Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia 9789048540235

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Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia

The Early Medieval North Atlantic This series provides a publishing platform for research on the history, cultures, and societies that laced the North Sea from the Migration Period at the twilight of the Roman Empire to the eleventh century. The point of departure for this series is the commitment to regarding the North Atlantic as a centre, rather than a periphery, thus connecting the histories of peoples and communities traditionally treated in isolation: Anglo-Saxons, Scandinavians / Vikings, Celtic communities, Baltic communities, the Franks, etc. From this perspective new insights can be made into processes of transformation, economic and cultural exchange, the formation of identities, etc. It also allows for the inclusion of more distant cultures – such as Greenland, North America, and Russia – which are of increasing interest to scholars in this research context. Series Editors Marjolein Stern, Gent University Charlene Eska, Virginia Tech Julianna Grigg, Monash University

Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia

Edited by Viktória Gyönki and Andrea Maraschi

Amsterdam University Press

This volume includes contributions from scholars who presented at the International Medieval Congress in Leeds, 2016. The theme was ‘Food, feasts and famine’, and the authors were able to provide a wide range of perspectives on Medieval Scandinavia. The aim was to represent Old Norse literary and historical topics in different panels and sections. One result from those panels can be found in this volume: a selection of papers by scholars who share the same research interest, that is, Medieval Scandinavia.

Cover illustration: Einherjar are served by Valkyries in Valhöll while Odin sits upon his throne, flanked by one of his wolves (c. 1905). Doepler, Emil. c. 1905. Walhall, die Götterwelt der Germanen (cropped). Martin Oldenbourg, Berlin. Photo: Wikimedia Commons Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout isbn 978 94 6298 821 7 e-isbn 978 90 4854 023 5 doi 10.5117/9789462988217 nur 684 © The authors / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2022 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.



Table of Contents

Spelling, Dates, and Other Conventions

7

List of Common Abbreviations

9

Introduction: A New History of Medieval Scandinavia Andrea Maraschi, Viktória Gyönki

11

Part I Food Production: Natural and Supernatural Strategies. 1. Magic, Miracles, and Rituals to Fight Famine in Old Norse Literature 31 Andrea Maraschi

2. Divine Intervention in the Preparation of Food and Drink in Old Norse Culture

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3. The Rise and Extent of Commercial Stockfish Production and Tradein Medieval North-Norwegian Coastal Society

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Karoline Kjesrud

Stefan Figenschow

Part II Food Trade, Distribution, and Commercial Activities 4. Food and Exclusion: Beer, Chicken, and Social Mobility in the Saga World Marion Poilvez

99

5. What Did the Norwegians Drink?

117

6. Stockfish Distribution: Getting Stockfish to the Consumer

131

Erik Opsahl

Magne Njåstad

7. The Theft of Food in Thirteenth-Century Norway and Iceland Helen F. Leslie-Jacobsen

145

Part III Food Spaces, Consumption, and Feasting 8. The Semiotics of Hanging Around in the Kitchen in Late Sagas and Rímur

167

9. Consumption and Intoxication in an Old Norse Legendary Saga

191

10. Conflicts Regarding Hospitality in Old Norse Sources

207

11. The Practice of Feasting in Medieval Iceland

223

Index of names and texts

241

Index of places

249

Philip Lavender

Andrew McGillivray

Viktória Gyönki

Martina Ceolin



Spelling, Dates, and Other Conventions

Old-Norse personal names and Icelandic terminologies (legal and literary) are given in Old Norse / Icelandic in this book. Names of Norwegian kings and other historical figures who lived later than the so-called saga age or when the sagas were produced, are written in modern Norwegian.



List of Common Abbreviations

Ágrip ES HdpDiH HE HK HN HSH MS NgL Or OS PO Que SS tCa

Ágrip af Nóregskonungasǫgum Egils saga Skalla-grímssonar Historia de profectione Danorum in Hierosolymam Historia Ecclesiastica. The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis Snorri Sturluson. Heimskringla Historia Norwegie Sturla Þórðarson. Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar. Morkinskinna I-II Norges gamle Love indtil 1387 “Ohtheres’ report. Text and close translation” Orkneyinga saga Passio et miracula beati Olavi Pietro Querini’s Account Sverris saga The Crew’s Account



Introduction: A New History of Medieval Scandinavia Andrea Maraschi, Viktória Gyönki

Although accompanying the term ‘history’ with the adjective ‘new’ may seem odd, the concept of a ‘new history’ was coined by scholars of the third generation of the École des Annales, which had been founded by Lucien Febvre and Marc Bloch at the end of the 1920s. Febvre and Bloch deeply renovated French historiography, broadening its horizons to aspects that were often ignored by contemporary and past scholars. ‘Le bon historien’, Marc Bloch famously stated in his seminal Apologie pour l’histoire, ‘ressemble à l’ogre de la légende. Là où flaire la chair humaine, il siat que là est son gibier’.1 Funnily enough, the French historian used the metaphor of eating, and the history of food culture and consumption was bound to become one of the more interesting novelties of this new historiographic tradition. In fact, around the 1970s, scholars including Jacques Le Goff and Pierre Nora coined the label nouvelle histoire to define their specific contribution to such a ‘total’ history of medieval Europe: their interests included the so-called histoire des mentalités and cultural history.2 Speaking of culture, food soon became the object of attention of a growing number of scholars: ‘food is culture’, reads the title of a book by one of the most prominent experts in the field, Massimo Montanari.3 The two things are tied to each other, and the study of foodways is essential in order to determine the characteristics of a given civilization. 4 It is no wonder that the editorial of the first issue of Food&History, the scientific journal of the European Institute for the History and Cultures of Food, which was 1 ‘The good historian […] resembles the ogre of legend. Wherever he smells human flesh, he knows that there lies his prey’. Bloch, Apologie pour l’histoire, p. 4. 2 Mucchielli, ‘Aux origines de la Nouvelle Histoire en France’; Rubin, ed., The Work of Jacques Le Goff. 3 Montanari, Food is Culture. Emphasis author’s. 4 Lévi-Strauss, Le cru et le cuit.

Gyönki, V. and A. Maraschi (eds.), Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789462988217_intro

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founded in 2003, was entitled ‘A New History Journal. A Journal about New History?’.5 By the early 2000s, the teachings of the first historians of the École had reached their full potential. After decades of pioneering studies starting in France and Poland,6 and later in Italy, England, and Germany,7 food history had finally emerged as a proper field of research. Scandinavian countries have joined this new trend in historiography at a later date. When thinking about Scandinavian food history, one has to acknowledge the contribution of Norwegian culinary expert Henry Notaker,8 who has been remarkably active in the field since the 1990s. In the same years, Renée Valeri published an important article on Scandinavian food culture in the seventeenth century.9 Starting from the first decade of the 2000s, several studies have emerged, often addressing the topic of food consumption and food culture in the so-called Viking Age or the history of Scandinavian cookbooks.10 In the last decade, studies on the history of food in medieval Scandinavia have flourished, and have become ever more nuanced: such publications address a range of micro-topics, from practical remedies against famine,11 to food processing and cook utensils,12 from peasants’ food habits13 to beer brewing,14 from food as an identity marker 15 to the use of food for magic purposes.16 Furthermore, twenty years ago, an edition of the important Libellus de arte coquinaria was published by Rudolf Grewe and Constance Hieatt.17 This book wants to represent a further step towards a better understanding of the practical, economic, symbolic, religious, and ritual significance of food in medieval Scandinavia. It consists of eleven chapters that focus on a wide 5 Montanari, ‘A New History Journal’, p. 14. 6 Franciszek Bujak and Jan Rutkowski founded the Roczniki Dziejów Społecznych i Gospodarczych (Annals of social and economic history) in 1931. 7 E.g. Messedaglia, Il mais; Drummond and Wilbraham, The Englishman’s Food; Abel, Geschichte der deutschen Landwirtschaft. 8 Notaker, Food Culture in Scandinavia; idem, ‘Scandinavia’. 9 Valeri, ‘Création et transmission’. 10 E.g. Lõugas, ‘Fishing Trade’; Poole, ‘Living and Eating’; Isaksson, Food and Rank; Rikstad, ‘Nordiske kokebøker’; 11 Mehler, ‘From Self-Sufficiency’. 12 Øye, ‘Food and Technology’. 13 Simonsson, ‘“A People who Eat Wood”’. 14 Viklund, ‘Beer Brewing’. 15 Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Food and the North-Icelandic Identity’. 16 Maraschi, ‘The Impact of Christianization’. 17 Grewe and Hieatt, eds., Libellus de arte coquinaria. It is worth noting that, only four years ago, Sverrir Tómasson dedicated a book to Icelanders’ food habits in medieval times: Sverrir Tómasson, Pipraðir páfuglar.

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range of primary sources, including archaeological findings, Old Norse saga literature, the Eddas, skaldic poetry, and legal texts. The volume is meant to stimulate academic debate on such a macro-field of study, and to link Scandinavian food cultures to the broader context of medieval European ones. The variety of topics addressed by the authors may seem to be to the detriment of the book’s unity, but – as readers will realize, and as food historians know from experience – food has a transversal nature, which fits multidisciplinary approaches within both a short-term local and a long-term global perspective. For instance, as the first two chapters show, food is an extremely important element to consider if one is interested in the process of Christianization of the North. This is because of people’s need to stay the same, while religious institutions and faiths change around them. In this sense, one can hardly fail to note that, according to Ari Þorgilsson, the Church allowed Icelanders to stick to some of their traditional customs, among which the consumption of horsemeat.18 Although this is not the place to discuss and appreciate such an interesting detail, it is clear that food is never detached from history: on the contrary, since history is made by people, and since people deal with food on a daily basis for obvious reasons, it is hardly surprising that food was often factored in by the Roman Church when pagans were about to be converted to Christianity. Before becoming Christians, pagan Scandinavians, similarly to their Central and Southern European contemporaries, were concerned about bad harvests and famine, and their preoccupations did not change after the conversion:19 ‘Famine is a structure of daily life’,20 noted Fernand Braudel, who, by the way, was a prominent figure of the second generation of the École des Annales. The first chapter, by Andrea Maraschi, analyses the helpfulness of ‘magic’ and ‘religion’ in such a transition phase based on the saga literature, suggesting that continuity prevails over differences. The author looks at the sources through the lens of Heideggerian existentialism, which – as an important tradition of historians of religion from the last century suggests – is useful for discarding cultural biases concerning past societies’ need for supernatural entities. In fact, deities’ help was fundamental to overcoming the feeling of being at the mercy of natural elements. Moving from Hans Jacob Orning’s, Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir’s, and Stephen Mitchell’s brilliant studies on the magical reality of the saga worlds,21 the 18 Ari Þórgilsson, Íslendingabók, I, p. 17. 19 Montanari, ‘Unnatural cooking’, p. 30. 20 Braudel, Civiltà materiale, p. 45. 21 Orning, ‘The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages’; idem, ‘Legendary Sagas as Historical Sources’; Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘On Supernatural Motifs in the Fornaldarsögur’; Ead., ‘The Narrative Role of Magic in the Fornaldarsögur’; Mitchell, ‘The Supernatural and the Fornaldarsögur’.

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author reflects on the endurance of food-related needs and concerns from pagan to Christian times, in the conviction that sagas mirror the actual folk beliefs and mentalities of the people who produced them. Fornaldarsögur, in particular, may reflect even older beliefs, as suggested by Margaret Clunies Ross and Torfi Tulinius,22 among others. Karoline Kjesrud adopts a similar approach, but focuses on the Old Norse corpus of Marian miracles,23 in order to study Mary’s intervention in the preparation of food and drink. Since the dawn of Jewish-Christian tradition, prophets and sacred f igures proved rather active in helping people with more or less ordinary issues concerning food, from situations of emergency to feasts. Jesus himself is seen multiplying loaves and fish, as well as changing water into wine at the Wedding of Cana. Even parables often resorted to food-related images, in order to explain to an illiterate audience the highest of messages: what the Kingdom of Heaven is, and how the faithful could be allowed into it. Medieval hagiographers embraced such an attitude, because the rhetorical strategy kept working efficiently: everybody was ‘sensitive’ to food, because food was a universal language that everybody could understand. 24 On the practical side, a deity was supposed to ensure good harvests, healthy livestock, and favourable weather, first and foremost. It is no wonder, then, that Mary’s role in Old Norse culture reflects that of other female deities as guardians of fertility, abundance, and, consequently, even feast preparing. Such a continuity of functions, the author observes, links Mary with figures of the likes of Isis and Freyja. Furthermore, it reiterates the utopian idea of a world of plenty where hunger would never be an issue: like in Valhǫll, for instance, where ‘miraculous’ drinks flowed perpetually.25 Kjesrud integrates her study of literary sources with iconographic ones such as thirteenth- and fourteenth-century painted altars, where Mary is depicted holding fruits. In such cases, food is likely used in metaphorical terms: eating food signif ied eating wisdom, 26 and milk in particular had important symbolic meanings. 27 The author also considers Old Norwegian laws about food and drink and inscriptions (runes and prayers) on tankards and drinking horns, showing that food represented a fundamental cornerstone in religious discourse. 22 Clunies Ross, Prolonged Echoes; Tulinius, The Matter of the North, p. 186. 23 See also Kjesrud, ‘Conceptions of the Virgin Mary’. 24 Montanari, La fame e l’abbondanza, pp. 118–120. 25 Maraschi, ‘Hunger Games’. 26 Hermann, ‘Memory, Imagery, and Visuality’, p. 325. 27 On this, see the recent Penniman, Raised on Christian Milk.

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A later chapter, by Andrew McGillivray, similarly focuses on ‘supernatural’ motifs. The author delves into the territory of ‘magic’ and ‘witchcraft’ in one of the most important legendary sagas, Völsunga saga, and for good reason. Food is often associated with ‘supernatural’ powers (either negative or positive) in the Old Norse literary corpus, and it is worth wondering why that was the case. As Stephen Mitchell and other scholars have shown, 28 the very concept of ‘magic’ is problematic per se: any modern translation of terms such as galdr, trolldómr, fjǫlkynngi, fordæða, forneskja, or fyrnska implies putting an etic filter on the text.29 The author deals with this terminological challenge by focusing on Völsunga saga, because, he observes, this may help to better understand what the author’s conceptualization of ‘magic’ was, and how his audience may have reacted to it. The saga offers interesting examples of intoxicating substances such as drinks and potions, which McGillivray analyses from a narratological perspective: what was the purpose of such literary scenes? Why were they put in the story, and what can their characteristics tell the reader about the author’s society and worldview? The chapter is then based on a synchronic approach that aims to deeply investigate how ‘magic’ works within that specific text when a certain concoction is consumed.30 Such analyses do justice to the not foregone value of fornaldarsögur, which – as Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir observes – resemble folktales to some extent, and reflect the authors’ and their audiences’ ideas about this world and the Otherworld.31 Moreover, ‘magical’ foods and drinks represented an opportunity to develop the plot in interesting ways and entertain listeners and readers, but also to discuss cultural concepts such as free will and fate.32 In sum, Völsunga saga seems to suggest that ‘magical’ concoctions were mostly associated with evil intents, and that even stereotypically positive rituals such as banquets (Latin convivium, from cum + vivere, literally meaning ‘sharing life together’) may become the perfect stage for vengeance and death. Of course, there are important practical aspects of food that are worth considering in a volume such as this one. In Chapter 3, based on the 28 Mitchell, Witchcraft and Magic, pp. 12–13; idem, ‘Leechbooks, Manuals, and Grimoires’, pp. 61–64; Segev, Medieval Magic, pp. 25–26; Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, p. 63; Dillmann, Les magiciens, pp. 194–198. 29 Bailey, ‘The Age of Magicians’, pp. 2–3. 30 Tolley, ‘Peripheral at the Centre’, pp. 16–17. 31 Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘On Supernatural Motifs’, p. 33. See also Kieckhefer, Magic in the Middle Ages, p. 109. 32 Sweeney, Magic in Medieval Romance, p. 48.

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fundamental contributions by James Barrett,33 Stefan Figenschow studies stockfish production and trade in medieval Norway, and how it affected the development of north-Norwegian coastal society. Since written sources describing the social conditions of such a region are both scant and patchy for what concerns the early and high medieval times, the author integrates them with archaeological findings (e.g. fish bones). He critically discusses evidence from written sources such as literary and legal texts prior to the twelfth century, observing that more solid conclusions can be drawn about the thirteenth century onwards, when a greater number and a wider range of sources cast light on important nuances and details. The author suggests that Norway’s trade of stockfish increased considerably by the end of the twelfth century, so much so that, in the following two centuries, it began being imported in important cities such as London. In fact, thanks to the comparison of archaeological and written records, the quantity and quality of Norway’s stockfish trade c. 1300 can be clearly studied, and one observes that it played a remarkable role in European markets at the time. Figenschow’s contribution finds its natural continuation in Chapter 6, where Magne Njåstad looks closely at late Norwegian fisheries and at their commercial infrastructure. Starting from Pietro Querini’s famous report of his shipwreck at Røst in 1432, and with the help of important studies such as those by Grethe Authén Blom, Sigrun Høgetveit Berg, and Lars Ivar Hansen, among others, the author investigates stockfish production and transport, but also emphasizes the role of stockfish as a source of income for the Church. Indeed, fines to the Church could be paid in stockfish, and so could tithes. Certainly, this was due to the economic importance of such a commodity, but also to the fact that fish was always allowed in times of fast during the Middle Ages.34 Njåstad shows that written records, especially in the case of official ones, can represent fundamental resources, when appropriately contextualized and supported by quantitative analysis.35 And so, building from Querini’s report, the author’s conclusions reach thousands of kilometres and several centuries, and paint the picture of a proper system of stockfish mass production. In some sense, then, although Stefan Figenschow and Magne Njåstad may have followed different methodological paths, their chapters emphasize once more the perks of interdisciplinary approaches. 33 Barrett et al., ‘Detecting the Medieval Cod Trade’; idem, ‘Interpreting the Expansion of Sea Fishing’; idem, ‘Fish for the City’. 34 E.g. Larson, ed., The Earliest Norwegian Laws, pp. 45–46. 35 Nedkvitne, Utenrikshandelen fra det vestafjelske Norge.

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Pietro Querini’s record is among the primary sources of Chapter 5, where Erik Opsahl delves into drinking culture in late medieval Norway. If archaeological findings are slightly more problematic when it comes to beverages, Scandinavian written sources are not disappointing. Ranging from documents and letters from the Diplomatarium Norvegicum and Svecanum to legal texts and sagas, the author discusses moral perspectives on drunkenness, trade with European countries such as Germany, and even liturgical issues. As said above, food is an economic asset, but also a cultural and identity marker. This is important when studying a Nordic Christian Kingdom such as that of Sverre (1177–1202), who condemned intoxication: Christianity had long changed the attitude of such rulers towards alcohol consumption, advocating for moderation. Where water and milk were considered common everyday drinks, beer and wine were held in much higher esteem and were more expensive. Their importation, however, could cause concern to Norwegian rulers, because then people would indulge in drinking. In fact, relationships with German traders were not idyllic between the late twelfth and the fourteenth century. Be that as it may, the author notes that the importation of wine, in particular, was a necessity, due to the Eucharistic liturgy. Even though the problem became really serious after the Reformation, since at that point wine would be drunk by members of the congregation as well, Nordic countries had repeatedly asked the Roman Church for exemptions or alternatives, since the necessary liturgical elements (bread and wine) were hardly as available in Scandinavia as they were at lower latitudes.36 When wine did not actually lack, it could not be of a decent quality (this, apparently, could be the case for Rhenish wine), and it may not have been easy to import for instance, Flemish or English wines to Bergen. Written records, however, seem to reflect Snorri’s famous representation of Óðinn, the sole god to drink wine, and the sole god who lived only on wine. In fact, Norwegian elite’s feasts were characterized by the abundance of such a precious beverage, because their prestige often depended on the banquets’ wealth and magnificence. Interestingly, sources such as Sverres saga show that food was still very useful from a rhetorical viewpoint. Just as, many centuries earlier, Einhard, Charlemagne’s biographer, had portrayed his emperor as someone who was simultaneously German and Christian, a great eater of meat, yet fairly moderate with food in general and with alcohol, King Sverre is described as a ruler who never drank too much and was always self-controlled. This is because rulers were supposed to embody their people’s identity markers 36 Maraschi, ‘Wine, Bread, and Water’, pp. 332–336.

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and positive values, and diet was one of the fundamental attributes in such discourses. Good rulers eat and drink well in terms of quality and quantity, that is, in accordance with their culture’s values; bad rulers eat and drink the wrong things, or they eat and drink too much, or too little. Economic aspects of food culture in medieval Scandinavia can be studied from different perspectives. In Chapter 4, Marion Poilvez studies two instances of social and political outcasts from Ǫlkofra þáttr and Hænsa-Þóris saga: respectively, a brewer and a chicken merchant. Although Icelandic sagas are often concerned with goðar and prominent bændr, that is, with more important social actors, the author selects two sources that cast light on the reality of the nouveaux riches of thirteenth-century Iceland.37 Such self-made men were seen as a subversion of the standard social ladder, in spite of their successful businesses and their wealth: this, the author observes, deprived them of a chance at social mobility. Not surprisingly, both characters are referred to in demeaning terms, and their respective activities (chicken trade and ale-brewing) are connoted negatively. The two social climbers are then contrasted with independent farmers, and their activities identify them as ignorant opportunists, not even worthy of being outlawed. The author’s focus on food-related business, then, is useful to stimulate discussion about social issues and the evolution of new types of production in Iceland at the time.38 Such analysis is particularly useful if one considers the broader contemporary economic context, for similar tensions were emerging in many a European city.39 The traditional idea of reciprocity and sharing through gift-giving was still the dominant model, whereas Ǫlkofri and Hœnsa-Þórir were merely interested in profit for its own sake. The positive connotation of gift-giving, already typical of Germanic societies in earlier medieval times, 40 returns in Chapters 10 and 11. Considering how compelling an aspect of social life feasting was, it is worth noting that scholars of the Medieval North did not pay much attention to it until some thirty years ago. Viktória Gyönki dedicates her analysis to the concept of hospitality in Íslendingasögur and Konungasögur, for – she observes – feasts 37 Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Social Ideals’. 38 Durrenberger et al., ‘Economic Representation’; Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘From Reciprocity to Manorialism’. 39 E.g. Tanzini and Tognetti, La mobilità sociale. 40 For instance, beaga bryttan (‘giver of rings’) and sinces bryttan (‘treasure-giver’) are Old English kennings for ‘king’ in Beowulf: a good ruler was supposed to show his generosity and to share his wealth with his men and allies. Chickering, Jr., ed., Beowulf, pp. 50, 68, 134, 160. See Hermanson, ‘Holy Unbreakable Bonds’; O’Brien O’Keeffe, ‘Values and Ethics in Heroic Literature’.

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were a fundamental social tool to display power and form alliances in medieval Iceland. As other scholars such as Hans Conrad Peyer and Alban Gautier have noted, 41 this was very much the case in Northern Europe, and one can hardly fail to notice that such values are consistent with Tacitus’s traditional description of the customs of ‘Germani’. As suggested by the 2019 Oxford Symposium on Food and Cookery’s main theme (‘Food&Power’), medieval people were aware of the power of eating together, and Viðar Pálsson has recently stressed the importance of this idea among Icelanders.42 Viktória Gyönki indirectly reminds the reader of Plutarch’s well-known statement: ‘We invite one another not barely to eat and drink, but to eat and drink together’. 43 Feasts were occasions during which political equals and near-equals could make political bonds, or could start feuds. Hospitality played a critical role in such a non-verbal communication system, and scholars of different disciplines have suggested that many other societies have imbued the practice of eating together with the same value. 44 Furthermore, in a Scandinavian context, banquets represented an opportunity to display socially valuable skills such as reciting poetry. Moreover, the literary sources that the author has selected present key differences, like e.g. the tendency in family sagas to linger on the micro-history of personal and clan-related issues, whereas Kings’s sagas favour the macro-historic layer of political activity. Martina Ceolin’s analysis in Chapter 11 perfectly integrates the previous one, for she also aims at studying in detail medieval Icelandic feasts. When dealing with food-related practices, diachronic and historico-anthropological perspectives are always fruitful, and the author lays the basis for the contextualization of medieval Icelandic communal meals within a broader landscape. Icelandic literary sources simultaneously represent an asset and an issue, for scholars have long debated whether Konungasögur and Íslendingasögur can be studied as ethnographic sources.45 The author focuses specifically on Eyrbyggja saga, which offers many interesting details in this sense. One of the key points of Martina Ceolin’s contribution is the 41 Peyer, Von der Gastfreundschaft zum Gashaus; Gautier, ‘Hospitality in Pre-Viking Anglo-Saxon England’. 42 Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power. 43 Plutarch, Quaestiones convivales, II, p. 10. 44 E.g. McCracken, ‘The Floral and the Human’; Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality; Hamington, ed., Feminism and Hospitality; Dietler, ‘Feasts and Commensal Politics’. See also Maraschi, ‘Þórgunna’s Dinner’, pp. 50–51. 45 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Tendencies in the Historiography’, pp. 5–6; Torfi H. Tulinius, ‘Deconstructing Snorri’, p. 195.

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distinction between what the modern reader would like to find in a saga, and what saga authors deemed important instead. Eyrbyggja saga, like many other Old Norse texts, rarely mentions what tablemates ate and how it was prepared, while it dedicates much attention to other ritual aspects connected to feasting, first and foremost the disposition of seats and gift-giving. Such information, though perhaps disappointing to some, is a precious resource, since saga authors wanted to tell relatable stories to their audience, in order to captivate and entertain them: universal practices such as banquets were remarkably powerful tools, Gerd Althoff notes.46 Since the shift among saga scholars towards anthropology, cultural history, and social history back in the 1970s, Íslendingasögur have been appreciated for their ethnographic value, and philology has turned out to be a valuable asset in the field of Food Studies. As mentioned above, the author of Eyrbyggja saga emphasizes the role of feasts as occasions to cement social bonds, rather than of the food itself. However, drinks are paid some attention, and in particular mead and ale. Moreover, drinking was associated with specific terminology (depending on how many people shared the drinking vessel), and with rituals such as drinking toasts or contests. In fact, the cultural association between feasting and drinking in the North is epitomized by the expression drekka bruðkaup (lit., ‘to drink the marriage’), meaning ‘to marry’.47 The author remarks that scenes of communal banquets in Eyrbyggja saga reflect political changes in Iceland at the time of its composition, suggesting that the usefulness of Íslendingasögur for food historians (and for historians, in general) is far from over. This volume’s contributors show that the food culture (or, should one say, cultures) of medieval Scandinavia can be studied by resorting to a heterogenous array of sources. 48 Helen Leslie-Jacobsen’s and Philip Lavender’s chapters (7 and 8, respectively) are perfect examples of how dynamic the approach to Food Studies can be. Helen Leslie-Jacobsen deals with a practical issue in thirteenth-century Norway and Iceland, namely, the theft of food. She bases her analysis on legal texts, and particularly on the development of the Norwegian first national law code, Landslǫg. This document is of utmost importance for the study of late-thirteenth-century Norway, since it is the result of King Magnús’s project of unifying several regional laws, which were promulgated at legal assemblies. The author argues that certain theft laws in Landslǫg actually derived from Járnsíða, the law 46 Althoff, ‘The Variability of Rituals’, p. 87. 47 Maraschi, Un banchetto per sposarsi, pp. 193–196. 48 E.g. Øye, Driftsmåter i Vestnorsk Jordbruk and Mat Og Drikke I Middelalderen.

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code that Magnús composed specifically for Iceland in the early 1270s. 49 By comparing Landslǫg’s theft section with the same sections in Járnsíða and in the earlier Norwegian Gulaþingslǫg and Frostaþingslǫg, the author observes that specific innovations about food theft likely depend on the Icelandic legal text, where it is stated that starving people should not be prosecuted if they stole food for their survival. Interestingly, public morals concerning food theft have not always allowed similar exemptions: while Lycurgus encouraged Spartan children to steal food and only punished them if they were caught stealing, French philosopher Anatole France refused to condone any form of theft, regardless of the circumstances. The author also analyses more specific cases of theft and violations that are mentioned in legal texts, such as entering other people’s onion or angelica patches, and stealing milk and berries. In sum, this study helps to highlight important changes in Norwegian and Icelandic laws in the thirteenth century with regards to food robberies: laws became more specific and comprehensive, and took various categories of thieves into consideration. For instance, they started marking distinctions based on the ability of the thief to actually work, on the amount of food stolen, on whether the guilty was a repeat offender, and on what their reputation was. The thief’s background was now a critical aspect to factor in. In Chapter 8, Philip Lavender deals with a much more subtle and nuanced topic: the meaning of literary scenes where characters hang around in the kitchen in late Icelandic sagas and rimur. As seen above, literary criticism is a key asset when dealing with medieval Scandinavian food cultures, due to the large amount of information that can be drawn from such texts. Alongside food, drink, and the table, Icelandic sagas also feature several references to kitchen fires and eldaskálar, which were the beating hearts of medieval houses. As the author observes, however, spending time around the fire was often deemed inappropriate for young men, whence the term kolbítr, ‘coal-biter’, indicating men who wasted their time idling all day around the fire.50 This motif has a deep anthropological significance, for it may concern both the sexual and social maturation of the boy (from childhood to manhood), and his transition from a female-dominated environment (the kitchen) to one dominated by men. This, Ármann Jakobsson notes, could, in turn, affect the relationship between boys and their fathers.51 It is clear, then, that food-related activities overlap with topics related to 49 Gudmund Sandvik and Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Laws’. 50 On this motif, see Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ‘En verden skabes’. 51 Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Troublesome Children’.

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gender studies, for the amount of time that a boy would spend by the fire was associated with his more masculine or feminine habits and character traits. In such an interplay of gendered environments, food preparation was associated with women, thus perpetuating traditional ideas that are certainly not exclusive to medieval Scandinavia.52 This chapter proves a stimulating literary-anthropological analysis, for it also deals with the taboo of the dirt that was typical of seats by the fire: getting dirty from the filth associated with that area symbolized foolishness and low status. As noted by scholars of sagas and gender, such as Jenny Jochens, eldaskálar were not overtly connected with food preparation, and the few episodes of women cooking in the sagas do not explicitly reference the hearth.53 While cooking was likely deemed a feminine practice, the fireside was at least gender neutral: yet, it downgraded young men’s reputation and created contrasts with their fathers. Lavender’s diachronic approach, which reaches as far forward as seventeenth- and eighteenth-century sources, shows the long-term endurance of such ideas, and confirms that Food Studies benefits from multidisciplinary, wide-ranging approaches. We hope that this volume may stimulate new students and scholars to further deepen our understanding of food cultures in medieval Scandinavia. There is much work still to be done, but this ‘new history’ certainly has great potential.

Bibliography Primary Sources Ari Þorgilsson, ‘Íslendingabók’, in Jakob Benediktsson, ed., Íslendingabók. Kristni Saga. The Book of the Icelanders. The Story of the Conversion (Reykjavík: Hið Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1968). Beowulf. A Dual-Language Edition, edited by Howell D. Chickering, Jr. (New York: Anchor Books, 2006). Larson, Laurence M., ed., The Earliest Norwegian Laws: Being the Gulathing Law and the Frostathing Law (Clark, NJ: The Lawbook Exchange, 2008 [1935]). Plutarch, ‘Quaestiones Convivales’, in idem, Moralia, vol. 4, edited by Kurt Hubert (Leipzig: Teubner, 1971).

52 Montanari, Food is Culture, p. 49. 53 Jochens, Women in Old Norse Society.

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Secondary Sources Abel, Wilhelm, Geschichte der deutschen Landwirtschaft. Vom frühen Mittelalter bis zum 19. Jahrhundert (Stuttgart: Ulmer, 1962). Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘On Supernatural Motifs in the Fornaldarsögur’, Preprint Papers of the Thirteenth International Saga Conference (Durham: The Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006), pp. 33–41. Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘The Narrative Role of Magic in the Fornaldarsögur’, in Arne Bugge Amundsen, ed., Ane Ohrvik and Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, guest eds., ARV. Nordic Yearbook of Folklore, 70, Special Issue: Magic and Texts (Uppsala: The Royal Gustavus Adolphus Academy, 2015), pp. 39–56. Althoff, Gerd, ‘The Variability of Rituals in the Middle Ages’, in Gerd Althoff, Johannes Fried, and Patrick J. Geary, eds., Medieval Concepts of the Past. Ritual, Memory, Historiography (Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 71–87. Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Food and the North-Icelandic Identity in Thirteenth-Century Iceland and Norway’, Sverrir Jakobsson ed., Images of the North. Histories – Identities – Ideas (Amsterdam/New York: Rodopi, 2009), pp. 69–79. Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North (Santa Barbara, CA: Punctum, 2017). Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Troublesome Children in the Sagas of Icelanders’, Saga-Book 27 (2003), pp. 5–24. Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ‘En verden skabes. En mand bliver til’, in Agneta Ney, Ármann Jakobsson, and Annette Lassen, eds., Fornaldarsagaerne. Myter og virkelighed (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 2009), pp. 245–254. Bailey, Michael D. ‘The Age of Magicians: Periodizations in the History of European Magic’, Magic, Ritual, and Witchcraft 3 (2008), pp. 1–28. Barrett, James H., et al., ‘Detecting the Medieval Cod Trade: A New Method and First Results’, Journal of Archaeological Science 35 (2008), pp. 850–861. Barrett, James H., et al., ‘Interpreting the Expansion of Sea Fishing in Medieval Europe using Stable Isotope Analysis of Archaeological Cod Bones’, Journal of Archaeological Science 38 (2011), pp. 1516–1524. Barrett, James H., Orton, David, C., Morris, James, and Alison Locker, ‘Fish for the City: Meta-Analysis of the Archaeological Cod Remains and the Growth of London’s Northern Trade’, Antiquity 88: 340 (2014), pp. 516–530. Bloch, Marc, Apologie pour l’histoire ou Métier d’historien (Paris: A. Colin, 1997 [1949]). Braudel, Fernand, Civiltà materiale, economia e capitalismo, 3 vols, vol. 1, Le Strutture del quotidiano (Turin: Einaudi: 1982). Clunies Ross, Margaret, Prolonged Echoes. Old Norse Myths in Medieval Northern Society (Odense: Odense University Press, 1994).

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Derrida, Jacques, and Anne Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality, transl. Rachel Bowlby (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2000). Dietler, Michael, ‘Feasts and Commensal Politics in the Political Economy: Food, Power, and Status in Prehistoric Europe’, in Polly Wiessner and Wulf Schiefenhövel, eds., Food and the Status Quest: An Interdisciplinary Perspective, (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1996), pp. 87–125. Dillmann, François-Xavier, Les magiciens dans l’Islande ancienne. Études sur la représentation de la magie islandaise et de ses agents les sources littéraires norroises, Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 92 (Uppsala: Kungl. Gustav Adolfs Akademien för svensk folkkultur, 2006). Drummond, Jack C., and Anne Wilbraham, The Englishman’s Food: A History of Five Centuries of English Diet (London: J. Cape, Ltd., 1939). Durrenberger, E. Paul, Durrenberger, Dorothy, and Ástráður Eysteinsson, ‘Economic Representation and Narrative Structure in Hœnsa-Þóris saga’, Saga Book of the Viking Society for Northern Research 22 (1988), pp. 43–164. Gautier, Alban, ‘Hospitality in Pre-Viking Anglo-Saxon England’, Early Medieval Europe 17:1 (2009), pp. 23–44. Grewe, Rudolf, and Constance B. Hieatt, eds., Libellus de arte coquinaria: An Early Northern Cookery Book (Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2001). Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Social Ideals and the Concept of Profit in Thirteenth-Century Iceland’, in Gísli Pálsson ed., From Sagas to Society: Comparative Approaches to Early Iceland (Middlesex: Hisarlik Press, 1992), pp. 231–245. Hamington, Maurice, ed., Feminism and Hospitality: Gender in the Host/Guest Relationship (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2010). Hermann, Pernille, ‘Memory, Imagery, and Visuality in Old Norse Literature’, Journal of English and German Philology 114: 3 (2015), pp. 317–340. Hermanson, Lars, ‘Holy Unbreakable Bonds: Oaths and Friendship in Nordic and Western European Societies c. 900–1200’, in Jón Viðar Sigurðsson and Thomas Småberg, eds., Friendship and Social Networks in Scandinavia, c. 1000–1800 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 15–42. Jochens, Jenny, Women in Old Norse Society (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998). Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Tendencies in the Historiography on the Medieval Nordic States (to 1350)’, in James S. Amelang and Siegfried Beer, eds., Public Power in Europe: Studies in Historical Transformation (Pisa: Pisa University Press, 2006), pp. 1–15. Kieckhefer, Richard, Magic in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). Isaksson, Sven, Food and Rank in Early Medieval Time (Stockholm: Stockholm University, 2000).

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Kjesrud, Karoline, ‘Conceptions of the Virgin Mary in Medieval Western Scandinavia,’ in Jonas Carlquist and Virginia Langum, eds., Words and Matter. The Virgin Mary in Late Medieval and Early Modern Parish Life (Stockholm: Sällskapet Runica et Mediævalia, 2015), pp. 87–103. Lévi-Strauss, Claude, Le cru et le cuit (Paris: Plon, 1964). Lõugas, Lembi, ‘Fishing and Fish Trade during the Viking Age and Middle Ages in the Eastern and Western Baltic Sea Regions’, in James Barrett and David Orton, eds., Cod and Herring: The Archaeology and History of Medieval Sea Fishing (Oxford and Philadelphia, PA: Oxbow, 2016), pp. 111–116. Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Hunger Games: Magic, Miracles and Rituals to Fight Famine in Medieval Scandinavia’, Arkiv för nordisk filologi 133 (2018), pp. 29–51. Maraschi, Andrea, ‘The Impact of Christianization on Identity-Marking Foods in the Medieval North: Between Pagan Survivals, New Dietary Restrictions, and Magic Practice’, Food&History 17:2 (2020), pp. 153–181. Maraschi, Andrea, Un banchetto per sposarsi. Matrimonio e rituali alimentari nell’Occidente altomedievale (Spoleto: CISAM, 2014). Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Wine, Bread, and Water, between Doctrine and Alternative: Norms and Practical Issues concerning the Eucharistic Liturgy and Baptism in Thirteenth-Century Europe’, Revista de História da Sociedade e da Cultura 19 (2019), pp. 323–344. Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Þórgunna’s Dinner and Other Medieval Liminal Meals: Food as Mediator between this World and the Hereafter’, in Ármann Jakobsson and Miriam Mayburd, eds., Paranormal Encounters in Iceland 1150–1400 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020), pp. 49–70. McCracken, Peggy, ‘The Floral and the Human’, in Jeffrey J. Cohen, ed., Animal, Vegetable, Mineral: Ethics and Objects (Washington, DC: Oliphaunt Books, 2012), pp. 65–90. Mehler, Natascha, ‘From Self-Sufficiency to External Supply and Famine: Foodstuffs, Their Preparation and Storage in Iceland’, in Petr Sommer and Jan Klápste, eds., Processing, Storage, Distribution of Food: Food in the Medieval Rural Environment (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), pp. 173–186. Messedaglia, Luigi, Il mais e la vita rurale italiana. Saggio di storia agraria (Piacenza: Federazione Italiana dei consorzi agrari, 1927). Mitchell, Stephen A., ‘Leechbooks, Manuals, and Grimoires: On the Early History of Magical Texts in Scandinavia’, ARV. Nordic Yearbook of Folklore 70 (2014), pp. 57–74. Mitchell, Stephen A., ‘The Supernatural and the Fornaldarsögur: The Case of Ketils saga hængs’, in Agneta Ney, Ármann Jakobsson, Annette Lassen, eds., Fornaldarsagaerne. Myter og virkelighed: Studier i de oldislandske fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 2009), pp. 281–298.

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Mitchell, Stephen A., Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle Ages (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011). Montanari, Massimo, ‘A New History Journal: A Journal about New History?’, Food&History 1:1 (2003), pp. 14–17. Montanari, Massimo. Food is Culture, transl. Albert Sonnenfeld (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006). Montanari, Massimo, La fame e l’abbondanza. Storia dell’alimentazione in Europa (Roma-Bari: Laterza, 2010 [1993]). Montanari, Massimo, ‘Unnatural Cooking’, in Carlo Petrini, Ben Watson, and Slow Food Editore, eds., Slow Food: Collected Thoughts on Taste, Tradition and the Honest Pleasures of Food (Bra: Slow Food Arcigola Editore, 2001), pp. 30–32. Mucchielli, Laurent, ‘Aux origines de la Nouvelle Histoire en France. L’évolution intellectuelle et la formation du champ des sciences sociales (1880–1930)’, Revue de Synthèses 116 (1995), pp. 55–98. Nedkvitne, Arnved, Utenrikshandelen fra det vestafjelske Norge 1100–1600 (Bergen: 1983). Notaker, Henry, Food Culture in Scandinavia (London: Greenwood Press, 2009). Notaker, Henry, ‘Scandinavia’, in Massimo Montanari and Françoise Sabban, eds., Atlante dell’alimentazione e della gastronomia (Turin: UTET, 2004), pp. 778–787. O’Brien O’Keeffe, Katherine, ‘Values and Ethics in Heroic Literature’, in M. Godden and M. Lapidge, eds., The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 101–119. Orning, Hans Jacob, ‘Legendary Sagas as Historical Sources’, Tabularia [Online], Autour des sagas. Manuscrits, transmission et écriture de l’histoire (2015), DOI: 10.4000/tabularia.2203, pp. 57–73 (retrieved 16 August 2021). Orning, Hans Jacob, ‘The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages: Exploring the World of the Fornaldarsögur’, Scandinavian Journal of History 35:1 (2010), pp. 3–20. Penniman, John D. Raised on Christian Milk: Food and the Formation of the Soul in Early Christianity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2017). Peyer, Hans Conrad, Von der Gastfreundschaft zum Gasthaus. Studien zur Gastlichkeit im Mittelalter (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1987). Poole, Kristopher, ‘Living and Eating in Viking-Age Towns and their Hinterlands’, in Sera Baker, Martyn Allen, Sarah Middle, and Kristopher Poole, eds., Food and Drink in Archaeology I: University of Nottingham Postgraduate Conference 2007 (Totnes: Prospect Books, 2008), pp. 104–112. Rikstad, Gunhild, ‘Nordiske kokebøker fra middelalderen. Matoppskrifter for de rike’, in Olav Skevik, ed., Middelaldergården i Trøndelag. Foredrag fra to seminar (Verdal: Stiklestad nasjonale kultursenter, 2003), pp. 164–172. Rubin, Miri, ed., The Work of Jacques Le Goff and the Challenges of Medieval History (1997).

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Sandvik, Gudmund, and Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Laws’, in Rory McTurk, ed., A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), pp. 223–244. Segev, Dror, Medieval Magic and Magicians – in Norway and Elsewhere: Based upon 12th–15th Centuries Manuscript and Runic Evidence (Oslo: Skriftserie/Senter for studier i vikingtid og nordisk middelalder 2, 2001). Simonsson, Mikael, ‘“A People Who Eat Wood and Drink Water, the Devil Can not Persuade, nor Can Man”: Food in Rural Areas During the Middle Ages (c. AD 1050–1532) in County Dalarna, Sweden. An Example from Västannorstjärn’, in Sera Baker, Martyn Allen, Sarah Middle, and Kristopher Poole, eds., Food and Drink in Archaeology I: University of Nottingham Postgraduate Conference 2007 (Totnes: Prospect Books, 2008), pp. 170–173. Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘From Reciprocity to Manorialism: On the Peasant Mode of Production in Medieval Iceland’, Scandinavian Journal of History 38:3 (2013), pp. 273–295. Sverrir Tómasson, Pipraðir páfuglar. Matargerðarlist Íslendinga á miðöldum (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 2017). Sweeney, Michelle, Magic in Medieval Romance from Chrétien de Troyes to Geoffrey Chaucer (Portland: Four Courts Press, 2000). Tanzini, Lorenzo, and Sergio Tognetti, eds., La mobilità sociale nel Medioevo italiano 1. Competenze, conoscenze e saperi tra professioni e ruoli sociali (secc. XII–XV) (Rome: Viella, 2016). Tolley, Clive, ‘The Peripheral at the Centre: The Subversive Intent of Norse Myth and Magic’, ARV Nordic Yearbook of Folklore 70 (2014), pp. 15–37. Torf i H. Tulinius, ‘Deconstructing Snorri: Narrative Structure and Heroism in Eyrbyggja saga’, in Victor Millet and Heike Sahm, eds., Narration and Hero. Recounting the Deeds of Heroes in Literature and Art of the Early Medieval Period (Berlin/Boston, MA: De Gruyter, 2014), pp. 195–208. Torfi H. Tulinius, The Matter of the North: the Rise of Literary Fiction in ThirteenthCentury Iceland, transl. Randi C. Eldevik, The Viking Collection, 13 (Odense: Odense University Press, 2002). Valeri, Renée, ‘Création et transmission du savoir culinaire en Scandinavie au 17e siècle’, Paipilles 10–11 (1996), pp. 51–62. Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power: Feasting and Gift-giving in Medieval Iceland and Its Sagas (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Library, 2016). Viklund, Karin, ‘Beer Brewing in Medieval Sweden: Archaeobotanical and Documentary Evidence’, in Petr Sommer and Jan Klápste, eds., Processing, Storage, Distribution of Food: Food in the Medieval Rural Environment (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), pp. 235–243.

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Øye, Ingvild, Driftsmåter i Vestnorsk Jordbruk ca 600–1350 (Bergen: Universitetsforlaget, 1976). Øye, Ingvild, ‘Food and Technology: Cook Utensils and Food Processing in Medieval Norway’, in Petr Sommer and Jan Klápste, eds., Processing, Storage, Distribution of Food: Food in the Medieval Rural Environment (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), pp. 225–234. Øye, Ingvild, Mat og Drikke i Middelalderen (Bergen: Museet, 1980).

About the Authors Viktória Gyönki is a historian, museologist, and PhD candidate at Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest. Her research interests are connected to medieval Scandinavia, with a special interest on Icelandic and Norwegian legal sources connected to outlawry and conflict solving. Andrea Maraschi is a Postdoctoral fellow at the University of Bari and a Lecturer of Anthropology of Food at the University of Bologna. His research interests mainly focus on the history of food and in the history of magic in medieval times. His latest monograph on sympathetic magic in medieval Europe was published in 2020.

Part I Food Production: Natural and Supernatural Strategies.

1.

Magic, Miracles, and Rituals to Fight Famine in Old Norse Literature Andrea Maraschi

Abstract This chapter critically analyses a selection of Old Norse literary sources of different genres, and is aimed at studying people’s need to resort to the ‘supernatural’ in order to fight famine and overcome the anxiety of hunger in medieval Scandinavia. Three main ‘supernatural’ anti-famine strategies are addressed: 1) ‘magic’; 2) miracles; and 3) sacrifices to the pagan gods. The intention is to emphasize the endurance of needs in the minds and in the literary worlds of saga authors and, presumably, in the real world in which they were attempting to flourish. The chapter emphasizes the continuities between non-Christian and Christian survival strategies that were based on the ‘supernatural’, and it shows that the texts shared a common view of the world and of its threats to food supply. Keywords: Famine, Christianization of Medieval Scandinavia, Medieval Icelandic sagas, magic, miracles, pagan sacrifices

The fear (or, more plausibly, the anxiety) of hunger can be considered a general characteristic of our past.1 Life used to be much harder, much more challenging than it eventually became after the end of the nineteenth century. In fact, until the 1800s, the vast majority of the world’s population lived on the equivalent of less than US$ 1 a day: more or less like a Roman slave, or a medieval peasant.2 By today’s standards, that pretty much corresponds to the poverty line according to the World Bank as it was set in 1 Montanari, ‘Unnatural Cooking’, p. 30. 2 Kenny and Kenny, Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Utility, p. 69; Cohen, The Prosperity of Vice, p. xiii.

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2008 (US$ 1.25; in 2015 it was updated to US$ 1.90). The Middle Ages, much like most of the past, were a truly hard period to live through: a time when life expectancy was only 35 years – a level that had been stable since the time of the hunter-gatherer societies.3 In such a threatening world, food represented a concern: maybe not always a major one, but most definitely a constant one: this was true for the whole of Europe, and even more so for marginal areas such as Scandinavia. Among the several typologies of sources that scholars can study to examine the anxiety of hunger in the medieval North, the Icelandic sagas represent a key opportunity, for they unveil details of cultural and social reactions to situations of emergency. Depictions of scenes of hunger or famine occasionally emerge in Old Norse literature, as do descriptions of survival strategies: the sagas’ characters were aware of living in a potentially hostile world, in which the weather and fertility were beyond their control.4 To use an expression coined by German philosopher Martin Heidegger (1889–1976), they felt as if they had been thrown into the world, an inhospitable and dangerous one:5 more precisely, a world that Italian anthropologist Ernesto De Martino would have defined as ‘world of magic’,6 that is, one in which spells and miracles were seen as efficient means to overcome the existential angst.7 Relying on the ‘supernatural’8 was a common, instinctive strategy among many past civilizations,9 the medieval North included. Beliefs in the helpfulness of magic and religion in matters relating to food supply arguably arise from anxiety and fear,10 because they are seen as effective solutions to cope with problems concerning practical life.11 Consequently, magic and religion mirror tensions and hopes, reflect the attempt to influence 3 Cohen, The Prosperity of Vice, p. xiii. See also Clark, A Farewell to Alms. 4 Maraschi, ‘Hunger Games’. 5 Inwood, A Heidegger Dictionary, p. 218; Øverenget, Seeing the Self: Heidegger on Subjectivity, p. 112. 6 De Martino, Il mondo magico. 7 Idem, ‘Crisis of Presence and Religious Reintegration’, pp. 78–79; Heidegger, Being and Time, p. 180; Magrini, ‘“Anxiety” in Heidegger’s Being and Time’, p. 78; Farnetti and Stewart, ‘Translators’ Preface’. 8 Jolly, ‘Medieval Magic’, p. 3. A risky definition in itself, as it introduces potential ‘issues of class’, i.e. supernatural and natural forces, magic, miracles, etc. were not considered equally prestigious by the ‘literate elite’ who dominated the written sources. 9 Dubuisson, Religion and Magic in Western Culture, p. 167. 10 Coudert, Religion, Magic, and Science in Early Modern Europe and America, p. 198; Tracy, Hart, and Martens, ‘Death and Science’; Jong et al., ‘The Religious Correlates of Death Anxiety’. 11 Malinowski, Magic, Science and Religion and Other Essays, pp. 4, 59–62, 116.

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the existing environment,12 and they are determined by the contextual situation.13 In this chapter, three main ‘supernatural’ anti-famine strategies will be addressed: 1) magic; 2) miracles; and 3) sacrifices to the pagan gods. The intention is to emphasize the permanence of needs in the minds and in the literary worlds of saga authors and, presumably, in the real world in which they were attempting to flourish. The third point will be based on the analysis of a few examples from fornaldarsögur, that is, stories set in the legendary pre-Christian past that were meant to entertain the audience.14 In this regard, the present contribution embraces recent scholarship, which argues that legendary worlds are caricatured versions of the real world, and therefore partially mirror the society that produced them (or the memory of the past that such a society wanted to preserve).15 As openly stated in the fourteenth-century Göngu-Hrólfs saga (Chapter 38), legendary tales were not supposed to be trusted with respect to dates, names, or events, yet they reflected actual folk beliefs and mentalities, at the very least.16 As a whole, it will be shown that tales concerning each of the aforementioned three aspects were not mere literary devices employed to edify or amuse the public, but that they also shared a common view of the world and of its threats to food supply. The analysis will be based on the assumption that, regardless of their beliefs, ‘sorcerers’, saints, holy men, and rulers lived in the same social, economic, and environmental milieu, and thus needed to solve similar problems. This is especially true in the case of food-related issues: in the same way that famine paid no heed to social conditions and could hit both the poor and the wealthy, it also did not discriminate against its victims based on their faith. Literary depictions of pre-Christian ritual sacrifices, on the other hand, will highlight 12 Orning, ‘The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages’, pp. 8–9; Gurevich, Medieval Popular Culture; Waggoner, Norse Magical and Herbal Healing, pp. xxi–xxii; Maraschi, ‘Sympathetic Graphophagy’. 13 Lévi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques, p. 148. 14 Mitchell ‘The Supernatural and the Fornaldarsögur’, p. 282, and idem, Witchcraft and Magic, p. 7; Pentikänen, ‘Supernatural/Supernormal’; Barnard and Spencer, Encyclopedia of Social and Cultural Anthropology, p. 624. 15 Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘On Supernatural Motifs in the Fornaldarsögur’, and idem, ‘The Narrative Role of Magic in the Fornaldarsögur’; McKinnell, Meeting the Other in Norse Myth and Legend; Schjødt, ‘Kan myten være virkelighed?’; Orning, ‘The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages’; Segev, Medieval Magic and Magicians, p. 192. 16 See also: Clunies Ross, Prolonged Echoes; Mundal, ‘Fornaldersogene. Vurderinga og vurderingskriteria’, and idem, ‘The Treatment of the Supernatural’; Mitchell, Heroic Sagas and Ballads, and Witchcraft and Magic, pp. 83–85; Price, Religion and War; Raudvere, Kunskap och insikt i norrön tradition; Orning, ‘Legendary Sagas as Historical Sources’; Tulinius, The Matter of the North, p. 186.

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the fracture that separated Christianity from pre-Christian practices in those acts concerning the communities’ religious response to situations of ‘crisis’. In this specific case, the aforementioned overlapping of functions is replaced by the contrast of the material reiteration of pagan sacrifice (offering victims to the gods) against its symbolic Christian counterpart (the Eucharistic liturgy). The terms ‘magic’17 and ‘miracle’ are inherently problematic and need cautious contextualization. Even conceding the existence of such a dichotomy,18 it is important to point out that Christ himself was considered a magician by opponents of Christianity, such as the Greek philosopher Celsius, in the second century. Roughly in the same period, the Christian Mediterranean intellectual Julius Africanus recommended magic to improve crop yields,19 and even Augustine conceded that Christian wonders ‘contained magic’ just like pagan ones.20 Whether one wants to insist on the continuities21 or on the differences between magic and miracle-working,22 it is fair to state that they conceptually overlapped in the past because their functions in everyday life often coincided.23 This proximity should not be mistaken for equivalence, however. Indeed, Church intellectuals distinguished between devilish illusions, which implied the coercion of supernatural forces,24 and wonders, which were based on the invocation of God.25 Nonetheless, outside the intellectual elite, the boundary separating ‘magic’ and ‘religion’ in the medieval northern areas was faint, at the very least. But is there any concrete evidence of said fear of hunger in Old Norse literature? The circumstances would suggest so: in a marginal territory such as Iceland, for instance, the climate did not make cereal growing as easy as it was elsewhere in Europe, and failures of the hay crop would also 17 Clearly, this term does not reflect the complex variety of native words defining magico-related practices in Old Norse literature in the slightest. For this reason, specific terminology (mostly, fjǫlkynngi and seiðr) will be given preference in the following pages. For an exhaustive analysis of the matter, see Segev, Medieval Magic and Magicians, pp. 25–26; Raudvere, ‘Trolldómr in Early Medieval Scandinavia’; Dillmann, ‘Seiður og shamanismi í Íslendingasögum’. 18 Czachesz, ‘Explaining Magic’. 19 Kieckhefer, Magic in the Middle Ages, pp. 34–40. 20 Flint, The Rise of Magic in Early Medieval Europe, p. 33. 21 Gurevich, Medieval Popular Culture, 1988, p. 96. 22 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, The Fantastic Reality, p. 64. 23 Mauss, A General Theory of Magic, p. 106; Segev, Medieval Magic and Magicians, pp. 25–26; Hastrup, Culture and History in Medieval Iceland; Gurevich, Medieval Popular Culture, pp. 80–84. 24 A further distinction was that between natural and demonic magic (Kieckhefer, Magic in the Middle Ages, pp. 8–9). 25 Jolly, ‘Medieval Magic’, p. 6.

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lead to the death of the region’s main resource, livestock.26 Iceland certainly benefited from the so-called medieval warm period, and it seems that it was seen as a land of plenty at the time of the Settlement.27 Yet, it was always characterized by accentuated variability and cold seasons, and the increasing number of settlers undermined the productive system. The destruction of vegetation and soil28 was accompanied by a general cooling of the climate in the late Middle Ages, which severely tested Icelanders and caused much competition for resources at every level:29 this is reflected in the sagas, as in the case of the tenants of Blund-Ketill, for example, who were in desperate need of hay for their livestock (Chapters 4–5), or of Chapter 47 of Njáls saga, where it is told that, at the beginning of the eleventh century, the lack of food and hay led to feuds and various episodes of violence (Chapter 47); the same, again, can be observed in Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar (Chapter 9). Nowadays, there is overall consensus that Icelandic economy was mainly based on agriculture and livestock until the thirteenth century, while fishing became more important from the fourteenth century – even though such a view is currently being challenged to some extent.30 Furthermore, until the twelfth century, the Icelandic economy was characterized by a relative equality among farmers, while in the following century inequality increased and power began to be concentrated in the hands of a small elite.31 Famine is a ‘structure of daily life’, Fernand Braudel noted,32 and it would be difficult to imagine that the fear of it had not left fingerprints in Old Norse literature. In fact, an indication is offered in Norse mythology, if we concede that myths are symbolic representations of reality.33 The foods of the gods are usually inexhaustible, and can be regenerated:34 Þórr’s goats,35 26 Ogilvie and Gísli Pálsson, ‘Mood, Magic, and Metaphor’, p. 254; Ogilvie and Trausti Jónsson, ‘“Little Ice Age” Research’; Trausti Jónsson and Hilmar Garðarsson, ‘Early Instrumental Meteorological Observations’. 27 Amorosi, ‘Climate Impact and Human Response’; Barlow and Jennings, ‘What Can Greenland Proxy Records Tell’; Durrenberger, ‘Production in Medieval Iceland’. 28 Amorosi et al., ‘Raiding the Landscape’, p. 509; McGovern and Perdikaris, ‘The Vikings’ Silent Saga’; McGovern et al., ‘Landscapes of Settlement’. 29 Jones and Mann, ‘Climate over the Millennia’; Meeker and Mayewski, ‘A 1400-Year-Long Record of Atmospheric Circulation’; Maraschi, ‘Hunger Games’. 30 Þorkell Jóhannesson, Lýðir og landshagir, I, pp. 45–56; Gunnar Karlsson, Iceland’s 1100 Years, p. 48; Pires Boulhosa, ‘Of Fish and Ships in Medieval Iceland’. 31 Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘From Reciprocity to Manorialism’. 32 Braudel, Civiltà materiale, economia e capitalismo, p. 45. 33 Raudvere, ‘Fictive Rituals in Völuspá’; Auerbach, Mimesis. 34 Andrén, Jennbert, and Raudvere, Old Norse Religion in Long-Term Perspectives; Lincoln, Death, War, and Sacrifice, p. 124. 35 Edda, pp. 36–37.

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the flesh of the pig Saehrímnir, and the ale and the mead in Valhǫll are all literary and symbolic representations of the specific desire that the afterlife would look like a dining hall where identity-marking fare was unlimited. In an imaginary ‘Otherworld’, seasons, and thus cold and shortage, would not exist.36 Presuming that these representations were totally detached from the ‘deepest anxieties of the societies which both produced and transmitted them’37 would not do justice to their genesis and purposes.38 Interestingly, this same mental representation works also in reverse, for the Norse idea of the end of the world coincided with the coming of an apocalyptic winter (Fimbulvetr).39 As for the sagas, Richard Bauman suggested that society and literature are necessarily intertwined, 40 and it is safe to assume that they mirrored ‘the culture, needs, and circumstances’ of their authors, 41 even though they are thought to reflect ‘how thirteenth-century Christian Icelanders understood – and used – their forebears’ conduct and beliefs’.42 This being said, we would expect ‘supernatural’ remedies to be fairly similar as far as their purposes were concerned, regardless of the fact that their underlying belief systems could be different according to the texts’ setting and time frame. Actually, medieval Icelandic narratives occasionally cast light on the tensions between pre-Christian and Christian times, but such tensions often appear merely formal, function-wise. The early thirteenth-century Þorvalds þáttur víðförla tells that, in 981, one of the first Icelandic missionaries – named Þorvaldr – returned to his native island along with the Saxon bishop Frederick, 43 only to hear his pagan father Konráðr say that there was no need of a bishop. Indeed, he already had his own helper, a ‘prophet’ (spámaðr), who lived in a stone and assisted him (for example by protecting his livestock). Interestingly, in Svaða þáttr, after Þorvaldr’s feckless attempt to convert the Icelanders, the island was hit by such a great famine that many died of hunger (Chapter 1): in this way, the actual fact (the famine) becomes a rhetorical tool to show that the rejection of the new faith can bring starvation,and implies that providing abundance is one of the 36 Montanari, Food is Culture, p. 13; Maraschi, ‘Hunger Games’. 37 O’Donoghue, From Asgard to Valhalla, p. 22. 38 Power, ‘Journeys to the Otherworld’, pp. 159–161; Carlsen, Visions of the Afterlife, p. 214. 39 Edda, pp. 49–54. On the possible correlation between this myth and the dust veil event of 536 AD, see Gräslund, ‘Fimbulvintern, Ragnarök’; Maraschi, ‘Learning from the Past’. 40 Bauman, ‘Performance and Honor’, p. 134. 41 Ogilvie and Gísli Pálsson, ‘Mood, Magic, and Metaphor, p. 268. 42 Mitchell, Witchcraft and Magic, p. 7. 43 Jónas Gíslason, ‘Acceptance of Christianity’.

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main prerogatives of the Christian God. This was a fundamental premise, for times of famine were anything but a rarity in the North: the king of Denmark Óláfr I (1086–1095) was even nicknamed ‘Hunger’, as his reign was characterized by a consecutive years of widespread starvation and crop failure. According to Saxo Grammaticus, the calamity was to be ascribed to God’s anger over the murder of the Christian king Knútr (1016–1035) on consecrated ground:44 the ‘beautifully green’ (fagrgrœnn) fields surrounding Knútr’s grave (symbols and expressions of God’s pleasure; Knýtlinga saga, Chapter 92) would be replaced by dearth (symbol and expression of God’s wrath). The contrast between the two belief systems, then, is again resolved by Christian intellectuals on the basis of a fundamental ‘promise’: the Christian faith guarantees abundance, whereas a pagan kingdom can only know indigence. In such cases, famines were mainly caused by back-to-back harvest failures.45 The Nordic countries, despite being at the same latitude as southern Greenland and Alaska, benefited from the Gulf Stream (as well as of the aforesaid ‘warm period’), which made crop farming possible. However, agriculture was particularly sensitive to the Scandinavian prolonged winters (to a deeper extent than to temperature shocks). 46 The weather represented one of the biggest concerns for saints and ‘sorcerers’, and even more so given the setting of such stories. Fjǫlkynngi was often employed to exploit the elements against a given enemy, while food supplies were the priority for Christian saints. But even in this case, the distance separating the hemispheres of ‘magic’ and ‘religion’ is barely visible. We read that, as many of his colleagues, Bishop Þorlákr was able to forecast the weather and tell farmers if and when it would eventually improve, and then when famines would cease.47 In this sense, he was mediating between God and the faithful, but in a way that was in full harmony with pre-Christian pagan powers and with the Norse deities themselves, just because the ‘social needs’ of people remained the same and transcended changes concerning beliefs. Everyday life (micro-history) was not affected by major political events and by Christianization (macro-history). This is particularly evident if one searches for precedents. Before Christianity spread to the North, the Norse people resorted to prophetesses to know when famines would come to an end. The art practiced by such prophetesses 44 Gesta Danorum, XII, i. 45 Hybel and Poulsen, The Danish Resources, pp. 67–75. 46 Dribe, Olsson, and Svensson, ‘Nordic Europe’, pp. 186–188; Hybel and Poulsen, The Danish Resources, pp. 60–64. 47 Þorláks saga byskups in elzta, pp. 85–86. See also Mitchell, Witchcraft and Magic, p. 66.

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was the divinatory ritual of seiðr, a detailed but controversial48 description of which is notably featured in Chapter 4 of Eiríks saga rauða. The saga was written between 1220 and 1280 and set between the end of the tenth and the beginning of the eleventh century, and it retraces the expedition of Leifr Eiríksson to Greenland to convert the locals to Christianity. Eiríkr organized the agricultural land and pastures for their imported animals (sheep, goats, cattle) at Brattahlið,49 and, subsequently, the economic system of Greenland would be based on permanent farms and patches of pasture vegetation for domestic stock production.50 Milk and meat from cattle were staples, and therefore adequate hay crops were absolutely required, while large fish, seals, and seabirds were helpful to integrate the productive system.51 The saga author tells that a harsh ‘famine’ (hallæri) hit the area around the year 1000, hence the need to resort to seiðr in order to address the ‘crisis’. On the other hand, the saga’s cultural landscape was, in all respects, a ‘world of magic’, that is, one where magic and sorcery were considered remedies in similar situations: indeed, it is told that the community called for the help of the seiðkona Þorbjǫrg, who used to visit the local farmsteads every winter in order to perform a divinatory ritual and inform the farmers about the coming seasons.52 According to the author, seiðr was a long-forgotten knowledge that was possessed by Þorbjǫrg’s nine sisters as well (all deceased by that time),53 and mythology wants it that such an art was originally known to the gods of fertility exclusively, the Vanir, and to Freyja in particular.54 In Eiríks saga, Þorbjǫrg is given a special meal, namely, a porridge of kid’s milk and the hearts of all the animals inhabiting in the area, and this, along with the chanting of specific ‘warding songs’ (varðlokur), allowed her to commune with nature.55 By eating the hearts of the local animals, indeed, she literally absorbed knowledge concerning the environment and 48 Mitchell, Witchcraft and Magic, p. 94; Maraschi, ‘Hunger Games’. 49 Until c. 1200 AD, similarities in animal husbandry between Iceland and Greenland were clear. On this and other comparisons between the two productive systems, see McGovern, Harrison, and Smiarowski, ‘Sorting Sheep’. 50 Dugmore, Keller, and McGovern, ‘Norse Greenland Settlement’, p. 15. 51 Buckland, Amorosi, Barlow et al., ‘Bioarchaeological and Climatological Evidence’, pp. 88–89. 52 Raudvere, ‘Trolldómr in Early Medieval Scandinavia’, pp. 110–130; Heidem, ‘Spinning seiðr’; Mitchell, Witchcraft and Magic, p. 94. 53 On the association of seiðr with the female gender, see Raudvere, ‘Trolldómr in Early Medieval Scandinavia’, pp. 118–120; Kress, ‘The Apocalypse of a Culture’ and Máttugar meyjar; Clover, ‘Regardless of Sex’; Jochens, ‘Old Norse Magic and Gender’, pp. 307–308. 54 Dillmann, ‘Seiður og shamanismi í Íslendingasögum’; Price, Religion and War; Meylan, Magic and Kingship in Medieval Iceland, p. 39. 55 Maraschi, ‘Eaten Hearts’.

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the weather thanks to the laws of sympathetic magic,56 according to which certain attributes (strength, wisdom, etc.) were housed in specific organs and could be acquired by eating them;57 consequently, she was able to predict when the famine would cease. Most interestingly, Þorbjǫrg was joined in the ritual chant by the Christian Icelandic explorer Guðríðr Þorbjarnardóttir, who was the only other woman in the hall who remembered the words, as she had been taught them by her foster-mother. This shows that the continuity of needs could prevail over differences in religious cults: indeed, after first refusing to engage in the pagan ritual, Guðríðr helped the pagan spákona to establish a connection with the ‘spirits’ (náttúrur) that had probably caused the famine,58 and forgot for a moment her individual faith for the benefit of the community.59 The numerous cases of lack of supplies (for men and their livestock) in Old Norse literature include references to both traditional pagan motifs and biblical archetypes. At times, similarities are striking: where Christ had Simon’s fishing nets almost broken due to the large number of fish they caught (Lk 5:1–11), a vǫlva named Þuríðr sundafyllir could lure schools of fish into the f jords in times of dearth, according to Landnámabók.60 Likewise, in hagiographic tradition, Bishop Þorlákr provided an abundance of salmon to some faithful during a great famine.61 However, one should not make the mistake of thinking that these were mere rhetorical operations, or sterile quotations: the supernatural powers of Icelandic sorcerers and holy men mirror the environment in which their agents live. In fact, our Icelandic protagonists had more appealing prey to catch in their sea, such as whales and seals. Not surprisingly, then, narratives often feature scenes of whales that ran aground due to fjǫlkynngi, to the power of the Norse gods, or to Christian providence, thus solving local food crises: the ‘sorceress’ Hildigunnr Beinisdóttir62 was as able to attract whales to shore as a saint like Þorlákr by means of his holiness;63 in Eiríks saga rauða, the pagan Þórhallr veiðimaðr obtained the same result by invoking Þórr through a 56 Maraschi, ‘Hunger Games’; Maraschi, Similia similibus curantur, passim. 57 Maraschi, ‘Sympathy for the Lord’, pp. 210–211; Maraschi, ‘Hunger Games’. See also Krappe (‘Warning Animals’) and Divjak (‘The Motif of Warning Birds’), who link the episode to the motif of the warning birds. 58 Tolley, Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic, I, pp. 470–473. 59 Maraschi, ‘Eaten Hearts’. 60 Landnámabók, S 145 / H 116, p. 186. 61 Þorláks saga byskups in elzta, p. 92. 62 Landnámabók, H 63, p. 107. 63 Þorláks saga byskups in elzta, p. 96.

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poem, and provocatively claimed that the god had proved to be a better friend than Christ (‘Drjúgari varð inn rauðskeggjaði nú en Kristr yðvarr’).64 Then, even though tales of magical, pagan, and Christian wonders are often classified as mere topoi and clearly had specific narratological purposes,65 they nonetheless reflected urgent social needs.66 On the contrary, pre-Christian and Christian survival strategies clashed with each other when it came to sacrifices. De Martino held that sacrifice was a form of mythico-ritual ‘dehistorification’,67 a means to solve a ‘crisis’ by periodically repeating a certain act that exaggerated the crisis itself and thus negated its historicity.68 The Christian Eucharistic liturgy, for instance, reiterated the sacrifice of Christ – which had occurred only once in history – during all Masses, and became contemporary to all Masses, every day. By transposing such a dramatic event onto a metahistorical level, the sacrifice of Christ ceased to represent a historical negative event.69 Following a similar idea, pagan sacrifices were meant to give up animals or a portion of the harvest (limited loss) to prevent much more serious possible losses, and thus to ensure abundant crops and healthy livestock.70 Scenes describing sacrifices ‘for a good year’ (til árs), are mainly featured in fornaldarsögur, most likely because they represented distant memories of the authors’ pagan past. Sacrifices were often aimed at controlling the weather and fertility, which were major concerns for societies living in a ‘world of magic’: by offering animals to the gods, the potential danger of bad weather and bad crop yields was ‘dehistorified’, and thus warded off. However, victims may have included humans, and specifically the highestranking men in the society.71 Such a generous offering was meant to greatly please the gods, as Snorri tells in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar. Here, the king ‘apostle’ who ruled Norway between 995 and 1000 – and who played a critical role in the Christianization of the region – contrived a symptomatic plan during an assembly at Mæren, north-east of Trondheimsfjord.72 After his men refused to accept baptism and instead invited him to practice a ‘great sacrifice’ (blót mikit) in honour of their traditional gods, Óláfr cunningly 64 Eiríks saga rauða, pp. 224–225. 65 Mitchell, Witchcraft and Magic, p. xi; Grønlie, ‘Miracles, Magic and Missionaries’. 66 Maraschi, ‘I miracoli alimentari di San Colombano’. 67 Farnetti and Stewart, ‘Translators’ Preface’, p. 432. 68 Massenzio, Sacré et identité ethnique, pp. 68–70. 69 De Martino, Sud e magia, pp. 110–112. 70 Levering, Sacrifice and Community, p. 178; Moore, Repetition in Hebrews, p. 85. 71 Hálfs saga ok Hálfsrekka, ch. 11; Gautreks saga, ch. 7; Gesta Danorum, VI, v, 7. 72 Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar, p. 316.

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replied that it would have been even more convenient to offer ‘the greatest sacrifice’ (mesta blót), since the gods were probably very irritated by his efforts to convert Norway to Christianity. Then, in order to obtain a peaceful and plentiful season (til árs ok friðar), sacrificing men would have been more appropriate than offering mere animals. Aware that this was the only way to convince his subjects to convert, he told them that such a great sacrifice required the noblest men in the reign, and, among them, six of those who were present at the assembly. They understood Óláfr’s provocation, and held it more convenient to get baptized, as Christianity did not imply any greater sacrifice than that of Christ on the cross. Far from relying too much on Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar with regard to its historical accuracy, it is clear that Snorri wanted to emphasize the controversies of the pagan cults and exploit them for use against the heathens: by doing so, he highlighted the traditional connection between the ritual sacrifice of animals/humans and good weather/abundance of food. Snorri deals with this aspect in Ynglinga saga as well, a narrative featuring elements typical of fornaldarsögur, even though the text is not as fantastic as the genre would theoretically imply.73 In this case, the scene is set in a far-away past, namely, the fourth century, when Dómaldi was ruling in Sweden. His reign was inextricably characterized by ‘famine’ (sultr) as he had been cursed by his step-mother by means of seiðr,74 and it was then decided to perform sacrifices at Uppsala to address the ‘crisis’. Again, however, it was clear that common animal victims would not be sufficient, and Snorri presents a proper hierarchy of sacrificial victims: first it was tried with oxen, but famine persisted; then, with men, with similar results. Eventually, the Svíar concluded that Dómaldi himself was to be killed and offered to Freyr, for he, as the king, was responsible for the prosperity of his land.75 Snorri further emphasizes the relationship between sovereignty and abundance of food in Chapter 43, where the idea emerges that a ruler was to be sacrificed if unable to grant his people good harvests. He tells that, in the early eighth century, numerous outlaws moved from King Ívarr’s lands to Värmland, where King Óláfr trételgja reigned, and where the fields were known for being particularly fertile. This favourable context, which was seen as an attribute of the king, rapidly turned into a disastrous one, though, since the sudden immigration wave caused the collapse of the productive chain, and a great famine ensued. Consequently, the king himself was 73 Lassen, ‘Textual figures of Óðinn’, p. 280. 74 Tolley, Shamanism in Norse Myth and Magic, II, p. 166. 75 Ynglinga saga, pp. 31–32.

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considered responsible, even though Snorri would later note that the crisis was clearly the result of the migration of too many people and not due to any major flaw on the part of Óláfr. This notwithstanding, ‘[t]hey blamed it on their king, according to their custom of holding the ruler responsible for both good and bad seasons’ (‘Kenndu þeir þat konungi sínum, svá sem Svíar eru vanir at kenna konungi bæði ár ok hallæri’),76 and the fact that Óláfr was ‘a little sacrificer’ (lítill blótmaðr) was to the Svíar a sufficient indication that the king himself was to be offered in sacrifice to Óðinn til árs. As also seen in the previous cases, the ‘crisis’ is addressed by a practice that exaggerates and transposes it onto a metahistorical level, where it is solved by the killing of the most important figure in the reign. By doing so, reality is deprived of its constitutive drama, and, in De Martino’s terms, ‘history’ can flow normally once again. Similarly, in the thirteenth-century Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks (here in the H-manuscript version, Saga Heiðreks konungs ins vitra), Heiðrekr and the Gothic king Haraldr engage in a feud when the ‘soothsayers’ (vísendamǫnnum) cast lots to determine how to end the great famine that was hitting Reiðgotaland. The answer they received was that the highestborn youth in the land was to be sacrificed,77 and Heiðrekr and Haraldr, respectively, thought that the other’s son was to be killed and offered to Óðinn. Clearly, the mythic past lent itself to reconstructions of this kind;78 that is, to reconstructions of a society that was entirely pagan and thus inclined to ‘barbarous’ practices, including the sacrifice of human lives for the sake of fertility and abundance.79 This rhetorical mechanism was particularly sensible given the plausible purposes of the saga authors, who aimed at entertaining their public. Scenes of ritual sacrifice such as these seem to have been rhetorically exploited to provide a negative picture of the pre-Christian past, a legendary one in which human blood was considered a sensible price for the benefit of the community. However, from the viewpoint of its social function in the sagas’ world, sacrifice fulfilled the same social needs as fjǫlkynngi, seiðr, and miracles for what concerned hunger-related crises: the transition from a pre-Christian to a Christian society implied a change in the type of survival strategies, but not a change to the major collective concerns.80 This is to say that literary representations of ‘magic’ 76 77 78 79 80

Ibid., pp. 74–75. Saga Heiðreks konungs ins vitra, p. 24. Ferrari, ‘Possible Worlds of Sagas’; Maraschi, ‘Bera’s Meal’. The same is true for cannibalism as well. See Maraschi, ‘Taboo or Magic Practice?’ Maraschi, ‘Hunger Games’.

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practices and of sacrifices may well have reflected peoples’ desire for an easier life, full pantries, healthy livestock, and good yields, not unlike miracle tales did.81 While there is little doubt that these were literary devices for creating tensions and drama in the narrative, the sagas ‘can tell us what the thirteenth-century authors wanted their audiences to believe about past behavior’.82 As harshly condemned as ‘magic’ could be in Christian times, it still belonged to the cultural memory space where old beliefs were safely stored.83 Furthermore, and most importantly, descriptions of ‘magical’ practices, miracle-working, and pre-Christian religious rituals, ‘sometimes also resonate with contemporary realities’:84 they mirrored and counterbalanced the same deep-rooted anguish that was a characteristic of De Martino’s ‘world of magic’.

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Hænsna-Þóris saga, in Íslendinga sögur og þættir II, edited by Bragi Halldórsson, Jón Torfason, Sverrir Tómasson, and Örnólfur Thorsson (Reykjavík: Svart á hvítu 1987), pp. 1417–1436. Knýtlinga saga, in Danakonunga sögur, edited by Bjarni Gudnason, Íslenzk fornrit, 35 (Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1982), pp. 91–321. Landnámabók, edited by Jakob Benediktsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 1 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fonritafélag, 1968). Norse Magical and Herbal Healing: A Medical Book from Medieval Iceland, edited by Ben Waggoner (New Haven, CT: Troth, 2001). Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar, in Heimskringla I, edited by Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson, Íslenzk fornrit, 26 (Reykjavik: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag 1941). I, pp. 225–372. Saga Heiðreks konungs ins vitra (The Saga of King Heidrek the Wise), edited by Christopher Tolkien (London: Nelson and Sons, 1960). Saxo Grammaticus, Gesta Danorum. Danmarkshistorien, 2 vols., edited by Karsten Friis-Jensen and Peter Zeeberg (Copenhagen: Danske Sprog- og Litteraturselskab & Gads Forlag, 2005). Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning, edited by Anthony Faulkes (Exeter: Short Run Press, 2005). Svaða þáttr ok Arnórs kerlingarnefs, in Flateyjarbók, edited by Sigurður Nordal, 4 vols. (Akranes: Flateyjarútgáfan, 1944–5), I, pp. 488–490. Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, ‘Um kristniboðsþættina’, Gripla 2, edited by Jónas Kristjánsson (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar, 1977), pp. 19–31. Völsunga saga, edited by Guðni Jónsson and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson, in Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, I (Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfan forni, 1943), pp. 1–91. Ynglinga saga, edited by Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson in Heimskringla I, Íslenzk fornrit, 26 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1941), pp. 9–83. Þorláks saga byskups in elzta, in Biskupa sögur, II, ed. by Ásdis Egilsdóttir, Íslenzk fornrit, 16 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fonritafélag, 2002), pp. 47–99.

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Amorosi, Thomas, ‘Climate Impact and Human Response in Northeast Iceland: Archaeological Investigations at Svalbard 1986–88’, in Christopher D. Morris, James Rackham, eds., Norse and Later Settlement and Subsistence in the North Atlantic (Glasgow: University of Glasgow Press, 1992), pp. 101–127. Amorosi, Thomas, Buckland, Paul C., Dugmore, Andrew J,, Ingimundarson, Jon H., and Thomas H. McGovern, ‘Raiding the Landscape: Human Impact in the Scandinavian North Atlantic’, Human Ecology 25, 3 (1997), pp. 491–518. Andrén, Anders, Jennbert, Kristina, and Catharina Raudvere. eds., Old Norse Religion in Long-Term Perspectives: Origins, Changes, and Interactions (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2006). Auerbach, Erich, Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991). Ásdís Egilsdóttir, The Fantastic Reality: Hagiography, Miracles and Fantasy, The Thirteenth International Saga Conference, Durham and York, 6–12 August 2006 (Plenary Paper), pp. 63–70. Assmann, Jan, Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies, transl. Rodney Livingstone (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2006). Barlow, Lisa K., and Ann E. Jennings, ‘What Can Greenland Proxy Records Tell Us about the Climate of the North Atlantic Experienced by Norse Settlers ca. AD 800–1400?’, paper presented at the 28th Annual Arctic Workshop, INSTAAR, Boulder Co. 11–15 March 1998. Barnard, Alan, and Jonathan Spencer, eds., Encyclopedia of Social and Cultural Anthropology (London/New York: Routledge, 2002). Bauman, Richard, ‘Performance and Honor in 13th-Century Iceland’, Journal of American Folklore 99 (1986), pp. 131–150. Braudel, Fernand, Civiltà materiale, economia e capitalismo, 3 vols., vol. 1, Le Strutture del quotidiano (Turin: Einaudi: 1982). Buckland, Paul C. et al., ‘Bioarchaeological and Climatological Evidence for the Fate of Norse Farmers in Medieval Greenland’, Earth Science Faculty Scholarship 275 (1995), pp. 88–96. Carlsen, Christian, Visions of the Afterlife in Old Norse Culture (Oslo: Novus Forlag, 2015). Clark, Gregory, A Farewell to Alms: A Brief Economic History of the World (Princeton, NJ/Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2007). Clover, Carol J., ‘Regardless of Sex’, Speculum 68 (1993), pp. 363–387. Clunies Ross, Margaret, Prolonged Echoes: Old Norse Myths in Medieval Northern Society (Odense: Odense University Press, 1994). Cohen, Daniel, The Prosperity of Vice: A Worried View of Economics, transl. Susan Emanuel (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2012).

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Coudert, Allison P., Religion, Magic, and Science in Early Modern Europe and America (Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 2011). Czachesz, István, ‘Explaining Magic: Earliest Christianity as a Test Case’, in L.H. Martin and J. Sørensen, eds., Past Minds: Studies in Cognitive Historiography (London: Equinox, 2011), pp. 141–165. De Martino, Ernesto, ‘Crisis of Presence and Religious Reintegration’, Hau: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 2 (2) (2012), pp. 434–450. De Martino, Ernesto, Il mondo magico. Prolegomeni a una storia del magismo (Torino: Paolo Boringhieri, 1973; 1st ed. 1948). De Martino, Ernesto, Morte e pianto rituale. Dal lamento antico al pianto di Maria (Torino: Einaudi, 1958). De Martino, Ernesto, Sud e magia (Milano: Feltrinelli, 1982; 1st ed. 1959). Dillmann, François-Xavier, Les magiciens dans l’Islande ancienne. Études sur la représentation de la magie islandaise et de ses agents dans les sources littérairers norroises (Uppsala: Kungl. Gustav Adolfs Akademien för svensk folkkultur, 2006). Dillmann, François-Xavier, ‘Seiður og shamanismi í Íslendingasögum’, Skáldskaparmál 2 (1993), pp. 20–33. Divjak, Alenka, ‘The Motif of Warning Birds in Attila’s Siege of Aquileia and Its Survival and Transformation in the Origo Civitatum Italiae seu Venetiarum (Chronicon Altinate et Chronicon Gradense), La Cronaca di Marco and Chroonica Extensa by Andrea Dandolo’, Acta Histriae 21 (2013): pp. 493–512. Dribe, Martin, Olsson, Mats, and Patrick Svensson, ‘Nordic Europe’, in Guido Alfani and Cormac Ó Gráda, eds., Famine in European History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), pp. 185–211. Dubuisson, Daniel, Religion and Magic in Western Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2016). Dugmore, Andew J., Keller, Christian, and Thomas H. McGovern, ‘Norse Greenland Settlement: Reflections on Climate Change, Trade, and The Contrasting Fates of Human Settlements in the North Atlantic Islands’, Arctic Anthropology 44, 1 (2007), pp. 12–26. Durrenberger, Paul E., ‘Production in Medieval Iceland’, Acta Archaeologica 61 (1991), pp. 14–21. Farnetti, Tobia, Charles Stewart, ‘Translators’ Preface: An introduction to “Crisis of presence and religious reintegration” by Ernesto de Martino’, HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 2 (2) (2012): pp. 431–433. Ferrari, Fulvio, ‘Possible Worlds of Sagas: The Intermingling of Different Fictional Universes in the Development of the Fornaldarsögur as a Genre’, in Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, eds., The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2012), pp. 271–289. Flint, Valerie I. J., The Rise of Magic in Early Medieval Europe (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991).

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Gräslund, Bo, ‘Fimbulvintern, Ragnarök och klimatkrisen år 536–537 e. Kr.’, Saga och sed (2007), pp. 93–123. Grønlie, Siân, ‘Miracles, Magic and Missionaries: The Supernatural in the Conversion þættir’, Preprint Papers of the Thirteenth International Saga Conference (Durham: The Centre for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2006), pp. 294–303. Gunnar Karlsson, Iceland’s 1100 Years: The History of a Marginal Society (London: Hurst, 2000). Gurevich, Aron J., Medieval Popular Culture: Problems of Belief and Perception (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988). Hastrup, Kirsten, Culture and History in Medieval Iceland: An Anthropological Analysis of Structure and Change (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985). Heidegger, Martin, Being and Time, transl. Joan Stambaugh (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2010, 1st ed., 1953). Heidem, Eldar, ‘Spinning seiðr’, in Anders Andrén, Kristina Jennbert, and Catharina Raudvere, eds., Old Norse Religion in Long-Term Perspectives: Origins, Changes, and Interactions (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2006), pp. 164–170. Helga Kress, Máttugar meyjar. Íslenzk fornbókmenntasaga (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 1993). Helga Kress, ‘The Apocalypse of a Culture’, Pároli (1990): pp. 279–302. Hybel, Nils, and Bjørn Poulsen, The Danish Resources c. 1000–1500 (Leiden: Brill, 2007). Inwood, Michael, A Heidegger Dictionary (Oxford, Blackwell, 1999). Jochens, Jenny, ‘Old Norse Magic and Gender: Þáttr Þorvalds ens víðfǫrla’, Scandinavian Studies 63 (1991), pp. 305–317. Hybel, Nils, and Bjørn Poulsen, ‘The Church and Sexuality in Medieval Iceland’, Journal of Medieval History 6 (1980), pp. 377–392. Jolly, Karen, ‘Medieval Magic: Definitions, Beliefs, Practices’, in Karen Jolly, Catharina Raudvere, and Edward Peters, eds., Witchcraft and Magic in Europe (6 vols.), Volume 3. The Middle Ages (London: The Athlone Press, 1991), pp. 1–72. Jónas Gíslason, ‘Acceptance of Christianity in Iceland in the Year 1000 (999)’, in Tore Ahlbäck, ed., Old Norse and Finnish Religions and Cultic Place-Names (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1990), pp. 223–255. Jones, P. D., and M. E. Mann, ‘Climate over the Millennia’, Reviews of Geophysics 42 (2004), pp. 1120–1131. Jong, Jonathan, Ross, Robert, Philip, Tristan, Chang, Si-Hua, Simons, Naomi, and Jamin Halberstadt, ‘The Religious Correlates of Death Anxiety: A Systematic Review and Meta-Analysis’, Religion, Brain & Behavior (2017), DOI: 10.1080/2153599X.2016.1238844 (retrieved 15 August 2016). Kenny, Anthony, and Charles Kenny, Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Utility: Happiness in Philosophical and Economic Thought (Exeter: Imprint Academic, 2006).

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Kieckhefer, Richard, Magic in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000; 1st ed., 1989). Krappe, Alexander H., ‘Warning Animals’, Folklore 59 (1948), pp. 8–15. Lassen, Annette, ‘Textual figures of Óðinn’, in Anders Andrén, Kristina Jennbert, Catharina Raudvere, eds., Old Norse Religion in Long-Term Perspectives: Origins, Changes and Interactions (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2006), pp. 280–284. Levering, Matthew. Sacrifice and Community: Jewish Offering and Christian Eucharist (Malden, MA Blackwell, 2005). Lévi-Strauss, Claude, Tristes Tropiques, transl. John and Doreen Weightman (New York: Penguin, 1973; 1st ed. 1955). Lincoln, Bruce, Death, War, and Sacrifice: Studies in Ideology and Practice (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1991). Magrini, James, ‘“Anxiety” in Heidegger’s Being and Time: The Harbinger of Authenticity’, Philosophy Scholarship, 15 (2006), http://dc.cod.edu/philosophypub/15 (retrieved 15 August 2016). Malinowski, Bronislaw, Magic, Science and Religion and Other Essays, edited by Robert Redfield (Glencoe, IL: The Free Press, 1948). Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Bera’s Meal: Cannibalism and Magic in Hrólfs saga kraka and in the Medieval Icelandic “fantastic” worldview’, in Thomas Ballhausen, Chris Doyle, and Christa Tuczay, eds., Of Man Eating Man: Medieval and Early Modern Cannibalism, Explorations in Medieval Culture Series (Leiden: Brill, 2021), forthcoming. Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Eaten Hearts and Supernatural Knowledge in Eiríks saga rauða’, Scandia: Journal of Medieval Norse Studies 1 (2018), pp. 25–47. Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Hunger Games: Supernatural Strategies Against Hunger in the Medieval North’, Arkiv för nordisk filologi 133 (2018), pp. 29–51. Maraschi, Andrea, ‘I miracoli alimentari di San Colombano. L’originalità, la tradizione e la simbologia’, Studi Medievali 52 (2011), pp. 517–576. Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Learning from the Past to Understand the Present. 536 A.D. and Its Consequences for Mythical (and Historical) Landscapes’, Ceræ: An Australasian Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 6 (2019), pp. 23–44. Maraschi, Andrea, Similia similibus curantur. Cannibalismo, grafofagia, e “magia” simpatetica nell’Europa medievale (500–1500) (Spoleto: CISAM, 2020). Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Sympathetic Graphophagy in Late Medieval Scandinavian Leechbooks and Collections of Charms’, in Fabrizio Conti, ed., Civilizations of the Supernatural (Budapest: Trivent Publishing, 2020), pp. 247–264. Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Sympathy for the Lord: The Host and Elements of Sympathetic Magic in Late Medieval Exempla’, Journal of Medieval Religious Cultures 43, 2 (2017), pp. 209–230.

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Maraschi, Andrea, ‘Taboo or Magic Practice? Cannibalism as Identity Marker for Giants and Human Heroes in Medieval Iceland’, Parergon 37, 1 (2020), pp. 1–26. Massenzio, Marcello, Sacré et identité ethnique. Frontières et ordre du monde, transl. Federica Giardini and Valérie Giardini (Paris: École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, 1999; 1st ed. 1994). Mauss, Marcel, A General Theory of Magic, transl. Robert Brain (London/New York: Routledge, 1972; 1st pub. 1902). McGovern, Thomas H., and Sophia P. Perdikaris, ‘The Vikings’ Silent Saga: What Went Wrong with the Scandinavian Westward Expansion?’, Natural History Magazine 109 (2000), pp. 51–56. McGovern, Thomas H. et al., ‘Landscapes of Settlement in Northern Iceland: Historical Ecology of Human Impact and Climate Fluctuation on the Millennial Scale’, American Anthropologist 109, 1 (2007), pp. 27–51. McGovern, Thomas H. et al., ‘Sorting Sheep and Goats in Medieval Iceland and Greenland Local Subsistence, Climate Change, or World System Impacts?’, CUNY Academic Works (2014): https://academicworks.cuny.edu/hc_pubs/636 (retrieved 15 August 2016). McKinnell, John, Meeting the Other in Norse Myth and Legend (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2005). Meeker, Loren D., and Paul A. Mayewski, ‘A 1400-Year-Long Record of Atmospheric Circulation over the North Atlantic and Asia’, The Holocene 12 (2002), pp. 257–266. Meylan, Nicolas. Magic and Kingship in Medieval Iceland. The Construction of a Discourse of Political Resistance (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014). Mitchell, Stephen A., Heroic Sagas and Ballads (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991). Mitchell, Stephen A., ‘The Supernatural and the Fornaldarsögur: The Case of Ketils saga hængs’, in Agneta Ney, Ármann Jakobsson, Annette Lassen, eds., Fornaldarsagaerne. Myter og virkelighed. Studier i de oldislandske fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 2009), pp. 281–298. Mitchell, Stephen A., Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle Ages (Philadelphia, PA/Oxford: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011). Montanari, Massimo, Food is Culture, transl. Albert Sonnenfeld (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006). Montanari, Massimo, ‘Unnatural Cooking’, in Carlo Petrini, Ben Watson and Slow Food Editore, eds., Slow Food: Collected Thoughts on Taste, Tradition and the Honest Pleasures of Food (Bra: Slow Food Arcigola Editore, 2001), pp. 30–32. Moore, Nicholas J., Repetition in Hebrews: Plurality and Singularity in the Letter to the Hebrews, Its Ancient Context, and the Early Church (Tübingen: Laupp & Göbel, 2015).

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About the Author Andrea Maraschi is a Postdoctoral fellow at the University of Bari and a Lecturer of Anthropology of Food at the University of Bologna. His research interests mainly focus on the history of food and in the history of magic in medieval times. His latest monograph on sympathetic magic in medieval Europe was published in 2020.

2.

Divine Intervention in the Preparation of Food and Drink in Old Norse Culture Karoline Kjesrud

Abstract Food and drinks have been associated with divine interventions for centuries in Old Norse culture, stretching from pre-Christian to Christian worldviews. This chapter investigates how various medieval sources to Marian intervention in practices related to brewing and food preparations may be seen as a continuation of Early Christian continental as well as local pre-Christian ideas about fertility and protection. The chapter explores how female deities’ relationship with food and drinks are echoed in skaldic and eddic poetry, Snorri’s learning book in skaldic art, as well as in pre-Christian iconography. It demonstrates how female deities are often associated with fertility and protection, and how this symbolic image is extended to, for example, milk and certain plants – including brewing plants. Keywords: divine intervention, drinking culture, goddesses, Mary, fertility and protection

Introduction Within the Old Norse corpus of Marian miracles, there is one miracle telling the story about a mistress in a household who is regularly visited by the king and his men.1 The mistress is described as the king’s great friend. She was 1 Maríu saga, ed. by Unger, p. 109; Die altisländischen und altnorwegischen Mariamirakeln, ed. by Kupferschmid

Gyönki, V. and A. Maraschi (eds.), Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789462988217_ch02

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not wealthy, but she was pious, and she prayed eagerly to Mary. The mistress usually prepared feasts for the king carefully and well in advance, but in one instance she received the message of the king’s arrival at short notice. The mistress knew then that she had enough mungát (low-alcohol ale) in the cellar, but only one barrel of mjöðr (mead, a beverage made from honey and water), and she realized that they would run out of beverages and the feast could be a failure. She immediately ran to the Marian church nearby, kneeled in front of the altar, and begged the Holy Mary for her assistance. The miracle implies that Mary must have heard the mistress’ prayers; the level of mead in the barrel remained the same throughout the evening, despite the king and his men drinking wholeheartedly. Mary’s intervention ensured the feast was a success. This miracle is one of many examples of Mary’s interventions in the preparations for various feasts, or, more specifically, food and drinks in the Middle Ages. From where does this topos derive? This chapter departs from the medieval sources of Mary’s intervention in medieval rituals and practices in the Norse world, and investigates how they represent a continuation of i) Early Christian ideas from the continent, and ii) already established conceptions in the Norse world prior to Christianity. It endeavours to bring together a broader corpus of Marian expressions: runic inscriptions on kitchen utensils; medieval miracles and poetry; epigraphic inscriptions and plant ornamentation on drinking horns; altar paintings depicting Mary with flowers, fruits or nursing her son, and to analyse what, taken together, they may reflect of a past conception of the fertility and feast preparing function of female deities in a pre-Christian and Christian worldview. The chapter concludes with a discussion of the influence of female deities on the preparation of food and drinks and its relationship to the well-testified role of women in society as welcoming and serving.

Background: Early Christian Motifs and Pre-Christian Echoes Mary’s role and what she means to people shifted throughout the medieval period. She represented a variety of qualities at different stages and in various places. Ideas and theological explanations about Mary have been formed in continental Europe from the apostolic age until present,2 and have partly been drawn from older, pre-Christian concepts. When the earliest dogmas about Mary and her position were formally established for the first time, they 2 Gambero, Mary and the Fathers of the Church; Gambero, Mary in the Middle Ages.

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were the result of prior debates and political interests in the area.3 At the Church Council in Ephesos, in 431, Mary was declared Theotokos, God-parent or Mother of God, and her uniqueness was further expounded at the Church Council in Chalcedon in 451, where her perpetual virginity, aei-parthenos, was declared. By being a virgin and the mother of an emperor, i.e. of Christ ruling in heaven, Mary was connecting Christianity with older female goddesses and former female rulers. One of the clearest parallels is Isis, the Egyptian goddess and mother of Horus. Being a virgin mother of a ruler son, Isis was the ideal typological pattern for the mother of the Christian God. Isis was considered to be the nature and the origin towards the end of Hellenistic time. She represented the binding force of the entire universe. 4 The mother and son-pair Isis and Horus, nature and man, formed a social and political model for the rulers in Egypt for centuries. Goddesses were also integrated into the rituals and conceptions of Germanic and Old Norse pre-Christian mythologies.5 Fjǫrgyn was the goddess of the earth, Freya was associated with fertility, Hel was the empress in the realm of the death, Rán was the goddess of the ocean, to mention but a few. The current knowledge about the goddesses is a mix of information from skaldic and Eddaic poetry and Snorri Sturlasson’s learning book in skaldic poetry from the 1200s (Edda), in which he described an understanding of the pre-Christian religion in the Nordic countries. The Eddaic poems are narratives from the mythological universe and are about the gods themselves, whereas the skaldic poetry praises the rulers in society by frequently including mythological references in the metaphorical language. For example, the personified female deity Jǫrð (the earth) appears in Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld’s Hákonardrápa as a metaphor for the rulers’ relations with their land. The skalds, who set out to praise their kings and rulers in complex metrical poems, constructed an image of how Jǫrð submits to the ruler in marriage and sexual intercourse.6 When Christianity was established on the continent, the urge for a new God as founded on this God’s miracle-making abilities. The continent’s early Christian iconography is dominated by portraits of Christ performing miracles, such as the Raising of Lazarus, the cure of the woman with the Issue of Blood, and Jonah and the whale.7 The Old Norse miracle of the mistress who was lacking enough beverages for the king’s arrival clearly 3 Schoemaker, Mary in Early Christian Faith and Devotion. 4 Bøgh, ‘The Graeco Roman Cult of Isis’, p. 232; Haaning, ‘The European Challenges of Faith and Knowledge’, p. 39. 5 Simek, ‘Continental Germanic Religion’; Näsström, Frøya; idem, ‘Old Norse Religion’. 6 Males, ‘Denoting the Holy in Skaldic Tradition’, p. 152 with references. 7 Mathews, The Clash of Gods; Nees, Early Medieval Art.

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alludes to another biblical miracle; Christ making wine out of water. It was Mary who initiated the miracle, by urging her son, in persona, to make the effort. Christ was not the f irst to perform the miracle of turning water into wine. In Egyptian pagan religion, a parallel feast was celebrated for the virgin birth of the god Aeon, and for the miraculous transformations of the water in the rivers into wine specif ically on this night.8 Pre-Christian roots to miraculous drinks also existed in the North. Snorri Sturlusson explained in his Edda how extraordinary food and drinks were served to the fallen champions in Valhall, and there are also references in the Eddaic poems Grímnismál and Hyndluljóð.9 Mead was provided by the goat Heiðrun, who was standing on the roof of Valhall, eating from the fertile tree Lærad. Mead ran from her udder, filling a barrel big enough to serve all the champions in the hall every day.10 Additionally, in Gylfaginning in Edda, Snorri describes how the entire creation of the world was dependent on milk. In the very beginning, the earth came into existence through the meeting of ice and f ire in Ginnungagap. The cow Audhumbla and the giant Ymir originated from the frost and damp. Audhumbla licked the minerals in Ginnungagap and fed Ymir with milk, and the earth was created from him.11 The milk is clearly associated with fertility, a source of creation. One of the strongest symbolic values that has come to def ine the interpretations of Mary in Old Norse religious culture is the quality of fertility.12 The fertility perspective is often applied to the general understanding of Mary and her role as a representative of the female nature and a fertile resource. This has close associations to the mead-milking Heiðrun and the creation of the world through Ymir’s dependency on Audhumbla’s milk. The symbolic quality of fertility is one of the earliest that came to denote Mary in general. The oldest known preserved image of Mary from the Christian period is from the third century and portrays her nursing her son, accompanied by an angel in the Catacomb of St. Priscilla in Rome. There are numerous depictions of Mary as the Nursing Mother in Byzantine

8 ‘Epiphany, The Solemnity of’, New Catholic Encyclopedia. Available at: https://www.encyclopedia.com/religion/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/epiphany-solemnity; retrieved 9 September 2021. 9 See Mundal, ‘Heiðrún. Den mjødmjølkande geita’ for comparison 10 Snorre. Den yngre Edda p. 68. 11 Snorre. Den yngre Edda p. 27. 12 E.g. Steinsland, Mytene som skapte Norge.

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Figure 1. The Nursing Mary from the catacomb of St. Priscilla in Rome is the oldest known depiction of Mary, and dates from the third century. Photo: Wikimedia Commons

textual sources.13 At that time, the motif of a nursing mother-goddess was already well known in the Mediterranean region as a symbol of the female quality of fertility. The quality of fertility is fundamental in the domestic procedures of cultivation and harvesting, and subsequently for the preparation of food and drinks, in all cultures, independent of religious convictions. The recognition of fertility as fundamental for life and prosperity is also important for connecting cultivation, harvesting, and preparation of food and drink to the divine. Indeed, pre-Christian goddesses had already been depicted nursing centuries, even millennia, before Mary. The Nursing Mother served as a representation of goddesses in Jewish and Egyptian religions (e.g. house goddesses from Tel Rehov 10th–9th century BCE and Isis suckling Horus 7th–1st century BCE). These goddesses, Mary included, were the life providers. 13 Arentzen, The Virgin in Song.

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The nursing mother Mary was introduced into Old Norse culture through miracles translated from Latin sources in the thirteenth century, from the same collection of miracles as the one introduced at the beginning of this article,14 and this image was ascribed other symbolic dimensions in the High Middle Ages. There are fewer visual presentations of the nursing mother in the Middle Ages compared with the evident interest in female deities as a resource to fertility. However, the motif is more recurrent in written sources, which may indicate the motif’s extended function. The spectrum of the symbolic meaning connected to the motif developed from being a symbol of fertility to one of Christian mysticism in the High Middle Ages. The monk Fulbert of Chartres experienced the Divine through Mary’s milk already in the late tenth and early eleventh century.15 The French abbot Bernard of Clairvaux experienced the Divine through the milk of Mary when she exposed herself to him in the early twelfth century, and he revitalized the Nursing Mother motif by elaborating especially on Mary’s milk. From now, it emphasized theological mysteries.16 The writer of the Old Norse Lilja, composed in honour of Mary in the fourteenth century, clearly expresses an interest in the mysteries of Mary’s milk. In this poem, the poet asks the heavenly Mary to drip milk to the Christ child, and thus Mary’s milk comes to symbolize Christ achieving immortality. The metaphorical language ascribed to the Virgin is highly developed in the poem, and reminds the audience about the qualities of the Holy Spirit – which Mary kept in her womb.17 Images of the Nursing Mary appear in several places in Europe.18 The Vanylven frontal is the only painted altar frontal from the late thirteenth / early fourteenth century that intended to display the Nursing Mary as the central motif.19 The Nursing Mary is incised in the ground, but was later overpainted. Some scholars have interpreted the Tingelstad altar frontal as a Nursing Mary; however, detailed conservation examinations of the paint reveal different painting techniques between flesh areas and the object that Mary holds in her hand. The object should thus be understood as a fruit 14 Kjesrud, ‘Conceptions of the Virgin Mary’. 15 Rubin, The Mother of God, p. 184. 16 Engh, Performing the Bride. 17 Chase, ‘Lilja’. 18 In her book Pro, Ora et Nobis (2008) Catherine Oakes offers detailed insight into the image of Nursing Mary in the British Isles. A few medieval visual depictions from Western Europe are found in Italian mosaics and church paintings from Gotland, Sweden, the hub of medieval trade between Scandinavia and Europe. 19 Nordhagen and Kaland, ‘Antemensalet fra Vanylven’; Plahter, ‘Materials and Techniques’.

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Figure 2. Altar frontal from Tingelstad church, Gran, Hadeland in Norway. The central motif shows the crowned Mary enthroned under archivolt framing. She keeps the Christ Child on her left lap and is holding a fruit in her right hand. The other motifs portray the annunciation, the visitation, the shepherds in the field, the adoration of the Magi, and, lastly, the presentation of the Christ Child to the temple. Photo: Jacques Lathion, Museum of Cultural History, University of Oslo.

instead, a pomegranate20 or an apple,21 analogous to what she holds in the Dale II and Tresfjord frontal. Thus, the fertility symbolism developed gradually, and the drink, milk, and fruit are examples of how people could eat and imbibe wisdom, and thus obtain protection and a flourishing inner life. Pernille Herman has recognized this type of metaphor for knowledge acquisition as a leitfmotif in Old Norse rhetorical language.22 The motif continues to develop over the centuries. When renaissance artists reproduced numerous images of the Nursing Mother, the fertile, nourishing, and mystic dimensions of the motif were toned out. Rather, the motif became a symbol of the ideal mother, based on an idea of perfection – an ideal that cannot be echoed in the status of women in Western Europe or the Middle East.23 Indeed, is it actually possible to trace how people related individually to the symbolic 20 Wichstrøm and Hohler, ‘The Catalogue’, in Painted Norwegian Altar Frontals, p. 125. 21 Plahter, ‘Materials and Techniques’, p. 270. 22 Herman, ‘Memory, Imagery and Visuality’, p. 325. 23 This is discussed in the current art scene, for example in the works of Leni Dothan and Roee Rosen.

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attributions of divine interference with cooking and feast preparations throughout the Middle Ages?

Laws of Ritual Blessings The fluid relations between Pre-Christian and Christian perceptions of divine interference related to food and drink preparations are vibrant. The Old Norwegian laws – the Gulathing law, the Frostathing law, and the Bjarkøy law – include regulations about the brewing process. These laws were written in a Christian period, as is clearly illustrated by the blessings and the Christian framework in the laws. Some of these practices, however, may originate further back in time. The Old Norse legislations testify that the brewing and sharing of drinks were public and a collective interest. As an example, one law describes how three neighbouring farmers should get together and brew one mæle24 of ale for the husband and one for the mistress in every household.25 This ale should be brewed before the feast of All Saints and it should be blessed and dedicated to Christ and Saint Mary with gratitude: En þat öl skal signa til Krists þakka ok sanktu Maríu, ‘The ale shall be dedicated to Christ and Saint Mary with gratitude’, and it should be blessed til árs ok til friðar, ‘for a good year and peace’. Another ale batch should be prepared before Christmas, jolaǫl ‘Christmas ale’, and this one, too, should be blessed in the same way.26 The laws state that farmers should brew their own ale on their farms and ensure that it receives a pious blessing. The monasteries were another important institution for brewing beer and wine. Indeed, monks and nuns considered it pious work. First and foremost, the monasteries brewed for their own use, but also for visitors. By way of illustrating this monastic practice, botanist Per Arvid Åsen tells us that Vadstena monastery in Sweden produced 600 litres of ale every day when the convent was inhabited with 200 people.27 The monastic rules imply that brewing was part of devotional practice, echoing the blessing of ale in the early medieval laws. Scholars have often interpreted the specific formula in the Old Norse laws til árs ok til friðar with an emphasis on the section til árs, meaning a good 24 Mæle is a specific measurement for grain that varied between districts dependent on the size of the barrel the grain normally was stored in (Magnús Már Lárusson, ‘Mæle’, p. 159). 25 Described in Den eldre Gulatingslovi, ch. 6. 26 Den eldre Gulatingslovi, ch. 6. 27 Åsen, Norske klosterplanter, p. 239 with references

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year or a good harvest. Thus, the formula and the ale in particular have been associated with fertility.28 However, while the phrase til friðar has received less attention, it indeed reveals that the blessing sought to release the potential of the drink, stimulating not only fertility, but also being protective: for peace.

Marian Interference in Cooking and Feast Preparations The miracle of the mistress who prepares for a feast and invokes Mary for assistance, was meant to be read aloud on pious occasions, for example during sermons. Thus, the miracle alone is not necessarily an example of how individuals interfered with divinity in cooking and feast preparations. There is, however, another group of Old Norse remains that may shed light on this. Archaeological excavations in the medieval urban areas of Norway have revealed kitchen utensils, used for food preparation, in the ordinary surroundings of the remains of town houses. A number of wooden tankards (laggkar) and wooden sticks have been found in different fire layers at the Bryggen in Bergen, all with runic inscriptions related to Mary. The chronology and dating of the finds in Bergen are closely connected to the many historically documented fires that can be observed in the ground. The finds are interesting in relation to medieval drinking culture in Bergen in particular, but they also offer clues to a more general drinking culture. The wooden tankards measure between 8–12 cm in width, and were probably used as drinking vessels. All of them feature an inscription on the bottom plate: BRM 0/9242 is dated roughly before the fire in 1413.29 The inscription (N622) reads: ‘auemaria’, ave Maria (Hail Mary) and is carved with double-lined runes covering the whole plate. BRM 0/23851 is dated to the period before the fire in 1476, and has the inscription: ‘auemaria’, Ave Maria (N 623). BRM 0/13796 is dated to the fire layer before 1413, and it, too, features the inscription ‘auemaria’ (N 624). Finally, BRM 0/1244 cannot be dated any more precisely than to the Middle Ages and features the inscription: ‘maria’, maria, (‘Mary’) (N 626). Runologist Aslak Liestøl documented the runic inscriptions in 1980 and suggested that they were of a formulaic kind, meant to protect the content of the vessels.30 28 Steinsland, Det hellige bryllup og norrøn kongeideologi, and Norrøn religion – myter, riter, samfunn. 29 All datings and information about the inscriptions are from Norges Innskrifter med de ældre og yngre runer, and corresponding information from Samnordisk runtextdatabas, Uppsala university. 30 Norges Innskrifter med de yngre runer.

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Figure 3. A medieval wooden tankard from Bryggen in Bergen, BRM 0/9242. The runes are carved with double-lined runes and the inscription reads: “Ave Maria”. Photo: National Library, Norway.

Mary herself was often associated with a container or a tabernacle. This symbolic interpretation crosses many different cultures and time periods. In mythological tradition, vessels are often interpreted as having female qualities, due to their similarities to a womb.31 Women in skaldic poems have been poetically rephrased as dispensers of beer, a metaphor that could be related to an image of dispensers of virtues.32 Other finds from the fire layers at Bryggen may have served as kitchen utensils, but their function cannot be identified with certainty. For example, four wooden sticks measuring from 10–16 cm in height, and 1–2 cm in width, are decorated with runic inscriptions. The inscriptions appear close to the end of the stick, which means the other side could have been put into something. BRM 0/32891 holds the inscription ‘auemariagraciablena’, ave 31 e.g. Steinsland Det hellige bryllup og norrøn kongeideologi, and Mundal, ‘Heiðrún – den mjødmjølkande geita på Valhalls tak’. 32 Males, ‘Denoting the Holy in Skaldic Tradition’, p. 164.

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Maria gratia plena (Hail Mary, full of grace) (N 619), and may derive from the burnt fire layer from 1198. The sticks BRM 0/26041 and BRM 0/15301 have been found in the layers from 1413 and 1322, respectively, and they are both inscribed with ‘auemaria’ (N 620 and N 621). BRM 0/12883 is inscribed with ‘aue’ (N 625) and is dated to the second half of the thirteenth century. Liestøl suggests that the sticks may have been put in containers of food for protective purposes. This opinion is supported by runologist Kristel Zilmer, who suggests the Marian prayers on various objects were possibly intended to provide protection to the object.33 Philologist Elise Kleivane points out that the inscriptions could be remnants from past education, as they are a pars pro toto referring to the full Latin prayer Ave Maria.34 The prayer is the archangel Gabriel’s greeting to Mary under the annunciation, and later the greeting from Elisabeth to Mary during the visitation. The prayer is widely distributed within the Catholic Church. Inscriptions and paintings of the greeting in the prayer are found on monumental stones, in manuscripts, and on church walls all over the Western Christian world. Ave Maria is an appraisal of Mary as the most blessed amongst women. She who was a vessel for the Son, she is the Mother of God, and she provides support and protection for the sinner: Áve María, grátia pléna, Dóminus técum. Benedícta tū in muliéribus, et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi, Iésus. Sáncta María, Máter Déi, óra pro nóbis peccatóribus, nunc et in hora mórtis nóstrae. Ámen. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. 33 Zilmer, ‘Christian Prayers and Invocations’. 34 Kleivane, ‘Epigraphic Ave Maria’.

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Theological descriptions in vernacular outlined the content as in Maríu saga, the Old Norse vita of Mary’s life and achievements. Here, the text emphasizes that the archangel Gabriel greeted Mary with Ave, because it was the reversed Eva. Just like Eva led sin into the world through her misdeed, Mary will lead all people to blessing. Hence the letters in Eva were turned the opposite way around when Gabriel greeted Mary.35 To pray Ave Maria or to physically render the initial formula of the prayer as a symbol on vessels and kitchen utensils, thereby referring to the prayer, could simply mean that the person sought to bless the content and thus provide protection. In this way, the Ave Maria inscriptions are analogous to old legislations, calling for the ale to be dedicated to Christ and Saint Mary with gratitude and be blessed til árs ok til friðar, ‘for a good year and peace’. The combination of fertility and protection that is associated with this blessing is also recognizable in medieval decorated drinking horns. Numerous medieval drinking horns are engraved with different patterns, formulas, and prayers indicating not only how the food and drink preparations were thought to reveal a supernatural force, but also the serving and drinking thereof. A drinking horn from Elingaard, Onsøy in Norway (C 143), which dates from the fifteenth century has the inscription: “JHESUS* NASAREUVS* REX* IUDEORUM” on the bracket around the horn’s mouth, each word separated with an ornamented leaf. Metal fittings with rich ornamentation encircle the middle of the horn as decoration. Patterns of flowers and foliage are combined with geometrical patterns and coils. Two silver legs allow the horn to rest upright. Another medieval drinking horn from Haga, Averøy in Møre and Romsdal (C 21432) has the inscription “DEUS BENEDICTA POTÚ”, the single words being separated by an ornamented leaf. The same leaf, possibly an oak leaf (Quercus L.), is engraved on a metal fitting further down at the horn as well. An acorn was intentionally placed in the setting, just like a cupola, on the horn’s tip. A third drinking horn from Nord-Fron (SS-00115) is intricately decorated with geometrical patterns and little plant ornamentation. It bears the inscription: “CASPAR MELC HELP GOT UNDE MARIA” on the mouth fitting of the horn. An oral legend about the horn tells that the horn derives from the underground beings and those who drink 35 ‘Þat skýra ok helgar ritningar, fyrir hveria sök Gabriel hafði helldr þetta orð Ave í upphafe sinnar kveðiu til sællar Maríe, en annat þat er iöfn þýðing fylgir. En þat helldr til at þessir stafir ero í nafni Evo. Ok svá sem Eva leiddi bölvon yfir allt mannkyn í óhlýþni sinni í boðorða broti, svá leiddi María allan lýð til blezunar. Ok [var því snúit stöfum í nafni Eva, ok hafðr sá fyrstr í hiálparkveðiunni, er síðastr var í nafni Eva, ok allir staf ir ero öfgaðir þess nafns ok gört af Ave, at þá er öll sú bölvon niðr brotin, er af Evo hafði hlotiz, ok bakferlut, er almáttigr guð tók manndóm á sic til hiálpar öllu mannkyni’. From Maríu saga p. 20.

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Figure 4. Drinking horn from Lo in Nord-Fron, Norway, the so-called Osjukahorn, dated to the fifteenth century. The metal fitting on the mouth of the horn bears the inscription “CASPAR MELC HELP GOT UNDE MARIA”. The dominant decoration on the horn is a geometrical pattern, whereas the tip is decorated with clover-shaped ornamentation. Photo: Maihaugen.

from it will not become ill. The legend is reflected in the name Osjukahornet (literally translated, ‘the not ill horn’). Given that we have already established the close relationship between Mary and her symbolic range covering fertility and protection, the plant iconography chosen to decorate the horns is not coincidental. Knowledge of using plants for health purposes, medicinal effects, and protective features is clear. The content of the drink was of crucial importance, it could be life providing and filled with creative powers. Historians of religion have emphasized that before the gods in Ásgarðr received the skaldic mead it originated from the Jotun woman Gunnlod,36 a symbolism that reoccurs in the skaldic poem Lilja, when Mary is described as the tabernacle of the creative, fiery Holy Spirit.37 The combination of ingredients were combined to produce a potentially healing, wisdom achieving, or even poisonous drink. 36 e.g. Schjødt, ‘Livsdrik og vidensdrik’; Nordvig, ‘Skaldemjødens betydning’. 37 Chase, ‘The Virgin Mary and the Holy Spirit’.

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Figure 5. The runic stone monument from Drävle (U 1163) shows a woman with a drinking horn greeting a man holding a ring. The motif is interpreted as being part of the story of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani, due to the man killing the dragon on the top of the stone. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

Women are associated with drinking horns and often also the knowledge of plant properties. A woman serving a man a drinking horn is a widespread motif of the Viking age, and occurs on Scandinavian bracteates, picture stones, runic monuments, and jewellery.38 The motif is often interpreted as a visual representation of a scene from the Eddaic poem Sigrdrífomál. Sigrdrífomál is a poem in the larger narrative about the dragon slayer Sigurðr Fáfnisbani. 38 Kjesrud, ‘Volsunger i skrift og bilder’; Guðmundsdóttir, ‘The Origin and Development’.

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This poem narrates especially Sigurðr’s journey to Hindafiall, where he woke up Sigrdrífa from her deep sleep and asked her to teach him wisdom. Sigrdrífa offered him mead and different alcoholic beverages in the learning context. She serves Sigurðr mead with the purpose of preparing his memory, and beer when teaching him rune-lore and magic: Biórr fœri ec þér, brynþings apaldr magni blandinn oc megintíri; fullr er hann lióða oc lícnstafa góðra galdra oc gamanrúna39 Beer I bring thee, tree of battle, Mingled of strength and mighty fame; Charms it holds and healing signs, Spells full good, and gladness-runes40

The poems indicate a conscious conception about what type of beverage was preferred on different occasions. Sigrdrífa knew the differences and prepared the drinks for Sigurðr accordingly. Descriptions of how the drinks can achieve further qualities follow in the next stanza. Here, Sigrdrífa tells Sigurðr how he should put an onion in the drink to add protective properties: Full scal signa oc við fári siá oc verpa lauki í lǫg: þa ec þat veit, at þér verðr aldri meinblandinn mioðr41 Thou shalt bless the draught, and danger escape, And cast a leek in the cup; For so I know thou never shalt see Thy mead with evil mixed42

Even if the English translation of the poem here suggests ‘leek’, corresponding with the Old Norse word laukr, it could very well be another plant in the onion family. The onion has medicinal effects, and was a ubiquitous plant used for 39 40 41 42

Edda, ed. by Neckel and Kuhn p. 190. The Poetic Edda, p. 391. Edda, ed. by Neckel and Kuhn p. 191. The Poetic Edda, p. 392.

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medical purposes throughout the Middle Ages, albeit with many caveats regarding both its use and misuse.43 For example, the nun and medicinal expert Hildegard von Bingen (1098–1179) writes about leek or onion mixed with wine in her book on plants and their uses: ‘It [the leek] should lie in the wine or salt long enough for it to be so tempered that the evil powers in it are destroyed: from morning till midday, or from noon till evening’, and she goes on to explain that this plant is not well suited for medicinal purposes.44 Women’s knowledge about properties and drinks may have traversed both social and spiritual purposes. This is further evident in a poem dedicated to the Norwegian earl Sveinn Alfivasson (1029–1035) when his father Cnut the Great (1016–1035) ruled over Denmark, England, and Norway: Vasa sunnudag, svanni, — seggr hné margr und eggjar — morgin þann, sem manni mær lauk eða ǫl bæri, þás Sveinn konungr sína saman tengja bað drengi — hrátt gafsk hold at slíta hrafni — skeiðar stafna. Lady, on that morning, a Sunday, it was not as if a maiden was bringing a man leek or ale — many a man sank down beneath blades — when King Sveinn ordered his warriors to join together the stems of the longship; raw flesh was given to the raven to tear. 45

The poem explains that it was not as if a maiden was bringing a man a leek or ale, implicitly providing protection to the men. In fact, the opposite was the case, many men were killed and the maidens could not have provided them with protective drinks in advance. The poem is another example of women’s role in serving and preparing drinks. They had the knowledge to provide a drink with protective properties. Historian of religion Nanna Løkka argues that depictions of a woman with a drinking horn symbolize aristocratic/elite women, a leader of a household. The horn represents a symbol of the rituals she was responsible for. 46 In 43 44 45 46

See e.g. Physica, transl. by P. Throop pp. 45–47; Åsen, Norske klosterplanter, pp. 263–270. Physica transl. by P. Throop, p. 46. Whaley, ‘Anonymous Poems’; Flokkr about Sveinn Álfífuson 1’, p. 1029. Løkka, ‘Kvinner med drikkebeger’.

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this way, the drinking and drinking rituals are associated with power and social control, in addition to the symbolic association of women providing protection through serving drinks. Tying all the reflected sources in this chapter together leads to the assumption that the knowledge women had about cooking, brewing, and plant properties is implied in the drinking horn as a status object. Their role in serving, brewing, and preparing are unmistakable.

Conclusions: Fertility, Protection, and Spiritual Experiences This chapter has brought together a variety of medieval Marian expressions: miracles; poetry; altar frontals; runic inscriptions on kitchen utensils; and drinking horns. Seen in sum, all the expressions reflect a conception of female deities as closely related to fertility and protection. The miracle of the mistress preparing a feast shows clearly how devotional practice was beneficial to a mistress’s feast preparations in the early medieval period. The laws highlight how the Marian blessings were thought to provide fertility and protection. Kitchen utensils and drinking horns from the High Middle Ages are examples of how people practiced divine intervention individually, often seeking protection. In line with the Church’s programme for more intense devotion on the continent, the fertility and the nourishing milk came to symbolize the inner journey of the pious devotee. In the Old Norse region, however, the preserved sources leave an impression of a practical aim, i.e. seeking protection. One possible explanation for this could be the already strong symbolic connotation of milk and mead as binding forces and symbols of fertility and prosperity, rather than internal growth. The concept of fertile goddesses and the protective magical properties of drinks or plants are echoes from skaldic poetry, eddaic poetry, and Snorri’s learning book in skaldic art, as well as from pre-Christian iconography. Importantly, the imprint of the female deities influence on the preparation of food and drinks may be traced in women’s role in society as leaders of a household, welcoming and serving. The women controlled the knowledge of the content, and which qualities the drink or food possessed. The plant-ornamented drinking horns with protective formulas tie the concept of divine intervention in food and drink preparation to Old Norse culture: the horns represent a long tradition of women serving food and drink, competent of preparing drinks for different purposes, and capable of interacting with plants as valuable, medicinal resources.

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Museum objects Bryggen Museum, Bergen BRM 0/9242 BRM 0/23851 BRM 0/13796 BRM 0/1244 BRM 0/32891 BRM 0/26041 BRM 0/15301 BRM 0/12883 De Sandvigske Samlinger SS-00115 Museum of Cultural History, Oslo C 143 C 21432 C 5040

Bibliography Primary Sources Den eldre Gulatingslova, published by Bjørn Eithun, Magnus Rindal, and Tor Ulset in Norrøne tekster 6 (Oslo: Riksarkivet, 1994). Die altisländischen und altnorwegischen Mariamirakel. Vol I & II, published by Irene Kupferschmid, Münchner Nordistische Studien. (München: Herbert Utz Verlag, 2017). Hildegard von Bingen, Physica, transl. Priscilla Throop (Rochester, NY: Healing Arts Press, 1998) Edda. Die Lieder des Codex Regius Nebst Verwandten Denkmälern, edited by Gustav Neckel and Hans Kuhn (Heidelberg: Carl Winter Universitätsverlag, 1983). Maríu saga. Legender om Jomfru Maria og hendes Jertegn, edited by C. R. Unger (Christiania: Brögger og Christie, 1871). Snorre. Den Yngre Edda, transl. Erik Eggen (Oslo: Det Norske Samlaget, (1961) 2005). The Poetic Edda, transl. Henry Adams Bellows (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1936).

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Secondary Sources Arentzen, Thomas, The Virgin in Song: Mary and the Poetry of Romanos the Melodist. (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017). Åsen, Per Ivar, Norske klosterplanter (Kristiansand: Portal Forlag, 2014). Bøgh, Birgitte, ‘Mother of the Gods: Goddess of Power and Protector of Cities’, Numen 59 (1) (2012), pp. 32–67. Bøgh, Birgitte, ‘The Graeco Roman Cult of Isis,’ in Lisbeth Bredholt Christensen, Olav Hammer, and David A. Warburton, eds., The Handbook of Religions in Ancient Europe (Oxon/New York: Routledge, 2013), pp. 228–241. Chase, Martin, ‘“Að allra orða undirstaðan sie riettlig fundin”: The Virgin Mary and the Holy Spirit in Lilja 90’, in Karoline Kjesrud and Mikael Males, eds., Faith & Knowledge in Late Medieval and Early Modern Scandinavia (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 173–192. Chase, Martin, ‘Lilja’, in Margaret Clunies Ross, ed., Poetry on Christian Subjects. Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007). Engh, Line Cecilie, ‘Performing the Bride’, PhD thesis, (University of Oslo, 2011). ‘Epiphany, The Solemnity of’, New Catholic Encyclopedia. Available from Encyclopedia.com: https://www.encyclopedia.com/religion/encyclopedias-almanacstranscripts-and-maps/epiphany-solemnity, retrieved 9 September 2021. Gambero, Luigi, Mary and the Fathers of the Church, transl. Thomas Buffer, (San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press, 1999 [1991]). Gambero, Luigi, Mary in the Middle Ages, transl. Thomas Buffer, (San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press, 2005 [2000]). Guðmundsdóttir, Aðalheiður, ‘The Origin and Development of the Fornaldarsögur as illustrated by Völsunga Saga’, in Agneta Ney, Ármann Jakobsson and Annette Lassen, eds., The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2012), pp. 59–82. Haaning, Aksel, ‘European Challenges of Faith & Knowledge in the Late Middle Ages’, in Karoline Kjesrud and Mikael Males, eds., Faith & Knowledge in Late Medieval and Early Modern Scandinavia (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 27–50. Herman, Pernille, ‘Memory, Imagery, and Visuality in Old Norse Literature’, Journal of English and German Philology 114: 3 (2015), 317–340. Hohler, Erla and Anne Wichstrøm, ‘The Catalogue’, in Erla B. Hohler, Nigel Morgan, Unn Plahter, Anne Wichstrøm, eds., Painted Norwegian Altar Frontals, Volume 1 (London: Archetype publication, 2004), pp. 91–148. Kjesrud, Karoline, ‘Conceptions of the Virgin Mary in Medieval Western Scandinavia’, in Jonas Carlquist and Virginia Langum, eds., Words and Matter: The Virgin Mary in Late Medieval and Early Modern Parish Life (Sällskapet Runica et Mediævalia, 2015), pp. 87–103.

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Kjesrud, Karoline, ‘Volsunger i tekst og bilder. Eksempel fra Þiðreks saga’, in Karl G. Johansson and Flaten Rune, eds., Francia et Germania. Studies in Strengleikar and Þiðreks saga af Bern (Oslo: Novus Forlag, 2012), pp. 143–166. Kleivane, Elise, ‘Epigraphic Ave Maria as Evidence of Medieval Literacy’, in Elise Kleivane, Alessia Bauer, and Terje Spurkland, eds., Epigraphy in an Intermedial Context (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2018), pp. 101–122. Løkka, Nanna, ‘Kvinner med drikkebeger’, in Karoline Kjesrud and Nanna Løkka, eds., Dronningen i vikingtid og middelalder (Oslo: Scandinavian Academic Press, 2017), pp. 126–153. Magnús Már Lárusson, ‘Mæle’ in Kulturhistorisk Leksikon for Nordisk Middelalder. 21 vols. (København: Rosenkilde & Bagger, 1956–1978). Males, Mikael. ‘Denoting the Holy in Skaldic Tradition’, in Karoline Kjesrud and Mikael Males, eds., Faith & Knowledge in Late Medieval and Early Modern Scandinavia (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 149–152. Mathews, Thomas F. The Clash of Gods. A reinterpretation of Early Christian Art (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993). Mundal, Else, ‘Heiðrún. Den mjødmjølkande geita på Valhalls tak’, in Finn Hødnebø, ed., Eyvindarbók. Festskrift til Eyvind Fjeld Halvorsen 4. mai 1992 (Oslo: Institutt for nordistikk og litteraturvitenskap, 1992), pp. 240–247. Näsström, Britt-Mari, Frøya. Den store gudinnen i Norden, (Oslo: Pax Forlag, 1998). Näsström, Britt-Mari, ‘Old Norse Religion’, in Lisbeth Bredholt Christensen, Olav Hammer, David A. Warburton, eds., The Handbook of Religions in Ancient Europe (Oxon/New York: Routledge, 2013), pp. 324–337. Nees, Lawrence, Early Medieval Art, (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2002). Nordhagen, Peter Jonas, and Bjørn Kaland, ‘Antemensalet fra Vanylven. En «Maria Lactans»-fremstilling i Historisk Museum, Bergen’, Ikonografiske studier (1973), pp.106–118. Nordvig, Mathias, ‘Skaldemjødens betydning i den oldnordiske kulturkrets’, in Kasper Andersen and Stefan Pajung, eds., Drikkekultur i middelalderen (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2014), pp. 27–49. Norges innskrifter med de ældre og yngre runer, edited by Sophus Bugge, Magnus Olsen, Aslak Liestøl, and James Knirk. 6 vols. Norsk Kjeldeskriftsfond (Christiania: A.W. Brøggers Bogtrykkeri, 1891–1903). Oakes, Catherine, Pro, Ora et Nobis, The Virgin as Intercessor in Medieval Art and Devotion, (Turnhout: Brepols, 2008). Plahter, Unn, ‘Materials and Techniques, vol. II’, in Unn Plahter, Erla Bergendahl Hohler, Nigel Morgan, Anne Wichstrøm, eds., Painted Norwegian Altar Frontals, volumes 1-3 (London: Archetype publishers, 2004).

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Rubin, Miri, Mother of God: A History of the Virgin Mary. (London: Allen Lane, Penguin Books 2009). Schjødt, Jens Peter, ‘Livsdrik og vidensdrik. Et problemkompleks i nordisk mytologi’, Religionsvitenskapelig tidsskrift 2 (1983), pp. 85–102. Schoemaker, Stephen J., Mary in Early Christian Faith and Devotion (New Haven, CT/London: Yale University Press, 2016). Simek, Rudolph, ‘Continental Germanic Religion’, in Lisbeth Bredholt Christensen, Olav Hammer, David A. Warburton, eds., The Handbook of Religions in Ancient Europe (Oxon/New York: Routledge, 2013). Steinsland, Gro, Det hellige bryllup og norrøn kongeideologi. En analyse av hierogamimyten i Skírnismál, Ynglingatal, Háleygjatal og Hyndluljód. Doctoral thesis, University of Oslo, (Oslo: Solum forlag, 1991). Steinsland, Gro, Mytene som skapte Norge (Oslo: Pax Forlag, 2012). Steinsland, Gro, Norrøn religion. Myter, riter, samfunn (Oslo: Pax Forlag, 2005). Whaley, Diana, ‘Anonymous Poems, Flokkr about Sveinn Álfífuson 1’, in Diana Whaley, ed., Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas 1: From Mythical Times to c. 1035, Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages 1 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012) p. 1029. Zilmer, Kristel, ‘Christian Prayers and Invocations in Scandinavian Runic Inscriptions from the Viking Age and Middle Ages’, Futhark: International Journal of Runic Studies, 4 (2013), pp. 129–171.

About the Author Karoline Kjesrud is Associate Professor in medieval art at the Museum of Cultural History, University of Oslo. She works closely with the medieval collection and her research encompasses humans’ relations to religion, spirituality, and nature throughout history. Kjesrud is dedicated to highlighting historical perspectives for understanding the present and pointing out directions for the future.

3.

The Rise and Extent of Commercial Stockfish Production and Tradein Medieval North-Norwegian Coastal Society Stefan Figenschow Abstract Stockfish production played a vital part in the development of medieval north-Norwegian society. However, pinpointing when stockfish became the most crucial Norwegian export commodity is difficult. By the early twelfth century, several sources attest to commercial shipment of stockfish but identifying where this valuable commodity ended up has proven more challenging. Around 1300, the combination of available sources allows for more concrete conclusions regarding this as well. By that time, whether seen from the perspective of Sámi or Norse fishermen, the Church or the crown, the stockfish trade was the most important economic activity in northern Norway. The late medieval expansion of fishing settlements north and east along the Arctic coast, even in the face of repeated plagues, attest to the decisive influence of the stockfish trade on northern coastal society. Keywords: arctic, central authority, coastal society, expansion, stockfish, trade

Introduction Stockfish production and export played a crucial role in the economic and social development of medieval north-Norwegian society. By 1100, parts of the Arctic population of what was becoming Norway had taken part in a European commercial economy for centuries through small-scale trading. Pinpointing when stockfish rose to be the most crucial Norwegian

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export commodity, cementing the Arctic coastal population as partakers in a well-organized international system of trade, is difficult. Conclusions vary depending on the sources employed, but, by the fourteenth century, stockfish was the dominant commodity in trade with England and Germany, making up 80 per cent or more of the monetary value of cargo originating from Norway.1 The success of stockfish as a commodity is a combination of several factors. The Lofoten archipelago was the main breeding ground of the Arctic cod, but cod fishing was not restricted to this area. The climatic conditions in late winter and early spring along the Arctic coast are ideal for drying and conserving the fish without salt. Nearly devoid of water, stockfish weighs very little compared to its nutritional value (five times that of fresh fish), and stays edible for at least five years if kept dry.2 Its sturdy nature also facilitates easy handling and transportation. Finally, it was among the foodstuffs people could eat during Lent and other fasting periods. The aim of this article is two-fold. First, a chronological exposition will trace the rise and extent of commercial Arctic Norwegian stockfish production and trade using archaeological surveys, written sources, and modern historiography. Second, the article will examine the effects this development had on the characteristics of medieval north-Norwegian coastal society.

The Early Period We get the first written glimpses of Arctic Norwegian society through Ohthere’s audience with King Alfred of Wessex (871–899). The Arctic chieftain Ohthere claimed to live furthest north of all ‘Northmen’.3 He mentions that the neighbouring Finnas (in all probability Sámi) engage in sea fishing in the summer. 4 His own business, however, was dealing with pelts acquired through trade and tribute, commodities such as ivory, hides, and oil obtained from whaling and maintaining a flock of some 600 reindeer.5 The source does not mention stockfish. Ohthere’s report is the sole first millennium written source describing social conditions in northern Norway as seen by a native. It is contemporaneous with the events and circumstances it portrays, separating it from 1 Helle and Nedkvitne, ‘Sentrumsdannelser og byutvikling’, p. 248; Nedkvitne, The German Hansa and Bergen 1100–1600, p. 19. 2 Nielssen, ‘Kysten. Overgangen fra vikingtid til middelalder’, p. 195. 3 Or, ‘Norðmonna’, p. 44. 4 Ibid.. 5 Ibid., pp. 45–46.

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most other sources describing events of the ninth to twelfth centuries. An example of such sources depicting characteristics contemporary with Ohthere is Egils saga Skallagrímssonar. The way of life of the protagonist of the first quarter of that text, Egil’s uncle Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfsson, seems similar to Ohthere’s. Both travelled to the northeast as far as the White Sea and collected tribute from the neighbouring Sámi. Interestingly, Egils saga relates that Þórólfr’s men took part in fishing on a commercial level in Vágar in Lofoten, and loaded stockfish together with hides and furs on a large ship destined for England.6 In other words, stockfish production and trade was seemingly part of the redistributive economic system often attributed to Arctic chieftains like Ohthere and Þórólfr.7 Arguably, it is more likely that Egils saga’s supposed portrayal of late ninth-century cod export reflects the contemporary mercantile activities of the thirteenth century, more than it does the reality of trading conditions three and a half centuries earlier. Clearly, an examination of the earliest traces of Arctic commercial stockfish production and export must utilize other sources as well. In the past two decades, there has been a wide-ranging effort to map the medieval chronological distribution and regional provenance of locally caught and imported fish around the southern North Sea littoral. The use of genomics, isotope analysis, and DNA analysis of cod bone remains from numerous sites in the region has provided, with relatively high probability, a useful outline of early development. An intensification in local fishing for cod and herring around the year 1000 has been identified. The southern North Sea markets’ transition in the thirteenth century, from almost exclusively selling locally caught fish to selling stockfish imported from further afield is indicated. The relative contribution of fish from the northeast Atlantic (i.e. the Norwegian ‘tax lands’ of the North Isles of Scotland and Iceland) and Arctic Norway to southern North Sea markets throughout the medieval period has been surveyed.8 Ohthere’s journeys brought him to the trading settlement of Haithabu,9 where such archaeological investigations have taken place. Previous studies have pointed to the possible sale of cod of northern origin there in the ninth to eleventh centuries,10 but a recent study has confirmed that stockfish 6 ES, chs 10 & 17, pp. 27–28 and 41–43. 7 Hansen, Samisk fangstsamfunn, pp. 129–132; Hansen, ‘The Arctic Dimension of “Norgesveldet”’, pp. 200–203; Nielssen, ‘Early Commercial Fisheries’, p. 44. 8 See e.g. Barrett et al., ‘Detecting the Medieval Cod Trade’; Idem, ‘Interpreting the Expansion of Sea Fishing’; Idem, ‘Fish for the City’. 9 Or, p. 47. 10 Barrett et al., ‘Interpreting the Expansion of Sea Fishing’, pp. 1521–1522; Idem, ‘Fish for the City’, p. 256.

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was transported from Arctic Norway to this Scandinavian trading hub as early as 800–1000 AD.11 These might be the oldest traces yet of a trading pattern commercialized later. Still, there is no way to draw firm conclusions regarding the activity this might represent, or whether the evidence in question merely indicates provisions for northern traders like Ohthere.12 The challenge with evidence from around 1000 is what these sources cannot tell of the extent of the early stockfish trade, and what it indicates with regard to the development of the society whence it came. Tantalizing yet unclear, such evidence tempts us to suggest that the export of Arctic stockfish was established as a trade around the turn of the first and second millennia. By then, north-western and central Europe were subject to population growth, increased trade, and urbanization. Flourishing mercantile activity in the centuries after 1000 provides archaeologists working on fish bone analysis with a more comprehensive list of trading places and evidence, allowing the identification of relative market shares of cod from different breeding grounds, including the waters off the coast of Arctic Norway. However, limited contemporary Norwegian written sources combined with the lack of detailed overviews of European imports until the oldest custom records from trading places in eastern England at the beginning of the fourteenth century, known to be recipients of northern stockfish,13 means that the details of the situation remain unclear.

Mounting Evidence, But of What Exactly? The main conclusions drawn from the archaeological research referred to above are that it was probably not until the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries that stockfish imported from Arctic Norway and the northeast Atlantic became a dominant factor along the North Sea littoral.14 London markets, for instance, saw a sharp and absolute downturn in locally caught fish in the thirteenth century, and a corresponding domination of imported fish. Chief among the contributors to this was stockfish from Arctic Norway and the northeast Atlantic.15 Occasional batches of northern stockfish were already being transported to towns such as York and London in the 11 Star et al., ‘Ancient DNA Reveals the Arctic Origin’, p. 9156. 12 Barrett et al., ‘Detecting the Medieval Cod Trade’, p. 858; Idem, ‘Medieval Sea Fishing’, p. 256; Star et al., ‘Ancient DNA Reveals the Arctic Origin’, p. 9155. 13 Nielssen, ‘Det store kystriket’, pp. 292–293. 14 Barrett et al., ‘Interpreting the Expansion of Sea Fishing’, p. 1521. 15 Idem, ‘Fish for the City’, pp. 524 and 526–527.

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eleventh and twelfth centuries, much in the same manner as ninth- and tenth-century Haithabu. Neither this research, nor investigations like Barrett’s into the size of most ‘Viking Age’-type ships, nor the necessary demand on the European market, positively support the presence of a widespread stockfish trade before c.1250.16 The commercial influence of Arctic stockfish before the thirteenth century may thus seem like a ‘drop in the bucket’17 to southern North Sea markets, but may still have been of importance to early northern producers and exporters of stockfish,18 as a building block in the development of the trade. A few written sources seemingly contradict these findings, however. The oldest source that paints a different picture of the commercial element of this trade before the thirteenth century is one of the eight laws attributed to Sveinn Knútsson’s Norwegian reign (1030–1034/5). These are listed in the late twelfth-century history Ágrip af Nóregskonungasǫgum, and among the regulations is that each fisherman must pay a fee of five fish per sailing.19 Although not necessarily evidence of commercial activity, the fact that several of these laws pertain to trade, as well as the difficulty in enforcing such taxation unless connected to organized fishing, hints at commercial activity. However, taxation of fishing does not necessarily prove international trade, and may only have to do with domestic conditions. In the following century, Norwegian kings amended the laws of Sveinn, traditionally seen as unpopular and central to his downfall. This was seemingly initiated by Sveinn’s immediate successor, Magnús Óláfsson (1035–1047), and continued under co-kings and brothers Óláfr (1103–1115), Eysteinn (1103–1123), and Sigurðr ‘jórsalafari’ (1103–1130) Magnússon, repealing and/or amending almost all of these laws. This included abolishing the five fish tax everywhere, except in Vágar.20 The reason for keeping the tax in Vágar was its position as the hub of the most abundant fishing grounds in the realm.21 From this, we can discern two things. First, that stockfish was a commodity the Anglo-Danish regents found worth taxing already in the 1030s. Second, that, by the start of the twelfth century, Vágar was so crucial that it was singled out as the one and only place where the fish tax was not abolished. Vágar in the Lofoten archipelago is the only location in medieval northern Norway regarded as an urban settlement. The aforementioned King Eysteinn 16 17 18 19 20 21

Larsen, ‘Handel med marine produkter’, pp. 182–183. Barrett et al., ‘Interpreting the Expansion of Sea Fishing’, p. 1522. Idem, ‘Medieval Sea Fishing’, p. 260. Ágrip, chs 27 and 29, pp. 40–42; Tveit, ‘Lawmaking and Consolidation of Power’, p. 56. NgL I II. Den ældre Frostathings-Lov. XVI, p. 257. Tveit, ‘Lawmaking and Consolidation of Power’, p. 57.

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is said to have founded a church there c.1115, making it one of the two oldest known royally initiated churches in Arctic Norway.22 It is interesting that this church was erected in the hub of the most profitable fishing grounds whilst keeping the five fish tax intact locally. King Eysteinn is also credited with building housing for fishermen at Vágar,23 the first recorded instance of a landowner providing such accommodation. Whilst often presented as an indication of King Eysteinn’s social commitment, renting out living quarters to fishermen was a supplementary source of income.24 That these measures were part of a royal effort to tighten control of trade in valuable Arctic commodities is further indicated by the monopolization of buying animal skins at roughly the same time. The eleventh and twelfth centuries also saw technological improvements to fishing equipment, such as gunwale-mounted pulleys and heavier sinkers that improved efficiency and allowed fishing in deeper waters.25 In the early 1130s, at the start of what is commonly referred to as the ‘civil war’ period, the actions of a pretender to the throne named Sigurðr ‘slembidjákn’ underline the importance of Vágar. Returning south after wintering among the Sámi further north, Sigurðr visited Vágar, killing the local priest and his two sons.26 In Heimskringla, this is presented in a business-like manner, and although no motivation is given for killing the clergyman, removing the senior royal representative would weaken the ruling king’s influence by temporarily cutting off his and the Church’s income from the Vágar fishing grounds. A couple of reminiscent episodes from Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar attest to the centrality of Vágar. The rebellious Duke Skúli Bárðarson visited the assembly there in the 1230s,27 and later, men loyal to King Hákon escape death when their farm is attacked thanks to having travelled to a nearby fishing settlement.28 Most likely they were going there to trade in fish, and they are described as sailing in a ‘byrding’, a type of cargo ship.29 It seems evident that, by c.1150, commercial stockfish production was part of Arctic Norwegian society, and considered to be of increasing 22 HK, p. 540; MS, ch. 78, p. 133; Bjørgo, ‘Vágastemna i mellomalderen’, p. 48; Bertelsen, ‘Vágar i de første to hundreårene’, pp. 127–128. 23 MS Vol. 2., ch. 78, p.133; Nielssen, ‘Kysten. Overgangen fra vikingtid til middelalder’, p. 196. 24 Nielssen, ‘Kysten. Overgangen fra vikingtid til middelalder’, p. 196. 25 Nedkvitne, The German Hansa and Bergen 1100–1600, p. 28. 26 HK, ch. 6, p. 575. 27 HSH Vol. 1., ch. 108, pp. 270–271. 28 HSH Vol. 2., ch. 227, p. 56. 29 Ibid., p. 57; Nielssen, ‘Utviklingen av f iskerier og kystsamfunn i høgmiddelalderen’, pp. 264–265.

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importance by the central authorities. Tracing where the valuable commodity was shipped is more difficult given the lack of written trade records specifying stockfish trade. Norwegians with citizenships and/or trading privileges in important Rhine area towns like Utrecht and Cologne, as well as in Lübeck, have been identified throughout the twelfth century,30 but there is very little evidence of Arctic stockfish being sold there. Likewise, an English source mentions four Norwegian merchant ships off the eastern coast of England as early as 1095, but no stockf ish.31 It is possible that stockfish from early commercial activity was sold in the southern parts of the Norwegian realm, and that only some found its way to international marketplaces. Several sources written around 1200 point to the rise of Bergen as the main transhipment port of the stockfish trade. Orkneyinga Saga (c.1200) identifies Bergen as a lively trading place frequented by both Norwegian and international merchants in 1115, although no commodity is mentioned specifically.32 Historia de profectione Danorum in Hierosolymam characterizes Bergen as a bustling cosmopolitan port in 1191. Among the few domestic commodities named is ‘[…] dried fish, called skreið, in such quantities that it can neither be measured nor counted’.33 Sverris saga, a contemporary of Historia de profectione quoting a speech by the king from 1186, relates how German merchants export butter and stockfish from Bergen.34 This seems to indicate where Arctic stockfish was brought at this time, and thus helps fill the gap left by the absence of archaeological evidence. Sverris saga also has its protagonist, when sailing outside of Nidaros in 1177, encounter a fleet of 40 or 50 merchant ships out of Vágar south to Bergen,35 most often seen to be transporting stockfish.36 Comparing information like the number of ships probably carrying stockfish in Sverris saga with records of a tax levied on ships hailing from roughly the same area bringing stockfish to Bergen in 1563, has been used to propose comprehensive stockfish trade already in 1177.37 30 Nedkvitne, The German Hansa and Bergen 1100–1600, pp. 33–34, 36, and 46. 31 HE, IV (Book VIII), pp. 280–281. 32 OS, ch. 60, p. 141. 33 HdpDiH, ch. 11, p. 475 ‘[…] siccorum piscium, qui uocantur “skreith”, tanta copia, ut mensuram excedat et numerum’(my translation. I owe professor emerita in classical literature and culture Synnøve des Bouvrie at UiT The Arctic University of Norway thanks for ensuring the congruity of the extracts from the original Latin sources and the English translations). 34 SS, chs 103–104, pp. 157–161. 35 Ibid., ch. 16, p. 27. 36 Nedkvitne, The German Hansa and Bergen 1100–1600, p .31. 37 Ibid., pp. 30–31.

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That most imported twelfth- and thirteenth-century pottery found in Norway either stems from the Rhine area,38 or is made up of thirteenthcentury Grimston-type English ceramics,39 is on occasion used to support the view that the sources discussed above indicate early widespread stockfish export. Although clearly indicators of international trade, pottery was merely one of many imported commodities, 40 and there is no way to link these findings directly to stockfish exports. The somewhat contradictory evidence provided by this combination of sources might indicate that the potential to produce vast amounts of stockfish was present in eleventh- and twelfth-century Arctic Norway, but that the demand in the marketplaces of Europe was not as great. Nevertheless, archaeological and especially written sources suggest that, by the beginning of the thirteenth century, Arctic Norwegian stockfish had ended up on foreign shores through travel and export for centuries. According to a new theory, another perspective on the scope of Norwegian stockfish exports before 1300 should be employed. Examinations of English Pipe Rolls and Norwegian diplomas from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries indicate regular exports of English grain to Norway, identifying corn imports as the deciding factor in Anglo-Norwegian trade.41 Given the narrative sources discussed above, the lack of stockfish as the counterpart to English corn is surprising. Instead, the Norwegian export commodity that dominates these records is birds of prey, and the expected cod-for-corn trade axis is supplanted by grain for hawks and falcons. 42 However, the Pipe Rolls, yearly audits by the English Exchequer of annual accounts, gifts, payments, and debts to the crown by sheriffs as well as other royal officials, do not cover all types of royal income or expenditure and cannot be viewed as a complete record of governmental finances. The absence of stockfish in the Pipe Rolls does not therefore preclude dried cod from being part of Anglo-Norwegian trade at the time. Given that luxury goods are overrepresented in the Pipe Rolls relative to the totality of trade, they mostly reflect the needs of the English elite. Trade in bulk goods – like that of stockfish – is therefore less likely to be registered in these royal records as such trade did not necessarily involve royal officials directly. 38 Ibid., p. 36. 39 Barrett et al., ‘Fish for the City’, pp. 527–528. 40 Nedkvitne, The German Hansa and Bergen 1100–1600, p. 36. 41 Grohse, ‘Commodity Trade before the Fourteenth Century’, pp. 4–6. The observations within this and the following paragraph have been discussed with Ian Peter Grohse and Richard Holt in the context of the Creating the New North research group at UiT The Arctic University of Norway. 42 Ibid., pp. 7–8.

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Consequently, we should not be surprised that bulk goods are often omitted, but when these sources do reveal other specific Norwegian commodities furs, pelts, wood, and fish oil are mentioned, not stockfish. 43 It should give pause for thought that the importance of the stockfish trade in the late Middle Ages and beyond is too easily taken as evidence for this earlier period. For instance, it is often taken for granted that merchants sailing between England and Norway at this time always carried full holds both ways, suggesting that they were as logistically advanced as the German North Sea trade of the late Middle Ages when such efficiency in this early trade cannot be confirmed.44 It is equally probable that the loading capacity of Norwegian ships was meant for English commodities being brought back to Norway and not for stockfish to be sold in England.

Expansion, Plague, and Princely Profits After the ‘civil war’ period, the Norwegian monarchy was well consolidated and the Church firmly ensconced in society and culture. The kings of what would later be known as the ‘Norgesvelde’ period (c.1227–1319) took centre stage. This period saw several ambitious plans of expansion including that of Norwegian central authority and predominantly Norse fishing settlements north and beyond the ancient boundary between Hálogaland and Finnmǫrk. Until c.1200, archaeological remains and written sources point to a type of border area along the Malangen fjord, just south of present day Tromsø. Not an absolute border, it seems to have been regarded as a demarcation zone between a mainly Sámi population to the north and a primarily Norse population to the south. 45 The first written source to mention commercial fishing activities north of this boundary is found among the miracles attributed to St. Óláfr in the late twelfth-century Passio et miracula beati Olavi. 46 It describes 43 Ibid., p. 8. 44 Ibid., p. 3. 45 Hansen, ‘The Arctic Dimension of “Norgesveldet”’, p. 200. 46 See Bratrein and similar views in Hansen, ‘Sami Fisheries in the Pre-Modern Era’, pp. 69–70; Hansen and Olsen, Hunters in Transition; Nielssen, ‘Endringer i kystbygdene i tidlig middelalder’; and idem, ‘Det store kystriket’. See Henriksen, Kulturmøte og identitet på Finnmarkskysten i tidlig historisk tid. Tolkninger basert på arkeologiske analyser av mangeromstufter, pp. 385–391, for a discussion of issues regarding the internal consistency of the source raising concerns regarding its validity as initial evidence of commercial f isheries in Finnmark. Many of the inconsistencies may be due to misunderstandings and the nature of a hagiographical source, but Henriksen’s theory that the period of three to four weeks mentioned in the source may

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how a young man, fresh from f ishing in ‘[…] the middle of the pagan wastes, three or four weeks from Christian lands’, 47 came to visit St. Óláfr’s church in Nidaros. He wanted to thank the saint, on behalf of the crews of 24 boats, for interceding when they were caught in a dreadful storm, and for providing them with an abundant catch once the storm receded. 48 This source acts as a harbinger of the expansion of stockf ish production and -trade mainly attributed to the thirteenth century, and also points out the multi-ethnic nature of commercial f isheries along the north-Norwegian coast. Traditionally, most sources underline the stereotype of a clear division between Sámi and Norse society and way of life. For instance, Historia Norwegie neatly divides Norway into three distinct zones: zona maritima; zona mediterranea; and zona silvestris. The Sámi population is said to live in the inland forest region. 49 To its credit, the source mentions that ‘[…] Hálogaland, whose inhabitants often live together with the Lapps and have frequent commerce with them’50 and includes a somewhat unclear episode where Sámi and Norse people were f ishing together.51 The main impression, however, is of a clear distinction between Norse and Sámi people, in way of life and geographical location.52 The miracle entry, however, states – without needing to point out that this is anything special – that: ‘The [pagan] Lapps […] had also gathered there to f ish, […]’.53 It is interesting that both Sámi and Norse f ishermen are said to take part in what seems to be commercial f isheries in the latter part of the twelfth century, and that this in itself is hardly noteworthy at all. Establishment of a church and fortress at Tromsø in the mid-thirteenth century, and at Vardø at the start of the fourteenth century, illustrates the rapid expansion of central authority northward, and the cooperation mean the time spent fishing and not the length of the journey to the fishing grounds is valid. Overall, though, locating the episode to anywhere but north of the mainly Norse settlements of Hálogaland seems unlikely. 47 PO2 p. 70; PO1, p. 112 ‘[…] infra paganorum solitudines, christianorum finibus elongati per tre aut quator […] septimanas […]’. 48 PO1, pp. 112–113. 49 HN1, p. 52; HN2, p. 2. 50 HN2 pp. 3–4, HN1, p. 56 ‘[…] Halogia, cuius incole multum Finnis cohabitant, et inter se commercia frequentant’. 51 HN1, p. 62; HN2, p. 7; Nielssen, ‘Endringer i kystbygdene i tidlig middelalder’, p. 220. 52 Hansen, ‘The Arctic Dimension of “Norgesveldet”’, pp. 209–212. 53 PO2, p. 70; PO1, p. 112: ‘[…] [pagani] finni, qui etiam ad piscationem conuenerant, […]’. Metcalfe notes that in the original manuscript ‘Over “finni”, apparently by the same hand, is written “i pagani”’ (footnote 5).

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between royal and ecclesiastical authorities.54 Of the two, the Church would be the most notable extension of central authority present in late medieval Finnmark, at least from around 1400, when the concerns of the rulers of the Kalmar Union more frequently turned their gaze away from the north. The exact causal relationship between the expansion of the authorities’ power bases and expansion of fishing settlements is unclear. While we cannot say that the expansion of central authority was the result of a concrete plan to establish fishing settlements along the coast of Finnmark, there is no doubt that one, if not the main, reason for the authorities’ interest was the rich fishing along the coast and the value such commodities had on the European market. Almost any other interest – political, ideological, or strategic – in the northernmost part of the Norwegian realm must have had economic incentives as well. The increasingly severe conflict with Novgorod over influence in the north that necessitated peace treaties in 1251 and 132655 certainly contained political, strategic, and religious elements, but there probably would not have been a conflict had it not been for the plethora of enticing Arctic resources. The latter treaty and other diplomatic efforts in the first half of the fourteenth century underline the immense importance of northern mercantile activity to Russian, Norwegian, and Swedish central authorities at the time.56 Concrete examples of royal initiatives to facilitate the smooth running of the burgeoning stockfish industry also exist, for instance when Hákon Magnússon’s (1299–1319) legal amendment of 1313 maintained that neither lay, nor church officials should bring any form of legal action against the populace in any location where cod was being fished between Candlemas (2 February) and the Feast of the Annunciation (25 March), postponing any such action until after that time.57 Clearly, the stockfish trade was of prime importance. One could argue that while stockfish’s domination of exports by 1300 is telling of the magnitude of Norway’s total exports at the time,58 it still emphasizes the value of stockfish in relation to other important commodities like butter, herring, hides, and timber. The characteristics of the fishing settlements in coastal Finnmark were diverse. The number of inhabitants varied between a few families and dozens of families. Their population consisted of both year-round inhabitants and 54 Hansen, ‘The Arctic Dimension of “Norgesveldet”’, pp. 208 and 221; Idem, ‘Juxta paganos’ pp. 313–314. 55 Hansen, ‘The Arctic Dimension of “Norgesveldet”’, pp. 215–218. 56 Hansen, ‘Norwegian, Swedish and Russian “Tax Lands”’, pp. 305–307. 57 NgL III, ch. 58, p. 107. 58 Holt, ‘What If the Sea were Different ?’, p. 134.

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fishermen visiting during the main fishing season. There was an important distinction between the farmers of Hálogaland who took part in the seasonal fisheries, and the population of the fishing villages along the coast of Finnmark. The latter’s way of life was to a much greater degree oriented exclusively towards participation in the commercial fisheries. Although they kept some livestock,59 the rapidly worsening climatic conditions as one goes north along the Arctic coast necessitated the use of seaweed and fish waste as fodder for domestic animals in late winter and spring.60 The economic opportunities offered by the booming stockfish trade meant that not all settlers were native to the north, but came from the southern part of Norway and other locations in north-western Europe.61 The gradual resurgence of the European population from the middle of the fifteenth century led to relatively extensive immigration into north-Norwegian coastal society in the centuries around the Reformation.62 That it was possible to survive almost exclusively on fishing indicates that the commercial system for exporting local produce must have been more stable and well organized than before. The most crucial prerequisite for this development was the increasing influence of the Hanse.63 From an early deal with Hákon Hákonarsonar in 1240 to the establishment of a Kontor in Bergen in 1366, this ‘community of interest’64 of traders and towns in the Baltic and the North Sea had established a near-monopoly on the Norwegian stockfish trade, securing stable access to European markets and a steady stream of grain to the coastal societies of the north in return. Archaeological examinations of later-known fishing settlements along the northern coast reinforce this impression of stability, as the findings in the majority of these settlements indicate continued settlement throughout the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and beyond. Some findings even suggest earlier activity.65 From the late Middle Ages, there is no doubt that at least parts of northNorwegian coastal society had become dependent on international markets to export stockfish and import grain, deeply imbedded in the specialized relationship between Norwegian producers and German exporters. Nowhere was this more evident than in the f ishing villages dotting the coast of 59 Nielssen, ‘Early Commercial Fisheries’, p. 47. 60 Ibid. 61 Nielssen, ‘Norwegian Fisheries, c.1100–1850’, p. 87. 62 Berg, Trondenes kannikgjeld, p. 42; Hansen, ‘Nordisk og nordeuropeisk innvandring’. 63 Hansen, ‘Juxta paganos’, p. 306. 64 Wubs-Mrozewicz, ‘Introduction’, p. 5. 65 Hansen, ‘Juxta paganos’, p. 306.

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Finnmark, where most inhabitants earned their livelihood from full-time fishing rather than part-time fishing and farming. An interesting question is to what degree Arctic coastal society intrinsically was, or had become, dependent on grain imports, and what shape this dependency took. While it is possible to cultivate crops about as far north as the areas inhabited by Ohthere and later generations of the northernmost chieftains, the product of such endeavour could – because of climatic and agronomic conditions – never be one of plenty. However, earlier north-Norwegians had not been dependent on imported grain to survive, seemingly indicating that foreign corn was not imperative to their existence. In the early Middle Ages, grain imports might have been motivated by the chieftains’ need to brew ale for social functions crucial to keeping power in Norse society.66 The exposure to centuries of cultural, religious, and social processes through trade and centralization might have been the main reason why grain imports had become so crucial, and that it was not purely a question of whether survival was facilitated through imported corn or not.67 As the Black Death and subsequent plagues feasted on the population of Arctic Norway – in the same way as they did all over Europe – the following century and a half saw the most favourable price ratios between cod and corn, turning stockfish export into a most lucrative trade. While a kilogramme of stockfish would net about two kilogrammes of rye flour in Bergen during the century leading up to 1350, the next 150 years saw this ratio, on average, tripled in favour of stockfish.68 The mechanics of the trade also changed in this period. The stockfish trade had been based on Norwegian and foreign merchants sailing north to procure the commodity, especially to Vágar, and either re-selling it in Bergen or Nidaros, or exporting it to Europe themselves. In the fourteenth century, the role of Norwegian merchants in the trade dwindled. When or how this change began is unclear, but most researchers agree that the onslaught of the Black Death played an important role.69 The plagues severely hampered the native southern Norwegian merchants’ ability to conduct regular trade with the north. Repeated pirate raids on Bergen around the turn of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries did not help the situation.70 It has been suggested that the change was due to the German merchants in Bergen wanting to avoid any middlemen and deal directly 66 Bertelsen, ‘Tilkomsten av fiskevær’, p. 85. 67 Ibid., p. 86. 68 Nedkvitne ‘The Development of the Norwegian Long-Distance Stockfish Trade’, p. 53. 69 Nielssen, ‘Norwegian Fisheries, c.1100–1850’, p. 85. 70 Helle, Kongssete og kjøpstad, pp. 698–700; Nielssen, ‘Fiskeriøkonomien styrkes og jektefarta til Bergen oppstår’, p. 326.

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with the fishermen of the north themselves,71 but it is improbable that such aspirations – on their own – would rearrange the mechanics of the trade.72 Perhaps as early as the later stages of the fourteenth century, the inhabitants of the north gradually took over the main responsibility of shipping stockfish to Bergen. The relative stakes of regular fishermen, local skippers, and lay and ecclesiastical nobility in bringing the fish to Bergen and Nidaros remains unclear.73 Most likely, all of these groups had some stake in shipping to the south, and these relative shares varied until the sixteenth century, when the stockfish trade was almost exclusively an institutionalized relation between the fishermen of the north and the German merchants of Bergen. From the second part of the fourteenth century,74 the (in)famous Bergen credit system increasingly defined the relationship between the producers and the merchants. In return for promising next year’s catch to a specific merchant, the fishermen were given cereals and equipment needed for next year’s season. This gave the fishermen security and bettered their chances of operating effectively. It also bound them contractually to one merchant, but it was the north-Norwegians themselves who undertook the journey to and from Bergen each year, leaving them with the greatest share of the risk in both economic and human terms.75 That stockfish was brought more or less directly out of the north also meant that the role of Vágar as a prominent marketplace in the north diminished.76 A royal decree of 1384 instructs all fishermen in Finnmark and Hálogaland to sell their produce to the visiting merchants from Bergen at Vágar as they have been doing.77 Upholding the status of Vágar failed,78 but the source also explains that inhabitants of the north were needed to defend the region from Karelian attacks through the conscription-based leidang.79 Perhaps this was the principal motivation for issuing the provision. The first concrete indication that the population of the north arranged for their produce to be shipped south comes from 1432, when in the winter that year the Venetian noble Pietro Querini was shipwrecked in the North Sea and 71 Kiil, Da bøndene seilte, p. 27. 72 Nielssen, ‘Fiskeriøkonomien styrkes og jektefarta til Bergen oppstår’, p. 330. 73 Kiil, Da bøndene seilte, p. 26; Nielssen, ‘Norwegian Fisheries, c.1100–1850’, p. 86; Idem, ‘Fiskeriøkonomien styrkes og jektefarta til Bergen oppstår’, p. 330. 74 Nedkvitne, The German Hansa and Bergen 1100–1600, p. 403. 75 Nielssen, ‘Fiskeriøkonomien styrkes og jektefarta til Bergen oppstår’, pp. 325–326. 76 Nielssen, ‘Norwegian Fisheries, c.1100–1850’, p. 85. 77 NgL III, ch. 121, pp. 222–223; Hansen, ‘Juxta paganos’, p. 307. 78 Bertelsen, ‘Vágar som regional og nasjonal arena’, p. 14. 79 NgL III, ch. 121, pp. 222–223; Opsahl, -som ieg tusindfold indfødder war, p. 215.

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drifted north in a lifeboat to the outermost islands of Lofoten.80 Staying on the island of Røst for three and a half months, Querini observed the locals and later wrote an account of his stay. According to Querini’s shipmate and pilot Cristoforo Fioravante, they travelled south on 14 May, on a local boat carrying stockfish to Bergen,81 meaning that at least the stockfish producers Querini encountered brought their produce south themselves.82 On his way south, Querini also met the Archbishop of Nidaros, Aslak Bolt (1430–1450), travelling north with an entourage of 200 men and a flotilla that included what may have been two whaling ships.83 As mentioned above, it was not just fishermen and local skippers that brought stockfish to Bergen in the late Middle Ages. Most influential of all was the Norwegian Archbishop. Bolstered by income from tithes, taxes, fines, and land rents increasingly paid in stockfish,84 as well as partaking normally in the trade through his liegemen (setesveiner) stationed in fishing villages,85 the Archbishop was by the time of the Reformation the largest wholesaler of stockfish in Norway.86 The picture painted of the average fisherman in late medieval northern Norway may seem quite bleak. However, the rich late fifteenth-century church art from several north-Norwegian churches symbolizes that some of the value taken out through the stockfish trade returned to the north.87 Cynics may claim that this art benefitted the few rather than the many, but the splendour of such objects should not be so easily ignored. Querini’s account may serve to further modify this impression, as he is impressed by the woollen winter clothes from London and the splendid clothing worn for a burial during his stay at Røst.88 Querini’s positive views of the inhabitants are uncommon for such reports, which are often quite derogatory. The key here is that these too bear evidence of extensive use of income on luxury items, 80 For an in-depth examination of the observations on late medieval stockfish production, transport, and export, as well as other aspects of late-medieval Norwegian coastal society contained in the intriguing travel accounts of Querini and his pilot Fioravante, see Njåstad in this volume (pp. 65–73). 81 tCa, p. 169. This article makes use of the Norwegian translation of the crew’s and Querini’s accounts, both published in H.A. Wold, I paradisets første krets, pp. 123–172. 82 Que, pp. 142–144; Hesjedal, ‘Ottars beretning og Querinis forlis’, p. 20. 83 Que, p. 144 84 Cadasters from the middle of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries infer that the late Middle Ages saw a transition from northern land rent being paid in butter to being paid in fish (Nielssen, ‘Norwegian Fisheries, c.1100–1850’, pp. 86–87). 85 Hansen, ‘Juxta paganos’, pp. 315 and 325. 86 Berg, Trondenes kannikgjeld, p. 117. 87 Nielssen, ‘Fiskeriområdene blomstrer ca. 1500’, pp. 350–353. 88 Que, p. 141.

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such as fine clothing, drink, food, and furnishings.89 The oldest extant tax rolls that include Arctic Norway, from 1520, also inform us that the average tax payer in Finnmark paid up to three times as much tax as farmers in the middle part of Norway, and nearly twice as much as those in the southwest.90 Towards the end of the Middle Ages, the population of coastal Arctic Norwegian society – be they Sámi or Norse – were tied into a commercial European economy through the production and export of stockfish.

Conclusion Early commercial stockfish production and export from the coastal societies of Arctic Norway is difficult to trace. A few sources attest to shipment and/ or small-scale trade around the year 1000. The increase in both quantity and quality of sources by the beginning of the twelfth century indicate that such activities reached another level. Traditionally, stockfish’s rise to prominence as Norway’s premier export commodity is seen to begin in the early twelfth century, continuing through the end of the Middle Ages. Here, written sources such as independent narratives and laws point to an emerging commercial stockfish endeavour, but the range and quantity of this trade is difficult to ascertain in detail until the combination of sources from the second half of the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries allow more bold and concrete conclusions. However, something was going on before c.1250 in terms of stockfish trade, and, although the details elude us, we cannot use the lack of trade records to confirm that trade did not develop and perhaps flourish, either. Some sources even challenge the traditional ethnic division of medieval Arctic society. The problem remains, however, that we cannot presuppose that characteristics such as, for instance, the effective logistics employed by the Hanse in the late Middle Ages, also existed before 1300. The evidence of concrete trade – for instance with England – does not give the impression that stockfish was of prime importance before c.1250. Perhaps it is best to consider the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries as a transitional period in the stockfish trade. By c.1300, the influence of north-Norwegian stockfish on European markets can be clearly attested to in archaeological and written records. Many of the most important changes in medieval north-Norwegian coastal society 89 Bruun, ‘Fashionable Fishermen’, pp. 8–9. 90 Hansen, ‘Nordisk og nordeuropeisk innvandring’, p. 16; Nielssen, ‘Fiskeriområdene blomstrer ca. 1500’, pp. 348–350.

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must be seen in close connexion with this development. Even in the face of repeated plagues, many aspects of north-Norwegian coastal society in the late Middle Ages, including the stockfish trade, were subject to expansion. Fishing settlements spread along the Arctic coast along with the expansion of the central authority’s influence. The mechanics of the stockfish trade changed, increasingly placing the ordinary north-Norwegian fisherman in a more or less institutionalized relationship with German merchants residing in Bergen. By this time, whether seen from the perspective of Sámi or Norse fishermen, the Church or the crown, stockfish production and trade was the most important economic activity in north-Norwegian coastal society.

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NgL = Norges gamle Love indtil 1387, 5 vols., edited by Rudolf Keyser, Peter Andreas Munch, Gustav Storm, and Ebbe Carsten Hornemann Hertzberg (Christiania, 1846–1895). Or = ‘Ohtheres’ Report. Text and Close Translation’, edited and translated by Janet Bateley, in Ohthere’s Voyages: A Late 9th-Century Account of Voyages along the Coasts of Norway and Denmark and Its Cultural Context (Maritime Culture in the North 1. Roskilde: Viking Ship Museum, 2007) pp. 44–47. OS = Orkneyinga saga, edited by Sigurður Nordal (Copenhagen: Samfund til utgivelse av gammel nordisk litteratur, 1913–1916). PO1 = Passio et miracula beati Olavi, edited by Frederick Metcalfe 1881 (Oxford: Clarendon Press). PO2 = Passio et Miracula Beati Olavi, translated by Devra Kunin, in A History of Norway and The Passion and Miracles of the Blessed Óláfr, translated by Devra Kunin and edited with an introduction and notes by Carl Phelpstead 2001. Viking Society for Northern Research Text Series vol. 13, pp. 26–75 (London: University College). Que = Pietro Querini’s Account, translated by Marie Aalen, in I paradisets første krets, edited by Helge A. Wold (Oslo: Cappelen, 1991) pp. 123–149. SS = Sverris saga ed. by Þorleifur Hauksson (Íslenzk fornrit vol. 30. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2007). tCa = The Crew’s Account, translated by Marie Aalen, in I paradisets første krets, edited by Helge A. Wold (Oslo: Cappelen, 1991) pp. 151–172.

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Hansen, Lars Ivar and Bjørnar Olsen, Hunters in Transition. An Outline of Early Sámi History (Leiden: Brill, 2014). Helle, Knut, Kongssete og kjøpstad. Fra opphavet til 1536. Bergen bys historie, 4 vols., vol. 1 (Bergen: Universitetsforlaget, 1982). Helle, Knut and Arnved Nedkvitne, ‘Sentrumsdannelser og byutvikling i norsk middelalder’, in Grethe Authén Blom, ed., Urbaniseringsprosessen i Norden, 3 vols., vol I, Middelaldersteder (Det XVII. Nordiske Historikermøte Trondheim 1977) (Oslo-Bergen-Tromsø: Universitetsforlaget, 1977), pp. 189–286. Henriksen, Jørn Erik, Kulturmøte og identitet på Finnmarkskysten i tidlig historisk tid. Tolkninger basert på arkeologiske analyser av mangeromstufter (PhD dissertation, UiT The Arctic University of Norway, 2016). Hesjedal, Anders, ‘Ottars beretning og Querinis forlis. To reiseskildringer fra det nordlige Norge’, Ottar. Populærvitenskapelig tidsskrift fra Tromsø Museum 286: 3 (2011), pp. 16–21. Holt, Richard, ‘What if the Sea were Different? Urbanization in Medieval Norway’, Past & Present, Supplement, Volume 2 (2007): pp. 132–147. Kiil, Al, Da bøndene seilte. Bygdefarsbrukets historie i Nordlandene (Oslo: Messel, 1993). Larsen, Marion Fjelde, ‘Handel med marine produkter’, in Alf Ragnar Nielssen, ed., Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, 5 vols., vol. 1 Fangstmenn, fiskerbønder og værfolk. Fram til 1720 (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2014), pp. 163–183. Nedkvitne, Arnved, The German Hansa and Bergen 1100–1600 (Quellen und Darstellungen zur hansischen Geschichte Neue Folge, 70) (Cologne: Böhlau, 2014). Nedkvitne, Arnved, ‘The Development of the Norwegian Long-distance Stockfish Trade’, in James H. Barrett and David C. Orton, eds., Cod and Herring: The Archaeology and History of Medieval Sea Fishing (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2016) pp. 50–60. Nielssen, Alf Ragnar, ‘Early Commercial Fisheries and the Interplay Among Farm, Fishing Station and Fishing Village in North Norway’, in James H. Barrett and David C. Orton, eds., Cod and Herring: The Archaeology and History of Medieval Sea Fishing (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2006), pp. 42–50. Nielssen, Alf Ragnar, ‘Norwegian Fisheries, c.1100–1850’, in David J. Starkey, Jón Th. Thór, and Ingo Heidbrink, eds., A History of the North Atlantic Fisheries, 2 vols., vol.1 From Early Times to the Mid-Nineteenth Century (Bremen: H. M. Hauschild, 2009), pp. 83–122. Nielssen, Alf Ragnar, ‘Kysten. Overgangen fra vikingtid til middelalder’, in Alf Ragnar Nielssen, ed., Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, 5 vols., vol. 1 Fangstmenn, fiskerbønder og værfolk. Fram til 1720 (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2014), pp. 187–207. Nielssen, Alf Ragnar, ‘Endringer i kystbygdene i tidlig middelalder’, in Alf Ragnar Nielssen, ed., Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie vol. 1 Fangstmenn, fiskerbønder og værfolk. Fram til 1720 (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2014), pp. 209–231.

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Nielssen, Alf Ragnar, ‘Utviklingen av fiskerier og kystsamfunn i høgmiddelalderen’, in Alf Ragnar Nielssen, ed., Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, 5 vols., vol. 1 Fangstmenn, fiskerbønder og værfolk. Fram til 1720 (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2014), pp. 261–277. Nielssen, Alf Ragnar, ‘Det store kystriket’, in Alf Ragnar Nielssen, ed., Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, 5 vols., vol. 1 Fangstmenn, fiskerbønder og værfolk. Fram til 1720 (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2014), pp. 277–298. Nielssen, Alf Ragnar, ‘Fiskeriøkonomien styrkes og jektefarta til Bergen oppstår’, in Alf Ragnar Nielssen, ed., Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, 5 vols., vol. 1 Fangstmenn, fiskerbønder og værfolk. Fram til 1720 (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2014), pp. 321–335. Nielssen, Alf Ragnar, ‘Fiskeriområdene blomstrer ca. 1500’, in Alf Ragnar Nielssen, ed., Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie vol. 1 Fangstmenn, fiskerbønder og værfolk. Fram til 1720 (Bergen: Fagbokforlaget, 2014), pp. 337–355. Opsahl, Erik, -som ieg tusindfold indfødder war’ Norsk innvandringshistorie ca. 900–1537 (Dr.art. dissertation, University of Tromsø, 2006). Star, Bastiaan et al., ‘Ancient DNA reveals the Arctic Origin of Viking Age cod from Haithabu, Germany’, in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, 114: 34 (2017), pp. 9152–9157. Available at: http:// www.pnas.org/content/114/34/9152.full.pdf?sid=da114b25-a8c2-4a39-93d63d8c76b13098; accessed 20 October 2017. Tveit, Miriam ‘Lawmaking and Consolidation of Power: Cnut’s Laws and the Developing Norwegian Kingdom’, in Lars Ivar Hansen, Richard Holt, and Steinar Imsen, eds., Nordens plass i middelalderens nye Europa. Samfunnsomdanning, sentralmakt og periferier (Stamsund: Orkana akademisk, 2011), pp. 55–67. Wubs-Mrozewicz, Justyna, ‘Introduction’, in Justyna Wubs-Mrozewicz and Stuart Jenks, eds., The Hanse in Medieval and Early Modern Europe (Leiden/Boston, MA: Brill, 2013), pp. 1–35.

About the Author Stefan Figenschow is a medieval historian at UiT the Arctic University of Norway. His main research interests are comparative approaches to the expansion of medieval Scandinavian central authority to the north and east, comparing the actions of the Scandinavian realms to each other and with the more general European tendencies of the period. E-mail address: [email protected]

Part II Food Trade, Distribution, and Commercial Activities

4. Food and Exclusion: Beer, Chicken, and Social Mobility in the Saga World Marion Poilvez

Abstract This chapter discusses two food trade activities from the sagas in the light of the social and legal troubles encountered by their entrepreneurs. Both Ǫlkofri, a beer seller, and Hænsna-Þórir, a chicken seller, are socially and historically unimportant characters, yet find themselves at the centre of two unusual narratives from the Íslendingasögur (Ǫlkofra þáttr and Hænsa-Þóris saga). A close reading and analysis of the texts will show how both characters are stereotyped and contrasted with well-known figures from the saga world. This will contribute to understanding about what is at stake with their unconventional stories, while at the same time revealing the underlying mentalities about social mobility, profit, and legal liability to outlawry in thirteenth-century Iceland. Keywords: Merchants, Sagas, Profit, Outlawry, Social mobility

The Sagas of Early Icelanders usually depict dramatic chains of events involving prominent families, from their (Norwegian) origins to their descendants in Iceland. Even if they are not as aristocratic as the elaborate romances and fancy castles of medieval courtly literature, the narratives of the Icelandic sagas still unfold around the highest strata of medieval Icelandic society, namely, the goðar (chieftains) and prominent bændr (landowners). However, the Old Norse literary corpus shows some exceptions to this focus, such as Ǫlkofra þáttr and Hænsa-Þóris saga, two stories dealing with socially unimportant characters: a brewer and a chicken

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merchant.1 Neither story follows the typical genealogical structure that is characteristic of the Islendingasögur as a genre,2 instead they are short and focused narratives.3 These figures have been associated to the ‘nouveaux riches’4 or the ‘middle class’,5 and other social types dependent on profit, all on the rise in Iceland by the end of the thirteenth century.6 In both stories, these self-made men get into serious conflict with well-known key figures in the saga literature and face legal charges before disappearing from their own stories. What exactly is at stake here with the stories of a brewer and a chicken merchant? This chapter aims to discuss two commercial activities in relation to the legal troubles encountered by their entrepreneurs. This will help further analysis of how the food trade was perceived in the saga world, and also questions the place of small entrepreneurs within medieval Icelandic society. Finally, these case studies will shed light on the underlying ideology of social mobility and legal responsibility in the saga discourse.

Nobodies versus Pedigrees Ǫlkofra þáttr is a short story, although originally referred to as a saga. It is believed to have been written in the late thirteenth century and compiled with other Islendingasögur in Möðruvallabók, a mid-fourteenth century manuscript.7 Hænsa-Þóris saga is longer in terms of physical length, yet it is as concise as Ǫlkofra þáttur with respect to the narrative. Also supposedly written 1 Another saga dealing with a nobody and self-made man is Auðunar þáttr vestfirzka (Auðunn and the Polar Bear). As the present chapter aims to analyse the social dynamics between regular businessmen and prominent chieftains or landowners, I have chosen to set Auðun and his polar bear aside. Indeed, his ‘risky business’ (See Miller, Audun and the Polar Bear) happens mostly abroad, and, consequently, generates a discourse on Scandinavian kingships rather than on the inner power-play of Icelandic society. Moreover, his exceptional trade is not connected to local food production and redistribution. 2 Tulinius, ‘Saga as a Myth’, p. 529. 3 Both texts are rather short in length but, more importantly, short in terms of the time frame of action, as they do not follow ancestors or descendents, and focus on a very specific event and its direct consequences. 4 Pencak, The Conflict of Law and Justice in the Icelandic Sagas, p. 101. 5 Lunden, Økonomi og samfunn, pp. 60–63. 6 Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Social Ideals and the Concept of Profit in Thirteenth-Century Iceland’. 7 Möðruvallabók, the only pre-Reformation textual witness for the story, labelled the text as a saga. See Jón Jóhannesson, Austf irðinga sǫgur, p. xxxviii. Later paper manuscripts and editions use þáttr and saga interchangeably. Ǫlkofra þáttr has been part of the recent debates on the historiography of the genre in saga studies. See Ármann Jakobsson, ‘The Life and Death

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in the late thirteenth century (c.1280), it has been connected to the debates surrounding the introduction of the Norwegian legal code Jónsbók in Iceland in 1281. More precisely, the story engages with price fixing by chieftains.8 The two texts introduce similar kinds of self-made men. Þórhallr Ǫlkofri (‘Ale-Hood’) is a prosperous beer producer and seller, and Hœnsa-Þórir (‘Hen-Thorir’) a wealthy profit-maker and former chicken merchant. Ǫlkofri became wealthy by selling beer each year at the general assembly.9 One day, while burning pieces of wood to make coal, he accidentally sets fire to the woods he owns. Unable to control the situation, he lets the fire spread to the nearest woods, the Goðaskógr, owned by no less than six chieftains.10 This led to the chieftains pressing charges against Ǫlkofri at the assembly. Hœnsa-Þórir is presented as having a wider range of activities. As a penniless man, he begins to make a profit by buying and selling general goods from one district to another, until he can afford to buy a property and everyone in the district owes him money.11 A dispute erupts over Hœnsa-Þórir’s refusal to sell hay to neighbours in need, and during this feud, he ends up burning Blund-Ketill, a benevolant chieftain, inside his house. The whole situation triggers legal action against him, which involves prominent men on both sides. Both texts belong to a more social, ‘exemplum’ type, as the two businessmen have a rather doubtful historical existence, especially Ǫlkofri.12 This is in contrast with recurrent figures such as Snorri goði or other chieftains who of the Medieval Icelandic Short Story’, p. 278, and Lethbridge, ‘“Hvorki glansar gull á mér / né glæstir stafir í línum”’, p. 70. 8 Berger, ‘Old Law, New Law, and Hænsna-Þóris saga’, pp. 7–11; and Nordal, Borgfirðinga sǫgur, p. xxxi. 9 Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 83. 10 Ibid., p. 84. 11 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, p. 6. 12 Jón Jóhannesson, Austfirðinga sǫgur, pp. xxxiv–xxxviii; Baetke, Über die Entstehung der Isländersagas, pp. 1–8. While there are no other accounts of Ǫlkofri, Hœnsa-Þórir is mentioned in other sources, such as Ari’s Íslendingabók (p. 12), and the Melabók version of Landnámabók (n.4, p. 82). In these sources, Hœnsa-Þórir’s name is tied to the burning incident, although his character is never developed. Considering that the Íslendingabók and the saga retell the same events with substantial discrepencies (such as Blund-Ketill’s identity, who died in the burning, and the creation/omission of four new quarter courts), Hœnsa-Þóris saga has been a centrepiece in the debate about the historicity of the sagas. According to Maurer, the saga was written without any influence from Ari’s Íslendingabók. Nordal disagrees strongly and insists that the author of the saga chose to ignore Ari’s version, and instead developed the saga to be more influential and entertaining, drawing from Borgarfjörður’s local tradition about the events. See Maurer, Ueber die Hœnsa-Þóris Saga, p. 52, and Nordal, Borgfirðinga sǫgur, pp. xiv–xxi. For a more recent study on the historical development of the region and the demise of the Tungu-Oddr family, see Viðar Pálsson, Helgi Þorláksson, and Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘Reykholt as a Centre of Power’, pp. 124–138.

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appear in Ǫlkofra þáttr. Their story could be said to belong to the ‘tall tales’ model, a type of narrative involving historical characters in an exaggerated fiction.13 Thus, there is a certain expectation for all the characters to be of a more representative type, or perhaps even stereotypes of their social rank, rather than ambiguous, elaborated persons such as Egill Skalla-grímsson or Brennu-Njáll from other Íslendingasögur. Consequently, a narrative about types tends to generate a contrastive narrative, not only between extremes like Blund-Ketill and Hœnsa-Þórir, but also between Þórir and the other merchant Ǫrn, or between local chieftains like Arngrímr goði and Blund-Ketill. Without getting into a thorough analysis of narrative and dualism,14 it is worth stressing how a clear line is drawn between the small entrepreneurs and the prominent men involved right from the outset, especially regarding the way they are introduced. In Hœnsa-Þóris saga, the leaders of the district are introduced first.15 The saga specifically names Tungu-Oddr, Arngrímr goði, Blund-Ketill, and Þorkell trefill, along with genealogy, property, spouses, and children, in a brief, yet still characteristic saga style. Then comes Þórir: There was a man named Thorir, who once was poor and not very well liked by most people. In the summers he had gone on trading trips between districts, selling in one what he had bought in another. In a short time he had accumulated a great deal of wealth from his dealings. One time, when Thorir travelled from the south over the heath he took poultry with him on his trip around the north country and sold them along with other items, and for this reason he became known as Hen-Thorir. After a while, Thorir had earned so much that he bought himself land at a place called Vatn above Nordurtunga. He had farmed only a few years before he became so wealthy that he had large sums of money lent out to almost everyone. Even though he had accumulated a great deal of money, his lack of popularity continued, so that there was scarcely a man more detested than was Hen-Thorir.16 Þórir hét maðr; hann var snauðr at fé ok eigi mjǫk vinsæll af alþýðu manna. Hann lagði þat í vanda sinn, at hann fór með sumarkaup sitt heraða í milli 13 Sayers, ‘Serial Defamation in Two Medieval Tales: Icelandic Ölkofra þáttr and Irish Scéla mucce Meic Dathó”, p. 38. 14 Durrenberger et al., ‘Economic Representation and Narrative Structure in Hœnsa-Þóris saga’, pp. 156–159. 15 For a detailed historical context of Borgarfjörðr area and especially the Tungu-Oddr family, see pp. 130–133. 16 Transl. by Jorgensen, ‘Hen-Thorir’s saga’, p. 240.

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ok seldi þat í ǫðru, er hann keypti í öðru, ok grœddisk honum brátt fé af kaupum sínum. Ok eitt sinn, er Þórir fór sinnan um heiði, hafði hann með sér hœns í fǫr norðr um land ok seldi þau með ǫðrum kaupskap, ok því var hann kallaðr Hoensa-Þórir. Nú grœðir Þórir svá mikit, at hann kaupir sér land, er at Vatni heitir, upp frá Norðrtungu; ok fá vetr hafði hann búit, áðr hann gerðisk svá mikill auðmaðr, at hann átti undir vel hverjum manni stórfé. En þó at honum grœddisk fé mikit, þá heldusk þó óvinsældir hans, því at varla var til óþokkasælli maðr en Hœnsa-Þórir var.17

On the other hand, Ǫlkofri is introduced first in Ǫlkofra þáttr: Thorhall was the name of a man who lived at Thorhallsstadir in Blaskogar. He was wealthy and getting on in years when this story took place. Small and ugly, he was a man of no great prowess, but he had a knack with iron and wood. He had a profitable business supplying ale at the Thing and through this business he soon got to be on speaking terms with all the great men, because they bought most of the ale. As often happens, the ale was not always liked and thus neither were the men who sold it. No one called Thorhall a generous man; he was, in fact, rather stingy. His eyesight was poor. It was his frequent custom to wear a hood; at the Thing he wore it always, and since he was a man whose name was not well-known, the thing-men gave him a name that stuck: they called him Ale-hood.18 Þórhallr hét maðr. Hann bjó í Bláskógum á Þórhallsstǫðum. Hann var vel fjáreigandi ok heldr við aldr, er saga sjá gerðisk. Lítill var hann ok ljótr. Engi var hann íþróttamaðr, en þó var hann hagr við járn ok tré. Hann hafði þá iðju at gera ǫl á þingum til fjár sér, en af þessi íðn varð hann brátt málkunnigr ǫllu stórmenni, því at þeir keyptu mest mungát. Var þá sem opt kann verða, at mungátin eru misjafnt vinsæl ok svá þeir, er seldu. Engi var Þórhallr veifiskati kallaðr ok heldr sínkr. Honum váru augu þung. Optliga var þat siðr hans at hafa kofra á hǫfði ok jafnan á þingum, en af því hann var maðr ekki nafnfrægr, þá gáfu þingmenn honum þat nafn, er við hann festisk, at þeir kǫlluðu hann Ǫlkofra.19

Only afterwards, when Ǫlkofri accidentally sets fire to the woods, is the coalition of pedigreed chieftains introduced:

17 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, p. 6. 18 Transl. by Tucker, ‘Olkofri’s Saga’, p. 231. 19 Ǫlkofra þáttr, pp. 83–84.

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One of the woods to burn there was called Godi Woods. It was owned by six godis: the first of these was Snorri the Godi, the second Gudmund Etjolfsson, the third Skafti Lawspeaker, the fourth Thorkel Geitisson, the fifth Eyjolf son of Thord Gellir, the sixth Thorkel Scarf, son of Red-Bjorn.20 Þar brann skógr sá, er kallaðr var Goðaskógr. Hann áttu sex goðar. Einn var Snorri goði, annarr Guðmundr Eyjólfsson, þriði Skapti lǫgsǫgumaðr, fjórði Þorkell Geitisson, fimmti Eyjólfr, sonr Þórðar gellis, sétti Þorkell trefill Rauða-Bjarnarson.21

The chieftains presented here are all well-known from other sources and sagas, and therefore do not need more than the enumeration of their names to create an effect. Surely, their collated names would have generated a strong impression on the audience, who would be waiting in anticipation for the result of poor Ǫlkofri’s troublesome mistakes. Not only are both Ǫlkofri and Hœnsa-Þórir presented without genealogies, but they are also presented without wives or children. They are socially isolated even in their most basic and immediate kinship.22 Yet, both are introduced as property owners who have become very wealthy through their businesses (Hœnsa-Þórir even more so than Ǫlkofri). It is also noted that they are very stingy with their belongings and profits. Therefore, before the troubles even start, the audience might already wonder: what are they doing with all their wealth if they have no kin to provide for? Another noteworthy similitude between the two characters is their nicknames, Ǫlkofri (Ale-hood) and Hœnsa-Þórir (Hen-Thorir). Often, nicknames are given after an important deed, or connected to an important function (goði for instance), or a physical trait. In these cases, both characters are nicknamed after their activities. Even though both seem to have had a rather wide range of activities from which they built their wealth (especially 20 Transl. by Tucker, ‘Olkofri’s Saga’, p. 232. 21 Ǫlkofra þáttr, pp. 84–85. 22 Only later does the story mention Hœnsa-Þórir’s relative Víðfari. His name, or more likely nickname, translates as wide-traveller, far-trader, similar to the nickname víðfǫrli used for famous adventurers from legendary tales (such as Þorvalds þáttur víðförla, Eireks saga víðförla and Yngvars saga víðförla). Most likely, the story is creating a wordplay from the fact that he is a kind of vagrant, always on the move, and reminds us, through their kinship, of Hœnsa-Þórir’s former commercial activities and thus the readers‘ general dislike for him : ‘There was also a guest there named Vidfari (Travel-Wide), a drifter who travelled from one corner of the country to the other. He was a close relative of Thorir and resembled him in his disposition’ (Sá maðr var þar fyrir á gistingu, er Víðfari hér; hann var reikunarmaðr; hjólp hann á milli landshorna; hann var frændi Þóris náinn ok áþekkr honum í skapsmunum. Hœnsa-þóris saga). Transl. by Jorgensen, ‘Hen-Thorir’s saga’, p. 245; Hœnsa-Þóris saga, p. 19.

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Hœnsa-Þórir), the activities that they are associated with are the ones related to the food business, as if they are more memorable than others. In Ǫlkofri’s case, his actual name (Þórhallr) is totally avoided and never mentioned again in the story. In the chieftains’ eyes, he only exists once a year, when he comes to the general assembly. Hœnsa-Þórir’s nickname seems even more demeaning, having been named after the chickens he used to sell across districts. His nickname is actually very visual and comic, and portrays an image of the chickens being his followers or kin, thus making a joke about his lack thereof. Finally, both men are clearly disliked even before the actual plot starts. Hœnsa-Þórir’s introduction starts with the mild ‘[. . .] not very well liked by most people’ ([. . .]eigi mjǫk vinsæll af alþýðu manna) and escalates into literary lynching after the mention of his activities: ‘[. . .] his lack of popularity continued, so that there was scarcely a man more detested than was Hen-Thorir’ ([. . .]þá heldusk þó óvinsælir hans, því at varla var til óþokkasælli maðr en Hœnsa-Þórir var).23 As for Ǫlkofri, his unpopularity is even more clearly connected to ale-brewing: ‘As often happens, the ale was not always liked and thus neither were the men who sold it’ (Var þá sem opt kann verða, at mungátin eru misjafnt vinsæl ok svá þeir, er seldu).24 The statement stigmatizes all beer-sellers, which suggests a general dislike for people associated with this activity. Through the way they are presented, and, later, as a result of their exaggerated displays of stinginess25 or emotional outbursts,26 these two characters seem to belong more to an urban set of medieval fabliaux or farce about social climbers, clumsy merchants, and evil usurers, rather than to the saga-world of independent farmers.27 The general dislike that precedes their main conflict raises questions about why they get into serious legal troubles with the chieftains. Is it because of the burnings, or because of their mercantile activities?

23 Transl. by Jorgensen, ‘Hen-Thorir’s Saga’, p. 240; Hœnsa-Þóris saga, p. 6. 24 Transl. by Tucker, ‘Olkofra’s Saga’, p. 231; Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 83. 25 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, pp. 13–16. 26 Ǫlkofra þáttr, pp. 86–89. 27 Other aspects hinting at a fabliau style include the irreverance conveyed through the use of obscenities, as in the senna-like insults between chieftains during legal proceedings at the final assembly in Ǫlkofra þáttr, pp. 90–93.

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The Mistake I would suggest that their biggest mistake happened before the actual burnings. In Hœnsa-Þóris saga, Blund-Ketill, a generous and virtuous chieftain, is asked by his tenants to provide them with hay, as the winter has been especially harsh on them.28 After donating his own stock of hay, more tenants go to him for help, and Blund-Ketill is coerced by his tenants to ask Hœnsa-Þórir for hay on their behalf. Hœnsa-Þórir is predictably rude to Blund-Ketill. At first, he refuses to welcome the chieftain on his doorstep, preferring instead to sit and finish his meal inside. Eventually, Ketill enters and asks for the hay, to which Hœnsa-Þórir responds in an aggressive manner: ‘How come a rich man like you is in need of hay?’ asked Thorir. ‘I am not especially in need of hay,’ responded Blund-Ketil. ‘I’m asking to buy it for my tenants, who feel they are in need of help. I would gladly give them hay if there was any.’ ‘Then you are most welcome to give others what is yours, but not what is mine.’ Blund-Ketil responded, –We’re not asking for a gift. Let Arngrim and Odd set a price with you, and on top of that I will give gifts to you.’ Þórir svarar: ‘Hví ertu í heyþroti, auðigr maðr?’ Blund-Ketill mælti: ‘Eigi em ek greiðliga í heyþroti, ok fala ek fyrir landseta mína, er þurfa þykkjask órlausna; vilda ek gjarna fá þein, ef til væri.’ ‘Þat munti eiga allra heimilast, at veita ǫðrum þitt, en eigi mitt.’ Blund-Ketill svarar: ‘Eigi kulu vér gjafar at biðja; láttu Odd ok Arngrím gera verð fyrir þína hǫnd, en þar á ofan vil ek gefa þér gjafar.’29

Ketill could have been offended by this antisocial behaviour, but embodying a very even-tempered and virtuous type of chieftain, he even offers to pay whatever Þórir’s (alleged) allies would consider a good price and offers gifts on top. Despite the offer, Hœnsa-Þórir decides to lie, saying that he does not have hay and that he would not sell it if he did. What Hœnsa-Þórir does not seem to process here is that he was offered a chance for social promotion. He has made money, he owns property,30 but he is not yet on the same level as independent farmers, and is on even 28 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, pp. 11–13. 29 Transl. by Jorgensen, ‘Hen-Thorir’s Saga’, p. 243; Hœnsa-Þóris saga, pp.14–15. 30 And possibly, the formal status too, as he is called a bóndi. See: Hœnsa-Þóris saga, p. 13.

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less equal terms with Ketill. Now Ketill is not only offering to pay for hay, but he is also offering gifts, which would start a reciprocal relationship that could benefit Hœnsa-Þórir socially in the long run. Indeed, gift-giving and reciprocity were crucial aspects of political/pragmatic friendship in the Icelandic Commonwealth, between chieftains and householders, and between chieftains themselves.31 Hœnsa-Þórir’s mistake echoes Ǫlkofri’s own error. After burning the Goðaskógr, Ǫlkofri returns to the general assembly to sell his beers as usual, even though a legal summons against him is pending. He is pretty sure he will have his way, as he ‘[. . .]stormed and blustered, saying Skafti would not act so grandly at the Thing, where his own friends would be present’ ([. . .]var málóði ok heldr stórorðr, lét þess ván, ef vinir hans kœmi til þings, at Skapti myndi eigi jafnstórliga láta).32 However, his expectations do not match reality: Ale-hood came to the Thing and had ale to sell; there he met his friends who were in the habit of buying ale from him. He asked them for help and offered to give them ale, but they all answered in the same way, that they had not enjoyed any concessions in their previous dealings together; they said that they would not prod the bear to anger by participating in his case against such powerful men, and no one would promise him help or buy his wares. It seemed to him that the case was becoming rather difficult. Ǫlkofri kom til þings ok átti mungát at selja, kom þá til fundar við vini sína, þá sem vanir váru at kaupa ǫl at honum. Hann bað þá liðs ok bauð þeim ǫl at selja, en þeir svǫruðu allir á einn veg, at þau ein kaup hefði þeir við átzk, at þeim var ekki vilnat í, sǫgðu, at þeir mundi eigi þeim birni beitask at deila um mál hans við ofreflismenn slíka, ok vildi engi maðr heita honum liði, ok engi vildi eiga kaup við hann. Þótti honum þá heldr vandask málit.33

Here, again, the core of the problem for Ǫlkofri lies in meaningful interactions (and the lack thereof), as his former buyers stress that their dealings never reached a friendly level. Trade, even when conducted regularly and cheerfully and in relation to the provision of beer at an annual assembly, is no guarantee of social privileges in the saga world. Simple business transactions forge only commercial relationships, whereas friendship requires 31 Jón Víðar Sigurðsson, ‘The Changing Role of Friendship in Iceland, c. 900–1300’; Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Friends, Patrons, and Clients in the Middle Ages’. 32 Transl. by Tucker, ‘Olkofri’s Saga’, p. 232; Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 85. 33 Transl. by Tucker, ‘Olkofri’s Saga’, p. 232; Ǫlkofra þáttr, pp. 85–86.

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something extra, such as favours or gifts. As much as Hœnsa-Þórir was wrong in thinking that his wealth was enough to assert his position, Ǫlkofri was wrong in thinking that he had friends, and therefore political protection, just because he was on regular ‘speaking terms’ with great men through his business.34 Both misjudged the importance of gift-giving in acquiring the friendship (and protection) of influential men. Thus, both stories seem to point to the fact that their biggest mistake was a social one, which preceded the events that result in the men facing legal charges like outlawry. Their social mistake becomes apparent and consequential in times of tension and exceptional situations, such as Ketill’s emergency demand for hay, or Ǫlkofri’s clumsiness that caused the fire. This social mistake must then be put into perspective with other scenes from their stories. For instance, Hœnsa-Þórir‘s refusal to welcome BlundKetill into his house and his obsession with finishing his own meal alone35 contrasts with how Broddi Bjarnason solves his tensions with Þorkell: he goes to his booth and offers apologies along with an ornamented sword.36 Then, the story concludes with: ‘That summer Thorkel went to a feast at the home of Broddi his kinsman and there received excellent gifts. They enjoyed then the warmest of kinships and maintained it throughout their lives. And with that ends the Saga of Ale-hood’ (Þat sumar fór Þorkell at heimboði til Brodda, frænda síns, ok þá þar allgóðar gjafar. Hǫfðu þeir þá ina beztu frændsemi með vináttu, ok helzk þar, meðar þeir lifðu. Ok lýkr þar sǫgu Ǫlkofra).37 Ironically, both Ǫlkofri’s and Hœnsa-Þórir’s stories end without their protagonists.38 The chieftains and their entourage, by contrast, get a happy ending, having solved their conflicts through social events and interactions such as gifts and feasts (Ǫlkofra þáttr) or marriages (Hœnsa-Þóris saga).

Social Mobility? Both stories hint at he fact that Ǫlkofri and Hœnsa-Þórir missed their step on the social ladder. However, one wonders whether the wealthy beer producer and chicken merchant ever had a genuine chance at social mobility. Would 34 ‘[…] through this business he soon got to be on speaking terms with all the great men, because they bought most of the ale’ ( […] en af þessi íðn varð hann brátt málkunnigr ǫllu stórmenni, því at þeir keyptu mest mungát), transl. by Tucker, ‘Olkofri’s saga’, p. 231; Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 83. 35 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, pp. 13–14. 36 Ǫlkofra þáttr pp. 4, 93. 37 Transl. by Tucker, ‘Olkofri’s Saga’, p. 237; Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 94. 38 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, p. 47.

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the story have gone differently for them if they had started a gift-giving dynamic with their buyers? William Miller argued that Blund-Ketill would commit a rán (robbery) against Þórir (who was never a friend in a first place) rather than ‘exhaust the credits he has established with friends and relations’.39 Indeed, Blund-Ketill could have asked Þorkell, a bóndi and friend, who lives further away. 40 Miller then assumes that BlundKetill went to Hœnsa-Þórir with the intention to commit a rán against him, knowing that the latter would refuse to give him hay. However, more than exhausting some (unquantifiable) credits of friendship, Blund-Ketill is most likely embarrassed about having to go to a peer and equal, under pressure from his who are displaying their power over him. 41 He may also feel embarassed that they did not follow his recommendations, or that his peers might assume that he failed to give his tenants good recommendations for their hay management. In any case, it is advantageous for Blund-Ketill to go to someone like Hœnsa-Þórir, who is widely disliked yet rich, and become a kind of patron to him by inducting him into the independent farmers’ game of gift-giving. Blund-Ketill does not offer gifts to Þórir out of politeness, nor to gain some kind of moral support while performing a rán. He offers Þórir long-term relationships, as gifts imply reciprocity and thus an ongoing relationship (and not just occasional dealings). However, the fact that Hœnsa-Þórir refuses to transform his relationship to profit into something more social helps to build the stereotype against profit-makers. The businessmen are obviously not economic outcasts, as they are left free to make profit and prosper. Yet, they are social and political outcasts as they keep their dealings purely commercial, due to stinginess, ignorance, or perhaps even class resentment. 42 In medieval Iceland, once merchants ceased travelling to buy property and become landowners, they needed to change their attitudes towards economy. 43 The merchant mentality had to be a means to an end, a temporary state that leads to exchanges that are more social in nature. Their stories can be compared to Oddr Ofeigsson’s own ‘self-made man’ tale at the beginning of the Bandamanna saga. Oddr is on bad terms with 39 Miller, ‘Gift, Sale, Payment, Raid: Case Studies in the Negotiation and Classif ication of Exchange in Medieval Iceland’, p. 41. 40 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, pp. 5–6, 26–30. 41 The tenants in Hœnsa-Þóris saga, although barely present, display meaningful agency, and also happen to be the silent beneficiaries in this conflict. See: Barreiro, ‘Beneficiarios silenciosos: La memoria literaria de los campesinos en la Saga de Thórir’. 42 Pencak, The Conflict of law, p. 100. 43 Durrenberger et al., ‘Economic Representation’, pp. 147–148.

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his father Ófeigr, and receives little affection from him despite the promising abilities he had shown from an early age. 44 One day, he asks his father to fund him. The conversation goes badly and Oddr leaves the estate. He joins a group of fishermen in Vatnsnes, first borrowing equipment, and, after three years, he pays off all his debts and begins accumulating wealth. He is said to be ‘popular with his business partners’ (vinsæll við sína félaga). 45 He then transforms his activity into cargo trips, buys a share in a ferry, and ends up fully owning the ship. He once again advances his career by setting sail on merchant trips abroad, where he is said to be extremely successful and earns both wealth and prestige. Finally, after returning to Iceland, he submits to peer pressure: Then he was urged by his friends to settle down here and he did as they asked, buying land in Midfjord at the place called Mel. There he started farming on a large scale and living in grand style, and it is said that this enterprise was thought no less impressive than his former voyages, so that now Odd had no equal in the north of the country. He was more generous with his money than most, good at helping out people who needed it in his neighbourhood. […] þá var hann beðinn af vinum sínum at staðfestask hér, ok eptir bœn þeira gerir hann svá, kaupir land í Miðfirði, þat er á Mel heitir. Hann eflir þar mikinn búnað ok gerisk rausnarmaðr í búinu, ok er svár sagt at eigi þótti um þat minna vert en um ferðir hans áðr, ok né var engi maðr jafnágætr sem Oddr var fyrir norðan land. Hann var betri af fé en flestir menn aðrir, góðr órlausna við þá, er hans þurftu ok í nánd honum váru […].46

The Bandamanna saga offers a clear path of action for entrepreneurs, and shows how, by submitting to social pressure, Oddr transformed his mercantile activity into farm-based production, while at the same time adjusting to a sociable attitude as he generously redistributes his money. At first glance, Oddr seems to be the successful antithesis of Hœnsa-Þórir; he was smart enough to listen to influential friends and changes his attitude regarding the use of his accumulated capital. However, the ‘self-made man’ tale should not make the reader forget about Oddr’s family. He left his farm because of the lack of affection and opportunities from his father Ófeigr, a prominent farmer with expensive lands, albeit not as well off financially as 44 Bandamanna saga, pp. 293–297. 45 Ibid., p. 296. 46 Transl. by Ellison, ‘The Saga of the Confederates’, p. 284; Bandamanna saga, pp. 297–298.

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one might assume. Ófeigr is introduced with his genealogy along with his wife’s, and despite his struggle to provide for his household, never denies anyone hospitality.47 Oddr has what can be called the ‘social capital’, or the social upbringing of a prominent farmer, which is what will ensure that he himself becomes a prominent farmer after leaving his commercial activities. In fact, the text even underlines that the borrowing and credits he arranged to start his enterprise from scratch were given ‘[…] because they knew he was from a good family and he himself was well-liked, they took the risk of lending to him’ ([…] er þeir vissu ætt hans góða, en var vinsæll sjálfr, þá hætta þeir til þess at eiga at honum). 48 Contrary to what some scholars have stated,49 Oddr is not a ‘common’ selfmade man/entrepreneur, but rather belongs to the category of a youngster eager to prove, by extreme means, his worth to his own kinship and social group. By contrast, neither Hœnsa-Þórir, nor Ǫlkofri have this ‘social capital’ with which to start their enterprises, nor do they possess the knowledge about how to turn profit into social value. In that sense, neither man had a clear shot at social mobility.

Profitability and Outlawry As political and social outcasts, Ǫlkofri and Hœnsa-Þórir lack the necessary political protection during the legal confrontations that occur in the second half of their stories. Probably aware of this weakness, Hœnsa-Þórir goes to see Arngrímr goði before his troubles start, and offers to foster his son Helgi, saying that, ‘[…] in return, I want to have your support so that I might get from people what I’m due’ ([…] ek vil hafa vináttu þína í mót ok fylgi til þess, at ek ná réttu af mǫnnum.).50 Arngrímr hesitates, but he is convinced by the amount of money Hœnsa-Þórir offers him. Hœnsa-Þórir treats this fosterage as a trade, which will later work against him since Helgi will be the one denouncing his actions to other chieftains.51 Thus, in a society where support at the assembly was essential for the prosecutorial outcome, it would seem logical that the two stingy entrepreneurs, without anyone to defend them, would be exposed to serious 47 Bandamanna saga, p. 294. 48 Transl. by Ellison, ‘The Saga of the Confederates’, p. 284; Bandamanna saga, pp.295–296. 49 Pencak, The Conflict of Law, p. 99. 50 Transl. by Jorgensen, ‘Hen-Thorir’s Saga’, p. 240; Hœnsa-Þóris saga, p. 7. 51 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, pp. 17–18.

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prosecution, and would receive the heaviest sentence possible in Iceland: full outlawry.52 Yet, neither man ends up being outlawed, despite facing powerful opponents. I would argue that, as political outcasts, they do not even get the privilege of being outlawed, since they barely make it into the legal dynamics of the assembly. Trials are yet another stage where chieftains and prominent farmers get to be represented and solve issues among themselves. Being eligible to outlawry is, in that sense, a privilege. Ǫlkofri is facing charges of full outlawry.53 Yet, Broddi Bjarnasson, his benefactor, says that: ‘[…] this man is ill-suited to be an outlaw and it is meanness in those who think themselves great to try to sentence him to outlawry’ ( […] þessi maðr muni ekki vel til skógarmanns felldr, ok er þat lítilræði at sekja hann, þeim er miklir þykkjask fyrir sér.).54 The farce-like tale does not lack a sense of humour, and here Broddi most likely makes a joke out of the fact that an outlaw is a skógarmaðr (‘man-of-the-forest’), thereby making Ǫlkofri a foolish candidate as he has already burnt the Goðaskógar. However, beyond the joke, Broddi simply cancels Ǫlkofri’s right to legal and public prosecution, while at the same time shaming the coalition of chieftains for their greed in this case. Later, the story stresses for a second time that Ǫlkofri is not worthy of outlawry,55 before letting him out of the story for good, shifting the focus to the chieftains’ dealings (mostly personal insults at the final assembly). Hœnsa-Þórir is in a similar situation, even though his actions had more dramatic consequences. When asked about who was responsible for Blund-Ketill’s burning, Þorkell (Hœnsa-Þórir’s benefactor) replies: ‘[…] that Thorvaldr, the son of Odd, was primarily responsible, as well as Arngrim the Godi’ ([…] at Þorvaldr Oddsson var upphafsmaðr at ok Arngrímr goði’.)56 Hen-Þórir, though he was the one to suggest and lead the burning, is not even mentioned and is barely made legally responsible for it. Instead, his supporters are the ones on the front line. Hœnsa-Þórir will finally be killed in a very anti-climactic scene,57 and disappears for the rest of the story (also dedicated to the chieftains’ business). This is the most efficient way to show that he is indeed a nobody. Interestingly, Hœnsa-Þórir is mentioned as being outlawed 52 There was no death penalty in Iceland. Most conflicts were solved through arbitrations and settlements. If a conflict was brought to the legal assembly, then a man could be declared a lesser outlaw ( fjörbaugsmaðr) and be exiled abroad for three years, or be declared a full outlaw (skógarmaðr), a man who could be killed without any legal consequences. 53 Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 85. 54 Transl. by Tucker, ‘Olkofri’s Saga’, p. 232; Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 86. 55 Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 88. 56 Transl. by Jorgensen, ‘Hen-Thorir’s Saga’, p. 252; Hœnsa-Þóris saga pp. 10, 30. 57 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, p. 41.

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in the Íslendingagabók, but not in his own story.58 This shows the difference of intention between the historiographic account of the Íslendingabók and the social exemplum. The Hœnsa-þóris saga stresses the fact that Hœnsa-Þórir is such a miserable being that he does not even deserve outlawry. What is sanctioned here is not their actual crime (the burnings), but rather their anti-social behaviours previous to the crime. However, the small entrepreneurs are not the only ones to be criticized through their stories. Exaggerated legal prosecutions are the chieftains’ own hubris for profit, while compensation and gifts through settlements are preferred.59 Therefore, the discourse on profit as an anti-social behaviour does not only apply to the stingy entrepreneurs, but also to the chieftains.

Conclusion The interest in figures such as Ǫlkofri and Hœnsa-Þórir in literary productions is obviously concomitant to the social concerns of the late thirteenth century and to the rise of a new type of production and social dynamics of wealth in Iceland.60 It is true that the two small businessmen have different personalities, which may be the reason why they were not often compared. Hœnsa-Þórir is considered ‘a perfect model of meanness’,61 while Ǫlkofri triggered more ‘sympathy’ through his clumsiness and ridicule.62 Yet, both of their stories display the same ideology against profit for its own sake, whether by traders or by chieftains. Their stories also examine how much profit without a social end divides chieftains and disturbs the established order, whether it comes from small petty businessmen or from the chieftain class itself. In fact, the two stories tell us more about the chieftains than about the food trade and traders, since both entrepreneurs disappear, rather ironically, in the middle of their own story. In these social exempla, the 58 Íslendingagabók, p. 12. 59 It is made clear in Ǫlkofra þáttr that the accidental fire could be a source of profit through prosecution, as: ‘During the autumn he sent word north to Eyjafjord with men who were travelling between districts and had Gudmund told of the fire, and that there was a possibility of a good profit from the case’ (Um haustit sendi hann orð norðr til Eyjafjarðar með þeim mǫnnum, er ferð áttu milli heraða, ok lét segja Guðmundi skógabrennuna ok þat með, at þat mál var févænligt). Transl. by Tucker, ‘Olkofri‘‘s Saga’, p. 232; Ǫlkofra þáttr, p. 85. The pursue of profit in cases of outlawry is also apparent in other sagas, such as Bandamanna saga or Ljósvetninga saga. 60 See: Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘From Reciprocity to Manorialism’. 61 Andersson, The Growth of The Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–1280), p. 164. 62 See: Lunden, Økonomi og samfunn; Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Social Ideals and the Concept of Profit in Thirteenth-Century Iceland’.

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dominant ideology still favours the older social order and ancient families, as they are still the ones owning most of the literary means of production and have ties to the clerical milieu or secular elite. Despite crucial changes from reciprocity to redistribution in the means of productions,63 reciprocity through gift-giving was still a meaningful social marker for chieftains and independent farmers at the time of writing. An old Irish satirical tale, the Tale of Mac Da Thó’s Pig, tells the story of powerful figures fighting over who will cut up the roasting pig at a feast and who will get which part.64 The tale is named after the pig, because even though it is harmless and doomed to die, the pig is the reason why the guests fight. Hœnsa-Þórir and Ǫlkofri are the pigs in their own stories. They are the food served at a feast, causing powerful men to fight. They are a didactic piece of meat revealing the weaknesses of chieftains, and they open a space for criticism. In the end, the greedy chieftains are the ones taking the legal blame, and Arngrímr goði is outlawed along with several other men.65 This reveals, in part, the nature of outlawry as a penalty, and the legal privileges held by chieftains. One must be included in the legal and political system to be eligible for outlawry. Ironically, being a legal outcast prevents one from becoming an outlaw. The two stories reveal that there is, in fact, a worse scenario than being an outlaw – one could be considered too wretched to even qualify.

Bibliography Primary Sources Bandamanna saga, in Grettis saga, edited by Guðni Jónsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936). Ellison, Ruth C., transl., ‘The Saga of the Confederates’, in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, including 49 Tales, 5 vols., vol. V, edited by Viðar Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997), pp. 284–308. Hœnsa-Þóris saga, in Borgfirðinga sögur, edited by Guðni Jónsson and Sigurður Nordal, Íslenzk fornrit, 3 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1938). Íslendingabók, Landnámabók, edited by Jakob Benediktsson, Íslenzk fornrit, 1 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968). 63 Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘From Reciprocity to Manorialism’, p. 274. 64 Sayers, ‘Serial Defamation in Two Medieval Tales’. 65 Hœnsa-Þóris saga, p. 41.

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Jorgensen, Peter A., transl., ‘Hen-Thorir’s Saga’, in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, including 49 Tales, 5 vols., vol. V, edited by Viðar Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997), pp. 239–259. Ǫlkofra þáttr, in Austfirðinga sögur, edited by Jón Jóhannesson, Islenzk fornrit, 11 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1950). Tucker, John, transl., ‘Olkofri’s Saga’, in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, including 49 Tales, 5 vols., vol. V, edited by Viðar Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson Publishing, 1997), pp. 231–237.

Secondary Sources Andersson, Theodore M., The Growth of The Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–1280) (Ithaca, NY/ London: Cornell University Press, 2006). Ármann Jakobsson, ‘The Life and Death of the Medieval Icelandic Short Story’, The Journal of English and Germanic Philology 112 (3) (2013), pp. 257–291. Baetke, Walter, Über die Entstehung der Isländersagas (Berlin: Akademie, 1956). Barreiro, Santiago, ‘Beneficiarios silenciosos. La memoria literaria de los campesinos en la Saga de Thórir’, in V. Aldazabal, L. Amor, M. Díaz, R. Flammini, N. Franco and B. Matossian, eds., Territorios, Memoria e Identidades. Actas de las IV Jornadas Multidisciplinarias (Ciudad Autónoma de Buenos Aires: IMHCIHI – Instituto Multidisciplinario de Historia y Ciencias Humanas, 2016), pp. 93–105. Berger, Alan, ‘Old Law, New Law, and Hænsna-Þóris saga’, Scripta Islandica 27 (1976), pp. 3–12. Durrenberger, E. Paul, Durrenberger, Dorothy, and Ástráður Eysteinsson. ‘Economic Representation and Narrative Structure in Hœnsa-Þóris saga’, Saga Book of the Viking Society for Northern Research vol. 22 (1988), pp. 43–164. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Friends, Patrons, and Clients in the Middle Ages’, in Jón Viðar Sigurðsson and T. Småberg, eds., Friendship and Social Networks in Scandinavia, c. 1000–1800 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 293–310. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Social Ideals and the Concept of Profit in Thirteenth-Century Iceland’, in Gísli Pálsson, From Sagas to Society: Comparative Approaches to Early Iceland (Middlesex: Hisarlik Press, 1992), pp. 231–245. Jón Víðar Sigurðsson, ‘The Changing Role of Friendship in Iceland, c. 900–1300’, in Jón Viðar Sigurðsson and T. Småberg, eds., Friendship and Social Networks in Scandinavia, c. 1000–1800 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 43–64. Lethbridge, Emily, ‘“Hvorki glansar gull á mér / né glæstir stafir í línum”: A Survey of Medieval Icelandic Íslendingasögur Manuscripts and the Case of Njáls saga’, Arkiv för nordisk filologi 129 (2014), pp. 55–89. Lunden, Kåre, Økonomi og samfunn. Synspunkt på økonomisk historie (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1972).

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Maurer, Konrad, Ueber die Hænsa-Þóris saga (Munchen: Verlag der K. Academie, 1871). Miller, William I., Audun and the Polar Bear: Luck, Law, and Largesse in a Medieval Tale of Risky Business (Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers, 2008). Miller, William I., ‘Gift, Sale, Payment, Raid: Case Studies in the Negotiation and Classification of Exchange in Medieval Iceland’, Speculum 61 (1986), pp. 18–50. Pencak, William, The Conflict of Law and Justice in the Icelandic Sagas (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995). Sayers, William, ‘Serial Defamation in Two Medieval Tales: Icelandic Ölkofra þáttr and Irish Scéla mucce Meic Dathó’, Oral Tradition 6 (1991), pp. 35–57. Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘From Reciprocity to Manorialism: On the Peasant Mode of Production in Medieval Iceland’, Scandinavian Journal of History 38 (3) (2013), pp. 273–295. Viðar Pálsson, Helgi Þorláksson, and Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘Reykholt as a Centre of Power’, in Helgi Þorláksson and Guðrún Sveinbjarnardóttir, eds., Snorri Sturluson and Reykholt: The Author and Magnate, His Life, Works and Environment at Reykholt in Iceland (2018), pp. 138–151. Tulinius, Torfi H., ‘Saga as a Myth: The Family Sagas and Social Reality in 13thCentury Iceland’, in G. Barnes and M. Clunies-Ross, eds., Old Norse Myths, Literature and Society. Proceedings of the 11th International Saga Conference. 2-7 July 2000 University of Sydney (Sydney: Centre for Medieval Studies, University of Sydney, 2000), pp. 526–539.

About the Author Marion Poilvez is a PhD candidate at the University of Iceland (Háskóli Íslands) and researches outlaws, outlawry, and the dynamics of exclusion in the Icelandic sagas.

5.

What Did the Norwegians Drink? Erik Opsahl Abstract The chapter describes Norwegians’ drinking habits in the Middle Ages. The sources testify to a lot of drunkenness and subsequent fights and riots. However, Norwegians were hardly drunk all the time. Wine seems to have been relatively diff icult to obtain. The domestic Norwegian beer had a weak alcohol content, and the good and stronger German beer had to be imported. The most common drink was milk, possibly a mixture of milk and water. Water also seems to have been a thirst quencher. Norwegian kings had taverns built around the country. The bottling and sale of beer was regulated. Drinking was a central part of social life. Queen Margrete advised King Erik to serve the Norwegians good German beer in 1405. Keywords: Norway, Wine, Beer, Drunkenness, Milk, Tavern

In 1442, the German merchants in Oslo and Tønsberg complained bitterly to Lübeck and other Hanseatic towns about what they saw as a violation of their privileges by the Norwegian authorities. They mentioned by name the commanders of the royal castles at Tønsberg and Oslo, who belonged to Norway’s aristocratic and political elite in the first half of the fifteenth century. As members of the Norwegian Council of the Realm and commanders of castles in towns where German merchants were trading, these two noblemen were leading proponents of a determined Norwegian policy that sought to reduce the German merchants’ dominant trading position. The aim of this policy was not to expel German merchants from Norway, but rather to reduce and limit their economic role. According to the German merchants, the commander in Oslo, Sigurd Jonsson (Sørum) had declared that he would try with all his power and all his men to drive them out of Norway, even if it meant that he would have

Gyönki, V. and A. Maraschi (eds.), Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789462988217_ch05

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to drink water for the rest of his life.1 Sigurd Jonson’s reference to drinking water alluded to the danger of good German beer disappearing from Norway along with the German merchants: Norwegians had come to prefer German beer to their own.

Drink for Survival, Pleasure, or Drunkenness? People were thirsty in the Middle Ages. The food was salty due to preserving and most people carried out more heavy manual labour than they do today. Besides water and milk, the only other drinking alternatives in the Middle Ages were beer and wine. Beer was probably among the more popular drinks, but there were different types and the quest for intoxication was not the primary reason for consuming this beverage.2 The Norwegian king disapproved of the importation of beer and wine from Germany. King Sverre (1177–1202), in his famous ‘speech against drunkenness’ in Bergen, in 1186, praised the English for bringing goods to Norway that the country needed, items such as oats, honey, flour, and cloth. However, he criticized the Germans for bringing so much wine to the country that the price fell. The result was drunkenness; not only amongst the king’s men, but also amongst townspeople and merchants. At the same time, the German traders wanted to extract from Norway valuable products goods, such as cod and butter, which the country needed for itself.3 King Håkon IV Håkonsson (1217–1263) forbade the Germans from importing beer from Lübeck in the winter of 1247/48, arguing that such trade was of no benef it to Norway. 4 In 1316, his grandson, Håkon V (1299–1319), accused both the German and Norwegian merchants of only importing useless commodities such as beer, ornaments, and other worthless goods from Germany, while exporting valuable items from Norway.5 On the other hand, not all German beer and wine was considered to be of high standard. In the early 1350s, the Norwegian-Swedish king Magnus VII (in Sweden, Magnus II) (1319–1355/74) accused German merchants of hindering the import of provisions to Norway and Sweden from their cities. He complained that only bad beer and flour and fake 1 2 3 4 5

NGL 2.R. I, nr. 104, Tillæg 1; Opsahl, ‘Water or Beer?’. Pajung, ‘Ther som i io well haffue win at drecke’, p. 193. Noregs kongesoger 3, p. 155. DN V nr. 1. NGL nr. 47.

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hops came into the country, while grain and other useful commodities were exported.6 Not all beers and wines were intoxicants. Wine was central in the Communion but was reserved for the priest in the Middle Ages. Only after the Reformation did members of the congregation drink the wine to any extent at the Communion.7 Moreover, it is possible that people ascribed a magic aspect to the wine, because, according to Catholic faith, the wine was transformed into the blood of Christ during the Communion. This may have made people reluctant to drink wine daily out of awe.8 Nevertheless, in Hákonar saga, wine is described as the cure for every ill. Apparently, even bishops, among the most prominent men in the country, struggled to get hold of wine.9 In the summer of 1338, Bishop Håkon Erlingsson of Bergen complained that the only wine available in Bergen at that time was some Rhenish, which was ‘not at all good’. Neither red, nor white, nor sweet wine from Flanders or England was available in Bergen.10 He was obviously thinking of something other than altar wine. Wine was still in short supply in Bergen two years later. Bishop Salomon of Oslo had asked Bishop Håkon to send him wine, but Håkon could not fulfil the request. According to Bishop Håkon, there was as much of a wine shortage in Bergen as there was in Oslo. His canons had almost no wine, wrote Håkon, except for half a cask of white Rhenish wine, which he had bought for a scandalously high price. Almost everyone in Bergen had been fooled into believing that the situation would improve, but ‘the Germans in Bergen drink what they can get, but it is hardly to be called wine’, the bishop continued.11 That this was the situation even in Bergen, a European town of medium size in terms of inhabitants and with a substantial international trade, underscores what we know from other medieval sources. Wine was a scarce commodity in Norway, as it was in many other parts of Europe in the Middle Ages. Moreover, wine was more expensive than German beer, because wine was often flavoured with honey and other available spices.12 Wine was exclusive, primarily a drink of the elite. Hákonar saga makes a big fuss about how much wine was served at the royal wedding party in Bergen in 1261. King Håkon IV Håkonsson had declared that in the hall where he was 6 SD V nr. 3672 (wrong dating), see RN VI nr. 146. 7 Andersen, ‘Indledning’, p. 15. 8 Pajung, ‘Ther som i io well haffue win at drecke’, p. 196. 9 See Soga om Håkon Håkonsson, p. 262; Lunden, Kjettarar, prestart og sagakvinnar, p. 108. 10 DN VII nr. 155. 11 DN IX nr. 126. 12 Pajung, ‘Ther som i io well haffue win at drecke’, p. 196.

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host, every man should choose what he preferred to drink. According to the saga, the king’s promise was made possible by the fact that there was as much wine as other beverages at the wedding.13 This habit of royal showing off by serving wine continued in the late Middle Ages and Early Modern times in the Danish-Norwegian monarchy.14 The same was the case with scarcity of wine. In 1454, there were only five barrels of wine at the Royal Castle in Copenhagen.15 According to the late Norwegian historian Kåre Lunden, those who drank wine, drank gold. In 1306, 54 beakers of the most expensive Byzantium wine in Bergen had the same value as a standard farmstead in western Norway.16 King Magnus VI the Lawmender (1263–1280) shared a silver goblet of wine with the Icelandic chieftain and saga writer Sturla Þórðarson with the phrase in 1263: ’Wine should one drink with friends’ (Vin skal til vinar drekka). However, there could at times be too much alcohol, even for the elite in thirteenth-century Norway. Hákonar saga describes the earl Knut Håkonsson, who died in 1261, as a tall and handsome man, friendly and well educated. But he drank too much, resulting in poor health.17 We know of several serious incidents linked to drunkenness in medieval Norway. Earl Erling Skakke, King Sverre’s mighty opponent, lost the battle at Kalvskinnet, near Trondheim, in 1179, where he fell, probably due to the fact that the majority of his army was dead-drunk after heavy drinking the night before.18 A Norwegian army that invaded Sweden during the winter of 1225 brought many casks of wine. King Håkon IV Håkonsson served his officers the wine, but it was so cold that it froze in the casks. One evening, the officers threw casks with one third of frozen wine in them out of their lodgings and into the camp where they were grabbed by some grooms. They fractured the caskets and later melted and then consumed the lumps of ice. The result was drunkenness and fighting that left fourteen men wounded and many more battered. The king managed to get the men to stop fighting in the morning. His officers wanted to punish the grooms, but the king pardoned them.19 The aforementioned speech by King Sverre came in the wake of a German import of wine to Bergen, which made wine as cheap as beer. The result

13 Soga om Håkon Håkonsson, p. 329; Helle, Bergen bys historie, p. 319. 14 Pajung, ‘Ther som i io well haffue win at drecke’, pp. 194–195. 15 Ibid., p. 195. 16 Lunden, Kjettarar, prestart og sagakvinnar, p. 108. 17 Soga om Håkon Håkonsson, p. 333. 18 Sverre-soga, p. 52. 19 Soga om Håkon Håkonsson, p. 115.

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was drunkenness among both Germans and Norwegians with fighting, quarrels, killings, and drownings.20 Another example of heavy drinking on military campaign is during the Battle of Gata in Sweden, in the winter of 1365. The Norwegian kings, Magnus VII and Håkon VI (1355-80) (father and son), tried to recapture their Swedish kingdom, from which they had been expelled the year before. The majority of the Swedish aristocracy had instead installed the German Albrekt of Mecklenburg as Swedish king. The battle was a disaster for the Norwegians. Magnus was captured, while a wounded Håkon managed to escape back to Norway with his army. According to Förbindelsesdikten, a later Swedish source from the fifteenth century, the Norwegians were to blame for the two kings’ defeat. A substantial part of the army stayed in the nearby city drinking heavily, instead of following King Magnus. The result was that the king had only his vanguard, and not his complete army with which to fight his German-Swedish opponents. We do not know if King Magnus, like his French contemporary, Filip VI at the Battle of Crécy, was too impatient to wait until the bulk of his army in the rear had arrived and had perhaps sobered up.21 A German bishop claimed, around 1400, that both clerics and lay people in Norway were drinking heavily. The Norwegians were not happy if they could not get drunk by drinking beer beyond any normal volume and standard, wrote the bishop. According to him, people in Norway drank until they collapsed.22 However, one should remember the existence of ethnic or national stereotypes. In 1580, a Venetian diplomat commented that a sober German was considered sick.23 There might have been an element of centre–periphery thinking at play here; from cultured to barbaric. The Danes seem to have had a reputation as heavy drinkers.24 However, the aforementioned Kåre Lunden concluded that the royal central administration in Norway around 1300 was small enough for a king to control, even if he had a hangover most days, in accordance with the custom of the age.25 At the same time, there were no punishments for drunkenness itself. On the contrary, the Norwegian Town Law (urban code) from 1276 advises people to stay inside their houses at night. If the town’s watchmen find 20 Sverre-soga, pp. 122–123. 21 Svenska Medeltidens Rim-krönikor, p. 128; Andersson, Källstudier till Sveriges historia, pp. 211–212; Visbyfranciskanernas bok, pp. 64–65. 22 Imsen and Sandnes, Avfolkning og union 1319–1448, p. 230. 23 Pajung, ‘Ther som i io well haffue win at drecke’, pp. 191–192. 24 Andersen, ‘De drikfældige danskere’; Kjær, ‘Druk, kongemagt og kongedrab’. 25 Lunden, Norge under Sverreætten 1177–1319, p. 428.

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drunk people on their nightly rounds, they should guide, not mislead them. The watchmen should ask where the drunk person lives and follow him there if he is able to walk. Otherwise, they should lead him to the nearest husbonda (‘housemaster’), where he can sleep until sober enough to walk home. Anyone found to be misleading a drunk person would be fined. It was strictly forbidden to steal clothes, weapons, or money from drunk people.26

Alcohol and Non-Alcoholic Drink Were Norwegians in medieval Norway drunk most of the time, then? Probably not. The Bible argued in many passages for a moderate consumption of alcohol, as did the clerics. Related to this were courteous ideals, which the European lay aristocracy started to follow in the twelfth century. Emperor Charlemagne was a role model with his moderation in eating and especially drinking, for he hated to see drunkenness in any man, even more so in himself and his friends.27 The Sverres saga described the Norwegian king Sverre as a man who never drank so much that he lost self-control.28 We find the same ideals in the Norwegian Kongespeilet, ‘The King’s Mirror’, probably written for the royal sons in the 1250s. The author warns the king’s men against drinking sessions except in the king’s assembly rooms or at decent parties, and even then, it advises them to avoid drunkenness. The king even dislikes men who consume strong drink early in the morning.29 What did the Norwegians actually drink? Consumption of alcoholic drink influenced almost every aspect of medieval society.30 The main transitions in life – like birth, bequest, and so on – were marked by social gatherings where one drank beer. Brewing for annual festivals goes far back. Every household had to supply the king with approximately 16 litres of malt for the mid-winter festival in the eleventh century.31 Drinking beer at certain occasions had a clear social function beyond getting drunk. It contributed to the formation and confirmation of fellowship, to the expression of joy and sorrow, and as a reward for hard work.32 Nevertheless, Norwegians in the 26 NGL II, pp. 240–241. 27 Andersen, ‘Indledning’, pp. 15–16; Einhard, Two Lives of Charlemagne, p. 78. 28 Sverre-soga, p. 221. 29 Konungs skuggsiá, pp. 56–-59; Kongsspegelen, pp.113–118; Moland, ‘Vin I (Norge)’; see also Andersen, ‘Indledning’, p. 16. 30 Andersen, ‘Indledning’, p. 19; Pajung, ‘Ther som i io well haffue win at drecke’, p. 199. 31 Myhre and Øye, Norges landbrukshistorie I, p. 323, see also p. 267. 32 Pajung, ‘Ther som i io well haffue win at drecke’, p. 200.

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Middle Ages did not drink only alcohol. We do not know what they drank in 1365. It could have been wine, as was the case 140 years earlier, but most likely, it was beer. As mentioned earlier, wine was obviously not the usual drink for the common man and woman in Norway in the Middle Ages. Two foreigners visiting Norway in the fifteenth century reported the same. In 1450, the German Michael Beheim characterized Norway as a hideous country because of the mountains, deep valleys, and the effervescent ocean, but not a poor land. It was full of ‘silver and gold’ but there was a shortage of bread and wine. There were many Norwegians who never got to taste fruit, bread, or wine. On the other hand, there were tremendous amounts of meat and fish and an abundance of butter and fat. This was the people’s food and milk was the drink.33 The Italian Pietro Querini who survived a shipwreck in northern Norway in 1432 and later travelled south through the country, does not mention wine at all in the report he wrote later in Italy. He and his men got milk to drink, sometimes described as cultured milk, together with butter and flour mixed with bark instead of bread. Cheese was also relatively common. A few places they got beer together with meat and other ‘necessary things’.34 Different types of milk drinks seem to have been the most common beverages at meals. We have already mentioned cultured milk, which often seems to have been salted.35 Nevertheless, milk was obviously not considered an appropriate drink for grown-ups and stout men. ‘Milk drinker’ was a term used about weak and dependent persons, while a mungátsmaðr36 was a full-grown and experienced man who could participate in drinking beer.37 Nevertheless, ‘blanda’, a diluted cultured milk, seemed to have been the daily drink for most people in medieval Norway.38 Blanda was also called skjør or myse.39 It tasted very much the same as vinegar and water. As mentioned above, Michael Beheim claimed milk was the common drink in Norway in the fifteenth century. However, the cows did not give much milk during the winter. 33 Molbech, ‘Om Michael Beheim’, pp. 323–324; Vangensten, Michael Beheims reise til Danmark, p. 17. 34 Wold, I paradisets første krets, p. 145. In this chapter, I have used the Norwegian translation of the texts published in Wold, I paradisets første krets, pp. 123–172. See ibid. p. 174 for the history of the printed versions of the texts from 1553 to 1967. 35 Grøn, Om kostholdet i Norge indtil aar 1500, p.96. 36 Mungát was the name of the Norwegian home-brewed beer in the Middle Ages. 37 Grøn, Om kostholdet i Norge indtil aar 1500, p. 92. 38 Lunden, Kjettarar, prestart og sagakvinnar, p. 108. 39 Myhre and Øye, Norges landbrukshistorie I, p. 405.

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Water has always been the basic drink for human beings; this includes Norwegians in the Middle Ages. We hear of wells and water sources in medieval Norway and there is a reason to believe the people in the countryside, who comprised around 90–95 per cent of the inhabitants, had access to relatively good quality water supplies. Nevertheless, water seems primarily to have been a thirst-quencher, as was the aforementioned blanda, and used for cooking. The ‘speciality’ blanda seems to have been disreputable among foreigners. Cardinal William of Sabina, who was the papal diplomat at King Håkon IV’s coronation in Bergen, in 1247, admitted in his speech that he had been told before he arrived that he would get nothing to drink in Norway other than blanda or water. What William might not have known was that King Håkon had sent ahead a ship to England and other countries to get commodities that were lacking in Norway. 40 Nevertheless, milk was not available all year round, but primarily when the cattle were grazing. That is another reason for consuming beer. 41

Taverns Pietro Querini and his men stayed at taverns of differing standards during their long journey through Norway. Some kind of hospices or lodging houses, called sælehus, were built along the ancient travelling routes. King Eystein Magnusson (1103–1123) praised himself for having built hospices on Dovrefjell and endowed them. 42 The Norwegian kings also built veitslehaller, some kind of lodging houses at the royal estates across the country. There were usually a day’s journey between the royal estates along the most important roads. 43 King Eirik II Magnusson (1280–1299) and his brother, Duke Håkon (later King Håkon V), ordered the construction of taverns within a day or half-a-day’s travel distance of each other all over the country in the late thirteenth century. The goal was to provide the opportunity to buy food, drink, and horse feed for people who travelled across Norway on ‘business’. A royal resolution from 1303 instructed the hosts of the taverns to place a sign outside, so that the guests could read what beverages they could buy. Unfortunately, the source does not tell us what kind of beverages were available. King Håkon V Magnusson (1299–1319) strictly forbade the arrangement 40 Grøn, Om kostholdet i Norge indtil aar 1500, 95; Soga om Håkon Håkonsson, p. 261. 41 Pajung, ‘Ther som i io well haffue win at drecke’, p. 193. 42 Morkinskinna, p. 347. 43 Bø, ‘Gästgiveri (Noreg)’, p. 702; Soga om Håkon Håkonsson, pp. 367–368.

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of benders (samdrikkelag) at the taverns. The king later enjoined the royal charter. 44 A group of royal privileged innkeepers at the taverns existed in the country through the rest of the Middle Ages. 45 Taverns and pubs seem to have been quite numerous in the towns. 46

Brewing, Tapping, and Selling Tapping and selling beer, both imported and home-brewed, were regulated, in terms of who was allowed do this as well as the price and quality. Only people who owned houses or rented at least a quarter of a house, for at least half a year, along with honest and honourable women, were allowed to tap and sell beer and mead, but not in small quantities. The last point was meant to protect taverns and pubs from competition. In Bergen, brewing, tapping, and selling beer, both foreign and domestic, was a right for a particular kind of townhouse, a bygård, from at least 1282. Equipment and room for this were part of the townhouse’s collective goods that individual house owners and tenants all had a part in. 47 There were specialized brewers in Bergen, the heitumen, who brewed for people who had or rented brewery equipment.48 Even the tapping of wine was regulated.49 The sale of wine was more restricted than the selling of beer. One had to have a royal charter or special permission from the town council to sell wine in small quantities.50 Even foreigners could obtain the right to tap wine and probably other beverages.51 In the late Middle Ages, German merchants seemed to evade the prohibition on visiting foreigners participating in the retail trade in Bergen by getting their Norwegian mistresses to sell different beverages.52 Beer and beer brewing has been known in what was to become Norway probably as far back as the early Iron Age (1200 BC– 450 BC), perhaps even in the Bronze Age (3000 BC–1200 BC). Home-brewed beer was common in 44 NGL III, nr. 55; IV, pp. 357–359. 45 Blom, Kongemakt og privilegier i Norge, pp. 24–29; Steen, Ferd og Fest, pp. 392–407; KLNM V, p.704; see DN IX nr. 47, IV nr. 502; NGL 2. R., 2, nr. 18. 46 Steen, Ferd og Fest, p. 419. 47 Helle, Bergen bys historie, pp. 218, 276, and 318. 48 Ibid., p. 432. 49 NGL III, nr. 110 and 115; Blom, ‘Vinhandel (Norge)’, pp.128–129; Idem, ‘Ölhandel (Norge)’, p. 712; Idem, Hellig Olavs by, pp. 274–275; Norseng, Administrativ prisfastsettelse i det norske middelaldersamfunnet, pp. 84–89, 91–92, and 160–162. 50 Helle, Bergen bys historie, p. 412. 51 Ibid., p. 419. 52 Ibid., pp. 763 and 784–785; NGL 2.R. 1, pp. 237 § 3 and 252 § 3.

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Norway throughout the Middle Ages. The alcoholic strength of the Norwegian beer was relatively weak and therefore it was not really an intoxicant. Beer was probably primarily a thirst-quencher and a source of nourishment, along with fish and vegetables.53 King Magnus VI the Lawmender decided, in 1276, that the poor in two hospitals in Bergen should have a daily ration of two thirds of a litre of beer, probably mungåt.54 A rich woman who bought pension for herself in a cloister around 1300, demanded a daily ration of 2.7 litres of beer, again, probably munngått.55 The Bishop of Bergen and his retinue of up to 30 men demanded a daily ration of four barrels (à 162 litres) of bjórr, six barrels of mungåt, and half a barrel wine during a visitation around 1320.56 Foreign merchants in Norway seem to have started to import malt and hops for brewing and the stronger and obviously better German beer from the twelfth century onwards. The modern English terms ‘ale’ and ‘beer’ are a bit confusing here. ‘Ale’ seems originally to have been the name of all alcoholic drinks brewed using malt, but later was demarcated to beer brewed without hops. The less common word ‘beor’, the same word as the old Norwegian ’bjórr’, denoted a sweeter and stronger drink, just like the German beer called bjórr in medieval Norway, which was stronger than the Norwegian beer. But all beer brewed in Norway, including mungåt, was brewed using hops and malt. Old Norwegian also has the word ǫl for beer, which is the same as the English ale and the modern Norwegian word øl. Mungåt seems to have denoted home-brewed, i.e. in the households, while ǫl was Norwegian brewed beer and bjórr was the exclusive imported German beer. As mentioned above, selling and brewing beer in the towns of medieval Norway was regulated. This is one indication of the importance of beer in medieval Norwegian society. Drinking beer and mead played an important role in religious, social, and not least political situations. Intoxicants’ high social status made it obvious for people, not least the elite, in many different cultures, including medieval Norway, where one was expected to drink wine and beer while discussing and making important decisions or in the Council of the Realm, or other institutions and gatherings, such as together with soldiers in the field. The same was true for members of guilds.57 The 53 See Andersen, ‘Indledning’, p. 16. 54 DN II nr. 16a-b; Helle, Bergen bys historie, p. 318. 55 DN XII nr. 27; Helle, Bergen bys historie, p. 318; see also Pettersen, De økonomiske sidene ved provent-institusjonen, pp. 83 and 115–119. 56 DN VII nr. 98; Helle, Bergen bys historie, p. 595. 57 Andersen, ‘Indledning’, p. 18.

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fact that drinking horns were a common aristocratic testamentary gift reveals the important symbolic value of drinking together. For example, the Norwegian knight and Council of the Realm, Jon Marteinsson, bequeathed several drinking horns in his testament from 1400.58

Conclusion: milk for Survival; Wine and Beer for Prestige A good illustration of the beer’s political importance in medieval Norway are the detailed instructions issued by Queen Margareta, founder of the Union of Kalmar, to King Erik, before his second visit to Norway in 1405. There are contemporary indications that neither the union, nor King Erik were very popular in Norway. The Queen gave no less than 53 instructions to her adopted son. The third one was that as soon as the king crossed the Norwegian border and met native people, he should immediately entertain them with the German beer and mead he was taking with him to make the Norwegians benevolent.59 Here, we can see long historical traditions. In sum, when it comes to the question of the drinking habits of medieval Norwegians, there are great similarities with the situation and practices in other parts of Europe at the time: milk was for survival, wine and beer were imbibed for prestige.

Bibliography Primary Sources DN = Diplomatarium Norvegicum I–XXIII. 1849–2011. Christiania/Oslo: Riksarkivet. Einhard and Notker the Stammerer, Two Lives of Charlemagne (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1969). Kongsspegelen, transl. Alf Hellevik (Oslo: Det Norske Samlaget, 1976). Konungs skuggsiá, edited by Ludvig Holm-Olsen (Oslo: Norsk Historisk KjeldeskriftInstitutt, 1983). Morkinskinna, edited by Theodore M. Andersson, Kari Ellen Gade (Ithaca, NY/ London: Cornell University Press, 2000). NGL = Norges gamle Love, I–V, edited by Peter Andreas Munch, Rudolf Keyser (Christiania: Trykt hos Chr. Gröndahl, 1846–1895). 58 DN DN XVI nr. 42; Etting, ‘Drikkehorn og dansk drikkekultur’. 59 DN XI nr. 110 (incorrect date).

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NGL 2. R. = Norges gamle Love anden Række I–IV:1. (Christiania, Oslo: Kjeldeskriftfondet/Norsk Historisk Kjeldeskrift-Institutt/Riksarkivet, 1912–1995). Noregs kongesoger 1–4. (Oslo: Det Norske Samlaget, 1979). RN = Regesta Norvegica I–X (Oslo: Norsk Historisk Kjeldeskrifts-Institutt/Riksarkivet, 1978–2015). SD = Svenskt diplomatarium (Diplomatarium Svecanum) I–XI: 4, (Stockholm: Riksarkivet, 1829–2014). Soga om Håkon Håkonsson, edited by Knut Helle (Oslo: Det Norske Samlaget, 1963). Sverre-soga, edited by Halvdan Koht (Oslo: Det Norske Samlaget, 1967). Visbyfranciskanernas bok, edited by Evert Melefors, Eva Odelman (Visby: Landsarkivet i Visby och Gotlands kommunarkiv, 2008).

Secondary Sources Andersen, Kasper, ‘De drikfældige danskere’, in Kasper Andersen and Stefan Pajung, Drikkekultur i middelalderen (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2014), pp. 149–172. Andersen, Kasper, ‘Indledning’, in Kasper Andersen and Stefan Pajung, Drikkekultur i middelalderen (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2014), pp. 9–26. Andersson, Ingvar, Källstudier till Sveriges historia 1230–1436 (Lund: C.W. Lindströms bokhandel, 1928). Blom, Grethe Authén, Hellig Olavs by. Middelalder til 1537. Trondheims historie 997–1997, 6 vols, Vol. 1. (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1997). Blom, Grethe Authén, Kongemakt og privilegier i Norge inntil 1387 (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1967). Blom, Grethe Authén, ‘Ölhandel (Norge)’, in Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder vol. XX. (Malmö: Allhems förlag, 1956–1978) pp. 710–712. Blom, Grethe Authén, ‘Vinhandel (Norge)’, in Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder vol. XX. (Malmö: Allhems förlag, 1956–1978) pp. 127–130. Bø, Olav, ‘Gästgiveri (Noreg)’, in Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder vol. V. (Malmö: Allhems förlag, 1956–1978) pp. 701–704 Etting, Vivian, ‘Drikkehorn og dansk drikkekultur’, in Kasper Andersen and Stefan Pajung, Drikkekultur i middelalderen (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2014), pp. 99–113. Grøn, Fredrik, Om kostholdet i Norge indtil aar 1500 (Oslo: Kildeforlaget, 1984). Helle, Knut, Bergen bys historie, 4 vols., Vol. 1, Kongssete og kjøpstad. Fra opphavet til 1536 (Bergen: Universtitetsforlaget, 1982). Imsen, Steinar, and Jørn Sandnes, Avfolkning og union 1319–1448, Cappelens norgeshistorie 4 (Oslo: J.W. Cappelens forlag, 1977).

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Kjær, Lars, ‘Druk, kongemagt og kongedrab’, in Kasper Andersen and Stefan Pajung, Drikkekultur i middelalderen (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2014) pp. 9–26. KLNM = Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder vols. I–XXII (Malmö: Allhems förlag, 1956–1978). Lunden, Kåre, Kjettarar, prestart og sagakvinnar. Om historie og historieproduksjon (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1980). Lunden, Kåre, Norge under Sverreætten 1177–1319, Cappelens norgeshistorie 3 (Oslo: J.W. Cappelens forlag, 1976). Moland, Einar, ‘Vin I (Norge)’, in Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder vol. XX. (Malmö: Allhems förlag, 1956–1978) pp. 73–75. Molbech, Christian, ‘Om Michael Beheim og hans Reise til Danmark og Norge Aar 1450’, (Danish) Historisk Tidsskrift 1:VI (1840), pp. 321–328. Myhre, Bjørn, and Ingvild Øye, Norges landbrukshistorie, 4 vols., vol. I, 4000 f. Kr. – 1350 e. Kr. Jorda blir levevei (Oslo: Det Norske Samlaget, 2002). Norseng, Per, Administrativ prisfastsettelse i det norske middelaldersamfunnet (Master’s thesis, University of Oslo, 1983). Opsahl, Erik, ‘Water or Beer? Anti-German Sentiments in Scandinavia in the Late Middle Ages: The Case of Norway’, in Lars Bisgaard, Lars Boje Mortensen, and Tom Pettitt, eds., Guilds, Towns and Cultural Transmission in the North, 1300–1500 (Odense: University Press of Southern Denmark, 2013), pp. 73–90. Pajung, Stefan, ‘Ther som i io well haffue win at drecke. Alkoholkultur i dansk senmiddelalder og renæssance’, in Kasper Andersen and Stefan Pajung, eds., Drikkekultur i middelalderen, (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2014), pp. 191–214. Pettersen, Gunnar I., De økonomiske sidene ved provent-institusjonen i Norge ca. 1280–1500 (Oslo: adNotam Gyldendal, 1992). Steen, Sverre, Ferd og Fest (Oslo: Aschehoug & co., 1942). Svenska Medeltidens Rim-krönikor Vol. I. ed. Aron Rydfors (Stockholm: A.B. Magn. Bergvalls förlag, 1925). Vangensten, Ove C.L., Michael Beheims reise til Danmark og Norge i 1450. (Oslo: Videnskabs-Selskabets Skrifter II, 1908). Wold, Helge A, I paradisets første krets (Oslo: J.W. Cappelens forlag, 1991).

About the Author Erik Opsahl is a professor of Medieval History, Norwegian University of Science and Technology, Trondheim. His fields of interest are aristocracy, nobility, state formation, political culture, national and other identities and loyalties, networks, military history, and migration in Medieval and Early Modern History.

6. Stockfish Distribution: Getting Stockfish to the Consumer Magne Njåstad

Abstract This chapter examines the commercial infrastructure of the Norwegian f isheries, discussing the production and transport of dried cod from northern Norway to Bergen, and the role of the Church in the stockfish trade. A large proportion of tithes and land rent in northern Norway was paid in f ish: ecclesiastical institutions were major landowners and thus also major traders. In the late Middle Ages, the local trading hub, Bergen, was dominated by German traders, who exported fish to the northern German cities and to England. While producers thus had access to a stable market and goods that were hard to come by locally, they also risked being caught in a system of credit from which it could be hard to escape. Keywords: Stockf ish, Hanseatic trade, Pietro Querini, Archbishop of Nidaros, Bergen

This chapter will deal with aspects of the commercial infrastructure of the Norwegian fisheries in the late middle ages. I will look at the fishing communities, the transport of fish to Bergen, the role of the Church in the trade, and the role of the city of Bergen. The point of departure will be an intriguing source from the 1430s: the travel accounts of a shipwrecked Italian captain and one of his crewmembers, who spent the winter and spring of 1432 on the island of Røst in the Lofoten Archipelago.1 1 In this chapter, I have used the Norwegian translation of the texts published in Wold, I paradisets første krets, pp. 123–172. See also p. 174 for the history of the printed versions of the texts from 1553 to 1967.

Gyönki, V. and A. Maraschi (eds.), Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789462988217_ch06

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Pietro Querini was a merchant sailing with a ship that left Crete in the autumn of 1431 with a cargo of wine, spices, and cloth, destined for Flanders. The ship ran into trouble in the Strait of Gibraltar, and had to spend several weeks in Cadiz to do repairs. Misfortune continued to haunt the ship – after leaving Cadiz, the rudder broke, leaving the ship floating aimlessly around the Canary Islands for weeks until they were finally able to get to Lisbon for further repairs. This was only the beginning of the crew’s misfortunes. Sailing from Lisbon towards Flanders, the ship struck bad weather, and sailed off course towards Cornwall and further, probably west of Ireland or through the Irish sea. Again, the rudder broke, and the ship was at the mercy of the storm. This continued for several weeks, the ship being ravaged by wind and waves, destroying sails and masts. On 17 December, after three weeks at the mercy of the storms, the ship was so destroyed that the crew abandoned ship and entered two small boats. The vessel that Querini entered drifted northwards for two more weeks before seeing land; a small island. This was on 4 January. The crew spent nearly two weeks on this small, deserted island before they were rescued by fishermen from the nearby larger island of Røst. By the time of their rescue, the crew was reduced from 68 men to 11. The crew spent several months on the island before returning southwards, first to Trondheim by ship, then over land to Vadstena and Lödöse in Sweden, then by ship to England, before returning over land to Venice via Bruges and Basel. In the autumn of 1432, a full year after the departure from Crete, Querini arrived in Venice. One of the things he and one of his shipmates did after their return was to write an account of their travels, accounts that give us an outsider’s view of the coastal society and economy of medieval Norway. In the following, I will focus on four observations made by Querini and the crew: the production of fish; the transport of dried fish from Lofoten to Bergen; the role of the archbishop of Nidaros in the trade in northern Norway; and the role of Bergen in exporting fish to continental Europe and England.

Production Querini observed that the men on the island of Røst left early for the ocean in the morning and returned late at night, leaving farm work and other duties to the women. They caught endless amounts of fish, basically cod and halibut. He describes the latter as ‘Wonderful’. The pattern of work Querini and his shipmates observed at Røst was well established, and was to continue for centuries. He and his men were saved at the beginning of the fishing high season, when massive amounts of cod comes close to the Lofoten coast to

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spawn. That made it easier to catch, both because the fishermen did not have to sail or row very far out, and because of the sheer numbers of fish gathered in the process. This happens from late January, and fishing is a time consuming activity for several weeks, drawing fishermen from a larger region spanning the northern Norwegian coast.2 The intensive fishing also promoted a division of labour in the households where women and children would have the main responsibility for farm work for long periods, spanning several consecutive weeks.3 In addition, much of the infrastructure around fishing, such as producing and mending tools and clothes, would be done by all members of the household. Fishing for own consumption while the man was away would also be women’s work. The cod was dried in the wind and the sun until it was hard as wood, Querini writes. This process took several months, and the conditions for this process were supreme in Lofoten: By April–May, the sun would be down for only a short period at night, something that Querini marvelled at. The low temperatures would ensure that maggots or vermin could not settle in the fish, and a lack of wind was never a problem. Thus, by summer, the fish would be thoroughly dried and greatly reduced in weight, while none of the nourishing factors had been reduced.

Transport As spring and summer approached, Querini and his crew prepared for their departure. They had been told of the city of Bergen, ‘a thousand miles away’, where the fish was to be sent to for further export. They left the island in mid-May, on a boat loaded with dried fish. The skipper was his host at Røst, the crew were the skipper’s three sons. Along with them came the chaplain at Røst, a German Dominican who could translate between Latin and Norwegian. Here we see an important aspect of the infrastructure of the coastal economy: The transport of fish by the producers themselves. The boats used for this transport, called ‘jekt’, were a local adaption of contemporary German sailing vessels, but on a smaller scale. As we see, the jekts could still carry a large cargo with a small crew.4 The boats were well adapted to sailing in the challenging coastal waters of northern and western Norway, and the prototype of this boat was used for this purpose until the twentieth century. 2 3 4

Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, pp. 172–174 Ibid., pp. 218–220 Ibid., pp. 324–326.

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This uncoordinated transport of fish by the producers in the fifteenth century was a change from the previous centuries. From the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, we know that boats would travel together in a flotilla from the annual market in Vågan in Lofoten to Bergen.5 With the decline of the small town of Vågan, in the late medieval period, it seems that the boats would sail in a more uncoordinated manner, at the convenience of the crew and the owner of the f ish. Over time, we can see a system where boats’ cargoes would consist of fish from several participants, who would ‘rent’ space on the ship for their part of the load. The rent seems to have been stipulated at five per cent of the value of the cargo.6 The ship would be owned by one man, who would be the skipper, but the whole local community would use this boat as the vessel for their fish.7 This might be the case in Querini’s tale – he may have lodged with the richest man on Røst, who owned the boat or one of those that were used for transport to Bergen by the whole community. Indeed, he describes his host as ‘the foremost man’ of the island. Thus, we can see a sort of communal transport arrangement, centred on the most resourceful person in the communities. This was a trend that was to increase over the centuries. However, there is one institution that had a special place in the trade and transport of the late medieval period, which requires special attention: the Church.

The Church On their journey from Lofoten, southwards, along the coast, the fishermen and the shipwrecked sailors had a chance meeting with one of the most powerful men in Norway. The archbishop of Nidaros, Aslak Bolt, was on his way northwards, along the coast, to hold visitations in the northern part of the archdiocese. According to Querini, the archbishop was sailing with several ships and more than two hundred men in his entourage. The archbishop was not only looking after the spiritual well-being of his flock – two of his vessels were equipped for whaling. This brings us to the role of the Church in the coastal economy and in fish exports. Much of the wealth of the archbishop of Nidaros and his organization was based on fish. The archdiocese covered coastal Norway from Sunnmøre and 5 Kiil, Da bøndene seilte, p. 14. 6 Ibid., p. 64. 7 Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, pp. 324–329.

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northwards, the primary region for stockfish production. This meant that the Church could obtain much of its income in the form of stockfish. What were these incomes? One important source was the tithe; another was land rent from farms owned by the Church. In addition, some of the fines paid to the Church would be paid with fish. Other small dues and duties could also increase the amount of fish at the Church’s disposal. Let us take a brief look at these. The tithe would traditionally be divided into three or four parts: one for the parish priest; one for the upkeep of the parish church; one for the bishop; and one for the poor of the parish. The partition is complicated when it comes to northern Norway, as the tithe of the parishes of Finnmark went undivided to the archbishop, while the more southern parishes of Troms and Nordland had the traditional partition. In addition, tithes could be paid in other commodities than fish, for instance grain or butter.8 Audun Dybdahl and Christian Lykke have stipulated the average annual tithe given in fish to the archdiocese. Based on sixteenth-century sources, they reckon this to be, on average, about 31 tons of dried cod.9 The amount given in tithe to the parishes was of an equal magnitude, close to 32 tons. The amount would, of course, vary from year to year. Some of the fish would also be for local consumption. We know from the books of the archbishop that his staff at his castles would be served fish in different varieties several times a week.10 We must also reckon that fish was an important part of the diet of the many parish priests along the coast. Querini describes how dried fish was served: it was beaten with the back of an axe until it was tender, and then consumed with butter. Nevertheless, we can assume that a two-digit number of tons of stockfish was exported by the Church every year. In addition to the tithe, the Church obtained land rent from its tenants, paid with a variety of commodities, including fish. The sixteenth-century sources suggest that the archbishop alone was paid land rent of around eleven tons of dried fish. If we add this to the 31 tons from the tithe, we get an annual income of around 42 tons. An unknown quantity of fish would also be part of the income of the parish priests in cases where farmers were tenants under the local church. Moreover, a fee called ‘landvarde’ was paid to the owner of the shore where fish was landed and dried, and as the Church was a major proprietor, this added to its income.11 8 Berg, Trondenes kannikgjeld, pp. 68–94. 9 Dybdahl, ‘Nidars erkesetes økonomi’, pp. 295–300; Lykke, Aslak Bolt og erkesetes økonomi, pp. 107–116. 10 Nissen, Utgravningene i Erkebispegården i Trondheim. 11 Dybdahl, ‘Nidars erkesetes økonomi’, pp. 292–294.

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It is understood that both the archbishop and other members of the clergy would participate in the trade. One of the most important actors was the dean of the chapter. The dean held Trondenes parish, one of the richest parishes in Norway. It comprised present-day southern Troms, and was a collegiate church with 14 chapels, all of which were located in good fishing districts. The income from the fisheries was partly spent on erecting a large stone church with a rich interior.12 Other members of the chapter also held parishes in the fishing districts in northern Norway, for instance Andenes, Hadsel, and Buksnes in Lofoten, of which Røst was a part. The same goes for parishes further south along the coast, which might have had more varied tithes, where fish did not play such a prominent role.13 How was this trade organized? In an interesting passage, Querini tells us how the wife of ‘the man who ruled over all the islands’ sent a chaplain as messenger, when she learned of the marooned sailors. Her husband was away travelling, but in his place she sent them 60 stockfish and three large loaves of bread. She also implored the inhabitants of Røst to treat them well. Who was this man who ruled the islands? One possibility is that it might have been the priest at Buksnes. The priest here was a member of the chapter in Trondheim, and paid an assistant to take care of the parish – this might have been the chaplain mentioned by Querini. However it is unlikely a man in such a position would have been married. On the other hand, we know that the chapter members in Trondheim could organize such transport of fish to Bergen. Ogmund Olavsson held the parish of Hadsel in the 1380s. He owned three ships, most likely jekts for transporting fish.14 We can also look in another direction, to the secular clients of the archbishop. Through the Middle Ages, the archbishop developed a system of clients with rights similar to the nobility, i.e. the right to carry a coat of arms, and certain tax exemptions. These were called ‘setesveiner’.15 There might be a link here to the right to have a following of a hundred tax-exempt men established in the concordat between king and church in 1277. However, this concordat was soon rejected by the king, and re-established only in 1458. We also know very little of this group until the early sixteenth century. At this stage, we know that there were approximately 70 of these clients, the majority of whom 12 Berg, Trondenes kannikgjeld, pp. 163–167; Hansen, ‘Trondenes kannikegjeld’, pp. 255–259 and 269–273. 13 Rasch, ‘En levning af Pavedømmet’, pp. 19–44; Lykke, Aslak Bolt og erkesetes økonomi, pp. 99–102. 14 Blom, Trondheims historie 997–1997 Bind 1. Hellig Olavs by. Middelalder til 1537, p. 281. 15 Dybdahl, ‘Nidars erkesetes økonomi’, pp. 311–313.

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resided in northern Norway – and one on Røst. Perhaps we can find one of these secular clients of the archbishop in Lofoten in the 1430s – we know that the system was well established at the time of Archbishop Aslak Bolt. These persons were not lifted to wealth and fame through their association with the archbishop – rather, it seems that the archbishop connected with regional elites who were already involved in the fish trade. It thus becomes obvious that the setesveiner did work for the archbishop, among other things collecting, transporting, and selling his cod. The setesveiner could own both ships and a house in Bergen, including a warehouse for the trade.16 What we see, then, is a system where we find both a coordinated and well-functioning structure of trade and transport in the hands of the archbishop and other ecclesiastical businessmen, on the one hand, and a more decentralized system of production, transport, and trade in the hands of the local communities themselves. Either way, the hub of this trade was the city of Bergen.

Bergen Querini and his men might originally have planned to take the shortest route homewards; sailing to Bergen and then getting a lift with a ship going to northern Germany or England. They were warned against this, because there was a war between the king of Norway and what Querini describes as ‘Germany’. The skipper decided against going all the way to Bergen, and went to Trondheim instead, presumably to sell his fish there. The news that reached the ears of the skipper was about the conflict between King Erik of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden (1389–1441), on the one hand, and the Hanseatic League on the other. The king was trying to regain authority over the southern Danish/north German lands of his predecessors, something the influential north German Hanseatic cities had no interest in. One of their ways of opposing a stronger Scandinavian monarchy was to exercise trade embargoes on their traditional trading partners in Sweden and Norway, including the important port of Bergen. This was an exception – at most times, it was business as usual. Bergen was one of the more prominent Hanseatic trading posts. This meant that there was a permanent residency of a large number of Germans who enjoyed a certain amount of extraterritoriality, and who were crucial to the international trade of the Norwegian kingdom. The importance of the 16 Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, pp. 367–370.

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German traders greatly increased after the great plague (1349). What seems to have been a temporary granting of rights in the wake of the plague, soon seems to have become established as permanent rights.17 This might have to do with the reduced abilities of the Norwegian traders in Bergen after the plague to handle the trade alone. The policy of the Norwegian king had been, from the thirteenth century, to concentrate international trade on Bergen, in order to have efficient control over customs and taxation. The German traders were given far-reaching rights in Bergen; on the other hand, foreigners were forbidden to trade north of Bergen. This regulation included Iceland. Bergen thus became the hub of a North Atlantic trading network spanning the western and northern coast of Norway, Iceland, and the Faroe Islands, and to a certain degree the Orkneys and Shetland. Products from these regions were exported via a network spanning the British Isles, Northern Germany, Flanders, and beyond. The Hanseatic city of Lübeck tended to be the most important and influential. Trade with stockfish and other products was not necessarily a two-way trade with Northern Germany. Traders could engage in a triangular trade, where fish from Norway could be sold in England, where the traders would pick up wool for the Flemish market, and trade it for cereals and other products for the Norwegian market.18 The trade with England was well established in the twelfth century, and seems to have been of a large magnitude. Arnved Nedkvitne has pointed to the regularity of Norwegian ships trading on the English east coast from the late eleventh century, and also the presence of English traders in Bergen in the same period.19 The trade not only included dried fish, but also furs and other products.20 From the late twelfth century, trade with Northern Germany and in the Baltic also becomes evident, and the north German cities became dominant in the trade to and from Bergen.21 Nedkvitne stipulates the total amount exported in the fourteenth century as 3,000–4,000 tons, while the amount exported in the 1650s was c.6000 tons.22 This meant that everyone involved in the fish exports was in some way established in Bergen, physically owning properties there, and perhaps also through credit systems tying Hanseatic and Norwegian economic interests tightly together. Let us take the archbishop as a case again. The metropolitan 17 Helle, Bergen bys historie, pp. 730–734. 18 Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, pp. 292–194. 19 Nedkvitne, Utenrikshandelen fra det vestafjelske Norge, pp. 19–20. 20 Ibid., pp. 26, 35–38. 21 Ibid., pp. 27–33. 22 Ibid., pp. 60–61.

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see was Trondheim, or Nidaros, and this is where the ‘spiritual’ centre of the province was. But the commercial centre was most definitely in Bergen. However, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, we find scattered sources indicating that the archbishop traded directly in England on his own ships from Trondheim, mainly with fish and other marine products.23 By the late fifteenth and early sixteenth century, we get more sources showing us the activities at the archbishops property in Bergen. It seems that the archbishop alone was able to export somewhere around 36 tons of dried cod per year. The trade was organized through the warehouse of the archbishop. Rent, tithe, and other dues from several bishoprics, including Iceland and the Faroe islands, would find their way here, to the hub of the archbishops financial activity. Early sixteenth-century accounts reveal that parts of the income from all areas of the archdiocese would be redistributed within the province, but a large part would also be exported abroad.24 Who were the customers? As mentioned, the merchants of the Hanseatic League were of high importance. This was the result of a long development, however. Norwegian elites themselves, including the archbishop, had been active traders and shippers from the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries. A merchants class had developed in Bergen, and it was active in both trading abroad and within the realm of the Norwegian king. There might have been a tendency for these traders to seek out the producers in northern Norway, especially at the market in Vågan in Lofoten. This trade, of unknown magnitude, declined from the second half of the fourteenth century.25 From this period on, the producers and the Church’s network would increasingly transport the fish to Bergen on their own and trade directly with the mostly foreign merchants. An important step in this development was that Hanseatic merchants began staying in Bergen through the winter, in effect creating a community of permanently residing German merchants. From the second half of the fourteenth century, they gained more influence and rights in the city. One of the aspects of this was the development of credits between the merchants and the producers in northern Norway. A system developed that was to last for centuries. German merchants, and later indigenous merchants of Bergen, would provide the producers in Northern Norway with necessities, such as grain, cloth, salt, iron on a yearly basis, paid for with deliveries of fish. Some of these burghers of Bergen seem to have been residing in the northern parts of the country, but held positions and owned properties in Bergen at the 23 Dybdahl, ‘Nidars erkesetes økonomi’, p. 308. 24 Lykke, Aslak Bolt og erkesetes økonomi, p. 97. 25 Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie, p. 324.

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same time.26 The dominant role of the Church in the trade led to a number of conflicts between commercially active clergy and burghers and German traders in Bergen, where the highest secular authority would reprimand the clergy for acting against the privileges of the commercial groups.27 Querini’s crewmates note that the local population in Røst traded their fish for leathers, cloth, iron, vegetables, and other necessities. The benefit of this system was that the people in the north secured regular supplies of basic necessities. The disadvantage was that they were tied to delivering fish to a given merchant, and not necessarily at market value. The government tried to reduce these ties in the 1440s by stating that the fishers should be obliged to sell only half of their load to their creditors, and the other half to whomever they liked, at market value. The Hansa was sharply opposed to this and the policy was halted.28 By entering a binding relationship of credit and delivering fish, the population would be able to receive their necessities even in years when fishing was bad or failed altogether, paying the debt with the next year’s deliveries. On the one hand, the system ensured some sort of basic security for the fishers and their families, but they would also be caught up in a system of credit where they were hardly in a position to bargain. On the other hand, there was a manifest risk also for the merchants that debt would accumulate and could also be written off when a fisherman died as there would be no value in the estate of the deceased. An important aspect was the rising value of fish. The relative value of the commodity compared to other goods rose sharply from the late fourteenth century. Before 1350, one kilogram of dried fish could be traded for two kilograms of rye flour. A century later, the same amount of fish could be converted to around six to seven kilograms of flour, due to a trebling of the price. This goes a long way to explaining how the population could be stable in the agriculturally challenged northern regions. The late medieval period, when Querini had his adventures, was a time of economic boom for the northern region.

Conclusion The infrastructure for producing dried fish and getting it to consumers several thousand kilometres away was established in the high Middle Ages 26 Kiil, Da bøndene seilte, pp. 24–26. 27 Berg, Trondenes kannikgjeld, p. 92. 28 Helle, Bergen bys historie, pp. 736–737.

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and underwent several changes in the late medieval period. It shows several distinct features. The system was one of mass production. In addition to local and inland consumption, anywhere between 2,000 and 6,000 tons would be exported abroad annually from the twelfth to the seventeenth centuries. It was able to support a population that was not solely dependent on local agricultural resources. Coastal Norway was to a varying degree suited for agriculture, and to a lesser degree in the north than in the south. The seasonal fishing in the low-intensive period of agricultural work created a ‘window’ of opportunity, workwise and economically, for both a local and a regional population. Consequently, households developed work strategies based on the men being absent for longer periods, and women and children having sole responsibility for farm work for large parts of the year. Transport from the fishing grounds to Bergen was done by the producers. Instead of the buyers seeking out the producers, the fishermen and the clergy involved in the trade would transport the fish to the buyers in Bergen. This system was largely locally organized. Local elite would usually be in charge, and, in turn, profited to a degree from this. Local and regional clergy, including the cathedral chapter in Nidaros, also owned boats for transport and would profit from the transport. The major domestic trader in fish was the clergy. In the economic system of the day, dues and taxes were largely paid in kind. In northern Norway, this meant that dried fish was a dominating means of paying tithe, fines to the Church, and land rent to ecclesiastical institutions. The archdiocese and the cathedral chapter were major landowners in the northern part of the country, adding to their share of the dried fish production. Various groups of merchants in Bergen provided credit, ensuring that the producers could survive periods of low productions. Even though the fisheries was, at times, lucrative for both producers and traders, seasonal variations made it a risky economic activity. For the producers, this could be critical. The system of long-term credit from the traders in Bergen helped to protect the coastal population against the short-term consequences of these seasonal variations, and to uphold the system of work outlined above. The downside of the system, from the coastal population’s perspective, could be lifelong debt and dependency on the commercial houses of Bergen, and an inability to exploit market prices to the full, as debt and dependency would give the creditors the upper hand in any negotiations on price. Seen from a certain perspective, the infrastructure for production and transport of dried fish was quite modern and adapted to a market economy. It is tempting to see it as a variation on the theme of ‘proto-industry’. The

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concept stresses regional production connected to a regional capital, aimed at an export market outside the region of production, practices by peasants also labouring in agriculture, and in a symbiosis with the development of commercial agriculture.29 The system outlined in this chapter ticks of some of these boxes, albeit sometimes in odd ways. The production was definitely regional, and it was no doubt mass production for an international market outside the region. It was done by people who were also engaged in agricultural production for own consumption. On the other hand, one has to stretch the concept ‘regional capital’ quite far to label Bergen as a regional capital of northern Norway. On the other hand, all economic ties, including available credit, were to Bergen; so, in most economic matters, Bergen was the regional capital. Suggesting that agricultural production in northern Norway was commercial would also be an exaggeration. Nevertheless, the combination of large-scale production for an external market, supported, on the one side, by long-term credit and, on the other side, local agricultural production marks out the stockfish production in the late medieval period as an old and well-established economic practice with distinct modern features.

Bibliography Primary Sources Wold, Helge A., I paradisets første krets. Om drømmen om ære og rikdom, om et grusomt forlis, om et opphold på Røst i Lofoten 1432, italieneren Pietro Querinis egen beretning i ny oversettelse: med et tillegg om en reise til Røst i vår tid for å lete etter det tapte paradiset (Oslo: Cappelen, 1991).

Secondary Sources Berg, Sigrun Høgetveit, Trondenes kannikgjeld. Makt og rikdom gjennom seinmellomalder og reformasjon (Tromsø: 2013). Blom, Grethe Authén, Trondheims historie 997–1997 Bind 1. Hellig Olavs by. Middelalder til 1537 (Oslo: Universitetsforlag, 1997). Dybdahl, Audun, ‘Nidars erkesetes økonomi’, in Steinar Imsen, ed., Ecclesia Nidrosiensis 1153–1537. Søkelys på Nidaroskirken og Nidarosprovinsens historie (Trondheim: Tapir, 2003), pp. 279–320.

29 Ogilvie and Cerman, ‘The Theories of Proto-Industrialization’, pp. 5–6.

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Hansen, Lars Ivar, ‘Trondenes kannikegjeld’, in Steinar Imsen, ed., Ecclesisa Nidrosiensis 1153–1537. Søkelys på Nidaroskirken og Nidarosprovinsens historie (Trondheim: Tapir, 2003), pp. 255–278. Helle, Knut, Bergen bys historie bd. 1. Kongssete og kjøpstad. Fra opphavet til 1536 (Oslo, Universitetsforlaget, 1982). Kiil, Alf, Da bøndene seilte. Bygdefarsbrukets historie i Nordlandene (Oslo, 1993). Lykke, Christian, Aslak Bolt og erkesetets økonomi (Master’s thesis, Trondheim, 2000). Nedkvitne, Arnved, Utenrikshandelen fra det vestafjelske Norge 1100–1600 (Bergen, 1983). Nissen, Harald A., Utgravningene i Erkebispegården i Trondheim. Arbeidsstyrke og lønnsforhold ved erkesetet i 1530-årene (Trondheim: NIKU, 1998). Norges fiskeri- og kysthistorie bind 1. Fangstmenn, fiskerbønder og værfolk, edited by Alf Ragnar Nielssen (Bergen: Fagbokforlag, 2014). Ogilvie, Sheilagh C., and Markus Cerman, ‘The Theories of Proto-Industrialization’, in Sheilagh C. Oglivie and Markus Cerman, eds., European Proto-industrialization: An Introduction Handbook (Cambridge/ New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 1–11. Rasch, Per-Olav Broback, ‘En levning af Pavedømmet’. En undersøkelse av kannikgjeld som avlønning ved domkapitlet i Trondheim 1537–1740 (Master’s thesis. Trondheim: 2014).

About the Author Magne Njåstad is professor of late medieval and early modern history at the Department of Historical and Classical Studies at The Norwegian University of Science and Technology. His special interests are political and social history, focusing on local communities’ political actions and tools of action.

7.

The Theft of Food in ThirteenthCentury Norway and Iceland Helen F. Leslie-Jacobsen

Abstract This chapter discusses how law codes in thirteenth-century Norway and Iceland developed to treat the theft of food. The chapter demonstrates innovations were taking place in thirteenth-century law to take into account the circumstances of the thief, ensuring the most vulnerable in society did not starve, and that the law code Járnsíða (sent from Norway to Iceland in 1271) was a stepping stone in the creation of the Norwegian Landslǫg (1274). Over time, the law was made more specific, the section on theft was expanded, and a structure was introduced that allowed for ‘grades’ of theft based on the amount stolen and the background of the thief, resulting in a coherent framework of rules regarding both legal process and punishment. Keywords: Medieval Food; Medieval Law; Theft; Landslǫg; Norway; Iceland

‘La majestueuse égalité des lois’: The Majestic Equality of the Law La majestueuse égalité des lois, qui interdit au riche comme au pauvre de coucher sous les ponts, de mendier dans les rues et de voler du pain.1 In its majestic equality, the law forbids the rich and poor alike from sleeping under bridges, from begging in the streets, and from stealing loaves of bread.2 1 2

Anatole France, Le Lys rouge, p. 117. All translations are my own unless otherwise stated.

Gyönki, V. and A. Maraschi (eds.), Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789462988217_ch07

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At the end of the nineteenth century, the French author Anatole France in the novel Le Lys rouge (‘The Red Lily’) makes the point in the quotation above that the formal equality of the rich and poor before the law leaves their wildly differing circumstances completely ignored. For this reason, it is just as illegal for starving people to steal a loaf of bread as it is for wealthy people, and as illegal for homeless people to sleep under a bridge as it is for people with stable housing. It is easy to find examples of this disparity in contemporary society. In the UK, for instance, despite Home Office guidance instructing councils not to target people for being homeless and sleeping rough, there are public space protection orders in over 50 local authorities, according to The Guardian newspaper.3 In terms of access to food, in 2017, when sentencing a man charged with persistent begging, Judge Michael Cullum told the court: ‘I will be sending a man to prison for asking for food when he was hungry. It is a difficult situation and there is no satisfactory answer’. 4 One can uncover a myriad of contemporary cases reported in newspapers in which people have been prosecuted for theft, even when food has been taken by those needing to survive.5 In thirteenth-century Norway, on the other hand, a very humane response was developed to the theft of food that was especially gentle towards those who stole food in desperation. Although thieving food was, in essence, illegal, the Landslǫg explicitly states several times in the law code that the circumstances of the accused ought to be taken into consideration.6 This chapter sheds light not only on the theft of food and the subsequent punishment of the thieves, but also on how the law codes developed during the thirteenth century to treat this matter.

The Development of Law Codes in Norway and Iceland in the Thirteenth Century In this chapter, I examine the theft of food in medieval Norwegian and Icelandic law and analyse how the law developed in the thirteenth century. The focus of the chapter is on the development of Landslǫg,7 the f irst 3 Patrick Greenfield and Sarah Marsh, ‘Hundreds of Homeless People Fined’. 4 David Shepherd, ‘This Man Breached an Order to Stop him from Begging’. 5 Ruth Patrick, ‘Is It Really Criminal to Steal Food When You’re Destitute?’ 6 See Jørn Øyrehagen Sunde, ‘“Daughters of God and Counsellors of the Judges of Men”’. 7 Edition of Landslǫg by Robert K. Paulsen. The version referred to is from the manuscript Holm Perg. 34 4to, Kungliga Biblioteket, Stockholm, from c.1300, since it is the oldest surviving manuscript of the law. The citation refers to the folio in normalized orthography.

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national law code of Norway, passed towards the end of the century. In certain respects, the Landslǫg can be seen to evolve from earlier law codes and also to be adapted to Icelandic conditions. The evolution of law in the thirteenth century begins with the pre-thirteenth-century regional Norwegian laws known collectively as the landskapslover (here reference is made to Gulaþingslǫg and Frostaþingslǫg),8 followed by the Icelandic Járnsíða in 1271, which contributed to the first national law of Norway in 1274 (the Landslǫg, promulgated by King Magnús Hákonarson), f inally leading to the adaptation of the Landslǫg for Iceland known as Jónsbók in 1281.9 Iceland lost its independence in a process lasting from 1220 to 1280 and was eventually placed under Norwegian administration, and in the late thirteenth century it received two law codes from Norway. The first was Járnsíða, sent from Norway to Iceland in 1271,10 to replace the Icelandic law Grágás11 and to bring Icelandic administration closer to that in Norway. A deeply unpopular law code based on Gulaþingslǫg and Frostaþingslǫg, Járnsíða took two years to ratify in Iceland.12 Meanwhile, in Norway, the earlier regional laws, represented in this chapter by Gulaþingslǫg and Frostaþingslǫg, were replaced by the Landslǫg in 1274–1276. The Landslǫg is a law code of high importance for Norwegian state formation. It was the first law code that was valid for the whole of the Norwegian realm. The law was put together by Magnús Hákonarson, who reigned 1263–1284, and this nationalization and modernization of the law was probably his greatest achievement. Because of his work with the Norwegian laws, he became known as Magnus Lagabøte, or Magnus the Law-Mender. The Landslǫg was accepted in the regional assemblies of Norway between 1274 and 1276, whereupon it replaced the earlier regional laws (the landskapslover) with 8 Gulaþingslǫg covered the western coast of Norway and part of the interior of the country, while Frostaþingslǫg covered modern Trøndelag. Edition of Gulaþingslǫg by R. Keyser and P. A. Munch, Ældre Gulathings-Lov, in Norges Gamle Love, I, pp. 3–110. Edition of Frostaþingslǫg by R. Keyser and P. A. Munch, Ældre Frostathings-Lov, in Norges Gamle Love, I, pp. 121–258. 9 Edition of Jónsbók by Jana Schulman. Orthography slightly adapted. 10 Járnsíða is titled Hákonarbók in the edition. Edition by R. Keyser and P. A. Munch, Kong Haakon Haakonssöns islandske Lov. (Hákonarbók), in Norges Gamle Love, I, pp. 3–110. Edition of Frostaþingslǫg by R. Keyser and P. A. Munch, Ældre Frostathings-Lov, in Norges Gamle Love, I, pp. 259–300. 11 Grágás was the law in Iceland in the Free State period (930–1262) before Iceland came under Norwegian dominion. See Gudmund Sandvik and Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Laws’, pp. 225227; Jesse L. Byock, Viking Age Iceland, pp. 308–323, 351–353. 12 For a brief overview of the history of Járnsíða, see Gudmund Sandvik and Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Laws’, p. 227.

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one code for the whole nation. The Landslǫg built on the regional laws and, as my chapter shows, probably also used some sections from Járnsíða. The Landslǫg was later revised for Iceland, and, in 1281, the resulting Jónsbók law code was ratified in Iceland,13 heavily based on the Landslǫg, but also influenced by the Icelandic law Grágás. Although amendments were made to the Landslǫg by various kings, which are transmitted together with the law in the manuscripts, the Norwegian code of 1274 was not revised until 1604. when the code was printed for the first time in a revised and translated form Such a comparison shows innovations taking place in the law during the thirteenth century, both in content, and in consideration of circumstances of the accused. Jónsbók is an adaptation of the Landslǫg for Iceland, while the earlier Járnsíða can be thought of not only as a law-code for Iceland, but also as a stepping stone to the Landslǫg, since, I will argue, some of the innovative ideas about theft that are present in the Landslǫg were first put forward in Járnsíða. I show that, as the first national law, the Landslǫg, while building on the earlier laws, took personal circumstances into consideration. In analysing the developments present in the Landslǫg in comparison to the earlier laws, I determine which contexts and circumstances were taken into consideration in law giving. I argue that, by the end of the thirteenth century, theft in the Landslǫg was handled by a coherent framework of rules regarding both legal process and punishment, the application of which were directed by the theft of food. My chapter will highlight the logical nature of these rules and determine that they are considerate of individual circumstances. It will also demonstrate that mercy is an important concept underlying these rules and their application, which will become clear when comparing Járnsíða, the Landslǫg, and Jónsbók with the earlier Gulaþingslǫg and Frostaþingslǫg.

The Section on Theft in the Law Codes Theft has its own section of the law in the Landslǫg, known as þjófabǫlkr (‘the section on theft’), in which the theft of food is central. The development of this focus on food in the theft section of the Landslǫg can be seen from a comparison of this section with the earlier law codes of Frostaþingslǫg 13 For a brief overview of the history of Jónsbók, see Gudmund Sandvik and Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Laws’, pp. 227–228. Some sections of Jónsbók are still in force today; there are four entries in current Icelandic law from Jónsbók.

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and Járnsíða, whereas Jónsbók clearly builds on the Landslǫg. In general, however, the central principle of the sections on theft is clear and unchanging in the thirteenth century: in the Landslǫg, the opening line of the section on theft encapsulates the whole of the chapter: Þat er nú því nǽst, at vár skal engi annan stela (‘Now this is next: another, shall not steal from us’. Or, ‘no one shall steal from another’).14 This is clearly inherited from Gulaþingslǫg (Þat er nu þvi nest at várr scal engi annan stela),15 and in Iceland was also used in Járnsíða (chapter 131, which begins with Varr skal enge anna stela),16 and Jónsbók (Þat er nu þui næst at eíngí skal várr annan stela).17 The theft sections in Frostaþingslǫg and Gulaþingslǫg are brief and revolve around the value of what has been stolen rather than the theft of food. Although the theft of food is not mentioned specifically in Gulaþingslǫg, Frostaþingslǫg does offer specific examples of the theft of food that become the basis of the corresponding section in the later Landslǫg. Food is not directly mentioned at the beginning of the theft sections of these law codes.18 Both law codes begin with the punishment for a thief who has stolen over an ærtog in value, and end by stipulating the punishment if the theft is less than an ærtog in value.19 The centrality of food in the theft section of the Landslǫg can be traced back to Járnsíða. Járnsíða contains an important innovation at the beginning of the theft section in comparison to Gulaþingslǫg and Frostaþingslǫg, which is the idea that starving people ought not to be prosecuted: Varr skal enge annan stela. Nu er þat greinande at ef maðr stelr mat sa er eigi fær ser vinno til fostr oc helpr sva live sino fire hungrs saker. þa er sa stulðr fire engan mun refsingar verðr.20 No one shall steal from another. Now it is to be understood that if a man who cannot work steals food for subsistence and saves his life thusly from hunger, then that theft is to be met with no punishment. 14 Holm Perg. 34 4to, 71v. 15 Ældre Gulathings-lov, p. 82. 16 Hákonarbók, p. 298 17 Jónsbók, p. 330. 18 For the beginning of the theft sections in Gulaþingslǫg, see Ældre Gulathings-lov, p. 82; for Frostaþingslǫg, see Ældre Frostathings-lov, pp. 252–253. 19 For an overview of the units of currency in use at the time, see Kolbjørn Skaare, ‘Øre’ and ‘Ørtug’. 20 Hákonarbók, p. 298.

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Holm Perg. 34 4to, the oldest surviving manuscript of the Landslǫg, contains the line from Járnsíða almost verbatim: Nú er þat greinanda, ef sá maðr stelr mat, er eigi fǽr sér vinnu til fóstrs, ok helpr svá lífi sínu fyrir hungrs sakir, þá er sá stulðr með engu móti refsingar verðr.21 Now it is to be understood that if a man who cannot get work steals food for subsistence and saves his life thusly from hunger, then that theft is to be met with no punishment.

This demonstrates that the Landslǫg, at least in this section, builds upon Járnsíða. Mentioning the theft of food as the first concrete example, almost the whole the chapter on theft in the Landslǫg, which is far more developed than in Járnsíða, takes food as its prime example. The surprisingly humane approach to the theft of food in Járnsíða and the Landslǫg is echoed in other parts of the Landslǫg, where we can infer that desperate people receive lesser punishments. An important aspect of the innovation in Járnsíða, which also feeds into the Landslǫg, is whether people can work. This protection from punishment only applies to those not able to work, and punishments for those who steal food and can work are subsequently laid out in the chapter. We can conclude that whether or not people had the means to support themselves was a key factor in legal decisions. The Landslǫg does not treat the theft of food as a normal theft. Rather, þjófabǫlkr represents two kinds of theft, and also extenuating circumstances (a starving person who cannot work is not to be prosecuted). There are two kinds of theft in þjófabǫlkr because the theft of small amounts of food have special regulations applied and these stand outside the normal laws concerning theft. This will be analysed next. Above a certain monetary amount of one eyrir in value, however, the theft of food is prosecuted as a normal theft, unless the thief has no goods with which to pay the fine; these circumstances will concern the rest of the chapter.

The Theft of a Certain Amount of Low Value Foods A short paragraph in Frostaþingslǫg provides a succinct view of trespassing on an onion or angelica patch:

21 Holm Perg. 34 4to, 71v.

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Ef maðr gengr í laukagarð Ef maðr gengr í laucagarð manns eða hvanngarð. sá a ecki á ser þó at menn beri hann oc beysti oc taki öll föt af hönum.22 If a man goes onto an onion bed If a man goes onto a man’s onion bed or angelica patch. That one has no legal rights even if men beat him and take all his garments from him.

In Frostaþingslǫg, entering another’s onion or angelica patch does not directly lead to prosecution. Rather, it means that the trespasser has no legal protection. There is an assumption that one trespassing in such a manner has also likely stolen something, but this is not stated explicitly. The food stuffs mentioned are not particularly high value, but they were an important part of the quotidian diet.23 The Icelandic Járnsíða also contains this section, apparently drawn from Norwegian law: Ef maðr legz unnder kyr manna oc drekkr. hann a engan rætt a ser oc sua sa er gingr i laukagarð manz eða i hvangarð. þo at menn beri hann eða taki klæðe af honom.24 If a man lays under men’s cows and drinks. He has no rights and thus that one who goes onto a man’s onion patch or angelica patch, even if men beat him or take his clothes off him.

The Landslǫg introduces certain innovations into this paragraph: Ef maðr stelr eplum eða nǽpum En ef maðr gengr í eplagarð manns, eða hvannagarð eða lauka eða nǽpnareit eða ertra eða bauna, ok allt þat aldin er menn hegna með gǫrðum eða gǽzlum, tvígildi þeim er átti, ok 2 aura silfrs í þokkabót. En ef tekr til eyris eða meira, sekr sem um annan stulð. En ef þeir gera þetta, er eigi hafa fé til at bǿta, fǿri til þings ok svari fyrir eftir lagadómi.25

22 Ældre Frostathings-lov, p. 253. 23 For an overview of food culture in Norway at the time, see Ingvild Øye, Driftsmåter i Vestnorsk Jordbruk and Mat Og Drikke I Middelalderen; Rebekka Alette Skaar, ‘Matkultur i Norsk Middelalder’; Sæbjørg W. Nordeide & Jennifer R. McDonald, ‘Canonical Observance in Norway’; William Ian Miller & Helle Vogt, ‘Finding, Sharing and Risk of Loss’. 24 Hákonarbók, p. 300. 25 Holm Perg. 34 4to, 73r.

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If a man steals apples or turnips. But if a man goes into another man’s orchard or angelica patch or onion or turnip bed or patch of peas or patch of beans and all that fruit of trees that men hedge in with fences or posts, double to one who owned and two aurar silver in reparation fine. But if he takes to the value of an eyrir or more, he is to be prosecuted as for other thefts. But if they do this, those who have no goods with which to compensate are to go to the thing26 and answer for it, in accordance with the law.

If we compare the law codes, 27 the Landslǫg adds further food stuffs grown under similar conditions, and the chapter names changes from a focus on onions in Frostaþingslǫg to apples and turnips in the Landslǫg. Secondly, in Frostaþingslǫg, there is no clear delineation of the area into which one must not venture; it simply states the garð (probably best understood as ‘premises’). The Landslǫg develops this idea and makes it clear that this is a deliberately cultivated area marked off with fences or posts. In addition, the Landslǫg makes it clear that stealing food is to be dealt with as a special category of theft. The theft of a small amount of food is not subject to the same punishment as other thefts. If certain food items listed in this paragraph (apples, angelica, onions, turnips, peas, beans, and fruit trees or bushes) are stolen, then, provided the monetary value of the food is below one eyrir, there is a special punishment. If, however, the value of the food taken exceeds one eyrir, then the theft is to be prosecuted as a normal theft (sekr sem um annan stulð). Importantly, the Landslǫg moves away from the threat of corporal punishment to monetary fines in this section. Certain elements are indicated in this Landslǫg passage that, after 1274, would be considered in a judgement concerning the theft of food. The first element we can distinguish is what kind of food it is. The foods to which this particular paragraph applies are listed, and that this is of significance is underlined by the chapter title, which indicates that the paragraph deals with two particular food stuffs (apples and turnips, although more are mentioned in the body of the paragraph). This element indicates what foods were important or commonly stolen, and yet were of a low enough 26 The þing, here translated ‘thing’, is a legal assembly. 27 The corresponding section in Jónsbók (Schulman, pp. 344–345) is very similar to the Landslǫg. Differences include adding that one is to avoid entry into vegetable patches even if streams flow around them, and the passage also confirms that the no-entry rules apply only if the owner has not given permission for someone to enter the vegetable garden.

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value to have special rules apply. The second element we can distinguish is what the value of the stolen food was. The passage here is for food with a combined value of less than a value of one eyrir,28otherwise the rules for non-food theft applies. The third element we can draw from this paragraph is the treatment of thieves who have no goods with which to compensate the theft – that is to say, thieves who are very poor. Such thieves have to appear at the thing in order to be judged; this may have worked in their benefit, since the judges had the opportunity to show mercy and excuse or forgive their transgression.

The Theft of Milk and Berries Milk was obviously an important commodity in the Middle Ages, both for drinking and making derived goods like butter. Stealing milk is also less obvious than taking the whole cow – so we might expect people sneaking around stealing milk from dairy cows. Less expected is the image we find in the theft chapter in Frostaþingslǫg: Ef maðr legz under kýr manna oc dreccr. sá maðr á engan rétt á ser.29 If a man lays under men’s cows and drinks. That man has no rights.

That is to say, a man is due no compensation if, for example, he is kicked by the cow or beaten by the owner. This is made more explicit in Járnsíða: Ef maðr legz unnder kyr manna oc drekkr. hann a engan rætt a ser oc sua sa er gingr i laukagarð manz eða i hvangarð. þo at menn beri hann eða taki klæðe af honom.30 If a man lays under a man’s cow and drinks. He has no rights and thus that one who goes onto a man’s onion patch or angelica patch, even if men beat him or take his clothes off him.

Here, we can clearly see that in Járnsíða, two sections of Frostaþingslǫg are combined (sections 13 about the theft of milk and section 14 about men 28 An eyrir, plural aurar, was one ounce of silver, which was one eighth of a mark. 29 Ældre Frostathings-lov, p. 253. 30 Hákonarbók, p. 300.

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going into an onion or angelica patch), since both sections conclude that the offender enjoys no personal rights (á engan rétt á ser).31 In the Landslǫg, the mention of drinking milk comes directly before the section on apples and turnips (and onions and angelica), as the last part of a section about taking up boundary stones. Ef maðr leggsk undir kú manns ok drekkr, sá maðr á engan rétt á sér.32 If a man lies down under another man´s cow and drinks, that man enjoys no personal rights.

The one who drank the milk could not claim any compensation for himself, but no other punishment is mentioned. Indeed, we might interpret this to mean that the act of lying under a cow and drinking milk in this way was so shameful that the one who did this was punished appropriately enough by the social shame he would accrue from having done so. In Jónsbók, the section on drinking milk is also directly after that on boundary stones and before the theft of low value foods, as in the Landslǫg. However, in Jónsbók the section about drinking milk from cows continues: Ef maðr legz vndir kyr manna ok dreckr. sa maðr aa eíngan rétt aa ser. En ef maðr míolkar bw annars mannz. lati hwð sína eptir laga domí rettarans nema solltínn se. ok gialldi þo nytfall sem wert er þeim er bw aa.33 If someone lies down under men’s cows and drinks, then he has no right to compensation for himself. But if someone milks another man’s cattle, then he is to be flogged, according to the justice’s legal judgement, unless he is starving; in that case, he is to pay whatever the loss of the milk is worth to the owner of the cow.34

In 1294, this was amended again by King Eiríkr: Ef maðr míolkar stelandi hendi bw annars manz. bæti fyrir stuld sa er fe hefir til ella lati hwð sína eptir laga domí ok refsíng rettarans.35

31 32 33 34 35

Ældre Frostathings-lov, p. 253. Holm Perg. 34 4to, 73r. Jónsbók, p. 342. Ibid., p. 343. Ibid., p. 406.

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If someone milks another man’s cattle with intent to steal, then if he has the money to do so he is to pay compensation for the theft; otherwise he is to be flogged according to the justice’s legal judgment and punishment.36

This series of amendments to the law is interesting in terms of how explicitly it applies the general principle at the beginning of the bǫlkr (‘section’) on theft: Þat er nu þui næst at eíngí skal várr annan stela. Nu er þat greínanda at ef sa maðr stelr mat er æigi færr vínnu serr til fostrs. ok helpr sua lifi sínu fyrir hungrs sakir. þa er sa stuldr fyrir eíngan mun refsíngar werðr.37 That is now the next, that none of us are to steal from another. Now it is to be understood that when someone steals food because of hunger and because he is not able to find work to support himself and he saves his life thusly, then that theft warrants no punishment.38

In Jónsbók, the milk provision is expanded to the explicit theft of milk whilst simultaneously protecting starving people. by applying the first part of the chapter to the circumstance. The amendment seems to remove this protection for the hungry, but this is not necessarily the case: the judge can still apply the earlier part of the law if he feels it is warranted, according to his best judgement. The notion of mercy is an important part of the Landslǫg, and those judging cases seem to be encouraged to apply it. Common and low-value food, left unguarded outside, was at risk of being stolen. The law makes it clear that such easily accessible and transportable food belonging to others was not to be taken. In the Icelandic laws in Jónsbók, based on the Landslǫg and passed in Iceland in 1281, there is mention of other food stuffs that are easy to sneak up on and steal: Eigi skal maðr vtan orlof lesa ber aa annars iorðu til heím at bera. En ef less tuígilldi ber. ok sua gros ef hann less þau.39 No one is to pick berries without permission on another man’s land to bring them home. If he does, then he is to pay double for the berries, and also for herbs if he picks them. 40 36 37 38 39 40

Ibid., p. 407. Ibid., p. 330. Ibid., p. 331. Ibid., p. 266. Ibid., p. 267.

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This section is not actually found under the section devoted to theft, but rather under the laws of tenancy, because it equally concerns trespassing on another’s property. It is also worth noting that permission can be given to take the food: dispersed plant foods like berries are vulnerable to theft but amenable to sharing.

Punishment for Theft in the Landslǫg The punishments for theft in the Landslǫg are divided into sanctions for those who were previously of honest character and those who are known thieves. Interestingly, the section dealing with men of previously honest character includes provision for repeat offenders. It is not clear how men of previously honest character but are repeat offenders are defined, in opposition to men who are known thieves, but I would suggest that the theft of low-value food could place men in the category of having an honest character and yet being a repeat offender.

Punishments for Those of Previously Honest Character The penalty one receives for the theft of food is here stipulated according to the value of what was stolen. En ef sá maðr er vinnu fǽr sér til fóstrs, stelr til eyris, sá er ekki var áðr at slíku kenndr, þá skal hann á þing fǿra ok leysi húð sína þrim mǫrkum silfrs við konung.41 But if that man who can get work to support himself, one who was not otherwise known for such behaviour, steals equal to an eyrir, then he shall go to the thing and save his skin with three marks of silver to the king.

If an otherwise honest man is caught stealing small amounts, he can go to the thing and save his skin, that is, escape flogging, by paying a fine of three marks of silver to the king. Note that this only applies to men who are able to work. This implies that if he were unable to work, a different, less harsh, judgement would be made. This is also for first time offenders. Provision was made for repeat offenders: 41 Holm Perg. 34 4to, 71v.

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Nú stelr hann annat sinni til eyris, leysi húð sína 6 mǫrkum silfrs. En ef hann leysir eigi, láti huðina, ok sé brugðit lykli á kinn honum.42 Now if he steals another time to the value of an eyrir, to save his skin six marks of silver. But if he does not pay, he is to be flogged and to be branded with a key on his cheek.

So, if a second-time offender steals a small amount, he can either pay a doubled fine of six marks of silver, or, if he does not pay, be flogged and branded with a key. For repeat offenders, there is no mention of clemency if they are not able to pay – they would simply be flogged. The rules concerning punishment allows for a third offence of thieving something worth a small amount. Nú stelr hann til eyris hit þriðja sinni, láti húðina, en konungr taki 6 merkr silfrs af fé hans. En ef sá hinn sami maðr stelr oftar, þá er hann drǽpr.43 Now if he steals to the value of an eyrir (for the third time), then he is to be flogged and the king is to take six marks from his goods. But if that one, the same man, steals more than that, then he is to be killed.

The third time the offence occurs, the thief receives both the possible punishments for a second-time offender. Whilst for a second-time offence it was a fine or flogging, depending on whether the fine was paid or not, for the third offence the thief is fined and flogged. This is only if the third-time offender steals a small amount. If, at this point, he steals more than an eyrir, what we might consider a medium amount, then he is to be put to death. The law handles the theft of medium and large amounts differently. If a man who is not a known thief steals up to the value of half a mark, then he can also redeem himself by paying a fine, or becoming an outlaw, but if he steals more than half a mark, he is killed. En ef maðr stelr til halfrar merkr veginnar, sá sem ekki var áðr at slíku kenndr, þá skal hann á þing fǿra, ok leysi sik 8 ørtogum ok 13 mǫrkum silfrs við konung eða fari útlǽgr. En ef hann stelr oftar, þá er hann drǽpr.44

42 Ibid. 43 Ibid. 44 Ibid.

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But if a man steals up to the value of half a mark in weight (value), that one who was not otherwise known for such behaviour, then he shall go to the thing and redeem himself for eight ertog, and thirteen marks of silver to the king, or become an outlaw. But if steals more than that, then he is to be killed.

These rules apply to thieves who are repeat offenders and thieve small amounts of up to an eyrir. We can see from the law that the recurrent theft of food and other goods was a recurrent problem in thirteenth-century Norway, and we also can see that there is a certain tolerance level for repeat offenders. Punishment for Known Thieves We hear in the law about the theft of up to a mark of silver, but since the law code has already covered the punishment for people who were previously of honest character, here the law must be talking about thefts by men who were already known to be thieves. Nú ef þjófr stelr í fyrsta bragði til merkr silfrs. Þá hefir hann fyrirstolit fé sínu ǫllu við konung, ok hafi slíka refsing sem sá maðr leggr á hann er konungsvald hefir allt í hendi till réttra refsinga, ok haldi þó lífinu. Nú ef sá hinn sami ógiftumaðr verðr oftar at þýfsku kendr, þá hefir hann fyrirgǫrt landi ok lausum eyri ok lífinu með.45 Now if a (known) thief steals in the first instance up to the value of a mark of silver, then he has forfeited all of his chattels to the king and is to be punished as that man who has the king’s full authority at his disposal lays on him as lawful punishment, and nevertheless keeps his life. Now if that one, the same luckless man, is known to have thieved more than that, then he has forfeited his land and loose property and life with them.

There is clearly a difference in treatment between a man of previously honest character and a known thief. If a man of previously honest character steals more than half a mark of silver, he is to be killed. But, if a known thief steals up to a full mark, he should be punished but haldi þó lifinu (‘nevertheless keeps his life’). This suggests that there is some recognition that there may be external factors at play as to why people steal. The most likely explanation for this is the passage that forbids the punishment of people who steal food to sustain themselves. They cannot be punished even if it is known that they thieve food; they are thus known thieves. If these known thieves who are desperate steal 45 Ibid.

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food with a high value or other objects with which to sustain themselves, then they would be classed as a known thief and the appropriate set of rules applied to their prosecution. The punishment for known thieves is therefore milder than for men of a previously honest character where it concerns thefts up to the value of half a mark of silver, because the known thieves who carry out the crime are likely to be amongst the very poorest in society. Other motives the law ascribes to known thieves who continue to steal are not explained, but this passage suggests that they, too, ought to be taken into account.

The Structure of the Law Code Treating Theft From this discussion above, five criteria can be discerned from the Landslǫg that were instrumental in the law code’s approach to the theft of food: 1) whether those that stole food had any means to fund it or whether they had any access to work 2) the magnitude of the theft in monetary terms 3) whether it was a one-off event or whether it had happened before 4) whether the accused was a previously honest person or not, or whether he was a known thief 5) if the person has enough money to pay a fine These criteria form a decision-making structure in the Landslǫg. In late thirteenth-century Norway, we see various possible paths for punishment opening up when it concerns theft of food. The section on theft begins by declaring the generic principle of none shall steal, but then immediately declares different categories of thief based on the reasons they steal. Can work?

Amount thieved

Repeat offender?

Previously honest?

Punishment

No Yes

Food Small amount of food (or other goods) Small amount

(not relevant) No

(not relevant) Yes

None 3 marks of silver

Second time

Yes

Small amount or Medium amount

Third time

Yes

Six marks of silver OR flogging and branding with a key Small: Flogging and six marks of silver; Medium: death.

Yes

Yes

160 Helen F. Leslie-Jacobsen Can work?

Amount thieved

Repeat offender?

Previously honest?

Punishment

Yes

Medium amount

No

Yes

Yes --

Large amount A mark of silver

No --

Yes No

--

More than one -mark of silver

8 ertog and 13 marks of silver OR become an outlaw Death Forfeits all chattels and to be judged by king’s representative Death and forfeits land, loose goods.

No

The law here shows a logical progression. When thieves are of previously honest character, they progress through the given structure, from whether or not people are able to support themselves, to the amount they steal and finally whether they are repeat offenders. However, if the thief is not of previously honest character, whether they can work and whether they are explicitly a repeat offender (although presumably they are) are not part of the structure.

Conclusion Ef maðr stelr eplum eða nǽpum En ef maðr gengr í eplagarð manns, eða hvannagarð eða lauka eða nǽpnareit eða ertra eða bauna, ok allt þat aldin er menn hegna með gǫrðum eða gǽzlum, tvígildi þeim er átti, ok 2 aura silfrs í þokkabót. En ef tekr til eyris eða meira, sekr sem um annan stulð. En ef þeir gera þetta, er eigi hafa fé til at bǿta, fǿri til þings ok svari fyrir eftir lagadómi.46 If a man steals apples or turnips. But if a man goes into another man’s orchard or angelica patch or onion or turnip bed or patch of peas or patch of beans and all that fruit of trees that men hedge in with fences or posts, double to one who owned and two aurar silver in reparation fine. But if he takes to the value of an eyrir or more, he is to be prosecuted as for other thefts. But if they do this, those who have no goods with which to compensate are to go to the thing and answer for, in accordance with the law.

46 Holm Perg. 34 4to, 73r.

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The interest in apples and turnips at such a basic level may sound faintly ridiculous to us, but it enables us to draw some conclusions about the Landslǫg and the development of law in the thirteenth century. Norwegian and Icelandic law underwent a series of changes in the thirteenth century to make the law more specific, expand the section on theft, and to introduce a structure that allowed for ‘grades’ of theft based on both the amount stolen and the background of the thief. The Landslǫg saw many shades of grey and sought to distinguish contexts and circumstances of the individual. These shades of grey are a new introduction to these legal traditions, which were previously very black and white with a one-sizefits-all approach. Starving individuals are either not prosecuted or they are f ined minimally. There seems to be some tolerance here for minor thefts that still nevertheless need to be discouraged. The fact that poor people who cannot pay the compensation have to go to the thing to be judged is not necessarily to their disadvantage. It is an opportunity for punishment to be given to them, but it is also an opportunity for mercy to be shown to them. In the context of different levels of theft, common food types that were likely commonly subject to theft were low-value goods. The plants at stake here (apples, turnips, angelica, onions, peas, and beans, although Jónsbók in this section does not mention peas or beans), are easily dispersible and easily stolen garden vegetables, and attract a fine if they are stolen from an obviously enclosed area, but taking them in small amounts is not prosecuted as a normal theft. Only when they are stolen to the value of one eyrir or more. The punishment for stealing larger amounts or for stealing repeatedly escalates quickly to punishment by death. This is obviously to discourage people from stealing, but like the other circumstances, once at the thing, mercy could be applied once the individual’s circumstances were known. The Landslǫg and Jónsbók were highly practical law codes, leaving legal administrators well able to manage disputes and to offer a wide range of possibilities in litigation. The rules to be referred to ensured that the most vulnerable in society did not starve and that mercy could be shown, whilst discouraging illegal acts with the potential for a large impact.

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Bibliography Primary Sources Keyser, Rudolf, and Peter Andreas Munch, eds., Ældre Frostathings-lov, in Norges gamle Love indtil 1387. Lovgivningen under Kong Magnus Haakonssøns Regjeringstid fra 1263 til 1280, Norges Love ældre end Kong Magnus Haakonssöns Regjerings-Tiltrædelse i 1263. I. (Christiania, 1846), pp. 121–258. Keyser, Rudolf, and Peter Andreas Munch, eds., Ældre Gulathings-lov, in Norges gamle Love indtil 1387. Lovgivningen under Kong Magnus Haakonssøns Regjeringstid fra 1263 til 1280, Norges Love ældre end Kong Magnus Haakonssöns Regjerings-Tiltrædelse i 1263. I. (Christiania, 1846), pp. 3–110. Keyser, Rudolf, and Peter Andreas Munch, eds., Kong Haakon Haakonssöns islandske Lov. (Hákonarbók), in Norges gamle Love indtil 1387. Lovgivningen under Kong Magnus Haakonssøns Regjeringstid fra 1263 til 1280, Norges Love ældre end Kong Magnus Haakonssöns Regjerings-Tiltrædelse i 1263. I. (Christiania, 1846), pp. 259–300. Paulsen, Robert K., ‘Holm perg. 34 4to’, The Emroon Database, http://www.emroon. no/ (2017) (retrieved 12 June 2018). Schulman, Jana, transl., Jónsbók: The Laws of Later Iceland (Bibliotheca Germania 4, Saarbrücken: AQ-Verlag, 2010).

Secondary Sources Anatole France, Le Lys rouge, 4th ed. (Calmann-Lévy, 1894), https://fr.wikisource. org/wiki/Le_Lys_rouge/VII (retrieved 12 June 2018). Byock, Jesse L., Viking Age Iceland. (London: Penguin, 2001). Greenf ield, Patrick, and Sarah Marsh, ‘Hundreds of Homeless People Fined and Imprisoned in England and Wales’, The Guardian, (2018), https://www. theguardian.com/society/2018/may/20/homeless-people-fined-imprisonedpspo-england-wales (retrieved 12 June 2018). Miller, William Ian, & Helle Vogt, ‘Finding, Sharing and Risk of Loss: Of Whales, Bees, and Other Valuable Finds in Iceland, Denmark and Norway’, Comparative Legal History, 3:1 (2015), pp. 38–59. Nordeide, Sæbjørg Walaker, and Jennifer R. McDonald, ‘Canonical Observance in Norway in the Middle Ages: The Observance of Dietary Regulations’, in K. Salonen, K. V. Jens, and T. Jørgensen, eds., Medieval Christianity in the North: New Studies (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 41–66. Øye, Ingvild, Driftsmåter i Vestnorsk Jordbruk ca 600–1350 (Bergen: Universitetsforlaget, 1976).

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Øye, Ingvild, Mat og Drikke i Middelalderen (Bergen: Museet, 1980). Patrick, Ruth. ‘Is It Really Criminal to Steal Food when you’re Destitute?’, The Conversation, (2016), https://theconversation.com/is-it-really-criminal-to-stealfood-when-youre-destitute-59190 (retrieved 12 June 2018). Sandvik, Gudmund, and Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Laws’, in Rory McTurk, ed., A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture (Blackwell Companions to Literature and Culture, 31, Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), pp. 223–244. Shepherd, David, ‘This Man Breached an Order to Stop him Begging in the City Centre 14 Times’, Gloucestershire Live, (2017), https://www.gloucestershirelive. co.uk/news/gloucester-news/man-breached-order-stop-him-242853 (retrieved 12 June 2018). Skaar, Rebekka Alette, ‘Matkultur i Norsk Middelalder’, (MA Thesis, Universitetet i Oslo, 2014). Skaare, Kolbjørn, ‘Øre’, in Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder, 22 vols (Oslo: Gyldendal norsk forlag, 1956–1978), XX (1976). Skaare, Kolbjørn, ‘Ørtug’, in Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder, 22 vols (Oslo: Gyldendal norsk forlag, 1956–1978), XXI (1977). Sunde, Jørn Øyrehagen, ‘“Daughters of God and Counsellors of the Judges of Men: Changes in the Legal Culture of the Norwegian Realm in the High Middle Ages’, in Stefan Brink, and Lisa Collinson, eds., New Approaches to Early Law in Scandinavia (Acta Scandinavica 3, Turnhout: Brepols, 2014) pp. 131–183.

About the Author Helen F. Leslie-Jacobsen is a researcher in Old Norse philology at the University of Bergen, Norway, where she leads a project on medieval and early modern Norwegian and Icelandic law funded by the Trond Mohn stiftelse. Her research interests include law, manuscripts, translation, ballads, and prosimetric Old Norse sagas.

Part III Food Spaces, Consumption, and Feasting

8. The Semiotics of Hanging Around in the Kitchen in Late Sagas and Rímur Philip Lavender

Abstract This contribution interrogates the negative associations adhering to young men who spend their time close to kitchen fires, tracing the roots of this tradition in medieval Icelandic literature and charting its development in later Icelandic works produced between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries, namely: (1) the Rímur af Illuga eldhúsgoða; (2) Ambáles rímur and Ambáles saga; (3) Atla saga Ótryggssonar; and (4) Ármanns saga ok Þorsteins gala. In older texts the eldhús is neither a single-purpose kitchen, nor a straightforwardly feminine space. In later texts, however, it is more directly associated with both food preparation and women. The relatively unstudied texts analysed here reveal innovative approaches to the portrayal of young men inhabiting such zones in a way conversant with masculine development. Keywords: Icelandic saga, postmedieval, rímur, kitchen (eldaskáli), gender, childhood

In a number of Icelandic texts, hanging around the fire is seen to be inappropriate for young men at a certain stage of their development. In some of these, normally slightly later texts, it is specifically hanging around kitchen fires that is deemed problematic. The aim of this chapter is to trace the development of this oft-alluded to (yet loosely applied) kolbítr-like1 behaviour as presented in sagas and rímur (long narrative poetry). In doing so, a further aim is to unravel the dense semiotic network, which leads to the mentioned negative associations: what is it about the fireside environment 1 Kolbítr means literally ‘coal-biterʼ and is used to refer to an idle person who often sits at the fireside.

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or the kitchen area that is so detrimental to men in their formative years?2 My analysis, which purposefully avoids applying a hard border between medieval and early-modern or later saga tradition, and thus makes use of a number of curious yet ignored texts, shows that the connotations were various. In particular, while the kitchen area can be seen as a gendered space in many of the later examples, the explanation of the opprobrium garnered by the hero-to-be is much more complex than simply gender-inappropriate behaviour, and a number of saga- and rímur-authors have taken advantage of the complexity in order to add spice to their narratives. In clarifying some of the key terminology relevant to this study, an eye can be cast over a passage from Grettis saga, a narrative whose hero, as Carolyne Larrington has pointed out, ‘shows signs of laziness; he is ekki bráðgǫrr (not promising) in youth, though the kolbítr-topos is not fully-realised’.3 The incompleteness of the kolbítr-topos is made evident by the narratorial statement to the effect that ‘eigi lagðisk hann [i.e. Grettir] í eldaskála’ (‘he did not lie around in the eldaskáli’), 4 but the warm zone around the indoors fire hosts at least one example of Grettir’s childhood disruptiveness. In fact, in conjunction with this scene, Grettis saga provides us with one of the most explicit descriptions of interior layout on an Icelandic farm and how spaces were made use of in different ways by members of the opposite sex. In Chapter 14, we are told that ‘Þat var háttr í þann tíma, at eldaskálar váru stórir á bœjum; sátu menn þar við langelda á ǫptnum. Þar váru borð sett fyrir menn, ok síðan sváfu menn upp frá eldunum; konur unnu þar ok tó á daginn’ (‘It was the custom at that time for the eldaskálar on farms to be large; people sat there beside the long-fires in the evenings. Tables were set up there for people, and then people slept there a little away from the fires; women also worked there with wool during the daytime’).5 Eldaskálar, literally ‘fire halls’, has been left untranslated in the two previous quotations because of the inadequacy of contemporary terms from neatly compartmentalized houses to convey the multiple facets of this space. It is a place for work during the day, but for social gathering, eating, and sleeping in the evenings and at night, thus combining functional aspects of the workshop, living room, 2 Questions of causality arise here, which naturally go beyond the unnuanced yet more direct version of this question as presented. Just because youths who hang around by a f ire are criticized, does not necessarily imply that the fireside is the cause of any negative qualities perceived. Fireside lounging may be contingent with lazy children, for example, being attracted to the fire rather than being made lazy by their presence there. 3 Larrington, ‘Awkward Adolescents’, p. 157. 4 Guðni Jónsson, Grettis saga, p. 42. All translations are my own unless stated otherwise. 5 Ibid., p. 38.

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dining room, and bedroom. Women are clearly the main residents during the day, but a mixed or predominantly male crowd may be imagined to be present in the evenings (menn can be translated as both ‘people’ and ‘men’). The Dictionary of Old Norse Prose (ONP) explains, rather than translates, eldaskáli as a ‘room with a fireplace/hearth’ and provides two additional meanings, ‘feast hall’ and ‘kitchen’, for eldhús (literally ‘firehouse’). Thus, when translating eldaskáli, or the related eldhús, there is no reason to assume that a kitchen scene is being alluded too.6 At this point, it is also worth emphasizing that this literary description may have little in common with the actual layout of people’s homes in pre-conversion or medieval Iceland (the statement in the quote above that ‘it was the custom at that time’ shows us that already differences in practices may have existed between the time represented in the saga and the time when it was written down). Since the aim here is to trace the development of a motif as witnessed in written descriptions, we may bracket the question of literature’s relationship to social realities, while at the same time conceding that changes in the way people lived and arranged their homes is likely to have had an impact upon the representation of living spaces within written sources. Though there is no automatic negative association with the eldaskáli or eldhús, the same cannot be said for the attribution to an individual of the descriptor kolbítr. There are only four recorded uses of this particular word in the ONP (in many cases terms such as eldsætur, eldhúsfífl or circumlocutions act as substitutes). One of these, namely, the mention of Þórðr beigaldi in Egils saga Skallagrímssonar, simply says ‘Beigaldi var kolbítr’, leaving any associations for us to infer. The other examples suggest through parallel synonyms or context the negative content of this term. Starkaðr in Gautreks saga, for example, is said to be ‘hímaldi ok kolbítr’,7 where the rare term hímaldi appears to mean ‘layabout’. 8 Oddr Arngeirsson, mentioned in Landnámabók, is said to be ‘seinlegr ok var kallaðr kolbítr’ (‘slow to develop and called a kolbítr’).9 In Ketils saga hængs we hear the cannibalistic Surtr 6 Eldhús means ‘kitchen’ in modern Icelandic, which might influence the decision of some Old-Norse-to-English translators to translate both of these terms as ‘kitchen’. For example, in Áns saga bogsveigis we are told that ‘Ekki lagðist Án í eldaskála, en þó var hann afglapi kallaðr af sumum mönnum’ (Rafn, Fornaldar sögur, II, p. 327), the pertinent part of which I have seen translated as ‘did not lie around the kitchen’ (Hughes, ‘The Saga of Án Bow-Bender’, p. 194). In Ketils saga hængs, eldaskála and eldhús are both used, synonymously, of the place where Ketill lounges (Rafn, Fornaldar sögur, II, pp. 109–110). 7 Rafn, Fornaldar sögur, III, p. 18. 8 Hímaldi is seemingly related to the verb að híma, meaning ‘to loiter’ or ‘to lounge’. 9 Eiríkur Jónsson and Finnur Jónsson, Hauksbók, p. 86.

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state that, ‘væri mér nærsta skömm í því, at bera eigi langt af honum, þar sem hann hefir vaxit upp við eld ok verit kolbítr’ (‘it would be deeply shameful for me not to far surpass him, since he has grown up by the fire and been a kolbítr’):10 if it is shameful not to be much better than a kolbítr, then to be a kolbítr oneself must be extremely ignominious. These examples also highlight the role of agency or lack thereof in the layabout. Is he a lazy wastrel, capable but unwilling, as implied by hímaldi, or is he living with a learning or developmental difficulty which, through no fault of his own, prevents him from performing in a way which conforms to normative expectations, as implied by seinlegr.11 Other cases refer to a reluctance to work as well as the ascription of pejorative labels such as afglapi (which Cleasby and Vigfusson translate as ‘oaf, fool, simpleton’), providing evidence for both interpretations. The fact that in most narrative contexts the kolbítr epithet is deployed in order subsequently to be disproved should perhaps lead us to prefer the former however: the kolbítr only appears to be inept, but is voluntarily concealing his potential until a certain moment arrives. An important feature of the kolbítr is thus his temporary status: a man who spends his entire life lounging around by the fire is not a prototypical example by any means. This transitional nature is made more obvious when we consider that in Inger M. Boberg’s Motif-Index of Early Icelandic Literature examples of the topos are categorized under L ‘Reversal of Fortune’, particularly under subcategory L101 ‘Unpromising Hero (male cinderella)’.12 The play of opposites, with higher status following on the heels of a lower one, has led various commentators to read the motif in the light of anthropologically informed initiation rites. Ásdís Egilsdóttir, for example, makes the interesting point that ‘en kolbítr må forlade moderens område og gå over til mændenes verden’ (‘a kolbítr must leave the mother’s domain and cross over to the man’s world’).13 Thus, the kolbítr motif may not merely be a question of a transition from childhood to adulthood, but also one from a zone of female influence to one of male influence. Such an interpretation 10 Rafn, Fornaldar sögur, II, p. 114. 11 Our contemporary understanding of learning and developmental difficulties and disabilities is obviously anachronistic in an Old Norse representational context. Behaviour resulting from such conditions might have been conflated with obtuse adolescence and seen not as alternatives but as symptoms of a single ‘malady’. 12 Alongside an episode from Saxo Grammaticus, the seven sagas listed under L101 are: Svarfdæla saga; Víga-Glúms saga; Gull-Þóris saga; Gunnars saga Keldugnúpsfífls; Hrólfs saga kraka; Göngu-Hrólfs saga; and Sagan af Atla Ótryggssyni. L131 ‘Hearth abode of unpromising hero’, is also an important reference point. 13 Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ‘En verden skabes’, p. 246.

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may contribute to the fact that there are a number of cases (although not necessarily fully realised kolbítr scenarios) where an unpromising youth has an antagonistic relationship with the father but a particularly affectionate one with the mother.14 This is certainly the case for Ketill hængr, who ‘kveðst henni [i.e. móður sinni] meiri ást eiga at launa enn föður sínum’ (‘says that he has more love to repay to her [i.e. his mother] than to his father’).15 A similar situation (although with no mention of fire or hearth) pertains in Sigurðar saga þögla, where we are told of the hero that ‘lagde kongr ꜳ hann mikla wræct. En drottning vnne honum mest allra sinna barnna’ (‘the king was extremely negligent with him, but the queen loved him most of all her children’).16 Göngu-Hrólfr in the saga that bears his name is lacking in social graces, and his behaviour is berated by his father Sturlaugr, who says it ‘heyrir meir konu enn karlmanni, at hafa þvílíkt framferði’ (‘is more befitting of a woman than a man to act in such a way’).17 In Orms þáttr Stórólfssonar, the protagonist is neither slow nor lazy, neither a kolbítr nor unpromising in any obvious sense, the only thing defining his youth being the inexplicably bad relationship with his father: ‘ekki hafði hann ástríki mikit af föður sínum […] en móðir hans unni honum mikit’.18 In these examples, we see the soft border between literal kolbítr behaviour and tales of father-son conflict, with the potential for overlap but most cases falling under one or the other heading. The gender-informed reading of the hero-to-be either moving from a feminine-marked sphere of influence to a masculine-marked one, or from a more feminine-marked comportment to a more masculine-marked one is, I would argue, more pertinent to the cases of father-son conflict. It may, however, be worthwhile bearing in mind that Carol Clover’s suggestion of the valency of a gender-system with ómegð (‘the powerless’) and megð (‘the powerful’) at either end in early Scandinavia may partly account for the feminine potentialities witnessed in childhood:19 while her focus is ‘early’ Scandinavia, it is certainly possible that in high and late medieval literary sources there continued to be a general association of children with (the majority of) women in an alliance of the disenfranchised.20

14 See also Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Troublesome Children’, on cases of father-son rivalry. 15 Rafn, Fornaldar sögur, II, p. 109. 16 Loth, Late Medieval Icelandic Romances II, p. 98. 17 Rafn, Fornaldar sögur, III, p. 249. 18 Faulkes, Two Icelandic Stories, p. 64. 19 Clover, ‘Regardless of Sex’, p. 380. 20 It could also be suggested that surly childhood behaviour emphasizes the remarkable nature of certain ‘powerless’ children, special individuals who forcefully and paradoxically defend

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Among her examples of ‘unpromising youth’, Boberg includes Amlethus from Saxo Grammaticus’ Gesta Danorum. This character, made famous through Shakespeare’s repurposing in Hamlet, does not quite follow the same trajectory as many of the other kolbítar known from Icelandic sagas, since, after all, he takes on the fool’s persona in response to a perceived threat from his homicidal uncle. As already mentioned, since other kolbítar inevitably prove their worth, it is not impossible to imagine that they, too, are only performing idiocy or idleness (rather than simply being in a stage prior to their initiation into maturity). Such dissimulation (if we assume it to be such) is rarely, however, so transparently enunciated or as clearly linked to a potential danger as in Saxo’s telling. In highlighting the thespian nature of Amlethus’s undertaking, the description puts a great deal of emphasis on his appearance and the ways in which, principally through unkemptness, he dons a costume that those around him can read as an outer sign of his inner degeneracy. ‘Every day he would stay near his mother’s hearth, completely listless and unwashed, and would roll on the ground to give his person a repulsive coating of filth. His grimy complexion and the refuse smeared over his face grotesquely illustrated his lunacy’.21 In this description, we are presented with a very pragmatic explanation of the kolbítr’s hanging around by the fire, it being the dirtiest location available and thus the perfect spot to don a costume of filth. In fact, reversing the chain of causality, the unpleasantness of sitting on the ground close to the smoke and the ash may, moreover, be the reason why the fireside was reserved for the least respected individuals in a household in the first place. Being a fool gets you a spot in the dirt by the fire, and taking a seat in the dirt by the fire makes you look like a fool.22 On a slightly different note, Vatnsdœla saga gives us a sense of the fireplace as linked to consumption, invoking sensual pleasure and perhaps also the corollary vice of gluttony. Ketill raumr discusses in general, albeit pointed, terms with his son Þorsteinn the habits of young men nowadays: ‘nú vilja ungir menn gerask heimaelskir ok sitja við bakelda ok kýla vǫmb sína á miði ok mungáti’ (‘young men today want to be homebodies and sit by the fire and cool their stomachs with mead and ale’).23 Food is not mentioned, hence these fires are not connected with cooking, but downing quantities their right to remain idle in the group to which they have been assigned. For a recent critique of Clover’s sex- and gender-model, see Evans, Men and Masculinities, pp. 11–15. 21 Friis-Jensen and Fisher, Saxo Grammaticus: Gesta Danorum, I, p. 183–185. 22 For the classic study of hygiene taboos see Douglas, Purity and Danger, where the relation between pollution and morals is discussed in Chapter 8 ‘Internal Lines’. 23 Einar Ól. Sveinsson, Vatnsdœla saga, p. 5.

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of beverages is not a far cry from other types of excessive ingestion. Þiðreks saga, generally dated to the thirteenth century, connects the fireside wastrel more explicitly with cooking (although not necessarily eating). Of Þetleifr we are told that: meirr elscar hann steikara hvs at vera i en hann vili riða með feðr sinom eða iðrottir at nema eða hofðingiom at þiona […] Oc eigi berr hann kamb i havvð ser oc eigi vill hann i baðstofor fara ne lavg þo at gor se. Oc ecki vill hann rœkia sic nema liggia i ascv inni i matgerðar hvsvm oc laupa með matsveinom vti eða stafkarlvm nœcviðr (he much prefers to be in the kitchen than to ride out with his father or follow pursuits or serve chieftains […] And he will not pass a comb through his hair, nor does he want to go into the steam baths or wash himself in hot water though they are prepared for him. And he does not want to take care of himself, but would rather lie in the ashes in the kitchen and run around outside with the kitchen-lads or naked with the vagrants)24

The description here mixes elements of the unkemptness already mentioned, but with the addition of (for the first time in Old Norse sources) an unambiguous reference to the kitchen (steikarahús, matgerðarhús, and matsveinum leave no doubt). The problem with the kitchen is not that it is a femininegendered space, nor that gluttons hang around there, but rather it is an issue of class. The matsveinar whom Þetleifr hangs around with are mentioned parallel to the stafkarlar or vagrants, unacceptable companions for Þetleifr who is the son of Biturúlfr, a powerful man married to the daughter of an earl. Thus, we see the problems of lazy youth on Icelandic farms being combined with class issues more redolent of a continental aristocracy.25 A more direct reference to food preparation as gender-inappropriate for young males (albeit in which no kitchen or fire is mentioned, but rather a pantry) occurs in Víga-Glúms saga, where Vigfúss accuses Bárðr of ‘optar hafa staðit nær búrhillum ok ráðit um matargerð með móður þinni en gengit at hestavígum’ (‘more often having stood close to the pantry shelves and 24 Bertelsen, Þiðriks saga, I, pp. 209–210. 25 An interesting parallel to this use of the kitchen as a low-class environment in a romanceinfluenced text can be found in Vilmundar saga viðutan, in which Princess Sóley escapes an undesirable marriage by swapping appearances and clothes with a servant-woman named Öskubuska, and then taking up residence in the steikarahús (Loth, Late Medieval Icelandic Romances IV, pp. 148–149).

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discussed food preparation with your mother than gone to horse-fights’).26 While it seems clear from the comparison that discussing food preparation is not seen as manly, it may be that there is also an implication of gluttony here: only the greedy youth might be imagined to take such an interest in what will end up on his plate. In Völsunga saga, from the thirteenth century, we get a brief glimpse of a somewhat different reason for the negative associations surrounding the fireside abode. During a military expedition undertaken by Helgi against Hoddbroddr (a rival suitor), a verbal duel (or flyting) takes place between Sinfjötli (Helgi’s brother) and Hoddbroddr’s own brother.27 The context allows us to immediately recognize the negative connotations of the assertions made, one of which is that Helgi wishes to fight ‘meðan þú kyssir ambáttir við eld’ (‘while you [Granmarr] kiss slave-girls by the fire’).28 The point plays off the contrast between praiseworthy martial activity and ignominious love-making. The fireside, where women are presumably present due to their engagement in chores requiring heat and light, can be a place of courtship. While not all courtship is blameworthy (the context of the flyting is a military expedition in order to secure a bride), staying at home to do so with one’s social inferiors (the women are ambáttir, or ‘slave women/serving women’) is no way for a man to gain praise. Thus, seeking the company of women is not wrong, but misguided sexuality that does not aim for a class-appropriate partner is. Such a reading is compounded by Sinfjötli’s other insults, calling Hoddbroddr a völva (‘prophetess’), valkyrja (‘valkyrie’), and merr (‘mare’) and saying that he has selected a husband and given birth, all accusations of perceived deviant sexual practices whereby a man debases or inverts his status by seeking an inappropriate sexual partner. Therefore, the fireplace here is only metonymically problematic, that is to say bad because of the potentially shameful behavior that can take place there. It is for this reason that it can easily be swapped for any similarly constructed area, as is the case in Helgakviða Hundingsbana I, where it is at the handmills (á kvernum, v. 35) that Hoddbroddr is accused of ignominiously seducing slave women.29 26 Jónas Kristjánsson, Eyfirðingasǫgur, p. 62. 27 The saga is actually slightly confused at this point. The flyting is said to be initiated by Hoddbroddr’s brother (who is named Guðmundr), but then the interlocutor’s name is given as Granmarr (Hoddbroddr’s father). Regardless of the intended target, however, the insult has the same function. 28 Rafn, Fornaldar sögur, I, p. 139. 29 The Eddic poem is most likely the source of the prose text. Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, Eddukvæði, I, pp. 19, 254.

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To summarize, we have seen how in medieval sources youths hang around by a fire in the eldaskáli and eldhús (at times not clearly distinguished), areas with no exclusive connection with food preparation. This fits neatly with Jenny Jochen’s statement that ‘[o]nly a few cooking episodes involving females surface in the sagas and the use of fire is not certain’ (her emphasis is on Íslendingasögur and samtíðarsögur).30 While the quote from VígaGlúms saga strongly suggests that food preparation is deemed feminine, the fireside has no specific gender connotations, even if the unruly youths who are found there tend to have closer and more amicable relationships with their mothers than their fathers. A young man may sit close to the flames due to his low status, but the filth associated with the area may add to (or at least maintain at a level) that low status. A young man may even choose to embrace this slovenly identity as an early exercise in self-affirmation or even self-preservation. The fireside may, moreover, be inappropriate for youths if it is connected with gluttony or lechery, although a crucial element seems to be the class issues which arise in sagas where an aristocratic hall is presented ( fornaldarsögur or riddarasögur) and youths hang around by the fire with kitchen servants or slave-women. The medieval sources thus show a dense semiotic network coalescing around the fireplace, but, in the seventeenth century, a number of new descriptions surface, and it is these which shall be considered in the rest of this chapter. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, we continue to see many examples of youths hanging around by the fire – many of the texts already discussed continued to be popular and were copied and circulated in the continuing manuscript tradition – but at this time a new constellation of elements also rears its head. An interesting case in point are the Rímur af Illuga eldhúsgoða, which exist in two manuscripts, AM 612 e 4to and AM 612 d 4to, from 1673 and 1706, respectively.31 Stephen Mitchell mentions these rímur on his list of probable lost fornaldarsögur (the poetic text being assumed to be derived from a lost prose forerunner), suggesting that the story might have its roots in the Middle Ages.32 Björn K. Þórólfsson, despite the age of the manuscripts, includes a discussion of this work in his Rímur fyrir 1600, arguing for the (at latest) sixteenth-century dating on linguistic grounds.33 Whatever their provenance, the rímur fit neatly into the ongoing 30 Jochens, Women in Old Norse Society, p. 129. 31 ‘AM’ appears at the start of all the shelfmarks of manuscripts contained in the Arnamagnæan collections in Copenhagen and Reykjavík. 32 Mitchell, Heroic sagas, p. 185. 33 Björn K. Þórólfsson, Rímur fyrir 1600, pp. 292, 443–444.

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tradition of saga-narrative and gave rise to later poetic and prose versions, although none of these works has ever been edited or translated. As the title, roughly translatable as ‘The rímur of Illugi, chieftain of the kitchen’, makes clear, the hero of this saga has a close connection with fires (eld-húsgoði), as with so many of his aforementioned medieval predecessors. We are introduced to him in the f irst f itt, as the second of two sons of Virgilius, an important advisor at a royal court: 19. Illugi frá ég að annar var, eyðir bjartra stála, öngva mennt af ýtum bar, elda byggði skála. 20. Etur bæði ugga og roð, og ösku þar með löngum. Drengurinn kann að drekka soð, drjúgur er hann í föngum. 21. Undrast þetta heima lýður, hann vill þannig breyta. Kappinn þá í kötlum sýður kann vel fæðu neyta. 22. Kallzar jafnan konur og börn, kallt af miklum létta. Höndlun hans var heimsku gjörn, höldar inna þetta. 23. Þá honum kvendinn koma nær kíminn er úr æði. Eldinn ber hann upp á þær og af þeim flettir klæði. 24. Rótar hann bæði eld og eim, oft þess margir gjalda. Eisan kemur í andlit þeim, undan hljóta að halda. 25. Hölda hrekur húsi úr svo þar nást ekki sitja.

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Elda busku er allvel trúr, eyðir nöðru fitja (my normalized transcription from AM 612 d 4to) (19. The second was Illugi, I hear, destroyer of bright steels (i.e. warrior). He surpassed men in no intellectual pursuits, inhabited the kitchen. 20. He eats both the fins and skins of fish and the ashes along with the ling (i.e. type of fish) itself. The lad knows how to drink the broth, he was well provided with victuals. 21. The people marvelled over this at home and thus wanted to change him. The champion, when food is cooking in the pots, knows how to enjoy his food. 22. He always mocks the women and children, harshly and most gladly. His behaviour was the result of foolishness, so people have told. 23. When the women come close to him he becomes ridiculous in his madness. He lifts the fire up to them and tears their clothes away. 24. He pokes around in both fire and smoke, many people often mock him for this. Embers end up in their faces, they have to keep well back. 25. He chases people out of the room so that it is not possible to sit there. To a bush of fires (i.e. woman) the destroyer of the lands of the adder (i.e. generous man) is loyal.)

In verse 19, we see that Illugi inhabits the eldaskáli, but since he is also called the chieftain of the eldhús (for example in the title on f. 1r of AM

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621 d 4to), we may assume that, in this source, the two terms are used almost synonymously. The details that follow – consumption of food and cooking with f ires – show that the eldhús/eldaskáli is here much more kitchen-like than any of the previous so-named spaces (and on a level with the steikara-hús of Þiðreks saga). We cannot assert that it is a space reserved solely for cooking, but nor are there any indications of it being the multi-purpose room as described, for example, in Grettis saga. Perhaps the most notable feature of this passage is its inclusion of so many of the associations which we have previously seen being used in isolation in kolbítr-type descriptions. This space is clearly identified as predominantly inhabited by women and children, although Illugi is a highly disruptive element as opposed to the recipient of fawning and preferential treatment. Illugi is associated with dirt, scoffing ashes by the fireplace, but also gluttony, with his willingness to eat whatever repugnant scraps of food are scattered there. He also commences a love affair with one of the women present (verse 25), though this seems more incongruous (because of his young age) than specifically inappropriate from a class perspective. It is for all of these reasons that Illugi comes to earn his nickname – chieftain of the kitchen – because he clearly wishes to excel within and gain mastery over his domain, but unfortunately his rapid evolution means that he has all too soon outgrown the domain to which he continues to be consigned. Illugi is a clear example of precocious development with his comical kitchen antics, not arrested development. At around the same time as the manuscripts containing the Rímur af Illuga eldhúsgoða appeared, another remarkably similar pair of texts first came to light. The story of Amlethus from Saxo, as briefly described above, is almost completely absent from medieval Icelandic sources, but following on from the appearance of the editio princeps of the Gesta Danorum in Paris in 1514, Saxonic material gradually filtered (back?) into Icelandic literary culture. Key examples of this process are Ambáles rímur (in AM 521 e 4to) and Ambáles saga (in AM 521 b 4to and AM 521 c 4to). According to Hermann Pálsson, the rímur were composed around the 1680s or 1690s by a certain Páll Bjarnason, who took as his source, among other things, a German version of the tale.34 Thus, the prose texts in AM 521 b and c 4to may well represent two independent adaptations of the rímur, although the story is for the most part the same.35 What is most significant for our purposes 34 Hermann Pálsson, Ambáles rímur, pp. ix–xv. 35 For an alternative interpretation, see Heiko Uecker’s Der nordische Hamlet, p. xxi–xxii, where an argument is made that the rímur’s relationship to the sagas may be more complex

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here is the eldhúsgoði-like behaviour that Ambáles exhibits. I present just snippets from the rímur here: 22. Í eldhús gildur aftur skipti göngu, móður blíða sína snar seggurinn glöggur hitti þar. […] 24. Hrókurinn jók nú hryðjuverkin meiri, sinni móður grætti geð, greip hana upp og stólinn með. 25. Á katla hlóðin keyrði hann stólinn niður, selju hringa sárheit glóð svíða tók og klæðin góð. 26. Sakaði dúka selju bálið eigi, báðar hraðast þaðan því þanninn runnu slotið í. […] 31. Að honum hraða eg aftur ræðu minni; slátrið át, þá soðið var, og sæng við dyngju hafði var.36 (22. That able man directed his steps to the kitchen: the clever man met his wise and kind mother there. 24. The ruffian started raising hell, brought his mother to her wits’ end, picked her up, chair and all. 25. He threw the chair down on the hearth where the kettles sat; the singeing embers started to burn the tree of rings (i.e. woman) and her fine clothes. 26. The fire did not harm the tree of cloths (i.e. woman), than heretofore suggested. Þormóður Torfæus (b. 1636) also claims that he heard an Ambáles story being told when he was child, though Hermann Pálsson dismisses this. 36 Hermann Pálsson, Ambáles rímur, pp. 100–101.

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both women hurried rapidly away and ran into the castle. 31. I hasten my discussion back to him: he ate the meat, when it was cooked, and had his bed there next to the women’s work space.)

A couple of observations can be made about this passage, for example that the eldhús is, as in the Rímur af Illuga eldhúsgoða, quite clearly a kitchen environment, with pots and kettles and meat being cooked. This area, to which the term dyngja also seems to be applied,37 is, moreover, a female environment: the only other people mentioned there are Ambáles’ mother, another queen, and female servants. Ambáles, however, and like Illugi, is not only idling his time away here, but appropriating this space for his own purposes and even chasing the women away. His throwing of his mother down next to a boiling cauldron is not behaviour witnessed in other accounts (either Icelandic or in the Gesta Danorum), and while having the sheen of lunacy, can be perceived as an astute piece of acting. By appearing to show such callous disregard for his closest living relative, he gives the impression that he cares nothing for familial ties (and thus his enemies need not fear that he will attempt to seek vengeance for his dead kin). The fact that this element fits so neatly into the logic of the narrative here might lead us to see such behaviour as an original addition in this context, and thus the more general and inexplicable aggression against women as having entered the Rímur af Illuga eldhúsgoða from this source. If this is original, it would seem to be a fortuitous offspring of the interpolation of Icelandic kolbítr-behaviour into Saxo’s narrative frame. As Ian Felce has observed: ‘In Saxo’s story, Amlethus adopts his mask of madness as a pragmatic ruse to protect himself from seeming a threat when his uncle usurps the throne. In the saga, however, Ambales appears to grow into a simpleton from the moment he is born, despite the fact that the usurping king Fástínus only takes his father’s throne when Ambales is eight years old’.38 Perhaps there is incongruity in the fact that Ambáles seems wayward even before the commencement of his family’s tragedy, but as the many medieval Icelandic accounts have shown us, what is early on perceived as ‘simpleton’ behaviour is in most cases rather a sign of maladjustment of a uniquely talented individual. Ambáles is without doubt 37 On the dyngja as a specif ically female work space, see Karen Bek-Pedersen, The Norns, pp. 106–109. 38 Felce, ‘In Search of Amlóða saga’, pp. 105–106.

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a prodigious intellect, and thus perhaps he merely takes the opportunity to reinforce people’s pre-existing misapprehensions about him once he finds himself in a tight spot. Saxo’s Amlethus sits by the fire not only to coat himself in ash, but also for the pragmatic purpose of using the heat to harden the stakes with which he will pin down his enemies when he finally exacts his vengeance upon them. The Ambáles of the rímur and saga does likewise, but finds further benefits from hanging around in the kitchen.39 Another example of the somewhat later development of the kolbítr can be found in Atla saga Ótryggssonar (listed by Boberg under L101). Eleven manuscripts containing this saga are currently listed on handrit.org. Most seem to be from the nineteenth century, with one (JS 629 4to) mentioning the date 1817 in a colophon. 40 This fits roughly with Simek and Hermann Pálsson’s assessment that we are dealing with an ‘erst um 1800 entstandene Saga’ (‘saga which first came into being around 1800’). 41 Four sets of rímur also tell the same story, but since the earliest appears to be from after 1820,42 it seems probable that they are all based on the prose text. The plot, in brief, starts in Norway and tells of Atli, a layabout who eventually gets his act together in the face of his father’s troubles with an aggressive neighbour. On the basis of Atli’s act of vengeance against the neighbour, he becomes the enemy of King Haraldur hárfagra and must go into hiding with his uncle Böðvar in Vík. After various unsuccessful attacks on Atli in his hideout, he relocates to Iceland to the Westfjords along with his family and friends. The presentation of Atli at the start of the saga is similar to that found in other sources: Atli hét sonur þeirra. Hann lá í eldaskála og var þeim til skapraunar. Aldrei vildi hann neitt vinna. Eldakonur höfðu jafnan kala á honum því hann tók allt frá þeim hvað hann vildi en barði þær til meiðsla ef þær að fundu. (normalized transcription based on JS 629 4to, f. 236r) (Their son was named Atli. He lay around in the fire hall and was a great worry to them. He never wanted to do any work. The women who tended the fires disliked him greatly because he took everything that he wanted from them and beat them black and blue if they censured him.) 39 See Hermann Pálsson, Ambáles rímur, p. 123, and Gollancz, Hamlet in Iceland, p. 101. 40 ‘JS’ is found in the shelfmarks of manuscripts within the Jón Sigurðsson collection, housed at the National Library of Iceland. 41 Simek and Hermann Pálsson, Lexikon, p. 25. 42 Finnur Sigmundsson, Rímnatal, I, 54.

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Once again, we have a protagonist hanging around in a place inhabited by women, and the connection is made all the more explicit by the use of the prefix elda- for both the place and its intended (gender-specific) inhabitants (elda-konur). Once again, the hero is not one with his surroundings, certainly not a feminine man blending seamlessly with the women, but rather a jarring presence, worryingly lazy and, moreover, a drain on resources. The fact that he takes whatever he wants is somewhat ambiguous, but a straight reading would be that he is taking food from the eldakonur, whose labour connected with the fires could once again be read as food preparation. Atli’s sloth and gluttony is thus censurable, but if the women dare to criticize him they can expect a violent response. Shortly after this description, Atli casts off the kolbítr persona and defends his father from the injustices enacted by an overbearing neighbour, Ólafur. The trope of the unpromising youth seems to have performed its function, but later in the saga the eldaskáli pops up again, and there is something of a coda to these youthful quirks. Atli is now living with his uncle Böðvar in Vík, and so the eldaskáli and eldakonur involved are not the same as those at the beginning of the saga, but Atli’s interaction with them suggests a conceptual link. He has killed Hrafn and Krákur, two unlikeable neighbours who were trying to get away with not sharing a washed-up whale carcass, of which Böðvar was also entitled to a share. Having done the deed, Atli claims the carcass for his family, carries it home and: kastaði honum niður í eldaskáladyrnar, en eldakonur voru inn í skálanum. Síðan kom Atli á tal við Böðvar og sagði honum víg þeirra bræðra. Böðvar mælti: ‘nú mun kóngur hitta þig, þá hann heyrir þetta’. Atli kvað þá vísu. Leið nú langt á kvöldið, þar til saknað var eldakonanna. Gekk þá Böðvar út og hugði að þeim. En sem hann kom að eldaskálanum, sá hann að fullt var upp í dyrnar, svo þær máttu gista þar. Hann færði nú í burt baggann, en þær bölvuðu Atla sárt fyrir hrekkann og kvaðust skyldi launa honum. Böðvar brosti að orðum þeirra og sagði þær skyldu ekki glettast við Atla. (JS 629 4to, ff. 239r–v) (threw it down in the doorway to the kitchen, and the women who tended the fires were in that room. Then Atli came to speak with Böðvar and told him about the slaying of the brothers. Böðvar said: ‘now the king will find you, when he hears about this’. Atli said that was certain. A long time passed now, until it was evening, before the absence of the fire women was noticed. Böðvar then went out and looked for them. And when he came to the kitchen, he saw that the door was completely blocked, so that they had to remain inside. He took the load away, and they cursed

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Atli bitterly for his prank and said that they would repay him. Böðvar smiled at these words and said they should not mess around with Atli.)

The eldaskáli is here clearly represented as a female space. When the doors are blocked up it is specifically the eldakonur and nobody else who end up trapped inside and are subsequently missed. The trick played by Atli, the victims of which we must remember are not the same women who rebuked him when he was a child/adolescent, symbolically reverses the negative character traits with which he was previously associated. The gluttony and drain on resources of having a layabout in the kitchen is contrasted with the excessive provision of food: the slabs of whale meat are so abundant that they create a solid barrier between the feminine zone of the eldaskáli and the masculine realm beyond. There is no risk whatsoever of slippage any more. In the final lines of Atla saga Ótryggssonar, we are told that Böðvar (Atli’s uncle) ‘átti son er Skelfungur hét. Hann var faðir Þórólfs, er kemur fram í Ármanns sögu’ (‘had a son named Skelfungur. He was the father of Þórólfur, who appears in Ármanns saga’) (JS 629 4to, f. 243v). This brief reference leads us neatly to a complex of texts which feature yet another incarnation of the fireside layabout, albeit in this case with a quite particular spin. The Þórólfur Skelfungsson referred to is actually only a minor character in a younger version of the saga. In the older version, however, an interesting portrait, as regards our purpose here, is provided. Ármanns saga ok Þorsteins gala tells the story of a farmer’s son (Þorsteinn) from Iceland, who is forced to confront the cave-dwelling Ármann after his family’s sheep go missing. Þorsteinn ingratiates himself with Ármann, who then helps Þorsteinn find and defeat the real culprits behind the stolen livestock, three troll sisters. After this initial adventure Þorsteinn returns home, but it is not long before his jealous brothers sell him into slavery to a Norwegian merchant. The Norwegian merchant in turn sends Þorsteinn to his sister, the Queen of Dalir, in Bjarmaland. She sets Þorsteinn three tasks which he must accomplish if he wishes to avoid a summary execution and become a free man again. Þorsteinn successfully performs the three tasks with Ármann’s help (or more accurately, Ármann performs the three tasks for Þorsteinn), and the saga ends with a double marriage and a return to Iceland. This version of the saga is first recorded in AM 551 d α 4to, apparently composed by Jón Þorláksson (1643–1712), the syslumaður (approx. sheriff) in Múlasýsla, on the basis of some rímur. The rímur in question are those composed by Jón Guðmundsson lærði (1574–1658) and preserved in AM 128 8vo. The prose version discussed here should not be confused with the

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aforementioned later version of the story, Ármanns saga in yngri, which appears to have been written at the end of the eighteenth century and in the first twelve chapters tells the story of Ármann’s early life in Gandvík and Norway before arriving in Iceland as well as of various interventions which Ármann makes in the life of the inhabitants of the district where he settles prior to meeting Þorsteinn. At the start of the older version of the saga we are told of Þorsteinn that: hann var öðrum mönnum miklu stærri ok þrekligri, drungaligr ok digr, óhýr ok þumbsligr, ok ekki mælti hann jafnaðarliga við aðra menn, þó þess væri á leit farit. Hann lagðist strax á unga aldri í eldaskála ok hirti hvorki um sið né sóma æðri manna. Alltjafnt var hann reiðubúinn at fremja soðningar ok kokkamennsku, þá við þurfti, ok var hann því tamr á eldastörf. Ekki höfðu menn álit á honum, því flestir héldu hann aulamenni mikit ok kváðu, at engi karlmennska mundi í honum vera. Varð hann þó samt mörgum nafnkunnigr af kokkstéttinni, sem hann dagliga iðkaði43 (he was much larger and stronger than other men, dour and stout, glum and moping, and he did not often speak with other men, though the opportunity presented itself. From a young age he lay about in the fire-hall and cared neither for the habits nor distinction of more distinguished men. Nevertheless he was quite prepared to carry out the cooking of stews or culinary feats, when the need arose, and thus he was accustomed to ‘slaving over a hot stove’. People did not have a high opinion of him, and most thought he was a hopeless simpleton and said that no manly deeds could be expected from him. He became, however, renowned among the kitchen-class, whose domain he daily frequented)

The description goes on to describe Þorsteinn’s unkempt appearance and unorthodox garb, but we may note that in spite of these familiar characteristics associated with a kolbítr, Þorsteinn, unlike Illugi, Ambáles, and Atli, is neither actively disruptive nor abusive, but rather a productive and capable addition to the kitchen (if not to more refined society). Through the voice of the people, the saga reveals the contempt in which Þorsteinn is held due to his unorthodox behaviour, but it is by no means clear whether we the audience are supposed to accept this interpretation. Events might suggest otherwise, as when, for example, his brothers, who seem more traditionally heroic, prove utterly useless when it comes to 43 Guðni Jónsson, Íslendingasögur, XII, p. 381.

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finding the sheep which have been stolen from the family’s farm, whereas Þorsteinn’s idiosyncratic approach – he cleans out Ármann’s filthy cave and thus gains his friendship and information on the whereabouts of the abducted livestock – is successful. This must surely be one of very few examples in a saga where success on a mission is ensured thanks to the application of cleaning skills by a house-trained individual. As if to highlight that the kitchen can be a place with its own set of challenges, later on in the saga we witness a bizarre tableau of a childlike figure contending with a group of formidable women and using an act of meat-roasting to give himself an upper hand. This tableau is the third of the challenges that Þorsteinn is set by the Queen of Dalir and involves retrieving a magic golden chessboard from three monstrous hafmeyjar (approx. mermaids) who live at the bottom of the ocean. Ármann, summoned by Þorsteinn, insists on carrying out the task himself as ‘hana er öllum ómöguligt at vinna eða leysa, því ek hygg, at engi viti nokkura vissa braut at fara í undurdjúp’ (‘it [the task] is completely impossible to achieve or complete, since I think that nobody knows a safe way to travel down to the depths’). 44 Ármann does know a way, however, and upon arrival at the mermaids’ abode he is mistaken for a small child (ungbarn), presumably on account of their colossal size alongside him. Maternal instinct kicks in and when Ármann begins to wail, they try to placate their new infant by entertaining him with the self-playing chessboard. Later, they all fall asleep and Ármann must figure out a way to escape: ok hljóp í burt frá þeim ok í hús þat, er þær höfðu eldagerð inni. Þar hangdi uppi yfir eldinum fleskistykki stórt. Felldi barnit þat ofan í eldinn, svo þegar kviknaði bál mikit […] hér næst hafði hann sik á burt sem hraðast með taflit góða. En systr vakna nú at svefni sínum […] Þær æða með gráti ok harmi miklum fram í eldhúsit, ok var þat allt logandi. Jókst þá enn meiri sorg fyrir þeim, svo náliga myndu þær út af springa, ok kváðu, at barnit hefði brennt sik þar.45 (and ran away from them and into that room where they kept a fire going. A large piece of pork was hanging there over the fire. The child made it fall into the fire, so that the flames immediately burned much more brightly […] then he made his escape with the fine chessboard as quickly as possible. And the sisters now woke up from their sleep […] they hurry, 44 Ibid., p. 406. 45 Ibid., p. 408.

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weeping and wailing excessively, into the kitchen, and everything was on fire. Their grief was then redoubled, so that it nearly overwhelmed them, and they said that the child had burned there)

This unparalleled scene can be interpreted in a number of ways, but in essence it is a great feat dressed up in the garb of a domestic drama. Using the ham to trick the oversized mermaids into believing that their baby has been cooked can certainly be seen in a humorous light, but it may also be the case that the mock heroic sheen interrogates the dilemma of the coddled youth and his escape from the fireside (along with the symbolic death of the child). Ármann, like Þorsteinn, engages in an act of cooking by the fireside, and yet both too go beyond the domestic realm with its ignoble associations and coddling influences. In the foregoing, we have seen how there is a wide array of apparently dysfunctional behaviour exhibited by youths at the fireside in medieval sources. Such comportment may be linked to growing pains and shifting family dynamics: child to adult, mother’s ward to father’s protégé, powerless dependent to independent power. The youths may be presented as incapable or intransigent, underdeveloped or overdeveloped, but in all cases as incongruent with their surroundings (at least as regards normative expectations). The fireside can be associated with a number of disagreeable elements: dirt; idleness; gluttony; lechery; lower-class work; and leisure. The introductory discussion did not lay bare the workings of all of these aspects, but merely gave an outline of the terrain which can be explored. Following on from the Reformation these representations continue to be present, but the new narratives which come to light take on specific arrangements of this material. For example, it seems fairly clear that in all of the later examples discussed, the fireside where the hero lays is also the kitchen, and this in turn is a female-dominated zone. The troublesome youth is not treated as feminine, however, due to his residing in said zone: rather he is generally antagonistic to the women in the kitchen area (and thus contrasts with earlier wayward youths who clash with their fathers but are favoured by their mothers). The new arrangement may be influenced by changes in real living arrangements on Icelandic farms, but they may also be a sign of the ongoing penetration of aristocratic literary models from mainland Europe (Þiðreks saga, Vilmundar saga viðutan, and later the Gesta Danorum in the sixteenth-century editions and translation): such texts tend to show separate kitchen areas and imbue them with stark class and gender dynamics. One may ultimately ask how significant these scenes of youths hanging around by the fire are, particularly since they are evoked at the start of

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their respective narratives, often only to be contradicted by the hero’s rise to prominence hot on their heels. The four post-medieval texts show the potential for lingering effects in a variety of ways: Illugi’s name and reputation spring from his early experiences, Ambáles subverts them to disguise his grand act of vengeance, Atli returns to the eldaskáli later in life as if with a score to settle and Ármann reenacts Þorsteinn’s drama, albeit this time as the climax of a series of life-threatening challenges. Much more could be said about each of these texts and the discussion supplemented with further examples taken from the wealth of unedited and untranslated post-medieval Icelandic narratives, but this brief survey shows how youthful antics in the kitchen form part of an evolving tradition of formative experiences for the characters in question.

Bibliography Primary Sources Bertelsen, Henrik, ed., Þiðriks saga af Bern, 2 vols., STUAGNL 34 (Copenhagen: S.L. Møller, 1905). Einar Ól. Sveinsson, ed., Vatnsdœla saga, Hallfreðar saga, Kormáks saga, Hrómundar þáttr halta, Hrafns þáttr Guðrúnarsonar, Íslenzk fornrit 8 (Reykjavík: Hið ís­lenzka fornritafélag, 1939). Eiríkur Jónsson and Finnur Jónsson, eds., Hauksbók, efter de Arnamagnæanske håndskrifter no. 371, 544 og 675 4o samt forskellige papirshåndskrifter (Copenhagen: Thiele, 1892–1896). Faulkes, Anthony, ed., Two Icelandic Stories: Hreiðars þáttr, Orms þáttr (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1978). Friis-Jensen, Karsten, ed., and Peter Fisher, transl., Saxo Grammaticus: Gesta Danorum, 2 vols., Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). Guðni Jónsson, ed., Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Bandamanna saga, Odds þáttr Ófeigssonar, Íslenzk fornrit 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936). Guðni Jónsson, ed., Íslendinga sögur, 12 vols (Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1953). Hermann Pálsson, ed., Ambáles rímur eftir Pál Bjarnason, Rit Rímnafélagsins 5 (Reykjavík: Rímnafélagið, 1952). Hughes, Shaun F.D., transl., ‘The Saga of Án Bow-Bender’, in A Book of Medieval Outlaws: Ten Tales in Modern English, ed. by Thomas H. Ohlgren (Thrupp, Gloucestershire: Sutton Publishing, 2000), pp. 187–215. Jón Helgason, ed., Ármanns rímur eftir Jón Guðmundsson lærða (1637) og Ármanns þáttur eftir Jón Þorláksson, Íslenzk rit síðari alda 1 (Copenhagen: S.L. Möller, 1948).

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Jónas Kristjánsson, ed., Eyfirðinga sǫgur, Íslenzk fornrit 9 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1956). Jónas Kristjánsson and Vésteinn Ólason, eds., Eddukvæði, 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2014). Loth, Agnete, ed., Late Medieval Icelandic Romances II: Saulus saga ok Nikanors, Sigurðar saga þögla, Editiones Arnamagnæanæ, Series B, vol. 21 (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1963). Loth, Agnete, ed., Late Medieval Icelandic Romances IV: Vilhjálms saga sjóðs, Vilmundar saga viðutan, Editiones Arnamagnæanæ, Series B, vol. 23 (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1964). Rafn, Carl Christian, ed., Fornaldar sögur Nordrlanda, 3 vols. (Copenhagen: Popps, 1829–1830). Uecker, Heiko, ed., Der nordische Hamlet, Texte und Untersuchungen zur Germanistik und Skandinavistik 56 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2005).

Secondary Sources Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Troublesome Children in the Sagas of Icelanders’, Saga-Book, 27 (2003), pp. 5–24. Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ‘En verden skabes. En mand bliver til’, in Agneta Ney, Ármann Jakobsson, and Annette Lassen, eds., Fornaldarsagaerne: Myter og virkelighed (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 2009), pp. 245–254. Bek-Pedersen, Karen, The Norns in Old Norse Mythology (Edinburgh: Dunedin, 2011). Björn K. Þórólfsson, Rímur fyrir 1600, Safn Fræðafjelagsins 9 (Copenhagen: Möller, 1934). Boberg, Inger M., Motif-Index of Early Icelandic Literature, Bibliotheca Arnamagnæana XXVII (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1966). Clover, Carol, ‘Regardless of Sex: Men, Women and Power in Early Northern Europe’, Representations, 44 (1993), pp. 363–387. Douglas, Mary, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (New York: Routledge, [1966] 2002). Evans, Gareth Lloyd, Men and Masculinities in the Sagas of Icelanders (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019). Felce, Ian, ‘In Search of Amlóða saga: The Saga of Hamlet the Icelander’, in Judy Quinn and Adele Cipolla, eds., Studies in the Transmission and Reception of Old Norse Literature: The Hyperborean Muse in European Culture (Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), pp. 101–122. Finnur Sigmundsson, Rímnatal, 2 vols. (Reykjavík: Rímnafélagið, 1966). Gollancz, Israel, Hamlet in Iceland (London: David Nutt, 1898).

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Jochens, Jenny, Women in Old Norse Society (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998). Larrington, Carolyne, ‘Awkward Adolescents: Male Maturation in Norse Literature’ in Shannon Lewis Simpson, ed., Youth and Age in the Medieval North, The Northern World 42 (Brill: Leiden, 2008), pp. 152–166. Mitchell, Stephen A., Heroic Sagas and Ballads (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991). Simek, Rudolf and Hermann Pálsson, Lexikon der altnordischen Literatur (Stuttgart: Alfred Kröner Verlag, 2007).

About the Author Philip Lavender is a researcher at the Department of Literature, History of Ideas and Religion at the University of Gothenburg, and author of Long Lives of Short Sagas: The Irrepressibility of Narrative and the Case of Illuga saga Gríðarfóstra. His research focuses on legendary sagas and Icelandic romances, studying reception, gender, forgery, futures, and ecocritical perspectives.

9. Consumption and Intoxication in an Old Norse Legendary Saga Andrew McGillivray

Abstract The legendary Völsunga saga presents a vivid case study on the potential dangers of food, drink, and feasting in medieval Icelandic textuality, specifically how evil and magic might be brought together and deployed in consumable form. The saga’s representation of witchcraft spotlights a pattern of narrative misogyny, absolving male heroes from taking responsibility for their actions while drawing attention to female witches who most often administer the intoxicating substances. This chapter interrogates manipulation of central protagonists in the saga, heroes and heroines who ingest poisons, potions, and edibles, and their misfortunes. Audiences are continually drawn to this narrative for entertainment, due in no small part to the interlacing of deceit and death with the ritual of feasting. Keywords: legendary sagas, magic, intoxication, misogyny, heroism, death

You shall not tolerate a sorceress. Exodus 22:17

Consumption and intoxication are decisive narrative elements in the Old Norse-Icelandic legendary Völsunga saga. Instances of consumption and intoxication are used by the saga author to drive the action and also to provide the opportunity for the audience to sympathise with protagonists even when these characters appear to make poor decisions. In the saga, intoxicating substances are used by some characters to manipulate the actions of others who, while intoxicated, act out of their minds. Served as drink and as food, the poisons, potions, and edible substances are consumed

Gyönki, V. and A. Maraschi (eds.), Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789462988217_ch09

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both knowingly and unknowingly. The origins of the intoxicants in the saga are primarily with one sorceress, Grímhildr, the wife of Gjúki, and her sons, Gunnarr and Högni. An early example in the saga that is beneficial to interpret alongside the actions of the Gjúkungar is the scene of Sinfjötli’s death; he is killed by his stepmother, Borghildr, who poisons him to avenge the death of her brother, whom Sinfjötli had killed. Borghildr, Grímhildr, and the Gjúkung boys, Gunnarr and Högni, act in ways that are instrumental for the progession of the narrative. Once Sinfjötli is killed by poison the path is clear for Sigurðr, the saga’s central hero, to enter the narrative. The Gjúkungar then act as they do so that they can eliminate Sigurðr and secure his wealth; after Sigurðr is dead, a death initiated by the consumption of an intoxicating potion and ultimately the result of an intoxicating edible, the Gjúkungar find Guðrún a new husband, Atli Buðlason. A magic and intoxicating potion is then used again by the Gjúkungar, this time to convince Guðrún to follow their direction to marry Atli. All of these instances require the use of some kind of substance, be it poison, potion, or edible, for that is the only way to explain why certain characters act as they do; they are affected by the substances they have consumed. I therefore approach this legendary saga as a narrative that can tell us something about how its medieval audience might have viewed consumption and intoxication. The analysis utilizes a limited synchronic approach to discern the role magic plays in the instances of consumption and intoxication in this particular narrative.1 References to comparative material are strictly limited so that as much as possible can be uncovered about how consumption and intoxication work as applications of magic within this saga. The limited scope thus allows for a focused evaluation about how an audience might have reacted to this specific work. Furthermore, magic is a very complicated subject, so by focusing on a single text something meaningful might be uncovered without resorting to what would possibly become a discussion that might expand the subject beyond the present scope.2 Analysing the use of intoxicating consumption in the saga also provides the opportunity to interpret how audiences might have judged the characters who employ the magic, as well as those who are affected by it.3 In Völsunga 1 Clive Tolley writes the following: ‘a literary, synchronic approach looks at how magic works within any particular narrative, considering relationships with other narratives and how contemporary society and its concerns are reflected’. Tolley, ‘Peripheral at the Centre’, pp. 16–17. 2 For another study that takes a focused approach to the role of magic within a single saga, see Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Two Wise Women’, pp. 79–92 esp. p. 79. 3 Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘Narrative Role of Magic’, pp. 39–40; Torfi Tulinius, Matter of the North, pp. 36–38.

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saga, the sympathetic characters are those who are acted upon by evil magic; and therefore, those who use magic are the antagonists who try to foil the lives of the more sympathetic heroes and heroines. The focus here is on dramatic events that transpire among the Völsungar and the Gjúkungar, the two families whose stories are most elaborately represented in the legendary sources.4 In this saga, there are many examples of intoxicating consumption, and the present focus is confined even further to a particular selection of events. These include: Sinfjötli’s death by the poisoned ale provided by his stepmother Borghildr; Sigurðr’s drinking of the ale of forgetfulness, given to him by his future mother-in-law, Grímhildr; Grímhildr’s delivery of a similar substance to Guðrún later in the saga; and, finally, the intoxicating edible substance consumed by Guttormr Gjúkason that was made for him by his brothers Gunnarr and Högni. These are the most significant examples of intoxicating consumption; in each selected case there is the intentional use of magic or poison for the purpose of manipulation and death. These four episodes result in a character experiencing a mind-altering state, death, or both. In each case, the poison, potion, or edible is administered by one relative to another, and most often at the occasion of a feast and served by a female character. A narrative analysis of the saga which focuses on these scenes thus provides insight into the workings of two dysfunctional families, the Völsungar and the Gjúkungar, and the use of magic within the families. When versions of the Völsunga saga legend appeared in manuscripts in medieval Iceland in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries, whether among eddic poetry, in manuscripts of Snorra Edda, or manuscripts of the saga itself, the island’s inhabitants had been Christian for several hundred years. It is therefore likely that early interpreters of these interlocking stories viewed the characters responsible for administering the toxic consumables as evil and were perhaps even afraid of them, or at least disgusted by them. 4 Medieval Icelandic legendary sources include the legendary sagas ( fornaldarsögur), heroic eddic poetry, and passages from the Skáldskaparmál section of Snorra Edda. Snorra Edda and heroic eddic poetry first appear in manuscripts surviving from the late-thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. For more on the origins of Völsunga saga, which was most likely composed in Iceland in the thirteenth century and is based on the heroic eddic poems, see: Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘Origin and Development’, p. 62. For information about the earliest manuscript containing Völsunga saga, which survives from considerably later in the late-fourteenth or early-fifteenth century manuscript NKS 1824 b 4to which also contains Ragnars saga loðbrókar, see: Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Earliest Legendary Saga Manuscripts’, p. 24. It has been suggested that the NKS 1824 b 4to manuscript was possibly composed in Norway by an Icelandic scribe and that the pairing of Völsunga saga and Ragnars saga loðbrókar in the manuscript demonstrates that the two texts were read as a single text, or at least as a natural pairing. For more on this possibility, see: Larrington, ‘Romance in Old Norse’, pp. 251–252.

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The first scene analysed is the death of Sinfjötli at the hands of Borghildr. Even though Sinfjötli knows his stepmother intends to poison him to death, for he has killed her brother, he chooses to drink the poison, and he is even urged to do so by his drunk father, Sigmundr, who has been drinking both poisoned and unpoisoned ale steadily at the funeral feast for Borghildr’s brother. What follows the analysis of this scene is a more in-depth exploration of the covert use of magic by the Gjúkungar, and specifically the acts made by Grímhildr, the family’s matriarch. This fierce queen uses magic more than once to influence the course of events; first to secure a husband for her daughter and later to convince her daughter to marry again. Gunnarr and Högni follow closely in their mother’s footsteps, and they first prepare and then administer an intoxicating edible to their brother, Guttormr, used to coerce him to perform perhaps the most tragic deed in the saga, the murder of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani. Consumption thus leads to many misfortunes, yet audiences are continually drawn to this narrative for entertainment, due in no small part to the deceit that is interlaced with the ritual of feasting. When the saga was first read to medieval audiences, listeners might also have wondered why somewhat marginal female characters are responsible for so many of the misfortunes that befall the sympathetic leading characters. At the conclusion, I will consider the potential role of narrative misogyny in the depiction of the feminine application of poison and magic offered by the saga.

Death by Poison In Chapter 10 of Völsunga saga there is a funeral feast held in honour of Borghildr’s unnamed brother who has been killed by Sinfjötli. Borghildr, Sigmundr’s wife, serves beverages to her husband and her stepson at the feast, and even though Sigmundr can withstand poison both internally and externally, his son Sinfjötli does not have the same tolerance: ‘Sigmundr was so hardy that he could take poison and yet come to no harm. But though Sinfjotli was able to stand outward contact with poison, he could neither eat nor drink it’ (Sigmundr var sva mikill fyrir ser, at hann matte eta eitr, sva at hann skadade ecki, enn Sinfiotla hlydde þat, at eitr kęmi utan a hann, en eigi hlyddi honum at eta þat ne drecka).5 Though poison is not presented as an application of magic in this scene, the pattern of an archetypal queen using consumption and intoxication as a weapon is repeated later by Grímhildr. 5 Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, p. 10; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, p. 15.

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The evil stepmother (Borghildr) or mother-in-law (Grímhildr) controls the course of events by the use of a doctored drink, and by doing so causes the death of the hero; death comes quickly for Sinfjötli, whereas it comes slowly for Sigurðr. Borghildr’s quest for revenge is a duty she is bound to perform within the context of the saga, wherein familial loyalty is greater than loyalty to one’s spouse.6 Furthermore, the fact that Sinfjötli is more susceptible to the effects of poison than his father, Sigmundr, foreshadows the possibility that Sigurðr, even though he is able to kill a dragon, will be vulnerable to unexpected treachery within his extended family. As half-brothers sharing the same father, Sigurðr and Sinfjötli are the same number of generations removed from Óðinn, a paranormal god and the original ancestor of the Völsung line, and thus are more human and less paranormal.7 At the first instance, when Borghildr serves Sinfjötli the tainted ale, he sees that there is something in it, and his father, Sigmundr, takes the drink from him, downing it on his behalf. The second time Borghildr serves the drink to Sinfjötli he again notices that there is something in it, and Sigmundr drains it once again. Although Sigmundr has already paid his wife compensation for the loss of her brother and he drinks the poisoned ale on behalf of his son, Borghildr does not stop her attempts to take Sinfjötli’s life. Sigmundr drinks a lot of ale at the feast, including the two horns of poisoned ale meant for his son. By the time Borghildr brings the third round of poisoned ale to Sinfjötli, Sigmundr is drunk: ‘The king was very drunk at the time, and that is why he spoke as he did’ (Þa var konungr druckinn miok, ok þvi sagde hann sva).8 Taking the ale, Sinfjötli notices for the third time that there is something in it, but Borghildr bids him to drink it if he will live up to the 6 Manuel Aguirre highlights the three-fold pattern of Borghildr’s presentation of the drink to Sinfjötli, arguing that ‘Sinfjötli must drink, he must die; no one does anything because no one can – fate is pulling all the strings’. Aguirre, ‘Narrative Composition’, p. 8. Counter to this is an interpretation that Sigmundr’s drunkenness leads to his son’s death: ‘Sigmundr’s intoxication is specified as the reason he lets his son drink poison’. Torfi Tulinius, Matter of the North, p. 147. If Sigmundr had not become drunk, then Sinfjötli may not have died, thus removing fate as the primary cause of Sinfjötli’s death. It is also possible that Sinfjötli chooses to die, which would not be surprising, for in legends all great heroes die young. 7 Judy Quinn writes the following: ‘the motif of poison is expressive of another aspect of the diminution of superhuman powers down the generations, with Óðinn’s great-grandson able to withstand poison whether it was ingested or not, whereas a generation further on, Sinfjötli only had external resistance to it’. Quinn, ‘Realisation of Mythological Design’, p. 125. Based on line of descent, Sigmundr is actually the son of Óðinn’s great-grandson (Óðinn – Sigi – Rerirr – Völsungr – Sigmundr – sons of Sigmundr), though Óðinn is implicated in the paternity of Völsungr; Hrimnir’s daughter, one of Óðinn’s wish-maidens or valkyries, delivers an apple to the unnamed wife of Rerirr who has had difficulty conceiving; she then conceives Völsungr. 8 Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, p. 18; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, p. 25.

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name of his grandfather, Völsungr. A drunken – and poisoned – Sigmundr encourages his son to drink this time: ‘Strain it through your moustache, my son’ (Lat graun sia, sonr).9 Sinfjötli drinks the poison and promptly dies. Even though they know the poisoned ale is deadly, Sigmundr is too drunk to make a good judgement call, and Sinfjötli has had his honour challenged by Borghildr, which entices him to drink the ale down. Katherine Morris argues that Sinf jötli ‘knows that it has been poisoned, but because she questions his courage he drinks it anyway and dies’.10 This scene marks the end of Sinfjötli’s life, a short life fitting for a hero, and makes way for the saga’s more prominent hero to be born. Because of this murder (or suicide, if we interpret Sinfjötli’s choice of death as a path to the preservation of his honour and means of securing his legacy as a young, dead hero), Sigmundr banishes Borghildr from his kingdom and then finds a new wife, Hjördís, the daughter of King Eylimi. Hjördís will be the mother of Sigurðr Fáfnisbáni, the great hero of the saga who is born after Sigmundr dies in battle. The character and actions of Borghildr anticipate those of Grímhildr later in the saga; this initial example of the toxic consumption of a poison anticipates the intoxicating consumption of magic potions.

Mind-Altering Potions Grímhildr is the primary sorceress in Völsunga saga. Throughout the scenes in the saga in which she appears she is depicted as manipulative and evilintentioned, and her actions interfere in the lives of other characters. She is able to handily manipulate others precisely because she has knowledge of the magical arts and is able to apply them to her surroundings. Writing about sorcery in the medieval North, Stephen Mitchell states that ‘tied to this image of magic as a special kind of learning is the term fjǫlkyngi “manifold knowledge”’.11 Mitchell continues, arguing that ‘although magic, whether connected with local saints’ cults or a legacy of pagan folk religion, might in certain circumstances be acceptable, there were also magical practices that were definitely not, and the perception of such unacceptable practices was conveniently summarized under the notion of “witchcraft” (i.e. trolldómr, fjǫlkyngi, fordæða, forneskja, fyrnska, etc.)’.12 On the slippery terminology 9 Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, p. 18; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, p. 25. 10 Morris, Sorceress or Witch, p. 67. 11 Mitchell, Witchcraft and Magic, p. 46. 12 Ibid., pp. 50–51.

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for witchcraft and sorcery in medieval Icelandic sources, Ármann Jakobsson stresses that ‘the vocabulary of paranormal otherness is far from unified or simple in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Iceland’, and that in reference to the words ‘magic’, ‘sorcery’, and ‘witchcraft’, he contends that ‘none of these words are exact parallels for the terms describing the harnessing of the paranormal in the sagas, such as “fjǫlkynngi”, “forneskja”, “galdrar”, and “trollskapr”, all of which bear connotations worthy of deeper exploration’.13 This uncertainty in terminology is not unwelcome, however, because it helps to separate the terms from the acts and patterns in the narratives, and requires interpreters to analyse the paranormal carefully within the context of each narrative.14 Grímhildr is skilled in magic and her influence over the course of events in Völsunga saga is more prominent than any other human character. In fact, her influence is second only to the actions of the Æsir, who in chapter fourteen initiate Andvari’s curse which haunts the families of Hreiðmarr, the Völsungar, and eventually the Gjúkungar. Two mind-altering magic potions are served in Völsunga saga. The first is the drink of forgetfulness served to Sigurðr by Grímhildr at a feast and the second is the coercive potion Grímhildr administers to Guðrún before her widowed daughter agrees to marry Atli Buðlason, her second of three husbands. For an audience who sympathizes with the hero Sigurðr, the use of the intoxicating substance on him without his knowledge places Grímhildr firmly in the role of the antagonist. Grímhildr works against the three characters whom the audience can most naturally relate to – the three lovers caught in a deadly love triangle: Brynhildr (who loses the man she loves); Sigurðr (who loses everything, including his life); and Guðrún (who loses her husband and all of her children).15 Sigurðr abandons Brynhildr, the woman he has pledged his love to, because of external forces that are 13 Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You, p. 63; cf. Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘Narrative Role of Magic’, p. 44; cf. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse, pp. 47–49; cf. Dillmann, Les magiciens, pp. 194–198, 205–208. 14 Morris likewise contends that ‘the Old Norse nomenclature for the witch was multifarious, revealing the importance of this figure in Icelandic literature. Not only such nouns as vǫlva, seiðkona, and galdrakona defined the sorceress or seeress but also other descriptive words were used. Fjölkunnig “skilled in magic” was an adjective for such women’. Morris, Sorceress or Witch, p. 48. 15 This love triangle could be interpreted as a quadrangle, though for the present analysis it is more appropriate to separate the potential fourth member, Gunnarr Gjúkason, from the group of three who are manipulated by intoxicating substances. Gunnarr himself administers an intoxicating edible to his brother Guttormr, situating him as an active manipulator who employs intoxicating consumption to manipulate others. On the dynamics of this love quadrangle, see: Heinrichs, Annat er várt eðli, pp. 111–113.

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out of his control (the loss of his memory). The use of magic in this instance allows the audience to continue to sympathize with the hero even after he marries Guðrún and thus betrays Brynhildr. As a narrative device, the ale of forgetfulness (or, as Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir terms it, ‘the potion of oblivion’) functions as a helpful excuse for the hero, who leaves a woman to whom he has made promises.16 As Richard Kieckhefer argues is the case for ‘the more subtle and skillfully crafted romances’, perhaps this use of magic represents the ‘inward states of mind and soul, which may be just as mysterious as any magic, and the magical motifs function as ploys for developing the inner lives of the characters’.17 If Kieckhefer’s argument is considered, then the use of magic simply enables the hero to do as he wishes, in this case leaving one woman for another because of something he drank. Because the narrative frames this action within the motif of a magic potion that causes the hero to lose his memory, he cannot be held accountable for his actions and thus continues to evoke the audience’s sympathy. Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir writes that: By making the hero the victim of a magic spell, the author absolves him from responsibility and the audience does not blame him for not behaving in a proper moral fashion; thus it can be said that fjǫlkynngi can be a device used by the author to keep the audience’s sympathy where he wants it. In other words, he uses it to control the audience’s reaction; the reader or hearer of the story can be relied upon not to think that Sigurðr has willingly betrayed Brynhildr even though he now loves another woman.18

In this narrative, then, Sigurðr is portrayed as an innocent adulterer, and Guðrún, the woman whom he marries, is not regarded negatively as the woman who stole a man for herself.19 Even Brynhildr, the character who arguably acts most cold heartedly in the saga, can be absolved of her drastic reaction to these events. Under the rules of the narrative that activates the motif of the magic potion, Grímhildr is fully responsible for Sigurðr’s change 16 Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘Narrative Role of Magic’, p. 42. 17 Kieckhefer, Magic in the Middle Ages, p. 109. 18 Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘Narrative Role of Magic’, p. 48. 19 Guðrún does act cruelly toward Brynhildr when the two women bathe together in the Rhine river after Brynhildr and Gunnarr are married; Guðrún shows Brynhildr ‘Andvari’s gift’ (Andvaranaut) that Sigurðr originally gave to Brynhildr along wth his promise to love her, but which he subsequently took from her when they slept in the same bed, when Sigurðr was deceivingly in the shape of Gunnarr. As Sigurðr’s wife, Guðrún now wears the ring, which, ironically, is cursed.

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in affection, and Brynhildr, Sigurðr, and Guðrún are all victims of the magic potion. Ultimately, they are all victims of Grímhildr, and their free will has been suspended by the author’s crafty use of magic in the narrative.20 Grímhildr appears first in Völsunga saga in chapter 26, when the Gjúkungar are introduced. After Gjúki, his sons Gunnarr, Högni, and Guttormr, and his daughter Guðrún are all introduced, it is said that ‘Gjuki’s wife was Grimhild, a sorceress’ (Giuki atte Grimhillde ena fiolkungu), and that ‘Grimhildr had an evil disposition’ (Grimhilldr var grimhugud kona).21 From her initial introduction, the audience is not encouraged to sympathise with Grímhildr; she is said to be knowledgeable in magic and have an evil disposition.22 In chapter 28 the most significant action performed by a human character in the saga occurs—Grímhildr inevitably intervenes and administers the magic potion to Sigurðr. This act leads to everything that follows: One evening as they sat drinking, the queen got up, went to Sigurd and addressing him said: ‘We are delighted that you are here. We wish to give you all that’s good. Take this horn and drink.’ He took it and drank it off. ‘King Gjuki shall be your father and I your mother,’ she said, ‘and Gunnar and Hogni, and all who take the oaths, shall be your brothers, then none will be found to equal you.’ Sigurd took this well, and with that drink he lost all memory of Brynhild. He stayed there for a time. Eitt kvelld, er þeir satu vid dryck, ris drottningh upp ok geck fyrir Sigurd ok kvadde hann ok męllte: ‘Faugnudr er oss a þinne hervist, ok allt gott vilium ver til ydar leggia. Tak her vid horne ok dreck.’ Hann tok vid ok drack af. Hun męllti: ‘Þinn fadir skal vera Giuki konungr, enn ek modir, brędr þinir Gunnar ok Haugne ok aller, er eida vinnid, ok munu þa eigi yþrir iafninghiar fazt.’ Sigurdr tok þvi vel, ok vid þann dryck munde hann ecke til Brynhilldar. Hann dvaldizt þar um hrid.23 20 Michelle Sweeney argues that such use of magic in a narrative allows the author ‘to precipitate a discussion concerning free will and fate’. Sweeney, Magic in Medieval Romance, p. 48. Such precipitation is accomplished in this saga to a high degree. 21 Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, p. 44; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, pp. 60–61. 22 As Brynhildr approaches death, she conveys her impression of Grímhildr as she speaks to Gunnarr: ‘Now I shall tell you in brief what is going to happen: On the advice of that sorceress Grimhild, you and Gudrun will soon be reconciled’ (Nu man ek segia þer litla stund þat, er eptir mun ganga. Sęttaz munu þid Gudrun bratt med radum Grimhilldar ennar fiolkungu). Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, p. 60; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, p. 83. Brynhildr recongizes the control Grímhildr has over the course of events in the lives of the Gjúkungar. 23 Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, p. 47; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, pp. 64–65.

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Grímhildr also makes arrangements with her husband Gjúki to marry their daughter Guðrún to Sigurðr. Morris contends that ‘since marriage was perceived as an important aspect of life in medieval Iceland, any drink that could make a man change his mind could be viewed as a form of hostile magic’.24 Sigurðr has indeed changed his mind about his intention to marry Brynhildr, and everything has worked according to Grímhildr’s plan. The hero is now set to marry Guðrún, having forgotten his pledge to Brynhildr.25 Shortly after Sigurðr drains his ale and forgets his vows to Brynhildr, Guðrún serves drink to those who are gathered at the feast; Sigurðr inevitably notices her and they wed shortly thereafter.26 Grímhildr then uses Sigurðr to trick Brynhildr into marrying Gunnarr, enacting a double betrayal of Sigurðr to Brynhildr, for Gunnarr is not up to the challenge of crossing the wall of flames that encircles Brynhildr. Sigurðr shifts into Gunnarr’s shape, crosses the flames, and thus convinces Brynhildr to marry Gunnarr. Everyone subsequently convenes for the wedding feast at Gjúki’s palace, with Gunnarr and Sigurðr having shifted back to their own shapes. During this feast Sigurðr remembers his vows to Brynhildr, but he tells no one: ‘And when it was over, Sigurd remembered all his vows to Brynhild, but he gave no sign. Brynhild and Gunnar sat enjoying themselves and drank good wine’ (Ok er lokit er þessi veizlu, minir Sigurd allra eida vid Brynhilldi, ok letr þo vera kyrth. Brynhilldr ok Gunnar satu vid skemtan ok drucku gotth vin).27 Grímhildr’s actions are so very important, as they cause Sigurðr and his great wealth to become incorporated into the Gjúkung family. If Grímhildr’s administration of the potion is not the crux of the saga, it is second only to the death of the hero, Sigurðr, which is also a result of Grímhildr’s intervention. Before looking closely at Sigurðr’s death, the second application of a magic potion must be analysed.

24 Morris, Sorceress or Witch, pp. 86–87. 25 Whereas the motif of magic is emphasized in this essay, Andvari’s curse has determined that anyone who possesses the Otr’s ransom is ill-fated. An interpretation that emphasizes the role of the curse may challenge the significance of the role of the magic employed by Grímhildr, but it also might explain why Sigurðr is brought into the company of the Gjúkungar, who must dispossess Sigurðr of his gold and his life. The new owners of the hoard are likewise cursed once they kill Sigurðr and become the possessors of the Otr’s ransom. After their deaths this becomes the legendary Niflung gold, commonly known as the ‘Rhine gold’. For more on this deadly chain reaction, see: McGillivray, ‘The Best Kept Secret’, pp. 368–371. 26 Sigurðr then gives Guðrún a piece of Fáfnir’s heart to eat. She becomes grimmer and wiser as a result (yet another example of the intoxicating effects of consumption). Together, they have a son named Sigmundr. 27 Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, p. 50; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, p. 69.

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The final administration of a magic potion in the saga is Grímhildr’s dosing of Guðrún, done in order to make Guðrún forget her anger and forgive her brothers for killing her husband, Sigurðr. This forgiveness prepares her to fulfill her family’s wish that she marry Atli Buðlason, a marriage that she does not wish to enter, and for good reason. Guðrún agrees to this marriage, however, because of her intoxicating consumption of Grímhildr’s potion. After Sigurðr is killed, Guðrún runs away from her family and she is missing for several years. Grímhildr eventually learns about Guðrún’s location and she, her sons, and many warriors travel to where she has settled. They attempt to compensate her for the death of her husband and coerce her into a second marriage. When they arrive, Guðrún does not trust her family. Grímhildr must remedy this so that her daughter will be ready to marry again: Then Grimhild brought her a doctored drink, and she had to take it and afterwards she had no memory of any of her wrongs. That drink was mixed with the power of the earth, with the sea and her son’s blood. In the horn characters of all kinds were engraved and reddened with blood. Siþan ferde Grimhilldr henne meinsamligan dryck, ok vard hun vid at taka ok munde siþan einghar sakar. Sa dryckr var blandinn med iardar maghne ok sę ok dreyra sonar hennar, ok i þvi hornne voru ristnir hverskyns stafir ok rodner med blode.28

Magic is used to coerce Guðrún into doing something that she does not want to do. As a result of her consumption of the magic potion her grievances with her family are forgotten. The substance she was made to drink resembles the one served to Sigurðr earlier in the saga. Guðrún is ultimately persuaded to marry Atli Buðlason, although she protests, but to no avail. Grímhildr’s words hold just as much power over Guðrún as her knowledge of the magic arts, and Guðrún and her family travel to Atli’s court where a feast is prepared to welcome them. Grímhildr’s manipulative actions destroy her family, even though she intends to strengthen her family’s power, first by bringing Sigurðr (and his wealth) into the Gjúkung clan through marriage, then by her subsequent pairing of the shield-maiden Brynhildr with Gunnarr, and finally with her plan to marry Guðrún to Atli Buðlason. All of these alliances by marriage are disastrous for the Gjúkungar. 28 Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, pp. 62–63; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, p. 87.

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Strong Enough to Kill a Dragon Slayer In Völsunga saga the murder of Sigurðr Fáfnisbani requires not only deceit from within his extended family, but also the cunning use of magic. The assassin who will do the killing needs to be coaxed into performing such a mighty deed and it is unlikely that anything short of magic would be able to convince an individual to attempt to kill a dragon slayer, and to succeed. In addition to an offering of gold and power, Guttormr, son of Gjúki, is made to ingest an intoxicating substance that gives him the audacity and fierceness required to go after Sigurðr, his own sister’s husband, with the intent to kill. The Gjúkungar must realize that Guttormr, one of their own blood, will die while carrying out the attack on Sigurðr, a fact that makes this assassination doubly deceitful. In order to prepare Guttormr for his mission, an intoxicating edible substance is prepared and given to him: ‘They [Gunnarr and Högni] took a serpent and some wolf’s flesh, boiled them up and gave him [Guttormr] to eat of them’ (Þeir toku orm einn ok af vargshollde ok letu sioda ok gafu honum at eta).29 After Guttormr has eaten the mixture of wolf flesh and serpent, Grímhildr adds her motivating rhetoric, persuading him on to the killing: ‘And what with the food and Grimhild’s arguments he grew so fiery and impetuous that he promised to do the deed’ (Ok vid þessa fęzlu vard hann sva ęfr ok agiarnn, ok allt saman ok fortaulur Grimhilldar, at hann het at giora þetta verk).30 Even with the magic working on him, and Grimhildr’s urging him on, it still takes Guttormr three attempts to kill Sigurðr. The first time he enters the room where Sigurðr lies, the hero is awake, as with the second time. The third time Guttormr enters Sigurðr’s room, the hero is asleep, so Guttormr then goes and stabs Sigurðr, and, as expected, Guttormr is in turn killed by the dying hero; waking from the death wound, Sigurðr is able to throw his sword at his attacker and slice him in two. Brynhildr, who convinced Gunnarr to plan Sigurðr’s death, then orders the three-year-old Sigmundr, son of Sigurðr and Guðrún, also be slain. Brynhildr then kills herself, and her body, Sigurðr’s body, Sigmundr’s body, and Guttormr’s body are all placed on a funeral pyre.31 Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir claims the following about the legendary sagas: ‘it is evident that characters skilled in witchcraft or supernatural 29 Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, p. 58; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, p. 79. 30 Finch, Saga of the Volsungs, p. 58; Olsen, Vǫlsunga saga, p. 80. 31 Just as the scene of Baldr being placed on the funeral pyre is a central and climactic scene in the Old Norse mythological cycle, at least as presented in Snorra Edda, the scene of Brynhildr and Sigurðr, along with the others who were killed, being laid out together on the funeral pyre is a climactic scene in the heroic cycle.

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beings from another world to some extent serve to provide some kind of magical solutions and thus have a specific function in the narrative pattern of the sagas’.32 The curse initiated by the dwarf Andvari early in Völsunga saga hangs over the whole of the action that follows. In a similar manner, the chain of events set in motion by the ale of forgetfulness given to Sigurðr by his future mother-in-law Grímhildr influences all that follows, and is perhaps a result of Andvari’s curse. Borghildr’s poisoning of Sinf jötli introduces the archetype of the evil stepmother or mother-in-law figure who will eventually kill the saga hero, for Sinfjötli is a precursor to Sigurðr, and both are sons of Sigmundr. Furthermore, the archetypal Grímhildr’s actions also cause the death of the heroine Brynhildr, for she separates Sigurðr and Brynhildr through her manipulation. Magic and the paranormal in this legendary saga are instruments of the plot that enable the saga author to explain why events unfold as they do. The tools employed most effectively as narrative devices are the intoxicating substances consumed by the saga heroes and heroines.

Conclusion These above instances of consumption and intoxication in Völsunga saga demonstrate the connection between evil and magic in this Old NorseIcelandic legendary saga, a connection that would have been just as evident to an early saga audience. Furthermore, the connection between deceit, death, and eating is also evident: it is in the context of communal feasting that two of the instances of intoxicating consumption occur: Sinfjötli’s poisoning and Sigurðr’s potion-drinking. Guðrún’s potion-drinking results in her marriage to Atli (an occasion when a feast will take place), and Guttormr is made to eat the substance that invigorates him so vividly. Borghildr’s poisoning of Sinfjötli early in the saga prefigures Grímhildr’s two magic potions applied later, and the edible substance prepared for Guttormr by his brothers is perhaps the strongest intoxicant of all, for it provides the vigor necessary to kill Sigurðr, the quintessential hero of the heroic cycle. Like his half-brother Sinfjötli, Sigurðr dies the requisite early death of a truly great hero. The mastermind behind the climactic action of the saga is Grímhildr, and the placement of magical knowledge (and the use of poison) with archetypal female witches alerts us to a possible exemplification of narrative 32 Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘Narrative Role of Magic’, p. 46.

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misogyny. Grímhildr is depicted as a primary antagonist in this drama (she is indeed pulling the strings like a puppet master), though otherwise she is a somewhat marginal character; if, however, the magical motif is suspended the men should instead be held responsible for their actions: Sinfjötli kills Borghildr’s brother (although Sigmundr does compensate her for this) and Sigurðr forgets his vows to Brynhildr. Guðrún is undoubtedly a victim of her family’s manipulation, but her other actions in the saga make her much less sympathetic.33 The representation of witchcraft and magic in this saga might reflect the power of women in thirteenth-century Iceland, or perhaps the changing situation for the power of women during that time. Morris contends that narrative misogyny can be related to how: The civilization formed by Greco-Roman, Germanic, near-Eastern, and Judeo-Christian cultures created a new Weltanschauung that included the religion of Christianity. Within this new social order, pagan beliefs were demonized and folk medicine and healing were viewed as heathen and harmful. Sorceresses, although beneficent in spirit, were confused with nefarious witches, and the patristic tradition encouraged this fear of feminine magic that grew throughout the Middle Ages.34

Even though male characters perform many substantial and often treacherous acts in the saga, behind these acts is the magical interference of women. Thus feminine magic drives the action of this legendary saga, which would have reinforced fear of such magic for the saga audience. Just as significant is that the two women presented as the primary witches in the saga, Borghildr and Grímhildr, though essential to the action of the saga, are in fact marginal characters when compared to those they manipulate. Most famous and prominent in the narrative are the star-crossed lovers, Sigurðr and Brynhildr, as well as the siblings Gunnarr and Guðrún, not to mention the many other characters who receive a great deal more attention in the saga than the two witches, Borghildr and Grímhildr, who, as argued here, are responsible for an oversized portion of the misfortune. It is within the context of food and feasting that these key examples of consumption and intoxication take place in Völsunga saga. As it is the female characters who serve the male characters their food and drink at the feasts 33 Guðrún kills her two children by Atli and feeds them to him, and near the end of the saga Guðrún sends her three children by Jónakr to their certain deaths. 34 Morris, Sorceress or Witch, p. 92.

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depicted in the saga, it is no wonder that a saga author placed these characters in the villainous roles. In the legendary world that is represented in the saga, the human characters are most vulnerable when they are sitting at a feast, enjoying food and drink that is served to them by someone they should be able to trust. What a character consumes in this context can change everything.

Bibliography Primary Sources Saga of the Volsungs, transl. Finch, R.G. (London: Nelson, 1965). Vǫlsunga saga ok Ragnars saga loðbrókar, ed. by Magnus Olsen (Samfund til udgivelse af gammel nordisk litteratur. Copenhagen: S.L. Møllers Bogtrykkeri, 1906–1908).

Secondary Sources Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘The Narrative Role of Magic in the Fornaldarsögur’, ARV Nordic Yearbook of Folklore, 70 (2014), pp. 39–56. Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir, ‘The Origin and Development of the Fornaldarsögur as Illustrated by Völsunga saga’, in Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, eds., The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2012), pp. 59–81. Aguirre, Manuel, ‘Narrative Composition in The Saga of the Volsungs’, Saga-Book, 26 (2002), pp. 5–37. Ármann Jakobsson, ‘The Earliest Legendary Saga Manuscripts’, in Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney, and Ármann Jakobsson, eds., The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2012), pp. 21–32. Ármann Jakobsson, The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North (Goleta, CA: Punctum, 2017). Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Two Wise Women and Their Young Apprentice: A Miscarried Magic Class’, in Nine Saga Studies: The Critical Interpretation of the Icelandic Sagas (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2013), pp. 79–92. Dillmann, François-Xavier, Les magiciens dans l’Islande ancienne. Études sur la représentation de la magie islandaise et de ses agents les sources littéraires norroises, Acta Academiae Regiae Gustavi Adolphi 92 (Uppsala: Kungl. Gustav Adolfs Akademien för svensk folkkultur, 2006). Heinrichs, Anne, ‘Annat er várt eðli: The Type of the Prepatriarchal Woman in Old Norse Literature’, in John Lindow, Lars Lönnroth, and Gerd Wolfgang

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Weber, eds., Structure and Meaning in Old Norse Literature: New Approaches to Textual Analysis and Literary Criticism (Odense: Odense University Press, 1986), pp. 110–140. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature: Bodies, Words, and Power, The New Middle Ages (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). Kieckhefer, Richard, Magic in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). Larrington, Carolyne, ‘Völsunga saga, Ragnars saga and Romance in Old Norse: Revisiting Relationships’, in Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney and Ármann Jakobsson, eds., The Legendary Sagas: Origins and Development (Reykjavík: University of Iceland Press, 2012), pp. 251–270. McGillivray, Andrew, ‘The Best Kept Secret: Ransom, Wealth, and Power in Völsunga Saga’, Scandinavian Studies, 87: 3 (2015), pp. 365–382. Mitchell, Stephen, Witchcraft and Magic in the Nordic Middle Ages (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011). Morris, Katherine, Sorceress or Witch? The Image of Gender in Medieval Iceland and Northern Europe (Lanham. MD: University Press of America, 1991). Quinn, Judy, ‘The Realisation of Mythological Design: The Early Generations of the Völsung Dynasty’, in Annette Lassen, Agneta Ney and Ármann Jakobsson, eds., Fornaldarsagaerne. Myter og virkelighed (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag, 2009), pp. 123–142. Sweeney, Michelle, Magic in Medieval Romance from Chrétien de Troyes to Geoffrey Chaucer (Portland, OR: Four Courts Press, 2000). Tolley, Clive, ‘The Peripheral at the Centre: The Subversive Intent of Norse Myth and Magic’, ARV Nordic Yearbook of Folklore, 70 (2014), pp. 15–37. Torfi Tulinius, The Matter of the North: The Rise of Literary Fiction in ThirteenthCentury Iceland, transl. by Randi C. Eldevik, The Viking Collection 13 (Odense: Odense University Press, 2002).

About the Author Andrew McGillivray is assistant professor of rhetoric and communications at the University of Winnipeg. He is author of Influences of Pre-Christian Mythology and Christianity on Old Norse Poetry (2018).

10. Conflicts Regarding Hospitality in Old Norse Sources Viktória Gyönki

Abstract Medieval Scandinavian society is depicted as a conflict-based one in a great variety of Old Norse Sources. Even though hospitality is usually connected to peace, conflicts occurred many times. This essay examines Old Norse sources such as the Kings’ Sagas and the Icelandic family sagas to understand how hospitality, political friendship, and gift-giving worked in the medieval Scandinavia. Keywords: hospitality, feud, conflict, sagas, social norms

Introduction: Hospitality is an often-seen gesture in saga literature. It is connected to formality and spontaneity, and it can be complex or simple. The form of hospitality may vary in different countries, but its foundation is the same: ‘the reception of a stranger who is provided with food and shelter for the night’.1 In his monograph, Hans Conrad Peyer lists five different types of hospitality. The most ancient and traditional one is ‘hospitable friendship’ (Gastfreundschaft), when the host and the guest are social equals, and respectful to each other. A similarly simple form is when the host gives only shelter, but no food (Gastlichkeit ohne Verpflegung). This type of charitable hospitality is connected to Christian culture and it is usually granted to poor and weak members of society, or to pilgrims. Sovereignty hospitality (Herrschaftsgastung) is when political non-equals are included, and is mostly offered to a ruler and his retinue. And lastly, there is the commercial type 1

Gautier, ‘Hospitality in Pre-Viking Anglo-Saxon England’, p. 25.

Gyönki, V. and A. Maraschi (eds.), Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2022 doi 10.5117/9789462988217_ch10

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of hospitality that is provided in an inn or tavern.2 Peyer’s classification presented other analyses regarding Scandinavian and Anglo-Saxon hospitality. This present essay will limit itself to discussing examples from the first, the second, and the fourth types, and will focus only on Scandinavian sources: the Icelandic Family Sagas (Íslendingasögur) and the Kings’ Sagas (Konungasögur), respectively.

Scandinavian Society and Social Norms Medieval Scandinavian society was dependent on personal relationships. On the continent, kings ruled the land as the highest members of society. Norway was ruled by different petty kings up until Haraldr hárfagri (c. 872–930) who started to unify the country.3 During the ninth century, Iceland was inhabited by a mixture of Norwegian and Celtic people.4 They established a country, led by chieftains (pl. goðar). The main sources for this age are the Icelandic Family Sagas, written down from the thirteenth century. These texts were preserved in vellum and later on, paper manuscripts, mostly from the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth century.5 These sources are memories from an earlier period, roughly 950–1050. Other sources include the Kings’ Sagas, reports about the life and deeds of the early Norwegian kings. Relationships are often described in these texts, ranging from friendships to conflicts. In medieval Scandinavia, friendship was more like a fellowship or partnership, and was not based on feelings as it is today.6 These types of relationships, as described by the sagas, were built up with the help of social events like feasting, and gestures like gift-giving and receiving. Gift-giving was a tool to arrange friendships, and then later to strengthen and renew them. The more powerful a friend was, the more powerful an individual became. If one had many friends, it was stressed in the sagas 2 Peyer, Von der Gastfreundschaft zum Gashaus, pp. 278–281. 3 Haraldr hárfagri’s role is presented in the sagas as the reason for most families to leave the country. Even thought he started the political unif ication of the country, the founder of the dynasty was Haraldr harðráði. Krag, ‘The Early Unif ication of Norway’, p. 185. A case study was written by Theodore Andersson how the political conflict between the Icelanders and the Norwegians was depicted and used in Egils saga. Andersson, Theodore M. ‘Political ambiguities – Egils saga Skallagrímssonar’, pp. 102–118. 4 Byock, Viking Age Iceland, p. 9. 5 Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age, pp. 18–19. 6 A counterexample would be the relationship between Gunnarr and Njáll in Brennu-Njáls saga. Einar Ól. Sveisson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga. A detailed analysis was provided by Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga’, especially pp. 204–207.

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by using the word vinsœlir.7 These friendships or fellowships were often formed between men who were at different social stages, like a king and a follower or a vassal. The friendships depicted in the Family sagas are mostly between two men. The curious absence of more examples containing women has also been discussed by various scholars, like Natalie Van Deusen, who suggests that the Christian model of male friendship was depicted in the sagas. Sagas were most probably written down by clerics and much later than when the events took place.8 The income of the Norwegian kings was taxes, mostly from the Northern regions, from the Ugro-Finnic population.9 Farmers were free and not obliged to pay tribute or taxes to the kings. A token of loyalty from their side would have been gift-giving or entertainment for the king. Rulers travelled between regions from one household to another and stayed there as guests with their followers. Such travels had different purposes: the contact with people on their territory guaranteed safety and also the exercise of authority.10 While Norway was ruled by kings and chieftains, Iceland was different up until the 1260s. During the first part of the Commonwealth Period, chieftains (goðar) were the ones who exercised authority through the annual meetings called Þing. A later tendency in the so-called Sturlunga Age in the mid-thirteenth century, when families established their rule over bigger parts of the island, was that a greater gap between the chieftains and householders (bændr) developed.11 Gift-giving and feasts, however, were not unfamiliar for Icelanders. Feasts were used to show wealth and power to followers or to form an alliance (samband), as we seen with the example of the wedding at Flugumýri. The occasion was the marriage of Hallr and Ingibjörg, that happened at the wish of the fathers, Gizurr Þorvaldsson and Sturla Þórðarsson, two powerful chieftains. The wedding was followed by another one, also with great political importance. The friendship of Gizurr and Sturla became stronger than before.12 Feasts are the ‘language of power’, as Viðar Pálsson defines them. But the complexity of feasting and hospitality also needs to be pointed out. 7 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Kings, Jarls and Chieftains’, pp. 77–78. 8 Van Deusen, ‘Sworn Sisterhood?’, p. 69. 9 Gurevich, ‘Early State in Norway’, p. 407. Further source is the report of the Norwegian Ohthere, that was recorded in the court of Alfred the Great. Ohthere might have been a trader or a tax collector of the Norwegian king, who gathered tributes among the Finnas (modern Sámi). Bately, ‘Ohthere and Wulfstan’, p. 30. 10 Gurevich, ‘Early State in Norway’, p. 407. 11 Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking, p. 17. 12 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri’, pp. 211, 213.

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Feasts are distinctive, because they are scenes of claiming social status and making political bonds. A feast could include political equals and near-equals as well.13 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson argues that most feasts were civilized and ended peacefully.14 However, there are lots of examples of conflicts, insults in connection with feasts and other hospitable events. In many cases, these events are turning points in relationships, and the starting points of conflicts or feuds. In the first part of the essay, I will focus on examples from the Kings’ sagas, and in the second part I will discuss some situations recounted in Íslendingasögur. Feasting is strongly connected to hospitality, and should not be reduced simply to an opportunity to show power. It was a possibility for noblemen to keep contact with the king and other high-ranking men. The word veizla, which is often used when the Old Norse sources are describing a festive event, comes from the verb veita (to grant, confer). Veizla means a ‘festively and formally granted hospitality’, implying that veizla means feasting, which is also a formal type of hospitality. The word veizla appears in compound words which were connected with cultic and religious occasions, for example blótveizla (sacrificial feast) or jólaveizla (Christmas feast). Another common term in connection with feast is boð (invitation), which appears as the final feast of the king in Hákonar saga góða, alongside with veizla.15 It seems that the two terms viewed as interchangeable, and they appear side by side not just in the Konungasögur but in Íslendingasögur as well. Boð appears in compounds like jólaboð (Christmas invitation) or vinaboð (invitation of friends). Other terms connected to feasting and hospitality are fagnaðr (festivities), samsæti (‘together-sitting’), samkunda (get-together) and kynni(ssókn) (visit).16 Hospitality is also a contribution to the community, since the host shared his resources with the king or any other guests with different status in society. The importance of such a feast is the act itself, which was stronger than words. The sagas are full of examples of veizlur, but since the descriptions of feasts are somewhat narrow, the German Herrschaftsgastung is hardly comparable to veizla. The kings depicted as travelling visitors come the closest to reflecting this institution. Kings usually travelled with their followers around the countryside in medieval 13 Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power, pp. 57, 58, 60. 14 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri’, p. 235 15 Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power, p. 62. Hákon was at Hǫrðland on Storð at Fitjar with many farmers who came for his invitation, as an addition to his own followers. ‘[…] at Hákon konungur var staddr á Hǫrðalandi ok tók veizlu i Storð á Fitjum. Hafði hann þar hirð sína ok bœndr marga í boði sínu’, Hákonar saga góða, pp. 182–183. 16 Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power, pp. 63–65.

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Scandinavia.17 The Kings’ Sagas present the act of feasting, gift-giving and getting as part of the political culture. King Óláfr kyrri’s court is described in Heimskringla in the following passage: King Óláf had a hundred [120] members of his court and sixty guests and sixty housecarls whose duty was to convey to the place whatever was needed, or to carry out other tasks that the king wanted done. And when the landowners asked the king about this, why he had more attendants than the law provided for or than other previous kings had had when he travelled round to banquets where the landowners had put them on for him, the king replies as follows: “I would not be able to rule the kingdom any better, and would not keep people more in awe of me than they were of my father, even if I had twice as many attendants as he had, but it is not just for the sake of imposing burdens on you or because I want to increase your expenses.”18

It is not easy to guess the exact number of the king’s retainers, but Heimskringla does contain some details of different courts. Apart from the above-mentioned oversized court of Ólafr kyrri depicted in Heimskringla, we can also read about King Vémundr, who was Haraldr hárfagri’s political opponent. Vémundr was burned in a house with his 90 retainers.19 Ólafr helgi also travelled around the country with his followers. Heimskringla describes his travels to Haðaland, Guðbrandsdalr, and Upplǫnd. He visited every royal residence, and usually spent one night there. Just like Óláfr kyrri, Óláfr helgi had an oversized court with 300 followers, although the custom was to have only 60-70. Also, local aristocracy was invited every time the king arrived.20 The case of King Ólafr helgi is special, because he wanted to enforce Christianity while he went to different locations in Norway because of veizla. This action was taken as a violent one, since he crossed a boundary that was not tolerable by free men. In 1023, he had to face the opposition of the farmers in Hörðaland’s þing. The same situation appeared in Sogn during the summer. Feasting and power belonged together, and it was part of a political discussion.21 17 18 19 20 21

Ibid., p. 66. Óláfs saga kyrra, p. 125. Haralds saga ins hárfagra, p. 61. Óláfr saga ins helga, p. 49. Ibid., pp. 206–207.

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Hospitality was regulated, but there was no rule regulating the size of the king’s retainers. One can assume that this court did not include thousands of retainers, but hundreds. Approximately 300 retainers followed the Carolingian and German kings, and even fewer, the French, Aragonian, Sicilian and English kings. The most prominent secular and ecclesiastical lords had a hundred or fewer retainers. Most probably the number of Ólafr kyrri’s retainers is extreme, just as Óláfr helgi’s was. It is likely that the number of retainers of the Norwegian kings was not larger than that of any other European king’s. The relationship between kings and dependents is one of the great interests of sagas. Since the sagas were composed by Icelanders, how they felt about kingship is a curious question. It seems that the authors were quite critical of some of the Norwegian kings, like Harald hárfargi, or Eirikr blóðøx. Still, it is not possible to state that Icelanders were against kingship. Perhaps the authors of the sagas wanted to point out the personal values of some kings, and others were depicted as clever or rightful men. Therefore not just a negative character was depicted by the authors, but unsuitable behaviours of respectful kings were written down as well.

Conflicts Regarding Hospitality in Íslendingasögur The Icelandic Family Sagas are built around different types of conflicts of varying seriousness. It is often the case that because of a verbal accusation, a harder reaction happens, and the offender gets killed. Feasts and hospitable gatherings are frequently presented in the Íslendingasögur, and connected to a wide range of conflicts. Hospitality had its formal way in Iceland, just like in Norway. An invitation to a feast is an honourable act. A hospitable occasion is an opportunity to solidify friendships, and also to present one of the most valuable skills, reciting poetry. Egils saga Skallagrímssornar presents the early years of the warrior-poet Egill, who asks his father to be able to join him and go to a boð. Skalla-Grímr refuses to bring him, but the young Egill takes a horse and follows him to Yngvar’s house. The host welcomes Egill, the young poet, who praises him for the hospitality.22 He is treated respectfully and behaves properly. Also, he earns recognition as a poet for the first time in his life.23 22 Egils saga, pp. 80–81. 23 The author of the saga wanted to emphasis Egill’s role as a skald in the saga. Egill travelled and lived in foreign courts and created poems for kings. The style of the poems is different – he

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A counterexample from Egil saga occurs when Egill is a guest at Ármóðr’s farm in Norway. Egill and his companions are welcome as the king’s followers, but the hospitality is not the most respectful. The guests are only served with curd and nothing more. However, Ármóðr’s daughter tells Egill that ale would fit such men. Ármóðr is unhappy that he has to present a better dinner for the guests. Egill and his men get extremely drunk and hurt the host before leaving his house.24 Disrespect is shown by the host and Egill takes revenge for it. His act is however despicable and Ármóðr sends out his men after Egill, for an ambush.25 This part of the saga is similar to another earlier event. Egill joins Ǫlvir on his journey to Atley. After getting off their ship, they decide to stay at Bárðr’s farm, who had been expecting King Eiríkr and Queen Gunnhildr for a feast. Egill and his companions are served with curd, bread and butter. Later on when the King arrives and lets Egill and his companions join them, ale was served for both groups. Egill drinks too much and mocks Bárðr for being a rude host. With the Queen’s assistance, Bárðr wants to poison Egill, who saves himself by carving runes on the horn. When Ǫlvir tries to leave the room, Bárðr joins him to offer a last drink. Egill, who is also present, stabs the host, who dies. Egill flees from the house, and Ǫlvir collapses next to the dead body after vomiting.26 Honour and status are the most important matters for many of the saga characters, who are ready to take action even if they are barely connected to someone who took part in a conflict. These events can escalate to feuds, which are usually connected to a violent event. However, wrongly spoken words or insults can ignite a clash. Some conflicts involve generations in different families, since it is hard to find peace for everybody.27 The examples from Egils saga show a mixture of wrong conversations and acts, and how these caused violent actions. Egill’s care for his reputation, however, causes the decline of his honour, not its increase.28 praised King Athelstan of England, but had a hateful relationship with King Eiríkr blóðøx. Clunies Ross, ‘A Tale of Two Poets’, pp. 71–72. 24 Egils saga, pp. 223–228. 25 Ibid., pp. 230–231. 26 Ibid., pp. 107–111. A detailed analysis was written by Thomas D. Hill. He argues that this episode has parallels with the story of Kvasir and the origin of mead. Hill, ‘Beer, Vomit, Blood and Poetry’, p. 248. 27 Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age, pp. 65, 66. Hans Jacob Orning discussed the different approaches and scholarly opinions about the nature and length of feuds in Icelandic saga, especially here: Orning, Feuds in Fact and Fiction, pp. 232–233. 28 Lars Lönnroth presents Egill and his brother Þórólfr as contrast. While Þórólfr is a noble, generous and calm man, Egill is violent and problematic. Still, like in other sagas, the narrative focuses on the darker character. Lönnroth, ‘The Noble Heathen’, p. 22. Jesse Byock describes

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The Power of Words As sagas often present, legal solutions were used to settle conflicts and stop the endless feuding between two parties. The criminal became an outlaw and perhaps later on was killed by his enemies. Paying compensation was also a possible solution that could satisfy the opposing parties, but still, there could be someone who was not satisfied and was looking for vengeance. The demand for such action is sometimes connected to women, who alone were unable to act and kill.29 Revenge was the responsibility of men, since they were included in political disputes. However, women were also strongly connected to the kinship basis.30 When they got married they were no longer part of the family which they were from, but belonged to the husband’s household. The loyalty of a woman shifted to the new family.31 As it was discussed before, male friendship and kinship is one of the most oft-presented topics of the Icelandic Family Sagas. Events are seemingly shaped by men, as they are the ones who make political agreements, avenge slain family members and friends, or travel to distant lands to make a fortune. Conflicts arise from these types of events, and shape the actions recorded in the sagas. The role of women should be also discussed because certain acts, especially speeches, are strong in shaping relationships. The situation of a woman is formed by her status: if she is unmarried, she must stand by her family, but when married, she must support her husband’s family. After marriage a woman is responsible for the household ( fyrir innan stokk), and things that are happening at home. As a contrast, a man is responsible for things outside ( fyrir útan stokk), as described above.32 Brennu-Njáls saga is a complex story, in which generations are feuding as a result of different arguments and killings. Among the characters one can find women who shape feuds and conflicts just like the men. After the killing of Hǫskuldr Njállson hvítanessgoði, Hildigunnr, his wife, is after revenge. However, she is not the one who can execute this act, but rather her uncle Flosi. Flosi visits the widow, who invites him for a meal. Flosi gets the high seat, but he tries to refuse it. ‘He thrust aside the elevated high the difference between Egill and Þórólfr as light and dark brothers. This feature applies for the older generations as well, meaning that the light ones accepted authority, the dark ones opposed change. Byock, ’The dark figure as survivor’, pp. 155, 158. 29 Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age, p. 66. 30 Van Deusen, ‘Sworn Sisterhood?’, p. 66. 31 A counterexample comes from Atlakviða, where Guðrun taken revenge on her husband Atli on behalf of her brothers. Jochens, Old Norse Images of Women, p. 141. 32 Jochens, Women in Old Norse Society, pp. 116–118.

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seat and spoke: “I’m not a king or an earl, and there is no reason to give me a fancy high seat, and no need to make fun of me.” Hildigunnr was close by and said, “It’s too bad that this offends you, for we meant well.”’33 Later, Flosi refuses a towel to dry his hand, and tears off a piece from the tablecloth instead. Again, Flosi wants to avoid getting unsubstantiated attention. The high seat is indeed for the noble and powerful guests, but Flosi does not want to appear as one. His actions indicate that he has no intention of acting like someone who has the power to take revenge if he wants to. The widow Hildigunnr wants to ask for revenge, and plans her act carefully. Firstly, she expresses her loyalty and respect to Flosi, who, as a member of the close family, does not want to appear as a powerful man. He refuses the high seat, which was not only a symbol of respectful hospitality. The high chair belonged to the dead husband, who was the head of the household and the one who should act in a situation of revenge, for example.34 Flosi’s intention for the visit is because of the respect for Hildigunnr and the late Hǫskuldr, and was also intended to be a brief one. But because of his refusal to sit on the high seat, Hildigunnr acts like she is offended. Secondly, to make Flosi feel even more regret for her situation, she starts to cry because of her lost husband. Her feelings are undoubtedly true, but she is willing use them to raise Flosi’s regret and to form it into vindictiveness. Even though Flosi tries to comfort the widow with kind words, Hildigunnr suddenly changes the conversation and asks how he wishes to act after the killing. She becomes rather disappointed when she learns that Flosi wants to take the case to the Alþingi. She immediately offends Flosi: ‘“Hǫskuldr would have taken vengeance if it were his duty to take action for you. […] Arnórr Ornolfsson from Frossarskogar did less to Þórðr Frey’s goði, your father, and yet your brothers Kolbeinn and Egill killed him at the Skaftafell Assembly”’.35 Hildigunnr is not just egging on Flosi, but even shaming him. She is suggesting that Flosi is not able to take revenge: when his father was offended, his brothers were the ones who acted. The widow goes even further after the dinner is over: ‘Hildigunnr then went to the hall and opened up her chest and took from it the cloak which Flosi had given to Hǫskuldr, and in which Hǫskuldr was slain, and which she had kept there with all its blood. She then went back into the main room with the cloak. She walked silently up to Flosi. Flosi 33 Njal’s saga, p. 136. 34 Clover, Hildigunnur’s lament, p. 37. 35 Njal’s saga, p. 137.

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had finished eating and the table had been cleaned. Hildigunnr placed the cloak on Flosi’s shoulders; the dried blood poured over down him. Then she spoke: ‘“This cloak, Flosi, was your gift to Hǫskuldr, and now I give it back to you. He was slain in it. In the name of God and all good men I charge you, by all the wonders of your Christ and by your courage and manliness, to avenge all the wounds which he received in dying – or else suffer the contempt of all men”.’ Hildigunnr words regarding the ‘good men’ are familiar from legal formulas occurring in Grettis saga and Heiðarvíga saga.36 Both instances are examples of pronouncing a speech guaranteeing peace, to prevent violent acts from two parties. When reciting the speech, the potential peace breaker is warned that he will be exiled from ‘good men’ if he breaks his oath. ‘Good men’ represents the community, and Hildigunnr warns that Flosi’s reputation will be hurt if he is not willing to take revenge.37 Flosi flings off the cloak and throws it into her arms and says: ‘“You are a monster and want us to take the course which will be worst for us all – cold are the counsels of women”’.38 Hildigunnr is one of the women depicted in Njáls saga as fierce and full of vengeance. Her connection to power was already shown when she refused to marry Hǫskuldr. But when he later became a goði, Hildigunnr had no objection against him. She is clearly expressing her need to be connected to power, and also to show power. This need leads her to force Flosi into the revenge.39 Njáls saga also contains feasts that need to be discussed. Both of these are classic examples of hospitality; one is connected to a wedding (described as boð and veizlur), and the other to a regular friendly invitation, and all include women. The first scene outlines the unhappy relationship of Þráinn and Þórhildr. The woman, who has a sharp tongue, is not loved by her husband. On the wedding of Ketill Sígfusson and Þorgerðr Njálsdóttir, Þráinn is not able to get off her eyes from Þorgerðr Glúmsdóttir. The wife Þórhildr mocks him with a short poem, and consequently, she is driven away by his husband, who also declares a divorce. Þórhildr leaves immediately, and the wedding continues with a wedding proposal from Þráinn to Þorgerðr’s kinsmen. Even though the whole scene is awkward and hasty, Þráinn’s wish was granted. 40 36 In both of these sagas the text is similar to Trygðamál, the peace guarantee speech. GrágásKonungsbók, pp. 205–207; Grettis saga, pp. 232–233, ‘Heiðarvíga saga’, pp. 312–313. 37 Jesch, ‘“Good men” and Peace in Njáls saga’, p. 67. 38 Njál’s saga, p. 137. 39 Heather O’Donoghue, ‘Women in Njáls saga,’ p. 89. 40 Brennu-Njáls saga, pp. 89–90.

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The other occasion is in connection with Njáll and Gunnarr’s friendship. Their yearly invitation for a feast becomes a custom, and surely demands respectful behaviour. Gunarr and his wife Hallgerðr are the guests on this occasion. Helgi Njálsson and his wife arrive later when the others already gathered around the table. Njálls’s wife Bergþóra asks Hallgerðr to move on the side and let Helgi’s wife sit down, the conflict bursts out immediately. Later on Hallgerðr mocks the hosts because of their unusual physical abilities: ‘There is not much to choose between you [Bergþóra] and Njáll: you have diseased nails, and he is beardless’. 41 By pointing out Njáll’s unusual appearance, and speaking of his wife’s physically strong nails like they were weapons, Hallgerðr means that the roles in the household are reversed. From any other angle, Njáll cannot be depicted as unmanly, since he has many children with his wife. However, he is not a warrior, like his friend Gunnarr – he uses his wisdom and advice as weapons. Bergþóra on the other hand has a strong will — she is the leader of the household. 42 Finally, the two wives’ quarrel ended up as a feud between the two households. Servants are ordered to kill each other, but the back and forth killings need to be settled by the husbands. Njáll and Gunnarr’s friendship was not ruined because of these incidents. 43

Keeping the Peace The autumn feast appears in Gísla saga súrsonnar as a turning point of the failing relationship between the brothers Gísli and Þorkell and their brother-in-law Þorgrímr. With Gísli’s brother-in-law Vésteinn, these four men appeared as strong fellows who are bonded together. Yet when they want to swear oath on their brotherhood, Þorgrímr refuses to do so because of Vésteinn. By expressing his mistrust in Vésteinn, Þorgrímr becomes the catalyst of the downfall of this brotherhood, and he also becomes the ill-advisor of Þorkell. The storyline of this saga is connected to the very foundation of the honour-based society of medieval Iceland. Subsequent episodes show how all the characters’ honour is hurt in different ways. Firstly, Þorkell accidentally hears about the putative love-affair of his wife Ásgerðr and Vésteinn. Even though the affair happened when they were not married, Þorkell becomes angry and understands it as an insult. Later on Þorkell 41 Njal’s saga, p. 40. 42 Brennu-Njáls saga, p. 91. 43 Ibid., pp. 92–118.

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refuses Vésteinn’s gift of finely made tapestries. Secondly, Vésteinn is killed by an unknown person, which is an insult to Gísli’s household: the murder happened in his house, and the victim was his brother-in-law. Gísli knew that the murderer was most probably his other brother-in-law, Þorgrímr. Thirdly, when Gísli humiliates Þorgrímr in a ball game, he admits that he was the one who stabbed Vésteinn. The saga outlines the two factions and the insults between them quite clearly, but Gísli’s revenge for Vésteinn is preceded by one more insult.44 The conflict between Gísli and Þorgrímr reaches its peak when Gísli and his household prepare the house for the autumn feast. Þorkell, influenced by Þorgrímr, asks for the tapestries that Vésteinn brought as a gift – the same tapestries that he refused earlier. Refusing the gift was clearly the symbol of the denied friendship. Þorgrímr decides to hold a feast with a sacrifice to Frey, and he invites his brother Bǫrkr, and many other men of distinction. Gísli invites his relatives from Arnarfjǫrd for his feast. 45 During the preparations, Þorgrímr realizes the lack of decoration, and suggests the following to Þorkell: ‘It would be a fine thing now to have those tapestries that Vésteinn wanted to give to you. It seems to me there’s quite a difference between owning them outright and never having them at all. I wish you’d have them sent for’. 46 After some argument Þorgrímr sends a servant for the tapestry. Geirmundr does not want to go to Gísli’s house, preferring to avoid the conflict, and expresses his ill feelings about the visit. Þorgrímr slaps him on the face, and Geirmundr finally goes away to Gísli’s farm. Due to the behaviour of his master, he also becomes part of the later revenge on Þorgrímr. Before further analysis of Geirmundr’s visit to Gísli’s farm, Gísli’s behaviour needs to be explained. Gísli is not a blood-thirsty man, but he is willing to fight to protect his family’s honour, as he did when his sister was accused. Gísli is depicted as the placatory in most cases when members of his family could have clashed, and he is never the one who starts a conflict. It seems that he always studies the cases and decides what is the optimal solution, and also, is able to recognize the rise of tension and possible conflict. His solutions in most cases are non-violent, except when his honour was hurt, or his reaction is needed to protect the family’s honour. 47 Gísli does everything for his family’s honour and therefore he is the opposite of his brother Þorkell 44 Gísla saga súrssonar, pp. 30–31, 42, 43. 45 Chapter 10 mentions that Gísli was no longer doing blood sacrif ices, but still organized feasts. Gísla saga súrssonar, p. 36. 46 Gísli Sursson’s saga, p. 17. 47 Holtsmark, Studies in the Gísla saga, p. 33

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and to his sister Þordís. Þorkell avoids clashes, but with Þorgrímr, he gets into a conflict with his own brother. Þordís, as a member of a new family, should stand on their side, even though Gísli does not understand her. 48 To return to the scene when Geirmundr asks for the tapestries, Gísli asks Auðr’s opinion about giving them away. The situation is degrading for both of them: a memory of the dead Vésteinn is about to be taken away, and the request was influenced by the man who most probably is the murderer. Auðr, Gísli’s wife, answers the following: ‘You know I would have neither this nor any other good befall them, nor indeed anything that would add to their honour. That is not why you asked me.’49 However, when Gísli learns that his brother agreed to ask for the tapestries, he gives them away. Gísli seems to accept the situation, but not too much later, he kills Þorgrímr, who was the influence behind the humiliation. As discussed before, the decisions of female characters are mostly connected to their family – Gísli’s sister Þordís betrays her own brother in order to exact vengeance for her murdered husband. After Gísli’s death, she attacks Eyjólfr, who was the leader of Gísli’s attackers. The scene is the following: Þordís expresses her hard feelings for the killing of Gísli. When Eyjólfr sits at the dining table as a guest, Þordís drops some spoons. While picking them up, she takes Gísli sword, which was next to Eyjólfr, and wounds him badly.50 Þórdís uses an unexpected moment to act, similarly to Hildigunnr. The first time she demands revenge for Þorgrímr is successful. In both situations, the husband is revenged. However, when Þordís wants to take revenge for her brother, she is met with failure. Her difficult situation is well described throughout the saga: she is torn between her husband’s memory and her brother, who is a murderer.

Concluding Remarks The conflicts presented in this essay are connected to festivity and hospitality. A common pattern has to be recognized in each of them: the importance of honour from different angles. The Kings’ sagas show a wider perspective: the kings and their subjects, the fight for power over, and freedom in, the 48 Ibid., p. 38. Þordís is the one who betrays Gísli by telling Börkr that he killed Þorgrímr. Later, Þorkell refuses to give shelter to Gísli who was outlawed for the murder. 49 Gisli súrssons saga, p. 18. 50 Gísla saga súrssonar, pp. 116–117.

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country. These values are bound together with traditions, religion, and customs. The Family sagas provide a narrower picture, full of local fights over clan matters. The cases in this essay were listed with an intention to show feasting and hospitality as a canister where the possibility of conflict and feud is hidden. Politics and power struggles can be recognized in almost all of my examples. But the Family sagas show a more personal, closer picture, the actual struggle that is connected to clan or family, while Kings’ Sagas are more focused on local and less personal matters.

Bibliography Primary Sources Einar Ól. Sveisson, ed., Brennu-Njáls saga (Reykjavík: Híð Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1954). ’Njal’s saga’ in The Complete Sagas of the Icelanders Including 49 Tales, 5 vols., Vol. III, ed. by Viðar Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eriksson Publishing, 1997). pp. 1–220. ‘Gísla saga súrssonar’ in Vestfirðinga Sǫgur, ed. by Björn K. Þórólfsson and Guðni Jónsson (Reykjavík: Híð Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1943). pp. 3–118. ‘Gísli Sursson’s Saga’ in The Complete Sagas of the Icelanders Including 49 Tales, 5 vols., Vol. II, ed. by Viðar Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eriksson Publishing, 1997). pp. 1–48. Grágás – Konungsbók, ed. by Vilhjálmur Finsen (Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag, 1974). Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, ed. by Guðni Jónsson (Reykjavík: Híð Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1936). ‘Hákonar saga góða’ in Snorri Storluson, Heimskringla I., ed. by Bjarni Aðalbjarnson (Reykjavík, Híð Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 2002), pp. 150–197. ‘Haralds saga ins hárfagra in Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla Volume I. Magnús Óláfsson to Magnús Erlingsson, transl. Finley, Alison and Faulkes, Anthony (University College London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2015), pp. 54–87. ‘Heiðarvíga saga’, in Sigurður Nordal, Guðni Jónsson, eds., Borgfirðinga sǫgur (Reykjavík: Híð Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1938), pp. 215–326. ‘Óláfs saga ins helga’, in Bjarni Aðalbjarnson, ed., Snorri Storluson, Heimskringla II (Reykjavík, Híð Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 2002), pp. 1–415. ‘Óláfs saga kyrra’, in Snorri Sturluson, Heimskringla Volume III. Magnús Óláfsson to Magnús Erlingsson, transl. Alison Finley and Anthony Faulkes (University College London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 2015), pp. 123–126. Sigurður Nordal, ed., Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar (Reykjavík: Híð Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1933).

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Secondary Sources Andersson, Theodore M. ‘Political Ambiguities: Egils saga Skallagrímssonar’ in Theodore M. Andersson, ed., The Growth of the Medieval Icelandic Sagas (1180–1280), (Ithaca, NY/ London: Cornell University Press, 2006), pp. 102–118. Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Masculinity and Politics in Njáls saga’, Viator – Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 38:1. pp. 191–215. Bately, Janet, ‘Ohthere and Wulfstan in the Old English Porosis’, in Janet Bately and Anton Englert, eds., Ohthere’s Voyages: A Late 9th Century Account of Voyages along the Coasts of Norway and Denmark and Its Cultural Context (Roskilde: The Viking Ship Museum, 2007), pp. 18–39. Byock, Jesse, ‘The Dark Figure as Survivor in an Icelandic Saga’, in E.R. Haymes, and S.C. Van D’Elden, eds., The Dark Figure in Medieval German and Germanic Literature (Göppingen: Kümmerle Verlag, 1986), pp. 151–163. Byock, Jesse, Viking Age Iceland (London: Penguin Books, 2001). Clover, Carol J., ’Hildigunnr’s Lament’, in Sarah M. Anderson and Karen Swenson, eds., Cold Counsel: Women in Old Norse Literature and Mythology. A Collection of Essays (New York: Garland, 2002), pp. 15–54. Clunies Ross, Margaret, ‘A Tale of Two Poets: Egill Skallagrímsson and Einarr Skálaglamm’, Arkiv för nordisk filologi 120 (2005), pp. 69–82. Gautier, Alban, ‘Hospitality in Pre-Viking Anglo-Saxon England’, Early Medieval Europe 17: 1 (2009), pp. 23–44. Gurevich, Aron Ia., ‘The Early State in Norway’, in Henri J.M. Claessen, and Peter Skalník, eds., The Early State (The Hague: Mouton Publishers, 1978), pp. 403–423. Hill, Thomas D., ‘Beer, Vomit, Blood and Poetry: Egils Saga, Chapters 44–45’, in Jeffrey Turco, ed., Islandica 58: New Norse Studies: Essays on the Literature and Culture of Medieval Scandinavia, (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Library, 2015.), pp. 243–254. Holtsmark, Anne, Studies in the Gísla saga (Oslo: Aschehoug, 1951). Jesch, Judit, ‘“Good Men” and Peace in Njáls Saga’, John Hines, and Desmond Slay, eds., Introductory Essays on Egils Saga and Njáls Saga (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1992), pp. 64–82. Jochens, Jenny, Old Norse Images of Women (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1996). Jochens, Jenny, Women in Old Norse Society (Ithaca, NY/London: Cornell University Press, 1995). Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Kings, Jarls and Chieftains: Rulers in Norway, Orkney and Iceland c. 900–1300’, in Gro Steinsland, Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Jan Erik Rekdal, and Ian B. Beuermann, eds., Ideology and Power in the Viking and Middle Ages (Leiden/Boston, MA: Brill, 2011), pp. 69–108.

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Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri in 1235: Icelandic Feasts between the Free State Period and Norwegian Hegemony in Rituals, Performatives and Political Order’, in Hans Jacob Orning, Lars Hermanson, Wojtek Jezierski, and Thomas Småberg, eds, Rituals, Performatives, and Political Order in Northern Europe, c.650–1350 (Turnhout: Brepolis, 2015) pp. 209–235. Krag, Klaus, ‘The Early Unification of Norway’, in Knut Helle, The Cambridge History of Scandinavia, 2 vols., Volume I. Prehistory to 1520 (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 184–201. Lönnroth, Lars, ‘The Noble Heathen: A Theme in the Sagas’, Scandinavian Studies 41 (1969), pp.1–29. Miller, William Ian, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking: Feud, Law, and Society in Saga Iceland (Chicago, IL/ London: University of Chicago Press, 1990). O’ Donoghue, Heather, ‘Women in Njáls Saga‘, in John Hines, and Desmond Slay, eds., Introductory Essays on Egils Saga and Njáls Saga (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1992), pp. 83–92. Orning, Hans Jakob, ‘Feuds in Fiction in Late Medieval Iceland’, in Steinar Imsen, ed., Legislation and State Formation: Norway and Its Neighbours in the Middle Ages (Trondheim: Akademika Publishing, 2013), pp. 229–261. Peyer, Hans Conrad, Von der Gastfreundschaft zum Gasthaus. Studien zur Gastlichkeit im Mittelalter (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1987). Van Deusen, Natalie M., ‘Sworn Sisterhood? On the (Near-) Absence of Female Friendship from the Íslendingasǫgur’, Scandinavian Studies 86 (2014), pp. 52–71. Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age: Narration and Representation in the Sagas of the Icelanders (Reykjavík: Heimskringla, Mál og Menning Academic Division, 1998). Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power: Feasting and Gift-giving in Medieval Iceland and Its Sagas (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Library, 2016).

About the Author Viktória Gyönki is a historian, museologist, and PhD candidate at Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest. Her research interests are connected to medieval Scandinavia, with a special interest on Icelandic and Norwegian legal sources connected to outlawry and conflict solving.

11. The Practice of Feasting in Medieval Iceland Martina Ceolin

Abstract The practice of feasting recurs in Old Norse-Icelandic literature, notably in sagas such as konungasögur (‘Kings’ Sagas’) and Íslendingasögur (‘Sagas of Early Icelanders’). Having been studied as valuable ethnographic sources, these texts portray feasting primarily as an instrument of social action, an action that serves, among other things, to publicly make and break bonds, notably friendship. Exemplary in this regard is Eyrbyggja saga (‘Saga of the People of Eyri’), a thirteenth-century Íslendingasaga which is typically set in Iceland from the beginning of its Settlement, in the late ninth century, up to the first decades of the eleventh century. Drawing from this saga, the practice of feasting in medieval Iceland will be described and discussed, with special reference to the historical time in which the text was probably composed. Keywords: feasting, Íslendingasögur, Eyrbyggja saga, Icelandic Commonwealth, friendship

Feasting is a compelling aspect of social life, and comprehending it is crucial for better appreciating many social and cultural processes in both present and past societies. Yet, it was only about thirty years ago that scholars started to consider the matter seriously and critically, after having largely neglected it as a peripheral phenomenon. Recent systematic exploration of the subject has enabled scholars to better understand what feasts are, what their functions are, and how to detect and interpret them in the existing literature. What are feasts? On the one hand, the term ‘feast’ describes a set of diverse practices. These practices have been grouped in various typologies

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differing according to the criteria used within a specific analysis. Among these criteria are, for instance, the participants (e.g. household feasts, community feasts), the cultural contexts (e.g. funerary feasts, marriage feasts, harvest feasts), and the social and economic functions of feasts (e.g. religious feasts, economic feasts).1 On the other hand, scholars have identified two basic characteristics that are common to all feasts. These are the communal consumption of food and drink as distinct from daily meals, and the rituality connected to it. This rituality does not necessarily have to be of a complex nature. The most noteworthy in the ritual of consumption is its symbolic power, in that ‘actions performed with others tend to forsake the simply functional level to take on a communicative value, [and] our human socializing instinct immediately attributes meaning to the gestures performed while eating’.2 What are the functions of feasts? Feasts serve primarily to establish and maintain social relations, notably kinship and friendship. Thus, their main function is integrative. The people involved show that they are content with the relationship in question and that they would like to continue it. From a broader perspective, feasts also serve to create community and reassert collective identity. Taking part in a feast is one of the most evident signs of membership in a group. Despite using commensality to strengthen bonds and solidarity, society may also use it to compete, for power and/or status. For instance, the relationship host/guest or giver/receiver may translate into a relationship of social superiority and inferiority. Therefore, feasts also serve to define social boundaries. Feasts, in any case, are the symbolic representation of social relations within a group, allowing for both the acknowledgement and the transformation of those relations. The practice of feasting appears recurrently in Old Norse-Icelandic literature, notably in sagas such as konungasögur and Íslendingasögur (‘Kings’ Sagas’ and ‘Sagas of Early Icelanders’, respectively). Having been studied as valuable ethnographic sources, these texts portray feasting primarily as an instrument of social action, an action which serves to publicly make and break bonds, notably friendship. Emphasis is placed on the rituality connected to feasting, as exemplified by the sensitivity expressed to matters such as the disposition of seats and the giving of gifts. Descriptions of the communal consumption of food and/or drink are also present, although very few details about it are given. 1 Dietler, ‘Feasting and Fasting’, p. 184. 2 Montanari, Food is Culture, p. 93.

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This chapter will provide an analysis of how feasting is presented in the Íslendingasögur, by drawing examples from one saga in particular, Eyrbyggja saga (‘Saga of the People of Eyri’). This saga relates events that are set mainly in Iceland from the beginning of its Settlement in the late ninth century up to the first decades of the eleventh century. The text itself was written in the mid-thirteenth century. The investigation will allow describing and discussing feasting practices in saga society, especially during the time in which Eyrbyggja saga was probably composed.

Íslendingasögur as Ethnographic Sources The Íslendingasögur focus on the origins of Icelandic society. They relate events that are set mainly in Iceland during the time span from the beginning of the Settlement of the country, in the late ninth century, to the first decades of the eleventh century. They were composed mostly, in their written form at least, during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Interestingly, it has been noted that ‘through their reconstruction of the past these sagas are addressing the problems of their times’, the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.3 It is now understood that when specific information is transposed to the narrative medium, even changed or created, it is because such information is significant to the people devising the same representations, rather than constituting plain reports. Moreover, ‘medieval authors had to consider common rules and customs governing behavior if they wanted their contemporaries to [understand them and to] believe them’. 4 In this way, the Íslendingasögur can be used as ethnographic sources about the period in which they were written, the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The possibility of considering these sagas as ethnographic sources follows their re-evaluation from a historical point of view, after they were disregarded as pure fiction by some scholars.5 The re-evaluation resulted from a shift in focus and concerns among saga scholars in the 1970s, under the influence of cultural and social history and anthropology. According to this shift, the discussions on the historicity of the sources moved from considering 3 Torfi H. Tulinius, ‘Deconstructing Snorri’, p. 195. 4 Althoff, ‘The Variability of Rituals’, p. 87. 5 These scholars had solved the controversy in the criticism of the sources – caused by the inconsistency between the extant law and the sagas concerning the information of the political development in the Saga Age period (c. 930–1030) – by maintaining that the law presented history and the Íslendingasögur literature and fiction, and therefore they could not be used as historical documents Jón V. Sigurðsson, ‘Tendencies in the Historiography’, pp. 5–6.

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saga descriptions as evidence of actual events towards contemplating the same descriptions more as proof of cultural and social norms and practices of the past. In other words, the sagas came to be regarded as potentially valuable ethnographic sources, no matter the historical authenticity of the events described. Thus, they were believed to convey authentic cultural norms, customs and social structures of medieval Iceland. Primarily, these concerned people living from the late twelfth to the mid-fourteenth century, during the earliest phase of Icelandic saga writing. In this regard, a case in point is constituted by Eyrbyggja saga (‘Saga of the People of Eyri’), one among the Íslendingasögur. This saga relates events that are set mainly in Iceland from its Settlement, starting in the late ninth century, to the beginning of the eleventh century. Thus, it spans 150 years, while telling of the first settlers of the Snæfellsnes peninsula in the west of Iceland and of their descendants. More specifically, it revolves around the deeds of chieftains (goðar, sg. goði) and householding farmers (bændr, sg. bóndi, indicating either a landowner or a tenant farmer) from the northern coast of the peninsula, and around the disputes deriving from the struggle for honour and power within the same community. This saga is believed to have been composed in the mid-thirteenth century. Therefore, it is interesting to analyse it in light of the social dynamics characterizing the time in which it was probably written.6 In order to do so, a brief historical note is necessary. During the Icelandic Commonwealth period, beginning with the establishment of the Althing, the yearly general assembly, in AD 930, and ending with the pledge of loyalty to the king of Norway in 1262–1264, Icelanders had both a legal and an assembly system, but there was no central authority providing law-enforcement. In such a stateless society, feuding was an important mechanism for the preservation of honour and the control of violence. Every member of society was expected to be attached to the household of a bóndi, who had to be the follower of a chieftain (goði) in his turn. Bændr were expected to support their chieftains at assemblies and in conflicts, while chieftains protected and assisted their followers in return. By the time Eyrbyggja saga was written, in the mid-thirteenth century, tension and conflict had escalated, resulting in a civil war. The main reason behind the strife was no longer the retrieval of honour, but the will to gain 6 It should be noted that the best version of the text is now preserved in two seventeenthcentury copies of a lost late fourteenth-century vellum (Vatnshyrna). This, however, does not compromise studying the saga as an ethnographic source.

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control over larger territories and to become more powerful.7 Power was consolidated into fewer hands, and the dominant classes were somewhat reluctant to accept the contemporary strengthening of the royal state and the Church as institutions. A preoccupation with such issues is detectable in Eyrbyggja saga, in that the author underlines the heavy pressure that the conflicts were placing on society. Even though the saga focuses on the origins of Icelandic society, there are elements in the text, notably in the representation of the events, echoing issues that were central to the period in which the saga is supposed to have been written. At the beginning of the text, the events are not centred around a specific figure, but as the narrative progresses the chieftain Snorri Þorgrímsson (Snorri goði) gradually emerges as the saga’s most influential character. Indeed, the society orders itself around and under his increasing influence, which represents, therefore, a guiding force within the narrative.8 Snorri goði was the ancestor of many of the dominant chieftain families of the thirteenth century, notably the Sturlungar (western Iceland, Westfjords, and north-east of the Country), the Ásbirningar (Skagafjörður), and the Vatnsfirðingar (Ísafjörður and surroundings). These families were important at the time of writing of the saga, and a connection is established between the generations the narrative is constructed around and those of the present. More specifically, it concerns the issue of the establishment of a legacy of power and wealth, and how certain individuals or groups manage this inheritance.9

Friendship and Feasting In a context of precarious political balance such as the one characterizing Icelandic society during the Commonwealth period, securing bonds was vital to maintaining mutual trust and support. The ties of kinship ( frændsemi) and friendship (vinátta/vinfengi) played a central role in preserving the balance. To some extent, friendship was even more important than kinship, in the sense that it was often friendship ‘activating’ kinship rather than vice versa, while ‘kinship was one means among several to develop friendship and sometimes it did not work’.10 7 See, for example, Torfi H. Tulinius, ‘Political Echoes’. 8 Torfi H. Tulinius, ‘Deconstructing Snorri’, p. 198. 9 Ibid., p. 199. 10 Durrenberger/Pálsson, ‘The Importance of Friendship’, pp. 59–60. See, for example, Eyrbyggja saga, ch. 33.

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Sagas such as the Íslendingasögur convey instances of friendship more as a pragmatic or contractual relation, rather than friendship of the emotional type.11 Indeed, these sagas often describe friendship as an intentional bond, rather than a spontaneous one, as the word vinfengi suggests, originally meaning of which is ‘to get’ or ‘to win for oneself a friend’.12 For example, in Eyrbyggja saga (Chapter 28) we find the following passage: I’ve fallen so in love with [your daughter] that I can’t get her out of my mind. I now wish to strengthen the friendship between us by asking you to allow me to marry [her]. In return, I will pledge my friendship and loyal support and such backing and might […] that no other men in Iceland could possibly bring you such renown through their support […]. But if you turn me down that will be the end of our friendship, and we will both do whatever we like with our affairs.13 [E]k hefi svá mikinn ástarhug til hennar fellt, at ek fæ þat eigi ór hug mér gǫrt. Nú vil ek,’ segir Halli, ‘leita eptir staðfastri vináttu við þik ok biðja, at þú giptir mér Ásdísi, dóttur þína, en þar í mót vil ek leggja mína vináttu og trúliga fylgð og svá mikinn styrk […], at á Íslandi skal eigi fásk jafnmikil frægð í tveggja manna fylgð, […]. En ef þú vill hér engan kost á gera, þá mun þat skilja vára vináttu; munu þá ok hvárir verða at fara með sínu máli sem líkar.

Friendship in Iceland during the Commonwealth period seems to fit into two types: vertical, for example between chieftains and farmers, and horizontal, for instance between chieftains. While sharing the characteristic of reciprocity, they differed in terms of loyalty and duration. Friendships of the vertical type granted greater loyalty and were longer-lasting than the ones of the horizontal type, which were more opportunistic and competitive in nature.14 11 There are notable exceptions, such as the friendship between Gunnar and Njáll in BrennuNjáls saga, and the friendship between Egill and Arinbjörn in Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar. According to Helgi Þorláksson (‘Friends, Patrons and Clients’, pp. 297–301), both are ‘examples of friendship as a relationship based on affection – of the emotional type devoid of political content. […I]t is difficult to see these relationships as political or pragmatic’. 12 It has also been suggested that friendship could be bought. Durrenberger/Pálsson, ‘The Importance of Friendship’, p. 73. 13 All translations are taken from Quinn (The Saga of the People of Eyri), and the respective Old Icelandic passages are from the edition of the saga by Einar Ól. Sveinsson/Matthías Þórðarson (Eyrbyggja saga). 14 Jón V. Sigurðsson, ‘The Changing Role of Friendship’, p. 54; ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri’, p. 212.

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In some cases, the bond of friendship was passed on directly, for example from a chieftain to his son.15 It was also natural to seek to enlarge one’s group of friends. Often, however, these bonds were highly unstable, due to the fact that the negotiation of power was continuous. Consequently, there had to be methods for strengthening such uncertain bonds. Among them were feasts and gift-giving, which are recurrent in the sources and often appear together. Feasting was important to cement bonds, notably friendship. In fact, feasting was a regular, recurring demonstration of the importance of friendship, it was ‘friendship in practice’.16 On the one hand, it served to demonstrate social cohesion. On the other hand, it also demonstrated one’s status and wealth. This constitutes the dichotomous nature of the feast, simultaneously integrative and competitive.17 Given the fact that friendship, as described in the sources, was hardly ever spontaneous, it is not surprising to note that feasting was actually ‘framed and limited by custom, and extensively shaped by the social and political position of host and guest’.18 Secular feasting was one of the fundamental modes of public communication in medieval Iceland, especially political. Like all forms of public communication in the Middle Ages, it was ritualistic and demonstrative. Ritualistic in that the actions in question were repeated by actors in certain circumstances in the same or similar ways, deliberately. Demonstrative because the actions in question were performed in public, while ‘the actors in a ritual communication clarified for themselves and the spectators the kind of relationship they had with each other, that they were content with this relationship, and were willing to continue with it’.19 This made the performed actions as ‘legally binding’.20 Clearly, the ritual’s message had to be recognizable: easy to understand and unambiguous, although at times ambiguity could turn into an opportunity, for example for manipulation. Some aspects that concern the rituality of feasting – namely, convivial banqueting/meals, the seating order, and the practice of gift-giving – are considered here in more detail. Concerning meal sharing, it is interesting to note that saga authors directed their focus more towards the complex relations shared by the people involved, rather than towards the food set 15 This happened formally, for example at the wakes the heirs of chieftains organized to establish friendships with the friends of their deceased fathers. Jón V. Sigurðsson, ‘The Changing Role of Friendship’, pp. 51–52. 16 Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power, p. 21. 17 Orning, ‘Festive Governance’, p. 180. 18 Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power, p. 45. 19 Althoff, ‘Symbolic Communication’, pp. 64–65. 20 Althoff, ‘The Variability of Rituals’, pp. 71–74.

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out before them. Indeed, food is one of the least remarked upon aspects of feasting as described in the sagas. There is mention of drinking, notably of mead and ale, the quality of which seems to have been even more important than the quality of the food being served. What was more of interest to the writers regarding drinking were, anyway, its social implications, as evidenced in the sources by the mentioning of different drinking customs, named einmenningr, tvímenningr, sveitardrykkja, and rituals within specif ic occasions, such as drinking contests and the drinking of toasts.21 The seating order was also more important to the writers than what people ate or drank. Indeed, it was a sensitive matter because it reflected hierarchies and power-relations in society. The place where a guest would be seated depended on that person’s importance. The most important guests sat closest to the most important people within the group, notably the owner of the house where the feast was being held, or a king. Indeed, the sagas occasionally mention people leaving a certain feast because they were not content with the seat they had been assigned for the occasion. Another aspect in the sources which also seems to be inextricable from feasting is gift-giving, which is almost always well remarked upon. Giving gifts conferred prestige to both the parties involved, and accepting them meant to publicly recognize one’s duties, relative bonds were strengthened. Thus, as with the other ritual elements of feasting, ‘in the gift-giving process there were [...] three actors – the giver, the recipient, and the audience.’22 Once initiated, though, the process could not stop. For example, ‘if the secular leaders did not continue to arrange feasts and give gifts, their friends would start looking for another, more generous leader’.23 The typology of gifts is often rendered explicit in the sagas, while sometimes constituting a source of competition. The most common gifts offered were ‘weapons, horses, oxen, jewelry, clothes and fabrics. Weapons, for example, usually symbolized power: only those in a position of power were able to give these, and even then they were only offered to those lower down in the social pyramid’.24 Interestingly, weapons might also be given 21 In einmenningr, each person was given a horn to drink from; in tvímenningr two people shared the same horn; in sveitardrykkja, a drinking horn was passed around. Jón V. Sigurðsson, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri’, p. 223. In this regard, it is also interesting to note that to hold a wedding feast is described in the sources as að drekka bruðkaup, lit. ‘to drink a wedding’. 22 Jón V. Sigurðsson, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri’, p. 227. 23 Jón V. Sigurðsson, ‘The Changing Role of Friendship’, pp. 49–51. 24 Jón V. Sigurðsson, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri’, pp. 226–227.

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to someone as a present so that they would be used in a specific way. For example, in Eyrbyggja saga (Chapter 37) we read that: As the guests were setting off from the feast, Snorri chose gifts for his friends. […]. As they parted, Snorri had a word with Thorleif Kimbi. ‘Here’s an axe I’d like you to have,’ he said. ‘It happens to be the one with the longest handle. Should it be that you ride home to Alftafjord and take aim at Arnkel while he’s stacking his hay at Orlygsstad, it might not be long enough to reach as far as his head’. En er menn fóru í brott frá boðinu valði Snorri gjafar vinum sínum; […]. Ok er þeir skilðu, gekk Snorri at Þorleifi kimba ok mælti: ‘Hér er øx, Þorleifr, er ek vil gefa þér, ok á ek þessa háskeptasta, ok mun hon eigi taka til hǫfuðs Arnkatli, þá er hann býr um hey sitt á Ørlygsstǫðum, ef þú reiðir heiman til ór Álptafirði’.

Gifts could also consist in services or in political support. Competition concerned not only the quality/typology of gifts, but also the organization of feasts and the invited guests. In other words, wealthy people competed for status in terms of who would organize the biggest and most lavish feasts and invite the noblest guests. The more magnanimous, the more powerful. Indeed, feasting was an instrument of power, used to acquire social power or to maintain existing inequalities in power relations. The writing of texts contributed towards this, in that it served as propaganda, or it ‘participated in the creation of a public opinion or rather a public exchange of opinions’.25 In this way, it constituted a third kind of public space, additional to the households of chieftains and royal and princely courts outside of Iceland where the feasts were held: a ‘virtual’ public space.

Feasting Terminology The practice of feasting is clearly identifiable in the sagas, not only because of the recurrent elements and patterns just described, but also because it is often the case that we are explicitly told when we are present at a feast. The most common used term is veizla, related to veita, meaning to ‘grant/ confer’. ‘At its most basic, it descriptively denotes a grant or conferment 25 Torfi H. Tulinius, ‘The Sagas and Public Space’, pp. 196–199.

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by one person to another, which is essentially what festively and formally granted hospitality, a feast, is’.26 The term veizla, actually, comprises a variety of meanings and typologies of feasting, including for example both friendly banqueting and enforced hospitality, enforced by kings for example, and feasting between both political equals and unequals.27 Occasionally, the term veizla is part of compound words denoting cultic, religious or calendric settings, such as blótveizla, ‘sacrificial feast’, and jólaveizla, ‘Yule feast’. Other times, the term veizla is substituted by the more open-ended boð, ‘invitation’, meaning being received or accommodated by invitation, although this does not always entail that feasting is involved. Nevertheless, the term is commonly associated with feasts such as weddings, or it appears with qualifying prefixes as in jólaboð, ‘Yule reception/invitation’, vinaboð, ‘reception/invitation of friends’, and heimboð, ‘home reception/invitation’.28 In Eyrbyggja saga the term veizla appears only twice (Chapters 4, 54), while boð is by far the most common term used to refer to feasts. Specifically, haustboð, ‘autumn/harvest feast’, appears very frequently (Chapters 12, 25, 32, 37). Indeed, it is interesting to note that autumn was particularly suitable for celebrations, as slaughtering took place during that season, and harvesting had also just taken place, in the end of summer. Not surprisingly, many other feasts were organized during this time of year, such as weddings (e.g. Eyrbyggja saga, Chapter 12). The yearly three-day festival known as the vetrnætr, ‘winter-nights’, is worthy of mention. It celebrated the end of summer and the beginning of winter in mid-October, according to the typically Germanic bipartition of the solar year into the two seasons of summer and winter.29 In Eyrbyggja saga, which uses the division of the solar year into four seasons, though, we read that one autumn (Chapter 37) ‘at the Winter Nights, Snorri goði hosted a great autumn feast and invited his friends to it. Ale was served and the drinking was heavy’ (Annat haust eptir at vetrnóttum hafði Snorri goði haustboð mikit og bauð til vinum sínum. Þar var ǫldrykkja ok fast drukkit). Among the reasons for holding celebrations during the Winter Nights was not only the convenient abundance of food and drink at that time of the 26 Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power, p. 48. 27 Veizla could also be used to signify governance through feasts, in that it could also indicate ‘the contributions that peasants were required to deliver when the king arrived nearby, as well as the income of a royal office or the enfeoffment’ (Orning, ‘Festive Governance’, p. 197). 28 Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power, pp. 46–47. 29 ‘Summer usually began on a Thursday, and ended on a Wednesday. Winter began on a Saturday. This left three borderline nights which formed a liminal period belonging to neither season’ (Gunnell, ‘The Season of the Dísir’, p. 128).

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year, but also their association with sacrificial activities that were performed during the same liminal period. Most notably, the dísablót, a sacrifice to the dísir – ‘female spirits that, among other things, helped with childbirth and might have been related to fertility’ – took place during that time of year, as evidenced by instances in other sagas as well.30 The winter was clearly a time for celebration as well, the most prominent festival being jól, the pagan Yule that eventually merged with Christmas.31 The sources provide little information about the specific ways in which this festival was celebrated prior to the merger, but the mention of Yule-feasts, and other feasts in conjunction with it, such as weddings, is frequent in the sagas. It is interesting to note that associations of these celebrations with paranormal events are also very common, especially in the Íslendingasögur, where they represent a recurrent pattern.32 For example, in Eyrbyggja saga (Chapter 54) there is mention of a funeral feast (erfi) taking place just before Yule and which turns out to be of an uncanny nature. It is said that Þóroddr skattkaupandi, the ‘Tax-Trader’, a farmer at Fróðá, dies in a shipwreck with his men, but their bodies are not recovered. Surprisingly, the men appear at their own funeral feast, during which they go inside the house and sit by the fire. They repeat this every evening during the feast and all through Yule, while the situation worsens, as both the number of hauntings and deaths caused by them increase. The popular belief that the dead could walk also connects well with the fact that one of the accepted meanings of feasting can be subversion.33 As opposed to the official feast, feasting as a subversive act is a temporary break with the established order, during which opposites are unified, in this case that of the dead and the living. Eventually, the existing order is reaffirmed, since ‘by overstepping certain boundaries, th[e] participants are merely reaffirming them in the long run’.34 The trial held in the saga in order to force the revenants to leave (Chapter 55), which appears as the hapax duradómr/ dyradómr, or ‘door-court’, is an example of this reaffirmation. The ghosts are subjected to the same treatment the living would be for causing deaths: 30 See e.g., Chapter 10 of Gísla saga Súrssonar (shorter version), Chapter 44 of Egils saga SkallaGrímssonar, and Chapter 6 of Víga-Glúms saga (Gunnell, ‘The Season of the Dísir’, pp. 128–129). 31 Information about the merger appears in both Snorri Sturluson’s Hákonar saga góða (Chapter 13), and in Ágrip af Nóregskonungasögum (Chapter 19), the latter being a summary of the history of Norwegian kings dating from the late twelfth century (Gunnell, ‘The Season of the Dísir’, pp. 123–124). 32 Langeslag, Seasons in the Literatures, p. 120; Ceolin, The Multiple Facets of Time, ch. 3. 33 See for example Bakhtin, ‘Introduction’. 34 Humphrey, ‘Introduction’, p. 2.

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Everyone sitting by the fire [i.e. the revenants] was summonsed. A door court was held and charges were pronounced, with the whole procedure following that of a court at an assembly. Decisions were made, and cases summed up and judged.35 [Ǫ]llum var þeim stefnt, er við eldinn sátu. Síðan var nefndr duradómr ok sagðar fram sakar ok farit at ǫllum málum sem á þingadómum; váru þar kviðir bornir, reifð mál ok dœmð.

The Failure of Feasting A few final observations will now be made cas to the negative outcome of feasting, either deliberate or unpredicted, on part of both the host and the guest. On the part of the host, feasts could be used to humiliate opponents. For instance, as the seating order was a sensitive matter, it could easily be used to raise issues. Seating someone in the ‘wrong’ place could be interpreted as an insult.36 Serving bad drink, which was even worse than offering guests bad food, could create a bad atmosphere.37 Giving gifts of a bad nature could also create tension. For example, in Eyrbyggja saga (Chapter 25), we read that: In the autumn Vermund held a great feast and invited his brother Styr, Arnkel the Priest and the Men of Eyr. After the feast Vermund offered Arnkel the berserks and said they might come in very useful, but Arnkel refused the gift. Then Vermund asked Arnkel for advice about how to get out of his difficulty, and Arnkel suggested giving the berserks to Styr. ‘He’s so arrogant and unjust himself,’ said Arnkel, ‘that most likely he’ll be able to cope with them’. Um haustit hafði Vermundr boð mikit ok bauð Arnkatli goða til sín ok Eyrbyggjum og Styr bróður sínum. Ok er boðinu var lokit bauð Vermundr at gefa Arnkatli berserkina ok kallar þat bezt henta, en hann vill eigi þiggja. Þá leitar Vermundur ráðs við Arnkel, hversu hann skal af sér koma þessu 35 Door-courts are not mentioned in the Icelandic laws, but ‘it has been suggested that Eyrbyggja saga may here preserve the memory of a judicial practice which went early out of use’ (Hermann Pálsson/Edwards, Eyrbyggja saga, p. 51). 36 Jón V. Sigurðsson, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri’, p. 220. 37 Orning, ‘Festive Governance’, pp. 188–189.

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vandræði en hann lagði þat til, að hann skyldi gefa Styr; kallar honum bezt fallit að hafa slíka menn fyrir sakar ofsa ok ójafnaðar.

After Vermund has offered the berserks to Styr, and Styr has refused the gift, Vermund asks him as well for advice concerning how to get out of trouble, to which Styr replies (Chapter 25): ‘“That’s a different matter entirely,” said Styr. “To help you out of your troubles is one thing, getting these men as gift from you is quite another”’ (‘Annat mál er þat,’ sagði Styrr, ‘at ek leysa vandræði þitt, en hit, at þiggja menn þessa af þér í vingjǫf’). Moreover, not giving gifts at all clearly meant that the friendship in question was over. Tension might also arise if a host had relations with the enemies of his guests.38 In addition, feasts were also considered as particularly vulnerable occasions, as enemies could take advantage of off-guard people and attack them.39 For example, Eyrbyggja saga (Chapter 12) relates how people slayed each other at some feasts: Thorgrim killed Vestein Vesteinsson during an autumn feast in Haukadal. The following autumn when Thorgrim was twenty-five, the same age his father had been when he died, his brother-in-law Gisli killed him during an autumn feast at Saebol. 40 Þorgrímr drap Véstein Vésteinsson at haustboði í Haukadal. En annat haust eptir, þá er Þorgrímr var hálfþrítøgr, sem faðir hans, þá drap Gísli, mágr hans, hann at haustboði á Sæbóli.

Clearly, a non-invitation to a feast also carried meaning, and the deliberate exclusion of someone from social life carried consequences. Inviting too many people to a feast could also be dangerous, in that it increased the possibility of treachery amongst the guests. 41 On the part of the guest, rejecting an invitation to a feast would be considered an insult to the host. The same with complaining about food, refusing to eat, or rejecting a gift. Indeed, all such cases could be interpreted as a declination to participate in the community of the feast, while they could also express meaning of a political nature. 42 38 39 40 41 42

Ibid., p. 187. Ibid., p. 201. Cf. Chapter 32 of the saga, where an ambush takes place in connection with a feast. Orning, ‘Festive Governance’, p. 201. Ibid., p. 188; Jón V. Sigurðsson, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri’, p. 215.

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The Changing Meaning and Form of the Feast from the MidThirteenth Century During the thirteenth century, when Eyrbyggja saga was likely written, political changes had altered the patterns and the nature of feasting in medieval Iceland. The support of householders was no longer essential for the chieftains’ positions of power, who now got their power directly from Norwegian kings. A chieftain had once been obliged to defend and assist his followers, but ‘as a servant of the king he was now expected to prosecute and punish his friends when necessary’.43 The strong vertical ties of mutual friendship disappeared. Reciprocal hospitality and gift-giving were no longer necessary.44 Thus, the most important feasts, namely those between chieftains and householders, gradually came to an end around 1300, when the last chieftains of the Commonwealth period died. At the same time, as the need to create and reinforce the bonds of friendship gradually diminished – once the hierarchies and solidarities had become firmly established – feasts changed in nature. They ‘assumed a more representative character and were transformed into banquets that reflected social hierarchy’ even more clearly.45 In other words, feasts became more ceremonial. Thus, these changes reflected changes occurring in the political scene. Feasting constituted one of the most important modes of social and political communication in Commonwealth Iceland. The interest in representing feasting in Saga Age society at the end of the Commonwealth, primarily expressed in the Íslendingasögur, may be translated as a nostalgia for the strong bonds that had characterized Icelandic society during that age, just as the bonds were fading from relevance.

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Quinn, Judy, transl., The Saga of the People of Eyri, in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, 5 vols., vol. V, ed. by Viðar Hreinsson (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997), pp. 131–218.

Secondary Sources Althoff, Gerd, ‘Der Frieden-, bündnis- und gemeinschaftstiftende Charakter des Mahles im früheren Mittelalter’, in Rudolf Schulz, Irmgard Bitsch, Trude Ehlert, and Xenja von Ertzdorff, eds., Essen und Trinken in Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Stuttgart: Jan Thorbecke Verlag, 1990 (1987)), pp. 13–25. Althoff, Gerd, ‘Obbligatorio mangiare. Pranzi, banchetti e feste nella vita sociale del Medioevo’, in Jean L. Flandrin and Massimo Montanari, eds., Storia dell’alimentazione (Roma/Bari: Laterza, 2003), pp. 234–242. Althoff, Gerd, ‘Symbolic Communication and Medieval Order: Strengths and Weaknesses of Ambiguous Signs’, in Hans Jacob Orning, Lars Hermanson, Wojtek Jezierski, and Thomas Småberg, eds., Rituals, Performatives, and Political Order in Northern Europe, c.650–1350 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 63–75. Althoff, Gerd, ‘The Variability of Rituals in the Middle Ages’, in Gerd Althoff, Johannes Fried, and Patrick J. Geary, eds., Medieval Concepts of the Past. Ritual, Memory, Historiography (Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 71–87. Bakhtin, Mikhail M., ‘Introduction’, in Rabelais and his World, transl. Hélène Iswolsky (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1984 (1936)), pp. 1–58. Ceolin, Martina, The Multiple Facets of Time: Reckoning, Representing, and Understanding Time in Medieval Iceland, PhD dissertation, University of Iceland (Reykjavík: Háskólaprent, 2020). Dietler, Michael, ‘Feasting and Fasting’, in Timothy Insoll, ed., The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology of Ritual and Religion (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 179–194. Dietler, Michael, ‘Feasts and Commensal Politics in the Political Economy. Food, Power and Status in Prehistoric Europe’, in Polly Wiessner and Wulf Schiefenhövel, eds., Food and the Status Quest: An Interdisciplinary Perspective (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1996), pp. 87–125. Dietler, Michael, and Brian Hayden, ‘Digesting the Feast: Good to Eat, Good to Drink, Good to Think. An Introduction’, in Michael Dietler and Brian Hayden, eds., Feasts. Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2001), pp. 1–22. Durrenberger, Paul E., and Gísli Pálsson, ‘The Importance of Friendship in the Absence of States, According to the Icelandic Sagas’, in Sandra Bell and Simon Coleman, eds., The Anthropology of Friendship (Oxford/New York: Berg, 1999), pp. 59–77.

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Gísli Sigurðsson, ‘Past Awareness in Christian Environments. Source-Critical Ideas about Memories of the Pagan Past’, Scandinavian Studies, 85: 3 (2013), pp. 400–410. Gunnell, Terry, ‘The Season of the Dísir: The Winter Nights and the Dísablót in Early Medieval Scandinavian Belief’, Cosmos, 16 (2000), pp. 117–149. Haki Antonsson, ‘The Present and the Past in the Sagas of Icelanders’, in Peter Lambert and Björn Weiler, eds., How the Past Was Used: Historical Cultures, c.750–2000, Proceedings of the British Academy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), pp. 87–112. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Friends, Patrons and Clients in the Middle Ages’, in Jón V. Sigurðsson and Thomas Småberg, Friendship and Social Networks in Scandinavia, c.1000–1800 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 293–310. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Sagas as Evidence for Authentic Social Structures’, unpublished paper delivered at The 15th International Saga Conference: Sagas and the Use of the Past (Aarhus, 2012), pp. 1–6. Humphrey, Chris, ‘Introduction: The Politics of Carnival’, in The Politics of Carnival. Festive Misrule in Medieval England (Manchester/New York: Manchester University Press, 2001), pp. 1–11. Innes, Matthew, ‘Introduction: Using the Past, Interpreting the Present, Influencing the Future’, in Yitzhak Hen and Matthew Innes, eds., The Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 1–8. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Tendencies in the Historiography on the Medieval Nordic States (to 1350)’, in James S. Amelang and Siegfried Beer, eds., Public Power in Europe. Studies in Historical Transformation (Pisa: Pisa University Press, 2006), pp. 1–15. Innes, Matthew, ‘The Changing Role of Friendship in Iceland, c.900–1300’, in Jón V. Sigurðsson and Thomas Småberg, eds., Friendship and Social Networks in Scandinavia, c.1000–1800 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 43–64. Innes, Matthew, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri in 1253: Icelandic Feasts between the Free State Period and Norwegian Hegemony’, in Hans Jacob Orning, Lars Hermanson, Wojtek Jezierski, and Thomas Småberg, eds., Rituals, Performatives, and Political Order in Northern Europe, c.650–1350 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 209–236. Langeslag, Paul S., Seasons in the Literatures of the Medieval North (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2015). Montanari, Massimo, Food is Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006 (2004)). Orning, Hans J., ‘Festive Governance: Feasts as Rituals of Power and Integration in Medieval Norway’, in Hans Jacob Orning, Lars Hermanson, Wojtek Jezierski, and Thomas Småberg, eds., Rituals, Performatives, and Political Order in Northern Europe, c.650–1350 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 175–208.

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Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘From Reciprocity to Manorialism: On the Peasant Mode of Production in Medieval Iceland’, Scandinavian Journal of History, 38:3 (2013), pp. 273–295. Torf i H. Tulinius, ‘Deconstructing Snorri. Narrative Structure and Heroism in Eyrbyggja saga’, in Victor Millet and Heike Sahm, eds., Narration and Hero. Recounting the Deeds of Heroes in Literature and Art of the Early Medieval Period (Berlin/Boston, MA: De Gruyter, 2014), pp. 195–208. Torfi H. Tulinius, ‘Political Echoes: Reading Eyrbyggja saga in Light of Contemporary Conflicts’, in Judy Quinn, Kate Heslop, and Tarrin Wills, eds., Learning and Understanding in the Old Norse World. Essays in Honour of Margaret Clunies Ross (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 49–62. Torfi H. Tulinius, ‘The Sagas and Public Space’, in Studi Medievali e Moderni, 25 (Naples, Italy: Loffredo Editore, 2009), pp. 193–200. Viðar Pálsson, Language of Power: Feasting and Gift-Giving in Medieval Iceland and Its Sagas, Islandica, LX (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Library, 2016).

About the Author Martina Ceolin is a postdoctoral researcher in the Department of Linguistics and Comparative Cultural Studies at Ca’ Foscari University of Venice. Her current research focuses on the so-called ‘post-classical’ Íslendingasögur, specifically on Finnboga saga ramma and its codicological contexts. She is also preparing an Italian translation of Áns saga bogsveigis.



Index of names and texts

Abel, Wilhelm 14, n. 7 Aguirre, Manuel 195 n. 6, 205 Aðalheiður Guðmundsdóttir 15, 17, 33 n. 15, 66 n. 38, 192 n. 3, 197 n. 13, 198, 198 n. 16, 18, 202, 203 n. 32, 205 Albrekt of Mecklenburg, king of Sweden 121 Alfred the Great, king of Wessex 76 Althoff, Gerd 22, 225 n. 4., 229 n. 19, 20, 237 Ambáles 179, 179 n. 35, 180, 181, 184 Ambáles saga 167, 178 Amlethus 172, 178, 180 Amorosi, Thomas 35 nn. 27-8, 38 n. 51 Andersen, Kasper 119 n. 7, 121 n. 24, 122 nn. 27, 29 and 30, 126 nn. 53 and 57 Andersson, Ingvar 121 n. 21 Andersson, Theodore M. 113 n. 61, 208 n. 3, 221 Andrén, Anders 35 n. 34 Andvari 197, 198 n. 19, 199. n. 25, 203 Áns saga bogsveigis 169 n. 6 Arentzen, Thomas 57 n. 13 Ari Þorgilsson 15, 101 n. 12 Arinbjǫrn 228 Ármann in Ármanns saga ok Þorsteins gala and Ármanns saga in yngri 183, 184-187 Ármanns saga in yngri 184 Ármanns saga ok Þorsteins gala 167, 183 Ármann Jakobsson 14 n. 15, 17 n. 28, 23, 100 n. 7, 171 n. 14, 188, 192. n. 2, 193 n. 4, 197, 197 n. 13, 205, 206, 208 n. 6, 221 Ármóðr of Egils saga 213 Arngrímr goði 102, 106, 111, 114 Arnkell góði 234 Arnórr Ornolfsson from Frossarskógar 215 Ásbirningar 227 Ásdís Egilsdóttir 23 n. 50, 34 n. 22, 43 n. 81, 170, 170 n. 13, 188 Ásgerðr 217 Åsen, Per Arvid 60, 68 n. 43 Aslak Bolt, Archbishop of Nidaros 89, 134, 137 Assmann, Jan 43 n. 83 Athelstan the Unready, king of Wessex 213, n. 23 Atla saga Ótryggssonar 167, 181, 183 Atli 214 n. 31. Atli in Atla saga Ótryggssonar 181-184, 187 Atli Buðlason 192, 197, 201, 203, 204 n. 33 Auðunar þáttr vestfirzka 100 Auerbach, Erich 35 n. 33 Augustine of Hippo 34 Auðr 219 Baetke, Walter 101 n. 12 Bailey, Michael D. 17 n. 29 Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 233 n. 33, 237 Bandmanna saga 109, 110, 111 n. 47, 113 n. 59

Barlow, Lisa K. 35 n. 27, 38 n. 51 Barreiro, Santiago 109 n. 41 Barrett, James H. 18, 77 nn. 8 and 10, 78 nn. 12, 14 and 15, 79, 82 n. 39 Bately, Janet, 209 n. 9, 221 Bárðr in Egils saga 213 Bárðr in Víga-Glúms saga 173 Bauman, Richard 36 Bek-Pedersen, Karen 180 n. 37, 188 Bell, Sandra 237 Berg, Sigrun Høgetveit 18, 86 n. 62, 89 n. 86, 135 n. 8, 136 n. 12, 140 n. 27, 142 Berger, Alan 101 n. 8 Berþóra Skarphéðinsdóttir 217 Bertelsen, Henrik 173 n. 24, 187 Bertelsen, Reidar 80 n. 22, 87 nn. 66-7, 88 n. 78 Bitsch, Irmgard 237 Biturúlfr 173 Bjarni Aðalbjarnson 220 Bjørgo, Narve 80 n. 22 Björn K. Þórólfsson 175, 175 n. 33, 188, 220 Bloch, Marc 13 Blom, Grethe Authén 18, 125 nn. 45 and 50-2, 136 n. 14, 142 Blund-Ketill 35, 101, 102, 105, 106, 108, 109, 112 Borghildr in Völsunga saga 192-196, 203, 204 Böðvar in Atla saga Ótryggssonar 181-183 Brink, Stefan 163 Brynhildr in Völsunga saga 197, 198, 198 n. 19, 199, 199 n. 22, 200, 202, 204 Boberg, Inger M. 170, 172, 181, 188 Bø, Olav 124 n. 43 Bøgh, Birgitte 55 n. 4 Bǫrkr Þorsteinson 218, 219 n. 48 Bratrein, Håvard Dahl 83 n. 46 Braudel, Fernand 15, 35 Brennu-Njáll 102, 217 Broddi Bjarnason 108, 112 Bruun, Inga Malene 90 n. 89 Buckland, Paul C. 38 n. 51 Bujak, Franciszek 14 n. 6 Byock, Jesse 147 n. 11, 12, 162, 208 n. 4, 213. n. 28, 214 n. 28, 221 Carlsen, Christian 36 n. 38 Celsus 34 Ceolin, Martina 21, 224, 233 n. 32, 237, 239 Cerman, Markus 142 n. 29, 143 Charlemagne 19, 122 Chase, Martin 58 n. 17, 65 n. 37 Chickering Jr., Howell D. 20 n. 40 Cipolla, Adele 188 Clark, Gregory 32 n. 3 Clesby, Richard 170

242 

Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia

Clover, Carol J. 38 n. 53, 171, 171 n. 19, 188, 215, 221 Clunies Ross, Margaret 16, 33 n. 16, 213 n. 23, 221 Cnut the Great, king of England, Denmark and Norway 68 Cohen, Daniel 31 n. 2, 32 n. 3 Coleman, Simon 237 Colinson, Lisa 163 Coudert, Allison P. 32 n. 10 Cristoforo Fioravante 89 Cullum, Michael 146 Czachesz, István 34 n. 18

Eyrbyggja saga 19, 20 Eysteinn Magnússon, king of Norway 79, 124 Evans, Gareth Lloyd 172 n. 20, 188

de Martino, Ernesto 32, 40, 42, 43 Derrida, Jacques 21 n. 44 des Bouvrie, Synnøve 81 n. 33 Dietler, Michael 21 n. 44, 224 n. 1, 237 Dillmann, François-Xavier 17 n. 28, 34 n. 17, 38 n. 54, 197 n. 13, 205 Divjak, Alenka 39 n. 57 Dómaldi, king of Sweden 41 Dothan, Leni 59 n. 23 Douglas, Mary 172 n. 22, 188 Dribe, Martin 37 n. 46 Drummond, Jack C. 14 n.7 Dubuisson, Daniel 32 n. 9 Dufourmantelle, Anne 21 n. 44 Dugmore, Andrew J. 38 n. 50 Durrenberger, Paul E. 20 n. 38, 35 n. 27, 109 n. 43, 227 n. 10, 228 n. 12, 237 Dybdahl, Audun 135, 135 n. 9, 11, 136 n. 15, 139 n. 23, 142 Edwards, Paul 234 n. 35, 236 Egill Skalla-grímsson 102, 212, 212 n. 23, 213, 213. n. 28, 214 n. 28, 228 n. 11 Egils saga Skallagrímssonar 77, 169 Egill Þórðarson of Njáls saga 215 Ehlert, Trude 237 Einar Ól. Sveinsson 172 n. 23, 187, 208 n. 6, 220, 228 n. 13, 236 Einhard 19, 122 n, 27 Eiríkr I blóðøx 212, 213, 213 n. 23 Eiríkr II Magnusson, king of Norway 124, 154 Eiríkr rauði Þorvaldsson 38 Eldevik, Randi C. 206 Engh, Line Cecilie 58 n. 16 Englert, Anton 221 Eireks saga víðförla 104 n. 22 Erik of Pomerania, king of Denmark, Norway and Sweden 127, 137 Eiríks saga rauða 38, 39, 40 n. 64 Eiríkur Jónsson 169 n. 9, 187 Erling Skakke, earl 120 Etting, Vivian 127 n. 58 Eylimi, king 196 Eyjólfr in Gísla saga 219 Eyjólfr, son of Þórðar gellis 104

Farnetti, Tobia 32 n. 7, 40 n. 67 Faulkes, Anthony 171 n. 18, 187, 220 Fáfnir 200 n. 26 Fástínus, king 180 Febvre, Lucien 13 Felce, Ian 180, 180 n. 38, 188 Ferrari, Fulvio 42 n. 78 Figenschow, Stefan 18 Finch, R. G. 194. n. 5, 195 n. 7, 196 n. 9, 199 n. 21, 22, 23, 200 n. 27, 201 n. 28, 202 n. 29, 30, 205 Finley, Alison 220 Fisher, Peter 172 n. 21, 187 Finnur Jónsson 169 n. 9, 187 Finnur Sigmundsson 181 n. 42, 188 Finsen, Vilhjámur 220 Flandrin, Jean L. 237 Flint, Valerie I. J. 34 n. 20 Flosi Þórðarson of Njáls saga 214-216 France, Anatole 23, 145 n. 1, 146, 162 Frey 218 Fried, Johannes 237 Friis-Jensen, Karsten 172 n. 21, 187 Fulbert of Chartres 58 Gambero, Luigi 54 n. 2 Gautier, Alban 21, 207 n. 1, 221 Gautreks saga 40 n. 71, 169 Geary, Patrick J. 237 Geirmundr in Gísla saga 218, 219 Gizurr Þorvaldsson 209 Gísli Pálsson 35 n. 26, 36 n. 41, 227 n. 10, 237 Gísli Sigurdsson 238 Gísli Súrsson 217-219 Gjúki 192, 199, 200, 202 Gjúkungar 192-194, 197, 199, 199 n. 22, 200 n. 25, 201, 202 Granmarr in Völsunga saga 174 Gräslund, Bo 36 n. 39 Grettir Ásmundarson 168 Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar 35, 168, 178 Greenfield, Patrick 146 n. 3, 162 Grewe, Rudolf 14 Grímhildr 192-199, 200, 200 n. 25, 201, 203, 204 Grohse, Peter Ian 82 n. 41, 83 nn. 43-4 Gollancz, Israel 181, n. 39, 188 Göngu-Hrólfr 170 Göngu-Hrólfs saga 33 Grøn, Fredrik 123 nn. 35 and 37, 124 n. 40 Grønlie, Siân 40 n. 65 Guðbrand Vígfússon 170 Guðmundr Eyjólfsson 104 Guðni Jónsson 168 n. 4, 184 n. 43, 187, 220 Guðríðr Þorbjarnardóttir 39 Guðrún in Atlakvíða 214 n. 31

243

Index of names and tex ts

Guðrún in Völsunga saga 192, 193, 197, 198, 198 n. 19, 199, 199 n. 22, 200, 200 n. 26, 201, 204, 204 n. 33 Guðrún Nordal 101 n. 8 and 12 Gunnarr Gjúkason in Völsunga saga 192, 193, 194, 197 n. 15, 198 n. 19, 199, 202, 204 Gunnarr Hámundarson á hlíðarenda 217 Gunnar Karlsson 35 n. 30 Gunnell, Terry 232 n. 29, 233 n. 31, 237 Gunnhildr, queen of Norway 213 Gunnlod 65 Gurevich, Aron J. 33 n. 12, 34 n. 21, 209 nn. 9-10, 221 Guttorm Gjúkason 193, 194, 197 n. 15, 199, 202 Gyönki, Viktória 20, 21 Haaning, Aksel 55 n. 4 Haki Antonsson 238 Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar 80, 119, 120 Håkon Erlingsson, bishop of Bergen 119 Hákon Haraldsson góði, king of Norway 210 n. 15 Hákon Hákonarson, king of Norway 80, 86, 118-20, 124 Hákon Magnússon, king of Norway 118, 121, 124 Hálfs saga ok Hálfsrekka 40 n. 71 Hallgerðr Höskuldsdóttir 217 Hamington, Maurice 21 n. 44 Hamlet 172 Hansen, Lars Ivar 18, 77 n. 7, 83 nn. 45-6, 84 n. 52, 85 nn. 54-6, 86 nn. 62-3 and 65, 89 nn. 85 and 87, 90 n. 90, 136 n. 12, 143 Haraldr I Halfdansson hárfagri, king of Norway 181, 208, 208 n. 3, 211 Haraldr III Sigurdsson harðráði, king of Norway. 208 n. 3 Haraldr, king of Reiðgotaland 42 Hart, Joshua 32 n. 10 Hastrup, Kirsten 34 n. 23 Hayden, Brian 237 Heidegger, Martin 15, 32 Heidem, Eldar 38 n. 52 Heinrichs, Anne 197 n. 15, 205 Heiðrekr 42 Helga Kress 38 n. 53 Helgi in Völsunga saga 174 Helgi Þorláksson 20 n. 37, 100 n. 6, 101 n. 12, 107 n. 31, 113 n. 62, 228 n. 11, 228 n. 12, 238 Helle, Knut 76 n. 1, 87 n. 70, 125 nn. 47-8, 138 n. 17, 140 n. 28, 143, 222 Henriksen, Jørn Erik 83 n. 46 Hermann, Pernille 16 n. 26, 59 Hermann Pálsson 178, 179 n. 35, 36, 181, 181 n. 39, 41, 187, 189, 234 n. 35, 236 Hermanson, Lars 20 n. 40, 222, 237, 238 Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks 42 Hesjedal, Anders 89 n. 81 Heslop, Kate 239 Hieatt, Constance 14

Hildegard von Bingen 68 Hildigunnr Beinisdóttir, sorceress 39 Hildigunnr of Njáls saga 214, 215, 216, 219 Hilmar Garðarsson 35 n. 26 Hill, Thomas D. 213 n. 26, 221 Hines, John 222 Hjördís 196 Hœnsa-Þórir 20, 101, 102, 104-14 Hœnsa-Þóris saga 18, 100, 101 n. 12, 102, 103 n. 17, 104 n. 22, 105 nn. 23 and 25, 106, 108, 109 nn. 40-41, 111 nn. 50-51, 113, 114 n. 65 Hoddbroddr Granmarrson (Guðmundr) in Völsunga saga 174, 174 n. 27 Hohler, Erla 59 n. 20 Holt, Richard 82 n. 41, 85 n. 58 Holtsmark, Anne 218 n. 47, 221 Hǫskuldr Njállson hvítanessgoði 214-216 Högni 192, 193, 199 Hrafn in Atla saga Ótryggssonar 182 Hreiðmarr 197 Hughes, Shaun F. D. 169 n. 6. Humphrey, Chris 233 n. 34, 238 Hybel, Nils 37 nn. 45-46 Illugi 176-178, 184, 187 Imsen, Steinar 121 n. 22, 142, 143, 222 Innes, Matthew 238 Insoll, Timothy 237 Inwood, Michael 32 n. 5 Isaksson, Sven 14 n. 10 Iswolsky, Hélène 237 Ívarr inn víðfaðmi, king of Sweden 41 Jennbert, Kristina 35 n. 34 Jennings, Ann E. 35 n. 27 Jens, K. V. 162 Jesch, Judit 216 n. 37, 221 Jezierski, Wojtek 222, 237, 238 Jochens, Jenny 24, 38 n. 53, 43 n. 82, 175, 175 n. 30, 189, 214 nn. 31-32, 221 Jolly, Karen 32 n. 8, 34 n. 25 Jóhanna Katrín Fríðriksdóttir 197 n. 13, 206 Jón Guðmundsson lærði 183 Jón Helgason 187 Jón Jóhannesson 100 n. 7, 101 n. 12 Jon Marteinsson, Norwegian knight 127 Jón Sigurðsson 181 n. 40 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson 21 n. 45, 23 n. 49, 107 n. 31, 147 n. 11, 148 n. 13, 163, 209 n. 7, 12, 210, 210 n. 14, 221, 225 n. 5, 228 n. 14, 229 n. 15, 230 nn. 21 and24, 235 n. 42, 236 nn. 43-44, 238 Jón Þorláksson syslumaður in Múlasýsla 183 Jónakr 204 n. 33 Jónas Gíslason 36 n. 43 Jónas Kristjánsson 174 n. 26, 29, 188 Jones, P. D. 35 n. 29 Jong, Jonathan 32 n. 10 Jørgensen, T. 162 Julius Africanus 34

244 

Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia

Kaland, Bjørn 58 n. 19 Keller, Christian 38 n. 50 Kenny, Anthony 31 n. 2 Kenny, Charles 31 n. 2 Ketill hængr 171 Ketill raumr 172 Ketill Sígfússon 216 Ketils saga hængs 169 Keyser, Rudolf 147 n. 8, 10, 162 Kieckhefer, Richard 17 n. 31, 34 nn. 19 and 24, 198, 198 n. 17, 206 Kiil, Alf 134 n. 5, 143, 149 n. 26 Kill, Al 88 nn. 71 and 73 Kjær, Lars 121 n. 24 Kjesrud, Karoline 16, 58 n. 14, 66 n. 38 Kleivane, Elise 63 Knut Håkonsson, earl 120 Knútr, king of England, Denmark and Norway see Cnut the Great 37 Knýtlinga saga 37 Kolbeinn Þórðarson of Njáls saga 215 Krag, Klaus 208 n. 3, 222 Krákur in Atla saga Ótryggssonar 182 Krappe, Alexander H. 39 n. 57 Kvasir 213 n. 26

Magnús Óláfsson, king of Norway 79 Magnus VI Lagabøte (the Lawmender), king of Norway 120, 126, 147 Magrini, James 32 n. 7 Males, Mikael 55 n. 6, 62 n. 32 Malinowski, Bronislaw 32 n. 11 Mann, M. E. 35 n. 29 Maraschi, Andrea 14 n. 16, 16 n. 25, 19 n. 36, 21 n. 44, 22 n. 47, 32 n. 4, 33 n. 12, 35 n. 29, 36 n. 39, 38 nn. 48 and 55, 39 nn. 56-7 and 59, 40 n. 66, 42 nn. 79-80 Maríu saga 53 n. 1, 64 Marsch, Sarah 146 n. 3, 162 Margareta I, queen of Denmark, Norway and Sweden 127 Martens, Jason P. 32 n. 10 Massenzio, Marcello 40 n. 68 Mathew, Thomas F.s 55 n. 7 Matthías Þórðarson 228 n. 13, 236 Maurer, Konrad 101 n. 12 Mauss, Marcel 34 n. 23 Mayewski, Paul A. 35 n. 29 McCracken, Peggy 21 n. 44 McDonald, Jennifer R. 151 n. 23, 162 McGillivray, Andrew 17, 200 n. 25, 206 McGovern, Thomas H. 35 n. 28, 38 nn. 49-50 McKinnell, John 33 n. 15 McTurk, Rory 163 Meeker, Loren D. 35 n. 29 Mehler, Natascha 14 n. 11 Messedaglia, Luigi 14 n. 7 Metcalfe, Frederick 84 n. 53 Meylan, Nicolas 38 n. 54 Michael Beheim 123 Miller, William Ian 100 n. 1, 108, 109, 151 n. 23, 162, 209 n. 11, 222 Millet, Victor 239 Mitchell, Stephen A. 15, 17 n. 28, 33 n. 14, 33 n. 16, 36 n. 42, 37 n. 47, 38 nn. 48 and 52, 40 n. 65, 43 n. 84, 175, 175 n. 32, 189, 196, 196 n. 11, 206 Moland, Einar 122 n. 29 Molbech, Christian 123 n. 33 Montanari, Massimo 13, 14 n. 5, 15 n. 19, 16 n. 24, 24 n. 52, 32 n. 1, 36 n. 36, 224 n. 2, 237, 238 Moore, Nicholas J. 40 n. 70 Morris, Katherine 196, 196 n. 10, 197 n. 14, 199 n. 24, 204, 204 n. 34, 206 Mucchielli, Laurent 13 n. 2 Munch, Peter Andreas 147 n. 8, 10, 162 Mundal, Else 33 n. 16, 56 n. 9, 62 n. 31 Myhre, Bjørn 122 n. 32, 123 n. 39

Lambert, Peter 238 Langeslag, Paul S. 233 n. 32, 238 Larrington, Carolyne 168, 168 n. 3, 189, 193 n. 4, 206 Larsen, Marion Fjelde 79 n. 16 Larson, Lawrence M. 18 n. 34 Lassen, Annette 41 n. 73, 188, 205, 206 Lavender, Philip 22, 23, 189 Le Goff, Jacques 13 Leifr Eiríksson 38 Leslie-Jacobsen, Helen F. 22, 145, 163 Lethbridge, Emily 100 n. 7 Levering, Matthew 40 n. 70 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 13 n. 4, 33 n. 13 Liestøl, Aslak 61 Lincoln, Bruce 35 n. 34 Lindow, John 205 Ljósvetninga saga 113 n. 59 Loth, Agnete 171 n. 16, 173 n. 25, 188 Løkka, Nanna 68 Lönnroth, Lars 205, 213 n. 28, 222 Lõuga, Lembis 14 n. 10 Lunden, Kåre 100 n. 5, 113 n. 62, 119 n. 9, 120, 121, 123 n. 38 Lycurgus 23 Lykke, Christian 135, 135 n. 9, 136 n. 13, 139 n. 24, 143 Magnus Eriksson (Magnus IV), king of Norway and Sweden 118, 121 Magnús Hákonarson (Magnús VI), king of Norway 22, 23, 147 Magnús Már Lárusson 60 n. 24

Näsström, Britt-Mari 55 n. 5 Nedkvitne, Arnved 18 n. 35, 76 n. 1, 80 n. 25, 81 nn. 30 and 36-7, 82 n. 40, 87 n. 68, 88 n. 74, 138, 138 n. 19, 143 Nees, Lawrence 55 n. 7 Ney, Agneta 188, 205, 206

Index of names and tex ts

Nielssen, Alf Ragnar 76 n. 2, 78 n. 13, 80 nn. 23-4 and 29, 83 n. 46, 86 nn. 59-61, 87 nn. 69-70, 88 nn. 72 and 75-6, 89 nn. 84 and 87, 90 n. 90, 143 Nissen, Harald A. 135 n. 10., 143 Njáls saga 35 Njåstad, Magne 18, 89 n. 80, 143 Nora, Pierre 13 Nordeide, Sæbjørg Walaker 151 n. 23, 162 Nordhagen, Peter Jonas 58 n. 19 Nordvig, Mathias 65 n. 36 Norseng, Per 125 n. 49 Notaker, Henry 14 O’Brien O’Keeffe, Katherine 20 n. 40 O’Donoghue, Heather 36 n. 27, 216 n. 39, 222 Oakes, Catherine 58 n. 18 Oddr Arngeirsson 169 Oddr Ofeigsson 109, 110 Ogilvie, Astrid E. J. 35 n. 26, 36 n. 41, 142 n. 29, 143 Ohlgren, Thomas H. 187 Ohthere of Hålogaland 76-8, 87 Ólafur in Atla saga Ótryggssonar 182 Óláfr I, king of Denmark 37 Óláfr II Haraldsson (st. Óláfr), king of Norway 83, 84, 211, 212 Óláfr III Haraldsson kyrri, king of Norway 211, 212 Óláfr Magnússon, king of Norway 79 Óláfr trételgja 41, 42 Óláfr I Tryggvason, king of Norway 40, 41 Óláfs sagaTryggvasonar 40 Olavsson, Ogmund 136 Ǫlkofra þáttr 18, 99, 103 n. 19, 105 nn. 24 and 26, 108 nn. 36 and 37 Ǫlkofri 20, 103 Olsen, Bjørnar 83 n. 46 Olsen, Magnus 194 n. 5, 195 n. 7, 196 n. 9, 199 n. 21, 22, 23, 200 n. 26, 201 n. 28, 202 n. 29, 30, 205 Olsson, Mats 37 n. 46 Opsahl, Erik 19, 88 n. 79 Orkneyinga saga 81 Orms þáttr Stórólfssonar 171 Orning, Hans Jacob 15, 33 n. 12, 33 nn. 15-6, 222, 229 n. 17, 232 n. 27., 234 n. 37, 235 n. 41, 236 n. 45, 237, 238 Óðinn 195, 195 n. 7. Øverenget, Einar 32 n. 5 Øye, Ingvild 14 n. 12, 22 n. 48, 122 n. 31, 123 n. 39, 151 n. 23, 162, 163 Ǫlvir 213 Öskubuska in Vilmundar saga viðutan 173 n. 25 Pajung, Stefan 118 n. 2, 119 nn. 8 and 12, 120 nn. 14-5, 121 n. 23, 122 n. 32, 124 n. 41 Patrick, Ruth 146 n. 5, 163

245 Paulsen, Robert K. 146 n. 7, 162 Páll Bjarnason 178, 187 Pencak, William 100 n. 4, 109 n. 42, 111 n. 49 Penniman, John D. 16 n. 27 Pentikänen, Juha 33 n. 14 Perdikaris, Sophia P. 35 n. 28 Pettersen, Gunnar I. 126 n. 55 Peyer, Hans Conrad 21, 207, 208, 208 n. 2, 222 Philip VI, king of France 121 Pietro Querini 18, 19, 88, 89, 123, 124, 131-137, 140 Pires Boulhosa, Patricia 35 n. 30 Plahter, Unn 59 n. 21 Plutarch 21 Poilvez, Marion 20 Poole, Kristopher 14 n. 10 Poulsen, Bjørn 37 n. 45 and 46 Power, Rosemary 36 n. 38 Price, Neil 33 n. 16, 38 n. 54 Quinn, Judy 188, 195 n. 7, 206, 228. n. 13, 237, 239 Rafn, Carl Christian 169 n. 6, 7, 170 n. 10, 171 n. 15, 17, 174 n. 28, 188 Rasch, Per-Olav Broback. 136 n. 13, 143 Raudvere, Catharina 33 n. 16, 34 n. 17, 35 n. 33, 38 nn. 52-3 Rerirr 195 n. 7. Rikstad, Gunhild 14 n. 10 Rímur af Illuga eldhúsgoða 167, 175, 178, 180 Rosen, Roee 59 n. 23 Rubin, Miri 13 n. 2, 58 n. 15 Rutkowski, Jan 14 n. 6 Saga Heiðreks konungs ins vitra 42 Sahm, Heike 239 Salomon, bishop of Oslo 119 Salonen, K 162 Sandnes, Jørn 121 n. 22 Sandvik, Gudmund 23 n. 49, 147 n. 11, 12, 163 Saxo Grammaticus 37, 170 n. 12, 172, 178, 180 Sayers, William 114 n. 64 Schiefenhövel, Wulf 237 Schjødt, Jens Peter 33 n. 15, 65 n. 36 Schoemaker, Stephen J. 55 n. 3 Schulman, Jana 147 n. 9, 152 n. 27, 162 Schulz, Rudolf 237 Segev, Dror 17 n. 28, 34 nn. 17 and 23 Sepherd, David 146 n. 4, 163 Shakespeare, William 172 Sigi 195 n. 7 Sigrdrífa 67 Sigmundr in Völsunga saga 194-196, 200 n. 26, 203, 204 Sigurd Jonsson 117, 118 Sigurðar saga þögla 171 Sigurðr ‘Slembe’ 80 Sigurðr Fáfnisbani 66, 67, 192-204

246 

Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia

Sigurðr Magnússon, king of Norway 79 Sigurður Nordal 220 Simek, Rudolf 55 n. 5, 181, 181 n. 41, 189 Simon, apostle 39 Simpson, Shannon Lewis 189 Simonsson, Mikael 14 n. 13 Sinfjötli 174, 192-195, 203 Skaar, Rebekka Alette 151 n. 23, 163 Skaare, Kolbjørn. 149 n. 19, 163 Skalla-Grímr 212 Skapti lǫgsǫgumaðr 104 Skelfungur in Atla saga Ótryggssonar 183 Skúli Bárðarson 80 Slay, Desmond 222 Småberg, Thomas 222, 237, 238 Snorri goði 103, 227, 231, 232 Snorri Sturluson 19, 40-2, 55, 56, 69, 233 n. 30 Súley, Princess in Vilmundar saga viðutan 173 n. 25 St. Augustine see Augustine of Hippo St. Óláfr see Óláfr II Haraldsson St. Þorlákr see Þorlákr Þórhallsson Star, Bastiaan 78 n. 11 Starkaðr in Gautreks saga 169 Steen, Sverre 125 nn. 45 and 46 Steinsland, Gro 56 n. 12, 61 n. 28, 62 n. 31 Stewart, Charles 32 n. 7, 40 n. 67 Sturla Þórðarson 120, 209 Sturlaugur 171 Sturlungar 227 Styr in Eyrbyggja saga 235 Sunde, Jørn Øyrehagen 146 n. 6, 163 Surts in Ketils saga hœngs 169 Svaða þáttr 36 Svein Knutsson, king of Norway 79 Sveinn Alfijivasson, Norwegian earl 68 Svensson, Patrick 37 n. 46 Sverre Sigurdsson, king of Norway 19, 118, 120, 122 Sverres saga 17, 81, 122 Sverrir Jakobsson 20 n. 38, 101 n. 12, 113 nn. 60 and 63, 239 Sverrir Tómasson 14 n. 17, 35 n. 31 Sweeney, Michelle 17 n. 32, 199 n. 20, 206

Þorkell trefill Rauða-Bjarnarson 102, 104 Þormóðr Torfæus 179 n. 35 Þorlákr Þórhallsson, bishop of Skálholt 37, 39 Þorláks saga byskups in elzta 37 n. 47, 39 nn. 61 and 63 Þorleif kimbi 231 Þoroddr skattkaupandi 233 Þorsteinn in Ármanns saga ok Þorsteins gala and Ármanns saga in yngri 183-186 Þorsteinn in Vatnsdœla saga 172 Þórdís Súrsdóttir 219, 219. n. 48 Þórhildr in Njáls saga 216 Þórólf Skelfungsson in Atla saga Ótryggssonar 183 Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfsson 77 Þórólfr Skalla-grímsson 213. n. 28, 214 n. 28 Þorvaldr Konráðsson 36 Þorvalds þáttur viðförla 36, 104 n. 22 Þórðr beigaldi in Egils saga 169 Þórðr Freys’s góði 215 Þráinn in Njáls saga 216 Þuríðr sundafyllir, vǫlva 39 Tognetti, Sergio 20 n. 39 Tolley, Clive 17 n. 30, 39 n. 58, 41 n. 74 Torfi H. Tulinius 16, 21 n. 45, 33 nn. 15-6, 100 n. 2, 192. n. 3, 195 n. 6, 206, 225 n. 3, 227 nn. 7-8, 231 n. 25, 239 Tracy, Jessica L. 32 n. 10 Trausti Jónsson 35 n. 26 Tungu-Oddr 102, 106 Tveit, Miriam 79 n. 21

Tacitus 21 Tanzini, Lorenzo 20 n. 39 Tolley, Clive 192 n. 1., 206 Þetleifr Bíturúlfsson in Þiðreks saga 173 Þiðreks saga 173, 186 Þorbjǫrg in Eyrbyggja saga 38 Þorgerðr Glúmsdóttir in Njáls saga 216 Þorgerðr Njálsdóttir in Njáls saga 216 Þorgrímr Þorsteinson goði 217-219, 235 Þórhallr Ǫlkofri 101, 103-108, 111-114 Þórhallr veiðimaðr 39 Þorkell Geitisson 104 Þorkell Jóhannesson 35 n. 30 Þorkell Súrsson 217-219

Uecker, Heiko 178, 188 Valeri, Renée 14 Van Deusen, Natalie 209, 209 n. 8., 214 n. 30, 222 Von Erzdorff, Xenja 237 Vangensten, Ove C.L. 123 n. 33 Vatnsdœla saga 172 Vatnsfirðingar 227 Vergilius 176 Vémundr, local king in Norway 211 Vémundr in Eyrbyggja saga 234, 235 Vésteinn Ólason 174 n. 29, 188, 208 n. 5, 213. n. 27, 214 n. 29, 222 Vésteinn Vésteinsson 217, 218, 235 Viðar Hreinsson 220, 237 Viðar Pálsson 21, 101 n. 12, 209, 210 n. 13, 15-16., 222, 229 n. 16, 18, 232 nn. 26, 28, 239 Viklund, Karin 14 n. 14 Vilmundar saga viðutan 186 Víga-Glúms saga 173, 175 Vígfuss in Víga-Glúms saga 173 Vogt, Helle 151 n. 23, 162 Völsunga saga 15, 174, 191-194, 196, 197, 199, 202-204 Völsungr 193, 195 n. 7., 196

247

Index of names and tex ts

Waggoner, Ben 33 n. 12 Weber, Gerd Wolfgang 205 Weiler, Björn 238 Whaley, Diana 68 n. 45 Wichstrøm, Anne 59 n. 20 Wiessner, Polly 237 Wilbraham, Anne 14 n.7 William of Sabina, cardinal 124 Wills, Tarrin 239

Wold, Helge A. 89 n. 81, 123 n. 34, 142 Wubs-Mrozewicz, Justyna 86 n. 64 Ynglinga saga 41 Yngvarr in Egils saga 212 Yngvars saga víðförla 104, n. 22 Zilmer, Kristel 63



Index of places

Alaska 37 Andenes 136 Alþingi 2015 Arctic 75-82, 86, 90, 91 Arnafjǫrdr 218 Atley 213 Ásgarðr 65 Baltic 138 Basel 132 Bergen 19, 61, 81, 86-9, 91, 118-20, 124, 125, 131-134, 136-142 Bjarmaland 183 Borgarfijjordur 101 n. 12 Brattahlið 38 British Isles 58 n. 18, 138 Bruges 132 Buksnes 136 Bryggen 61, 62 Byzantium 120 Cadiz:132 Canary Islands 132 Chalcedon 55 Cologne 81 Copenhagen 120 Cornwall 132 Crete 132 Denmark 37, 68 Drävle 66 Egypt 55 Elingaard, Onsøy 64 England 14, 68, 76-8, 81, 83, 119, 132, 137-139 Ephesos 55 Europe 132, 186 Eyjafjörður 113 n. 59 Faroe Islands 138, 139 Finnmark 83, 85-8, 90, 135 Fitjar 210 n. 15. Flanders 119, 131, 132, 138 Fróðá 233 Germany 14, 19, 76, 119, 137, 138 Gotland 58 n. 18 Gran, Hadeland 59 Grandvík 184 Greenland 37, 38 and n. 49 Guðbrandsdalr 211 Hadsel 136 Haga, Averøy 64 Haithabu (Hedeby) 77, 79

Haðaland 211 Hálogaland 83, 84, 86, 88 Hǫrðland on Storð 210 n. 15., 211 Iceland 20-3, 35, 38 n. 49, 77, 99, 101, 111, 113, 138, 139, 145, 146, 148, 181, 184, 193, 197, 200, 204, 208, 209, 212, 213 n. 27, 214, 217, 223-229, 231, 234 n. 35, 236 Ireland 132 Irish sea 132 Italy 14 Lisbon 132 Lo, Nord-Fron 65 Lofoten archipelago 76, 77, 79, 89, 131, 132, 133, 134, 137 London 18, 78, 89 Lödöse, Sweden 132 Lübeck 81, 117, 138 Mæren 40 Malangen fijjord 83 Miðfjörður 110 Møre and Romsdal 64 Nidaros see Trondheim Nordland 135 Norðrtunga, Iceland 103 Norway 18, 19, 22, 40, 59, 61, 64, 65, 68, 76-80, 82-6, 87, 89, 90, 117-121, 123-127, 131-139, 141, 142, 145, 147, 159, 184, 193, 208, 209, 211, 212, 213, 226 Novgorod 85 Orkney 138 Oslo 117, 119 Ørligstað 231 Reiðgotaland 42 Rome 57 Røst 18, 89, 131-134, 136, 137, 140 Scotland 77 Shetland 138 Skaftafell Assembly 215 Sogn 211 Strait of Gibraltar 132 Sunnmøre 134 Sweden 41, 58 n. 18, 60, 118, 120, 137 Tel Rehov 57 Þórhallsstaðir, Iceland 103 Tønsberg 117 Tresfjord 59 Troms 135, 136

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Food Culture in Medieval Scandinavia

Tromsø 83 Trondheim 81, 84, 87-9, 120, 132, 134, 136, 137, 139 Trondheimsfjord 40

Vågan 134, 139 Vardø 84 Vatn, Iceland 102 Vatnsnes, Iceland 110 Venice 132 Vík 182

Upplǫnd 211 Uppsala 41 Utrecht 81 Vadstena 60, 132 Vágar 77, 79-81, 88

Westfjords in Iceland 181 York 78