrichten gegen das um sich greifende Christentum und so die alte nordische Kraft und Tapferkeit aufrecht erhalten.” Heims, Auf blauem Wasser, 105. In Heims’s paraphrase of Jómsvíkinga saga Pálna-​Tóki is presented as taking command of an existing place and community. 22  “Eine Gemeinschaft […], die der auf in Fahrt befindlichen Schiffen gleich war.” Ball, Die Jomsburgwikinger, 26.

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already encountered abroad and which he had recognized as contradictive to the Norse soul, for this doctrine from the South had too much in it to stultify the fighting spirit if the Jómsvikings were to come into contact with it.”23 The necessity of a veritable shelter we see expressed here conveys at the same time worries about idealistic purity and the sentiment of having to rush forward aggressively out of a cornered position; this approach in the reception of Jómsvíkinga saga is not a frequent one, but it it fits the line of propaganda published by Kurt Herwarth Ball.24 In order to explain the second reason, one must realize that the Jómsborg’s reception is inseparable from minding its occupants, the Jómsvikings, who in their turn are the second target of intentional exaggeration. To be admitted to their ranks is regarded as a mark of honour in the Íslendingasǫgur, as it is told for example about Bjǫrn Breiðvíkingarkappi Ásbrandsson in Eyrbyggja saga, but the simple fact of being peerless warriors who won their fame in excessive raiding and, besides, living strictly by their own code of ethics, seems a bit dull for some rewriters who insist on turning the Jómsvikings into something better than plain pirates: so they get romaticized into “a wild bunch”25 who every summer “set forth for adventures and freebooting”26 under Pálna-​Tóki, the “most glorious brigand chief in the Baltic”.27 “Eagles of the Northern Sea”,28 as a retelling by Lydia Kath puts it in 1934, is also nicely poetic, but then the writer gets carried away: here Pálna-​Tóki protects “the poor and oppressed” and “never order was adhered to in Búrisleifr’s realm like in those times. But woe to any ship or warrior or merchant who roused the fury of the Jómsvikings.”29 Of course this goes over the top in letting a Viking band take from the rich and give to the poor, in particular as this Robin Hood is obviously his king’s best sheriff. Yet there 23  “Vor allem aber wollte er vermeiden, daß sie mit dem Kreuz in Berührung kamen, das er schon in manchen Ländern gesehen und von den er begriffen, daß es mit dem Sinn der nordischen Menschen nicht übereinstimmte, nicht übereinstimmen konnte. Denn mit dieser Lehre, die aus dem Süden kam, war vieles verbunden, das die Kampfkraft lähmte, wenn sich die Krieger der Jomsburg ihr hingeben würden.” Ball, Die Jomsburgwikinger, 26; see also 6.

24  “Die Sturmflut der Wikinger ist still geworden; die Menschen, Kaiser und Könige, Herzöge und Fürsten, Päpste und Usurpatoren haben die Welt aufgeteilt” (The Viking surge has waned; the people, emperors and kings, nobles and princes, popes and usurpers have apportioned the world among themselves). Ball, Germanische Sturmflut, 59. In 1933, Ball had taken over as editor-​in-​chief of the anti-​Semite periodical “Hammer.” 25  “Wilde Kerle.” Heims, Auf blauem Wasser, 105.

26  “Im Sommer zogen sie auf Abenteuer und Freibeuterei aus.” Lawrenz, Die Jomswikinger-​Helden von Wollin, 8.

27  “[Pálna-​Tóki] stieg zum herrlichsten Räuberhauptmann der Ostsee empor.” Strasser, Die Nordgermanen, 145. This evokes rather a cloak-​and-​dagger swashbuckler with a feathered hat. 28  “Adler des Nordmeeres.” Kath, Jomsburg, 28.

29  “Schützend hielt Palnatokis wackerer Bund sein Schwert über Arme und Unterdrückte, […] und niemals herrschte größere Ordnung im Reiche Burislavs als in jenen Zeiten. Aber wehe dem Schiff und wehe dem Krieger und Kaufmann, der den Zorn der Jomsburger spüren mußte!” Kath, Jomsburg, 28.

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is a principle emerging beyond the narrative embellishments: elitism—​order and organization. Other authors, taking a more direct ideological approach, see in the Jómsborg “a unique Viking state,”30 “a state of brothers-​in-​arms,”31 or even a “free state of wifeless brothers-​in-​arms,”32 as expressed in two volumes on Vikings and Northern tribes by Karl Theodor Strasser, published first in 1928 and 1933. Finally, the characterization of Vikings as “blond storm troopers” in a pamphlet entitled “Germanische Sturmflut” (The Germanic surge), published in 1936 by Kurt Herwarth Ball,33 is not far from what another NSDAP school reader by Franz Fahnemann (also from 1937) outlines in a short list of Vikingish social features: “Leagues of men: 1. Varangians. The loyal Viking bodyguards of the Byzantine emperor. 2. The Jómsvikings of Jómsborg in the Oder estuary. Tightly organized military Viking orders! See also:  Teutonic Order; Prussian officers; the SS Leibstandarte unit; NSDAP order castles! […] Consequences: 1. The Viking origin of the Russian empire, as its founder Rurik was a Viking. Political order in the whole of Eastern Europe being established by the Vikings. 2. […].”34 Up to now we can speak of self-​confirmation in the sense of Germanic ideology which basically follows the pattern of declaring anything Old Norse as the legacy of Germanic forefathers, the alleged heroic ancestors whose lore advises and whose achievement entitles their heirs to claim universal supremacy. A real proof of supremacy is of course achieved best by building up contrasts which Ramlow’s retelling does rather subtly: King Búrisleifr’s envoys approach on “splendid horses” in “silver plated armour with colourful feather-​topped helmets,”35 while Pálna-​Tóki as the Viking leader “stood there sturdy and grizzled, in grand style with a gold-​clad helmet and a wide purple cloak.”36 These colour insignia—​golden along with lordly purple versus silver—​establish immediately a visible hierarchy; in ideological terms the situation symbolizes the equality of the “wehrhafter germanischer Bauer” (self-​defensive Germanic peasant) with any ruler 30  “Einzigartige[r]‌Wikingerstaat auf Jomsburg.” Strasser, Die Nordgermanen, 145. 31  “Schwertbruderstaat der Jomswikinger.” Strasser, Die Nordgermanen, 145.

32  “Freistaat weiberloser Schwertbrüder.” Strasser, Wikinger und Normannen, 81.

33  “Als sollte die Welt in kurzer Zeit von Wikingern, den blonden Stürmern, umklammert und beherrscht werden, war es” (It was as if before long the world was to be grasped and ruled by the Vikings, the blond strikers). Ball, Germanische Sturmflut, 34. 34  [“Lebensraum der Wikinger”:] “Männerbünde:  1. Die Waräger (oder Warangen):  Die wikingische treue Leibgarde des byzantinischen Kaisers. 2. Die Jomswikinger auf der Jomsburg an der Odermündung. [Reference made to Fahnemann, Die Wikinger von der Jomsburg.] Straff zusammengehaltene militärische Wikingerorden! (Siehe: Deutschritterorden, preuß. Offizierstand, NSDAP. Leibstandarte, Ordensburgen der Partei!) […] Folgen:  1. Wikingischer Ursprung des russischen Reiches; sein Gründer Rurik war ein Wikinger. Politische Ordnung im ganzen osteuropäischen Raum durch die Wikinger. 2. […].” Fahnemann, Wikinger, 15.

35  “Auf prächtigen Rossen sprengten sie näher, voran drei Ritter in silberverzierter Rüstung, von den Helmen nickten bunte Federbüsche.” Ramlow, “Die Jomswikinger,” 110.

36  “Groß und breit stand er da, mit grauen Haar, stattlich geschmückt, in goldbeschlagenem Helm und in einen weiten, dunkelroten Mantel gehüllt.” Ramlow, “Die Jomswikinger,” 110.

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or sovereign.37 Quite bluntly proceeds the already quoted retelling of Jómsvíkinga saga by Lydia Kath (1934): “To an accidental spectator those thousands of striding heroic shapes in full armour may have appeared like the incarnated terror of the Far North making the courtyard of the Jómsborg tremble. […] The scared Wends ran hiding in their huts when they saw the proud warriors approaching: ‘Is it the old gods of ancient times who come riding up?’ […] And the wild hunt continued until they reached King Burislav’s smoke-​blackened castle.”38 Radiance versus murkiness, thus: Burislav (i.e. Búrisleifr) is “swarthy,”39 his castle is described as “dark” even a second time,40 and the hall is “gloomy,”41 but with the Jómsvikings present, “the hall was full of tall warriors, and the ladies could not help but gaze at the splendour of their shining weapons.42 […] Never before the hall of the taciturn Wend Burislav had been filled with such merriment.”43 The underlying aspect in the text cited above amplifies the physical antithesis:  it is about heroism versus cowardice or—​more precisely—​heroic Germans versus cowardly Slavs. As long the denomination “Wends” is used, it could be regarded as a historical appellation, all the more as this is also the wording of the Jómsvíkinga saga;44 Kurt Herwarth Ball for instance uses “Poles” and “King of the Poles” throughout, while distinguishing them from the local people, the Wends, but he places the Jómsborg in the direct neighbourhood of an existing Slavic merchant place, Jumne. This again is understood to be a mere synonym in “racial” terms, and hence the mentioned self-imposed 37  Nobility, as Pálna-​ Tóki is a jarl (earl), is understood as a part of the Germanic peasant society: “Das politische Denken des nordischen Bauern breitet sich vom einzelnen und seiner Wirtschaft, über die Gemeinde, in immer weiteren Kreisen aus und gliedert dann das Königtum als bäuerliche Spitze in einen derartigen von unten hinaufgewachsenen Bau ein” (The political idea of the nordic peasant commences with the individual man and his farm and, beginning with the local community, gradually expands its circles until it places kingship as the peasant leader at the top of this bottom-​up grown society). Darré, Das Bauerntum als Lebensquell, 283.

38  “Wer sie dahinschreiten sah, alle beisammen, die Tausende von reckenhaften Gestalten in voller Rüstung, der mochte wohl glauben, daß hier der Schrecken des Nordens über den Burghof von Jom dröhnte. […] Erschrocken versteckten sich die Wenden in ihren Hütten, als sie die stolzen Krieger in der Ferne auftauchen und vorüberjagen sahen. Ritten die alten Götter durchs Land? […] Und schneller noch jagte [Sigvaldi] davon, bis er in König Burislavs rauchgeschwärzter Burg dem Jagen ein Ende machte.” Kath, Jomsburg, 30, 35. 39  “Der dunkle Wende.” Kath, Jomsburg, 35. 40  See Kath, Jomsburg, 46.

41  “Düstere Halle.” Kath, Jomsburg, 46.

42  Apart from the palpable hint to the former admiration for Prussian officers, one might suspect a phallic innuendo. 43  “Der Saal füllte sich mit hohen, kriegerischen Gestalten, an deren blinkender Waffenzier sich die Frauen nicht satt sehen konnten. […] Nie zuvor hatte man eine solche Fröhlichkeit in der Halle des schweigsamen Wenden Burislav erlebt.” Kath, Jomsburg, 47.

44  “Í þenna tíma réð fyrir Vindlandi konungr sá er Búrisleifr hét” (At that time the king of Wendland was called Búrisleifr). The Saga of the Jomsvikings, 17.

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segregation of the Jómsvikings is necessary to keep their distance from a weak mentality: “The Nordic sense of honour that Palnatoki himself had experienced so hard and remorseless, and to which he had devoted himself, was a different one from that of the Wends.”45 So although Búrisleifr is only pragmatic in turning a potential enemy into an ally—​“he was worried,”46 the saga text says, not “he was frightened”—​it seems only logical that the retelling by Gerhard Ramlow makes the king more than yielding immediately by letting his messenger propose a most humble offer: “He asks you to ensure protection of our country against pirates […], and in his turn he will ensure that you and your men will always be cared for.”47 In consequence, he practically subdues himself and his people: “It had taken much time to build the Jómsborg, even though thousands of the local Wends had been compelled to labour.”48 Applying expressively the name “Poles” in this context, as do some retellers, namely Joseph Otto Plassmann in 1929 and Kurt Herwarth Ball as well as Gerhard Ramlow in 1936, a name that any contemporary recipient would relate to existing resentments or stereotypes, reveals the ideological purpose of manipulating the saga in such a way: it clearly aims at establishing a masterly relation where the Germanic spirit dominates.

Entering into Politics

Ramlow uses “Poles” and “Wends” in the same way as Ball does, but he explains Wendland as what was is now called Pomerania, a region that had belonged to Prussia since 1815 as decided at the Congress of Vienna.49 Therefore, in his anthology of Old German lore, published in 1934, where Jómsvíkinga saga is represented mostly unaltered, Hans Waldemar Fischer states in a most natural manner that he chose Jómsvíkinga saga “because its location is situated on German territory.”50 This point we may take as the third factor of interest for Jómsvíkinga saga, the fact that contrary to the bulk of Old Norse sagas, the Íslendingasǫgur, taking place far away up north, there was no need to 45  “Der Ehrbegriff des Nordens, den Palnatoki selbst so hart und unerbittlich kennengelernt hatte und dem er sich gebeugt, war ein anderer, als der, den die Wenden hatten.” Ball, Die Jomsburgwikinger, 26.

46  “[Búrisleifr] spyrr til Pálna-​Tóka ok hyggr illt til hernaðar hans […]” (He heard about Pálna-​Tóki and was worried about his harrying). The Saga of the Jomsvikings, 17. 47  “Er will dich bitten, den Schutz unseres Landes gegen die Seeräuber zu übernehmen […] und will dann dafür sorgen, daß es dir und deinen Männern niemals an irgend etwas mangeln soll.” Ramlow, “Die Jomswikinger,” 111.

48  “Lange hatte der Bau gedauert, obwohl Tausende von Wenden aus dem Gau dabei Frondienste hatten leisten müssen.” Ramlow, “Die Jomswikinger,” 115.

49  From a historical point of view, “Poland” is also correct as Polish rule had expanded to these territories in the assumed time frame, that is by the end of the tenth century. 50  “Auf eine Wikingersage freilich wollte ich nicht verzichten; ich wählte die von den Wikingern auf der Jomsburg, so daß wenigstens der Ort auf deutschen Boden liegt.” Fischer, “Palnatoki und die Wikinger auf der Jomsburg,” 575. This phrase is preserved anachronistically in reprints published in 1958 and 1978 respectively.

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include it virtually in what was understood as the heritage of Nordic ancestors because it was quasi-​domestic! The intended reflex to “Poles” in popular anti-​Slavism, alleged cultural underdevelopment and fatuousness, which is nourished by the narrative contrasts described above, prepares for the German ambitions to expand eastwards that were actually carried out after the invasion of Poland in 1939 as the Generalplan Ost (Master plan east). So playing coastguard for King Búrisleifr in exchange for a fortified refugium is—​according to Ball’s retelling—​only the first step in gaining control in this area: “After all, his desire was not to remain tributary to the Polish King, but to rule these lands himself.”51 The Jómsborg is hence the first German(ic) outpost in the south-​eastern Baltic, long before the Teutonic Order established its castles. In this mindset, a quarterly periodical was started in 1937 (discontinued in 1944 after some production difficulties due to the war), entitled Jomsburg. Völker und Staaten im Osten und Norden Europas (Peoples and States in Eastern and Northen Europe).52 Unofficially responding to the Polish-​based journal Baltic countries, its introduction claimed:  “The historical Jómsborg is one of the first examples of Germanic and Slavic encounters and interactions. […] Nordic and Polish researchers are no less involved in discussing the question of the Jómsborg than German scholars. The name of ‘Jómsborg’ shall hence be a symbol and a commitment for a fruitful scientific collaboration.”53 In spite of this, the scientific value of Jomsburg was rather “mediocre,”54 instead its scarcely concealed propaganda defended German interests against both Slavic and even Scandinavian targets: in 1938, for example, Scandinavian criticism of the annexation of Austria was harshly refused,55 in 1939, a notice reported that the leader of the Norwegian delegation at a conference of Scandinavian students had expressed himself in an “absolutely anti-​German” manner.56 Certainly this stands in contradiction with the wording of the proposal quoted above, but in the context of the reception of Jómsvíkinga saga in general and the Jómsborg in particular, the title of this journal was prophetic. 51  “So wie die Dinge lagen, wollte er nicht von dem Polenkönig abhängig sein, vielmehr wollte er allein Herrscher über dieses Gebiet werden.” Ball, Die Jomsburgwikinger, 26. 52  See in detail Wöllhaf, “Jomsburg—​Völker und Staaten im Osten und Norden Europas,” 307–​12.

53  “Die historische ‘Jomsburg’ bietet eines der ersten Beispiele des Aufeinandertreffens und der gegenseitigen Durchdringung von Germanen und Slawen. […] Das Jomsburgproblem bildet […] den Mittelpunkt einer lebhaften wissenschaftlichen Auseinandersetzung, an der nordische und polnische Gelehrte nicht einen geringeren Anteil als deutsche Forscher nehmen. In diesem Sinne einer gegenseitig befruchtenden wissenschaftlichen Arbeit soll uns der Name ‘Jomsburg’ Symbol und Verpflichtung sein.” Papritz and Koppe, “Vorwort,” 1–​2. 54  “Texte, die auch heutigen wissenschaflichen Standards genügen würden, waren die Ausnahme.” Wöllhaf, “Jomsburg—​Völker und Staaten im Osten und Norden Europas,” 311. 55  See “Die Wiedervereinigung Deutschösterreichs,” 107–​8.

56  “Der Wortführer der norwegischen Delegation gab übrigens einen Überblick über die Entwicklung in Europa unter absolut deutschfeindlichen Gesichtspunkten.” “Auf dem 12. nordischen Studententreffen,” 245.

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Concluding Remarks

When scrutinizing those retellings, excerpts, and paraphrases, it becomes apparent that the very factor of the Jómsborg belonging—​in a wider sense both geographically and historically—​to Germany actually did not matter particularly in the reception of Jómsvíkinga saga, all the more as the Jómsvikings are most clearly Danes. The majority simply localizes it on the island of Wolin in the Oder estuary without insisting on its current national status. As for the Burg itself, it is but one motif in the overall reception of Jómsvíkinga saga, and it serves to enhance its occupants, the Jómsvikings, so we need to ask more directly about them. As long as they are presented as role models for leagues of men and the Führer principle, as several publications explicitly do, the site of Jómsborg, the “castle,” underlines their exclusivity, but all this is self-​sufficient:  they stand for themselves. It is most interesting in this context that I have discovered only one direct comparison with the NSDAP’s Ordensburgen, that is the NS elite schools in newly erected castles at Vogelsang, Sonthofen, and Krössinsee.57 But as soon as the Jómsvikings move up from heroes to masters, the castle develops into a symbol of menacing arrogance: even without giving any description, the contrast with Slavic sombreness in Kath’s retelling suggests a clean and shining Jómsborg like a fairytale castle, and Ramlow’s thousands of forced local workers expand it to a pharaonic scale.

References

Primary Sources Adam Bremensis. “Gesta Hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum.” In Fontes saeculorum nonu et undecimi historiam ecclesiae Hammaburgensis necnon imperii illustrantes. Quellen des 9. und 11. Jahrhunderts zur Geschichte der hamburgischen Kirche und des Reiches, edited by Werner Trillmich, 160–​498. Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters 11. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1961. Die Geschichte Palnatokis und der Jomsburger nach der jüngsten altnordischen Bearbeitung. Translated by Ferdinand Khull. Offprint from Jahresberichte des k. k. zweiten Staats-​ Gymnasiums pro 1891 und 1892. Graz: Leuschner & Lubensky, 1892. “Die Geschichte von den Seekriegern auf Jomsburg.” Translated by Walter Baetke. In Die Geschichten von den Orkaden, Dänemark und der Jomsburg, translated by Walter Baetke, 392–​436. Thule 19. Jena: Diederichs, 1924. The Saga of the Jomsvikings. Edited and translated by Norman Francis Blake. Nelson Icelandic texts. London: Nelson, 1962. Secondary Literature

“Auf dem 12. nordischen Studententreffen schließen die Schweden Dänemark aus dem Norden aus.” Jomsburg 3 (1939): 244–​45. 57  See above, footnote 34.

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Ball, Kurt Herwarth. Germanische Sturmflut. Kleine Geschichte der Wikinger. Volksdeutsche Reihe 10. Karlsbad-​Drahowitz: Kraft, 1936. —​—​. Die Jomsburgwikinger. Der Geschichte und den alten Sagen nacherzählt. Volksdeutsche Reihe 4. Karlsbad-​Drahowitz: Kraft, 1936. Darré, Ricardo Walther Oscar: Das Bauerntum als Lebensquell der Nordischen Rasse. 2nd improved ed. Munich: Lehmann, 1933. “Die Wiedervereinigung Deutschösterreichs mit dem Deutschen Reich.” Jomsburg 2 (1938): 107–​8. Fahnemann, Franz. Wikinger (Führer, Züge und Leistungen). Erlebte deutsche Welt. Arbeitsstoffe und Erzählungen für die deutsche Schule 3. Saarlautern: Hausen, 1937. —​—​. Die Wikinger von der Jomsburg. Die Saga vom Heldenkampf einer germanischen Gefolgschaft. Erlebte deutsche Welt. Arbeitsstoffe und Erzählungen für die deutsche Schule 18. Saarlautern: Hausen, 1937. Fischer, Hans Waldemar. “Palnatoki und die Wikinger auf der Jomsburg.” In Götter und Helden. Germanisch-​deutscher Sagenschatz aus einem Jahrtausend, edited by Hans W. Fischer, 203–​12. Berlin: Deutsche Buch-​Gemeinschaft, 1934. Heims, Paul Gerhard. Auf blauem Wasser. Ein Buch für die See für die deutsche Jugend. 2nd ed. Brunswick: Westermann, 1904. Hersen, Elisabeth. Die Wikinger von Jomsburg. Zeitbild aus dem zehnten Jahrhundert. Nordischen Sagen nacherzählt. Berlin: Scherl, 1923. Irlenbusch-​Reynard, Michael. “Die deutschsprachigen Fassungen und Verarbeitungen der Jómsvíkinga saga von den 1920er bis zu den 1940er Jahren.” In Á austrvega. Saga and East Scandinavia. Preprint papers of the 14th International Saga Conference, Uppsala, 9th–​15th August 2009, collected and revised by Agneta Ney, Henrik Williams, and Fredrik Charpentier Ljungqvist. 2 vols, 1: 420–​28. Institutionen för humaniora och samhällsvetenskaps skriftserie 14. Gävle: Gävle University Press, 2009. http://​urn. kb.se/​resolve?urn=urn:nbn:se:hig:diva-​4837. Kath, Lydia. Jomsburg. Eine Wikingergeschichte. Trommlerbuch. Berlin: Junge Generation, 1934. Lawrenz, Hans. Die Jomswikinger-​Helden von Wollin. Nach der Übersetzung Giesebrechts aus dem Isländischen für die Jugend bearbeitet. 2nd ed. Schriften zu Deutschlands Erneuerung 64. Breslau: Handel, 1935. Papritz, Johannes, and Wilhelm Koppe. “Vorwort.” Jomsburg 1 (1937): 1–​2. Plaßmann, Joseph Otto. Wikingerfahrten und Normannenreiche. Deutsche Volkheit 67. Jena: Diederichs, 1929. Ramlow, Gerhard. “Die Jomswikinger.” In Männer des Nordens. Wikinger—​Leben, Fahrten und Kämpfe. Nach altnordischen Texten, edited by Gerhard Ramlow, 81–​157. Berlin: Bong, 1936. Strasser, Karl Theodor. Die Nordgermanen. Hamburg: Hanseatische Verlagsanstalt, 1933. —​—​. Wikinger und Normannen. 1928. 5th ed. Hamburg: Hanseatische Verlagsanstalt, 1943. Wöllhaf, Jörg. “Jomsburg—​Völker und Staaten im Osten und Norden Europas.” In Handbuch der völkischen Wissenschaften. Personen—​Institutionen—​Forschungsprogramme—​ Stiftungen, edited by Ingo Haar and Michael Fahlbusch, 307–​12. Munich: Saur, 2008.

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Chapter 10

THE UNFAMILIAR OTHER: DISTORTIONS OF SOCIAL COGNITION THROUGH DISGUISE IN TWO ÍSLENDINGASÖGUR1

Alexander J.  Wilson THIS CHAPTER INVESTIGATES how the protagonists of two Íslendingasögur, namely Fóstbrœðra saga and Droplaugarsona saga, use disguise in such a way as to distort the social cognition of their opponents, thereby allowing them to gain an advantage over their enemies. The term “social cognition” is most commonly used as a technical term within the field of social psychology, where, on its most basic level, it refers to the various mental processes, such as stereotyping and the creation of social schemas, by which people conceptualize their relationships with and towards other people.2 These processes are related to the development of social norms, in that they produce frameworks of behavioural expectation which relate to the types of individuals and groups that a person might encounter. These frameworks lead people to develop preconceptions as to how to interact with others in different social situations, thereby allowing them to predict more comfortably the behaviour of other people and to react accordingly. As Susan Fiske and Shelley Taylor put it, Like it or not, we all make assumptions about other people, ourselves, and the situations we encounter […] Much of the time our expectations are functional, and indeed, we would be unable to operate without them. Such expectations, assumptions, and generic prior knowledge allow us some sense of prediction and control, which is essential to our well-​being […] Categories and schemas allow us the comforting sense that we understand our world, and often they are accurate enough, although sometimes they are sadly mistaken.3

At its most basic level, the exploration of social cognition therefore looks to explain “how people make sense of other people and themselves.”4 It would be anachronistic to apply the specific findings of psychological research to saga literature, given that the terminology and scientific methods of this modern discipline were not available to the sagas’ medieval audiences, but it can nevertheless be useful in reading the sagas to consider the 1  Alexander J. Wilson, Universität Tübingen, email: [email protected].

2  For more information on the specific ideas of stereotypes and social schemas in social psychological research, see, respectively, Leyens, Stereotypes and Social Cognition, and Fiske and Taylor, Social Cognition, 96–​141. 3  Fiske and Taylor, Social Cognition, 97. 4  Fiske and Taylor, Social Cognition, 1.

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core concept of social cognition, that a person’s understanding of their social landscape is rooted in the expectations that they have of how other people are likely to think and behave in different situations. This chapter therefore uses the term “social cognition” in a broad sense to refer to the nexus of social norms and expectations that figures in saga literature could reasonably be said to have in relation to particular individuals and to different types of people. The subject-​specific terminology may be modern, but the wider concepts associated with social cognitive research are not entirely alien to how we often conceptualize medieval mindsets. Studies into social cognition emphasize that individual identity is bound up with its communal nexus, and that individual and communal identities are constructed through shared understandings of how the social world is shaped; to quote the title of a recent article in the field, social cognition emphasizes that “the personal is the societal.”5 The idea that self-​identity is largely a product of our interactions with those around us is closer to what is typically thought of as a medieval attitude towards the matter of subjectivity than it is to popular modern and early modern conceptions of it, which many scholars have read as emphasizing instead the autonomous inner life of the individual.6 Medieval writers and audiences would undoubtedly have been concerned with how social norms affected behavioural expectations, even though they did not articulate such concerns using the kind of scientific terminology that we are accustomed to using today. Thinking about social cognition, albeit in a less rigidly methodological way than that used by modern scientific approaches, may help us as modern readers to identify patterns of interpersonal dynamics that we might otherwise gloss over, but with which a medieval audience would have been intimately familiar. Indeed, the concept of disguise is contingent on the idea that people have a shared sense of social cognition, which may then be imitated by an individual for the purpose of deceiving other people. While disguise is generally subversive in that it is a form of deception, it is not often used by the disguised person to subvert the social cognition of those around them; in fact, successful disguises more commonly involve people adhering to, rather than distorting, expected patterns of behaviour. This is the case in Gísla saga, where Gísli evades capture by disguising himself on two occasions. In ­chapter 20, Gísli exchanges cloaks with his thrall Þórðr inn huglausi and encourages Þórðr to sit atop the sled that they are conveying, in a position of comparative luxury, while Gísli attends to the horses. Gísli’s pursuers consequently mistake the lowly Þórðr for Gísli, and they chase after and kill him instead.7 The relationship between disguise and social cognition in the episode is straightforward: Gísli knows that his opponents are aware of his style of dress and his relatively high social standing as a farm-​owner, so he alters the parts of his own appearance that would indicate his identity while simultaneously manipulating Þórðr into changing his appearance so that he appears to be the higher-​status figure. In ­chapter 26, Gísli again successfully disguises himself, this time as Helgi, the idiotic son 5  See Fiske et al., “Status, Power, and Intergroup Relations,” 44–​48.

6  For a detailed discussion of how subjectivity has been treated in Western European, predominantly English, literature across various historical periods, see Low, Aspects of Subjectivity. 7  Gísla saga Súrssonar, 64–​67.

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of his host Ingjaldr. He does so by replicating the kind of behaviour generally associated with a fool, as he explains in advance to his companion Bóthildr, with whom he is sharing a rowing-​boat, when they catch sight of his enemies: “Þú skalt segja […] at hér sé fíflit innan borðs, en ek mun sitja í stafni ok herma eptir því ok vefja mik í vaðnum ok vera stundum útan borðs ok láta sem ek má œriligast” (You must say that here is the fool on board, and I will sit in the stern and imitate him, and wrap myself in the fishing-​lines and sometimes fall overboard and behave as madly as I can).8 It is only when the men discover the actual Helgi near Ingjaldr’s homestead that they realize Gísli has duped them, which suggests that Gísli’s purpose in disguising himself is not to confuse his pursuers’ understanding of their social situation; he merely wishes to conceal the truth of his own identity for a short while in order to escape. Gísli does not distort his opponents’ social cognition by confusing their understanding of how they interact with other people; rather, he temporarily shifts his perceived position within their established cognitive framework. His imitation of a fool may prevent his enemies from recognizing him, but it does not encourage his opponents to reassess their concept of a fool in the first place or to question how they should interact with such a person. It is logical that those who use disguises to trick other people will generally not seek to upend the social cognition of those whom they wish to deceive. As a performative type of deception, the concept of disguise relies upon there being a relatively fixed set of social expectations and preconceptions about how specific individuals, groups, or types of people will act in relation to those around them, as the person in disguise must convincingly fit into this shared cognitive framework in order for their deception to succeed. Even if a person chooses to disguise themselves as a comparatively unknown figure—​ one who may be typically coded as “other” within a normative social framework, such as a stranger—​those that they encounter will have cognitive strategies for interacting with such figures. This is apparent in ­chapter 72 of Grettis saga, in which the outlaw Grettir, who has taken over the island of Drangey from the farmers on the mainland who legally own it, disguises himself in order to attend an assembly of the mainlanders, where he gives his name as “Gestr” (Stranger).9 The farmers ask Grettir to join in with the wrestling matches and he agrees on the condition that they swear an oath of sanctuary to him, which is carried out by a man named Hafr in elaborate fashion. The saga probably intends Hafr’s overly long vow to be parodic of the social norms that a host would be expected to follow in terms of providing hospitality to an unknown guest, but the parody relies on there being a socially accepted framework for how such an interaction should play out in the first place. When Grettir removes his cloak to reveal his true identity, causing the farmers to realize their mistake in swearing the oath to him—​“þóttusk þeir kenna, at þetta var Grettir Ásmundarson, því at hann var ólíkr ǫðrum mǫnnum fyrir vaxtar sakar ok þrekleika, ok þǫgnuðu nú allir, en Hafr þóttisk ósvinnr orðinn” (they thought they recognized that this was Grettir Ásmundarson, because he was unlike other people on account of his stature and his strength; and now they were all silent, and 8  Gísla saga, 82–​83. All translations into English are my own. 9  Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, 229–​36.

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Hafr thought he had been unwise)10—​the subversive nature of the disguise is revealed, but this revelation does not disturb or distort the social norms that had motivated the mainlanders’ behaviour in the first place. While they recognize that Grettir has outwitted them, the farmers ultimately decide not to controvert the host–​guest relationship that they have established with the outlaw. The realization that “Gestr” is in fact Grettir shifts Grettir’s position within the cognitive social landscape of his enemies, but the episode suggests that the norms underpinning how people within normative society interact with those thought to be “other” are ultimately too important to be discarded: were the mainlanders to abandon their established cognitive relationship with this particular stranger, it would diminish their ability to deal with similarly othered figures, thereby threatening the cohesiveness of their identity as a normative community. This is because the construction of normative identities, both on a communal and an individual level, is determined in large part by what those identities are not, as the normative is defined principally by its differentiation from those things that are socially constructed as being in some sense “other”:  the neighbor is defined in relation to the stranger, the warrior against in relation to their enemy, the human in relation to the animalistic and the monstrous. As Alexa Wright puts it, “the ‘other’ represents what is external to the ‘norms’ of self and society, but is also essential to the construction of the self.”11 For normative identities to remain stable, however, the things against which they are defined must also remain relatively fixed; these others can often be conceptualized as being dangerous or disruptive to an extent, but they must also be somehow contained by the social framework through which they are understood. In other words, it is necessary for the stability of our identities that we define ourselves against beings or things that we frame as non-​normative, but of whom or of which we also have a generally accepted view as to how their form of otherness operates. We may refer to this type of otherness as a “familiar other.” This cognitive process works to safely contain the other as a fixed point of reference for one’s own identity, while also restricting the possibility of that other being overly threatening towards the normative identity of the individual or the community. In the case of the Grettis saga episode discussed above, were the farmers to abandon their preconceived notions as to how an assembly should treat strangers who ask for sanctuary, the process through which they identify and determine how generally to interact with such othered figures would be at risk of becoming unworkable. The farmer Hjalti emphasizes the necessity of maintaining established social norms in his advice that the mainlanders should uphold their vow to Grettir: “Halda skulu vér grið vár, þó at vár hafi orðit hyggendismunr; vil ek eigi, at menn hafi þat til eptirdœma, at vér sjálfir honum gengit á grið þau, sem vér hǫfum sett ok seld” (We must uphold our truce, even though there has been a want for wisdom on our part; I do not want people to hold up as an example that we ourselves go against those truces that we have established and given).12 10  Grettis saga, 233.

11  Wright, Monstrosity, 17. I understand the “normative” and the “other” to be malleable social categories that are constructed, negotiated, and changed in relation to one another, rather than as absolute qualities. The question as to whether “otherness” is best understood as a relative or an absolute quality, however, is a long-standing philosophical concern; for a brief but enlightening overview, see Kearney, Strangers, Gods and Monsters, 13–16. 12  Grettis saga, 235.

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To reject Grettir would be for the mainlanders to deny the validity of the social norms whose importance has been elaborately emphasized in the vow made by Hafr, but the community’s authority and normative identity is contingent on those norms. Refusing to honour the truce with Grettir, despite his subversive disguise, would therefore fundamentally threaten the community itself and its established practices of behaviour. Grettir’s use of disguise is subversive in that it is intended to deceive his opponents, but it does not seriously distort or confuse the social cognition of the community; in fact, it emphasizes the importance of maintaining social norms even in the face of such a deception. The saga episodes discussed below, however, are more interested in depicting what we may term “unfamiliar others,” in the sense that the protagonists of these scenes do not adhere to other people’s expectations of how they should act despite their having disguised themselves as ostensibly familiar figures. In other words, their use of disguise subverts, rather than adheres to, established ideas of familiar otherness. In Fóstbrœðra saga, Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld disguises himself as Lúsa-​Oddi, a well-​known vagrant to the local district, but whereas Oddi is thought of as being harmless by the people of the district, Þormóðr uses his disguise to surprise and kill several of his enemies. Similarly, Grímr Droplaugarson disguises himself to look like one of the house guests of his enemy Helgi Ásbjarnarson; his subsequent killing of Helgi acts against the expectation of Helgi and his followers that they are more likely to be attacked by a typical external force in the mould of a fearsome warrior, rather than by an interloper from among their own number. The use of disguise in these episodes appears to distort deliberately the social cognition of those who are duped by it, as it creates severe confusion among those present as to how the community around them is structured and how they relate to the familiar individuals and social types within it. While narratives about disguise generally contain elements of subversion and deception because of the nature of the subject matter, the portrayal of disguise in these scenes is used not simply to trick people about the true identity of the disguised individual, but also to confuse them temporarily in regard to their fundamental understanding of their social environment.

The Unexpected Vagrant in Fóstbrœðra saga The episode in which Þormóðr disguises himself as Lúsa-​Oddi is found in ­chapter 23 of Fóstbrœðra saga, as part of the wider narrative arc concerning the vengeance that Þormóðr takes in Greenland for his sworn-​brother Þorgeirr Hávarsson. Þorgeirr is killed about halfway through the saga by a Greenlander named Þorgrímr trolli; upon hearing the news, Þormóðr sets out to Greenland to avenge his friend by killing not only Þorgrímr, but also as many of Þorgrímr’s kinsmen as he can, in a spectacularly gruesome vengeance. The episode discussed here takes place after Þormóðr has killed Þorgrímr and now intends to kill Bǫðvarr, Þorkell, Þórðr, and Falgeirr, the sons of Þorgrímr’s sister Þórdís. Þormóðr develops a plan that involves disguising himself as Lúsa-​Oddi, a local vagrant whom he meets by chance on his journey to Þórdís’s homestead: Þá mœtti hann manni á leið. Sá var mikill vexti ok ósinniligr, ljótr ok eigi góðr yfirbragðs. Hann hafði yfir sér verju saumaða saman af mǫrgum tǫtrum; hon var feljótt sem laki ok hǫttr á upp með slíkri gørð; hon var ǫll lúsug. Þormóðr spyrr þenna mann at nafni.

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Hann svarar: “Ek heiti Oddi.”

Þormóðr spyrr: “Hvat manna ertu, Oddi?”

Hann svarar:  “Ek em einn gǫngumaðr, fastr á fótum, ok em ek kallaðr Lúsa-​ Oddi, nenningarlauss maðr ok eigi alllyginn, fróðr nǫkkut, ok hefi jafnan gott af góðum mǫnnum, eða hvat heitir þú?” Þormóðr svarar: “Ek heiti Torráðr.”13

(Then he met a man on the way. He was large in stature and unlikely to be companionable, ugly and no good in his appearance. He had over himself a cloak sewn together from many rags; it was rough like a sheep’s stomach, and the hood on top was made in the same way; it was entirely louse-​infested. Þormóðr asked the man his name. He replied, “I am called Oddi.”

Þormóðr asked, “What kind of man are you, Oddi?”

He replied, “I am a lone vagrant, firm in my feet [i.e. restricted to a single district; see below], and I am referred to as Lúsa-​Oddi: a lazy man, but not very dishonest; somewhat clever; and I am always treated well by good people—​but what are you called?” Þormóðr replied, “I am called Torráðr [Difficult-​to-​Rule].”)

The scene sets up a clear dichotomy between Oddi and Þormóðr in terms of how easily each person can be conceptualized. Oddi is quick to tell Þormóðr a great deal about himself, his character, and, importantly, how he is perceived by other people; he has an ambivalent relationship to the people of the district, who pejoratively nickname him “Lúsa-​Oddi” (Louse-​Oddi), but who also generally accept his vagrancy, as Oddi claims to be always treated well by good people. In this respect, it is significant in a symbolic sense that Oddi is said to be “fastr á fótum” (firm in his feet), which appears to mean that his vagrancy is restricted to that particular legal district; in their notes to the passage, Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson note that “orðatiltæki þetta […] er venjulega haft um þræla, sem voru bundnir við sinn stað og ófrjalsir ferða sinna” (this phrase is usually used about slaves, who were bound to their location and were not free to travel), and argue that the use of the phrase here suggests that Lúsa-​Oddi “hefir ekki mátt flakka út yfir ákveðið svæði” (does not have the power to move out of a certain area).14 Oddi’s identity as a vagrant means that he lacks a fixed social position within the community, but his difference in this respect is also controlled through his legal obligation to remain within the district; in other words, his otherness is a known factor. Þormóðr, on the other hand, introduces himself as “Torráðr” (Difficult-​to-​Rule); he is deliberately vague about his identity, which contrasts humorously with Oddi’s readiness to give up information about himself. Even though Oddi does not have a fixed position in terms of social standing, the saga suggests that he has a fixed conceptual position for the people of the 13  Fóstbrœðra saga, 238–​39. 14  Fóstbrœðra saga, 238n4.

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district as an outsider whom they know well, and whose otherness is safely controlled by the legal system. Þormóðr, by comparison, is a largely unknown, and therefore unpredictable, figure within this social environment. Þormóðr asks to trade cloaks with Oddi, who is initially suspicious, but agrees to the deal. Now disguised as Oddi, a well-​known social presence, Þormóðr proceeds towards Þórdís’s farm and meets her shepherd; the saga thinks it significant enough here to remind the audience, after the two men speak, that “hugði smalamaðr, at hann væri Lúsa-​Oddi” (the shepherd thought that he was Lúsa-​Oddi).15 The shepherd tells Þormóðr that the brothers, apart from Bǫðvarr, are fishing, so Þormóðr hides himself in the nearby boathouse, emerging as their boat approaches the shore in the evening; at this point, the saga emphasizes to the audience as well that “þykkjask þeir þar kenna Lúsa-​Odda” (they thought that they recognized Lúsa-​Oddi there).16 Both of these passages suggest that Þormóðr’s disguise is effective not because it enables him to go unnoticed, but rather because it ensures that he is noticed by the shepherd and the brothers; he is able to get close to his victims because they interpret his presence in accordance with their expectations of Lúsa-​Oddi, a figure whose otherness is familiar to them and is therefore coded as safe. Þormóðr immediately subverts the brothers’ expectations, however, by revealing the axe under his cloak and killing Þorkell: “Þá snarar Þormóðr at Þorkatli ok høggr báðum hǫndum í hǫfuð Þorkatli ok klýfr hausinn; fekk hann þegar bana” (Then Þormóðr turned quickly to Þorkell and struck him in the head with both hands [i.e. with a double-​handed blow], and cleaved his skull; he died instantly).17 In subverting the stereotypical perceptions that the community have of Oddi, Þormóðr distorts the brothers’ conceptualization of their social structure by making a familiar other suddenly appear unfamiliar, which confuses his enemies enough that he is able to gain the advantage over them. Rather than playing along with his opponents’ ideas of what is normative and what is other in order to blend in, Þormóðr destabilizes their expectations of how figures of otherness are likely to behave, his attack distorting the brothers’ assumption that they are safe within the familiarity of their established social landscape. The literary effect of this distortion is to shift the narrative mode of the saga into becoming more farcical than it has previously been, albeit in a grotesque, excessive manner, as the outnumbered Þormóðr kills the other brothers in humiliating ways. After Þormóðr runs away from the scene, Þórðr and Falgeirr chase him; Þórðr follows Þormóðr as he jumps down to a cliff-​side cave to escape, but Þórðr’s leg gives way as he lands and he stumbles before being dispatched by Þormóðr, who buries his axe in Þórðr’s back. Falgeirr then begins wrestling with Þormóðr and the pair of them fall into the sea; Þormóðr realizes that Falgeirr is considerably stronger than he is, but Falgeirr’s belt snaps and Þormóðr manages to pull his breeches down, causing Falgeirr to drown as his buttocks emerge from the water, followed by his grotesque visage: “Var þá opinn muðrinn ok augun, ok var þá því líkast at sjá í andlit, sem þá er maðr glottir at nǫkkuru” 15  Fóstbrœðra saga, 239. 16  Fóstbrœðra saga, 239. 17  Fóstbrœðra saga, 239.

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(His mouth and eyes were then open, and his face then to look at was most alike to when a man grins at something).18 Lucy Keens suggests that the scene implies that Falgeirr has been made “argr” (unmanly, craven) by Þormóðr through the combination of Falgeirr’s buttocks being exposed—​which places him in what would have been considered a sexually compromising position for a man in Old Norse–​Icelandic culture—​and his grinning face, which seems “to make him complicit with his own image of perversion.”19 Keens also argues that Falgeirr’s grin indicates a shift in the perception of his social position, as he is shamefully inverted from being a fearsome warrior to being seen as a pathetic idiot: “The grin makes Falgeirr’s death more clownish […] He is as close as can be to an Old Norse fool.”20 Lois Bragg reads other potential aspects of comic subversion into Falgeirr’s death, as she argues that the specific context of his having drowned through his breeches forcing his legs together may even suggest that Þormóðr’s “method for dispatching his third victim is thus to turn him into a kind of perverse seal whose melded legs cause him to drown rather than swim.”21 Bragg’s reading of the scene using the specific imagery of Falgeirr being made like a seal seems overly interpretive in comparison with Keens’ suggestions, but of note here is the fact that both scholars lay particular emphasis on the potential that the scene’s elements had to subvert the expectations of a medieval audience. These subversive elements lend a kind of grotesque humour to the scene that stands out even among the other encounters in which Þormóðr takes his excessive vengeance, and may be linked to the temporary confusion created by Þormóðr’s distortion of the brothers’ social cognition: not only does Þormóðr distort the known identity of Lúsa-​Oddi into an unfamiliar form, but he also kills Falgeirr in a way that renders his enemy a ridiculous and unmanly figure.

The Absent Intruder in Droplaugarsona saga

The second example of disguise distorting social cognition to be discussed is found in ­chapter 13 of Droplaugarsona saga. Like the previous episode from Fóstbrœðra saga, the scene takes place in the context of a revenge plot, this time orchestrated by Grímr Droplaugarson, who intends to kill the chieftain Helgi Ásbjarnarson for having killed his brother, also named Helgi, and for having seriously wounded Grímr during the same battle. Helgi believes Grímr to be dead as a result of their earlier fight, but Grímr is in fact rescued from the brink of death by his friends and nursed back to health. Helgi, unable either to confirm or to disprove the rumours about Grímr’s survival, slides into a state of fear and paranoia. 18  Fóstbrœðra saga, 241.

19  Keens, “Scenes of a Sexual Nature,” 201–​2. For the specific connotations of “ergi” (unmanliness, perversity; adj. “argr”) in this scene, see also Meulengracht Sørensen, The Unmanly Man, 71–​74. For general discussions of the symbolic resonances of “ergi” and the sexual anxieties associated with the concept, see Markey, “Nordic níðvísur,” 7–​18; Ström, “Níð, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes”; Meulengracht Sørensen, The Unmanly Man. 20  Keens, “Scenes of a Sexual Nature,” 202. 21  Bragg, Oedipus borealis, 236.

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The episode differs from the scene in Fóstbrœðra saga in terms of the narrative dynamics that underpin its distortion of social cognition, as Helgi is more suspicious that Grímr intends to kill him than the Greenlandic brothers are of Þormóðr’s having similar intentions towards them. Grímr does not attempt to lure his enemies into a false sense of security, however, in the way that Þormóðr does by disguising himself as Lúsa-​Oddi; rather, he takes advantage of Helgi’s expectations about how he will seek vengeance. Helgi seems to think of Grímr as a “familiar other” in the sense that he primarily thinks of him as a conventional warrior—​that is, as the type of danger against which he is used to fighting. To protect himself from such a threat, Helgi first has a “lokhvíla” (lockable bed-​closet) constructed at his home in Mjóvanes, before deciding to sell that farm in order to move his household into the heavily-​wooded area of Eiðar, because he “þóttisk þar betr kominn, er þingmenn hans váru umhverfis” (thought he was better situated in that place, where his assembly-​men were all around); he has another “lokhvíla” built at Eiðar.22 Helgi’s wife Þórdís is confused by his actions, but Helgi explains his fears to her in a verse that suggests he views Grímr primarily as a typical military combatant: Þórdís, kona hans, spurði, hví hann vildi þar heldr land eiga, er allt var skógi vaxit at húsum heim ok mátti hvergi sjá mannferðir, þótt at garði fœri. Þá kvað Helgi vísu: Ák í mǫrk, es myrkvir miðleggs daga tveggja, fram berk heið í hljóði “hraunn”, argspæing margan, at mótstafir Meita myni, menn, þeirs styr vinna, hildarbǫrrum hjarra hrælœkjar mik sœkja.23

(Þórdís, his wife, asked why he would rather own land in that place, where it was entirely overgrown with forest up to the home-​buildings and no one could see people’s movements, even if they came into the enclosure. Then Helgi spoke a verse:

I have many an evil foreboding in the forest, when it grows dark between two days—​I bear forth the speech of Óðinn [= poetry] in all stillness—​that the meeting-​staffs of Meiti [= a sea-​king; meeting of a sea-​king  =  battle; staffs of battle = warriors], those men who engage in conflict, will seek me with a battle-​ ready hinge-​pole of the corpse-​brook [= blood; hinge-​pole of blood = spear].) 22  Droplaugarsona saga, 166. 23  Droplaugarsona saga, 166–​67. The translation of the verse follows Jón Jóhannesson’s suggestion in this edition of the saga that the word hraunn, the meaning of which is unclear, is “afbökuná einhverju Ódinsheiti í eignarfalli, e.t.v. Hram(m)s” (a distortion of some Óðinn-​name in the genitive, perhaps Hram(m)s); and that the phrase “hraunn” heið therefore means “the speech of Óðinn,” referring to poetry.

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The imagery that Helgi uses in the verse, such as the “mótstafir Meita” (meeting-​staffs of Meiti, i.e. warriors) and the “hildarbǫrrum hjarra hrælœkjar” (battle-​ready hinge-​ pole of the corpse-​brook, i.e. spear), implies that the kind of encounter that he expects to have with Grímr is that of a pitched battle, in which it is comparatively straightforward to identify one’s opponents. It therefore makes sense that Helgi thinks the best way to ward off such an encounter is to surround himself with loyal men and to hide away in a heavily forested area, which would give some level of protection to his home in terms of providing it with natural defences, albeit at the cost of reducing visibility from the house itself. Þórdís’s protests, however, imply that Helgi would do well to suspect a different kind of enemy, one who cannot be seen from a distance even when they have come as close as one’s door. She repeats her advice to Helgi when they come to prepare the sleeping arrangements for a feast, when she warns him against assuming that he is safe simply because he is surrounded by his allies: Um kveldit mælti Helgi Ásbjarnarson við konu sína: “Hvar ætlar þú þeim Ketilormi at hvíla?” Hon segir: “Ek hefi búna þeim góða sæng útan af seti.” Helgi mælti: “Þau skulu liggja í sæng okkarri, því at þau ganga ór rekkju fyrir okkr hvern tíma, er vit erum þar.” Þórdís segir: “Eigi ertu ávallt jafnvarr. Þá munda ek þíns fundar leita, ef ek ætta Gríms hlut, er flest væri gesta ok þú ættir margt at annask.” Hann segir: “Þat er mér opt í brigzli fœrt, at ek sé of varr.” Nú réð hann rekkjum, en eigi hon.24

(During the evening Helgi Ásbjarnarson spoke with his wife: “Where do you intend for Ketilormr and his wife to sleep?” She said, “I have prepared for them a good bed beyond the bench [i.e. between the bench and the door].” Helgi spoke: “They must lie in our bed, because they get out of bed for us each time that we two stay there.” Þórdís said, “You are not always equally cautious. I would look to meet you, if I were to have Grímr’s lot, when the most guests were staying and you would have many things to take care of.” He said, “It is often put to me in reproach that I am overly cautious.” Now he arranged the beds, and she did not.)

It is notable that whilst Helgi claims his wife’s criticisms of him are that he is generally “of varr” (overly cautious), referring to her protests against their moving house to Eiðar, Þórdís in fact warns him that he is “eigi ... ávallt jafnvarr” (not always equally cautious), which suggests that his caution is misplaced rather than unnecessary. Despite Helgi dismissing his wife’s warning, Þórdís ends up being proved right over her concern that Helgi’s sense of safety in his familiar surroundings leaves him vulnerable to a different kind of threat than that which he is expecting. Helgi predicts that he will be attacked by a clearly visible external threat; on the night of the feast, however, Grímr disguises himself 24  Droplaugarsona saga, 169.

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in similar bedclothes to those worn by Helgi’s guests before he enters the hall. Grímr makes his way over to Helgi and Þórdís’s bed and kills Helgi, before throwing a stick at a stack of logs on the other side of the hall; the stack crashes down noisily, resulting in a maelstrom of confusion within the darkened hall that enables Grímr to sneak away. Before Grímr reaches the door, however, he is restrained by Helgi’s servant Arnoddr, who is physically strong but blind. Ironically, despite his visual impairment, it is Arnoddr who comes closest to perceiving the truth of Grímr’s plan when he gets hold of him and shouts out to the others, who have headed in the direction of the fallen log stack, that they are looking for the intruder in the wrong place. Grímr, however, tells Arnoddr that he is actually looking to avenge Helgi—​technically not untrue, as Grímr does not specify that the Helgi he hopes to avenge is in fact his brother, Helgi Droplaugarson—​and when Arnoddr pats him down, he discovers that Grímr is dressed for bed in the same way as the inhabitants of the hall. Arnoddr subsequently lets Grímr go, and Grímr and his accomplices escape before anyone inside can realize the truth of what has happened. The key element of Grímr’s strategy appears to be to distort the typical social expectations that his opponents have of the “intruder” and the “guest.” Helgi and his men conceptualize Grímr primarily as an external figure who presents a clear, visible threat and prepare accordingly for that danger, but this method of thinking leaves them ill-equipped to cope with the threat that Grímr poses as a different, less familiar kind of other, who attacks them while he is disguised as a member of their community. Arnoddr’s reasoning as to why he lets go of Grímr neatly sums up the chaos that breaks out in the hall as a result of Grímr having attacked Helgi: “Því lét ek laust þar, at ek munda eigi vita, at betr væri, at ek hefða haldi” (I let go there because I could not know whether it would be better if I had held on).25 In this confusing environment, in which quick decisions have to be made if the residents of the hall are to identify the murderous intruder, none of Helgi’s men appears to have the secure frame of reference that would allow them to do so. This aspect of confusion is also present in the similar scene in Gísla saga in which Gísli kills his brother-​in-​law Þorgrímr, which appears to have been borrowed from this episode in Droplaugarsona saga, although some scholars believe that the borrowing happened in the other direction.26 The shorter version of Gísla saga notes that Gísli’s deception meant that those staying in Þorgrímr’s hall believed the killer was one of their own number, rather than the external intruder for which they had immediately begun searching: “Þykkir mǫnnum, er eigi verðr við vegandann vart, sem sá muni þar nǫkkurr 25  Droplaugarsona saga, 171. 26  For the argument that Gísla saga borrowed this episode from Droplaugarsona saga, see Gordon, “The Murder of Þorgrímr,” 85–​94; Hermann Pálsson, “Sögur bornar saman,” 163–​73; Finlay, “Droplaugarsona saga,” 143. For the argument that Droplaugarsona saga borrows from Gísla saga, see Heusler, “Berührungen zwischen den Isländergeschichten,” 210–​31; Andersson, “Some Ambiguities in Gísla saga,” 28–​39. I am inclined to believe that Gísla saga adapted the episode from Droplaugarsona saga, following Gordon’s logic that the common details in these episodes are generally more necessary to the narrative of the Droplaugarsona saga episode than they are to that of Gísla saga, but the idea that the audiences of these sagas would have interpreted both episodes in a fairly similar way is not contingent on the borrowing between the texts having happened in any specific direction.

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inni vera, er verkit hefir unnit” (It seemed to people, when the killer was not discovered, that the one who had done the deed must be someone within there).27 Although it is not so explicitly stated in Droplaugarsona saga, Grímr’s attack on Helgi similarly blurs the lines between friend and foe for his opponents. By conceptualizing Grímr as posing a visible external threat, in the mould of a conventional warrior in a clearly demarcated battle, Helgi and his followers rely on an assumption that conflict takes place between distinct enemies and allies, which is clear in their search for a definite outsider in the chaos and confusion of the hall. The men’s adherence to this cognitive framework, however, ultimately leads them not to be wary of the unexpected danger that Grímr can pose to them from within their familiar social landscape.

Conclusions

The two episodes discussed above provide examples of how certain Íslendingasögur depict otherness in ways that subvert people’s normative expectations of what otherness itself should be like and how othered figures should behave. The episodes’ portrayal of otherness appears to be associated with a change in narrative mode, in which typical normative concepts of identity do not provide a stable framework through which those present can predict or control the circumstances unfolding around them, and in which the outsider figure is able to take advantage of their unfamiliar otherness as a result. The nature of Þormóðr’s deception appears to be related to the humiliating, ignominious nature of the deaths that he causes; similarly, Grímr’s use of disguise seems intended to cause a breakdown of the typical social interactions and expectations among the people within Helgi’s hall. In distorting the social cognition of their opponents, Þormóðr and Grímr create temporarily chaotic environments in which social norms are confused to the point that their enemies cannot protect themselves from danger, as they are unable to gain a stable point of reference from which to respond to the sudden intrusion of this unexpected otherness. These episodes do not use the idea of otherness simply to draw oppositions between recognizably normative and othered elements; rather, they seek to distort conventional ideas of otherness themselves, thereby highlighting for their audiences the fluid, essentially unfixed nature of the ostensibly familiar other.

References

Primary Sources Droplaugarsona saga. In Austfirðinga sǫgur, edited by Jón Jóhannesson, 135–​80. Íslenzk fornrit 11. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1950. Fóstbrœðra saga. In Vestfirðinga sǫgur, edited by Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, 119–​276. Íslenzk fornrit 6. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1943. 27  Gísla saga, 54.

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Gísla saga Súrssonar. In Vestfirðinga sǫgur, edited by Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, 1–​118. Íslenzk fornrit 6. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1943. Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. In Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, edited by Guðni Jónsson, 1–​290. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Secondary Literature

Andersson, Theodore M. “Some Ambiguities in Gísla saga: A Balance Sheet.” Bibliography of Old Norse–​Icelandic Studies 1968 (1969): 7–​42. Bragg, Lois. Oedipus borealis: The Aberrant Body in Old Icelandic Myth and Saga. Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2004. Finlay, Alison. “Droplaugarsona saga.” In Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia, edited by Phillip Pulsiano, 143. New York: Garland Publishing, 1993. Fiske, Susan T., Cydney H. Dupree, Gandalf Nicolas, and Jillian K. Swencionis. “Status, Power, and Intergroup Relations: The Personal is the Societal.” Current Opinion in Psychology 11 (2016): 44–​48. Fiske, Susan T., and Shelley E. Taylor. Social Cognition. 2nd ed. New York: McGraw-​Hill, 1991. Gordon, Ida L. “The Murder of Þorgrímr in Gíslasaga Súrssonar.” Medium Ævum 3 (1934): 79–​94. Hermann Pálsson. “Sögur bornar saman: Gísla saga og Droplaugarsona saga.” Skírnir 151 (1977): 163–​73. Heusler, Andreas. “Berührungen zwischen den Isländergeschichten.” Deutsche Islandforschung 1 (1930): 210–​31. Kearney, Richard. Strangers, Gods and Monsters: Interpreting Otherness. New York: Routledge, 2003. Keens, Lucy Anne. “Scenes of a Sexual Nature: Theorising Representations of Sex and the Sexual Body in The Sagas of the Icelanders.” PhD diss., University College London, 2016. Leyens, Jacques-​Philippe, Vincent Yzerbyt, and Georges Schadron. Stereotypes and Social Cognition. London: Sage, 1994. Low, Anthony. Aspects of Subjectivity: Society and Individuality from the Middle Ages to Shakespeare and Milton. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press, 2003. Markey, Thomas L. “Nordic níðvísur: An Instance of Ritual Inversion?” Mediaeval Scandinavia 5 (1972): 7–​18. Meulengracht Sørensen, Preben. The Unmanly Man:  Concepts of Sexual Defamation in Early Northern Society. Translated by Joan Turville-​Petre. Odense: Odense University Press, 1980. Ström, Folke. “Níð, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes.” The Dorothea Coke Memorial Lecture in Northern Studies delivered at University College London 10 May 1973. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1974. Wright, Alexa. Monstrosity: The Human Monster in Visual Culture. London: I. B. Tauris, 2013.

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A DEVIANT WORD HOARD: A PRELIMINARY STUDY OF NON-​NORMATIVE TERMS IN EARLY MEDIEVAL SCANDINAVIA1

Keith Ruiter NORMS, NORMATIVITY, AND the transgression thereof have long been topics of special interest in the social sciences; however, these studies routinely demonstrate an inherent fluidity between normativity and deviance, making the study of either in isolation problematic.2 For this reason, deviance and normativity are most often considered together, due to the manifold ways that understandings of one naturally aids understanding the other. From the perspective of language, this is in fact not especially surprising as concepts tend to be most easily defined by what they are not, rather than what precisely they are. This fluidity of understandings of deviance and normativity is highly visible in many Old Norse texts as well and recently the study of norms, normativity, and deviance in these texts has enjoyed a certain vogue, not the least demonstrated by the present collection of papers. However, examinations of this normative fluidity are few and far between, as are lexical and semantic studies of the terms used to delineate non-​normative behaviours, which highlights a problematic hole in our understandings of the contemporary associations around these terms. The present paper will proceed by conducting an examination of select lexical choices in medieval Scandinavian texts to better understand the contemporary web of associations surrounding non-​normative and transgressive behaviours. That said, a simple working definition of these key concepts that acknowledges the fluidity between them is required before moving forward. Simply put, normativity can be understood as the degree to which specific behaviour aligns with a particular norm or norm-​set. Consequently, at the most basic level, non-​normative and deviant behaviour can be understood as behavioural transgressions of expected norms. This definition of normativity on one hand and deviance on the other likely brings to mind several of the structuralist studies of the “Old Norse worldview,” with normativity and deviance forming a “related opposition,” a binary pair of concepts used to construct meaning.3 In fact, a normative population and the non-​normative people perceived to be on its fringes could conceivably be conceptualized as mere synonyms to Kirsten 1  Keith Ruiter, University of Nottingham, email: [email protected].

2  Baier, Social and Legal Norms; Hall, Theorizing Crime & Deviance; Downes and Rock, Understanding Deviance.

3  Gurevich, “Space and Time in the Weltmodell,” 42–​53; Meletinskij, “Scandinavian Mythology as a System,” 1: 43–​57, 2: 57–​78; Hastrup, Island of Anthropology.

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Hastrup’s social categories in her study: “us”and “the others.”4 However, the picture is, in fact, much more complicated. Hastrup’s model has been much discussed since its first formulation and some key critiques have been put forward. Most notably, scholars like Jens Peter Schjødt5 and Margaret Clunies Ross6 have pointed out some of the shortcomings of Hastrup’s model from the perspective of Old Norse mythology and cosmology; however, Gro Steinsland, building off these previous critiques, has highlighted one of Hastrup’s most important oversights, namely that the sheer diversity of the conceptualizations that Hastrup attempts to model actually inhibits such simplistic visual modelling.7 From a social perspective, this is equally true. Every action or reaction in a society is rooted in complex normative understandings that are constantly being negotiated by the actor and the society they are acting in. Therefore, models like Hastrup’s put too much stress on liminal space and othering and do not reflect real-​world pragmatics in social interactions. Furthermore, depending on cultural contexts, norms are subject to change over time and geographical space,8 yielding many mutually independent scales of normativity to be measured at any given point. The key, then, is to first highlight relevant norm-​sets that are evidently operating in the society in question. Though interested in feud mechanics rather than normative forces, in his 1990 study, William Ian Miller highlights two vital normative scales that demonstrably function in medieval Iceland: one governed by legal norms,9 and a second governed by norms relating to honourable conduct.10 Miller also briefly acknowledges a moral aspect to the social economics of feud, but does little to develop this idea further.11 Given some more recent and relevant attempts to grapple with medieval Scandinavian moral attitudes,12 the scale of normativity governed by morality is a third normative metric that should be considered here. Thus, for the purposes of enquiring after normative and non-​normative behaviours and the words used to describe them, we should understand these norm-​sets to represent three independent, but interrelated spectra of normativity laid out in a horizontal plane. In this way, lawfulness, honourableness, and moral rightness would represent the positive extremes of the spectra, while lawlessness, dishonourableness, and moral wrongness would represent the negative extremes. Importantly however, each of these 4  Hastrup, Island of Anthropology, 25–​43.

5  Schjødt, “Horizontale und vertikale Achsen.” 6  Clunies Ross, Prolonged Echoes.

7  Steinsland, “The Late Iron Age Worldview,” 141–​42. The most recent, and perhaps most important, critique of this structuralist worldview is Rösli’s “The Myth of Útgarðr,” which highlights the deepset historiographical problems that underpin this structuralist scholarship.

8  For a relevant discussion of changing norms in the Old Norse world in light of the Christianization process, see Schjødt, “Horizontale und vertikale Achsen,” and Anders Andrén, “Landscape and Settlement as Utopian Space.” 9  Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking, 116–​17. 10  Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking, 26–​41.

11  Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking, 98, 108.

12  Bagge, Order, Disorder and Disordered Order; Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action in Thirteenth-​ century Iceland; Ström, Nið, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes, for example.

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spectra must be examined on their own as well as in relation to each other, as any given action can be normative on one spectrum, but deviant on any number of others under certain social conditions. Furthermore, the social sciences routinely demonstrate that there is no clear hierarchy between normative scales.13 We often see this ambiguity and complexity in the sagas where, for example, illegal action is sometimes praised from the perspective of honour. Encouragingly for the study at hand, the Old Norse lexicon is quite rich in words that describe especially the negative normative extremes detailed above, which helps to flesh out the contemporary conceptual associations behind normative transgressions and deviance on these spectra. Law and legal transgression is the natural point of entry to the topic of deviance, and it is also the category of terms most discussed in recent years, particularly the terms surrounding outlaws. In a recent article, Anne Irene Riisøy made a study of several Old Norse outlaw terms, loosely categorizing them as early terms—​those widely used before the medieval period, being attested in things like runic inscriptions and early poetry: sekr, skógr terms, and vargr terms—​and later terms—​including útlegð, friðlauss, and fjörbaugsgarðr—​which appear to have grown in popular usage over the medieval period, gaining currency in the written medieval legislation.14 Sekr, the earliest attested outlawry term for which we currently have evidence, is found on the Oklunda rune stone, dated to the first half of the ninth century.15 According to Riisøy, the term seems to have an early core meaning of “fined,” “guilty,” or “accused”; however, the contexts provided by the surviving material suggests that it especially described someone who has been outlawed, but due to the sparsity of this early evidence, it is very difficult to say more than the fact that it seems to have been a term that covered a broad semantic field surrounding both outlawry and a more general criminal status.16 The second set of words Riisøy explores, the subset of skógr words—​such as skóggangr and skógarmaðr—​are widely attested in laws, sagas, and poetry and stand as somewhat different from broad terms like sekr.17 These compounds rely on the Old Norse word skógr (forest), and demonstrate a substantial element of spatial othering of the outlaw, having been used to demonstrate a widely held belief that outlaws would make a home in the forest away from normative populations. Episodes describing as much are widespread in the Icelandic sagas and a small group of legal terms reflects this association.18 For example, Gulathings lov and Frostathings lov describe the skógarkaup (forest-​payment), which was a fee that could be paid to buy one’s way back into normative society and terminate a sentence of lesser-​outlawry.19 The sense relayed by these 13  Downes and Rock, Understanding Deviance, 4. 14  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 101–​11.

15  Brink, “Law and Legal Customs in Viking Age Scandinavia,” 93–​96. 16  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 109–​10. 17  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 105–​7.

18  Ahola, Outlawry in the Icelandic Family Sagas, 105; Heusler, Das Strafrecht der Isländersagas, 143–​44. 19  The Earliest Norwegian Laws, 17.

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compounds is that the outlaw’s place was in the forest, beyond the normative society whose legal norms they had transgressed. A related group of words centre on the Old Norse word for a particularly predatory wolf, vargr.20 This term, as well as several compounds based on it, was often used to describe the most reprehensible criminals and is well attested throughout the entire medieval period,21 suggesting that it was a term very strongly and stably linked with deeply transgressive acts. Of course, the metaphor here is quite transparent: the wolf, like the most transgressive outlaws, is a blight on society and makes a home in the liminal space of the forest. But while the skógr terms merely emphasize the liminal nature of the outlaw, these vargr terms help us to gain a better understanding of what exactly was considered reprehensible crime in early Scandinavia. For example, morðvargr (murder-​ wolf),22 was a term used to describe those who committed a killing and attempted to hide it, thus shirking their personal responsibility before the law and the community, something vital in these honour societies.23 Similarly, brænnu vargar (fire-​wolf) and its uniquely Swedish equivalent, kasnavargr (log-​pile-​wolf), are terms to describe someone who tried to commit or cover up a murder by way of arson.24 These vargr terms all have to do with aggressive criminal behaviour that either shirks personal responsibility or violates protected spaces, such as the home, or the legal assembly.25 Each represents a particularly heinous clandestine transgression against local social stability. In this way these categories help to classify the type of action that led to the ascription of vargr status, telling us something about the legal values of these populations. Despite this, conceptually, these are much more loaded terms, ascribing the convicted perpetrator not only a de-​civilized status, but a dehumanized one as well. While these words in Riisøy’s category of early outlawry terms are either quite broad in the case of sekr, or in the case of skogr and vargr words, poetic circumlocutions that rely on various levels of conceptual distancing, her second broad category demonstrates some key differences.26 Útlegð, friðlauss, and fjörbaugsgarðr in fact do not help us understand transgressions or deviance in a better way, but instead more specifically express the legal mechanics of the time. Útlegð, for example, describes a punishment that puts one outside the legal system of norms, but also the region that recognized that common legal system.27 Friðlauss preserves the concept that outlawry is fundamentally defined by a revocation of individual rights and freedoms—​it is a loss of one’s right to 20  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 107–​9.

21  For a brief discussion of some examples, see Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 108. 22  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 107–​8.

23  For discussion, see Guta Lag and Guta Saga, xxxi; Earliest Norwegian Laws, 17–​18; and Ström, On the Sacral Origin, 261. 24  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 108–​9.

25  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 109; for further discussion of protected spaces and violations thereof, see Jesch, “Murder and Treachery in the Viking Age,” and Myrberg, “Room for All?” 26  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 111–​23. 27  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 111–​15.

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peace.28 Fjörbaugsgarðr is a uniquely Icelandic word literally meaning “life-​ring’s yard,” describing a sentence of outlawry where the convicted party could safely exist in a set space where their baug, similar to a wergild, would be respected.29 The sharp rise of these legally descriptive terms in the texts suggests a new phase in the evolution of the Nordic legal vocabulary, where different terms were being used with increasing frequency to more specifically express legal mechanics, rather than the describe perceived aspects of the transgressor. What is clear from all of these outlaw terms, however, is that there was a substantial element of conceptual distancing and normative dissociation to certain legally transgressive behaviours. Whether draped with the monstrous mantle of the vargr or the more surgical útlegð, all of these terms do indeed delineate a sharp distinction between the transgressor and their behaviour and the normative population. Along the same lines as these terms, marked by semantic distancing, are a group of legally-​punishable “insults” that directly relate to criminal activity. These insults are subject to regional variation, with different terms and punishments listed in various areas, but each region demonstrates some concern for insults such as these, as they associate their victims with some of the most reprehensible legal transgressions of the time, making it of little surprise that they were taken very seriously by contemporary populations. For example, Guta lag lists a number of oqueþinsorþum (irredeemable words), such as þiaufr (thief), morþingi (murderer), and kasnavargr (murdering arsonist), which could all be applied to both men and women, while rauferi (violent robber) could only apply to men.30 Depending on the circumstances, Guta lag stipulates that theft and violent robbery could carry potentially lethal punishments, while murder could result in outlawry, making these very serious accusations for medieval Gotlanders.31 Furthermore, association with such transgressive individuals, even if only through insult, would likely carry a high degree of conceptual distancing, as evidenced by the discussion of outlaw terms above. However, there is more at play here. Hordomber (adultery) and fordeþskepr (witchcraft), insults included in the law that only applied to women, are particularly interesting as fordeþskepr is not actually listed as a crime in Guta lag and there are no punishments listed for women involved in hordomber, even though adulterous activity could result in capital punishment for men.32 This leads Christine Peel to remark that these two insults relate more to disgrace and dishonour than to criminal transgression.33 Guta lag’s punishable insult of hordomber provides an excellent example of how the three primary normative spectrums under investigation here are constantly engaged in a certain amount of overlap and interplay. While a woman might not suffer a legal punishment for her involvement in proven hordomber in medieval Gotland, the man involved 28  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 115–​16. 29  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 123.

30  Guta Lag and Guta Saga, 174–​76. 31  Guta Lag and Guta Saga, 209–​10

32  Guta Lag and Guta Saga, 174–​76, 209–​10. 33  Guta Lag and Guta Saga, 176.

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almost certainly would. Claiming a man was involved in hordomber was an accusation of a crime and dealt with through the social structures relating to maintaining a level of legal normativity. However, to accuse a woman of such an action carried no legal risk to her, but substantial legal risk to her accuser, and seems to include a marked risk of dishonour and damaging the reputation of her and her family. Similarly, fordeþskepr is not listed as illegal and seems to be morally ambiguous,34 but these terms apparently carried a highly dishonourable connotation in order to be included alongside accusations of theft and murder, both being seen as criminal and morally debased.35 Gulathings lov also demonstrates a concern for such honour-​centric insults, stating: No one shall circulate loose talk or impossible tales about another. That is called an impossible tale which a man tells about another, but which is not, or cannot be, or never has been true; as if he says that the other man is a woman every ninth night and that he has borne a child, or if he calls him a werewolf. If he is convicted of this, he shall be outlawed.36

Evidence of this kind has previously been used to postulate a highly binary understanding of gender and sexual propriety circulating at the time the laws were written down.37 However, Gulathings lov also stipulates that it was equally punishable to claim that a man was a þræll, fordæðo, related to Guta lag’s fordeþskepr, or a troll.38 Ranging from accusations of perceived sexual or social impropriety, to being of a lower social station, to possessing monstrous or supernatural traits, all of these insults could apparently carry a heavy stigma of dishonour in their contemporary societies. Considering that those found guilty of uttering such insults could potentially be outlawed or victims of blood vengeance, these insults represent lexical points of no return. In previous decades, scholars such as Folke Ström have used some of these insults as key evidence in an attempt to understand concepts like níð.39 Ström argues for a relationship between níð and ergi, which are observed in the sagas to frequently be associated with an insinuation of “passive homosexual behavior.”40 Ström highlights associations of unmanliness and cowardice when these terms are used to describe men, but nymphomania in the case of women.41 However, to dismiss níð as being only rooted in fields of sex and gender seems to rob the word of some of its contemporary flexibility and potency. Consider, Guta lag’s insult 34  Peel notes a general element of negative connotation to fordeþskepr, but states that this is not universal: Guta Lag and Guta Saga, 176. 35  Ekholst, A Punishment for Each Criminal, 108–​50.

36  Earliest Norwegian Laws, 123. “Engi scal gera yki um annan. æda fiolmæle. þat heiter yki ef maðr mælir um annan þat er eigi ma væra. ne verða oc eigi hever verit. kveðr hann væra kono niundu nott hveria. oc hever barn boret. oc kallar gylvin. þa er hann utlagr. ef hann verðr at þvi sannr. syni með settar eiði. fellr til utlegðar ef fellr.” Keyser and Munch, Norges gamle Love indtil 1387, vol. I, 57. 37  Ström, Nið, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes; Meulengracht Sørensen, The Unmanly Man. 38  Earliest Norwegian Laws, 143.

39  Ström, Nið, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes.

40  Ström, Nið, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes, 5. 41  Ström, Nið, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes, 4.

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rauferi. This accusation of violent robbery evidently had dishonourable connotations, and yet, there is nothing inherently clandestine or “unmanly” about it. In fact it stands alongside assault and raiding as an actively violent means by which to achieve one’s goals. In other words, it exhibits exactly the “unbound courage that despised danger and death” that Ström sees as being in opposition to níð and ergi.42 Therefore, the dichotomy of manliness versus unmanliness should be revisited, and the extent to which perceived sexual propriety was a primary semantic field in each word should be examined. Níð, for example has cognates in Old English nīð, Old Frisian nīth, Middle Dutch nith, nijt, nijd, Old Saxon nīth, Middle Low German nīt, nyet, Old High German nīd, nīdh, Middle High German nīt, Old Swedish nidh, nith, and Gothic neiþ.43 In the Old English, for example, nīð occupies a number of semantic fields, such as “envy,” “hatred,” “enmity,” “ill-​will,” and “evil” and is used synonymously with other Old English words like bealu.44 The word may have undergone some conceptual shifts in the Christianized world of Anglo-​Saxon England, but the conceptual underpinnings of all its cognates mirror those of the Old English, suggesting a prevailing conservation of the concepts of immorality, detestability, and undesirability that likely predates the Christianization of these societies.45 Even in a Scandinavian context, the Old Swedish word relates to contemptibility, covetousness, and moral baseness.46 None of these semantic fields demonstrably tie níð to perceived sexual propriety. Ergi also finds cognates in Old English earg, earh, Old High German ark, and Old Frisian arg, ergh.47 These too cover a range of semantic fields from “wickedness,” “godlessness,” “inactivity,” “cowardice,” “laziness,” and “treachery.”48 Intriguingly however, in early Scandinavian runic inscriptions, argr does appear to have an association with perceived perversion, including a sexual connotation, particularly when appearing alongside the highly elusive word rati/​rata/​rita.49 This suggests that the sexual connotations that permeate the word in later medieval Iceland may find a root in secondary connotations from an earlier stage in the language. By comparison, níð does not seem to carry these connotations at this early stage and is, in fact, never found in association with argr or rita in any of these early inscriptions, perhaps suggesting that even the associations between níð and argr are not as old or as extensive as some scholars have suggested.50 While the common conceptual and semantic roots of these words lie in duplicitous, wicked actions born out of ill will, ergi and its cognates carry notable early associations with cowardice and inactivity which is largely absent from the early associations of níð and its cognates. Therefore, it is most likely here that ergi began to find particularly 42  Ström, Nið, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes, 20. 43  “nithe, n.” OED Online.

44  Bosworth and Toller, An Anglo-​Saxon Dictionary, 71. 45  “bale, n.1.” OED Online.

46  Hellquist, Svensk etymologisk ordbok, 518–​19. 47  “argh, adj.” OED Online.

48  “argh, adj.” OED Online; Bosworth and Toller, An Anglo-​Saxon Dictionary, 233. 49  McKinnell, Simek, and Düwel, Runes, Magic and Religion, 56, 118, 166–​70.

50  Ström, Nið, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes; Meulengracht Sørensen, The Unmanly Man.

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powerful expression through associations with sexuality, which would help explain the formation of the words ragr and regi by metathesis, both of which are explicitly associated with sexuality.51 Sexual connotations aside, the range of primary semantic fields associated with níð and ergi are deeply damaging to the honour of an individual and, by association, their kin-​ group. Cowardice and laziness inherently stand in the way of an honourable reputation in the first place—​due to low standing and inactivity—​while wickedness, hatred, ill will, enmity, and envy are the very building blocks of dishonourable overreactions to slights. Some scholars have suggested that níð especially should be understood in a broader, moralistic way,52 but there are other words to be consider as well. While morality is inherently a slippery subject, concepts of moral wrongness and even perhaps conceptual evil do appear to operate in early medieval Scandinavia. Consider Hávamál’s stanza 127: Ráðumnk þér, Loddfáfnir, en þú ráð nemir, njóta mundu ef þú nemr, þér munu góð ef þú getr: hvars þú böl kannt kveð þú þér bölvi at ok gefat þínum fjándum frið53

where böl is used in precisely this setting. Cognate with Old English bealu, already mentioned above, and finding others across the Germanic languages,54 it is clear this word at least partially maps on to a semantic field relating to moral wrongness and evil from a very early date, making an exploration of this spectrum of moral normativity far from anachronistic. The Old Norse word, illr, demonstrated in Hávamál stanza 117: Ráðumnk þér, Loddfáfnir, en þú ráð nemir, njóta mundu ef þú nemr, þér munu góð ef þú getr: illan mann láttu aldregi óhöpp at þér vita, þvíat af illum manni fær þú aldregi gjöld ins góða hugar.55

51  Ström, Nið, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes. 52  Almqvist, Norrön niddiktning, 65–​66.

53  Eddukvæði I, 347. I advise you, Loddfafnir, to take this advice, /​it will be useful if you learn it, /​ do you good, if you have it: /​where you recognize evil, call it evil, /​and give no truce to your enemies. The Poetic Edda, 30. 54  “bale, n.1.” OED Online.

55  Eddukvæði I, 345–​46. I advise you, Loddfafnir, to take this advice, /​it will be useful if you learn it, /​do you good, if you have it: /​never let a wicked man know /​of any misfortune you suffer; /​for from a wicked man you will never get /​a good thought in return. The Poetic Edda, 28.

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is another word which also maps onto concepts of moral wrongness. Cleasby and Vigfusson suggest the word occupies a broad semantic field relating to the quality of or capacity for physical or metaphysical badness or evilness.56 Etymological studies by Kroonen and de Vries suggest that illr likely relates to Finnish elkiä (malicious) and ilkiä (wicked), Estonian ilge (detestable) and Old Irish elc (capricious).57 Perhaps unsurprisingly, the deeply conservative cluster of ideas surrounding “evilness” seems to result in very little change in the underlying concepts of these words, producing remarkably stable semantic fields, but the inherent undesirability, detestability, and wickedness underpinned by these related words demonstrate some of the breadth of the terms’ usages. Having examined these terms in isolation, exploring the connections between this deviant word hoard sharpens the picture somewhat. Scholars like Miller have pointed out that normative conduct in medieval Scandinavia required careful social balancing in order to avoid being deemed ójafn, a scathing indictment of one’s disinterest in playing by the social rules.58 This idea, of pursuing correct social actions in order to cultivate and grow a good reputation, naturally brings morality and legality to mind. This perhaps helps to explain the inclusion of terms like þræll, troll, and fordeðskepr in our deviant word hoard. That is to say that the social station of the thrall is such that he cannot accrue much honour or legal force to begin with, let alone exercize the social capital to maintain it, and the sagas suggest that trolls and magical practitioners are prone to violent overreaction by way of supernatural force.59 This also helps to put acts like theft, murder, lethal arson, and even transgressions like rauferi and hordomber into a better context. All of these are, at the very least, metaphysically violent actions used to achieve one’s goals at the expense of others. These transgressions are inherently destabilizing to social ties and, at the heart of these accusations, there was a palpable semantic distancing that inherently pushed the transgressor outside the conceptual bounds of the normative society. While family might stand next to someone labelled, rightly or wrongly, by these words, such an accusation, if left unchallenged, could certainly lead more distant associates to question the social value of their relationship with a party branded in such aggressively non-​ normative terms. Due to the effectiveness of these terms in breaking down reputations and social ties, such accusatory comments would require careful retribution, as inaction or overreaction could only serve to galvanize the insult.60 Consider the wording of the medieval Swedish Hednalag, which states that if one man says “You are not like a man, and no man at heart,” a specific reply of “I am as much a man as you,” must be 56  Cleasby and Vigfusson, An Icelandic-​English Dictionary, 318.

57  Kroonen, Etymological Dictionary of Proto Germanic, 117; de Vries, Altnordisches Etymologisches Wörtebuch, 285. 58  See Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking for an extensive discussion of the ójafnaðarmaðr and their disinterest in social equilibrium.

59  Consider, for example the character of Þorgrímr nef from Gísla saga. According to Ármann Jakobsson, Þorgrímr demonstrates both troll-​ish and supernaturally transgressive characteristics. For a fuller discussion of these aspects, see Ármann Jakobsson, “The Trollish Acts,” 39–​68.

60  See Tirosh, “Argr Management” for a compelling close reading of precisely these nuances of inaction versus overreaction in the face of insult in Ljósvetninga saga.

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rendered and the insulted party is to challenge the other to a duel.61 This formula here is explored further by Meulengracht Sørensen, but failure to clear oneself of the insult by single combat leads the law to state “then he will become what he has been called, and he is not qualified to take an oath, nor is he valid as a witness, either for man or woman.”62 The force of the insult is purportedly enough to have legal repercussions for the insulted party, leaving them unable to act as a legal agent. Intriguingly, though explored throughout Meulengracht Sørensen’s study, this passage itself seems to support a less dichotomous understanding of gender designations, as a man who fails to defend his masculinity in this passage cannot legally defend man nor woman as an oathtaker or a witness, suggesting he has not moved into a feminine social space, but an utterly disgraced state. This state of disgrace seems to be substantially more important than any gender designation here. Based on the etymological evidence, níð in particular is associated with cruelty and unnecessary aggression in many of the early linguistic contexts,63 suggesting that there is indeed an early understanding that overly aggressive and destabilizing action was viewed negatively. This stands somewhat opposed to such studies as Meulengracht Sørensen’s, which argues aggression was of paramount importance in establishing male legitimacy in these societies.64 Yet, this need not be a case of either/​or. Rather, I would suggest that if cowardice and inactivity is understood as dishonourable, which the evidence clearly suggests, then overly aggressive action fuelled by self-​interest and avarice should be understood as equally non-​normative. This creates a normative sweet spot where inaction is discouraged by way of honour norms, but cruelty and unchecked violence are discouraged by moral norms while law provides the semi-​codified rules of fair play. This study of the semantic webs and linkages that span this deviant word-​hoard helps to demonstrate the exact complexity that Steinsland argues makes Hastrup’s model impossible. Furthermore, this approach reconsiders Old Norse concepts of normativity and deviance as being spread across a horizontal axis, making them related extremes of a series of intricately interfacing spectra rather than categories of binary oppositions. In so doing, the above study presents a new way for scholars to approach issues of crime, transgression, and non-​normative behaviour in Old Norse texts. This new approach is rooted in contemporaneous semantic understandings and more accurately reflects the complex realities of social action and reaction, allowing for more nuanced readings. Considering normative understandings from this perspective is better suited to discussing the dynamics and pragmatics of the Old Norse textual worlds where life is clearly not lived, nor conceptualized, in black and white. 61  Meulengracht Sørensen, The Unmanly Man, 31.

62  Meulengracht Sørensen, The Unmanly Man, 31–​32. 63  Meulengracht Sørensen, The Unmanly Man.

64  For example, the now lost runic inscription U 954 † provides an excellent example of how nonmurder killings could still be considered níðingsverk. For a fuller discussion of the inscription see Jesch, Ships and Men, 255.

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References

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Primary Sources The Earliest Norwegian Laws. Translated and edited by Lawrence M. Larson. New York: Columbia University Press, 1935. Eddukvæði I. Edited by Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason. Reykjavík: Íslenzk fornrit, 2014. Gísla saga. Edited by Björn Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson. In Vestfirðinga Sögur, 3–​118. Reykjavík: Íslenzk fornrit, 1943. Guta Lag and Guta Saga. Translated and edited by Christine Peel. London: Routledge, 2015. Norges gamle Love indtil 1387, Vol I. Edited by Rudolph Keyser and Peter A. Munch. Christiania (Oslo): Gröndahl, 1846. The Poetic Edda. Translated by Carolyne Larrington. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. Secondary Literature

Ahola, Joonas. Outlawry in the Icelandic Family Sagas. PhD diss., University of Helsinki, 2014. Almqvist, Bo. Norrön niddiktning:  Traditionshistoriska studier i versmagi. I. Nid mot furstar. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1965. Andrén, Anders. “Landscape and Settlement as Utopian Space.” In Settlement and Landscape, edited by Charlotte Fabech and Jytte Ringtved, 383–​93. Højbjerg: Jutland Archaeological Society, 1999. “argh, adj.” OED Online. June 2017. Oxford University Press. www.oed.com/​view/​Entry/​ 10618?redirectedFrom=arh (accessed November 24, 2017). Ármann Jakobsson. “The Trollish Acts of Þorgrímr the Witch: The Meanings of Troll and Ergi in Medieval Iceland.” Saga Book 32 (2008): 39–​68. Bagge, Sverre. Order, Disorder and Disordered Order:  Interpretations of the World and Society from the Pagan to the Christian Period in Scandinavia. Cambridge: Department of Anglo-​Saxon, Norse, and Celtic, 2008. Baier, Matthias. Social and Legal Norms. Farnham: Ashgate, 2013. “bale, n.1.” OED Online. June 2017. Oxford University Press. www.oed.com/​view/​Entry/​ 14853?rskey=6SxDAo&result=1&isAdvanced=false (accessed November 24, 2017). Bosworth, Joseph, and T. Northcote Toller, eds. An Anglo-​Saxon Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1921. Brink, Stefan. “Law and Legal Customs in Viking Age Scandinavia.” In The Scandinavians from the Vendel Period to the Tenth Century an Ethnographic Perspective, edited by Judith Jesch, 87–​117. Woodbridge: Boydell, 2002. Cleasby, Richard, and Gudbrand Vigfusson, eds. An Icelandic-​English Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1874. Clunies Ross, Margaret. Prolonged Echoes. Old Norse Myths in Medieval Northern Society. Vol. 1: The Myths. Odense: Odense University Press, 1994. De Vries, Jan, ed. Altnordisches Etymologisches Wörtebuch. Leiden: Brill, 1977. Downes, David, and Paul Rock. Understanding Deviance. Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2003. Ekholst, Christine. A Punishment for Each Criminal: Gender and Crime in Swedish Medieval Law. The Northern World 67. Leiden: Brill, 2014.

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Gurevich, Aron Ya. “Space and Time in the Weltmodell of the Old Scandinavian Peoples.” Medieval Scandinavia 2 (1969): 42–​53. Guðrún Nordal. Ethics and Action in Thirteenth-​ century Iceland. Odense:  Odense University Press, 1998. Hall, Steve. Theorizing Crime & Deviance: A New Perspective. London: SAGE, 2012. Hastrup, Kirsten. Island of Anthropology. Odense: Odense University Press, 1990. Heusler, Andreas. Das Strafrecht der Isländersagas. Leipzig: Dunker & Humbolt, 1911. Hellquist, Elof, ed. Svensk etymologisk ordbok. Lund: G. W. K. Gleerups förlag, 1992. Jesch, Judith. “Murder and Treachery in the Viking Age.” In Crime and Punishment in the Middle Ages: Papers Presented at the Tenth Annual Medieval Workshop, University of Victoria, edited by T. S. Haskett, 63–​85. Victoria: University of Victoria Press, 1998. ­——. Ships and Men in the Late Viking Age. Woodbridge: Boydell, 2001. Kroonen, Guus, ed. Etymological Dictionary of Proto Germanic. Leiden: Brill, 2013. McKinnell, John, Rudolf Simek, and Klaus Düwel. Runes, Magic and Religion. A Sourcebook. Vienna: Fassbaender, 2004. Meletinskij, Eleazar. “Scandinavian Mythology as a System.” Journal of Symbolic Anthropology, 1 (1973): 43–​57, 2 (1973): 57–​78. Meulengracht Sørensen, Preben. The Unmanly Man. Translated by Joan Turville-​Petre. Odense: Odense University Press, 1983. Miller, William Ian. Bloodtaking and Peacemaking: Feud Law, and Society in Saga Iceland. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990. Myrberg, Nanouschka. “Room for All? Spaces and Places for Thing Assemblies: The Case of the All-​thing on Gotland, Sweden.” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 4 (2008): 133–​57. “nithe, n.” OED Online. June 2017. Oxford University Press. www.oed.com/​view/​Entry/​ 127301?rskey=nCgbPk&result=2&isAdvanced=false (accessed November 24, 2017). Riisøy, Anne Irene. “Outlawry: From Western Norway to England.” In New Approaches to Early Scandinavian Law, edited by Stefan Brink and Lisa Collinson, 101–​29. Turnhout: Brepols, 2014. Rösli, Lukas. “The Myth of Útgarðr: A Toponym as a Basis for an Old Norse System of Values?” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 13 (2017): 211–27. Schjødt, Jens Peter. “Horizontale und vertikale Achsen in der vorchristlichen skandinavischen Kosmologie.” In Old Norse and Finnish Religions and Cultic Place-​ names, edited by Tore Ahlbäck, 35–​57. Åbo: The Donner Institute for Research in Religious and Cultural History, 1990. Steinsland, Gro. “The Late Iron Age Worldview and the Concept of ‘Utmark’.” In Utmark. The Outfield as Industry and Ideology in the Iron Age and the Middle Ages, edited by Ingunn Holm, Sonja Innselset, and Ingvild Øye, 137–​46. Bergen: University of Bergen Archaeological Series, 2005. Ström, Folke. Nið, ergi and Old Norse Moral Attitudes. London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1974. —​—​. On the Sacral Origin of the Germanic Death Penalties. Lund:  Håkan Ohlssons Boktryckeri, 1942. Tirosh, Yoav. “Argr Management: Vilifying Guðmundr inn ríki in Ljósvetninga saga.” In Bad Boys and Wicked Women: Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, edited by Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt, 240–72. Munich: Herbert Utz, 2016.

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Chapter 12

ENCHANTING THE LAND: MONSTROUS MAGIC, SOCIAL CONCERNS, AND THE NATURAL WORLD IN THE ÍSLENDINGASÖGUR1

Rebecca Merkelbach THE ÍSLENDINGASÖGUR HAVE often been classified as a genre of literature that is characterized by its inherent realism,2 by an interest in the social without much deviation into discussions of the paranormal events and characters that apparently only distract from this realism.3 For this reason, some of the supposedly later, so-​called “post-​ classical” sagas have been neglected by scholarship, and many of the paranormal events and characters that do appear in these narratives have long been ignored. In recent years, this has started to change, and more and more studies on the paranormal and fantastic features of the Íslendingasögur have been published, for example by scholars like Ármann Jakobsson.4 Two things, however, have not changed: firstly, despite so many paranormal elements having been addressed, the monstrous has not been accounted for to the same extent. And secondly, the following assertion, written by Kathryn Hume in 1980, still seems to hold some truth. She stated that “the family sagas’ focus on social conflict suits modern predilection in a way that giants and dragons do not,”5 implying not only that, as I noted, the monstrous has often been read out of the sagas, but also that the social and the monstrous are essentially separate issues. This attitude seems to prevail until the present day. Even in the introduction to their recent volume on Old Norse and Folklore, Daniel Sävborg and Karen Bek-​Pedersen, while also critiquing previous scholars’ attitudes to the Íslendingasögur, seem to reinforce this bias regarding the separateness of the social and the paranormal dimensions in these narratives.6 I, however, argue that this is not the case. For the character types that I argue to be monstrous—​revenants, major outlaws, berserkir, and the magic-​users that are the topic of this article—​all are connected to and interact with society. In order to show that the paranormal and the social, the monstrous and the human, are ultimately and inseparably entwined, I utilize both theory and close reading, and 1  Rebecca Merkelbach, University of Tübingen, email: rebecca.merkelbach@uni-​tuebingen.de.

2  Unless otherwise indicated, all quotations are taken from the Íslenzk fornrit editions of the Íslendingasögur. In references to Loth’s edition of Gísla saga, I have normalized the spelling. All translations are my own. 3  On the problematic nature of this approach, see Clunies Ross, “Realism and the Fantastic.”

4  For an expanded version of many of his previous arguments, see his recent Troll Inside You. 5  Hume, “From Saga to Romance,” 1.

6  Sävborg and Bek-​Pedersen, Folklore in Old Norse, 7–​8.

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my conceptualization of the monstrous is informed by the useful conceptual framework provided by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen’s “monster theory.”7 From monster theory, I derive the notion that the monster is a transgressive creature that crosses boundaries—​physical, social, geographical—​ that ordinary humans cannot cross: Cohen states that “they are disturbing hybrids whose externally incoherent bodies resist attempts to include them in any systematic structuration,” thus “demanding instead a ‘system’ allowing polyphony”8—​the monster’s threat “is its propensity to shift.”9 I also take from Cohen the idea that monsters always communicate, always carry meaning within the cultural framework from which they arise. Thus, “the monster signifies something other than itself: it is always a displacement, always inhabits the gap between the time of upheaval that created it and the moment into which it is received.”10 From other scholars of Íslendingasögur monsters, like William Sayers,11 as well as from my own research on unambiguously monstrous revenants,12 I extrapolate that monstrosity, in these texts, is additionally defined by contagion and economic disruption. This is where the social dimension comes into play: the transgression of these characters is not only one into the realm of the paranormal, but also one that endangers society. Economic disruption and contagion—​which leads to further disruption—​have obvious social connotations too, as they affect the stability of human society. As Neville states in her study of monstrosity in Old English literature, “monsters intrude into and threaten human society. This is important: monsters do not threaten individuals only, but society as a whole.”13 Thus, the societal, and therefore the behavioural, dimension is very much at the centre of my conceptualization of monstrosity. Moreover, the following observation by Asa Simon Mittman is key. He notes that “a monster is not really known through observation; how could it be? How could the viewer distinguish between ‘normally’ terrifying phenomena and abnormally terrifying monstrosity? Rather, I submit, the monster is known through its effect, its impact.”14 Therefore, potentially monstrous disruption has to be confirmed by an authority within the text, and in the sagas, this is mostly done by public opinion.15 Social monstrosity is therefore based on the interaction between the potential monster and the society that 7  Articulated in Cohen, “Monster Culture.”

8  Cohen, “Monster Theory,” 6–​7. Unlike Cohen, however, I will not be concerned with monstrous bodies but monstrous behaviours, and this is the key difference between physical and social monstrosity. 9  Cohen, “Monster Theory,” 5.

10  Cohen, “Monster Theory,” 4.

11  See Sayers, “Alien and Alienated.”

12  Merkelbach, “Revenants and a Haunted Past.” 13  Neville, “Monsters and Criminals,” 112.

14  Mittman, “Impact of Monsters,” 6; emphasis in original.

15  I discuss the concept of public opinion and its importance for the concept of social monstrosity in detail in Merkelbach, “Volkes Stimme.” I also highlight in this article that individual voices can occasionally take the place of public opinion.

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perceives it: the monster acts, society reacts. Monstrosity in the Íslendingasögur is only possible in this dialogue with society; the two are inseparably entwined. Thus, social monsters can tell us something about the social concerns of medieval Icelanders that found their reflection in the Íslendingasögur. These features of monstrosity—​transgression, contagion, and economic impact—​ will be briefly tested on the practitioners of magic that are the topic of this article. From this analysis, it will emerge that the magic-​users of the Íslendingasögur have a special relationship to the natural world, that they operate within and through it, and this special relationship will therefore need to be illuminated further. Finally, I will return to the notion of the monster as carrying meaning, as giving expression to a culture’s concerns and anxieties, proposing an answer to the question what the magic-​ users of the Íslendingasögur, in their monstrosity, might have signified to medieval Icelanders.

Monstrous Magic

The practice of magic has often been divided into subcategories of black, or harmful, and white, or beneficial, magic.16 However, as Raudvere notes, in the Íslendingasögur it is not the magic itself that is “black” or “white,” but the purpose for which it is used defines whether magic is beneficial of harmful.17 Thus, the practice of magic can in itself be considered a neutral act. However, there are few depictions of benevolent magic in the Íslendingasögur. There is no fertility or love magic; instead storms and landslides are triggered,18 love is destroyed,19 and battles are influenced by magic.20 Thus, the practice of magic emerges as a disruptive act, and as such, it is open to interpretation in the context of social monstrosity.21 The practice of magic has generally been connected with a desire for power and the ability to control and manipulate the nature or perception of reality.22 In medieval Iceland, this aspect was intimately linked to knowledge, as can be seen in the terminology most frequently used for magic and its practitioners in the Íslendingasögur. The characters are described as fjǫlkunnig/​r and/​or margkunnig/​r, with fjǫlkynngi used for the practice itself. These terms are compounds based on the verb kunna (to know, understand) and literally mean “very knowledgeable,” or “knowing many things.” Other terms are also 16  See Strömbäck, Sejd, 142; for him, white magic is divinatory. 17  Raudvere, “Trolldómr,” 80. 18  See below, pp. 219–20.

19  For example, in Kormáks saga, 221–​22. 20  Price, Viking Way, 354–​66.

21  Because practitioners of harmful magic are condemned by the public, confirming Mittman’s assumption regarding the observation of monstrosity through its impact; see Asmark, “Magikyndige kvinder,” 114.

22  This has been stressed by many scholars, see Briggs, Witches and Neighbours, 4; Kieckhefer, Magic, 9; Torfi Tulinius, “Galdrar,” 10; Mitchell, Witchcraft and Magic, 14.

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knowledge-​based:  (forn)fróð/​r (wise [in ancient matters]), frœði (learning), and vísindi (knowledge) are among the designations used for magical practice and practitioners.23 And knowledge is, in this context as in many others, power. Magic is not conceived of as pure power, however, but is in most cases related to an ability to control the paranormal. As Price notes, “magic seems to have been used by human beings as a means of actively steering the actions of supernatural beings for their own ends.”24 Practitioners of magic are therefore perceived as “potential transgressor[s]‌ of the boundary between this world and the supernatural realm.”25 Through their knowledge of magic, they are able to access the realms of the paranormal that exceed ordinary human experience, constantly traversing the boundary between the material, physical world and the paranormal world invisible to those who lack magic knowledge, ultimately partaking of both.26 Through their access to both the material and the paranormal realms, they are able to utilize the latter to control, manipulate, and influence the former, operating in both worlds equally. The knowledge of magic, fjǫlkynngi, itself is therefore what renders magic-​users hybrid and transgressive: it is what connects them to the paranormal, making them more than ordinary humans. If one looks at the saga accounts themselves, however, it emerges that magic-​users also transgress the boundary between the domestic, cultured, sphere of human life, and the sphere of the non-​human natural world. This can be observed for example in the working of illusion magic, sjónhverfingar, for the purpose of concealing someone. Katla in Eyrbyggja saga first makes Oddr appear as a rokkr (distaff), then as a hafr (billy-​goat), and finally as a túngǫltr (boar).27 Skroppa in Harðar saga, on the other hand, changes her own appearance and that of the farmer’s daughters first into a set of wooden boxes (eski þrjú), and then into a sow and piglets, gyltr ein […] með tveimr grísum.28 In both cases, a progression from domestic object to animal can be noted, and thus a progression from culture to nature. However, the categories are not clear cut: the boxes are notably made of wood, and the boar is a tún-​gǫltr (home-​field boar), and therefore an animal that inhabits a space between the domestic, human sphere and the natural world. The practitioners’ craft can therefore also be situated in this intermediary space between the domestic and the natural. These boundaries are further blurred in the magical rituals themselves. In many instances of weather magic, the practitioner waves a cloth or animal skin over their head or wraps their head in it. Þorbjörg katla, for example, uses her sveipa (hood, kerchief) to cause darkness,29 and Bárðr stirfinn waves a gizka (kerchief) towards a mountain to disperse the gørningaveðr (literally, “performative weather”) caused by 23  Dillmann, Les Magiciens, 194–​204, discusses these terms in great detail. 24  Price, Viking Way, 66; emphasis in original. 25  Hastrup, “Sorcerers and Paganism,” 391. 26  Apps and Gow, Male Witches, 130. 27  Eyrbyggja saga, 51–​53. 28  Harðar saga, 67. 29  Harðar saga, 66.

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another practitioner.30 In all of these cases, the practitioner utilizes a human-​made, and therefore domestic, item in a ritual that aims at effecting a change in the natural world. I therefore argue that magic-​users use the tools of culture to manipulate nature, which would again situate them in a mediatory position between the two, belonging to either realm and being able to control both, but without fully being part of either. Thus, magic-​ users are ultimately conceived of as hybrid transgressors of the boundaries between the domestic world of medieval Icelanders, and the natural and paranormal realms that ordinary people cannot access. This transgression will also assume great significance in the contexts in which magic-​users interact with and impact on society through their connection with the natural world. First, however, it is necessary to consider the other features of monstrosity I set out: contagion and economic disruption. In the case of the former, the key to understanding the contagious potential of magical practice lies in the terminology used to denote it. For, as discussed above, magic is conceived of as based on knowledge rather than innate talent. The most prominent example of magic being taught and learned is that of Geirríðr, Katla, and Gunnlaugr in Eyrbyggja saga.31 Gunnlaugr is said to be námgjarn (eager for knowledge),32 and because of this he studies kunnátta ([magical] knowledge), with the margkunnig Geirríðr.33 Katla, who identifies herself as a magic-​user by stating that fleiri konur kunnu sér enn nǫkkut (more women still know something)34 would like to teach Gunnlaugr herself, and a conflict breaks out between the two women and their families. This episode shows that, in theory, anyone could study magic, and, as Hastrup notes, “this meant that it was within the reach of every Icelander to become a magician.”35 But if one considers magic-​users as inherently destabilizing in their transgressiveness, this means in turn that every Icelander could be “the enemy within,” as Briggs terms it;36 every Icelander had the potential to monstrous disruptiveness. Moreover, there is a voluntary element to both the acquisition and the practice itself, and because of this element of choice, the practitioner is also free to decide whether they want to put their skill to beneficial or harmful use. The most disturbing aspect of magic, however, is its essentially hidden nature: transgressiveness and hybridity are completely internalized in this case, and unless someone chooses to perform magic, one never knows for certain what power a person might wield. In a society as public as that of medieval Iceland,37 such secrecy must be considered highly disruptive to social stability. Particularly destabilizing is the economic impact magic-​users have on the communities on whose margins they move. In this, some magic-​users combine the secret practice 30  Vatnsdœla saga, 127–​28.

31  For a detailed discussion of this scene, see Ármann Jakobsson, “Two Wise Women.” 32  Eyrbyggja saga, 28. 33  Eyrbyggja saga, 28. 34  Eyrbyggja saga, 28. 35  Hastrup, “Sorcerers and Paganism,” 388. 36  Briggs, Witches and Neighbours, 4.

37  Meulengracht Sørensen, Fortælling og ære, 208.

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of magic with another act that requires secrecy, and which is condemned because of its hidden nature: stealing. For, as Helga Kress notes, “þjófnaður og galdrar tengjast mjög […] þar sem þeir tilheyra sama sviði, enda fer hvort tveggja fram með leynd” (stealing and sorcery are closely connected […] since they belong to the same field, as both are done in secret)38 A good example of this connection between magic and stealing is the case of Kotkell and his family in Laxdœla saga. From the beginning, Kotkell, Gríma, and their sons combine magic and a negative economic impact:  they “gera [Ingunni] óvært í fjárránum ok fjǫlkynngi” (harass [Ingunn] with raiding and magic)39 and Þórðr summons them for “þjófnað ok fjǫlkynngi” (stealing and magic)40 They then kill Þórðr to escape the charges, and the way in which they go about this will be discussed below, as it leads into the discussion of magic-​users and their relationship to and power over the natural world. Another example of economic disruption that also leads into this next aspect of the present discussion is Stígandi Kotkelsson’s curse. Unlike his family’s earlier disruption through stealing, this does not benefit him directly but is performed in vengeance: as he is about to die, Stígandi casts his evil eye on a fertile slope, “en því var líkast, sem hvirfilvindr komi at; sneri um jǫrðunni, svá at aldregi síðan kom þar gras upp. Þar heitir nú á Brennu” (it was as if a whirlwind had come up; the earth turned so that grass never grew there again. This place is now called Brenna).41 Stígandi thus utilizes the landscape to avenge his death, turning the earth against those who depend on its fertility. This slope becomes unusable for the community, revealing the magic-​user’s disruptive impact on the local economy. What has emerged from this discussion is that magic-​ users display all three features of social monstrosity: they are transgressive in their access to the realm of the paranormal, and in their mediatory position between the domestic world of ordinary humans, and the natural world which they utilize. They are contagious in that they are able to spread the knowledge of magic to anyone who is willing to learn, so that more people can cause disruption should they choose to do so. And some of them are economically disruptive, negatively impacting the prosperity of the community on whose margins they move. It needs to be noted, however, that there are magic-​users in the Íslendingasögur who never show any economically disruptive potential: Geirríðr and Þórdís spákona are of high status and therefore do not need to steal, the two Grímur in Fóstbrœðra saga, although not wealthy, have their own farms, and Katla has various women working in her house. Thus, economic disruptiveness is not present in all cases.42 38  Kress, “ ‘Óþarfar unnustur áttu’,” 36. 39  Laxdœla saga, 98. 40  Laxdœla saga, 99.

41  Laxdœla saga, 109. 42  This is something magic-​users have in common with outlaws: while Grettir and Hörðr have a devastating impact on the local communities on whose margins they move, Gísli does not as he spends most of his outlawry with his wife. This variability distinguishes magic-​users and outlaws from malevolent revenants and berserkir who are always economically disruptive, and this shows that monstrosity is not as fixed and stable a concept as has generally been assumed.

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If, however, practitioners are economically disruptive, their negative impact is profound. This has been shown in the case of the family of Kotkell who not only steal, but also kill and turn the landscape against the community. It is particularly this last aspect that defines the disruptiveness of the magic-​user: their impact on the natural world and the impact this, in turn, has on the humans who live in it. The connection between magic-​users and the natural world has emerged as an inherent feature of their disruptiveness in both their transgressiveness and their economic impact. Since it connects the two features, the practitioners’ association with the natural world constitutes an important aspect of their interaction with society. Even when practitioners act against a person, in most cases, the natural world is involved in these actions, with its laws being subverted, or a feature of the natural world being used against an individual or the community as a whole, as we saw in the case of Stígandi’s destruction of the field. This aspect of interaction with society therefore needs to be discussed further, as it might be the key to understanding the role magic-​users, in their monstrosity, played in the cultural discourse of medieval Iceland.

Magic and the Natural World

Since weather magic is the most common, and most commonly analyzed, type of nature magic, it provides a useful starting point for this discussion. A particularly interesting, albeit somewhat atypical, instance of weather magic is worked by Kotkell and his family: the four practitioners perform harðsnúin frœði and galdrar in order to cause a storm and turn it against Þórðr, who is threatening to have them outlawed.43 Þórðr almost escapes their power, but when he is about to reach land, “reis boði skammt frá landi, sá er engi maðr munði, at fyrr hefði uppi verit” (a breaker rose not far from the land, in a place where no one remembered that there had been one before).44 Þórðr’s ship is destroyed, and everyone on it drowns. The magic-​users show that they control not just the air—​they raise a storm—​but also the sea: they create a breaker where none has ever occurred. This control over the elements allows them to defeat their enemy and escape justice, showing that magical control over the environment can be used as a weapon, and a lethal one at that. A more typical case of weather magic is that of Auðbjǫrg in Gísla saga: in order to avenge her son’s injury, Auðbjǫrg causes a change in the weather that ultimately leads to an avalanche: “þá tók veðrit at skipask, ok gerir á fjúk mikit ok eptir þat þey, ok brestr flóð í hlíðinni, ok hleypr snæskriða á bœ Bergs” (then the weather changed, and a great snow-​ storm came down and afterwards it thawed. A flood burst out on the slope, and an avalanche fell over Bergr’s farm).45 The avalanche not only kills twelve people but also leaves a lasting impression on the landscape, thus altering both the social fabric and the natural 43  Laxdœla saga, 99; “þau kváðu þar harðsnúin frœði; þat váru galdrar. Því næst laust á hríð mikilli” (they performed formidable lore; that was magic. Immediately, a storm broke loose). 44  Laxdœla saga, 100. 45  Gísla saga, 59–​60.

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environment. Moreover, this use of weather magic for destructive purposes seems to be an attribute Auðbjǫrg shares with her brother Þorgrímr nef. In the S version of Gísla saga, he is credited with causing the storm that takes the roof off Gísli’s farm at Hóll, providing an opportunity for Vésteinn’s killer to attack: “Svá er sagt, at illviðri því hinu mikla hefir valdit Þorgrímr nef með gǫldrum sínum ok gerningum” (It is said that the great storm was caused by Þorgrímr nef with his magic and witchcraft).46 Here, the natural world is not used to kill directly, but to cause a diversion so that a human perpetrator can attack. In all cases, however, weather magic can be seen to have severely disruptive potential; as Morris notes, “the ability of an individual or a group to control the weather would be seen as very dangerous to an agrarian society” like that of medieval Iceland.47 Other magic-​users choose to work on the landscape directly. Such landscape magic can be similar in form to weather magic: Gróa, for instance, works a ritual commonly associated with weather magic, complete with waving a gizka eða dúki (a kerchief or piece of cloth),48 but rather than causing a storm, a landslide breaks loose and covers her farm, killing Gróa and everyone inside. Similarly, Galdra-​Heðinn‍—​who, during the conversion period, is commissioned by pagans to kill Þangbrandr‍—​works a blót (sacrifice) so that brast í sundr jǫrðin undir hesti [Þangbrands] (the earth burst open under Þangbrandr’s horse), swallowing the horse.49 In both cases, the targets of the magic —​ Gróa’s household, and Þangbrandr’s horse and almost Þangbrandr himself—​are quite literally incorporated into the land. The landscape is therefore used to annihilate specific human beings; it is made to turn against them, devouring them whole. A different form of the land turning against humans—​against the whole community rather than particular individuals—​has been discussed in the case of Stígandi’s turning of the slope. Another example of this type of turning the land is the final piece of magic Ljót attempts to work in Vatnsdœla saga: she walks backwards with her head between her legs until the Ingimundarsynir interrupt her ritual. When they ask what she was doing, “hon kvazk hafa ætlat at snúa þar um landslagi ǫllu,—​‘en þér œrðizk allir ok yrðið at gjalti eptir á vegum úti með villidýrum’ ” (she said that she had planned to turn around the entire landscape,—​“but you would have gone mad and turned crazy with terror out among the wild animals”),50 and it seems that the two —​the turning of the landscape and the maddening of the Ingimundarsynir—​would have gone hand in hand. The turning of the environment on which human prosperity depends therefore seems to be connected to the turning of the mental faculties vital for human survival. Thus, in order to impact the mental and economic stability of the Ingimundarsynir, Ljót works her magic to disrupt the coherence and stability of the natural world. In addition to performing magic through the weather or the land itself, some practitioners operate through individual aspects of the natural world, as for example 46  Gísla saga, ed. Loth, 32.

47  Morris, Sorceress or Witch?, 87. 48  Vatnsdœla saga, 96. 49  Njáls saga, 259.

50  Vatnsdœla saga, 70.

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the local flora. The most prominent example is probably Þuríðr’s magic which is strong enough to overcome even the strongest man in Iceland. Þuríðr is the only magic-​user who is said to be both fjǫlkunnig mjǫk ok margkunnig mjǫk (very skilled in black arts and witchcraft)51 and thus, apparently, her magic is twice as strong as that of other practitioners. Þuríðr is therefore able not only to curse Grettir;52 she also sends out a tool through which her magic is worked against him: a piece of wood. With runes, blood, and words—galdra (magic) and rǫmm ummæli (powerful utterances)53—​she transforms this rótartré (tree root) into an óheillatré (tree of bad luck).54 In this transformation, just as in the rituals discussed above, the tools of culture—​weapons, language, writing, and the fire that has touched the root before55—​work on an element of the natural world, turning and enhancing it so it can become the vehicle of Grettir’s destruction. Þuríðr then uses her power over another aspect of the environment, the sea, to make sure this vehicle reaches its target, and despite Grettir throwing it back out to sea, it is washed ashore three times. This óheillatré then facilitates the breaking of Grettir’s body: once no longer heill because of his injury, Grettir is fragmented, opened up to attack, and his body broken.56 These examples show just how closely connected magic-​users are to the natural world through which they operate. They not only walk between the material and the immaterial, the domestic and the natural worlds, using one to affect the other, but also utilize features of the environment in their interaction with humans, and do so specifically to harm individuals or the larger community. Through this interaction, their disruption leaves a mark both on the communities and on the land itself: Brenna, the formerly fertile slope, never grows grass again, and remnants of Auðbjǫrg’s landslide are said to still be visible at the time Gísla saga was written. However, magic-​users leave their mark on social memory not only through the construction of new topographical features: as Helga Kress notes, “svo mjög tengjast galdrarnir landinu að þeir skilja eftir sig viðvarandi merki í örnefnum” (magic is so closely connected to the land that it leaves behind lasting place-​names),57 and this is a particularly prominent feature in Laxdœla saga, where Brenna and Skrattavarði become visible, tangible features of both the landscape and social memory, attesting to the lasting, disruptive impact of such monstrous magic-​users as Kotkell and his family. The potential to monstrosity established in the magic-​ users’ hybridity and transgressiveness that links them to the natural world, is thus fulfilled in their interaction with society. Through their disruption of the natural world and its processes, 51  Grettis saga, 245. 52  Grettis saga, 247–​48. 53  Grettis saga, 250.

54  Grettis saga, 249, 251.

55  Grettis saga, 249; “þar var sem sviðit ok gniðat ǫðrum megin” (it was singed and scraped on the other side). 56  The idea of ó/​heill appears several times around Grettir’s death; see Grettis saga, 246–​49. 57  Kress, “ ‘Óþarfar unnustur áttu’,” 24.

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through the power they have over it, they harmfully impact society: they kill, steal, and disrupt interactions between ordinary humans through their presence. Thus, they turn into what Sayers terms “a threat to normative Icelandic society”:58 they are a force of chaos, uncontrollable in their superior power and knowledge. This force eventually has to be removed for order to be restored, in the hope that the natural world, too, will revert to normality.

Magic in Society: Humans and the Natural World

To conclude, I will tie these observations into the socio-​cultural and environmental context of the time at which the sagas were written down and transmitted. For the monster, in its embeddedness in, as Cohen terms it, the “matrix of relations that generates it,”59 and as a meaningful embodiment of the cultural concerns and anxieties of the times at which it arises, always communicates, always points towards and allows the exploration of something beyond its own being. From the moment at which it arises, the monster exists to be read by the time that receives it: the time that created the sagas, the time that transmitted them, and the present day in which they are analyzed and interpreted in scholarly discourse. I would argue that the key to reading the monster in its cultural significance lies in the way in which it interacts with society by transgressing its rules and norms, the way in which it impacts the human beings who come into contact with it, and in the case of magic-​users, this happens through the magic-​users’ connection with and control over the natural world—​a control that ordinary people lack. Magic-​users have agency within and power over the natural world that goes far beyond the capabilities of other humans. Through their superior knowledge, they can conjure up storms, cause landslides and fog, thawing and freezing weather according to what suits their agenda, and this control over land and weather, through the monstrously disruptive purposes to which it is put, shifts the narrative’s focus to the natural world more widely. I suggest, therefore, that the concerns and anxieties that could be explored through the figure of the magic-​user are also related to the natural world, and especially to the human place within a world that was not always favourably disposed, and never easily controlled. Practitioners of magic, through their monstrosity, shift one’s gaze from the human settlement to the natural world in which it is situated, making one realize that the social is embedded in and part of the natural world, that the two are interconnected and dependent on one another. This must have seemed even more poignant at the time when the sagas were composed and transmitted, as this time—​the late thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries—​was characterized by increasing climatic variability as the climate changed towards what is commonly referred to as the Little Ice Age. In contrast to the favourable climate of the settlement age (the so called Medieval Warm Period, or Medieval Climatic 58  Sayers, “Sexual Identity,” 136. 59  Cohen, “Monster Culture,” 5.

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Anomaly), which contributed to the level of vegetation the first settlers encountered, and which allowed the cultivation of grains like barley and oats in northern Iceland,60 the following centuries were characterized by less favourable conditions. Between the late twelfth and early fourteenth centuries, depending on location, temperatures in all of Europe gradually began to fall, the spread of glaciers resumed, vegetation periods shortened, the altitudinal and longitudinal limits up to which certain crops could be grown lowered, and precipitation increased, so that this period has commonly been referred to as the Little Ice Age.61 This period of climatic cooling can be observed throughout Europe, but it did not occur everywhere at the same time or to the same extent. Moreover, the following centuries up until ca. 1850 were not uniformly cold but consisted of fluctuations between colder and milder periods.62 This does not mean, however, that the climate did not deteriorate in comparison to the high medieval period, and especially in marginal communities like Iceland, the environmental effects of a worsened climate would quickly have become noticeable. In Iceland, the climatic changes of the late medieval and early modern period are well documented in annals and other documents. From these sources, Ogilvie extrapolated that the Little Ice Age was not necessarily marked by one distinct period of cooling but by increased variability in weather patterns from the early thirteenth century onwards,63 and this was particularly the case during the fourteenth century.64 During this period, for example, sea ice incidence became more frequent but varied considerably between decades, and since sea ice has a strong effect on land and sea temperatures and therefore weather patterns more widely, the weather also varied considerably between years and decades.65 Thus, cold decades were often followed by decades of favourable conditions before deterioration resumed. It has been argued, however, that this variability had a more negative impact on the Icelandic farming society than a period of stable cold weather patterns would have had. McGovern et al. noted that “even extreme events would have been less systemically damaging than a closely spaced series of less extreme, moderately poor growing seasons,”66 which means that even one extremely bad year would have had a less severe effect on the farming society than the recurring moderately wet and cold years or decades experienced during the late thirteenth, most of the fourteenth, and the late fifteenth centuries.67 This, according to McGovern et al., is largely due to the fact that recurrent moderately poor years and the resulting increased variability in weather patterns lead 60  Hoffmann, Environmental History, 334.

61  For a summary of the developments of these periods, see Hoffmann, Environmental History, 319–​28. 62  Grove, Little Ice Age, 5.

63  Ogilvie, “Climatic Changes,” 247–​49.

64  Hoffmann, Environmental History, 323.

65  See Ogilvie, “Past Climate,” 133, for a discussion of effects of sea ice incidence on the weather. 66  McGovern et al., “Landscapes of Settlement,” 44. 67  Ogilvie, “Past Climate,” 141.

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to decreasing predictability of important variables such as growing seasons or availability of upland pastures. This inability to successfully predict environmental variables in turn leads to inadequate response and coping mechanisms and therefore the changed climatic situation has a more severe impact on the local community.68 Ethnographic data on farmers’ perceptions of climate-​change indicators collected by McKinzey, Rannveig Ólafsdóttir, and Dugmore suggests that variability is a marker for a “bad season” or “bad year.”69 This could be due to the fact that variability and unpredictability of weather patterns come to be associated with uncertainty in people’s minds, and uncertainty causes anxiety. This anxiety about a variable and unpredictable environment had to be addressed, and fears about its consequences explored. People felt out of control—​in the same way as saga characters lack control over the hostile natural world that magic-​users raise against them. The changing climate, however, was not the only issue that made life in medieval Iceland increasingly difficult. The human impact on the fragile Icelandic ecosystem, too, had a negative effect on farming and living conditions on the island. A part of this impact was large-​scale deforestation. When the first settlers arrived in Iceland, about 30 per cent of it was covered with scrub forests,70 as evidenced by the remark in Íslendingabók that “í þann tíma vas Ísland viði vaxit” (at that time, Iceland was forested).71 Deforestation, together with the introduction of grazing animals such as sheep and cattle, led to soil erosion, which set in around the time of human settlement.72 Some settlements in inland areas also seem to have pushed too far into the fragile ecosystem of the Icelandic highlands, leading to large-​scale environmental destruction. One example for such “overshoot” sites is Sveigakot near Mývatn, whose settlement created a sub-​arctic desert through continued soil erosion.73 Icelanders developed strategies to minimize the impact of agriculture, for example by adjusting their stock mix away from pigs and goats,74 but erosion still worsened over time; the increased precipitation and glacial expansion of the Little Ice Age especially contributed to later large-​scale erosion.75 Significantly, all of the effects the changing environment had on human life in Iceland correspond to the ways in which practitioners of magic in the Íslendingasögur influence and control the powers of nature. Weather magic is frequently encountered, with many practitioners conjuring up storms, which corresponds to the worsening climatic conditions in late medieval Iceland, but landslides also occur in several sagas, as they must have done with increasing erosion caused by deforestation and agricultural 68  McGovern et al., “Landscapes of Settlement,” 44–​45.

69  McKinzey, Rannveig Ólafsdóttir, and Dugmore, “Perception, History and Science,” 322. 70  Ogilvie and Gísli Pálsson, “Weather and Climate,” 258. 71  Íslendingabók, 5; my emphasis.

72  Amorosi et al., “Raiding the Landscape,” 496.

73  McGovern et al., “Landscapes of Settlement,” 39.

74  Ogilvie and McGovern, “Sagas and Science,” 388.

75  McKinzey, Rannveig Ólafsdóttir, and Dugmore, “Perception, History and Science,” 331.

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impact. Therefore, the way in which environmental change and magic disruption impact the landscape and livelihood of Icelanders both within the sagas and outside of them is closely—​and significantly—​connected. The environmental changes of the late medieval and early modern period must have seemed to Icelanders as if nature was turning against them. The magic-​users of the Íslendingasögur, through their powers and the way they use them in monstrously disruptive ways, actively make nature turn against the local communities who stand helpless in the face of the forces of destruction, both natural and human. Ordinary humans lack the power to control both the forces of magic as well as the forces of nature, and therefore to a certain extent lack the agency to control the course of their own lives—​an agency that practitioners of magic make use of for their benefit. Magic-​users therefore possess agency in a space where others lack it. Thus, just as much as episodes about monstrous magic were able to provide a stage on which the concrete anxiety about the changing and volatile environment could be played out, they also provided a means of addressing wider concerns about human agency within the increasingly hostile natural world. Icelanders used characters drawn from the past to address their anxieties about the changing environment in their present, and to explore the hostile landscape through a figure more human—​and therefore more accessible—​than the faceless, incomprehensible non-​human natural world.

References Primary Sources Eyrbyggja saga. Edited by Einar Ól. Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Gísla saga Súrssonar. Edited by Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson. Íslenzk fornrit 6. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1943. Gísla saga Súrssonar. In Membrana Regia Deperdita, edited by Agnete Loth. Editiones Arnamagnæanæ Series A 5. Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1960. Grettis saga. Edited by Guðni Jónsson. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Harðar saga ok Hólmverja. Edited by Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson. Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1991. Íslendingabók. Edited by Jakob Benediktsson. Íslenzk fornrit 1. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1986. Kormáks saga. Edited by Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Íslenzk fornrit 8. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939. Laxdæla saga. Edited by Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Íslenzk fornrit 5. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1934. Njáls saga. Edited by Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954. Vatnsdœla saga. Edited by Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Íslenzk fornrit 8. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1939.

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Secondary Literature

Amorosi, Thomas, Paul Buckland, Andrew Dugmore, Jon H. Ingimundarson, and Thomas H. McGovern. “Raiding the Landscape: Human Impact in the Scandinavian North Atlantic.” Human Ecology 25 (1997): 491–​518. Apps, Lara, and Andrew Gow. Male Witches in Early Modern Europe. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003. Asmark, Ulla. “Magikyndige kvinder i islændingesagaerne—​terminologi, værdiladning og kausalitet.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 121 (2006): 113–​20. Ármann Jakobsson. The Troll Inside You:  Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North. Brooklyn: Punctum, 2017. —​—​. “Two Wise Women and Their Young Apprentice: A Miscarried Magic Class.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 122 (2007): 43–​58. Briggs, Robin. Witches and Neighbours:  The Social and Cultural Context of European Witchcraft. London: Harper Collins, 1996. Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome. “Monster Culture (Seven Theses).” In Monster Theory: Reading Culture, edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, 3–​25. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. Dillmann, François-​Xavier. Les magiciens dans l’Islande ancienne:  Études sur la représentation de la magie islandaise et de ses agents dans les sources littéraires norroises. Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 92. Uppsala: Kungl. Gustav Adolfs Akademien, 2006. Grove, Jean M. The Little Ice Age. London: Routledge, 2008. Hastrup, Kirsten. “Iceland: Sorcerers and Paganism.” In Early Modern European Witchcraft: Centres and Peripheries, edited by Bengt Ankerloo and Gustav Henningsen, 383–​401. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990. Hoffmann, Richard C. An Environmental History of Medieval Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Hume, Kathryn. “From Saga to Romance: The Use of Monsters in Old Norse Literature.” Studies in Philology 77 (1980): 1–​25. Kieckhefer, Richard. Magic in the Middle Ages. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Kress, Helga. “ ‘Óþarfar unnustur áttu’:  Um samband fjölkynngi, kvennafars og karlmennsku í Íslendingasögum”. In Galdramenn: Galdur og samfélag á miðöldum, edited by Torfi Tulinius, 21–​49. Reykjavík: Hugvísindastofnun Háskóla Íslands, 2008. McGovern, Thomas H., Orri Vésteinsson, Adolf Fridriksson, Mike Church, Ian Lawson, Ian A. Simpson, Arni Einarsson, Andy Dugmore, Gordon Cook, Sophia Perdikaris, Kevin J. Edwards, Amanda M. Thomson, W. Paul Adderley, Anthony Newton, Gavin Lucas, Ragnar Edvardsson, Oscar Aldred, and Elaine Dunbar. “Landscapes of Settlement in Northern Iceland: Historical Ecology of Human Impact and Climate Fluctuation on the Millennial Scale.” American Anthropologist 109 (2007): 27–​51. McKinzey, Krista M., Rannveig Ólafsdóttir, and Andrew J. Dugmore. “Perception, History and Science: Coherence or Disparity in the Timing of the Little Ice Age Maximum in Southeast Iceland?” Polar Record 41 (2005): 319–​34.

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Merkelbach, Rebecca. Hann lá eigi kyrr: Revenants and a Haunted Past in the Sagas of Icelanders. MA diss., University of Cambridge, 2012. —​—​. “Volkes Stimme: Interaktion als Dialog in der Konstruktion sozialer Monstrosität in den Isländersagas.” In Stimme und Performanz in der mittelalterlichen Literatur, edited by Monika Unzeitig, Nine Miedema, and Angela Schrott, 251–​75. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017. Meulengracht Sørensen, Preben. Fortælling og ære: Studier i islændingesagaerne. Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 1993. Mitchell, Stephen. Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle Ages. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011. Mittman, Asa Simon. “Introduction: The Impact of Monsters and Monster Studies.” In The Ashgate Research Companion to Monsters and the Monstrous, edited by Asa Simon Mittman, with Peter J. Dendle, 1–​14. Farnham: Ashgate, 2012. Morris, Katherine. Sorceress or Witch? The Image of Gender in Medieval Iceland and Northern Europe. Lanham: University Press of America, 1991. Neville, Jennifer. “Monsters and Criminals: Defining Humanity in Old English Poetry.” In Monsters and the Monstrous in Medieval Northwest Europe, edited by K. E. Olsen and L. A. J. R. Houwen, 103–​22. Leuven: Peeters, 2001. Ogilvie, Astrid. “Climatic Changes in Iceland A.D. 865 to 1598.” Acta Archaeologica 61 (1991):  233–​51. —​—​. “The Past Climate and Sea-​Ice Record from Iceland, Part  1:  Data to A.D. 1780.” Climatic Change 6 (1984): 131–​52. Ogilvie, Astrid, and Gísli Pálsson. “Mood, Magic and Metaphor:  Allusions to Weather and Climate in the Sagas of Icelanders.” In Weather, Climate, Culture, edited by Sarah Strauss and Ben Orlove, 251–​74. Oxford: Berg, 2003. Ogilvie, Astrid, and Thomas H.  McGovern. “Sagas and Science:  Climate and Human Impacts in the North Atlantic.” In Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga, edited by William W.  Fitzhugh and Elisabeth I.  Ward, 385–​93. Washington:  Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000. Price, Neil. The Viking Way: Religion and War in Late Iron Age Scandinavia. Uppsala: Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, 2002. Raudvere, Catharina. “Trolldómr in Early Medieval Scandinavia.” In Witchcraft and Magic in Europe, vol. 3:  The Middle Ages, edited by Karen Jolly, Catharina Raudvere, and Edward Peters, 73–​171. London: Atholone Press, 2002. Sayers, William. “The Alien and Alienated as Unquiet Dead in the Sagas of the Icelanders.” In Monster Theory: Reading Culture, edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, 242–​63. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996. —​—​. “Sexual Identity, Cultural Integrity, Verbal and Other Magic in Episodes from Laxdœla saga and Kormáks saga.” Arkiv för nordisk filologi 107 (1992): 131–​55. Sävborg, Daniel, and Karen Bek-​Pedersen, eds. Folklore in Old Norse, Old Norse in Folklore. Nordistica Tartuensia 20. Tartu: University of Tartu Press, 2014. Torfi Tulinius. “Galdrar og samfélag í aldranna rás.” In Galdramenn: Galdur og samfélag á miðöldum, edited by Torfi Tulinius, 9–​20. Reykjavík:  Hugvísindastofnun Háskóla Íslands, 2008.

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Chapter 13

SOCIAL MARGINS IN KARLAMAGNÚS SAGA: THE REJECTION OF POVERTY1

Aleksandra Jochymek THE EXTENSIVE COMPILATION of translated stories on Charlemagne and his peers known as Karlamagnús saga is not the first encounter of the Norse audience with the legend of the famous Christian king and emperor.2 However, as one of the translations of medieval French literature commissioned by King Hákon Hákonarson, Karlamagnús saga can be viewed as the first intentional and organized large-​scale attempt at integrating elements of Carolingian tradition into Norse culture.3 Within the corpus of medieval Norse adaptations of continental works, Karlamagnús saga provides a lengthy, vivid source material for the study of the translator’s craftsmanship. The Saga af Agulando konungi is the longest of the existing Karlamagnús saga branches. It is based on the Latin Historia Karoli Magni et Rotholandi, often referred to as the Pseudo-​Turpin Chronicle, along with the twelfth-​century French epic poem Chanson d’Aspremont, a lengthy account of Charlemagne’s war campaigns in Spain against the Muslims. Originally composed in France in the first half of the twelfth century, the Pseudo-​ Turpin Chronicle gained enormous popularity in the Middle Ages. In addition to surviving in a large number of Latin manuscripts, it was translated and adapted into numerous vernacular languages.4 The chronicle offers an eye-​witness account of the Spanish wars fought by Charlemagne, told from the point of view of Turpin, the archbishop of Reims. The chronicle found its way to Iceland in the early thirteenth century, probably as an independent work, although it is preserved in the Karlamagnús saga manuscripts.5 The narrative starts with Charlemagne’s vision of St. James urging the Frankish king to liberate Spain from Muslim rule. Charlemagne then leads his host to Spain, conquering it city by city, castle by castle, and restoring Christiniaty by building new churches. Shortly after Charlemagne’s return to France, Christianity in Spain is threatened anew: the African king Agulandus is taking the land by storm, tormenting Christians appointed there by Charlemagne. A war between Frankish and African hosts ensues. Charlemagne lays siege to the cities of Agen and Saintes while King Agulandus flees to Pamplona. 1  Aleksandra Jochymek, University of Silesia, email: [email protected].

2  Foote, The Pseudo-​Turpin Chronicle in Iceland, 48; Lönnroth, “Charlemagne, Hrolf Kraki, Olaf Tryggvason,” 29–​52.

3  On the translations of continental literature completed under Hákon’s rule, see Irlenbusch-​ Reynard, “Translations at the Court of Hákon Hákonarson,” 387–​405. 4  Short, “The Pseudo-​Turpin Chronicle,” 1; Ailes, “Pseudo-​Turpin Chronicle Tradition,” 1565–​66. 5  Foote, “Pseudo-​Turpin in the North: Forty Years On,” 184–​86.

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Eventually Charlemagne meets with Agulandus and asks him to accept baptism and join the Christian faith. Agulandus agrees to convert, but only if his men are defeated in battle. The narrative continues with the African king coming to Charlemagne seeking baptism. The chronicle describes the variety and extreme wealth and richness of Charlemagne’s entourage, admired and wondered at by Agulandus. The African king is curious about the different types of robe worn by Charlemagne’s men. The Frankish king gives Agulandus detailed instruction on the meaning and purpose of differently fashioned groups present at the feast. Among the mixture of Charlemagne’s courtiers, Agulandus turns to the group of twelve paupers, called “God’s messengers” by Charlemagne, and criticizes the wretched condition in which they are received by the Frankish king, how little food and drink they are given, and how poorly they are clothed. Agulandus then asserts that those who receive God’s servants in such a shameful way serve their lord badly, calling into question Charlemagne’s faith. Refusing to be baptized, Agulandus leaves Charlemagne’s camp only to resume the war and die on the battlefield. Following this, Charlemagne, regretting that his neglect of the poor brought doom on Agulandus, and ashamed of his lack of charity and compassion, begins to take good care of the poor by feeding them and providing them with new clothes and weapons. By changing his attitude towards the poor, Charlemagne follows the noble example of Christ and fulfills the Christian call for good deeds towards those who are weakest. Interea videns Aigolandus in quadam parte duodecim pauperes misserimo habitu indutos ad terram residentes, sine mensa et linteaminibus comedentes, parvo cibo et potu utentes, interrogavit ciuiusmodi homines essent. At ipse Karolu ait: Haec est gens Dei, nuncii Domini Ieu Christi quos sub numero duodecim apostolorum Domini per unumquemque diem ex more pascimus.—​Tunc Qigolandus respondit: Hi qui circa te sedent felices sunt, et tui sunt, et felicitier comedunt, et bibunt, et induuntur: illi vero quos Dei tui omnino esse dicis, et nuncios eius esse asseris, cur fame pereunt, et male vestiuntur, et longe a te proiiciuntur, et turpiter tractantur? Male Domino suo servit, qui sic nuncios eius turpiter recipit; magnam verecundiam Domino suo facit, qui eius famulis ita servit. Legem tuam, quam dicebas esse bonam, nunc ostendis falsam.—​Et accepta licentia ab eo, rediit ad suos, et baptizari renuens, mandavit ei die crastina bellum. Tunc Karolus intelligens quod propter pauperes quos male vidit tractari, renuit Aigolandus baptizari, omnes pauperes quos in exercitu invenit, dilligenter procuravit, optime induit, cibum et potum honorofice illis ex more praebuit. Hic animadvertendum quam magnam culpam christianus qulibet acquirit, qui Christi pauperibus studiose non servit. Si Karolus regem baptizandum et gentem suam perdidit, eo quod male pauperes tractavit, quid erit illis in extremi examinis die qui male pauperes hic tractavere? Quomodo audient covem dominicam terribilem dicentem: discedite a me, maledicti: ite in ignem aeternum, quia esurivi et non dedistis michi manducare? et cetera. Considerandum quia lex Domini et dies eius in christiano parum valet nisi operibus adimpleatur, Apostolo affirmante, qui dicit: sicut corpus mortuum est sine anima, ita fides sine operibus mortua est in semetipsa. Sicut rex paganus

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baptismum reppulit, iccirco quia baptismi opera recta in Karolo non vidit, sic timeo ne fidem baptismi in nobis Dominus repudiet in iudicii die, iccirco quia baptismi opera in nobis non inveniet.6

(In the meantime, Agulandus, seeing in a certain part twelve poor men clothed in the most wretched clothes, sitting on the ground, without a table and linen cloths, receiving little food and drink, asked what kind of people they were. Charlemagne answered “These are the people of God, the messengers of our lord Jesus Christ, whom we support, in a number of twelve as Apostles of the Lord, for one entire day, as a custom.” Then Agulandus answered, “These who are sitting around you are happy, they are your men, and very happily they feast, drink and are adorned with fine clothing; these, however, whom you indeed claim to be of your Lord, and whom you declare to be His messengers—​why do they go around hungry, badly clothed, and are seated far from you, treated in unsightly manner? Badly serves his master, who in such a shameful way serves his servants. Your law, which you said to be good, now you show me to be false.” And having taken his leave, returned to his own, refusing to baptize, offered to give a battle against him [Charlemagne] on the following day. Then Charlemagne, understanding that ill treating of the poor made Agulandus refuse baptism, took care of all the poor whom he found among the army, dressed them in best way, and drank with honour to them, as custom offered. From this can be seen how great a blame it is to a Christian not to serve eagerly the poor of Christ. Charlemagne brought doom to the king who he meant to baptized and his people because he treated the poor badly. What will happen to him on the day of last judgment, who badly treated the poor? In what manner will they listen to the Lord’s voice dreadfully saying: “Go away from me, sinners, go to the everlasting fire, because I was in need and you did not give me anything to eat?” And so on. It should be known that the law of God and His day will be vain if it won’t be fulfilled in deeds; as confirmed by the Apostle, who said: like a body is dead without a soul, such is the faith without deed. And so the king of pagans rejected baptism because he did not see good deed in Charlemagne, so do I fear that Lord will reject the faith of baptism put in us on the day of last judgment because He will not find the deeds of baptism in us.)

The Norse translator of the Pseudo-​Turpin Chronicle follows an account of these events quite faithfully, without major variations up to the scene of the meeting between Agulandus and Charlemagne at a feast in the Frankish camp, shortly before Agulandus’s expected conversion to Christianity. The Old Icelandic version does not contain the refined moral remarks on the duty of charity to the poor. Neither does the Norse scribe elaborate on Charlemagne’s fault in not honouring the paupers, nor mentioning it as the reason behind the heathen king’s rejection of the true faith. The Norse version of this story extends further beyond the above-​considered scene, and instead of preaching on 6  Turpini Historia Karoli Magni et Rotholandi, c. 13, 22–24.

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the importance of charity, it allows Charlemagne to respond to Agulandus’ charges in a manner worth examining more closely: En seg mér nú, hvat manna eru þeir er yztir sitja á berri jörðu ok hafa hvárki fyrir sér borð né dúka, en lítliga mat ok drykk, búnir mjök herfiliga hjá því sem aðrir. Karlamagnús svarar: Þetta eru sendiboðar várs herra Jesu Kristi ok kallast einkanliga limir guðs, ok svá marga þrettán at tölu höfum vér dagliga í váru boði í minning várs lausnara ok þeirra tólf postola, er meðr honum váru þann tíma er hann ferðaðist hér á jarðaríki. Agulandus segir þá: Allir þeir er upp stija með þér ok þú kallar þína menn hafa gnógan mat ok drykk ok sœmiligstu klæði, en þeir sem þú kallar einkanliga guðs menn ok hans sendiboða lætr þú á jörðu sitja langt frá þér brott háðuliga haldna bæði at mat drykk ok klæðum. Undarlig gerð, ok illa þjónar sá sínim herra, er svá háðuliga tekr hans sendiboða, hvar fyrir ek kallar lög þín ill, þau er þú lofar ok kallar góð, ok vei verði mér, ef ek læt minn fyrra átrúnað, til þess at legja mik undir þvílík lög. Karlamagnús svarar: Agulande, segir hann, lát þík eigi þenna hlut frá draga góðri ætlan, þí at þat guðlig skipan en eigi fyrirlitning hans boðorða, at fátœkir menn hafi svá mat ok klæði, at þeir meg lifa við, en seðist eigi dýrum krásum ok gnóligum eðr gangi í ágætum klæðum, því at ef svá væri, mætti þeir eigi fátœkir kallast, ok eigi bæri þeir þá mynd á sér, sem sjálfr lítilætis meistarinn virðist at bera í þessum heimi ok hans lærisveinar. En til þess skipaði hann svá, at þeir skyldu halda satt lítilæti með fátœktinni, en dramba eigi af miklum ríkdómi ok sællífi. Ekki vildi Agulandus þvílíku gefa gaum, heldr biðr hann sér nú orlofs til brottferðar ok býðr þar með Karlamagnúsi almenniligan bardaga, ríðr síðan brott aptr til sinna herbúða. En Karlamagnús keisari lét gera betr við fátœka menn, þá sem fylgdu herinum þaðan af.7

(“But tell me now what men those are who sit outermost, on the bare earth, and have before them neither table nor cloth and little food and drink, attired wretchedly in comparison to the others.” Karlamagnus answers, “Those are messengers of our Lord Jesus Christ, and are called special limbs of God. We have as many as thirteen all told every day at our feast, in rememberance of our Redeemer and the twelve apostles who were with him at the time he was here on earth.” Agulandus then says, “All those who sit up with you, whom you call your men, have enough food and drink and good clothes, but those whom you call God’s special men and his messengers, you have sit on the earth away from you, in shameful condition both as to food and drink and as to clothing. A deed to be wondered at: ill served is their lord, when his messengers are so shamefully received! Therefore I call your law, which you praise and call good, bad; and I would be sorry if I left my former creed to place myself under such a law.” Karlamagnus answers: “Agulandus,” says he, “do not let this matter turn aside your good intention, for it is in accordance with godly arrangement, and not contempt for his commands, that poor men should have such food and clothing as they need to live but not be sated with expensive and abundant

7  Karlamagnús saga ok kappa hans, c. 17, 147.

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delicacies nor go in fine clothes: for if that were done, they could not be called poor, and then they would not bear like him the humility the Master himself, and his disciples, deigned to bear in this world. He so arranged things in order that they might keep true humility among the poor, and not pride themselves in great riches and an easy life.” Agulandus would not pay attention to anything like this, asking him, rather, to give him permission to leave, offering to do battle with the whole army against Karlamagnus: then he rides away again to his camp. But Emperor Karlamagnus made better arrangements for poor men who followed the army thereafter.)8

Charlemagne’s response to Agulandus seems to be crucial in comprehending the clash of two different worldviews signalled by the quoted fragment. On one hand, it is the encounter between a Christian perspective, where the poor and miserable are the God’s chosen ones, with the deeply rooted pre-​Christian belief that claiming affinity with the deities is reserved for the members of aristocracy. By pointing to the specific social role of paupers in the society, Charlemagne in the saga expresses the Norse belief in a social order where both king and beggar have their places pre-​assigned by God. It appears to resonate with the ideas reaching back perhaps as far Eddic poem Rígsþula, where Heimdallr-​Rígr creates the structures of human kind by fathering a son with a woman from each social class (Þrœll, Karl, and Jarl) thus establishing the very first social strata. As may be gleaned from names assigned to these sons, each in turn becomes the progenitor of his corresponding class. In Rígsþula, Þrœll and Þír are further said to be the ancestors of all the race of thralls that dwells in the world.9 Heimdallr, however, conceals his role as a father to Þrœll and Karl, openly acknowleding only his kinship with the aristocratic son Jarl.10 The poor’s social standing in medieval Norse hierarchy was also clearly defined by law. Paupers and the destitute were considered a hazard to social stability, and the responsibility of supporting them rested strictly on their kin or the commune, should relatives fail to provide for the incapable. Medieval Icelandic collection of laws, Grágás, provides detailed instructions on the maintainance of one’s dependants. If one fails to maintain the incapable, or allows their dependants to become someone else’s burden, and by their fault the incapable individual becomes a vagrant, they are subject to a penalty fine of three marks.11 The social consequence was to deprive vagrants of any rights, including rights to property, and supporting them was prohibited. Those who gave them

8  This essay quotes Constance B. Hieatt’s English translation of Karlamagnús saga:  The Saga of Charlemagne and his Heroes, 2:17, 113–​14. 9  Rígsþula, 11–​13, 277–​78.

10  Margaret Clunies Ross offers an interesting reading of the social order in Rígsþula in the context of Norwegian ideology; see Clunies Ross, Prolonged Echoes, 1:178–​81. See also Hill, “Rígsþula: Some Medieval Christian Analogues,” 79–89. 11  Laws of Early Iceland: Grágás, c. 2, 34.

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food during assemblies were subject to lesser outlawry.12 Home-​to-​home begging was also strictly forbidden. As pointed out by Orri Vésteinnson, Grágás instructions place the maintenance of the poor far from charity, alleging that charitable acts were perceived as a slippery slope which might lead to impoverishment of multiple households, if not practised with due caution and restraint.13 The problematic nature of social rejection of the paupers in the light of Christian call for charity is also a recognized theme in the medieval Icelandic literature. An interesting example can be found in Þáttr Svaða ok Arnórs kerlingarnefs, one of the tales associated with the problem of the Icelanders’ conversion to Christianity,14 preserved in the manuscripts dated to the fourteenth/​fifteenth century. This two-​part tale is set in the times of famine in Iceland. Svaði, a powerful man from Skagafjörðr, decides to tackle the problem of hunger and gathers poor men from the district at his farm, ordering them to dig a large pit. When they have finished digging and expected payment for their labours, Svaði informed them that they shall spend the night locked inside one of his buildings, as they will be killed and buried in the pit the following morning. The men lose all hope and begin to cry, but their despair is heard by Þorvarðr kristni, passing by near Svaði’s farmstead. Þorvarðr liberates the poor men and offers them food and shelter at his farm as they agree to be baptized. Furious Svaði sets out to seek revenge for the dishonour, but he falls from a horse galloping past the pit dug for the paupers. The pit eventually becomes his own grave, where he is buried as a “sekr heiðingi” (guilty heathen).15 Svaði is thus punished for his intention of wrongoing towards the poor, as opposed to Þorvarðr, who offered them charity and demonstrated a moral example to follow. The second part of the tale deals with the story of the chieftain Arnórr kerlingarnef, who in similar circumstances of famine does not object to the assembly’s decision of leaving out the district’s old and poor men to die. Criticized strongly by his mother, he stands for the paupers and decides to gather them at his farm and take care of them during the times of hunger, as he now feels is the righteous deed. Arnórr orders other farmers to follow him, and forbids any man to abandon their kin, for which he is praised by Þorvarðr kristni. The whole community soon enjoys God’s reward for their charity towards the poor as the winter famine ends.16 The parable-​like structure and homiletic overtone of the tale correspond with the discussed episode in Karlamagnús saga, both instructing how Christians should treat the poor. Although the þáttr deals with more extreme scenarios than the saga (famine crisis versus the king’s feast), in both cases the poor are taken care of in the name of Christian 12  Grágás, 2:40. 13  Orri Vésteinsson, The Christianisation of Iceland, 118–​22. On the poverty in medieval Iceland in broader context, see also Stein-​Wilkeshuis, “The right to social welfare in early medieval Iceland,” 343–​52. 14  On the topic of the so called conversion þættir, see Harris, “Folktale and Thattr,” 158–​98. 15  Þáttr Svaða ok Arnórs kerlingarnefs, 485.

16  Þáttr Svaða ok Arnórs kerlingarnefs, 486–​88.

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values. Similar to Charlemagne and Agulandus, Arnórr is reproached by his mother and, as a result, he decides to take the district’s paupers under his care during the famine. Unlike Svaði, severely punished for his cruel intentions, Arnórr is praised by the community and rewarded by God. What seems to link these stories to the discussed scene in Karlamagnús saga is that they both demonstrate the examples of evil and good attitude of the ruler of people, showing that his wisdom is expressed in charity towards the weak. Poverty, as something dangerous and repulsive, has to be culturally rejected in order to ensure the survival of the practical society of medieval Iceland. Up to a point the Norse translator of Historia Karoli Magni et Rotholandi disputes Agulandus’s reprimand regarding the unfair treatment of the poor by making Charlemagne speak up. The Frankish king thus expresses a set beliefs based on the order of things which was deeply rooted in Norse culture, where poverty and helplessness were given neither social nor religious significance. The scribe’s choice of Charlemagne for delivering this retort is not incidental either: as the “ultimate” Christian king he is the dominant figure in the scene, and shifts the focus in the Old Icelandic version from Agulandus’s back to Charlemagne. Instead of highlighting Agulandus’s criticism towards Charlemagne’s failure to serve the poor, as did the author of the Historia, the translator directs the audience’s attention to Charlemagne’s reply. The translator leaves no doubts as to who is perceived to be right in this confrontation. Furthermore, the Norse translator excluded also the fragment in which Charlemagne regrets that his lack of charity led the heathen king to reject Christianity, and brought God’s wrath on Agulandus and his men. The discussed passage should by no means be regarded as an isolated incident within vast corpus of Karlamagnús saga.17 Perhaps these measures taken by the translator of Historia may be viewed as an act of reclaiming the culture, as interpreted by Sif Rikhardsdottir in her analysis of vernacular translations of Marie de France’s Lais.18 The Norse translator adjusts various elements of the story to make it understandable and relatable to the Northern audience. Negligence of the poor and the needy by those of higher social strata, as well as accumulation of wealth by the Church, were the sources behind the emergence and growing popularity of mendicant orders in thirteenth-​century Europe. One might expect that choosing a lifestyle of voluntary poverty was considered rather extreme and revolutionary to Norse society, which perceived poverty as economical threat, and promoted activity and self-​reliance via both legal and cultural means. Considering the cirumstances that shaped the medieval Scandinavian views on poverty, it is hardly surprising that the radical continental idea of noble poverty was edited out by the translator as something not entirely natural for a Norse audience. Celebrating poverty and destitution, as mendicant orders did, was likely to cause puzzlement within Scandinavian cultural milieu. Although preaching and practice of charity in accordance with Gospel certainly formed a part of spiritual life for medieval Scandinavian Christians,19 it is not unexpected 17  See Sif Rikhardsdottir, “Bound by Culture,” 243–​64.

18  Sif Rikhardsdottir, “The Imperial Implications of Medieval Translations,” 159. 19  See Grandjean and Jakobsen, “Beggars in Silky Robes and Palaces,” 165–​84.

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to see hardly any social celebration of poverty as a noble religious ideal. Perhaps the alterations that can be observed in Karlamagnús saga might have resulted from the Icelanders’ struggle between the pragmatic pre-​Christian practices on one hand, and the instructions of the Church on the other. Old customs and laws were oriented towards surviving of the entity and favoured the strongest; meanwhile, the teachings of new religion required the faithful to prioritize the well-​being of the disadvantaged, making morality the main concern of a community. In the pragmatic Scandinavian society, paupers were considered a dangerous burden, and God’s favour manifested itself in social elevation rather than deprivation.

References

Primary Sources Edda. Die Lieder des Codex Regius. Edited by Gustav Neckel. Heidelberg: Carl Winters Universitätsbuchhandlung, 1927. Karlamagnús saga ok kappa hans. Edited by C. R. Unger. Oslo: H. J. Jensen, 1860. Karlamagnús saga. The Saga of Charlemagne and his Heroes. Translated by Constance B. Hieatt, 3 vols. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1975. Laws of Early Iceland: Grágás. Translated and edited by Andrew Dennis, Peter Foote, and Richard Perkins. 2 vols. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2000. Þáttr Svaða ok Arnórs kerlingarnefs. In Flateyjarbók, edited by Sigurður Nordal, 1:484–​ 88. 4 vols. Akranes: Flateyjarútgáfan, 1944. Turpini Historia Karoli Magni et Rotholandi. Edited by Ferdinand Castets. Montpellier: Bureau des Publications de la Société por L’Étude des Langues Romanes, 1880. Secondary Literature

Clunies Ross, Margaret. Prolonged Echoes. Old Norse Myths in Medieval Northern Society, 2 vols. Odense: Odense University Press, 1994. Echard, Sian, Robert Rouse, Jacqueline A. Fay, Helen Fulton, and Geoff Rector, eds. The Encyclopedia of Medieval Literature in Britain. 4 vols. Chichester: Wiley-​Blackwell, 2017. Foote, Peter G. The Pseudo-​Turpin Chronicle in Iceland: A Contribution to the Study of the Karlamagnús Saga. London: University College London, 1959. —​—​. “Pseudo-​Turpin in the North:  Forty Years On”. In Kreddur. Select Studies in Early Icelandic Law and Literature, edited by Alison Finlay, Orri Vésteinsson, Svanhildur Óskarsdóttir, Sverrir Tómason, 182–​95. Reykjavík:  Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2004. Grandjean, Johnny, and Jakobsen, Gøgsig. “Beggars in Silky Robes and Palaces. Dominicans Preaching and Practising Poverty in Medieval Scandinavia.” In Poverty and Devotion in Mendicant Cultures 1200–​1450, edited by Constant J. Mews and Anna Welch, 165–​ 84. New York: Routledge, 2016. Harris, Joseph. “Folktale and Thattr: The Case of Rognvald and Raud.” Folklore Forum 13 (1980): 158–​98.

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Hill, Thomas D. “Rígsþula: Some Medieval Christian Analogues.” Speculum 61 (1986): 79–​89. Irlenbusch-​Reynard, Liliane. “Translations at the Court of Hákon Hákonarson: A Well Planned and Highly Selective Programme.” Scandinavian Journal of History 36 (2011): 387–​405. Lönnroth, Lars. “Charlemagne, Hrolf Kraki, Olaf Tryggvason. Parallels in the Heroic Tradition.” In Les relations littéraires franco-​scandinaves au moyen âge. Actes du Colloque de Liège (avril 1972), edited by Maurice Gravier, 29–​52. Bibliothèque de la Faculte de Philosophie et Lettres de l’Université de Liège 208. Paris: Société d’Edition ‘Les Belles Lettres’, 1975. Orri Vésteinsson. The Christianisation of Iceland. Priests, Power and Social Change 1000–​ 1300. London: University College London, 1996. Short, Ian. “The Pseudo-​Turpin Chronicle: Some unnoticed versions and their sources.” Medium Ævum 38 (1969): 1–​22. Sif Rikhardsdottir. “Bound by Culture: A Comparative Study of the Old French and Old Norse Versions of La Chanson de Roland”, Mediaevalia 26 (2005): 243–​64. —​—​. “The Imperial Implications of Medieval Translations. A Comparative Analysis of the Old Norse and Middle English Versions of Marie de France’s Lais.” Studies in Philology 105 (2008): 144–​64. Stein-​Wilkeshuis, Martina. “The Right to Social Welfare in Early Medieval Iceland.” Journal of Medieval History 8 (1982): 343–​52.

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Chapter 14

ÞÓTTI MǪ NNUM … HANN MYNDI VERÐA ENGI JAFNAÐARMAÐR: THE NARRATOR, THE TROUBLE-​MAKER, AND PUBLIC OPINION1

Joanne Shortt Butler WHETHER A SAGA has a very large cast of characters, as in Njáls saga, or just a handful of named participants, as Hrafnkels saga does, the general public remains an ever-​present entity. Victories and defeats at assemblies; the likelihood of gathering support for a legal or physical onslaught; even an individual’s chances of simply surviving the narrative—all are affected by the nebulous force of public opinion. In this chapter I will problematize some of the assertions made in Lars Lönnroth’s influential article on rhetorical persuasion in the sagas, analyzing three examples of the way in which difficult characters are framed by the opinion of the public in their respective narratives. My focus in this chapter is on the genre known as Íslendingasögur (“family sagas”), and I maintain an approach to this material that recognises it primarily as literature that developed from a tradition of oral storytelling.2 The examples discussed will all be drawn from the body of characters associated with the quality of ójafnaðr (inequity), who are a set of trouble-​makers that we would expect to be on the receiving end of largely negative public opinions. Thus, like others in this volume, this chapter explores the way in which social norms must necessarily be defined alongside their opposites.3 In an article published in 1970 that remains used and useful to this day, Lars Lönnroth maintained that public opinion in the family sagas was little more than an authorial opinion dressed up in rhetorical finery. He traced its use, along with other devices, through the phases of a typical saga plot: from a character’s introduction, to the climax of a conflict, to the conclusion of the story. Throughout this the public in the sagas are, he claimed, the narrator’s “spokesmen.”4 The public are the narrator’s way of maintaining a tone of apparent objectivity, while still letting the audience know how we should read a scene: “There is rarely a hint of conflict between the public opinion and the narrator’s own views, or between public opinion and the views which the narrator 1  Joanne Shortt Butler, University of Cambridge, email: [email protected].

2  Broadly following the arguments made in Gísli Sigurðsson, Medieval Icelandic Saga. Although the origins of the sagas will not be explicitly discussed here, this research emerged from work in which I explore the connection between characterization in the Íslendingasögur and the narratives’ shared background in oral-​literary traditions (Shortt Butler, “Narrative structure and the individual.”) 3  See Ruiter, in this volume.

4  Lönnroth, “Rhetorical Persuasion,”170.

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expects his audience to have. ‘Good’ and ‘bad’ can be identified almost completely with what the community approves or disapproves.”5 In many cases, public opinion does indeed function to reinforce the norms of the society depicted. Nevertheless, there are examples that complicate the picture presented by Lönnroth. If it were true that the narrator of every saga took the same view as the public then we might well still say the narrator was distant and objective: the public view is generally conservative, expressing approbation for acts that are unlawful or extreme. But the heroes of the sagas are by no means all law-​abiding, unexceptional characters, and the examples that I examine here demonstrate that the narrator frequently gives characters more leeway in their behaviour than public opinion does. Character introductions have been singled out as a case in which the narrator’s views are at their clearest (what was once considered the objective saga style notwithstanding).6 These short passages of description are found throughout the narratives of all sagas. They are usually our first encounter with a named character and they lay out essential information relating the individual to the most important aspects of saga society: kin, wealth, and how a person might be expected to deal with others, for instance. The details presented should leave a practised reader in no doubt as to how ensuing events will unfold, such is the power of these introductions to shape the way we imagine a character will go on to interact with others.7 But if the narrator displays his own opinion baldly in most character introductions, what are the implications when a character is introduced instead through the eye of the public? References to the public appraisal of someone’s appearance or personality are not uncommon in these passages, and they subtly alter the way in which an audience has its first encounter with a character. In addition, what is the purpose of introducing a character as a notorious trouble-​ maker but then showing public opinion appear to take his side in the ensuing action? The public does not always seem to agree with the narrator’s assessment in a character introduction, and such disagreements are significant rather than aberrant. Public opinion operates both extradiegetically, affecting us as the audience of the text, and intradiegetically, by the effect it can be observed to have on the other characters within the story. In the case of the latter, the public’s opinion is usually an articulation of social norms, upholding values relating to behaviour and legal issues. Intradiegetically, opinion can have a direct impact on another character’s fortunes: for instance, the public recalls Hrafnkell Freysgoði’s misdeeds as his case is heard at the assembly, but we are later informed that he grows popular in his exile as past behaviour is forgotten.8 As the audience, however, we are often given another perspective on the public themselves, or even on the person on whom they pass judgment, which complicates the idea of them as “spokespeople,” whose word we must accept as readily as that of the narrator. Indeed, 5  Lönnroth, “Rhetorical Persuasion,” 170.

6  Lönnroth, “Rhetorical Persuasion,” 165; see also Einar Ól. Sveinsson, “Íslendingasögur,” 508.

7  For the interaction between character and structure and the importance of these descriptive signposts to story structure see Woloch, The One vs. The Many, particularly chap. 1. 8  Hrafnkels saga, 117, 125.

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even in instances where we only have the opinion of the public to go on, we may find things ambiguous: the extradiegetic effect is not necessarily one of unreserved trust in public opinion. Again, in the case of Hrafnkell, we are told that the public observes some change in him which makes them happy to obey his every command; yet to a large extent, we must take their word for it, as we are shown little in the way of specifics.9 Modern readings of the sagas are increasingly interested in discovering the differences between the narratorial perspective and the events that the sagas portray. A prominent recent example is William Ian Miller’s reading of Njáls saga, which explores the fissures between what the narrator tells his audience to think, and how the saga’s characters and events can otherwise be interpreted.10 With this in mind, a re-​evaluation of public opinion as a rhetorical device is due, not least because when public opinion is used in contrast to the narrator’s own opinion it can encode information about the composition of saga narrative.11 By examining the use of public opinion in relation to characters who are ójafnaðarmenn (inequitable men),12 the layers of ambiguity in saga narrative are brought out. These characters are a fairly common type of trouble-​maker in the Íslendingasögur, whose representation is unusually consistent and for this reason might even be termed formulaic.13 In addition, being óvinsæll (unpopular) often goes with being inequitable,14 which is unsurprising, as the behaviour of these characters tends to involve theft, killings, public insults, and a general refusal to abide by the social expectations of reciprocity.15 This bad behaviour allows the more heroic members of society to respond decisively, upholding the values and norms that the inequitable man goes against. While a few ójafnaðarmenn main characters or significant chieftains, the vast majority of them are poorly-​connected, lower status individuals. These ójafnaðarmenn frequently die a violent death, and they are not missed, meaning that their killing usually goes unavenged. The examples that I will look at here comprise a varied selection, but all may be said to be minor characters (although this is not necessarily reflected by their impact on the plot). Þórðr hrossamaðr is introduced at the opening of Þorsteins þáttr stangarhöggs and is described in a negative manner by the narrator. Nevertheless, even after his death, the opinion of onlookers regarding him has a bearing on the behaviour of other characters and guides the audience. Next, Þorleikr Hǫskuldsson is a high-​status member 9  Shortt Butler, “The Best of a Bad Bunch?,” 341–​44; Miller, “Hrafnkel” or the Ambiguities, 153.

10  Miller, Why is Your Axe Bloody?, see esp. 306: “The author must fear there are too many readers/​ hearers bearing my moral and aesthetic sentiments who needed some coaching.” 11  Shortt Butler, “Mysterious Death of Þorsteinn Kuggason,” 49–​50.

12  Although maðr strictly means “person,” these characters are near-​universally male. The only instance I have encountered in the Íslendingasögur where a woman is labelled in this way is when Gunnhildr, the Norwegian mother of kings, is accused of ójafnaðr by Þorgils for denying him his inheritance (Flóamanna saga, 254). 13  Shortt Butler, “Narrative Structure and the Individual,” chaps. 2 and 3. 14  Shortt Butler, “Narrative Structure and the Individual,” 57, 62.

15  For the importance of reciprocity in the society depicted by the sagas, see Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking.

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of the central family in Laxdœla saga, whose introduction is framed through public opinion rather than the narrator’s own evaluation. Þorleikr’s poorer attributes are thus suggested more tentatively than those of Þórðr and I will consider the reasons for this. My final example is Kjartan Kötluson, the man who brings about the hero’s downfall in Harðar saga. He too is described in overtly negative terms by the narrator, although public opinion regarding his actions is more complex. In this case, public opinion must be viewed in a very different light, as Harðar saga is a narrative in which the protagonist is an outlaw.

Þórðr hrossamaðr

Within the first few lines of Þorsteins þáttr stangarhöggs we are introduced to an ójafnaðarmaðr, Þórðr hrossamaðr: “Þórðr er maðr nefndr. Hann var húskarl Bjarna frá Hofi. Hann varðveitti reiðhesta Bjarna, því at hann var kallaðr hrossamaðr. Þórðr var ójafnaðarmaðr mikill, ok lét hann marga þess ok kenna, er hann var ríkismanns húskarl. En eigi var hann sjálfr at meira verðr, ok eigi varð hann at vinsælli”16 (Þórðr is the name of a man. He was a man in the service of Bjarni from Hof. He took care of Bjarni’s riding horses, and that was why he was called hrossamaðr [horse ​man]. Þórðr was a very inequitable man and he wanted to let everyone know that he was in the service of a powerful man. But he himself was not worth much, and he was not popular).17 This example, even though it gives a very typical portrayal of an ójafnaðarmaðr, shows the subtlety with which public opinion and the narrator’s voice can interact. The narrator states outright that this character is trouble, but Þórðr’s introduction also hints at the role that public opinion will play in the story that follows. He is unpopular, and he wants to manipulate public opinion: he wants to be thought of as an important man. To a degree, he even seems to have succeeded in persuading (some) people that he is just that. As the events of the þáttr unfold, problems with viewing public opinion as a flat representation of the narrator’s own opinion begin to emerge. Þórðr strikes the eponymous Þorsteinn at a horse fight; the local farmhands, together with Þorsteinn’s father, urge Þorsteinn to take vengeance.18 When Þorsteinn kills Þórðr, the same farmhands turn to the chieftain Bjarni, Þórðr’s former employer, who has Þorsteinn sentenced to outlawry but does not enforce the punishment. The farmhands are unhappy about this, and accuse their chieftain of failing in his duty.19 Bjarni’s initial response is to tell them to take vengeance themselves, but their subsequent deaths at Þorsteinn’s hands force Bjarni to confront Þorsteinn in person. In the end, their duel is resolved without bloodshed: Þorsteinn is too canny to kill his social superior, and Bjarni takes him into his household and gains great honour from this.20 16  Þorsteins þáttr stangarhöggs, 69. 17  All translations in this chapter are my own. 18  Þorsteins þáttr stangarhöggs, 70. 19  Þorsteins þáttr stangarhöggs, 72.

20  Þorsteins þáttr stangarhöggs, 76. On Þorsteinn’s decision, see Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking, 73.

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Public opinion is thus an important feature of the disruption caused by Þórðr: his act of aggression is committed in a public place and the gossip of Bjarni’s workmen finally forces both Þorsteinn and Bjarni’s hands. Yet the þáttr is not altogether approving of the opinions of these onlookers; Bjarni and Þorsteinn act on their words, but ultimately, they reach their own compromise by ending their duel peacefully. Additionally, those who discuss their actions are not so much a broad, unknowable swathe of society as a handful of low-​status servants. This being the case, their standing perhaps reduces their reliability, and keeps them distinct from the narrator. The effect is that the force and authority of the onlookers’ words is greatly diminished by the end of the tale. Bjarni is confident enough to set aside the deaths of his men, and Þorsteinn is confident enough to ignore the opinion of his father. There seems, therefore, to be an acknowledgement that public opinion needs to be recognized without necessarily being followed to the letter. Although this small group of representatives from a wider “public” articulates the social demand for vengeance—​Þorsteinn cannot be allowed to kill with impunity, no matter how bad Þórðr was—​the narrator shows Bjarni’s disinterest in obtaining vengeance for a man described as an ójafnaðarmaðr. This ensures that, although he follows social conventions as required, he cannot be said to condone or endorse Þórðr’s own behaviour. As an example, this shows public opinion functioning in a largely intradiegetic way: it affects the characters in the þáttr, but the audience has a broader view of events. It is also perhaps not strictly what we think of when we refer generally to the “public,” as it concerns instead a selection of named individuals whose only role is to pass comment on what they see. Because of this lean towards specificity and individuality, the narrator remains less likely to be implicated in the opinions of his characters. It is perhaps the case that an audience sees less of the narrator’s own opinion in these named members of the public than in a generalised reference to “the people.” In the next example, by contrast, the reference to public opinion is a decidedly broad one, and aligns more closely with the narrator’s voice.

Þorleikr Ho˛ skuldsson

The need to avoid condoning bad behaviour becomes complicated for some sagas, where prominent, high-​status men from good families bring trouble into the narrative. In the case of Laxdœla saga, the extradiegetic communication of public opinion to the audience is a way for the narrator to avoid making a decisive statement on the behaviour of its characters. The example discussed next shows that even when the narrator uses the public as his “spokesmen,” there are compositional reasons for doing so as opposed to stating something less obliquely. Þorleikr is the eldest legitimate son of Hǫskuldr in Laxdœla saga, and the father of Bolli, who will grow up to kill his foster-​brother and cousin, Kjartan Óláfsson. Þorleikr’s introductory description is interesting because it is largely framed as a matter of public opinion, rather than as the narrator’s own view. Additionally, Þorleikr is not explicitly named as an ójafnaðarmaðr. Rather, the saga equivocates, calling him engi jafnaðarmaðr: the essential meaning is nearly identical, but the slight rhetorical difference matters to the audience. Across the sagas there are a handful of high-​status,

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“inequitable” characters who receive this kind of introduction, which sets them apart from those described by the kind of direct statement we saw on Þórðr hrossamaðr’s personality—these characters and their introductions are listed below. In Laxdœla saga, not only is Þorleikr Hǫskuldsson introduced in this ambivalent manner, but he is also given two secondary descriptions. The full introduction and following descriptions are given here in full. Introduction to Þorleikr Hǫskuldsson (chap. 9): Þorleikr var mikill maðr ok sterkr ok inn sýniligsti, fálátr ok óþýðr; þótti mǫnnum sá svipr á um hans skaplyndi, sem hann myndi verða engi jafnaðarmaðr. Hǫskuldr sagði þat jafnan, at hann myndi mjǫk líkjask í ætt þeira Strandamanna. Bárðr Hǫskuldsson var ok skǫruligr maðr sýnum ok vel viti borinn ok sterkr; þat bragð hafði hann á sér, sem hann myndi líkari verða fǫðurfrændum sínum.

(Þorleikr was a big man and strong and most promising, reserved and sullen; people thought that he was of the kind of disposition that he would not turn out to be an equitable man. Hǫskuldr always said that of their kinsmen he most resembled the Strandamenn. Bárðr Hǫskuldsson was also an imposing man and endowed with wisdom and strength; he had that aura about him, that he would turn out to be more like his father’s kinsmen.)

Þorleikr’s second appearance in the saga (chap. 20):

Þorleikr var engi dældarmaðr ok inn mesti garpr. Ekki lagðisk mjǫk á með þeim frændum, Hrúti ok Þorleiki.

(Þorleikr was not a fair man and he was the boldest. Little passed quietly between the kinsmen Hrútr and Þorleikr.)

The third description of Þorleikr (chap. 25):

Þorleikr Hǫskuldsson hafði verið farmaðr mikill ok var með tignum mǫnnum, þá er hann var í kaupferðum, áðr hann settisk í bú, ok þótti merkiligr maðr; verit hafði hann ok í víkingu ok gaf þar góða raun fyrir karlmennsku sakar. Bárðr Hǫskuldsson hafði ok verit farmaðr ok var vel metinn, hvar sem hann kom, því at hann var inn bezti drengr ok hófsmaðr um allt.

(Þorleikr Hǫskuldsson had been a great traveller and was with noble men when he was trading, before he established a farm, and he was thought to be a distinguished man; he had also gone viking and proved his manliness well. Bárðr Hǫskuldsson had also been a traveller and was highly esteemed wherever he went, because he was the best of men and a man of good judgment.)21

The evaluations of Þorleikr are laden with allusions to public opinion, as well as other techniques that distance the narrator from the opinions expressed in them. His introduction dilutes the absence of jafnaðr in his personality by using the subjunctive myndi, positioning 21  Laxdœla saga, 18, 49, 70.

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this introduction as a public discussion of the child’s disposition. In addition, the saga offers his father’s take on matters: Hǫskuldr is said to have allowed no specifics, but to have invoked his wife’s kin, marking Þorleikr’s less favourable qualities as unfamiliar to his own lineage.22 Character introductions are always a strange mixture of the predictive and the retrospective, blurring the lines between determinism and the hindsight gained from telling a story that everyone already knows the ending to.23 In Þorleikr’s initial introduction this combination is made explicit as the public suggests what is likely, while Hǫskuldr’s view is presented as one looking back over things. The narrator’s authority for evaluating Þorleikr’s personality is thus downplayed, even if the extradiegetic effect on the audience is still one that relies on our understanding of the seriousness of these negative qualities in saga society. Said qualities are made more remote by the language of the passages, however. The use of engi rather than the ó-​ prefix in two of the descriptions of Þorleikr as a trouble-​ maker imply the absence of the quality rather than its opposite. While the “inequitable man” helps to define social norms in the Íslendingasögur,24 his opposite, the jafnaðarmaðr, is never found in the family sagas, because to be a jafnaðarmaðr was to meet the basic demands of social decency and reciprocity.25 Calling someone a jafnaðarmaðr would therefore have had little meaning—but there is nuance to be found in the distinction between “not a good person” and “a bad person.” There are a number of characters introduced in this manner in the Íslendingasögur, and none conforms the type of disposable villain who is by far the most likely character to be called an ójafnaðarmaðr outright: rather, they are high-​status exceptions to the rule. They include: Vémundr kǫgurr in Reykdœla saga, who “var engi jafnaðarmaðr kallaðr” (was not referred to as an equitable man); the “fóstbrœðir” (foster-​brothers) in their own saga, where “tǫlðu margir þá ekki vera jafnaðarmenn” (many people said that they were not equitable men); the foster-​brothers again in Grettis saga, where “þóttu ekki miklir jafnaðarmenn” (they were thought not to be particularly equitable men); Tungu-​Oddr Ǫnundarson in Hœnsa-​Þóris saga, of whom it is said that “engi var hann kallaðr jafnaðarmaðr” (he was not referred to as an equitable man); and finally, we have Þorleikr Hǫskuldsson, of whom “þótti mǫnnum sá svipr á um hans skaplyndi, sem hann myndi verða engi jafnaðarmaðr” (people thought that he was of the kind of disposition that he would not turn out to be an equitable man).26 Regarding the lack of jafnaðarmenn in the sagas, it might be suggested that the broad correlation between this type of description and characters from nobler backgrounds 22  Cf. Schach, “Character Creation,” 248–​50. Unlike Schach I believe traditional referentiality is the simplest explanation for this reference; it is not uncommon for saga characters who take after their mother’s side to have an unpleasant disposition. 23  Schach, “Character Creation,” 248; Shortt Butler, “Narrative Structure and the Individual,” 66. 24  Ruiter, in this volume.

25  Shortt Butler, “Narrative Structure and the Individual,” 32; see also Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking, 7, 87.

26  Reykdœla saga, 160; Fóstbrœðra saga, 125; Grettis saga, 88; Hœnsa-​Þóris saga, 3–​4; Laxdœla saga, 18.

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is a reminder that the default jafnaðr was more naturally to be expected from members of the elite. Unlike the majority of ójafnaðarmenn, the individuals listed above are also more likely to avoid a violent death (this is true of all bar the fóstbrœðir), and to be more closely aligned with the hero of the saga—​or indeed, to be the hero. In the cases of these high-​status individuals, the absence of the quality of jafnaðr is worth remarking upon (despite other admirable qualities, they are just “not equitable”), whereas in characters from a lower social background there was presumably less of an expectation that they would conform to the minimum social standards of reciprocity, meaning that the blunter description “inequitable” suffices. There are exceptions to this correlation (a number of ójafnaðarmenn are chieftains who get their just desserts),27 but there is nevertheless consistency to be discerned in the use of the engi jafnaðarmaðr introductions. The narrator of Laxdœla saga is not always as reluctant to express his direct opinion of a character as he is in the case of Þorleikr, however. Thomas Bredsdorff has observed that Laxdœla saga “is a saga which is exceptionally given to evaluative language,” while noting that even when characters are explicitly commended by the saga narrator, the portrayal of their actions betrays a subtler sense of judgment.28 The introductory description quoted above makes Þorleikr stand out as a black sheep in a prestigious family, even if he is not the only person in his family who behaves poorly at times. But despite their sometimes ignoble behaviour, one of Laxdœla saga’s most evident tenets is the pre-​eminence of its main characters.29 Þorleikr’s actions undermine the stability and unity of the central family, threatening our good opinion of the dynasty.30 The danger of disagreements within the family is hinted at by Hǫskuldr and Hrútr’s initially tense relationship, but Þorleikr takes things a step further, prefiguring the tragedy to come between Bolli and Kjartan. Þorleikr kills one of Hrútr’s men in a dispute over land; he challenges the inheritance claim of his half-​brother Óláfr; associating with sorcerers, he attracts the attentions of a thief and then encourages the sorcerers to action that results in the death of Hrútr’s young son, Þorleikr’s cousin. It is this dangerous willingness to foment trouble among his own kin as much as the specific nature of his actions that marks him as a man who is not jafnaðr, and Þorleikr is only forced to leave Iceland when his behaviour threatens to cause feuding within his own family. The use of public opinion in Þorleikr’s introduction is the kind of tactful understatement that is familiar to audiences of the sagas. Lönnroth recognized this as a separate rhetorical 27  Þorbjǫrn Þjóðreksson in Hávarðar saga (63) is the most clear-​cut example. The eponymous protagonist of Hrafnkels saga and Víga-​Styrr in Eyrbyggja saga (21) are more complex, however. I have looked at Hrafnkell in Shortt Butler, “The Best of a Bad Bunch?”, and will discuss Styrr in a forthcoming publication based on Shortt Butler, “Character Introductions.”

28  Bredsdorff, Chaos and Love, 38. See also Lönnroth, “Rhetorical Persuasion,” 160, and cf. Jesch, “Lost Literature,” 260, discussed in Shortt Butler, “Mysterious Death of Þorsteinn Kuggason,” 49. 29  A number of scholars harshly judge and place blame on characters who are nevertheless only described in glowing terms by the narrator: Dronke, “Narrative Insight”; Byock, Feud, 146–​47; Bredsdorff, Chaos and Love, 35–​50; cf. Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age, 177–​78.

30  As Hǫskuldr does to a lesser extent in the preceding generation:  Bredsdorff, Chaos and Love, 37–​39.

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technique, of which he stated: “Few things can make us more certain that a character is a raving maniac than a discreet hint from the narrator that he was ‘somewhat difficult to deal with when things did not go his way’.”31 Yet, although his introduction downplays Þorleikr’s nature, it does not do so with the effect of “indoctrination” of the audience, as Lönnroth suggests.32 It is instead an admission of an awkward fact: even within the noble family at the heart of Laxdœla saga there are characters who behave poorly. Þorleikr is the human root of the trouble to come: when he leaves Iceland, he leaves his son Bolli in the household of Óláfr pái, where he will grow up in Kjartan’s shadow. By the later stages of the narrative, the saga is able to rely on portents, dreams, and declarations of fate to drive home the tragedy of Bolli and Kjartan. No such excuses are forthcoming for Þorleikr, so it is left to the public to “have a bad feeling about,” him and his behaviour, warning the audience of what is to come. Extradiegetically, it is the narrator’s lack of an opinion that is striking: the helpless sense of inevitability that permeates much of Laxdœla saga’s tragedy emerges even here in the narrator’s own presentation of this personality. Lönnroth’s binary view of how “good” and “bad” are equated with community approval and community disapproval is thus already shown to be inadequate for describing the complexities of society and characterization in the family sagas. The narrator keeps distinct from public opinion in Þorsteins þáttr by attaching it to a group of named, but minor, characters, and in Laxdœla saga the tone is one of grudging admission combined with a desire to place everything bad that happens beyond the narrator’s control. Although, in the cases discussed above, public opinion broadly upholds the social norms, factors such as status and personality are shown to be frequently in conflict, so that, intradiegetically at least, public opinion is something that must be carefully navigated by Iceland’s élites.

Kjartan Kötluson

My final example in this chapter comes from Harðar saga, and it shows how completely at odds the narrator’s and the public’s opinions can be. Although Þorsteinn in his þáttr is outlawed, we rarely count this tale among the subgenre of “outlaw sagas.” Harðar saga, on the other hand, is a prominent example of this genre, and as such we would expect a different relationship between the narrator’s opinion and that of the public. Work by other contributors to this volume has added a great deal to our understanding of these sagas, emphasizing both the unusual nature of the outlaw protagonists and the disruptive, monstrous sides of characters who are meant to be considered heroes according to the narrators of their stories.33 All saga narrative relies on a degree of narratorial massaging of the material; the vagaries of who is “right” and “wrong” in a feud are manipulated by saga narrative, and are highlighted to effect in Miller’s reading of Njáls saga, mentioned above. In the case of the outlaw sagas, the sense of a narrator’s own will is often at its strongest: 31  Lönnroth, “Rhetorical Persuasion,” 166. 32  Lönnroth, “Rhetorical Persuasion,” 166.

33  Poilvez, in this volume; Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni.”

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these criminals are generally described as people who have been misunderstood, unfairly treated, and scapegoated. Despite this, the circumstances of their outlawry remain: they have been placed beyond society for their lack of conformity to social norms, and this has an effect on how the public perceive them within their sagas. One of the clearest examples of a disparity between the narrator’s view of events and the public’s interpretation of them comes at the end of Hörðr’s life. After his outlawry, Hörðr gains a following of others who have been exiled, and they form a community on the island of Hólm, robbing from the surrounding coastline for their subsistence. It is at this point that Kjartan Kötluson is introduced to the saga, and his description immediately reveals the character’s lack of popularity in the public eye: Refr hét maðr Þorsteinsson, Sölmundarsonar, Þórólfssonar smjörs. Hann bjó á Stykkisvelli í Brynjudal; hann var goðorðsmaðr ríkr ok garpr mikill. Hann var kallaðr síðar meir Refr inn gamli. Þorbjörg katla hét móðir hans; hon bjó í Hrísum; hon var fjölkunnig mjök ok in mesta galdrakona. Kjartan hét bróðir Refs; hann bjó á Þorbrandsstöðum, mikill maðr ok sterkr ok illa skapi farinn, ójafnaðarmaðr um alla hluti; því var hann furðu óvinsæll af alþýðu manna.

(Refr was a man, the son of Þorsteinn, the son of Sölmundr, the son of Þórólfr smjör. He lived at Stykkisvöllur in Brynjudalur; he was a powerful chieftain and very bold. He was later referred to more often as Refr inn gamli. Þorbjörg katla was the name of his mother; she lived at Hrísar; she was a great sorceress and proficient in witchcraft. Kjartan was the name of Refr’s brother; he lived at Þorbrandsstaðir, [he was] a big man and strong, and inclined to be ill-​willed; a very inequitable man in everything. Therefore, he was found to be unpopular among people in general.)34

Plenty of details warn the audience of Kjartan’s villainy, from his status as an ójafnaðarmaðr to his matronymic, associating him more closely with his magic-​using mother, while leaving the identity of his father ambiguous. The saga initially seems to forget about him, focusing on other members of his family as the depredations of the outlaws upon the community grow worse. Yet ten chapters after his introduction, as the raids of the Hólmverjar come to a climax, the local farmers look for someone to go to the island of Hólm itself. Kjartan is the man they turn to. The incentive for whoever is willing to persuade the Hólmverjar to come to the mainland is explicit: “Torfi talar þá um, at þeim mundu aukast mikill frami í, er færi, ok mundi þykkja síðan meiri maðr en áðr” (Torfi then said that he who went must see his standing increase, and would afterwards be thought of as more of a man than before).35 Kjartan also demands a monetary reward, but in the ensuing action, the public perception of events is referred to frequently. In this example, Kjartan is the catalyst that allows for the hero’s downfall: someone bad enough to force matters to a head and bring an end to one who is seemingly invulnerable in his strength. Kjartan uses cunning and dishonesty to lure Hörðr’s men from Hólm with the promise of a peace settlement: once on the mainland they are set upon and executed by the locals. At this, “fögnuðu landsmenn, er svá lítit lagðist fyrir slíka illvirkja” (the locals rejoiced, 34  Harðar saga, 63. 35  Harðar saga, 82.

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that such evil-​doers proved to be so little trouble) and when Hörðr’s companion Geirr is killed, the saga tells us that man who threw the javelin “var lofaðr mjök af þessu verki” (was greatly praised for this deed).36 Kjartan makes three trips, and it is only on the third trip that Hörðr leaves the island. As Kjartan sets out to bring Hörðr back, the audience is told that “Landsmenn lofuðu mjök Kjartan ok kváðu hann mikit mundu vaxa af þessum ferðum” (the locals praised Kjartan greatly for this and said that he would do very well from these journeys).37 Torfi’s promise is thus fulfilled: not only is Kjartan apparently certain of his financial reward, but he has won the backing of the public. Despite this, the public does also praise Hörðr on his death, and they assign his tragic end to fate (which fits with his presentation in the rest of the saga) and to the deeds of his followers (which glosses over the murder and arson committed by Hörðr himself). “Allir lofuðu hreysti hans, bæði vinir hans ok óvinir, ok þykkir eigi honum samtíða á alla hluti röskvari maðr verit hafa ok vitrari en Hörðr, þó at hann væri eigi auðnumaðr; ollu því ok hans fylgdarmenn, þó at hann stæð í slíkum illverkjum, ok þat annat, at eigi má sköpunum renna” (“All people praised his valour, both his friends and his enemies, and they thought that none of his contemporaries had been as bold a man, or any wiser than Hörðr, even though he was not a well-​fated man; it was because of his followers that he was behind such evil deeds, and also because no one might go against what is fated).38 This praise aligns well with the narrator’s own view of the hero, but are the public also the narrator’s spokespeople when they praise Kjartan for deceiving the hero? Considering his introduction once more, we might reconcile Kjartan’s unpopularity there with the public’s later praise of him in a couple of ways. Intradiegetically, we can read this aspect of the saga as a tale in which an unpopular man seizes the opportunity offered by Torfi in order to increase his standing. Extradiegetically, considering the retrospective tone of character introductions, we can see the narrator override the praise that is to come from the public. The narrator does so by using his foreknowledge of Kjartan’s despicable role in the hero’s downfall to indicate that the brief flash of popularity he experiences is nothing compared with his broader legacy. Kjartan does what no one else is willing to do, for the promise of a cursed gold ring and the prestige the community will give him. In this regard the perversity of having a criminal and outlaw as the saga hero becomes clear: public opinion backs the actions of the ójafnaðarmaðr and because of this we know that the public are as against our hero as this villain is, yet we are supposed to back Hörðr over the public consensus. Hörðr is isolated and misunderstood in this situation, which contributes essential sympathy to his story, but public opinion is once more representative, by and large, of an intradiegetic idea of the social norms. Kjartan’s actions are necessary in order to stop the suffering of the people who live near Hólm, but the narrator implicitly informs the audience that we should not sympathize so readily with the public here, because they are willing to work with a man described as an ójafnaðarmaðr, and to praise actions that are underhanded and deceitful. 36  Harðar saga, 84, 85. 37  Harðar saga, 85. 38  Harðar saga, 88.

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Conclusion

In the three examples discussed here, the first shows the public support for a dead ójafnaðarmaðr, whose killing reflects badly on the authority of the chieftain, Bjarni. Following that, in the case of Þorleikr, public opinion was used to express fears about a disruptive character in the central family, alluding to the consequences of his actions without forcing the narrator to condemn him outright. And finally, public opinion is used to praise an ójafnaðarmaðr in Harðar saga, whose base tactics lead to the hero’s defeat and death; an outcome that is necessary, but not “approved of” by the narrator. Once more, it is important to emphasize the difference between the intradiegetic effect of public opinion and its extradiegetic effect. Lönnroth’s claim that it “can be identified almost completely with what the community approves or disapproves” works generally well on an intradiegetic level, as we would expect: the public in the sagas are the community he refers to, and they are made to articulate their approval or disapproval via these sweeping statements of public opinion. But this opinion generally reflects the view of a broader swathe of society than the élites who dominate the action: we might compare it with the responses to Grettir’s thefts in Grettis saga.39 The poor farmers of Ísafjörðr justly take a dim view of this criminal’s actions, but Þorbjörg digra saves him from a legal hanging at their hands because he is a man of good family. What would public opinion say to that? It rather depends which public you ask, as recognized by Kate Heslop: “Grettir as outlaw is a split character, noble by birth but living by despicable means. The unease of the Ísafjörður episode lies in its conflict over what standards should be applied to his behaviour: those of the farmers, to whom he is a thief, or those of his rescuer, to whom he is a remarkable man of good family.”40 The narratives in the sagas tell of the extraordinary, the heroic, the fated, the powerful, not least in the examples given here. Þorsteinn is a precocious warrior from a humble background who awaits the patronage of a benevolent chieftain; Þorleikr is a member of one of the most prestigious families in Iceland; and Hörðr is considered to be one of the country’s finest heroes, even by audiences living centuries after the setting of his story. Even though public opinion upholds social requirements in these examples—​a killing must be avenged, trouble is trouble no matter what family you come from, and bands of outlaws cannot be left to raid at will—​the sagas present extraordinary scenes from the society that upholds these values, where the exceptions can be made, and must be made in order for the story to work. This is part of the very definition of so-​called “saga society,” the shared setting of the tales that is came about through a tangled mixture of various narrative, historical, and legal influences. An audience is capable of recognizing the justification behind the public opinions expressed in these examples, even as they recognize it as the “wrong” side to be on in the stories told. Binaries like “good” and “bad” cannot easily be applied to the murky, all-​too-​ human feuds that drive the sagas: Þórðr hrossamaðr may be “bad,” as the narrator tells 39  Grettis saga, 177–​78.

40  Heslop, “Grettir in Ísafjörður,” 234.

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us he is, making Þorsteinn’s response to his insults therefore “good,” as his father sees it, but then Bjarni’s retaliation is also “good,” because it is socially expected, and because it leads to a satisfying resolution in the plot of this short story. Reducing the role of public opinion to that of the narrator’s mouthpiece therefore does a disservice to the layers of meaning that can be found in the sagas. As an audience, we must evaluate not only the narrator’s motivations in describing things the way that he does, but also the public’s motivations for responding as they do, not least within the context of their interactions with the saga’s broader cast of characters.

References

Primary Sources Droplaugarsonar saga. In Austfirðingasögur, edited by Jón Jóhannesson, 137–​80. Íslenzk fornrit 11. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1950. Eyrbyggja saga. In Borgfirðingasögur, edited by Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, 1–​184. Íslenzk fornrit 4, 2nd ed. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1986. Flóamanna saga. In Harðar saga, edited by Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, 231–​327. Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2009. Fóstbrœðra saga. In Vestfirðingasögur, edited by Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, 121–​276. Íslenzk fornrit 6. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1943. Grettis saga. Edited by Guðni Jónsson. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Harðar saga. Edited by Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson. Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2009. Hávarðar saga. In Vestfirðingasögur, edited by Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson, 291–​358. Íslenzkfornrit 6. Reykjavik: Hiðíslenzkafornritafélag, 1943. Hrafnkels saga. In Austfirðingasögur, edited by Jón Jóhannesson, 97–​133. Íslenzk fornrit 11. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1950. Hœnsa-​Þóris saga. In Borgfirðingasögur, edited by Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson, 3–​47. Íslenzk fornrit 3, 2nd ed. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1986. Laxdœla saga. Edited by Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Íslenzk fornrit 5. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1934. Reykdœla saga. In Ljósvetninga saga, edited by Björn Sigfússon, 151–​243. Íslenzk fornrit 10. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1940. Þorsteins þáttr stangarhöggs. In Austfirðingasögur, edited by Jón Jóhannesson, 69–​79. Íslenzk fornrit 11. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1950. Secondary Literature

Bredsdorff, Thomas. Chaos and Love: The Philosophy of the Icelandic Family Sagas. Translated by John Tucker. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2001. Originally published as Kaos og kærlighed: en studie i Islændingesagaers livsbillede. 2nd ed. Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1995.

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Byock, Jesse L. Feud in the Icelandic Saga. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982. Dronke, Ursula K. “Narrative Insight in Laxdœla saga.” In J. R.  R. Tolkien, Scholar and Storyteller: Essays in Memoriam, edited by Mary Salu and Robert T. Farrell, 120–​37. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1979. Reprinted in Sagas of the Icelanders: a Book of Essays, edited by John Tucker, 206–​25. Garland Reference Library of the Humanities 758. New York: Garland, 1989. Einar Ól. Sveinsson. “Íslendingasögur.” In Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder, edited by Johannes Brøndsted, John Danstrup, and Lis Jacobsen, 7:496–​513. 22 vols. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1962. Gísli Sigurðsson. The Medieval Icelandic Saga and Oral Tradition: A Discourse on Method. Translated by Nicholas Jones. Publications of the Milman Parry Collection of Oral Literature 2. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004. Originally published as Túlkun Íslendingasagna í ljósi munnlegrar hefðar: Tilgáta um aðferð. Rit 56. Reykjavik: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar á Íslandi, 2002. Heslop, Kate. “Grettir in Ísafjörður:  Grettirsfærsla and Grettis saga.” In Creating the Medieval Saga:  Versions, Variability and Editorial Interpretations of Old Norse saga literature, edited by Judy Quinn and Emily Lethbridge, 213–​35. The Viking Collection, Studies in Northern Civilization 18. Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2010. Jesch, Judith. “The Lost Literature of Medieval Iceland: Sagas of Icelanders.” PhD diss., University College London, 1984. Lönnroth, Lars. “Rhetorical Persuasion in the Sagas.” Scandinavian Studies 42 (1970): 157–​89. Merkelbach, Rebecca. “Dólgr í byggðinni: The Literary Construction and Cultural Use of Social Monstrosity in the Sagas of Icelanders.” PhD diss., University of Cambridge, 2017. Miller, William Ian. Bloodtaking and Peacemaking: Feud, Law and Society in Saga Iceland. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990. —​—​. “Hrafnkel” or the Ambiguities: Hard Cases, Hard Choices. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. —​—​. “Why is Your Axe Bloody?” A  Reading of “Njáls saga.” Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2014. Poilvez, Marion. “Discipline or Punish? Travels and Outlawry as Social Structures in Medieval Iceland.” In this volume. Ruiter, Keith N. “A Deviant Word Hoard: A Preliminary Semantic Study of Non-​Normative Terms in Early Medieval Scandinavia.” In this volume. Schach, Paul. “Character Creation and Transformation in the Icelandic Sagas.” Germanic Studies in Honor of Otto Springer, ed. by Stephen J. Kaplowitt, 237–​79. Pittsburg: K & S Enterprises, 1978. Shortt Butler, Joanne. “The Best of a Bad Bunch? Narrative Expectations in Hrafnkels saga.” In Bad Boys and Wicked Women. Antagonists and Troublemakers in Old Norse Literature, edited by Daniela Hahn and Andreas Schmidt, 317–55. Münchner Nordistische Studien 27. Munich: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2016.

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—​—​. “Character Introductions: Positioning Personality in Time and Space.” Paper delivered at the Time, Space, and Narrative Conference, Reykjavik, March 2017. —​—​. “The Mysterious Death of Þorsteinn Kuggason: Authorial Imagination and Saga Narrative.” Gripla 28 (2017): 39–​71. —​ —​ . “Narrative Structure and the Individual in the Íslendingasögur: Motivation, Provocation and Characterisation.” PhD diss., University of Cambridge, 2016. Vésteinn Ólason. Dialogues with the Viking Age. Narration and Representation in the Sagas of Icelanders. Translated by Andrew Wawn. Reykjavik:  Heimskringla, 1998. Originally published as Samræður við söguöld og frásagnarlist Íslendingasagna og fortíðarmynd. Reykjavik: Mál og Menning, 1998. Woloch, Alex. The One vs. the Many: Minor Characters and the Space of the Protagonist in the Novel. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003.

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Chapter 15

DISCIPLINE OR PUNISH? TRAVELS AND OUTLAWRY AS SOCIAL STRUCTURES IN MEDIEVAL ICELAND1

Marion Poilvez OUTLAWRY IS A concept and phenomenon widely mentioned throughout Norse sources from the Middle Ages, both legal and literary. In theory, being an outlaw meant to be thrown outside the protection of the law. As a legal sanction, Scandinavian outlawry has often been discussed as a subset of a legal Germanic apparatus, and enlightened through the concept of Friedlosigkeit (loss of peace; friðlauss in ON).2 In the absence of death penalty, being ripped from the law’s protection was thus the harshest punishment possible. Its main function was to sanction criminal or extreme anti-​social behaviour by making a man liable to be killed by anyone within a given territory, this without any legal consequences. Basically, it enabled lawful revenge.3 Yet, in practice, outlawry took different shapes: a life of adventures abroad, a lonely life in the wilderness, a manhunt to the death, and sometimes even embodied an act of political resistance. It mostly resulted in an exile rather than in a manhunt, and therefore had also the function to make good riddance of a trouble-​maker, and to restore peace within a lawful territory. Outlawry in medieval Scandinavia has in recent years been a growing source of scholarly interest. It has been approached from a philological perspective,4 from a legal and religious perspective,5 and some texts have tackled the figure of the outlaw from the monstrosity perspective,6 or from a wide literary and folkloristic perspective.7 From these approaches, outlawry has been mostly analyzed in terms of exclusion, marginalization, disruption, or otherification, as a clear-​cut dichotomy or as a process towards exclusion. They followed the idea that being declared an outlaw, to be put outside the protection of the law, meant to be expelled from something: from the legal sphere, from the religious sphere, from the social sphere and/​or even from the human sphere. Even though outlaws kept ties with society and still interacted with its members,8 most analyses stem from their exclusion as a premise. 1  Marion Poilvez, University of Iceland, email: [email protected]. 2  Van Houts, “The Vocabulary of Exile,” 13.

3  See Joonas Ahola’s conclusions on outlawry as a legal sanction. Ahola, Outlawry in the Icelandic Family Sagas, 102–​3. 4  Riisøy, “Outlawry,” 101–​29.

5  Walgenbach, “Church Sanctuary,” 103–​17.

6  Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni,” 46–​84. See also Merkelbach, “ ‘Engi maðr skapar sik sjálfr’,” 59–​93. 7  Ahola, Outlawry in the Icelandic Family Sagas.

8  Especially since the most prominent outlaws of the Íslendingasögur were characters of high social status. On the marginalization process and ties with the outlaws’ families, see Merkelbach, “Dólgr í byggðinni,” 46–​84.

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There is obviously no way to deny the fact that outlawry is indeed an exclusion, especially on a legal and individual level. Yet, thinking it in terms of exclusion may occult the other side of the coin, and shadow the wider picture where outlawry fits (and benefits) the social structures of the Icelandic Commonwealth. In his analysis of Homo Sacer, Giorgio Agamben argued in terms of “inclusive exclusion”, as “what is excluded in the exception maintains itself in relation to the rule in the form of the rule’s suspension. The rule applies to the exception in no longer apply-​ing, in withdrawing from it.”9 Indeed, we would argue that a ban is also a form of relation,10 and this is where medieval Icelandic outlawry may benefit from an inclusive perspective. We will argue that, even though being an excluding sanction, Icelandic outlawry and outlaws had an active role to play within the social and political dynamics of the island.

Outlawry in Iceland: Premises

Several aspects regarding the genesis and development of Icelandic outlawry would support an inclusive approach. Outlawry is presented as part of the impulse that led to the birth of Icelandic society.11 In that sense, outlawry is originally associated with political resistance (as were many outlaws from the insular tradition such as Robin Hood or Hereward). This original connection may explain in part the development of a certain literary affinity for outstanding outlaw figures in the saga narratives, and their use in political discourses.12 But more importantly, outlawry is presented as a constitutive part of the establishment of Iceland’s first institutions: the Alþingi. In the Íslendingabók, following the importation of a law modelled on the Norwegian regional law, the Gulaþingslög, by Úlfljótr, we are told about the establishment of the Alþingi through an outlaw episode: Alþingi vas sett at ráði Ulfljóts ok allra landsmanna þar es nú es, en áðr vas þing á Kjalarnesi, þat es Þorsteinn Ingolfssonr landnámamanns, faðir Þorkels mána lǫgsǫgumanns, hafði þar ok hǫfðingjar eir es at því hurfu. En maðr hafði sekr orðit of þræls morð eða leysings, sá es land átti í Bláskógum, hann es nefndr Þórir kroppinskeggi […] En sá hér Kolr, es myrðr vas. Við hann es kennd gjá sú er þar es kǫlluð síðan Kolsgjá, sem hræin fundusk. Land þat varð síðan allsherjarfé, en þar lǫgðu landsmenn til alþingis neyzlu. Af því es þar almenning at viða til aþingis í skógum ok á heiðum hagi til hrossahafnar.13 (The Althing was established where it now is by the decision of Úlfljótr and everyone in the country; but before that there was an assembly at Kjalarnes,

9  Agamben, Homo Sacer, 17.

10  Agamben, Homo Sacer, 29.

11  Many original settlers are presented as outlaws, such as Bjǫrn Ketilsson in Eyrbyggja saga, 5. All sagas cited are from the Íslenzk fornrit collection. All translations are my own, unless indicated otherwise.

12  On outlawry as a political discourse in saga literature, see Poilvez, “A Wolf among Wolves,” 113–​28. 13  Íslendingabók, 8–​9. Translation Íslendingabók, Kristni Saga, 5.

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which Þorsteinn, son of Ingólfr the settler, father of the lawspeaker Þorkell Moon, held there together with those chieftains who attended it. And a man who owned land in Bláskógar had been outlawed for the murder of a slave or freedman; he was called Þórir kroppinskeggi […] And the man who was murdered was called Kolr. The gorge that has since been called Kolsgjá, where the remains were found, is named after him. The land afterwards became public property, and the people of the country set it apart for the use of the Althing. Because of that, there is common land, there to provide the Althing with wood from the forests and pasture for grazing horses on the heaths.)

This statement from the Íslendingabók places outlawry as a useful, convenient phenomenon—​if not essential—​to the construction of Iceland as a society. This outlaw episode is unlike the most famous outlaw stories: we do not know what happens to the outlaw, and in fact, it does not really matter. What matters is that there is a gain of property from outlawry, put to a collective use: the establishment of the Alþingi.14 It was probably quite an important matter to settle the Alþingi in a neutral territory, as there were some strategic aspects about how and when to reach the place each summer. The place also needed to be free of violence, which meant that no killing or fights should be allowed during the assembly. It needed to be established on neutral grounds, and the forfeited property from the outlawry was perfect, politically speaking, for this purpose. The second point allowing an analysis of Icelandic outlawry from an inclusive perspective is the very geography of Iceland as an island. Regarding full outlawry (skóggangr), both lawcodes and literary sources agree on one aspect: the outlaw was óferjandi (non-​transportable).15 To be non-​transportable is obviously included into the general ban on helping outlaws in any way possible. Afterall, an outlaw is not to be fed, not to be sheltered, and so forth. It is at the core nature of the sentence to deny any help and support. Yet, many outlaws in Scandinavia, as for instance Norway, went to live in forests, crossed the mountains to start a new life far away, or could easily find passage.16 These outlaws had the geographical possibility to do so, without the need to ask for favours or mobilize their kin and friends to help them escape. Coming to Iceland, starting a new life somewhere seemed unlikely, unless one could sneak out of the country. Being óferjandi basically meant that Iceland became a wide natural prison for the full outlaw, skógarmaðr. Full outlaws, excluded from legal and social life, were yet forced to remain within a lawful, self-​defined territory. Therefore, for good and bad, we can assume that their post-​outlawry interaction with Icelandic society was much more frequent than in any other continental contexts, thus allowing us to question outlawry as a fully integrated social structure. 14  Ármann Jakobsson presents it as a “a murderous precondition for the sacred role of Þingvellir as the central parliament of Iceland.” Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, 78. 15  Grágas, 88. Brennu-​Njáls saga, 178.

16  For example in Brennu-​Njáls saga, 17; Floamanna saga, 182.

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Before getting further into this analysis, a healthy dose of source criticism is deemed necessary. The Icelandic lawcode Grágás as a source for social structures, and particularly as a source for the extend of its application in practice, is problematic.17 Grágás as such has never been used during the saga age. The two extended versions preserved (Konungsbók, ca. 1260, and Staðarhólsbók, ca.1280) are manuscripts from the thirteenth century, and they sometimes contradict each other. In that sense, Grágás is closer to an anachronistic collection of past and contemporary laws rather than an enacted legal code to be followed to the letter. If reflecting any reality, it gives at least a general idea of a type of procedures and persistent concepts (such as the wergild system), but cannot be used to argue specific cases encountered in the sagas. Moreover, the Grágás is neither a penal nor a criminal code, but a procedural one. Most of its content concerns regulations and taxes. Regarding manslaughter, we are told when and how a man should be declared outlaw, when the court of confiscation should be held, yet we are not told what happens afterwards to the criminal. In that sense, outlawry is a clear exclusion in the legal sources, but Grágás is limited for its social implications. This is why the sagas appear to have a much more promising material to investigate, as they tailor post-​outlawry narratives. Yet, sagas as sources for tenth-​century social reality are also problematic. They are pieces of literature written during the thirteenth and fourteenth century, and as such we owe to take into account that they are anachronistic to the events, and plot driven. Sagas are obviously re-​using material coming from a solid oral tradition that transmitted historical events, yet they were also patroned into writing by influencial families in a time of political unrest, namely the Sturlung Age, and therefore have an agenda of their own when it comes to describe saga-​age Iceland.18 As literature, they also reflect the concerns of their contemporary audience, projected into an ancestral setting.19 Therefore, considering the nature of both types of sources, I would follow here the approach Helgi Þórlaksson used in the study of feuds and apply it to the study of outlawry: the sagas do tell something about social reality.20 Obviously, the plots might be fictitious, but the social structures behind the plot can be analyzed, especially if a certain coherence emerges between sagas and makes sense in a comparative approach with other societies. For this reason, integrating Icelandic outlawry into the wider history of legal punishment can help to throw light on its social reality. The title of this article makes an obvious reference to Michel Foucault’s famous work “Discipline and Punish: The Birth of Prison.”21 However, the idea of discipline, rectification, and punishment did not get born with his famous post-​modern work, nor at the end of the Renaissance with prison and confinement as we know it today. What was born was a certain idea, a concept of punishment and education, through incarceration. However, exile as a punishment existed from the most ancient times, from Ancient Greece, to the 17  For a detailed analysis of law codes as sources, see Norseng, “Law Codes,” 137–​66. 18  Axel Kristinsson, “Lords and Literature,” 1–​17. 19  Torfi Tulinius, La matière du Nord. 20  Helgi Þorláksson, “Sagas.”

21  Foucault, Surveiller et punir.

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Egyptian Middle Kingdom or even the book of Genesis.22 Analyzing Icelandic outlawry as a chapter in the history of punishment could reveal different mechanisms and interests at play within its structure. To do so, we will go back to the historical roots of criminal analysis and follow the impulse of a major philosopher who analyzed social structures before structuralists did, namely Plato. Writing Socrates’ reflections in the Gorgias, Plato describes the two sides of punishment, one disciplinary, one examplary: “Now the proper office of all punishment is twofold: he who is rightly punished ought either to become better and profit by it, or he ought to be made an example to his fellows, that they may see what he suffers, and fear to suffer the like, and become better.”23 Following this, we will see what medieval Iceland may have offered regarding the re-​education and/​or punishment of its offenders.

Outlaws Abroad:  Discipline

Anthropologists such as Arnold van Gennep developed the concept of rites of passage.24 According to the original theory, a rite of passage was a significant change of status held in three stages: separation—​liminality—​incorporation. The concept of liminality has been especially productive in the Old Norse field in recent years, and extended into investigations of all types of in-​between situations (spacial, temporal, or individual). Sticking to the original definition, the rites of passage can also be useful to understand the “coming of age” phenomena (the marked transition between childhood and adulthood), or initiation rituals (within specific groups). Nowadays, these transitions are often marked by a symbolic ceremony (such as the quinceañera), leading to an integration into a specific group (religious ceremonies like communion or bar mitzvah), and could also mark years of achievements and learning (such as graduation ceremonies). In pre-​state societies, they could take the shape of mystical journeys (the vision quests in Native American societies) or more classically a time off from society for young males to prove themselves. During the Middle Ages crusades could also be counted as a rite a passage for noble young men who had not yet come into their inheritance.25 Considering the diversity—​yet universality—​of rites of passage throughout history, we can safely assume that medieval Iceland had its own lot, especially regarding coming of age. We would argue that one of the most detailed accounts of a rite of passage for young males in saga literature is the útanferð (a journey abroad). Many prominent Icelanders from the saga age were described on their journey abroad, such as Snorri goði (Eyrbyggja saga), Egill Skallagrímsson (Egils saga), Ólafr Pái (Laxdæla saga), Gunnarr á Hlíðarenda (Njáls saga), and many Íslendingaþættur occur during an útanferð. At first glance, the útanferð has a clear interest-​oriented goal: an increase of wealth and/​ or prestige. In some cases, economic reasons are the impulse behind the journey, and 22  Peters, “Prison before the Prison,” 3–​4.

23  Cited by Peters, “Prison before the Prison,” 5. 24  Van Gennep, The Rites of Passage.

25  Duby, The Chivalrous Society, 112–​22.

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prestige is a welcomed collateral benefit. In other cases, prestige is the impulse behind the journey, but commercial activties are also a welcome collateral gain. It appears in all a rather opportunistic venture.26 Yet, a simultaneous increase of wealth and prestige is what would prove a young man suitable to inherit a property, for instance, and become a prominent member of Icelandic society, hence fitting the rite of passage pattern. The journey abroad goes further than what a symbolic ceremony would do: it appears as a test into noble adulthood. The scope of the article does not allow us to quote all examples of journeys abroad in the sagas, but they can be summed up in the rite of passage pattern:

The separation: A young man expresses the wish to go abroad, asks his kin for means to make the journey (a boat and/​or goods to sell). The liminality: Non-​ exlcusive panel of temporary activities and/​ or positions (viking expeditions, battles, commerce, Norwegian court, and friendships with foreign kings and leaders). The incorporation: Return to Iceland. Praised for achievements, wealth and fame increased, tokens of success (clothes and weapons from foreign leaders). Partially or fully taking part in the management of the familial estates.

During the separation phase, many young men ask to go abroad specifically because they do not fit (yet) in their social group, or have quarrels with peers and authoritative figures. Going abroad is a way to escape a problematic, unsolved status.27 Yet, they always have the will to come back to Iceland afterwards, despite prestigious prospects being offered to them in Norway.28 This longing for Iceland goes beyond some kind of romantic nostalgia for the motherland. It confirms the liminal nature of the journey, as it is meant to be temporary, and the will to complete the last stage of the rite. In that sense, viking activities can be counted as liminal, as the status of being a viking was limited in time, and had to occur far from the original territory. Finally, the incorporation is marked by praises and practical improvements in wealth and status (as becoming partially or fully a landowner), but also by an improvement of temper.29 Coming back to Iceland, Egill receives a warm welcome from his father (to be 26  Ólafr Pái intends a journey abroad to fetch construction goods, and returns with Earl Hakon’s friendship (Laxdæla saga, 29, 57). Gunnarr á Hlíðarendi intends a journey abroad to gain wealth through raids (Brennu-​Njáls saga, 75–​76) and comes back with great honour (85).

27  For instance, Víga-​glúmr does not bother himself with farmwork, and justifies his wish to travel by saying that he feels he is not getting anywhere in his current position (Víga-​glúms saga, 274). The same could be said about Egill’s unmanageable behaviour prior to his útanferð with his brother (Egils saga, 114). 28  For example, in Víga-​glúms saga, 276.

29  Egill shows a betterment of temperament once he comes back and takes possession of his estates (Egils saga, 151). Obviously, the betterment of temperament is not guaranteed, and there are cases where the útanferð fails. The fragment 445c of Víga-​glúms saga adds a meaningful touch to Glúmr’s return and lack of improvement: “en menn væntu þó, at hann myndi hǫfðingi verða í því heraði, svá ágætlig sem útanfǫr hans hafði orðit” (but people expected though that he would become a leader in the district, given how splendidly his journey abroad went; Víga-​glúms saga, 24).

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contrasted with his earlier conflicts with him), and finally gets to manage the farm.30 There is an educational expectation coming from the útanferð, as when Gunnlaugr ormstunga delays his wedding in order to educate himself: “en Gunnlaugr skal fara útan ok skapa sik eptir góðra manna siðum” (but Gunnlaugr shall go abroad and shape himself in the manners of good men).31 Moreover, this educational aspect can also be deduced from the stigma attached to the adjective heimskr, someone who stays at home, meaning also “idiot.” Young men on their first journey are stigmatized as fools, having not completed their first rite of passage yet, as Jarl Hákon stresses: “Þessir men munu vera snápar ok hafa ekki komit fyrr í ǫnnur lǫnd” (These men must be fools who have never been to another country before).32 The útanferð appears to be a rather persistant literary motif in the Íslendingasögur. Episodes abroad obvioulsy open a literary space to illustrate Iceland’s relationship to kingship, but they also display a realistic social structure with an educational goal: bettering the temper of the violent noble youth by sending them away on a rite of passage, and giving them opportunities to establish themselves upon return in their estates (or create new ones).33 While no clear ceremony was set to celebrate the passage, the concept of rite of passage still helps us to understand what was at stake for young wealthy Icelanders in their journeys abroad, and how the Icelandic society of the time promoted and valued such a journey. The útanferð structure helps in return to understand lesser outlawry, or fjörbaugsgarðr, a three-​year exile abroad. Strictly speaking, the fjörbaugsmaðr was given a limited time to leave the country, should be away for three winters, and could afterwards come back and reintegrate his estate.34 Some property was forfeited, but the core of his estate was not. At first glance, the penalty seems to be useful in getting rid of trouble-​makers, and also preventing more escalation of violence (in a feud-​logic). The outlaw is not considered an outlaw outside the island, and thus could be said to have the exact same status as a man on an útanferð. In fact, while looking closely at descriptions of fjörbaugsgarðr, a similar structure surfaces. Þórir Helgason from Ljósvetninga saga has probably the driest, most concise example of lesser outlawry: “Þat sumar fór Þórir Helgason útan í Skagafirði, en bú hans stóð eptir á Laugalandi. Hann var vetr þann í Okneyjum. En eptir um várit kom hann út aptr til Íslands í Eyjafirði, er þrjár vikur váru af sumri, ok reið þá heim til Laugalands ok réð sér hjú. Reið hann eptir um sumarit til alþingis. Ok svá var hann á Vǫðlaþingi, ok heldu þeir Einarr saman flokkum sínum. Hann var heima um sumarit at búsýslu sinni ok fór útan um haustit, ok þá til Nóregs, litlu fyrir vetrnætr, ok var þó í Orkneyjum þann vetr. En eptir um várit fór hann til Íslands, ok fór hann alla sǫmu leið sem it fyrra

30  Egils saga, 105.

31  Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu, 67–​68. 32  Ǫgmundar þáttr dytts, 103.

33  Njál’s sons, Helgi and Grímr, get married and acquire property just after coming back from Norway (Brennu-​Njals saga, 225). 34  Turville-​Petre, “Outlawry,” 769–​70.

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sumarit. Fór hann enn útan um haustit ok var í Nóregi þann inn þriðja vetr ok fekk sér húsaviðu. Stýrði hann skipi sínu aptr til Íslands ok kom í Eyjafjǫrð. Fór hann þá heim til bús síns á Laugaland ok bjó þar til elli ok þótti vera skǫrungr mikill.”35

(That summer Thorir Helgason sailed from Skagafiord and left his household at Laugaland. He spent that winter in Orkney. But the next spring he came back out to lceland, making land at Eyjafjord three weeks into the summer. He rode home to Laugaland and hired his summer help. Later that summer he rode to the Althing. He was also at the Vodlar Assembly, and he and Einar joined forces. During the summer he was at home managing his farm, but he went abroad in the autumn, this time to Norway, a little before the winter Nights, although he spent that winter in the Orkney Islands. The next spring he went to lceland’ doing everything in the same way as the previous summer. Again he went abroad in the autumn and spent that third winter in Norway, and procured house timbers. He sailed his ship back to Iceland and put in at Eyjafjord. He went home to his farm at Laugaland and dwelled there until old age and was held in high esteem.)

His lesser outlawry is very uneventful and non-​problematic, yet it is still worth reporting in the saga. Þórir manages to do some business, probably stays with important people in the Orkneys and Norway during the winter, creates ties, and finally comes back to his farm and is held in high esteem. All of these aspects are markers of an útanferð. More positive outcomes of lesser outlawry can be found in the saga corpus, such as in Eiríkr rauða in Eiriks saga rauða and the discovery of Greenland. Grettir sterki himself, before becoming a famous outlaw, is sentenced to lesser outlawry, as his dealings with his father and peers is more than problematic. Coming back to Iceland after three years of exile, it seems that his time abroad had good effects on him. He solves his conflicts in a more mature way, and now treats normally a horse “af Kengálu kyni” (from the same strain as Kengala),36 referring to the mare he previously tortured and mutilated.37 After his return from his lesser outlawry penalty abroad, he faces similar situations as before, though this time they get solved with less violence. Even though this will not be enough to turn him into a suitable bóndi, his temper still seems slightly improved, which points towards an educational aspect of lesser outlawry, similar to the útanferð. The final piece of evidence strengthening the similitude between útanferð and fjörbaugsgarðr is the awareness displayed in the sagas themselves. In Njáls saga, a shipman offers Gunnarr to go sail with them. Njáll advises Gunnarr to go, thinking it will bring him prestige.38 And indeed, it does: it is a case of útanferð. Later on, when Gunnarr is sentenced to lesser outlawry, Njáll advises him again, saying: “Gerðú svá vel, félagi, at þú halt sætt þessa ok mun, hvat vit hǫfum við mælzk,” segir hann. “Ok svá sem þér varð in fyrri utanferð þín mikil til sœmðar, þá mun þér þó sjá verða miklu meir til sœmðar; muntú koma út með mannvirðingu

35  Ljósvetninga saga, 43–​44. Translation: Law and Literature in Medieval Iceland, 187. 36  Grettis saga, 99.

37  Grettis saga, 40–​41.

38  Brennu-​Njáls saga, 74–​75.

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mikilli ok verða maðr gamall, ok mun engi maðr hér þá á sporði þér standa. En ef þú ferr eigi utan ok rýfr sætt þína, þá muntú drepinn vera hér á landi, ok er þat illt at vita þeim, er vinir þínir eru.”39

(Please see to it, my friend, that you abide by this settlement, and remember what we have talked about before. Just as your first trip abroad brought you great honour, you will gain even more honour this time. Then you will come back home with great respect, and live to be an old man, and no one here will be your equal. But if you break this settlement and don’t go abroad, you will be killed in this land, and that will be a terrible thing for your friends to bear.)

Njáll openly equates the results from both structures in his intend to convince Gunnarr. Both can be an opportunity for prestige and wealth. Their main difference lies in the fact that one is mandatory by law, the other promoted by social norm. Lesser outlawry is, in that sense, a legal measure with an educational agenda. It is in a way similar to the contemporary institution of boarding school: a troublesome young man from a wealthy family is sent away, which is the punishment, but sent in a place of learning with a panel of opportunities, and able to perform achievements. This would be discipline through social promotion. We would then argue that journeys abroad were educational structures in medieval Iceland, whether socially promoted (útanferð) or legally enforced (fjörbaugsgarðr), both contributing to avoiding feud by putting space between its constestants, and disciplining younger men from the Icelandic landowner (bóndi) social group.40

Full Outlawry: Punish?

The educational agenda from the lesser outlawry penalty throws into sharp relief a constrast with the full outlawry penalty, skóggangr. Their English translations are, in that sense, quite misleading. Lesser and full outlawry seems to stress a difference of degree between the two penalties (one for lesser crimes, one for higher crimes), while at their core lies also a difference in nature (as their etymologically unrelated terms in Old Norse would suggest). Full outlawry is the harshest penalty a man could get: he was not to be fed, not to be transported and could be killed by anyone. There is in general no return from it,41 and violent death seems to have been the most common outcome. Another important structural difference lies in Icelandic geography: being forbidden transport, the outlaw could not leave the island in theory (unless he could convince some influential individuals to help him do so). 39  Brennu-​Njáls saga, 181. Translation: Njal’s saga, 122.

40  Older men with no previous unstable behaviour are also sentenced to lesser outlawry because of their punctual participation in skirmishes or feuds. We would argue that lesser outlawry would then be mostly a formality, but a still privileged sentencing, mostly made to avoid further feudal escalation, and allowing established men to still have ways to keep on maintening their estates and prospering even from afar.

41  In theory an outlaw could cancel his sentencing by killing three other outlaws (Grágás, 187–​88). It is also mentioned in as a possibility (Grettis saga, 179), but never enacted in the saga corpus, to the best of our knowledge.

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Outlaw sagas could be considered a subgenre of the Íslendingasögur (as much as the poet-​sagas for instance). There are conventionally three of them: Grettis saga, Gísla saga, and Harðar saga.42 All of them retrace the lives of outstanding, memorable outlaws. They are all confined in Iceland and are all able to survive, through different means, longer than one would expect. This is exactly the reason why their cases might not be the best to analyze outlawry as a social structure, as these outlaws beat the system, and this is why their story is memorable. Therefore, rather than using the three outlaw sagas as a source for outlawry, we will consider outlawry from the perspective of episodic outlaw stories. From this perspective, there are more than eighty-​five outlaw episodes throughout the Íslendingasögur corpus.43 Even though less outstanding or memorable, these episodes can provide alternative material to identify the social structure lying behind the plots. In Bandamanna saga, Óspakr, Grettir’s nephew, is made a full outlaw after being accused of theft and killing. Once outlawed, his problematic nature is enhanced:  he performs attacks at night, ventures into farms and steals livestock. Styrmir warned against that aspect of the full outlawry penalty during the trial: “A hitt máttu líta, at várt vandræði mun verða, ef hann verðr sekr” (But you have to look at the fact that he is going to be your problem, and a worse and more complicated one if he is outlawed).44 This is where lies the contradiction of the skóggangr: punishing a man, and so making an example out of him, but at the same time creating more troubles inside the island. Unlike the other famous outlaw characters, Óspakr encounters a rather unclimatic death. The story does not follow him into his wild ventures, and by the end of the saga, it is said that: Nú er það langa hríð að ekki spyrst til Óspaks. Og um haustið að menn gengu að geldingum fundu þeir helli í hömrum nokkurum og þar mann dauðan og stóð hjá honum munnlaug full af blóði og var það svo svart sem tjara. Þar var Óspakur og hugðu menn að sárið mundi hafa grandað honum, það er Bjálfi veitti honum, enda farið síðan af bjargleysi og lauk svo hans ævi.45

(Now for a long time nothing was heard of Ospak. Then in the autumn, when some men went to round up the wethers, they found a cave in some crags, and in it a dead man. Beside him stood a basin full of blood, and it was as black as pitch. It was Ospak, and people reckoned that the wound Bjalfi dealt him must have weakened him, so that he then died for lack of food and help. That was the end of him.)

His death confirms the skóggangr as a virtual death penalty.46 The outlaw is left to die from cold and starvation in the unwelcoming Icelandic wilderness. Yet, we may ask: was it worthy to get the land in troubles, waiting for the outlaw to die out?

42  The outlaw subgenre is a convention following manuscripts and style. However, other sagas could easily be integrated to it, such as Kroka-​refs saga or Hrafns þáttur gúðrunarsonar. 43  See Ahola’s index of outlaws. Ahola, Outlawry, 448–​58.

44  Bandamanna saga, 317. Translation: The Saga of the Confederates, 129. Snorri goði voices the same concerns during Grettir’s trial (Grettis saga, 164–​65). 45  Bandamanna saga, 363. Translation: The Saga of the Confederates, 154. 46  Grágás, 7–​8.

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What could help us understanding a bit further what is at stake with the skóggangr is a rather unusual case of outlawry from Finnboga saga ramma. The case happens in Norway, but it is not connected to royal power, nor any executive power, so we can assume that it reflects Icelandic concerns to some extend. The fact that the saga is often considered post-​classical and romantic would even play here in our favour, as we are mostly looking at the structure desplayed behind the plot: Sú nýlunda varð þann vetur á Hálogalandi sem oft kann verða að björn einn gekk þar og drap niður fé manna og eigi gerði hann annars staðar meira að en á Grænmó. Og svo kemur að Bárður stefnir þing og gerir björninn sekjan og leggur fé til höfuðs honum. Og eftir það gera menn til hans jafnan og verður hann eigi unninn og gerist hann illur viðureignar. Drepur hann bæði menn og fé.47

(In Halogaland that winter, as often can happen, a noteworthy occurrence was the appearance of a bear who slaughtered livestock, nowhere more than at Graenmo. So it came about that Bard called together an assembly, outlawed the bear, and placed a price on his head. After that people were constantly attacking the animal, but he was not put out of action and became very vicious to deal with, killing both people and livestock.)

Why outlaw a bear? It is true that outlaws are often associated with animals and even given animal names,48 yet here it is reversed, as the bear is being made an outlaw. The bear is obviously not being disciplined, but he is not being punished either nor made an example of, as other bears would not understand the point of this. The bear is not falling outside the protection of the law either, as he was never actually inside the protection of the law in a first place. An obvious reason for outlawing the bear would be to want the bear dead, and this is also the case when outlawing men. I would suggest that this unusual example shows that declaring someone a full outlaw creates a state of emergency in the community. The outlaw has a social utility in the sense that he gathers attention and forces, as he is turned into an immediate threat. When an outlaw arrives in a district in Iceland, in fact farmers and freemen gathered and call on their local leaders to solve the problem.49 A certain coherence is thus given to the community by designating an easy target, a kind of legal scapegoat. Meanwhile they are busy solving the outlaw problem in the district, they may not fight between each other for once.

Conclusions

More examples could be assessed following the discipline/​punish spectrum. For now, the few examples under scope show at least that Icelandic outlawry deserves to be studied as a fully integrated and functional part of Icelandic society, as an educational structure (fjörbaugsgarðr), or as a violence-​channelling structure (skóggangr). This does not mean that Icelandic full outlawry as a social structure was needed often. It was 47  Finnboga saga ramma, 274. Translation: The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, 232. 48  Breen, “ ‘The Wolf Is at the Door’,” 31–​43.

49  Vatnsdœla saga, 107; Grettis saga, 226–​27.

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most likely less frequent than other social structures, like the actual útanferð, or private settlements. Yet, as the famous Prussian military theorist Carl von Clausewitz pointed out: war is essential, not because it happens all the time, but because the possibility of war must be taken into account in all political decisions.50 In the same fashion, outlawry is essential, not because it happens all the time, but because the possibility of outlawry must be taken into account in all decisions. And, following its examplary nature, full outlawry needed then to be exceptional to be functional. Coming to a more diachronic approach, it appears that outlawry did not remain a persistant structure, especially during the Sturlung age. Without evidence of radical legal changes, the way to deal with criminals in practice (or at least in the sagas) seemed to shift during the thirteenth century, and became useful in more pressing matters. Outlaws stayed more in Iceland, and through the patronage of important chifetains, were gathered as cheap military in order to defend growing strongholds.51 Outlawry as an educational or examplary structure seemed to have weakened, in favour of a more militaristic use in an age of territorialization of power.

References

Primary Sources Bandamanna saga. Edited by Guðni Jónsson. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Brennu-​Njáls saga. Edited by Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Íslenzk fornrit 12. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954. Egils saga Skalla-​Grímssonar. Edited by Sigurður Nordal, Íslenzk fornrit 2. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1933. Eyrbyggja saga. Edited by Einar Ól. Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson. Íslenzk fornrit 4. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935. Finnboga saga ramma. Edited by Jóhannes Halldórsson. Íslenzk fornrit 14. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1959. Finnboga saga ramma. Translated by John Kennedy. The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, vol. 3. Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997. Flóamanna saga. Edited by Þórhallur Vilmundarson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson. Íslenzk fornrit 13. Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2009. Grágas. Islandaernes lovbog i Fristatens Tid. Edited by Vilhjálmur Finsen. Copenhagen: Det nordiske Literatur Sam fund, 1852. Grettis saga. Edited by Guðni Jónsson. Íslenzk fornrit 7. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936. Gunnlaugs saga ormstungu. Edited by Sigurður Nordal and Guðni Jónsson. Íslenzk fornrit 3. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1938. 50  Bagge, Society and Politics, 76.

51  Amory, “The Medieval Icelandic Outlaw,” 202–​3. Whether this change happened in reality or whether it simply reflects the differences of focus between the Íslendingasögur and the Sturlunga compilation is another debate.

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