Sturla Þórðarson: Skald, Chieftain and Lawman 9789004342354 9004342354

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Sturla Þórðarson

The Northern World North Europe and the Baltic c. 400–1700 ad. Peoples, Economics and Cultures

Editors Jón Viðar Sigurðsson (Oslo) Piotr Gorecki (University of California at Riverside) Steve Murdoch (St. Andrews) Cordelia Heß (Gothenburg) Anne Pedersen (National Museum of Denmark)

VOLUME 78

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/nw

Sturla Þórðarson Skald, Chieftain and Lawman Edited by

Jón Viðar Sigurðsson Sverrir Jakobsson

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Fol. 36r from Sturlunga saga; Iceland, 1350–1370 (am 122a) depicting a man with an ax and a man with a crown and sword. With kind permission of Stofnun Árna Magnússonar í íslenskum fræðum, Reykjavík. The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov lc record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016059382

Kindly note that although Jón Viðar Sigurðsson is a series editor for the NW series he was NOT part of the decision-making/review process with regard to this volume.

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 1569-1462 isbn 978-90-04-34235-4 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-34236-1 (e-book) Copyright 2017 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents

List of Contributors vii

1 Sturla Þórðarson, The Politician 1 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson and Sverrir Jakobsson 2 The Works of Sturla Þórðarson 8 Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir 3 The Education of Sturla Þórðarson (and the Icelandic Elite) 20 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson 4 Power, Protection and Pleasure: The Marital and Extra-Marital Relationships of the Women in Sturla Þórðarson’s Life 31 Philadelphia Ricketts 5  Landnámabók and Its Sturlubók Version 44 Sveinbjörn Rafnsson 6  Sturlubók and Cultural Memory 56 Ann-Marie Long 7 Foundational Myth in Sturlubók: An Analysis of the Tale of Ingólfr and Hjörleifr 70 Verena Hoefig 8 ‘I’m on an island’: The Concept of Outlawry and Sturla’s Book of Settlements 83 Gísli Sigurðsson 9 Narrative Negotiations of Literacy Practices in Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar 93 Lena Rohrbach 10 Gautr Jónsson of Mel: Craftsman of Battle and Chief Oral Source of Hákonar saga 107 Randi Bjørshol Wærdahl

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Contents

11 Sturla: The Poet and the Creator of Prosimetrum 120 Guðrún Nordal 12 The Storied Verse of Sturla Þórðarson 133 Roberta Frank 13 Sturla Þórðarson’s Two Perspectives on Thirteenth-Century History: Royal Chronicler vs. Icelandic Chieftain 148 Hans Jacob Orning 14 Sturla Þórðarson’s Narrative Personalities 156 Theodore M. Andersson 15 Reykholt Revisited 168 Úlfar Bragason 16 Becoming Visible: Viewing Women in Íslendinga saga 180 Auður Magnúsdóttir 17 A Personal Account: The Official and the Individual in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar 192 Ármann Jakobsson 18 The Bias and Alleged Impartiality of Sturla Þórðarson 200 Helgi Þorláksson 19 Codex Reseniani: Sturla Þórðarson as an Encyclopaedic Writer 212 Sverrir Jakobsson 20 Narrative, Evidence and the Reception of Járnsíða 223 Patricia Pires Boulhosa 21 ‘New Worlds Emerging’: History and Identity in Twelfth-Century Eurasia 233 R.I. Moore 22 Postscript: The Subjectivity of Sturla Þórðarson 244 Gunnar Harðarson Bibliography 257 Index 285

List of Contributors Ann-Marie Long Postdoctoral Associate, Department of History, University of Notre Dame. Ármann Jakobsson Professor, School of Humanities, Faculty of Icelandic and Comparative C ­ ulture, University of Iceland. Auður Magnúsdóttir Senior Lecturer, Department of Historical Studies, University of Gothenburg. Gísli Sigurðsson Research Professor, Árni Magnússon Institute in Icelandic Studies, Reykjavík. Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir Research professor, Árni Magnússon Institute in Icelandic Studies, Reykjavík. Guðrún Nordal Director, Árni Magnússon Institute for Icelandic Studies, Reykjavík. Gunnar Harðarson Professor, School of Humanities, Faculty of History and Philosophy, University of Iceland. Hans Jacob Orning Professor, Department of Archaeology, Conservation and History, University of Oslo. Helgi Þorláksson Professor Emeritus, School of Humanities, Faculty of History and Philosophy, University of Iceland. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson Professor, Department of Archaeology, Conservation and History, University of Oslo. Lena Rohrbach Associate Professor, Department of Northern European Studies, Humboldt University of Berlin.

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List of Contributors

Patricia Pires Boulhosa Honorary Research Associate, Department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic, University of Cambridge. Philadelphia Ricketts Dr, Independent scholar. R.I. Moore Professor Emeritus of Medieval History, University of Newcastle. Randi Bjørshol Wærdahl Associate Professor, Norwegian University of Science and Technology in Trondheim. Roberta Frank Marie Borroff Professor of English, Department of English, Yale University. Sveinbjörn Rafnsson Professor emeritus, School of Humanities, Faculty of History and Philosophy, University of Iceland. Sverrir Jakobsson Professor, School of Humanities, Faculty of History and Philosophy, University of Iceland. Theodore M. Andersson Professor Emeritus, Indiana University. Úlfar Bragason Research Professor, Árni Magnússon Institute of Icelandic Studies in Iceland, Reykjavík. Verena Hoefig Post-Doctoral Research Associate at the Scandinavian Program, Dept. of ­Germanic Languages and Literatures, University of Illinois.

chapter 1

Sturla Þórðarson, The Politician Jón Viðar Sigurðsson and Sverrir Jakobsson Sturla Þórðarson is one of Iceland’s most famous medieval politicians and authors. He lived during the most turbulent of times in Icelandic history, the civil war period between 1220–1264 usually called the Sturlunga Age after the family Sturla belonged to. During the years 1262 to 1264, Iceland became a tributary land of Norway, and later in 1271 and 1281, respectively, the country received two new law books, Járnsíða and Jónsbók, which introduced a new administrative system based on a Norwegian model. The new system transformed the old chieftaincy system which had been established when Iceland was settled around 870. Thus, Sturla belonged to the last generation of goðar (‘chieftains’, sing. goði) and the first generation of hirðmenn (‘royal liegemen’), who were also members of the new royal administration in Iceland. Sturla Þórðarson is one of only a handful of thirteenth-century Icelandic historians to be known by name, but he is certainly one of the most significant. A number of works may be traced directly to his literary-cultural circle, notably Landnámabók, Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga. Moreover, it is thought that Sturla was involved in the production of the legal text known as Járnsíða, as well as various annals and, possibly, some of the Íslendingasögur. The most important sources concerning his life can be found in that portion of the Sturlunga compilation known as Íslendinga saga, a text for which Sturla himself was responsible. Sturla was born on 29 July 1214. His father was the chieftain Þórðr Sturluson and his mother, Þóra, a woman of unknown family. Þórðr had five sons and Sturla was the fourth. Very little is known about Sturla until he enters what is often called ‘the power game’ (i.e., Icelandic politics) around 1237, propelled into the proceedings by his cousin Sturla Sighvatsson. In 1235 Sturla Sighvatsson came back from Norway with a plan that King Hákon and he had devised whereby Sturla was to try and bring the country under the rule of the king. Within a short time, Sturla managed to gain control of the areas governed by his uncle Snorri Sturluson and Snorri’s son Órækja, forcing them to go to ­Norway. Sturla’s next step was to attack the Haukdælir and the Ásbirningar. The decisive battle was at Örlygsstaðir in 1238. The leaders of the Haukdælir and the Ásbirningar, Gizurr Þorvaldsson and Kolbeinn ungi, won a decisive

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j.v. Sigurðsson and s. Jakobsson

victory. Sturla, his father Sighvatr and three of Sturla’s brothers were killed. Sturla Þórðarson fought in the battle at his nephew’s side. When the battle in 1238 was fought, Sturla was not a chieftain. His father, Þórðr Sturluson, died on 10 April 1237, and it was his oldest son Böðvarr who inherited Þórðr’s position of power. In 1239 Snorri and Órækja travelled back to Iceland and regained control over the territories they had managed before Sturla forced them to leave the country. The following year, Snorri Sturluson put Sturla Þórðarson in charge of Sauðafell, the farm Sturla Sighvatsson had controlled, and gave him his share of the Snorrungagoðorð, the chieftaincy belonging to the Sturlunga family. Snorri had owned one third of the chieftaincy, and Böðvarr, also a one-third owner, gave his share to as well.1 It is likely that Sólveig Sæmundardóttir gave Sturla the final third of the chieftaincy that her husband Sturla Sighvatsson had controlled. The Snorrungagoðorð had belonged to Sturla’s grandfather and namesake, Hvamm-Sturla Þórðarson. Hvamm-Sturla married Guðný Böðvarsdóttir around the year 1160 and had three sons by her, Þórðr, born around 1165, Sighvatr, born 1170, and Snorri, born around 1179. When Hvamm-Sturla died in 1183, Þórðr gained control of the Snorrungagoðorð. In 1186 Þórðr Sturluson secured control of half of the Þórsnesingagoðorð through marriage, and twelve years later he obtained authority over the other half. Sighvatr then took over their family chieftaincy. Four years later he gave it to his son, Sturla, as a wedding gift.2 In 1224 Þórðr, Sighvatr and the third brother, Snorri, began to quarrel about the Snorrungagoðorð. Þórðr and Snorri joined forces and in 1227 the chieftaincy was removed from Sturla’s custody.3 In 1241 a dispute between Órækja and Einarr Þorvaldsson and later between Órækja and Sturla Þórðarson, broke out over who should have authority over seven farms in Saurbær – Staðarhóll, Hvítadalur, Múli, Þverfell, Þverdalur, Eysteinsstaðir and Saurhóll.4 Órækja summoned Einarr to a raunarstefna, a meeting to investigate the matter, at Þorskafjarðarþing to decide whether he had proof of authority over the above-mentioned farms, and at the assembly 1 Sturlunga saga, 1: 447. 2 Sturlunga saga, 1: 303. 3 The most usual form of succession in the Free State period was for sons to inherit the chieftaincy jointly and decide among themselves who should be responsible for its actual management. When brothers were in agreement as to who should inherit the position of power, or when the chieftain had only one son, no problems arose. But if the chieftain had several eligible sons, the situation could lead to conflict between them. The clearest example of this is the conflict over the control of Snorrungagoðorð. 4 Sturlunga saga, 1: 448. The total assessed value of these farms was at least 654 hundreds (Björn Lárusson The Old Icelandic Land Registers: 185–86).

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all these farms were awarded to Órækja. When Sturla Þórðarson discovered that Staðarhóll had been taken from him by legal verdict, he went to Fell and met the priest, Páll Hallsson, who owned half the farm jointly with the church. They agreed that Sturla should prosecute the case and achieve a settlement. Sturla appealed the verdict on the grounds that it was unjust. Sturla won the case and Staðarhóll was awarded to him. Soon afterwards, Órækja and Sturla met and in order to gain Sturla’s friendship, Órækja gave him all the proofs he claimed he had had at Staðarhóll.5 For the next few years Sturla was an important ally of Órækja and supported him on a number of occasions; for example, he backed Órækja in his attempt to avenge the killing of his father in 1242. A reconciliation meeting was organized between Órækja and Sturla on one side, and Gizurr Þorvaldsson and ­Kolbeinn ungi, on the other. Gizurr and Kolbeinn managed to take both Órækja and Sturla as prisoners. Órækja was forced to leave the country, while Kolbeinn received a message from Sturla’s in-laws pledging their friendship if he released Sturla. At first Kolbeinn refused and demanded that Sturla leave Iceland for Norway, but he changed his mind and sent a message to Sturla’s in-laws that he desired their friendship. They, and many other men from the Western Quarter, then went to Kolbeinn to cement their friendship with him.6 In 1247 Þórðr kakali (‘little pot’ or ‘stammerer’) Sighvatsson, brother of Sturla Sighvatsson, was sent to Iceland with Bishop Heinrekr of Hólar ‘to persuade the people to accept Hákon as their king and such skattgiafir (‘tribute payments’) as they agreed upon.’7 Þórðr’s first action after coming to Iceland was to subjugate Snorri Sturluson’s domain in Borgarfjörður. Then he conquered the entire Western and Northern Quarters without any opposition. The king, however, was not satisfied with the way Þórðr was going about things. Thinking that Þórðr was trying to achieve personal control of the country, he therefore, summoned Þórðr to Norway in 1249. As a royal liegeman (hirðmaðr), Þórðr was obliged to obey the summons. Before departing, he divided his domain between friends and relatives: Hrani Koðránsson got Eyjafjörður, Eyjólfr Þorsteinsson was given the task of managing Skagafjörður, Hrafn Oddsson was

5 Sturlunga saga, 1: 448–51. 6 Sturlunga saga, 1: 471. 7 Codex Frisianus: en Samling af norske Kongesagaer: 533. ‘þa var sendr vt þorþr kakali með Heinreki byskupi. skylldo þeir flytia þat eyrindi við lanzfolkit. at allir iattaðiz vndir ríki Hakonar konungs ok slikar skattgiafir sem þeim semði.’ Cf. Flateyjarbók, 3: 527; Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar etter Sth. 8 fol., am 325 viii,4: o og am 304,4: o.: 144.

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j.v. Sigurðsson and s. Jakobsson

given authority over Vestfirðir, Sturla Þórðarson and Jón Sturluson were to manage Dalir and Þorleifr in Garðar was to be in charge of Borgarfjörður.8 In the Sturlunga Age power game it was of significant importance for the competing families to control the office of Lawspeaker. Haukdælir controlled the post in the years 1219–1221, 1236–1247, and 1253–1258. A member or ally of the Sturlungar family held this office between 1222–1231 and 1248–1252. Sturla was elected to this office in the year 1251, but it is unclear why he held it for only a year. He was succeeded by his brother, who also held it for merely a year. In 1252, King Hákon delegated authority in most of the goðorð (chieftaincies) under his control to his liegemen. He appointed Þorgils skarði (‘harelip’) Böðvarsson to Borgarfjörður and gave Gizurr Þorvaldsson authority over the Northern Quarter west of Vaðlaheiði (i.e., the areas of Eyjafjörður, Skagafjörður and Húnaþing), while Finnbjörn Helgason would have control of the area between Vaðlaheiði and the quarter boundary that separated the Northern and Eastern Quarters.9 Gizurr then bought the farm of Flugumýri in Skagafjörður from the bishop at Hólar and established his residence there.10 Soon afterwards men travelled between Gizurr and Hrafn Oddsson, at that time the most powerful of Þórðr kakali’s friends, in an effort to bridge the gap between the two men and establish friendship between them. This was also intended to reduce the tension that existed between Gizurr and Sturla, who was second only to Hrafn amongst the group of men appointed by Þórðr kakali in 1249 to manage and watch over his domain. A short time later, Hallr, one of Gizurr’s sons, requested the hand of Ingibjörg, Sturla Þórðarson’s daughter, in marriage. At the General Assembly in 1253, it was decided that the wedding should take place at Flugumýri on the first Sunday of winter.11 An important aspect of marriage alliances between chieftains was the negotiation concerning mutual support between families before the marriage could take place. Sturla does not mention any kind of negotiation between Gizurr and Hrafn, or between himself and Gizurr, but it is likely that they all came to some kind of agreement, at the very least agreeing not to support each other’s enemies. This was especially important for Gizurr; his friendship with Hrafn and Sturla ensured that in the future, they would have to withhold support from other chieftains appointed to the territory under Þórðr kakali’s control. However, friendship 8 9

10 11

Sturlunga saga, 2: 86, 288–89. Sturlunga saga, 1: 476; Sturlunga saga, 2: 118, 120, 121, 127, 145, 149, 291; Skálholtsbók. Det Arnamagnæanske Haandskrift 81a Fol. Skálholtsbók yngsta: 625, 631; Eirspennill, am 47 fol.: 635, 638. Sturlunga saga, 1: 478. Sturlunga saga, 2: 149.

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with Gizurr was also important for Hrafn and Sturla. He was the most powerful of the king’s men – in reality, the most powerful man in the country, with his powerbase in southern Iceland – and his support and friendship strengthened their position not only in Iceland, but also with the king. In short, this alliance not only divided the group of Þórðr kakali’s friends, but also altered the political landscape of the country.12 Two days after the wedding Gizurr was attacked and his farm burned down; Gizurr escaped but his wife and all of his sons perished. In Í­ slendinga saga Sturla gives a detailed portrayal of the wedding and the fire. His description is neutral until he starts discussing the fate of his daughter, at which point he cannot control his emotions: ‘Var hon mjök þrekuð, barn at aldri.’13 Sturla was strongly involved in the power game in the last years of the Free State, but he always stood in the shadows of more powerful men, e.g., Gizurr Þorvaldsson, Hrafn Oddsson, Þorvarðr Þórarinsson, and Þorgils skarði Böðvarsson. King Hákon Hákonarson had tried since 1220 to gain control over Iceland. Finally, in 1261 the King sent his royal retainer, Hallvarðr gullskór (‘golden shoe’), to Iceland. He managed to force the Icelandic chieftains to agree to the country’s incorporation into the Norwegian kingdom in the next three years. Ormr Ormsson of the Svínfellingar family was the last of the Icelandic chieftains to submit to the king. In 1264, he pledged ‘the kings of Norway tribute on behalf of the people of Síða, and then all the leaders of Iceland had agreed [to pay] tax to the kings of Norway.’14 Sturla was one of those who pledged an oath to the king in 1262. In 1263, due to his attack on Stafholt and Hrafn Oddsson, that very same year, he was forced to travel to the King, and was found guilty of acts of treason against him.15 When Sturla arrived in Norway, King Hákon Hákonarson was on his famous expedition to Scotland and the Irish Sea and died later that year in the Orkneys. Sturla won the favour of King Magnús, who asked him to write a saga about his father, and later Sturla also wrote a saga about Magnús. It is likely that Sturla was involved in the composition of Járnsíða and its adoption in the years 1271–73. He became the first lögmaðr (‘lawman’) in Iceland in 1272. Until 1277, Sturla Þórðarson was the only lögmaðr in Iceland, but thereafter the 12 13 14

15

Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘The Wedding at Flugumýri in 1253’: 210–12. Sturlunga saga, 1: 494, ‘She was quite worn out, still a child’. Islandske Annaler indtil 1578: 135, ‘Noregs konvngvm skatt á alþingi firir Siðvmenn. ok þá hǫfðv allir formenn á Islanndi samþyckt vm skatt við Noregs konvnga’; Randi Bjørshol Wærdahl The Incorporation and Integration of the King’s Tributary Lands into the Norwegian Realm, c. 1195–1397: 89–99. Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Drottinsvik Sturlu Þórðarsonar’.

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country was divided into two lögdæmi (a legislative district under a lögmaðr): ‘sunnan and austan’, with Jón Einarsson as the first lögmaðr from 1277–94; and ‘norðan and vestan’, with Sturla Þórðarson as the first lögmaðr from 1277–82. This division was based on the old territorial units called fjórðungar (‘quarters’) that had been established c. 965 ad. As such, the norðan and vestan jurisdiction corresponded to the northern and western quarters, and the sunnan and austan jurisdiction to the southern and eastern quarters. Sturla served as lawman of all Iceland from 1272–77, and then as lawman for the north and west of the country until 1282. He died 30 July 1284. After Sturla returned to Iceland, he became heavily involved in the so-called staðamál dispute, the conflict between the Icelandic Church and the aristocracy who controlled of the church property: the church itself or the heirs of those who built the churches. If the church owned all the surrounding land, the local ecclesiastical institution was called a staðr (‘a church establishment’), if it owned less it was called a bændakirkja (‘a farmer’s church’); the staðir were usually wealthier than bændakirkjur.16 Until 1104 Iceland and the rest of Scandinavia belonged to the archdiocese of Hamburg/Bremen, and from 1104 to 1152/53 that of Lund and from 1152/53 onwards that of Niðarós (Trondheim). An important impetus behind the foundation of the archbishopric in Niðarós was the church reform movement. Its aim was to free the church from secular influence and place it under the leadership of the pope: the Church was to have complete authority over its clergy and the final word in the election of bishops and the appointment of priests. Second, the Church was to control its own property and finances. Third, the Church was to have jurisdiction over its own matters and personnel; members of the clergy should be separate and distinct from other classes.17 The first round in the dispute took place when Þorlákr Þórhallsson became bishop in Skálholt in 1178. Due to strong opposition from the leading Icelandic chieftain, Jón Loptsson, and lack of support from his archbishop, who was forced to leave Norway in 1180 because of conflicts with the king, Þorlákr was forced to concede. In 1269 Bishop Árni Þorláksson, on behalf of the Norwegian archbishop, reintroduced the demands of Þorlákr Þórhallsson. After a long controversy, the church and the aristocracy arrived at a compromise outlined in the concordat of Avaldsnes in 1297, which stated that staðir churches were subject to the bishop’s authority. They became lénskirkjur (‘beneficial churches’), administrated by the bishop and assigned to priests. But churches on farms, bændakirkjur, were to remain in the hands of

16 17

Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Frá goðakirkju til biskupskirkju’: 72–81. Danielsen et al., Norway. A history from the Vikings to our own times: 68.

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the laymen, provided they abided by the obligations laid down by donors, the bishop could make no further claims in such cases.18 Sturla Þórðarson was, as mentioned, born on 29 July 1214. To mark his 800th anniversary, the Árni Magnússon Institute for Icelandic Studies, together with the University of Iceland and the University of Oslo, arranged an international conference on Sturla’s life and works, that took place in Reykjavík on 27–29 November 2014. The aim of the conference was to commemorate Sturla himself, to discuss the diverse body of works attributed to him and to place them in a wider European context. 18

Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Drottinsvik Sturlu Þórðarsonar’.

chapter 2

The Works of Sturla Þórðarson Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir Fate has not always dealt kindly with the works of Sturla Þórðarson. Many medieval manuscripts containing his writings have either been lost completely or survive only in fragments. Happily, however, some of the finest manuscripts in the holdings of the Árni Magnússon Institute contain works by Sturla. The evidence of early manuscripts suggests that we can confidently attribute to Sturla Þórðarson authorship of four works: Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar Magnúss saga Hákonarsonar lagabætis Landnámabók Íslendinga saga Apart from these four works, several others have been attributed to Sturla, some for good reason, others more speculatively: *part of Járnsíða *an encyclopaedic work that included an annal *perhaps the original of Grettis saga *perhaps Kristni saga *perhaps early versions of other sagas of Icelanders It is not my intention to discuss theories about Sturla’s part in all these works. Instead I want to give a brief account of the preservation of those works that can, with reasonable certainty, be assigned to Sturla: the sagas of the Norwegian kings Hákon Hákonarson and Magnús lagabætir, Íslendinga saga, Landnámabók – and even some part of Járnsíða.

Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar

According to Sturlunga saga, Sturla compiled Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar at the instigation of king Magnús Hákonarson lagabætir, the son of Hákon.1 Sturla probably worked on the text while living in Norway (1264–65).2

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Hákonar saga can be found in five medieval vellums, though parts of the text are missing in some of these. We know that a further two vellums containing Hákonar saga and other kings’ sagas perished in the great Copenhagen fire of 1728. There are also twenty paper manuscripts that include Hákonar saga, either as an independent text or together with other kings’ sagas.3 The texts all derive from known vellums, whether or not they are still extant. Most of the paper copies were made for Danish scholars in Copenhagen. The five preserved medieval Hákonar saga vellums are all compilations containing sagas about Norwegian kings. They are arranged in chronological order, with the account of the earliest king coming first; accordingly, Hákonar saga is always the final text in each volume. The five manuscripts are sizeable, of high quality, and feature illuminated initials. The texts written out in double columns are the work of professional scribes, and were clearly produced for aristocratic patrons. The exact provenance of these manuscripts remains unclear, however: were they produced in Iceland by Icelanders who intended to export them to Norway, or were at least some of them produced in Norway, perhaps with the participation of Icelandic scribes? Many Hákonar saga manuscripts came to Norway early, with most of them apparently intended for domestic use. King Magnús lagabætir himself was a patron, and the saga of Hákon, his father, probably enjoyed special prestige and popularity at his court. The longest and most complete text of Hákonar saga may be found in the youngest kings’ saga manuscript, the so-called Skálholtsbók yngsta (am 81 a fol.). This volume was created in the mid-fifteenth century, some 200 years after Sturla Þórðarson composed the saga of king Hákon. Skálholtsbók yngsta is elegantly written in two columns mostly by three scribes, though at the end of the book we find that as many as twenty other scribes have been practicing their script there.4 Árni Magnússon first came across this volume at Skálholt around 1700; it must have been in the custody of this renowned centre of learning for centuries. The oldest and best preserved manuscript of Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar contains a much truncated version of the work. It is known as Fríssbók (Codex Frisianus, am 45 fol.), named after the Danish aristocrat, Otto Friis (d. 1699), who owned the volume during the seventeenth century. Fríssbók may date

1 2 3 4

Sturlunga saga, 2: 234. Knut Helle, ‘Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar’: 51–52. Jón Helgason, ‘Om Perg. fol. nr 8 og am 304 4to’: 18–19. The Sagas of king Sverrir and king Hakon the old: 8.

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from the beginning of the fourteenth century, some twenty or thirty years after Sturla Þórðarson’s death. The book was certainly extant in Norway from a fairly early period, since it was used in the middle of the sixteenth century by two Norwegian scholars, Laurents Hanssøn and Mattis Størsøn, possibly based in Bergen, to translate kings’ sagas into Danish. Fríssbók is a handsome volume, beautifully written in double columns, mostly by one professional scribe, on clean vellum, and with illuminated initials. It must have been produced for a Norwegian nobleman or some religious institution in Norway. Fríssbók preserves all the kings’ sagas from the beginning up to and including Hákonar saga, with the important exception of Óláfs saga helga, of which there is no trace. This may be because the first owner of the volume already owned a copy of Óláfs saga, which can be found in many medieval manuscripts.5 The third Hákonar saga manuscript to which I wish to draw attention dates from the same period as Fríssbók, that is, from the beginning of the fourteenth century. It is known as Eirspennill (am 47 fol.) after the copper clasps with which the volume can be held closed. We do not know for certain whether Eirspennill was written in Norway or Iceland, but the manuscript was certainly in Norway around 1371, for it was then that Þróndur Gerðarsson, archbishop of Nidaros [Trondheim] (1371–1381), wrote his name in the book as its owner.6 Eirspennill is a fine volume, copied out by three scribes in a large, clear and elegant script; it also features illuminated initials. Its text of Hákonar saga is much shorter than the longest extant version, which, as we noted earlier, is preserved in Skálholtsbók yngsta. The fourth Hákonar saga vellum is incomplete. It can be found in the Royal Library in Stockholm (Stockh. perg. fol. nr. 8; the three leaves which make up the am 325 viii 5 a 4to fragment are from the same manuscript). This incomplete vellum contains two kings’ sagas, Sverris saga and Hákonar saga. The text was originally written around the middle of the fourteenth century, that is to say, close to the date of Króksfjarðarbók, the oldest extant manuscript of Sturla’s Íslendinga saga. Marginal notes in the Stockholm manuscript indicate that the volume circulated among the prosperous farmers of Skagafjörður during the seventeenth century. At least two young men made use of it while learning to read – at one point we read that ‘Jón Magnússon hefur lært á mig’ (‘Jón Magnússon learned from me’), whilst elsewhere we find ‘Jón Eggertsson er að

5 Codex Frisianus (Sagas of the Kings of Norway) ms. no. 45 fol; Jakob Benediktsson, ‘Fríssbók’: 652–53; Jonna Louis-Jensen, Kongesagastudier: 19–21; Anne Holtsmark, ‘Óláfs saga helga’: 545–50. 6 Louis-Jensen, Kongesagastudier: 21–23; Holtsmark, ‘Kongesaga’: 45.

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læra’ (‘Jón Eggertsson is learning’). In the year 1682, as an adult, the same Jón Eggertsson sailed to Sweden with this book of kings’ sagas where the volume would remain. Yet while the manuscript was still in Iceland, Þorlákur Skúlason, bishop of Hólar, had his scribe make a copy of this volume and of other kings’ sagas. That copy was borrowed by people in Skagafjörður, who used it for home readings, until Árni Magnússon eventually took custody of the manuscript in Copenhagen where it is now registered as am 304 4to.7 Hákonar saga was the last kings’ saga to be included in Flateyjarbók (Gks 1005 fol.), one of the finest Icelandic vellums to have been preserved. Originally consisting of 202 leaves (101 calf-skins) it was written down and illustrated by two named pastors for Jón Hákonarson, a farmer at Víðidalstunga in Húnaþing at the end of the fourteenth century.8 At much the same time Sturla’s Íslendinga saga was written down on vellum (Reykjarfjarðarbók), probably in Skagafjörður, the neighbouring district to Húnaþing. Flateyjarbók remained in Iceland until 1656 when Brynjólfur Sveinsson, bishop of Skálholt, sent it as a gift to King Frederik iii of Denmark. The great fire of Copenhagen in the autumn of 1728 destroyed two fine large vellums containing kings’ sagas, including Hákonar saga. The older manuscript was the so-called Jöfraskinna, thought to have been produced in Norway around 1325.9 The texts, Heimskringla, Sverris saga and Hákonar saga, were written in two columns, with illuminated initials. Four surviving leaves from Jöfraskinna contain Óláfs saga helga, together with one damaged leaf with material from Sverris saga, and a further two fragments from Hákonar saga that were found in 1625 among the account books of a Norwegian official in Hadeland.10 No copy of Hákonar saga from Jöfraskinna survives. Despite its splendid appearance, the manuscript suffered damage over time, first in Norway, where leaves were torn out and re-used for book-binding, and then in Copenhagen, where the remainder of it perished in the fire. The manuscript of the younger kings’ saga, destroyed 1728, was known as Gullinskinna, elegantly written around 1400, and featuring red and green illuminated initials. Just one leaf survives from Gullinskinna containing Hákonar saga.11 The Gullinskinna text is preserved in the hand of Ásgeir Jónsson, scribe

7 Jón Helgason, ‘Om Perg. fol. nr 8 og am 304 4to’: 7–17. 8 Ólafur Halldórsson, Grettisfærsla: 196–214. 9 Jakob Benediktsson, ‘Jöfraskinna’: 79; Louis-Jensen, Kongesagastudier: 24–28. 10 De bevarede brudstykker af skindbøgerne Kringla og Jöfraskinna i fototypisk gengivelse. 11 Louis-Jensen, Kongesagastudier: 28–31; Bent Chr. Jacobsen, ‘Gullinskinna am 325 viii 5c 4to’: 289–310.

12

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to Þormóður Torfason, who was appointed in the year 1682 by the Danish king to write a history of Norway in Latin. Þormóður had access to all the kings’ saga manuscripts in the Royal library and the University library in Copenhagen where Gullinskinna was preserved at the time.

Magnúss saga Hákonarsonar lagabætis

According to Sturlunga saga, Sturla composed the history of King Magnús Hákonarson ‘eftir bréfum og sjálfs hans ráði’ (‘according to letters and his own consultation’.)12 Magnús Hákonarson (d. 1280) was the last medieval Norwegian king who became the subject of a biography. It has been reckoned that Sturla began work on his biography in Norway in the summer of 1278, since it is uniformly stated in annals that Sturla went to Norway and returned to Iceland in that year.13 The only surviving version of Magnúss saga Hákonarsonar lagabætis by Sturla Þórðarson consists of two vellum leaves (am 325 X 4to) that are fragments from an important kings’ sagas manuscript that was produced around 1370.14 It is, therefore, of a similar age to the elder of the two Sturlunga saga vellums containing Sturla’s Íslendinga saga. In its complete form this kings’ saga volume must have included sagas about four of the Norwegian kings: Sverrir Sigurðarson, Hákon Sverrisson, Hákon Hákonarson and Magnús lagabætir Hákonarson. Árni Magnússon collected 14 leaves of this volume from the east and west of Iceland; we know nothing about its original size or the circumstances of its loss. No copy of its texts survives, though we know that pastor Gottskálk Jónsson of Glaumbær includes material from Magnúss saga lagabætis in his mid-sixteenth-century annal.15

Landnámabók

Haukr Erlendsson probably composed his version of Landnámabók between 1300 and 1310, and he claims to have used as a source a book written by ‘herra

12 13 14 15

Sturlunga saga, 2: 235. Islandske Annaler indtil 1578: 29, 50, 70, 141, 195; Finn Hødnebø, ‘Magnus lagabøters saga’: 237–38. Sagas of Icelandic Bishops: 19–21. Islandske Annaler: lxxxii, 331–36; Finn Hødnebø, ‘Magnus lagabøters saga’: 237–38.

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Sturla Þórðarson, hinn fróðasti maðr’ (‘sir Sturla Þórðarson, a most learned man’).16 Haukr’s statement offers credible confirmation that Sturla had a part in composing Landnámabók, but it is less certain when he began working on it, although it is generally held that he did not finish this work until the later years of his life, or about 1275–80.17 No vellum fragment of Sturla’s Landnámabók survives. The most widely attested manuscript of the work perished along with many other manuscripts in the fire of 1728. Brynjólfur Sveinsson, bishop of Skálholt, and a prominent figure in the history of Icelandic manuscripts, had been in possession of this vellum. In the middle of the seventeenth century he instructed his scribe, the Reverend Jón Erlendsson of Villingaholt, to make a paper copy of the text. The vellum is next found in the custody of Peder Hansen Resen (1625–1688), professor of law and ethics at the University of Copenhagen. It was later placed in the university library, where it met its unfortunate fate. Árni Magnússon purchased Jón Erlendsson’s paper copy of Sturla’s Landnámabók in 1706; it is now among the most precious items in the manuscript holdings of the Árni Magnússon Institute (am 107 fol.). Scholars believe that there was at least one other vellum of Sturla’s Landnámabók besides the one lost in the fire. However, it seems to have vanished, but signs of its text have been found in The Great Saga of Óláfr Tryggvason.18 It is noteworthy that there is evidence for the existence of only two medieval manuscripts of Sturla’s Landnámabók, and such traces hardly suggest that Sturla’s version was widely known or much valued during the middle ages.

Járnsíða

Sturla Þórðarson seems to have been in Norway from 1263 to 1271.19 According to sources he was consulted by King Magnús Hákonarson during the composition of the legal code Járnsíða, which became law at the parliament in the years 1271–73.20 Sturla’s exact role in the production of this law code is not clear, but he was certainly connected with it in some way, and, as lawman for Iceland from 1272 16 17 18 19 20

Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: lxxxii, 397. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: lxxv. Ólafur Halldórsson, ‘Landnámutextar í Ólafs sögu Tryggvasonar hinni mestu’: 34–36; Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ‘Hvað segja heimildir um uppruna Íslendinga?’: 36. Islandske Annaler: 28, 49, 67, 68, 135, 138, 330, 331. Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ‘Um sárafar í Íslendinga sögu Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 196–97.

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to 1276, he was also responsible for the implementation of its provisions.21 By happy coincidence the vellum containing the Járnsíða text is now known as Staðarhólsbók (Staðarhóll is located at Saurbær in Dalasýsla), where Sturla Þórðarson lived for quite some time and where he was buried in the summer of 1284. Staðarhólsbók (am 334 fol.) is a well preserved, beautifully written volume in double columns with large and elaborate illuminated initials at the beginning of each main chapter. Staðarhólsbók is the second major manuscript containing the medieval Icelandic law-code, Grágás, which takes up the first 92 leaves of the book. The sixteen leaves of Járnsíða represent a direct continuation of Grágás. The part of Grágás in Staðarhólsbók is thought to have been written around 1260–1270, followed by Járnsíða, which is thought to have been written a little later, approximately during the years 1271–1281.22 If this dating is correct, then Staðarhólsbók was written while Sturla Þórðarson was still alive, residing at his farm Staðarhóll in Saurbær,23 where the elegant manuscript was kept in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This is the only extant vellum version of Járnsíða and all the 24 paper manuscripts of the text derive from Staðarhólsbók.24

Sturlunga saga – Íslendinga saga

We turn finally to the collection of sagas known as Sturlunga saga.25 The core of this work is Sturla Þórðarson’s Íslendinga saga, which, as it appears in Sturlunga saga, ought really to be known as Íslendingasögur (in the plural form). We read there that Sturla retold sagas of Icelanders, deriving material from learned men and from letters, in addition to whatever he himself had seen and could verify.26 Íslendinga saga covers the period 1183–1262. It is thought that Sturla Þórðarson composed it during his later years and may not have been able to finish it before he died in the summer of 1284.27 Sturla’s Íslendinga saga tells of the 21 22

23 24 25 26 27

Islandske Annaler: 138; Biskupa sögur II: 162; Magnús Már Lárusson, ‘Járnsíða’: 566–68. Staðarhólsbók: The ancient lawbooks Grágás and Járnsíða ms. No. 334 fol.: 8–11; Njáls saga: The Arna-Magnæan Manuscript 468 4TO: ix–xi; Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog. Registre: 441. Sturlunga saga, 2: 236. Járnsíða og Kristinréttur Árna Þorlákssonar: 19–20. Jakob Benediktsson, ‘Sturlunga saga’: 355–59. Sturlunga saga, 1: 115. Jakob Benediktsson, ‘Sturlunga saga’: 357.

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last turbulent years of the medieval Icelandic commonwealth. Such important subject matter might lead us to suppose that there would have been many medieval manuscript copies of Sturlunga saga, as was the case with other major saga narratives such as Njáls saga or Grettis saga. This seems not to have been the case, however. There are only two Sturlunga saga vellums, both from the late fourteenth century. The older copy is known as Króksfjarðarbók and the younger as Reykjarfjarðarbók. Both are incomplete, and there are no indications that other vellum copies of this lengthy work may once have existed. It is generally assumed that the original version of the Sturlunga saga collection, including versions of 10–12 sagas in addition to Íslendinga saga, must have been in existence shortly after 1300, or some twenty years after Sturla’s death. There is no trace of Sturla’s original sagas of Icelanders, and in fact we need not suppose that Sturla left behind any manuscripts of those works. It is more likely that, as stated in Sturlunga saga, Sturla told his stories orally, with one or more scribes then working in competition to write them down, each in his own style. Therefore, the original version of Íslendinga saga, which scholars have identified within the Sturlunga saga collection, may originally have been narrated orally rather than written down. Clearly, therefore, there are some gaping holes in our knowledge of the early history of Sturlunga saga, and all discussion of its genesis, date, place of origin and narrative divisions (into short tales or independent sagas) is the result of later scholarly speculation. And alongside this sad story of lost original versions and uncertain provenance, we should note that no complete manuscript of Sturlunga saga survives. Each of the two extant vellums lacks a beginning and an end, and there are gaps in between. There are about fifty surviving paper manuscripts of Sturlunga saga and all derive from mid-seventeenth-century copies made by scribes with access to both the surviving vellums, which were more complete then than they are now.28 The scribes aimed to record as much of the text as possible. Accordingly, all the surviving paper copies have a hybrid text, and all, to a greater or lesser extent, bear the marks of influence from seventeenth and eighteenth century language and outlook. The original text of Sturlunga saga has thus suffered irreparable damage, and scholars have speculated freely about the nature of the original text, or the alterations of a particular editor, or scribal additions or deletions within each manuscript. The older of the two Sturlunga saga vellums, known as Króksfjarðarbók (am 122 a fol.), is thought to be the work of four scribes who worked in the

28

Sturlunga saga efter membranen Króksfjarðarbók udfyldt efter Reykjarfjarðarbók, 2: xlii–lxviii.

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Breiðafjörður district between 1350–1370. Two were professional scribes, whose hands are identifiable in several other extant manuscripts from the same period. Króksfjarðarbók now consists of 110 leaves, but it is conjectured that 31 leaves have been lost. The text is written in double columns. The opening of nearly every chapter features a black capital, some of which are decorated with foliage or human faces.29 The evidence from marginal annotations suggests that Króksfjarðarbók circulated in Breiðafjörður district up to the end of the seventeenth century, and this need not surprise us. The districts around Breiðafjörður were the main setting for much of the narrative in Sturlunga, and the origins of many of the principal characters can be traced to the region. Moreover, it was in this same region that Sturla Þórðarson had told his stories, the Íslendingasögur, for he lived at several locations in the Breiðafjörður district, among them Staðarhóll and Fagridalur; in his later years he lived on Fagurey, one of the nearly innumerable islands in the fjord itself. Króksfjarðarbók was known to have been in the Breiðafjörður district during Árni Magnússon’s lifetime, and it was from there that he acquired the volume.30 The younger Sturlunga saga vellum, called Reykjarfjarðarbók, is thought to have originally consisted of 180 leaves, of which only 30 now survive, almost all of them in poor condition – grubby, torn and trimmed. Yet this fragment confirms that the original was elegantly written in double columns with coloured initials. The surviving leaves are thought to have been written by one or more scribes some time during the period 1375–1400.31 Reykjarfjarðarbók originally contained more short tales and sagas than Króksfjarðarbók, its sister manuscript, but collation of the texts reveals that both books derive from the same source, though each has its own editor. Ólafur Halldórsson has suggested that the origins of Reykjarfjarðarbók may well lie in Skagafjörður. Ólafur (and other respected contemporary scholars) believed that a scriptorium may have operated there during the fourteenth century. A group of manuscripts has been identified as exhibiting a script similar to that of Reykjarfjarðarbók. These manuscripts are therefore thought to

29 30 31

Sturlunga saga efter membranen Króksfjarðarbók, 2: ii–xxxii; Sturlunga saga: Manuscript no. 122 a fol.; Guðmundar sögur biskups: xxxix–xl, xlii. Kristian Kålund, Katalog over Den arnamagnæanske håndskriftsamling 1: 84. Sturlunga saga efter membranen Króksfjarðarbók, 2: xxxii–xcii; Ólafur Halldórsson, Grettisfærsla: 51–52; Stefán Karlsson, ‘Ritun Reykjarfjarðarbókar’: 120–30; Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog. Registre: 433; The Saga of King Olaf Tryggvason. am 62 fol.: 11, 21.

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derive from a scriptorium linked to the nunnery at Reynistaður – or from the large household at Akrar in Blönduhlíð in Skagafjörður.32 In 1594 Reykjarfjarðarbók was probably in the possession of the chiefs at Saurbær on Rauðasandi, in the north of Breiðafjörður.33 The volume was later at Hagi on Barðaströnd for a lengthy period before being acquired by Gísli Jónsson of Reykjarfjörður in Arnarfjörður – hence the name Reykjarfjarðarbók. Gísli would lend the book to interested men in the West Fjords, during which time the binding became loose and leaves were lost. Gísli Jónsson died in 1679.34 His contemporaries believed that his sister Ingibjörg Jónsdóttir of Þingeyrar in Húnaþing inherited the volume containing the great saga of the Icelanders.35 Ingibjörg was married to Þorleifr Kortsson, the lawman particularly associated with witchcraft cases in seventeenth-century Iceland. Their son was Hannes Þorleifsson, by 1681 the Danish royal antiquarian, who travelled around Iceland collecting manuscripts at the instigation of the Danish king. Hannes with all his manuscripts set sail for Denmark on the Spákonufellshöfði in Northern Iceland late in the autumn of 1682. The heavily laden vessel foundered in stormy weather and was never seen again.36 It seems likely that the 150 missing leaves of Reykjarfjarðarbók, including a considerable part of Sturla’s Íslendinga saga, now lie with the lost ship in the depths of the Atlantic Ocean, either off the Langanes peninsula in North-East Iceland or somewhere along the shores of Norway. When Árni Magnússon came across the files around 1693, he immediately began to inquire about leaves from the book owned by Gísli Jónsson in Reykjarfjörður. From various places he painstakingly gathered together the stumps of the thirty leaves that now survive, and wrote the following description: ‘Íslendinga sögunnar miklu (alias Sturlunga sögu) fragmenta varia, komin til mín af Vestfjörðum hvar bókin nýlega í sundur rifin er.’37 (‘Of the great saga of Icelanders (alias Sturlunga saga), assorted fragments, that have come to me from the West Fjords, where the book has recently been torn apart’.) This may

32 33 34 35 36 37

Ólafur Halldórsson, Grettisfærsla: 67–69; A Saga of St Peter the Apostle. Perg. 4: o nr 19 in The Royal Library, Stockholm: 59–61; The Saga of King Olaf Tryggvason. am 62 fol.: 20–22. Skarðsbók: Jónsbók and other Laws and Precepts. ms. No 350 fol in The Arna-Magnæan Collection in the University Library of Copenhagen: 7–8. Sturlunga saga efter membranen Króksfjarðarbók, 2: xxxv–xxxviii; Þorleifur Hauksson, ‘Inngangur’: ix–x. am 122 c fol., f. 22v. Annálar 1400–1800, 2: 393, 557; Annálar 1400–1800, 3: 322. Arne Magnussons i am. 435 A-B 4to indeholdte Håndskriftfortegnelser med to tillæg: 26.

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serve as our last word in this fragmentary overview of the fateful history of the main manuscripts containing works by Sturla Þórðarson. This essay provides an overview that accords with the earliest sources of the preservation of the five works that Sturla Þórðarson either composed or had a part in composing: Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, Magnúss saga lagabætis, Landnámabók, Járnsíða and Íslendinga saga. As stated above, other works have been attributed to Sturla, some with valid arguments but others as unsubstantiated hypotheses. The preservation of these works has not been the subject of this article, but they will nevertheless be mentioned. Stefán Karlsson ventured some tempting arguments that Sturla had composed an encyclopaedia which contained, among other things, Resensannáll, the oldest and most reliable of the medieval Icelandic annals.38 This encyclopaedia, along with the annal, was in a vellum codex which burned along with the University Library in Copenhagen in the autumn of 1728, but a copy of the annal written by Árni Magnússon has been preserved (am 424 4to).39 For a long time there has been speculation that Sturla Þórðarson wrote an early version of Grettis saga, and among the earliest proponent of this idea was Árni Magnússon but it was later adopted by Sigurður Nordal.40 This has not been sustained by solid argument. Some scholars and poets have ventured guesses on the probability that Sturla Þórðarson at some stage composed Eyrbyggja saga,41 Laxdæla saga42 and Njáls saga,43 but no solid evidence has been offered to prove such speculations. In the later years of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, scholars considered it fairly likely that Sturla had composed Kristni saga as a sequel to Landnámabók,44 but Kristni saga is only preserved in the Hauksbók

38 39 40 41 42

43 44

Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 37–60. Islandske Annaler: ii–vii, 3–30. Jón Helgason, ‘Athuganir Árna Magnússonar um fornsögur’: 49; Sigurður Nordal, Sturla Þórðarson og Grettis saga: 17–18. Peter Hallberg, ‘Om språkliga författarkriterier i isländska sagatexter’: 176–77, 182; Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Ritunartími Íslendingasagna: 110. Rolf Heller, ‘Der Verfasser der Laxdæla saga un sein Verhältnis zur Sturlubók’: 87–91; Marina Mundt, Sturla Þórðarson und die Laxdæla saga: 129; Hallvard Magerøy, ‘Har Sturla Þórðarson skrivi Laxdæla saga?’: 4–33. Einar Kárason, ‘Káserí um Sturlu Þórðarson, höfund Njálu’: 67–72; Einar Kárason, ‘Njálssaga og Íslendingasaga Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 289–302. Oskar Brenner, Über die Kristni saga. Kritische Beiträge zur altnordischen Literaturgeschichte: 155; Finnur Jónsson, Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie 2: 571–72; Hauksbók: lxx–lxxi; Jón Jóhannesson, Gerðir Landnámabókar: 69–72; Magnús Már Lárusson, ‘Kristni saga’: 356; Jakob Benediktsson, ‘Sturlunga saga’: 357.

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version of Landnámabók. Nowadays it is generally held that the authorship of Kristni saga by Sturla is unproven.45 The conclusion of this article is that there are dissimilarities in the preservation of the works almost certainly composed partly or entirely by Sturla Þórðarson. Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar seems to have been his most popular work. It is preserved along with other biographies of Norwegian kings in five vellum manuscripts from the middle ages. These manuscripts were originally luxurious and meticulously crafted, probably intended to be read at the Norwegian court, the farms of the nobility and monasteries. It is not known whether these manuscripts were written by Norwegian or Icelandic professional scribes or whether they were made in Norway or Iceland. There were also vellum copies of Hákonar saga which existed in the middle ages but have been lost or only exist in fragments. In addition there are about 20 paper manuscripts of the saga from the early modern and modern periods. Fate has been less kind to Magnúss saga Hákonarsonar lagabætis, and only two vellum leafs have been preserved of that one. Sturla’s version of Landnámabók has only been preserved in a seventeenth century paper copy, whereas Járnsíða has been preserved in an elegant vellum manuscript which is thought to have been fashioned while Sturla Þórðarson was still alive. Íslendinga saga by Sturla was included in the Sturlunga collection and was preserved as a part of the complete fourteenth-century vellum manuscripts. These manuscripts were preserved complete until the seventeenth century, but the older manuscript is now defective and the greater part of the younger one has been lost. The contents, however, were preserved in seventeenth-century paper copies. Many manuscript of the works of Sturla Þórðarson met with a harsh fate, whereas others have been nobly preserved in elegant vellum volumes.

45

Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Sögugerð Landnámu: 16; Biskupa sögur i: clv.

chapter 3

The Education of Sturla Þórðarson (and the Icelandic Elite) Jón Viðar Sigurðsson The Icelandic social elite in the thirteenth century was one of the best-­educated classes in Europe. They were well versed in law – secular law, Canon law and Icelandic church law – geography, history, Old Norse mythology and skaldic poetry, and skilled in saga writing and rhetoric. Sturla Þórðarson (1214–1284) was a goði (‘chieftain’), lögsögumaðr (‘lawspeaker’ [1251]), lögmaðr (‘lawman’ [1272–1282]), and besides being a skald, he wrote sagas and was a great storyteller. Yet even though we have quite reliable information about Sturla in his adult life, and dependable data about Icelandic history in the thirteenth century in general, nothing is known about Sturla’s education – or, for that matter, that of the other chieftains. How do we then approach this problem? In the following essay I will start by looking at the farms that chieftains in Iceland made their residences, and where we can assume their sons received most of their education. I will also investigate how many of the chieftains were educated as priests. Subsequently, I will look at an important aspect of the power game, the use of law. My assumption here is that there must have been ties between the education of the social elite and the field on which it would one day play a part, namely in the arena of law and legal manoeuvring. Finally I will consider the relations between skalds, saga writers and the political development in the last decades of the Free State period (c. 930–1262/64). This paper will focus especially on the years 1210–1260.

Chieftains and Major Churches

In the Middle Ages there were two types of churches (alkirkjur) in Iceland: staðir and bændakirkjur. If a church owned the entire farm on which it was founded, it was called a staðr, or local ecclesiastical institution; if it owned less it was labelled a bændakirkja, or ‘farmer’s church’. The staðir were usually wealthier than the bændakirkjur.1 Of Iceland’s some 330 churches, roughly 110 1 Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Kirkjuvald eflist’: 72–81; Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Frá goðakirkju til biskupskirkju’: 210–26; Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Islandsk egenkirkevesen’: 234–54; Magnús Stefánsson, © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_004

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were staðir and approximately 220 were bændakirkjur. Of these 330 churches,2 about thirty-three can be labelled as major churches, all established in the twelfth century, twenty-two in Skálholt See and eleven in Hólar See. What these churches had in common was that they were usually founded by chieftains who used them as their residence; they were also the country’s wealthiest churches, and the vast majority were staðir.3 Additionally they had three or more clerics, and these were the best-educated clerics in the country. A good example is Styrmir Kárason fróði (‘the learned’, d. 1245). He was a priest at Reykholt from 1228 to 1235 and ‘wrote’ a version of Landnámabók, a Life of St Olaf, a redaction of Sverris saga and possibly Harðar saga ok Hólmverja.4 Thus, the chieftains had amongst the members of their household a number of clerics who were well equipped to teach their sons. It is also likely that the chieftains themselves participated in the education of their sons. In a well-known passage from Kristni saga (c. 1240) it is specified that when Gizurr Ísleifsson was Bishop of Skálholt in 1082–1118: [Most] honourable men in the country were educated and ordained priests, even though they were chieftains, such as Hallr Teitsson in Haukadalur and Sæmundr the Learned, Magnús Þórðarson in Reykholt, Símon Jörundarson in Bær, Guðmundr son of Brandr in Hjarðarholt, Ari the Learned, Ingimundr Einarsson at Hólar, Ketill Þorsteinsson at Möðruvellir in the north, and Ketill Guðmundarson, the priest Jón Þorvarðarson and many others, though their names are not written down [here].5 Of these ten honourable men, seven were chieftains. In a register of the most powerful priests dating from around 1143, it is immediately obvious that in the twelfth century chieftains were not only educated but also ordained as priests.6 Of the forty priests mentioned, some thirteen were chieftains. During

2 3 4 5

6

Staðir og staðamál: studier i islandske egenkirkelige og beneficialrettslige forhold i middelalderen 1: 191–216. Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Frá goðakirkju til biskupskirkju’: 224–25. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Høvdingene, storkirkene og den litterære aktiviteten på Island fram til ca. 1300’: 190–94. Flateyjarbók, 2: xii; 3: ix; Páll Eggert Ólason, Íslenzkar æviskrár frá landnámstímum til ársloka 1940, 4: 359; Harðar saga: xliv–xlvi. Biskupa sögur i: cliv, 42–43: ‘virðingamenn lærðir ok vígðir og lærðir til presta þó at höfðingjar væri, svá sem Hallr Teitsson í Haukadal ok Sæmundr inn fróði, Magnús Þórðarson í Reykjaholti, Símon Jörundarson í Bæi, Guðmundr sonr Brands í Hjarðarholti, Ari inn fróði, Ingimundr Einarsson á Hólar, ok Ketill Þorsteinsson á Möðruvœllum [in Eyjafjörður], ok Ketill Guðmundarson, Jón prestr Þorvarðarson ok margir aðrir þó at eigi sé ritaðir.’ Diplomatarium Islandicum 1: no. 29.

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this same period, there were only some twenty-seven chieftains in the whole country.7 Thus, around the middle of the twelfth century, half of all Icelandic chieftains were ordained as priests.8 The Icelandic church – with regard to its organisation in relation to the larger structure of the Catholic Church in the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth centuries – was a kind of bastard. It was through a series of conflicts between the archbishops and bishops in Iceland on the one side against chieftains and later the service aristocracy on the other side that the Church of Iceland became a natural part of the Catholic Church in the second part of the thirteenth century. As part of this struggle the archbishop launched an attack on the ordination of chieftains. In a letter from c. 1190,9 the archbishop forbade the ordaining of chieftains by the Icelandic bishops, and, according to the sources, the chieftains not only accepted this ruling but respected it. They continued, however, to educate their sons in the same way as before, despite whatever disadvantages there might have been in no longer receiving ordination as priests. The chieftains played an important role in the literary activity that started up in Iceland in the second half of the eleventh century and the beginning of the twelfth. In this debate, scholars have rightfully emphasized the importance of the episcopal seats at Skálholt (founded in 1056 and where we can assume that the literary activity in Iceland began) and Hólar (founded in 1106). How­ ever, they have not paid sufficient attention to the significant role that was played by the Icelandic aristocracy and these major churches. All the farms listed in the above-mentioned episode from Kristni saga were major churches.10 It should be said that these major churches were not all equally important. One of the most important literary centres in Iceland in the thirteenth century was the staðr at Reykholt. It was one of the three most valuable farms in the country,11 and in 1206 Snorri Sturluson gained control over it12 as well 7 8

9 10 11 12

Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Frá goðorðum til ríkja: 45–54. It was common that young men got their ordination when they were around twenty years of age. Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Kong Sverre – prest og sønn av Sigurd Munn’: 297–300; Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Kong Sverres alder og presevigsel’: 284–86. Diplomatarium Islandicum 1: no. 72. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Høvdingene, storkirkene og den litterære aktiviteten på Island fram til ca. 1300’: 186–87. Sturlunga saga, 1: 242. Sturlunga saga, 1: 242, ‘Gerðist hann þá höfðingi mikill, því at eigi skorti fé.’ See Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Sturlungaöld: 162; Sigurður Nordal, Íslenzk menning, Vol. 1: 305; Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, Saga og samfund: 149; Jesse L. Byock, Medieval Iceland. Society, Sagas, and Power: 8–10; Gunnar Karlsson, Goðamenning: Staða og áhrif goðorðsmanna í þjóðveldi Íslendinga: 453–58; Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Høvdingene, storkirkene og den litterære aktiviteten på Island fram til ca. 1300’: 190–94. According to Benedikt ­Eyþórsson,

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as over the nearby staðr of Stafholt soon afterwards.13 By around 1220, Snorri controlled two major churches with approximately twelve clerics attached to them. It was these churches, their wealth and their educated clerics, along with his own talent, which made it possible for Snorri to ‘write’ his sagas. Snorri ‘wrote’ the Prose Edda, a textbook for skalds, Heimskringla, a history of the kings of Norway and probably Egils saga, one of the major Íslendingasögur. Other especially important educational centres were Haukadalur and Oddi.14 The church at Oddi in southern Iceland, under the control of the Oddaverjar family, probably became the centre of learning for the most important chieftains in the Free State period. The two best-known leaders of this family were Sæmundr Sigfússon fróði (‘the learned’, 1056–1133) and his grandson Jón Loftsson (1124–1197). Snorri Sturluson is undoubtedly Oddi’s most famous pupil. The role the chieftains played within the country’s literary activity can be identified in an oft-quoted passage from Fyrsta málfræðiritgerðin (The First Grammatical Treatise), which dates from the end of the twelfth century: Now, following their example – since we are of one tongue [with them], even though one of the two [tongues (Latin and Old English)] has changed greatly, or both somewhat – in order that it may become easier to write and read, as is now customary in this country as well, both the laws and genealogies, or interpretations of sacred writings, or also that sagacious [historical] lore that Ari Þorgilsson has recorded in books with such reasonable understanding.15 Ari Þorgilsson fróði (c. 1067–1148) was both a chieftain and a priest. Undoubtedly, his best-known work is Íslendingabók (the Book of Icelanders), which he wrote sometime between 1122 and 1133, and deals with some of the most

13

14

15

Kirkjumiðstöðin Reykholt, Reykholt had five priests (33–36); Benedikt Eyþórsson, ‘Í þjónustu Snorra: Staðurinn í Reykholti og klerkar þar í tíð Snorra Sturlusonar’: 20–25. According to the Stafholt máldagi (church record) from around 1140, the church owned six or seven farms, which were valued at about 100 hundreds (Diplomatarium Islandicum 1: no. 28). Jónas Kristjánsson, Eddas and Sagas: Iceland’s Medieval Literature: 117. ‘Individuals set up schools for shorter or longer periods on their own initiative or were invited to do so by ecclesiastical or monastic authorities.’ (Gunnar Harðarson, ‘Old Norse Intellectual Culture’: 40). The first grammatical treatise: 208–09, ‘Nv eptir þeira dæmvm allz ver ervm æinnar tvngv þo at giorz hafí mjök onnvr tveggía eða nakkvað bááðar til þess at hægra verði at rita ok lesa sem nv tiðiz ok a þessu landi bæði lög ok ááttvísi eða þyðingar helgar eða sva þav hín spaklegv fræðí er ari þorgils son hefir a bøkr sett af skynsamlgv viti …’.

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dramatic events in the history of Iceland from the time of the settlement up to the end of the eleventh century. Like almost all the other famous saga ‘authors’ in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, among them Sæmundr fróði and Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179–1241), Ari Þorgilsson was a chieftain who used a major church as his residence.16 Ari Þorgilsson probably lived at the major church at Staðastaður in Snæfellsnes, a farm which Þórðr Sturluson, Sturla’s father, gained control over through marriage in 1186. Sturla Þórðarson was born in 1214, and was fostered by his grandmother Guðný Böðvarsdóttir. When Snorri Sturluson travelled to Norway in 1218 he put his mother, Guðný, in charge of the farm at Reykholt. He came back in 1220, before Guðný died.17 What happened to Sturla after her death is unclear, but he probably continued to live with his uncle. In the winter of 1226–27, when Sturla was twelve or thirteen years old, he and his brother Óláfr, he participated in a feast that Snorri Sturluson organised, probably at Reykholt.18 It is, therefore, likely that Sturla got most of his education at Reykholt. It is to be expected that chieftains’ sons received most of their education at major churches, since they were the country’s cultural centres and important symbols for the chieftains if they wanted to play the power game. But why the Icelandic aristocracy was so committed to the cultural activity is unclear. The answer may be that this activity created and maintained social differences between the chieftains and the rest of the population. The production of ‘books’ was a useful tool in the social competition amongst the aristocracy itself. Books were expensive and were therefore appropriate symbols to demonstrate power and social superiority. There was a strong political motivation behind the aristocracy’s literary activities. It was impossible for the Icelandic aristocracy to gain honour on the battlefield; only in the period c. 1208–1255 did wars or great battles take place in Iceland. Iceland in the Free State period was probably one of the most peaceful societies in the whole of Europe. Deprived of the classic European opportunity to define itself through warfare, the Icelandic aristocracy had to find other means to express its social superiority. The solution was ‘culture’. The cathedral schools at Skálholt and Hólar only played a minor part in the education of the social elite.19 The same is true of the monasteries. They were 16 17 18 19

Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘Høvdingene, storkirkene og den litterære aktiviteten på Island fram til ca. 1300’: 190–94. Sturlunga saga, 1: 231, 271, 303. Sturlunga saga, 1: 315; Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ‘Sturla Þórðarson’: 11–12. Sturla’s father moved in 1225 to Hvammur in Hvammsfjörður (Sturlunga saga, 1: 309). Gunnar F. Guðmundsson, Kristni á Íslandi iii: 171–73.

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small and poor, and founded relatively late.20 If a comparison is made between the number of clerics living at the major churches and the number of monks in the monasteries around 1220, I would suggest that the population of the clerics was about three times greater than that of the monks. In addition, the local chieftains certainly possessed more wealth than the monasteries. Finally, to stress one important detail, these monasteries were founded after Icelanders started to write in the vernacular, and after the Icelandic chieftains started their literary activities around the year 1100. Education In an often-quoted passage from Jóns saga, the students at Hólar learned grammaticam, music (söng) and versification (versagerð).21 Jóns saga does not indicate the ‘traditional habitual liberal arts course; rather, the curriculum seems to be a version of the earlier Anglo-Saxon or Carolingian one, centred on grammar, computus and chant.’22 As pointed out by Gunnar Harðarson this ‘education was probably intended for the formation of priests who needed some knowledge of Latin and music for liturgical purposes and computus for the calculation of the liturgical year.’23 This education was probably also provided at the major churches, otherwise it would have been difficult for the bishops to ordain the chieftains and their sons as priests. In addition, we can assume that the social elite in the thirteenth century also received some training in grammar, rhetoric, astrology, law (secular laws, Church laws), geography, history, Old Norse mythology, skaldic poetry and saga writing. Little is known about book collections in Iceland at the beginning of the thirteenth century, but we can assume that the major churches owned a substantial number of books.24 20

21 22 23 24

Janus Jónsson, ‘Um klaustrin á Íslandi’: 182–265; Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Kirkjuvald eflist’: 81–85; Gunnar F. Guðmundsson, Kristni á Íslandi iii: 212–25. Monasteries in Skálholt see at that time: Þykkvibær (1133–1551), Kirkjubær (1186–1551), Flatey/Helgafell (1172–1551), Viðey (1225–1551). In Hólar see: Þingeyrar (1133–1551), Munkaþverá (1155–1551). Biskupa sögur i: 217. Gunnar Harðarson, ‘Old Norse Intellectual Culture’: 40. Gunnar Harðarson, ‘Old Norse Intellectual Culture’: 40. Emil Olmer, Boksamlingar på Island 1179–1490, enligt diplom; Tenney Frank, ‘Classical Scholarship in Medieval Iceland’; Tryggvi J. Oleson, ‘Book Collections of Mediaeval ­Icelandic Churches’; Tryggvi J. Oleson, ‘Book Collections of Icelandic Churches in the Fourteenth Century’; Tryggvi J. Oleson, ‘Book Collections of Icelandic Churches in the Fifteenth Century’.

26

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There has been a debate about how well versed the Icelandic social elite was in Latin.25 It is problematic to come to any decisive conclusions, but it is difficult to argue, even though many important legal documents were translated from Latin to Old Norse, that the social elite did not read Latin, especially if we take into consideration the great disputes that took place between the Icelandic church and the secular leaders in Iceland in the thirteenth century over central theological issues. The chieftains used the laws and the court system to achieve their goals in the political power struggles. Snorri Sturluson is a good example of a chieftain who used the law in this way. At the end of the second decade of the thirteenth century, he summoned the chieftain Magnús Guðmundarson ‘for full outlawry at Þverárþing. Magnús claimed that this was invalid because Þverárþing was not his assembly. … Snorri … brought this case to successful conclusion at Þverárþing and Magnús was sentenced to outlawry.’ But a short time later, they were reconciled at the General Assembly and Snorri gained ‘prestige’ (virðing) from the case.26 The law, both secular and Icelandic church law, was thus an important weapon in the power game.27 It was of the utmost importance for the chieftains to master them and/or have men in their closest groups of friends able to give them good legal advice. It is, however, unclear what Icelandic law consisted of in the first half of the thirteenth century. According to Grágás, there were many skrár (manuscripts) containing recorded laws in the country, and since they often contradicted one another, it was thus necessary to establish a hierarchy. Those copies held by the two bishoprics should be regarded as the authoritative versions; however, if they contradicted each other, the one that treated the matter in greatest detail should be accepted; but if they were equal in detail and differed in formulation, the skrá of the Skálholt bishop should be followed.28 We do not know how many law registers there 25 26

27

28

Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Snorri í Odda: um menntun Snorra Sturlusonar, uppeldi og mótun’: 354–62, 376–77. Sturlunga saga, 1: 268–69: ‘Ok stefndi Snorri Magnúsi skóggangsstefnu til Þverárþings. Magnús kallaðist þar útanþingsmaðr [i.e. this was an illegal act because Magnús did not belong to the assembly] … Snorri … fór málum sínum fram á Þverárþingi, ok varð Magnús sekr skógarmaðr.’ Snorri had used this tactic earlier (Sturlunga saga, 1: 237). The legal knowledge of the chieftains is rarely mentioned in the sagas, probably since this was taken for granted and needed no mention. Exceptions were, e.g., Valla-Ljótr Ljótólfsson in Ljósvetninga saga: 241. Einarr Þorgilsson (Sturlunga saga, 1: 68), and Órækja Snorrason (Sturlunga saga, 1: 448). Grágás: Islændernes Lovbog i Fristatens Tid, Ia: 213; Ólafur Lárusson, Yfirlit yfir íslenska rjettarsögu: 60; Peter Foote, Aurvandilstá: 155–64; Sigurður Líndal, ‘Lög og lagasetning í íslenzka þjóðveldinu’: 128–36.

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were, merely that there was a large number of them, but we may assume that they were typically owned by the chieftains and those men considered experts in the law. The preserved law manuscripts seem more akin to private compendia than codices of law that applied universally.29 Despite a lack of agreement as to what the law actually was, insufficient respect for court rulings and an impotent court system, laws were nevertheless important. They defined the rights of members of society even though punishment was a matter for negotiation. All the most important disputes in the Free State society were settled through arbitration.30 It is unlikely that the learned clerics at the major churches were the only teachers of this subject. We must also take into consideration the group of the so-called lagamenn/lögmenn. In the First Grammatical Treatise we read: ‘The skalds are the authorities in all [matters touching the art of] writing or the distinctions [made in] discourse, just as craftsmen [are in their craft] or lawmen [lögmenn] in the laws’.31 Grágás states that a lawspeaker could consult ‘lögmenn’ if he was unsure, before he recited the law at the General Assembly.32 In Þorgils saga ok Hafliða we have information about Hrólfr on Skálmarnes: He was a good friend of Þorgils Oddason [a chieftain] and his assembly man. He was a notable lawyer, experienced in lawsuits; he was also a historian and wrote fine poetry […].33 The Lawspeakers (sing. lögsögumaðr) are another group we should look at as possible teachers. Of the thirty-one Lawspeakers in the Free State only eleven were chieftains. Four of the first six Lawspeakers were chieftains. After that, chieftains only sporadically became Lawspeakers. For the chieftain families it became prestigious to have their members or clients elected as Lawspeakers. This can be seen especially clearly in the period after 1180, when the Haukdælir and the Sturlungar dominated the elections. Between 1181 and 1264, four of the Haukdælir family were elected Lawspeakers, for the periods 29 30 31 32

33

Laws of early Iceland: Grágás: 9–11. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, ‘The Role of Arbitration in the settlement of Disputes in Iceland c. 1000–1300’: 123–35. The first grammatical treatise: 224–27. ‘Skalld erv hofvndar allrar rynní ęða máálʃ greinar ʃem smiðir [ʃmíðar] ęða lögmenn laga.’ Grágás Ia: 209. See Grágás Ia: 213. Eyjólfr Bölverksson was according to Njáls saga ‘the third greatest lögmaðr [lawman] in Iceland (inn þriðji mest lögmaðr á Íslandi),’ BrennuNjáls saga: 363. Sturlunga saga, 1: 14, ‘hann var vinr góðr Þorgils Oddasonar [a chieftain] ok var þingmaðr hans, lagamðr mikil ok fór mjök með sakir. Hann var ok sagnamaðr ok orti skipuliga …’.

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1181–1202, 1203–1209, 1219–1221 and 1236–1247, and two of their brothers-in-law in 1253–1258. The Sturlungar family held this office between 1215–1218 (Snorri Sturluson), 1222–1231 (Snorri Sturluson), 1248–1250 (Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld), 1251 (Sturla Þórðarson), and 1252 (Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld). In the period 1232–1235 Styrmir Kárason the learned, a client of the Sturlungar, held the office.34 So there were a number of men in Iceland, most of them probably from the social elite, with a good knowledge of the law, and these men must have taught their own sons, foster-sons and possibly sons of other members of their class. These law experts must have been invited, in many cases, to the chieftains’ residences to teach, and, likely, equally as often, young boys may have stayed with these experts for a time. When discussing the education of Sturla, we should take this mobility into consideration. Therefore, we cannot eliminate the possibility that Sturla got his education at major churches other than Reykholt. In Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss, Bárðr, the title hero, spent one winter teaching law to his foster-son, Oddr, after which men said he had a better knowledge of the law (lögvitrari) than other men.35 This is probably the only information we have about how long it took to become a law expert. It must be stressed, however, that Oddr was learning secular law, and not Church law. Good knowledge of laws, and an education in general, was not only important in the power game, but also as a demarcation line between the social elite and the common population. Grágás does not require most people to have a good knowledge of the law. The only requirement of all men over twelve years of age was that they should be able to perform christenings; otherwise they risked being exiled for three years.36 Skalds When Sturla is presented to the King of Norway in 1263, he is identified as ­‘Sturla skáld Þórðarson’,37 and not as an Icelandic chieftain. To become a skald Sturla obviously would have received a thorough education, which meant, among other things, learning poet of the old masters’, the höfuðskáld (chief poet), poetic metres and Old Norse mythology. At the same time he had mastered the art of saga composition, a prerequisite for him to later write such 34 35 36 37

Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Chieftains and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth: 90. Harðar saga: 135. Grágás Ia: 3–4. Sturlunga saga, 2: 231.

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works as Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and Íslendinga saga. Which disciplines and skills he practiced in order to master saga composition is a mystery. What I would like to stress are the strong links between skalds and saga writers, and that they must – at least after c. 1100 when Icelanders started to write in the vernacular – have been the same men in many cases. Let’s once again have a look at the First Grammatical Treatise where we read: The scalds are the authorities in all [matters touching the art of] writing or the distinctions [made in] discourse, just as craftsmen [are in their craft] or lawmen [lögmenn] in the laws.38 Here the strong link between skalds and saga writers is emphasized. In the Icelandic book of homilies we can see these ties even more clearly in the word ­guðspjallaskáld (the skald of the gospels)39 a term used to describe the four evangelists: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. An important aspect of the power struggle in Iceland in the period after c. 1100 was the growth of domains (sing. ríki) with fairly clear geographical boundaries. In the process of establishing them, it was necessary for chieftains to obtain authority over all the individual chieftaincies in the areas they controlled. This was a formal and necessary procedure if they were to gain full control of the area that comprised the domain in question.40 By the beginning of the thirteenth century, seven families controlled the entire country. These chieftains were more powerful and wealthier than the chieftains of the eleventh century, and could thus afford skalds in their own households. The chieftains managed their domains with ‘oaths of allegiance’ (trúnaðareiðr), ‘trusted men’ (trúnaðarmenn) and ‘followers’ (fylgðarmenn). Trusted men acted as advisers and probably also as agents in local government, while the followers were the top chieftains’ personal guard and police force. The oath of allegiance made it possible for the chieftains to extend their sphere of influence by gaining control of new areas. All the most powerful chieftains and a number of the wealthiest householders had followers. However, the number varied with each chieftain, ranging from one or two to ten or more. Towards the end of the Free State period, the chieftains surrounded themselves with ever more followers. When they were classified as heimamenn (‘home men’), together with those who worked on the farm, the number could rise to almost thirty. The system 38 39 40

The first grammatical treatise: 224–27, ‘Skalld erv hofvndar allrar rynní ęða máálʃ greinar ʃem smiðir [ʃmíðar] ęða lǫgmenn laga.’ Íslensk hómilíubók fornar stólræður: 81, 231, 258, 262, 266. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Chieftains and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth: 62–83.

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developed in such a way that followers came to function more as professional warriors, men who did not work on the farm or have any specific duties in its management.41 This new type of Icelandic chieftain had more in common with the earls of Orkney than the chieftains depicted in the Íslendingasögur. They could also afford to have skalds in their households. When studying Snorri’s Edda, we should bear this in mind. It was first and foremost a textbook for Icelandic skalds working for Icelandic chieftains. Sturla was basically educated to become a priest, a law expert (it was good for his family to have a such an expert) and finally a skald and saga writer. This education was not principally for the Norwegian market, the kings and earls of Norway, but mainly for a growing Icelandic market as the competition between the Icelandic chieftains increased. Sturla became a chieftain by accident. He was one of the four sons of Þórðr Sturluson and as Sturla himself clearly describes in Íslendinga saga, it was Böðvarr, the oldest son, who inherited the position of power after their father. Sturla Þórðarson states that his father chose his legitimate son Böðvarr to be his successor; Þórðr’s reason for his choice was his doubt that any of his other sons would be able to command men (mannaforráð).42 Thus Böðvarr’s personal qualities were the deciding factor in Þórðr’s decision. Primogeniture and legitimacy only occasionally make an appearance in the Free State period. Younger – and often illegitimate – sons are often chosen before older and legitimate ones. We know Sturla Þórðarson had a vast knowledge of secular law, Canon law and Icelandic church law, as well as knowledge of geography, history and Old Norse mythology, and that he wrote sagas, was a skald and a great storyteller. To become an ‘expert’ in all these fields, Sturla needed a thorough education, and probably received most of it at his uncle’s farm in Reykholt. The main aim of Sturla’s education, as for the other sons of the social elite, was to prepare him for participation in the ‘power game’ in Iceland and Norway. This game, especially in Iceland, was fought on a rather peaceful field with focus on outmanoeuvring opponents through legal skill and cleverness. This can clearly be seen in the description of the Icelandic chieftains in the sagas; their skills as warriors are never mentioned, and the focus is on their wisdom and generosity. Another important aspect of this game was ‘saga writing’: almost all of the most famous ‘saga authors’ were chieftains, including only, but most famously, Snorri Sturluson, Sæmundr Sigfússon and Ari Þorgilsson.

41 42

Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Frá goðorðum til ríkja: 122–24. Sturlunga saga, 1: 303.

chapter 4

Power, Protection and Pleasure: The Marital and Extra-Marital Relationships of the Women in Sturla Þórðarson’s Life Philadelphia Ricketts Þórdís Snorradóttir, Sturla Þórðarson’s cousin and contemporary, was married as a teenager in 1224 to a man who was at least twenty-seven years her senior. Like many women of the Icelandic Commonwealth, her marriage was arranged by her father.1 This man was Snorri Sturluson, the most powerful chieftain in Iceland at the time.2 Snorri used his children, sons and daughters, legitimate and illegitimate, to make advantageous alliances to increase his political power. For his illegitimate daughter Þórdís he chose as a husband Þorvaldr Vatnsfirðingr, an influential chieftain from the West Fjords who had killed a rival a decade earlier and was feeling pressure from that rival’s now adult sons and their allies. The alliance benefitted both Snorri and Þorvaldr. Þorvaldr, as a son-in-law, could count on Snorri’s support against his enemies. Snorri was even more mercenary. In one stroke, Snorri gained an ally in his struggle to possess the family chieftaincy, the Snorrungagoðorð, while depriving his nephew and rival, Sturla Sighvatsson, of Þorvaldr’s promised friendship and support.3 What Þórdís might look forward to from the marriage is less certain. She would, of course, be married to a chieftain, but she might reasonably expect this result from any marriage arranged for her. Her sisters, legitimate and illegitimate, married important chieftains, and she was the daughter of the most powerful man in Iceland. However, her sisters’ husbands were young men who seemed destined for great things; Þórdís was married to an older man with grown, albeit illegitimate, sons, and it was possible that Þorvaldr would die

1 Sturlunga saga, 1: 302. The sagas indicate that it was common for a woman’s father or her legal guardian (usually another close kinsman) to betroth her, although they are silent about whether she was consulted first by the man arranging her marriage or whether the prospective groom sought her consent before approaching her kinsmen. See Agnes S. Arnórsdóttir, Konur og vígamenn: staða kynjanna á Íslandi á 12. og 13. öld: 132–33. 2 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Chieftains and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth: 71. 3 Sturlunga saga, 1: 302, 304.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_005

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before any son that issued from their union was old enough to take over power from his father. Shortly after her marriage, Þórdís had a daughter, Kolfinna, and then a son, Einarr. The sagas indicate that Þórdís spent her first few years in the West Fjords carving out a position for herself as mistress of Þorvaldr’s household at Vatnsfjörður and earning the respect of the farmers who served her husband. When Þorvaldr was killed by his rivals only four years after he married, Þórdís situation was precarious and she was vulnerable. Her adult stepsons took over their father’s chieftaincy, her infant son was not old enough to share in this dispensation of power or gain any of his inheritance, and Þórdís was of childbearing age with powerful kin who could profit from her remarriage. Nevertheless, Þórdís immediately asserted her independence. Her father Snorri asked her to come home, presumably to marry her off again, but, with the support of her stepsons and her deceased husband’s followers, she felt able to refuse. Instead, she set up her own household with her children at Mýrar, one of Þorvaldr’s estates in the West Fjords far removed from Snorri’s sphere of influence.4 Over the next few years, there was little that Þórdís could do to promote the interests of her son. But as an independent woman in charge of her own household, she was well placed to attempt to assert control by beginning an extra-marital liaison with a man she thought could advance her son’s interests. When he proved ineffectual, she moved on and then took as her lover the most powerful man in the West Fjords at the time, Oddr Álason.5 Þórdís had inherited her father’s political acumen, and she perhaps had also acquired his mercenary bent. Not only was Oddr married to the sister of the men who killed her husband, he was also allied to her father’s powerful nephew and sometime rival, Sturla Sighvatsson. Þórdís’s second choice of lover was shrewd. Snorri needed his nephew Sturla’s support at a court case in the summer of 1232. If Snorri upset Þórdís, and by extension Oddr Álason, he was likely to lose that support, because Oddr was Sturla’s leading supporter in the west. When the death of Þórdís’s two oldest stepsons left a power vacuum in the West Fjords in March 1232, Snorri supported Þorvaldr’s eldest remaining son – and Þórdís’s ally – as head of the main household at Vatnsfjörður, and he allowed Þórdís to manage Þorvaldr’s estates from there.6 However, once Snorri received the help he required from Sturla, he decided he no longer needed to placate him. In the spring of 1233, Snorri forced Þórdís’s 4 Sturlunga saga, 1: 323. 5 Sturlunga saga, 1: 360. 6 Sturlunga saga, 1: 358.

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removal from Vatnsfjörður, demanded that she return to his home and installed her half-brother Órækja as chieftain in the West Fjords. This angered Þórdís and made Sturla anxious. But, since Sturla was leaving for Norway after being royally summoned, there was little he could do beyond sending his loyal supporter Oddr to Órækja in the West Fjords in order to look out for his supporters there.7 Þórdís’s response to these events was to move back to Mýrar and, late in 1233, allegedly plot with her lover Oddr, unsuccessfully, to have her half-brother killed. In return, Órækja had Oddr killed in 1234.8 Þórdís had not gained enough influence in her short time as Oddr’s lover to enable her to continue her quest for power in the West Fjords on her own, and her six-year-old son was still too young. So Þórdís withdrew completely from the political arena, waiting for the appropriate point at which to re-enter the power game, while the major players, including her cousin Sturla, her father Snorri, and her half-brother Órækja, fought for dominance. Þórdís Snorradóttir’s marital and extra-marital adventures, despite the fact that she was an exceptional medieval Icelandic woman, even unique in many ways, illustrate several of the themes in this essay. It is true that she had not one, but two, lovers when many women had none, and that she was able not only to resist her powerful kinsmen’s endeavours to control her and her sexuality, but also actively opposed her father and half-brother to maintain her independence and protect her son’s position and wealth. Yet Þórdís’s story can still enlighten us about motivations for marriage and extra-marital relations, female agency, and the role played by rank and legitimacy in both marital and extra-marital relationships.

Family Reconstruction, Demographics, and the Sources

Before looking in detail at these themes in relation to the women in Sturla Þórðarson’s life, a few words are necessary about family reconstruction, marital demographics, and the source material. The information providing the backdrop against which the lives of the women in Sturla’s circle have been examined comes from a joint project that Dr Nic Percivall and I are working on. Detailed, labour-intensive research is necessary to reconstruct families in order to calculate dates of birth, marriage, and death, so vital for a study of marital 7 Sturlunga saga, 1: 363. 8 Sturlunga saga, 1: 365–67. It seems likely that Órækja manufactured the plot by Þórdís and Oddr to have a justification to kill Oddr.

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demographics. A few scholars have attempted this for other regions, albeit almost exclusively for the later medieval period when sources are more plentiful and more likely to record age and marital status.9 There is no comparable work for Iceland. Dr Percivall and I are using the twelfth- and thirteenth-century contemporary sagas in the Sturlunga compilation to examine over 1,000 men, women, and children from the farmer, large farmer, and chieftain ranks. We are combining the internal dating of the sagas with extensive information about family and kinship in order to reconstruct the families and kin groups of these people. From this data, trends related to marriage and extra-marital relationships have begun to emerge, although our results are as yet preliminary. A summary of the preliminary results from the project is useful before examining the women in Sturla Þórðarson’s life in detail. The under-reporting of births, especially but not exclusively among girls, and even among the highest ranks, was common in medieval Europe,10 and the information we have for Iceland is far more comprehensive than elsewhere. Among the chieftain-class families in Iceland, it seems that the births of all or nearly all children were recorded, while for the farmer and large farmer ranks, boys were recorded more often than girls, probably due to the greater role they played in the saga action as retainers and active supporters of chieftains. Looking at the chieftain class, a majority of daughters, both legitimate and illegitimate, married, while only about one-third of legitimate sons, and one-half of illegitimate sons, married.11 9

10

11

For demographics relating to widows, see RaGena C. DeAragon, ‘Dowager Countesses, 1069–1230’; Joel T. Rosenthal, ‘Aristocratic Widows in Fifteenth-Century England’. For an examination of the number of children per family, see Josiah Cox Russell, British Medieval Population: 164–69. For a similar examination, as well as more general demographics among the upper classes, such as life expectancy, child mortality, and reproduction rates, see T.H. Hollingsworth, ‘A Demographic Study of the British Ducal Families’: 4–26. For length of marriage and reproduction rates among peasants, see Barbara H. Hanawalt, The Ties That Bound: Peasant Families in Medieval England: 90–95; Cecily Howell, Land, Family and Inheritance in Transition: 222–35; Zvi Razi, Life, Marriage and Death in a Medieval Parish: 32, 75, 85–88, 93, 139–44. For a survey of relevant literature pertaining to marital demographics in the later Middle Ages, see Peter Fleming, Family and Household in Medieval England: 65–70. Philadelphia Ricketts, High-Ranking Women in Medieval Iceland and Yorkshire: 140–41; DeAragon, ‘Dowager Countesses, 1069–1230’: 91; Georges Duby, ‘Structures de parenté et noblesse dans la France du Nord aux XIe et XIIe siècles’: 273, 279. Initial indications suggest that these results are similar to the marital demographics for the farmer and large farmer ranks, although the under-reporting of girls’ births is likely to restrict our knowledge of the number of female marriages recorded in the sagas among these classes. These statistics can be compared with marital patterns more generally in Europe. For the seminal work on this topic see J. Hajnal, ‘European Marriage Patterns in

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The women married men from farmer and chieftain classes almost equally, but the men rarely married a woman below their own chieftain rank. It therefore seems that legitimacy was no hindrance to marriage for either women or men of the highest rank, but the rank of a chosen spouse was linked with gender. For most of medieval northern Europe, we have little data to enable a demographic analysis of extra-marital relationships. Fortunately, for scholars of Iceland, the sagas are particularly candid about these kinds of relationships, making analysis fruitful. Preliminary results indicate that the overwhelming majority of women who engaged in extra-marital relations had only one liaison; the men, however, appear more likely to have had multiple mistresses.12 Chieftain-rank women account for almost three-fifths of the women in the study, but only account for one-quarter of the women who took lovers; women from the farmer and large farmer ranks account for just over two-fifths of the total number of women, but three-quarters of all the women who took lovers. Chieftain-rank women conducted one-third of their relationships with men of lower rank, while nearly all the lower-ranking women had lovers from the chieftain class, although our knowledge of the latter women’s liaisons among men of their own class may be restricted by the under-reporting of female births and the saga narrative’s lack of interest in such relationships. A striking statistic is the high number of nonmarital unions that occurred between women of farmer rank and chieftains. The evidence also suggests that women from all classes who engaged in non-marital relationships generally did so instead of marriage more often than they did before, during, or after marriage. Interestingly, women from all three ranks seem to have had the option of conducting a long-term affair as an alternative to marriage, and a significant percentage of women appear to have done so. However, the source material may restrict our knowledge here. This tentative conclusion should be seen in light of the fact that women’s relationships with chieftains were significant to the saga authors, and they were often recorded. Prior, existing, or subsequent marriages to men from lower ranks often play no great part in saga events and were unlikely to be recorded. Thus,

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Perspective’. See also Ricketts, High-Ranking Women: 133–39, for an overview, and David Herlihy, Medieval Households: 82–109; Georges Duby, Medieval Marriage: Two Models from Twelfth-Century France: 8–12; Richard M. Smith, “Some Reflections on the Evidence for the Origins of the ‘European Marriage Pattern’ in England”; T.H. Hollingsworth, ‘A Demographic Study of the British Ducal Families’: 13–14; Fleming, Family and Household in Medieval England: 21–22; Josiah Cox Russell, British Medieval Population: 156–58; Nic Percivall, ‘Teenage Angst: The Structures and Boundaries of Adolescence in Twelfth- and Thirteenth-Century Iceland’: 145–46. Jenny Jochens, ‘En Islande médiévale: a la recherche de la famille nucléaire’: 100–01.

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the actual number of women who married either before or after an extra-marital relationship with a man of chieftain rank may be higher than the sagas suggest. The numbers related to men tell a different story. More than three-quarters of the men who had a non-marital liaison also married, and twice as many men as women conducted these relationships during marriage. So, while women were far from excluded from extra-marital liaisons, they do not seem to have had quite the same freedom as men, or at least the same as powerful men, to develop multiple monogamous, or indeed simultaneous, relationships.

Motivations for Marriage

Now that this overview of the demographics has indicated some trends in marriage and extra-marital relations in later Commonwealth Iceland, what themes are emerging? It has been suggested that in Iceland a large family was useful to the elite. Children could be used in marriage to enhance the power and prestige of their kin through advantageous political alliances, or to strengthen ties to loyal farmers. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson has noted that in-laws were often as important as blood kin, occasionally more so if they were chieftains.13 Such strategies were not unlike those used by families in medieval England, as Judith Green has pointed out.14 The significantly higher percentage of daughters than sons who married suggests that these women were used by their chieftain fathers to create or strengthen bonds with other kin groups. This might be done through marriages to other chieftain families to establish, renew or reinforce alliances. Or it might be done through unions with men of farmer rank, to create bonds of loyalty between the chieftain and the man’s kin or to reward loyal followers. The contemporary sagas provide numerous examples of chieftains’ kinswomen marrying men to achieve these ends. The marriages of several women in Sturla’s circle were used to create alliances for their families. One such woman was Sturla Þórðarson’s cousin, Þórdís Snorradóttir, who we have already met. Other women included Sturla’s daughters,15 several of his cousins,16 and two of his aunts.17 Although mainly born to parents who were married, three of these women were illegitimate.18 13 14 15 16 17 18

Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Chieftains and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth: 145–47. Judith A. Green, The Aristocracy of Norman England: 351–55. Ingibjörg and Guðný Sturludóttir. Hallbera and Ingibjörg Snorradóttir, Steinvör Sighvatsdóttir (first cousins); Guðný, Þuríðr, and Ingunn Sturludóttir, Solveig Hálfdanardóttir (first cousins, once removed). Halldóra Tumadóttir, Hallveig Ormsdóttir. Þórdís and Ingibjörg Snorradóttir, Hallveig Ormsdóttir.

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Sturla’s own daughters, and his cousins’ daughters Solveig Hálfdanardóttir and Þuríðr Sturludóttir, are good examples of this motivation for marriage. There is no doubt that Sturla Þórðarson was a powerful chieftain, but that power was somewhat tenuous at times, and he was never among those who were at the very apex of society, unlike his uncle Snorri Sturluson, cousins Sturla and Þórðr kakali Sighvatsson, and nephew Þorgils Böðvarsson. In 1252/53, Sturla was an enemy of Gizurr Þorvaldsson, a hugely powerful man in Iceland who was supported by the king of Norway. Sturla chose to reconcile with Gizurr late in 1253, shortly after which his eldest daughter Ingibjörg was married to Gizurr’s eldest son. This was a good match for Sturla. His daughter was marrying the son of arguably the most powerful man in Iceland, and the union would provide Sturla with significant support, protection, and opportunities. It is clear that this marriage was meant to cement the reconciliation, to keep the men loyal to each other, and to attempt to secure peace in the country. Sturla, as the saga author, even makes this claim explicitly through the speech he puts in Gizurr’s mouth at the wedding feast.19 Unfortunately, just days after the wedding, Gizurr was attacked in his home, his sons were killed, and Ingibjörg returned to her family, which broke the newly formed bond between Sturla and Gizurr.20 Yet both men clearly believed that this reconciliation was worth pursuing. Six years later, Ingibjörg was again married at Gizurr’s behest, this time to one of Gizurr’s supporters, and Sturla’s younger daughter Guðný was also married at Gizurr’s behest, to one of his kinsmen.21 While both of these marriages were a step down for Sturla’s daughters from Ingibjörg’s first union, they were still useful politically to both Sturla and Gizurr and both men benefitted. Sturla became Gizurr’s retainer at this time, and Gizurr rewarded Sturla with power over certain districts.22 These marriages seem to have accomplished what the men originally set out to achieve in 1253. The marriages of Sturla’s kinswomen Solveig Hálfdanardóttir and Þuríðr Sturludóttir illustrate another facet of using marriage to form alliances. Both women had kinsmen fighting for power at the highest level in the 1240s and 1250s, and these men used the women’s marriages to support this struggle. 19

20 21 22

‘Nú er þeim málum, er betr er, til góðra lykta snúit með öllum þeim beztum mönnum, er hér eru nú saman komnir, Sturlu bónda ok Hrafni Oddsyni. Vil ek vænta nú með guðs miskunn, at várar sættir fari vel af hendi. Ætla ek at þessi samkundu skilum vér binda með fullu góðu várn félagsskap með mágsemð þeiri, er til er hugat.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 483. Sturlunga saga, 1: 484–94. Sturlunga saga, 1: 527. An added advantage for Gizurr was that he now had a kinsman, Kálfr Brandsson, whose loyalty was suspect, married to the daughter of one of his retainers. Making an enemy of Gizurr would also probably make an enemy of his father-in-law.

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Solveig and her paternal cousin Randalín, members of the powerful Oddaverjar family, were married to the brothers Þorvarðr and Oddr Þórarinsson, who were fighting for power nationally.23 This union was undertaken to create a very strong single bond between two families. Similarly, Þuríðr’s uncle Þórðr kakali, who was fighting for the top spot in Iceland in the 1240s, married his niece to Hrafn Oddsson, one of the major players of his generation.24 Other members of Hrafn’s and Þuríðr’s families were already allied through marriage, and, rather than looking to make other useful connections, their marriage further strengthened the alliance already in existence between their families.25 One final woman worth mentioning is Sturla’s aunt, Halldóra Tumadóttir. Like the women just discussed, the main motivation for Halldóra’s marriage was to create an alliance between powerful families. However, the sagas may provide a more personal insight in this instance. Because Halldóra’s father was dead, her marriage was arranged in 1198 by her mother Þuríðr and her kinsmen. Halldóra had a sister, Álfheiðr, and when Sturla’s uncle Sighvatr asked for Halldóra’s hand in marriage, her mother’s reaction seems to have been motivated by favouritism amongst her daughters.26 Her mother is said to have expressed the view that she loved Halldóra so much more than Álfheiðr that she would only give her in marriage to someone who seemed to her kinsmen to be of equal birth, but anyone could marry Álfheiðr as long as she was not dishonourably provided for.27 And this is indeed what happened. Álfheiðr married a man from an influential family, but he was not on the same level as her sister’s husband, nor was his family of chieftain rank. It seems likely that her marriage was used to bind her husband’s kin-group to her family as influential supporters. While marriage alliances were undoubtedly made to enhance a family’s political position, it seems that political considerations alone did not dictate every marriage in high-ranking families. Favouritism or emotional investment might have played a part. It is interesting that Sturla, as the saga author, felt 23 24 25

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Sturlunga saga, 1: 474. Sturlunga saga, 2: 70. Þuríðr’s cousin Halla Þórðardóttir was married to Tómas Þórarinsson, Hrafn’s kinsman and loyal supporter. Hrafn’s sister Herdís was married to Þuríðr’s kinsman Svarthöfði Dufgusson, who was loyal to Þuríðr’s uncle Þórðr kakali. Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action in Thirteenth Century Iceland: 111–12, who also indicates that favouritism among sons was not unknown in the sagas, albeit rarely openly voiced (see p. 60). ‘Þuríðr Gizurardóttir svarar svá, at hon unni Halldóru, dóttur sinni, því hæra en Álfheiði, at hon myndi hana þeim einum manni gefa, er þat þætti frændum jafnaðr. En Álfheiði lézt hon gefa mundu, ef eigi þætti ósæmiliga fyrir henni sét.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 235.

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the need to explain why Halldóra and Álfheiðr made such uneven marriages. Perhaps this appeared inexplicable, and the only reason Sturla could imagine was favouritism among children. Or perhaps it was a deliberate strategy by Halldóra’s mother, to marry one daughter to make an equal alliance, while using the other to ensure a more localized political gain, possibly with a specific purpose. But if this was a deliberate strategy, as seems to have sometimes occurred, why did Sturla feel the need to explain it? If it was purely about politics, and people were familiar with this strategy, why explain it any other way? And why use favouritism to explain, unless favouritism existed and was understood as a motivation? It therefore seems possible, likely even, that Halldóra and Álfheiðr’s marriages were influenced by their mother’s differing emotional bonds with her daughters. Chieftains also used their daughters’ marriages to bind lower-ranking men to them through the marriage, or to reward loyal followers. A number of Sturla’s kinswomen made these kinds of marriages, including Sturla’s nieces,28 three of his illegitimate cousins,29 and two of his aunts, one of whom was illegitimate.30 This strategy appears to have been fruitful, since the men married to Sturla’s kinswomen seem to have remained loyal to their wives’ families.

Patterns in the Motivations

The women used to create alliances between powerful families and those used to bind lower-ranking families have some noteworthy features. Those used to create alliances came from the highest-ranking families of the thirteenth century and were daughters of the most powerful political players, men such as Snorri Sturluson, Sighvatr Sturluson and his son Sturla, Ormr Jónsson, Tumi Kolbeinsson, and Hálfdan Sæmundarson. These women were usually legitimate. The women married to strengthen bonds with supporters had less influential fathers or kinsmen, or were illegitimate. Sturla’s nieces are included in this group.31 Their father Böðvarr Þórðarson was Sturla’s brother. Although he was a powerful chieftain from the highest rank, he remained somewhat aloof from politics at the highest levels and played a supporting role among his Sturlungar kin. The illegitimate daughters of Sturla’s uncle Sighvatr Sturluson also illustrate this point. While Sighvatr’s legitimate daughter Steinvör married 28 29 30 31

Helga, Aldís and Hallbera Böðvarsdóttir. Valgerðr and Sigríðr Sighvatsdóttir, Þuríðr Sturludóttir. Steinunn and Þuríðr Sturludóttir (illegitimate). Sturlunga saga, 1: 104.

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a chieftain to secure an influential political alliance,32 the illegitimate Valgerðr and Sigríðr married Sighvatr’s supporters.33 While this was the most usual pattern, not all of the most powerful chieftains used the marriages of their legitimate daughters for alliances and the marriages of their illegitimate daughters to strengthen bonds of loyalty with supporters. Some very powerful chieftains occasionally married legitimate daughters to followers or illegitimate daughters to other chieftains. For example, Snorri Sturluson married his illegitimate daughters Þórdís and Ingibjörg, respectively, to Þorvaldr Vatnsfirðingr, the most powerful chieftain in the West Fjords, and to Gizurr Þorvaldsson, chosen heir of the very powerful chieftain Þorvaldr Gizurarson.34 Other examples include Sturla’s father Þórðr, who married his legitimate daughter Halla to a chieftain’s distant kinsman among the large farmer class instead of to a chieftain,35 and Halldóra’s sister Álfheiðr, discussed above. What seems to have mattered more than legitimacy and rank was the power and political needs of a woman’s father or kinsmen, or perhaps occasionally parents’ emotional bonds with the daughters involved.

Motivations for Extra-Marital Relationships

As stated earlier, extra-marital relationships in the later Icelandic Commonwealth appear to have been common. It is noteworthy that the sagas never censure any of the women who engaged in them or imply that their reputations suffered.36 The absence of opprobrium can be seen as a factor enabling women to choose to enter into such relationships. Women’s motivations for embarking upon this kind of relationship were varied. The women of farmer and large farmer rank who conducted liaisons mainly had chieftain lovers. While the sagas often do not explicitly mention the motivations of these women, reasons can sometimes be deduced. Some 32 33 34 35 36

Sturlunga saga, 1: 345. Sturlunga saga, 1: 52. Sturlunga saga, 1: 302, 204. Sturlunga saga, 1: 52, 54. Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action in Thirteenth Century Iceland: 105, 106, 142. Note also that, despite the Church’s teachings on sex outside marriage, illegitimacy was not viewed as a social stigma, nor did it preclude a child from inheriting. See Ricketts, High-Ranking Women: 116–19; Jochens, ‘En Islande médiévale: a la recherche de la famille nucléaire’: 98; Jochens, ‘The Church and Sexuality in Medieval Iceland’: 383–85; Auður G. Magnúsdóttir, ‘Ástir og völd: frillulífi á Íslandi á þjóðveldisöld’; Nic Percivall, ‘Affection Tempered by Pragmatism?’: 55–57, 84–86.

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relationships were founded on mutual respect or love.37 For example, Sturla Þórðarson’s father Þórðr took his mother Þóra as his long-term mistress after his second wife died. The liaison lasted somewhere between eight and twenty years, produced six children, and Þórðr chose not to remarry again until after Þóra died.38 And, prior to his relationship with Þóra, the sagas tell us that Sturla’s father took Hróðny Þórðardóttir into his household and a long-lasting friendship developed between them.39 Other women entered an extra-marital relationship to gain protection for family wealth.40 This was probably Þóra Eiríksdóttir’s motivation for her relationship with the powerful chieftain Ormr Jónsson; she sought to protect her inheritance, a large portion of which eventually went to her daughter by Ormr, Sturla’s aunt Hallveig Ormsdóttir.41 And the sagas tell us about women whose sexual attraction for their lover seems evident.42 Presumably, some women of farmer rank also took or accepted a lover in order to increase their status or position or that of their children,43 or to secure a less vulnerable position in society; some women were perhaps encouraged by their male kin to take a lover to establish a close tie with a powerful man.44 One woman even took a lover because she wanted a man to murder her husband to free her from an apparently awful marriage!45 From the little we know of these women’s motivations, it seems likely that their main concerns were governed by wealth, sex, or status. For the highest-ranking women, we see a different picture. One-third of these women who had extra-marital relationships had lovers from a lower class. Undoubtedly, some of the chieftain-class women chose lovers because 37

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Apart from the two following examples, there are others. For instance, Ragnheiðr Þórhallsdóttir and Jón Loftsson, Þorláks saga B: 251; Gróa Álfsdóttir and Gizurr Þorvaldsson, Sturlunga saga, 1: 477, 490, 494. Sturlunga saga, 1: 52, 303. Sturlunga saga, 1: 231. For example, Yngvildr Þórðardóttir, Sturlunga saga, 1: 23. Sturlunga saga, 1: 242–43. Þurírðr Knakansdóttir, Sturlunga saga, 1: 178–79; probably also Guðbjörg Þórðardóttir, Sturlunga saga, 1: 80; Snælaug Högnadóttir, Þorláks saga B: 255; Helga Ásgrímsdóttir, Sturlunga saga, 1: 294. This may have been another, or even the main, motivation for Hróðný Þórðardóttir, whose daughter Herdís Bersadóttir married her chieftain lover’s brother. Possibly also Kolfinna Þorsteinsdóttir, Sturlunga saga, 2: 85. Agnes S. Arnórsdóttir, Konur og vígamenn: 143. As Agnes Arnórsdóttir points out, the high number of extra-marital relationships between men of chieftain rank and women of lower rank noted above may be explained by the desire for the women’s kinsmen to seek to create an alliance with a more powerful family. Guðrún Þórðardóttir, Sturlunga saga, 1: 168–71.

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they desired protection or family advancement,46 were in love,47 or were sexually attracted,48 as did their lower-ranking counterparts. But we also know of other motivations for entering extra-marital relationships that were not associated with women of farmer rank. A few chieftain-class women took lovers because they wanted greater independence, and these relationships could provide it.49 Independence, perhaps coupled with love, seems to have been the motivation for Kolfinna Þorvaldsdóttir, the daughter of Sturla’s cousin Þórdís, with whom this essay began. Although we know little about Kolfinna, what we do know is worth recounting. She appears to have fallen in love with a man of much lower rank than herself, and at the age of about twenty-eight, she ran away to Norway with him without the advice of her kinsmen.50 Yet while in Norway, she moved in the king’s circle and was on good terms with her mother’s powerful cousin Þórðr kakali. Clearly, she was not ostracized for her headstrong decision. Given the independence her mother Þórdís fought so hard to maintain for herself, one can speculate whether Kolfinna succeeded in her plans, at least in part, due to help from her mother. Other motivations for women of chieftain-rank to begin an extra-marital relationship were the advancement of a son’s interests and political power. Sturla’s grandmother Guðný Böðvarsdóttir took as her lover the wealthy chieftain Ari Þorgilsson, whose only child and heir married her eldest son Þórðr, Sturla’s father.51 And we must return again to Sturla’s cousin Þórdís Snorradóttir. She adopted the strategy of using lovers to attempt to further her long-term goal of protecting her son’s political and financial interests. Although her second lover Oddr Álason was killed before she could fulfil this goal, it seems clear that Þórdís’s motivations for beginning her relationship with him included the protection and increased political power she needed to work towards the advancement of her son’s interests. 46 47

48 49 50 51

Guðrún Gunnarsdóttir, Sturlunga saga, 2: 209. Ingibjörg Gunnarsdóttir’s motivations can only be guessed at, but we are told that her sexual partner Gizurr came to love her very much, Sturlunga saga, 1: 500. See also Kolfinna Þorvarldsdóttir, below. Margrét Oddsdóttir, Sturlunga saga, 1: 179; possibly Halldóra Þorgilsdóttir, Sturlunga saga, 1: 338. Yngvildr Þorgilsdóttir, Sturlunga saga, 1: 72–73. ‘Fóru þar útan Sigurðr seli ok Kolfinna Þorvaldsdóttir fyrir útan frænda ráð.’ Sturlunga saga, 2: 160. Sturlunga saga, 1: 229–31. Íslendinga saga also tells us that ‘great affection’ (kærleikar miklir: 229) developed between her and Ari, so love or attraction might also have motivated Guðný in this instance.

Power, Protection and Pleasure

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So it seems that some of the motivations women had for beginning extramarital relations cut across class, while other motivations were limited to women of the highest rank or to those of the farmer classes. And, of course, a woman of any class may have had more than one motivation. The women in Sturla Þórðarson’s life bear witness to the fact that most medieval Icelandic marriages served political purposes. However, it was not always a simple matter of parents and other kin trying to find the most powerful or richest spouse for their daughter. In Iceland, it was more nuanced. The women in Sturla’s life illustrate that a range of marital strategies were pursued during the Commonwealth. And they show that marriage was not the only option; women – either with or without encouragement from their kinsmen – could explore other avenues, including short-term liaisons and long-term ­extra-marital relationships, all of which reflect the complexity of Icelandic society at the time. Furthermore, it was not always the most powerful men in the family who decided what would happen to a woman. The women themselves had some agency in certain situations, and bonds of affection might have played a role in how marriages and extra-marital relations originated. We should not assume that every relationship was made by parents for their own or their family’s benefit, simply because we do not have evidence to the contrary. Þórdís Snorradóttir and her daughter Kolfinna Þorvaldsdóttir are proof that sometimes individuals acted on their own initiative and to further their own ends.

chapter 5

Landnámabók and Its Sturlubók Version Sveinbjörn Rafnsson From the very beginning up to the present day the impact of Landnámabók (‘Book of Settlements’) was in various ways almost certainly profound. This influence includes the period during which Sturla Þórðarson lived, himself an author of a version of Landnámabók as will be discussed later in this essay. The implications and problems of this remarkable historical source require the use of different historical methodological approaches, ranging from minute paleographic, linguistic and textual observations to broader social and political, and even geographical investigations, as the work describes settlements and landscapes. Undeniably, the work appeals to the changing self-identity among Icelanders – an identity that develops in various different ‘patriotic’ or ‘national’ ways, and it is especially interesting in light of its age and lasting impact. Landnámabók is basically an enumeration, or a list, of the first alleged settlers of Iceland (the so-called landnámsmenn,), i.e. individuals who first took possession of land in Iceland, and a record of these settlers and their lands or settlements (landnám). This list is presented in a topographical order clockwise around all of Iceland, continuously and almost without lacunae, according to the old division of Iceland into quarters (fjórðungar). The area covered is no small amount of land, since Iceland, the second largest island in Europe, comprises more than 100,000 square kilometres. The alleged settlers ­(landnámsmenn) number nearly 430 as do their lands or settlements (landnám), according to Landnámabók. It should thus be evident that Landnámabók is an immense collection of personal and topographical knowledge, and the person- and place-names mentioned number in the thousands. At the time of its writing, it was hardly regarded as a literary or historiographical work. It is obvious that no single person could have supplied all this material – there must have been many original authors or contributors. Still its uniform and systematic structure indicates a central editorial management, an authoritative institution where the work was planned. In the nineteenth century, ­scholars pointed out that Landnámabók must originally have been made in connection with the Alþing, the annual assembly of the old Icelandic republic, where people gathered from all across Iceland.1 1

1 Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, ‘Hvað er Landnámabók?’: 179.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_006

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When was Landnámabók Written and Why?

Landnámabók as a whole is preserved in only three different medieval versions of the late thirteenth century (see below), of which one is the version by Sturla Þórðarson, the so-called Sturlubók Landnámabókar. Still it is clear that Landnámabók is used as a source in much older works than these versions, in works of both historical and legal nature. The oldest of these were Grágás, the collection of laws of the Icelandic republic, mostly committed to writing in the second decade of the twelfth century, and Íslendingabók, the historical work of Ari Þorgilsson, also written early in the twelfth century. Landnámabók is also used as a source in many different Icelandic sagas of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, or as the nineteenth century scholar Guðbrandur Vigfússon put it: ‘Landnáma is often cited (though not by name) in the Sagas, being the groundwork or matrix to them as it were; and in style and character lying behind and beyond all other Icelandic literature.’2 Attempts at dating the work would thus put the upper limit at the early twelfth century. On the other hand, there are dateable natural events, the consequences of which are described in the text of Landnámabók. For instance, the volcanic eruption of Eldgjá is known to have happened around 934, and its immense lava field seems to be mentioned. Thus, the time of the origin of Landnámabók can be ascertained as being somewhere between 934 and the early twelfth century. Landnámabók is written in Icelandic by Christians using the Latin alphabet, and in light of the literacy of its authors, a reasonable dating would be around 1100, with a possible margin of about two decades before or after 1100. Obviously, Landnámabók is by no means a contemporary source of the original settlement of Iceland. It is fictitious, a forgery created about 200 years after the real settlement of Iceland. According to evidence provided by archaeology and natural sciences, Iceland was settled by illiterate, pagan, iron-age farmers in the ninth and tenth centuries, mainly from Scandinavia and the British Isles.3 This inevitably raises the question, why was this peculiar work created? What was the original purpose of these purported landnámsmenn? The very core of the text of Landnámabók is how each of them acquired possession of his land (landnám). Most of them are simply stated to have ‘taken land’ (i.e. nam land, using the verb nema, a synonym with the verb taka, cf. the German verb nehmen). Alternatively, it is also said that they ‘became owners of land’ (eignaðist land) or ‘appropriated land’ (helgaði sér land). But there are some less common variations, such as ‘was given land’ (var gefið land), ‘bought land’

2 3

2 Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Sögugerð Landnámabókar: Um íslenska sagnaritun á 12. og 13. öld, 9. 3 Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, ‘Hvað er Landnámabók?’: 180–81.

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(keypti land), ‘built first’ (byggði fyrst) or ‘fought for his land’ (barðist til landa). These less common variations are apparently present to keep the geographical continuity of the land registered. One way to take possession of land is conspicuously never mentioned, i.e. ‘to inherit land’ (erfa land).4 What matters is who was the first to possess the land as far as the authors maintain and remember. The salient point is the question of original ownership. Why does the work so vehemently maintain that its landnámsmenn were the first and original owners of the land in Iceland? Had anybody else made that claim before the work was written and who could that be? A clause stemming from the archaic version Melabók of Landnámabók seems to suggest an answer. It is most likely from the original Landnámabók, with its fragrance of twelfth century language, and could thus be a kind of causa scribendi: Það er margra manna mál að það sé óskyldur fróðleikur að rita landnám. En vér þykjumst heldur svara kunna útlendum mönnum, þá þeir bregða oss því, að vér séum komnir af þrælum eða illmennum, ef vér vitum víst vorar kynferðir sannar. Svo og þeim mönnum er vita vilja forn fræði eða rekja ættartölur, að taka heldur að upphafi til en höggvast í mitt mál, enda eru svo allar vitrar þjóðir að vita vilja upphaf sinna landsbyggða eða hvers hvergi til hefjast eða kynslóðir.5

Many people say that it is unnecessary knowledge to write on the settlements. But we claim on the contrary to be able to answer foreigners when they reproach us for being descended from slaves or wicked people, if we know for certain our true ancestry. Also [we can answer] those who want to know old learning or trace genealogies, rather to take the beginning than to cut into the middle of the cause, and of course all wise people want to know the beginning of their settlements or at what each is to begin or generations.

The landnámsmenn in Landnámabók are often said to have been well born; frequently they are called göfugir (‘noble’), ágætir (‘excellent’), kappar (‘champions’) or víkingar (‘vikings’). Many of them are said to have been fierce opponents of the Norwegian King Harald Fairhaired or the Norwegian Earl Hákon Grjótgarðsson, and often the ofríki (tyranny) of King Harald is stated as the cause of their emigration to Iceland. This conforms with the aforementioned

4 5

4 Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Studier i Landnámabók: Kritiska bidrag till den isländska fristatstidens historia: 128–32. 5 Landnámabók i–iii: Hauksbók, Sturlubók, Melabók, m.m.: 257–58; Landnámabók. Melabók am 106, 112 fol.: 143; Skarðsárbók: Landnámabók Björns Jónssonar á Skarðsá: 157.

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quotation, the landnámsmenn are obviously the alleged kynferðir sannar (‘true ancestry’) of the writers of Landnámabók. The antipathy towards the Norwegian king and his followers seems to be an original feature of the work. Most likely, they are the people alluded to by útlendir menn (‘foreigners’) in the quotation above. Perhaps some glimpses of the political context of the original Landnámabók can be discerned by looking at the Northern European political situation in the times when Landnámabók first appeared. That would be the late eleventh or very early twelfth century, certainly not the time of the almost mythical­ ninth-century king Harald Fairhaired, but the time of another Norwegian king, Haraldr­ harðráði and his descendants. Several kings and nobles made claims to the English crown after the death of Edward the Confessor. The former Byzantine mercenary, King Haraldr harðráði of Norway, together with the Anglo-Saxon­faction of Earl Tostig Godwinson’s, succumbed to the armies of King Harold Godwinson at Stamford Bridge in 1066. The winner in the struggle for England, however, was to be William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy, after his victory over King Harold Godwinson at Hastings later in 1066. Later in the eleventh century, the Danish kings, relatives of King Cnut, made claims to England and even prepared invasions. Warriors like Haraldr harðráði and William the Bastard and their descendants made claims to a kind of supreme ownership to all land they reigned over (whether we use to describe such ideas the somewhat-anachronistic Latin terms like superioritas (i.e. ‘sovereignty’), or the Grotian term dominium eminens, or a Norse term about the whole of Norway as óðal of the kings). Landnámabók fits well as an attempt to deter such royal ideas of all-encompassing umbrella landownership. It is not only a forgery; it also appears to be an Icelandic republican defense against royal encroachment. Some features in the text of Landnámabók seem to be attempts to prove or support the legality of the original acquisition of land. Examples of this are the fabricated narratives of how certain landnámsmenn went about appropriating land with symbolic or ceremonial proceedings, i.e. by fire, by leading a young cow through the land, by launching a spear over the land, by being lead to land by godly providence as shown by the drift of their high-seat posts on the sea, and so on. The many tales of burial mounds (haugar) in connection with the landnámsmenn or their relatives reflect ancient, and not very Christian, atavistic beliefs in mounds near the farms as proof of certain ancestors or predecessors.6 In a pre-literate or half-literate society, where neither ancient documentary evidence nor charters could be provided, one had to resort to archaic methods of proof, and references were made to things said to have been owned 6

6 Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Studier i Landnámabók: 196–203.

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by landnámsmenn such as an old sword or a drinking-horn or the favourite item of high-seat posts of certain landnámsmenn still standing in the main hall (skáli) of the farmhouses.7 All this reflects an extensive collection of evidence for the writing of Landnámabók and its relatively ancient original age. Icelandic society went through a rapid and dramatic development in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries – the times of church reforms, political struggle and extensive saga writing. New interests and attitudes arose, and the personal and political material of this comprehensive old source, Landnámabók, obviously appealed profoundly to many people, as verified in numerous Icelandic sagas. After the fall of the republic, shortly after 1260, the chieftains were still struggling against the church, which claimed the lands of proprietary churches, and the chieftains had the support of the king in that controversy.

The Extant Versions

From the late thirteenth century, we have the three extant medieval versions of Landnámabók.8 One thing that the versions have in common is that their different authors reckon their ancestry from many different landnámsmenn. It can also be inferred from annals and other narrative sources that the authors were acquainted with each other and were courtiers (hirðmenn) of the Norwegian king. They were among the most powerful chieftains in Iceland, and all, at some point, held the office of lawman (lögmaðr), the highest official of the Alþing. The three versions and their authors are: 1.

7 8

Sturlubók, by Sturla Þórðarson (1214–1284), counting genealogies from eleven landnámsmenn to the Sturlungar. It also refers to the number of farmers in the Western and Northern quarters (not in other quarters), as stated in Íslendingabók by Ari Þorgilsson. Sturla had been a republican lögsögumaðr (‘lawspeaker’) in 1251, and was lögmaðr for the Western and Northern quarters in 1272–1282. The attention to detail in the Western and Northern quarters suggests that the Sturlubók version is most likely from his time in office. It was preserved in a fourteenth-century manuscript (Resensbók) up to the seventeenth century, when it was copied.

7 Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Studier i Landnámabók: 110, 153–55, 219; Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, ‘Hvað er Landnámabók?’: 184–85. For English parallells see M.T. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record: England 1066–1307: 35–43, 253–60. 8 All edited separately in Landnámabók i–iii. The two secondary seventeenth-century versions in Landnámabók (1921) and Skarðsárbók (1958).

Landnámabók And Its Sturlubók Version

2.

3.

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Hauksbók, by Haukr Erlendsson (d. 1334), counting genealogies from ten landnámsmenn to Haukr, his wife and relatives. Haukr was lögmaðr in 1294–1299. The version, partly preserved in Haukr’s personal hand, is certainly written later than 1299. Melabók, by Snorri Markússon of Melar (d. 1313), counting genealogies from at least forty landnámsmenn to the relatives of Snorri. Snorri was lögmaðr in 1302–1306. The version is partially preserved in a fourteenth century manuscript, which was somewhat fuller when partially copied in the seventeenth century. A list of lögsögumenn (lawspeakers) from the beginning up to 1271 was appended to the version, which was likely made shortly after 1271.

Pride of ancestry and ambition to promote themselves as noblemen, both in Icelandic society and in the service of the king, seem to be the immediate motives for the authors of these preserved versions of Landnámabók. Still, the versions are copied from older versions, as is obvious from Haukr Erlendsson’s remarkable epilogue in his version: Nú er yfirfarið um landnám þau er verið hafa á Íslandi eftir því sem fróðir menn hafa skrifað, fyrst Ari prestr hinn fróði Þorgilsson og Kolskeggr hinn vitri. En þessa bók ritaða eg Haukr Erlendsson eftir þeirri bók sem ritað hafði herra Sturla lögmaðr, hinn fróðasti maðr og eftir þeirri bók annarri er ritað hafði Styrmir hinn fróði, og hafða eg það úr hvorri sem framar greindi, en mikill þorri var það er þær sögðu eins báðar, og því er það ekki að undra þó þessi Landnámabók sé lengri en nokkur önnur.9

Now the settlements that have been in Iceland have been recited according to what learned men have written, first the priest Ari Þorgilsson the learned and Kolskeggr the wise. But this book I, Haukr Erlendsson, wrote according to the book which Sturla lögmaðr, the most learned man, had written and according to another book which Styrmir the learned had written, and I took from each of them that which was told more fully, but for the most part, they both said the same, and so it is no wonder that this Landnámabók is longer than any other.

The reliance of Hauksbók on Sturlubók is verifiable on account of this epilogue as well as extensive passages in its main text. On the other hand, the book of Styrmir seems to be lost. As Styrmir Kárason the learned died in 1245, his 9

9 Finnur Jónsson, Landnámabók i–iii, 1: 124.

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version of Landnámabók, *Styrmisbók, was much older than the extant versions. The reasons for its writing are unknown but they were not necessarily the same as those of the younger versions. No trace of Styrmir’s genealogy is preserved, his family is unknown. The narrative sources imply that Styrmir was a close ally, at least temporarily, to Snorri Sturluson. It has been maintained, and is very likely, that the young Sturla Þórðarson was personally acquainted with the learned Styrmir, an inference derived from Sturla’s Íslendinga saga.10 Styrmir was lögsögumaðr in 1210–1214 and again in 1232–1235, after which he became prior in the Augustinian monastery of Viðey. It is known that he wrote a version of Ólafs saga helga, which is partially preserved, and that he wrote a copy of Sverris saga. The three different versions of Landnámabók fall into two categories. On the one hand is Melabók, which preserves the original arrangement of the four continuous quarters, the more original wording of the prologues and epilogues for each quarter, and has much fewer interpolations from sagas than the other versions. On the whole, the text in Melabók, albeit badly preserved, is in a more original state than the other versions. A short statement on the origins of pagan secular chieftains (goðar), assemblies (þing) and a list of lögsögumenn from the beginning was appended to the Melabók version. Sturlubók and Hauksbók are a different matter, the latter partially dependent on the former. They have sometimes been called the historicised version of Landnámabók (sögugerð Landnámabókar),11 They seem to have been tampered with in a manner that is religious and clerical in character. Such changes include: firstly, the addition of a prologue detailing the discovery and discoverers of Iceland; secondly, the appearance of Kristni saga appended to the work; and thirdly, the division of the Southern quarter into two in order to have ­Ingólfr, allegedly the first of the landnámsmenn, in the beginning of the work. The original stucture of the work is thus disrupted, leaving a part of the Southern quarter until the end of the main text. In this way, however, a chronological continuity is maintained with Ingólfr in the beginning, Landnámabók in the middle and a conclusion with the arrival and development of Christianity in Kristni saga. An additional ecclesiastical change is the claim that four of the landnámsmenn were Christians from the beginning, one in each quarter and all in the family of Ketill flatnefr. In certain sagas, which use older versions of Landnámabók, some of these landnámsmenn are said to have been pagan. In these versions of Landnámabók, they have been Christianised. 10 11

10 11

Jón Jóhannesson, Gerðir Landnámabókar: 141–42. Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Sögugerð Landnámabókar: Um íslenska sagnaritun á 12. og 13. öld: 14–16.

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A version of a large saga about the missionary king Ólafr Tryggvason was undoubtedly an important prerequisite for the stories about early Christianity in Iceland as well as for Kristni saga. On the whole, this is an attempt to make a larger historiographical work about Iceland, of which Landnámabók is merely a part, albeit an important one. These peculiar editorial changes, i.e. fitting an altered Landnámabók into a chronological frame with Kristni saga, a history of the Christianisation of Iceland, changes the work into a history of the salvation of the Icelandic people, all within the traditional republican institutional structure. The changes bear the hallmarks of a learned, although somewhat naïve, clericalism. They are not made by any of the king’s men in the late thirteenth century, so they must be older, i.e. from earlier in the thirteenth century, possibly by Styrmir Kárason or some other learned member of the clergy. All three extant versions of Landnámabók display differences of a secular character, each version having its own specific set of interpolations from different sagas, often verbatim, into the narratives of individual landnámsmenn, at times expanding them or rearranging them. The sagas used are sometimes named, sometimes not; some of them still exist in preserved versions, some not; some of them are lost, apart from these excerpts. These limited differences have led to an intense philological and historical research into the writing of the sagas, beginning in the nineteenth century and developing further in the twentieth century, especially in the work of scholars like Björn M. Ólsen and Jón Jóhannesson, and in the prefaces of the individual volumes of Íslenzk ­fornrit, opening a view into the nuances of the world of sagas and Icelandic medieval history in general. The ‘dialogue’ between the various versions of Landnámabók and sagas is difficult to explain fully, but it is all a matter of historical evidence. The motivations behind these saga-interpolations are obviously influenced by secular interests in a hierachical society of chieftains or wealthy farmers with claims to noble ancestry, traditional power or special rights. The authors of the late thirteenth-century versions of Landnámabók seem to have found a niche for their interests by interpolating excerpts from sagas, cultivating friendships or reflecting political connections in certain localities or regions in Iceland – all of which underpinned their demands for power.

Saga-interpolations in the Extant Versions

Saga-interpolations can only be identified from two sagas in the text of Melabók: from Vatnsdæla saga (in an older version than the still preserved Vatnsdæla saga) and from an otherwise lost *Esphælinga saga.

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The large number of saga-interpolations in the text of Sturlubók stands in stark contrast to these few interpolations in Melabók. In his dissertation on the versions of Landnámabók, Jón Jóhannesson identifies more than thirty sources, most of them sagas, from which he maintains Sturla Þórðarson has interpolated material into Sturlubók.12 The main saga-interpolations in Sturlubók seem to be from the following known Icelandic sagas, some of them in older versions than are now preserved: Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, Hænsa-Þóris saga, Harðar saga, Bjarnar saga Hítdælakappa, Eyrbyggja saga, Þorskfirðinga saga, Hávarðar saga, Gísla saga, Hrómundar þáttr, Vatnsdæla saga, Svarfdæla saga, Reykdæla saga, Droplaugarsona saga, Heimskringla, Orkneyinga saga and Hálfs saga. Three otherwise lost sagas are named and probably used: *Þórðar saga gellis, *Vébjarnar saga and *Saga Böðmóðs gerpis ok Grímólfs. Finally, there seem to be saga-interpolations in the text of Sturlubók that give reason to presume the existence of the following lost sagas, with modern names: *Kjalleklinga saga, *Snæbjarnar saga galta, *Hróars saga Tungugoða, *Fljótshlíðinga saga and a saga with Greenlandic matter. Sturlubók is also interpolated with various genealogical material, of which one genealogical tract is named: Ö ­ lfusingakyn. All this shows that Sturla had access to a large number of writings when he compiled his version of Landnámabók. Hauksbók also has several independent interpolations of similar character, but since it is, to a significant extent, dependent on Sturlubók, as discussed above, considerable overlap occurs. Not only do the saga-interpolations provide interesting clues as to the dating of individual sagas and versions thereof, but they also throw light on evolving interdependencies between versions of sagas and versions of Landnámabók, their political leanings and agenda, as well as context. For instance, Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar originally uses a version of Landnámabók akin to Melabók, retaining the traditional republican antipathy towards the Norwegian king, indeed more virulent, if anything, but also expanding the landnám of Skalla-Grímur beyond the boundaries of the quarters. This expansion is subsequently interpolated from the saga into Sturlubók. Another example would be the excerpts from an old version of Vatnsdæla saga in Melabók, where the role of the ancient chieftains in introducing and adminstrating Christianity is stressed, most likely in resistance to the demands of the clergy in the ­controversy about the proprietary churches (staðamál). In contrast, the interpolations from Vatnsdæla saga in Sturlubók are not of that character, and the 12

12

Jón Jóhannesson, Gerðir Landnámabókar: 142.

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preserved younger version of Vatnsdæla saga has been amended according to the outcome of the dispute. Considering the relatively old age of the lost *Styrmisbók, which most likely was a historicised version of Landnámabók, and the acquaintance of Sturla Þórðarson and Snorri Markússon, the question arises why Snorri Markússon did not use a historicised version of Landnámabók as a basis for his own version, Melabók. Snorri probably also had access to an enlarged version of Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar, which was an influential factor in the historicisation of Landnámabók. The basis for his version is a more archaic Landnámabók, without mention of the primacy of the church, and he appends to it material about the pagan origins of secular power in Iceland. Also he interpolates into his version the excerpts from Vatnsdæla saga mentioned above. All this implies a certain political stance in the staðamál controversy. Snorri Markússon seems to have been one of the staðamenn, i.e. the landowning chieftains who did not accept the claim of the clergy to the chieftains’ inherited manors dedicated to their churches.13

Sturla Þórðarson and the Controversy about the Proprietary Churches

This dispute had been lingering over Icelandic society at least from the middle of the thirteenth century. In 1269, a judgement was passed by the archbishop in a leading case (Oddamál) that the administration of the proprietary churches in Iceland should be handed over to the clergy. Reluctantly, the chieftains yielded many of their manors to the church. King Magnús Hákonarson was accepting of this state of affairs, but the native secular chieftains were seething with rage. After the death of King Magnús in 1280 the controversy took a new turn. In 1283, King Eiríkr Magnússon ordered the chieftains to take their manors back, and in 1284 the clergy in Iceland, under the leadership of Bishop Árni of Skálholt, were forced to relent to a significant extent. This continued to be a matter of contention for more than a decade afterwards and will not be further related here. Sturla Þórðarson did not take part in this conflict, he seems to have taken a conciliatory position towards the church, as stated in the last chapter of ­Sturlunga saga: 13

13

Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Sögugerð Landnámabókar: 20; Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, ‘Vatnsdæla sögur og Kristni sögur’: 57–58.

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Sturla fór þá til Staðarhóls búi sínu og hafði lögsögn þar til er hófust deilur milli kennimanna og leikmanna um staðamál. Lét Sturla þá lögsögn lausa og settist hjá öllum vandræðum er þar af gerðust. Margir menn heyrðu Árna biskup það mæla, og þótti það merkilegt, að Sturla mundi nokkurs mikils góðs að njóta er hann gekk frá þessum vanda.14

Then Sturla moved his residence to Staðarhóll and kept the office of ­lawman until the controversy arose between clergy and laymen about the proprietary churches. Then Sturla retired from the office of lawman and abstained from all troubles following thereof. Many people heard, and thought it remarkable, when Bishop Árni said that Sturla would enjoy something very good as he stepped aside from this quandary.

This passage may have been formulated by the compiler of Sturlunga saga, perhaps Þórðr Narfason (d. 1308). Þórðr is, previously in the same chapter, said to have been a companion of Sturla Þórðarson as a young man, in 1271. Þórðr and his brothers were friends of Bishop Árni, according to Árna saga biskups.15 Sturla’s stance in the dispute could partially explain why he saw fit to use a historicised version of Landnámabók, with Christian and clerical tendencies prominent. But that does not explain the saga-interpolations in the Sturlubók version. Jón Jóhannesson presumed that Sturla ‘must have owned an excellent library and got manuscripts on loan from all over the land and of course he was in an excellent position to do so.’16 The multitude of sources, and his choices ­thereof, are perhaps a reflection of the scope of his connections and personal acquaintances. Most of the sagas he cites take place in the West of Iceland – the Western quarter was the heartland of the Sturlungar, and where Sturla lived for most of his life. The Sturlubók version of Landnámabók was compiled by an aged and experienced man with many kinds of familial and personal ties. He was accustomed to the use of various sources in his writings. He used the legal documents he or his brother, Ólafr Þórðarson, made as young men in lawsuits for their father, the chieftain (goði) Þórðr Sturluson, in Íslendinga saga.17 He used letters or information about the new chapel in the king’s castle by the sea in Bergen from 14 15 16 17

14 15 16 17

Sturlunga saga efter membranen Króksfjarðarbók udfyldt efter Reykjarfjarðarbók, 2: 328. Biskupa sögur iii: 103–04. Jón Jóhannesson, Gerðir Landnámabókar: 131, ‘Sturla hlýtur að hafa átt ágætt bókasafn og fengið handrit léð hvaðanæva af landinu, enda hafði hann ágæt skilyrði til þess.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 388–91. Cf. Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, ‘Grágás og Digesta Iustiniani’: 725–26.

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his son, the royal chaplain Þórðr Sturluson, in Magnús saga.18 Sturla Þórðarson was born as a child of the Icelandic republic and died as a retired servant of the Norwegian king. The original version of Landnámabók can be traced to around 1100. The motivations for its writings seem to be largely political; to support certain claims to ownership of land. In the twelfth and thirteenth century, Landnámabók became an important element in the shaping of historical writing as well as political and ecclesiastical ideas in Iceland. The extant versions of Landnámabók are from the latter half of the thirteenth century, and they rely on older versions. Many of the sagas rely on these older versions of Landnámabók as well. The extensive saga-interpolations in the Sturlubók version of Landnámabók make it one of the most important sources on the development and writing of the sagas. Furthermore, Sturlubók provides valuable insight into the political leanings of its compiler, Sturla Þórðarson. 18

18

Hákonar saga ii: 285. Cf. G. Fischer, Norske kongeborger: 59–63.

chapter 6

Sturlubók and Cultural Memory Ann-Marie Long Medieval Icelanders were constantly negotiating their past and expressed this preoccupation through a series of different literary genres. Kurt Schier attributes the Icelanders’ historical self-consciousness to their ‘awareness of standing at a beginning, of having created something entirely new.’1 The emergence of stories about the past is dependent on memory: the events they recount are consciously remembered and refashioned by their authors or compilers. These individuals act as shapers of memory and are engaged in a creative activity, for, as Brian Sparkes puts it, ‘the past … was not what actually happened, it was what was remembered and what could most practically be brought to bear on the present.’2 By examining Sturla’s Landnámabók within the parameters of cultural memory, this paper seeks to explore a number of related issues, in particular how constructed memories are shaped and certain events made memorable, in order to assess how the past was mythologised in a way that fulfilled the requirements of the present. The landnám and Landnámabók The landnám (‘land-taking’) was the first great event of early Icelandic history and is essential to the way in which the past was conceived, interpreted and constructed in early Icelandic literature. Any fears that the first generation of pioneers who settled the island would recede from the collective memory of the islanders was allayed by the desire of subsequent generations to trace their ancestry back to one of the early colonists and, in particular, to position those ancestors as exemplars. The various redactions of Landnámabók, or ‘the Book of Settlements’, transmitted and mediated in textual form the traditions and memories that sprang up around the settlement and those involved in it. These texts, compiled between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries, represent a distinctively insular tradition and are the aggregation of minor works that had accumulated over time. Five versions of Landnámabók have survived. Three of these are the medieval redactions known as Sturlubók, Hauksbók and 1 Kurt Schier, “Iceland and the Rise of Literature in ‘terra nova’”: 180. 2 Brian Sparkes, ‘Classical Greek Attitudes to the Past’: 129. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_007

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Melabók. Two other medieval recensions were also once in circulation but are now lost. In addition to these medieval versions are the two seventeenth-­ century renditions known as Skarðsárbók and Þórðarbók.3 Collectively these texts provide the main reference point for our knowledge of the island’s colonisation in the late ninth century, charting the manner in which the settlers acquired possession of vast tracts of uninhabited land through the process of land-taking, gifting, or some other form of valid land transaction. These details were organised into individual chapters, each chapter accounting for the name and place of origin of the settler (where known), his genealogy and family (where known) and details of his land-claim. This structure made any additions that later compilers sought to make easier to effect. The variations between the preserved accounts suggest not only that Landnámabók was an ‘unstable text’4 but that each version reflected the creative abilities of its compiler as well as his cultural, historical and social environment.5 Each redaction of Landnámabók might thus be seen as a document of cultural utility that functioned as an important social and political tool. None of the preserved accounts of Landnámabók can be regarded as contemporary testimonies. In European terms, the conversion of the Icelanders to Christianity took place relatively late and there was a significant timelag between the settlement, the change in faith and the emergence of the initial written works. Naturally, the use of texts composed at some significant remove from the historical events they describe raises issues of historicity. This debate has been dealt with extensively by scholars elsewhere but suffice to say the modern dichotomy between ‘history’ and ‘fiction’ is itself historicised. It is too unwieldy to be applied to medieval texts and, certainly, early Icelandic texts do not fit that rigid division. Indeed, studies of Old Norse literature have long been defined by a series of fixed and entrenched dichotomies and oppositions between, amongst others, orality and literacy, history and fiction, and native tradition and foreign learning. But these rigid classifications do not well serve

3 The standard edition of this work is Íslendingabók. Landnámabók, ed. Jakob Benediktsson. All subsequent references to Landnámabók and Íslendingabók are from this edition. For an overview of the different versions of Landnámabók, as well as issues pertaining to origins, authorship, age and transmission, see Jón Jóhannesson, Gerðir Landnámabókar, and Jakob Benediktsson’s introduction to Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: l-cliv. Alternative and less widely accepted views are given by Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Studier i Landnámabók, and Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson, Blót í nórrænum sið: Rýnt í forn trúarbrögð með þjóðfræðilegri aðferð: 11–33. 4 Jonas Wellendorf, ‘The Interplay of Pagan and Christian Traditions in Icelandic Settlement Myths’: 3. 5 Stefanie Würth, ‘Historiography and Pseudo-History’: 170.

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the more nuanced and complex constructions of the past found in medieval Icelandic literature, which drew upon a confluence of orally transmitted memories and written culture as well as tropes found in both ‘native’ and ‘foreign’ traditions.

Cultural Memory and Constructions of the Past

In this context, cultural memory studies provide particularly useful theoretical parameters within which medieval texts can be interpreted and evaluated.6 Such an approach emphasises the social components of memory and the constructed nature of its textual manifestation. Its focus is not on whether certain events happened precisely as described or on narrow issues of historicity, but rather how memories of those events were adapted, represented and mediated. Cultural memory then, with its focus on the ‘interplay of present and past in socio-cultural contexts’7 is especially relevant to the complex reconstruction of the past in later texts. It allows for a more source sensitive approach to be taken to the preserved accounts of the landnám, as well as the social preoccupations and anxieties that underpinned and generated these accounts. The following discussion of cultural memory in Sturla Þórðarson’s ­Landnámabók is informed by the work of Jan Assmann, who was particularly interested in the contents of memory and how, as contact with the original generation waned, more lasting ways of preserving and transmitting these memories to later generations were sought. Assmann argued that cultural memory is structured around fixed points or ‘figures of memory’ (Erinnerungsfiguren).8 It is through these fixed points that cultural memory comes to control which events are recorded. Each generation in turn then relates these events to their own contemporary contexts. Narrative is a natural vehicle for the transmission of cultural memory: it connects a sequence of otherwise individual and isolated events together, organising memories around fixed points, placing the

6 The literature on memory studies and cultural memory studies in particular is vast. U ­ seful introductions to scholarship in this area include Astrid Erll and Ansgar Nünning, eds. Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook; Susannah ­Radstone and Bill Schwarz, eds. Memory: Histories, Theories, Debates; Jeffrey K. Olick, Vered Vinitzky-Seroussi and Daniel Levy, eds. The Collective Memory Reader. 7 Erll, ‘Cultural Memory Studies: An Introduction’: 2. 8 Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: 37–42, 168; Jan Assmann, ‘Collective Memory and Cultural Identity’: 129.

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‘figures of memory’ within a coherent framework.9 These narratives then act as templates, which assign meaning to the group’s past and give relevance to the group’s present and future. In this way, narratives capture the dynamism of cultural memory: as the we changes, so too does the past. This process reveals the centrality of cultural memory to history writing: its fixed points govern the cognitive structures within which the past is understood, acquires meaning and from which history develops.10 Assmann’s conceptualisation of cultural memory sees the conversion of factual history into remembered history (erinnerte Geschichte).11 The medium of remembered history, through which collective memories of the distant past can be expressed, is myth.12 Myth, which can include narratives about invented and real events, is foundational history. It enjoys a normative and formative power and constructs the identity of a group through the creation of a shared past. The applicability of this framework to Sturla Þórðarson’s ­Landnámabók should be clear. Firstly, writing provided a new means for mediating and representing memories of the early Icelandic past. Secondly, tales of migration and settlement are characteristic of foundation narratives and the landnám is a mythically charged key point of reference in many different texts. The ­preserved versions of Landnámabók enshrine four elements of Assmann’s definitional concepts of cultural memory: ‘forming tradition’, ‘relationship to the past’, ‘written culture’ and ‘formation of identity’.13 Structured upon genealogical and geographical parameters, these texts shaped cultural memory by means of their organising principles, enabling the past to be recalled and reconstructed in terms of the present.14 The preservation and transfer of cultural memory is the remit of particular ‘memory specialists’, such as skalds, chroniclers and priests. Those medieval Icelandic authors that are associated with named works, such as Ari 9

Jan Assmann, Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism: 15, ‘­Narrative structures are operative in the organization of action, experience, memory, and representation’. 10 Assmann, ‘Collective Memory and Cultural Identity’: 129–30. 11 Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: 52. 12 Assmann, Moses the Egyptian: 14, ‘History turns into myth as soon as it is remembered, narrated, and used, that is, woven into the fabric of the present. The mythical qualities of history have nothing to do with its truth values.’ 13 Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: 301, ‘Traditionsbildung, Vergangenheitsbezug, Schriftkultur und Identitätsbildung.’ The English translations of these terms are from Jürg Glauser, ‘Sagas of Icelanders (Íslendinga sögur) and þættir as the Literary Representation of a New Social Space’: 210. 14 Chris Callow, ‘Reconstructing the Past in Medieval Iceland’: 300.

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­ orgilsson, Snorri Sturluson and his nephew, Sturla Þórðarson, were members Þ of some of the most powerful and well-connected families of their day. These men were all active participants in native and Norwegian historiography, but their involvement in Icelandic affairs was not restricted to their literary pursuits. Significantly, all were well-travelled, well-educated members of Iceland’s chieftain class. They had not only been immersed in native tradition but had also been exposed to a learned education and textual culture. These men, qualified by virtue of their historical interest and sensibilities, learning and social positions, may be considered memory specialists. It should be added, however, that in medieval Iceland other, tacit bearers of memory existed, notably the very landscape itself and its features.15 Memory specialists generate new constructions of the past. If a monopoly on the construction, production and dissemination of cultural memory exists, it lies in the hands of those in power. Sturla was not only a historian and poet, he was a thirteenth-century chieftain and politician who sought to protect and preserve his interests and those of his family, the Sturlungar. An ‘alliance between rule and memory’ existed.16 By constructing the past in a specific way and referring to noble ancestors he could legitimise the political positions of the present and justify the political actions of the future. The structure of Landnámabók lent itself readily to change. The adjustments made by each compiler to his Landnámabók were suggestions for absorption into the reconstruction of cultural memory. The distance between the ‘original generation’ and these events was so great that no current members of the group had any personal memories of those particular episodes and, consequently, could not challenge their authenticity. This schematic naturally gave the specialists, such as Sturla, retooling Icelandic historiography and accounts of the settlement, a golden opportunity to infuse their versions with their own specific concerns and to promote their own agenda.17 It is important to bear in mind that narrating is not to be equated with ‘telling things as they really were’, rather narrating constructs disparate details into a coherent whole that is indebted to and influenced by existing models and attitudes.18 The cultural memory transmitted by Sturla’s Landnámabók is intrinsic to the ideas and ideology of the thirteenth century and to Sturla himself. Sturla worked as a ‘channel for local memories, both living and 15 John Lindow, ‘Memory and Old Norse Mythology’: 51. 16 Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: 70. 17 Michael Riber Jørgensen, ‘Constructing History: The Use of the Past as a Model for the Present in the Icelandic Sagas’: 20–21. 18 Matthew Innes, ‘Introduction: using the past, interpreting the present, influencing the future’: 5.

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inherited’.19 However, his Landnámabók is much more than the product of his own individual intelligence: it comprises the accumulation of a body of oral tales and historical traditions surrounding the individuals who made the decision to settle in Iceland and the island’s first families. As a result, we must accept that the information it contains not only underwent shifts in form, from oral to written, but that as a text that was reproduced over several centuries using earlier versions as sources, it is also the product of multiple authorship.20 To complicate matters further, we must also relate its contents to the context of its production and the interests and ideologies prevalent at the time each redaction was compiled.

Sturla Þórðarson, Landnámabók and Family History

Sturla is believed to have compiled his Landnámabók sometime between 1275 and 1280. This places the work in the two decades after Iceland had submitted to the Norwegian king, Hákon Hákonarson, and thirty years before the compilation of Hauksbók, which reflects another shift in Icelandic cultural memory. Composed towards the end of his life, Sturlubók bears the indelible stamp of Sturla’s personal memories and experience. An active politician in Iceland at a time when the support of the Norwegian crown was required to sustain and promote domestic ambitions, Sturla found himself on the wrong side of the Norwegian king for a while. His position was eventually redeemed with a royal appointment following the death of Hákon in 1263. While this royal favour ensured that Sturla himself was returned to the Norwegian inner circle, so to speak, his own family’s recent history with the Norwegian king, and in particular the assassination of his uncle, Snorri Sturluson, in 1241, cannot but have profoundly affected his outlook and perspective on early Icelandic history and the place of his family in that history. This aspect has been most recently broached by Gísli Sigurðsson, who has discussed Sturla’s construction of the past in his Landnámabók with reference to those settlers to whom he attributes a royal context.21 Each redaction of Landnámabók was important to its compiler and his ­family and all of these texts exhibit the desire – or, perhaps, compulsion – to link their own contemporary families to politically and culturally important 19 20 21

Ann Rigney, ‘Portable Monuments: Literature, Cultural Memory and the Case of Jeanie Deans’: 373, uses this expression in respect of Walter Scott. Innes, ‘Introduction: using the past’: 4. Gísli Sigurðsson, ‘Constructing a Past to Suit the Present: Sturla Þórðarson on Conflicts and Alliances with King Haraldr hárfagri’: 175–96.

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ancestors.22 Although a ‘highly personalised and restricted form of historical memory’, genealogies are also an aboriginal component of cultural memory.23 They provide points of connection between the past and the present, and add a layer of cultural stability to accounts of early Icelandic history. Furthermore, the genealogical record was sufficiently flexible to accommodate later facts and circumstances, as it preserved change within ‘a doctrine of social permanence’.24 The eponymous founder of the Sturlungar was Sturla Þórðarson of Hvammur (d. 1183). He began to establish his dominance in the Hvammsveit area in the 1180s and was aided and abetted in this endeavour by his three sons, Þórðr, Sighvatr and Snorri. His grandson and namesake’s interest in his own family’s history is evident in the genealogical information contained in his version of Landnámabók which traces the lines of descent down to the Sturlungar and to Hvamm-Sturla in particular.25 Compiled at a time when the legitimacy of the native aristocratic order had not only been challenged but fundamentally altered through the intercession of an external agent, the Norwegian king, Sturla’s Landnámabók represents a distinct attitude towards Norwegian royal power and the perceived threat this posed to the native chieftains and their domains. This real and present danger was telescoped back into the past and the memories and traditions surrounding some of the original settlers. Of course Sturla’s own interests and those of his family are also at work here. Thirteenth-century Iceland was a time of upheaval and those who were in a position to document events and mediate memories, could legitimise their own interests through the selection of memories they chose to disseminate.

Memorialising and Memorability

Although Sturla made use of Styrmir Kárason’s redaction of Landnámabók, he did not hesitate to make amendments to this account. Not only did he omit some of the information contained in Styrmisbók, he also interpolated material 22 23

24 25

Gísli Sigurðsson, ‘Constructing a Past to Suit the Present’: 179. R.R. Davies, ‘Presidential Address: The Peoples of Britain and Ireland, 1100–1400. iv: ­Language and Historical Mythology’: 22; Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: 49–50; Jürg Glauser, ‘Sagas of Icelanders (Íslendinga sögur)’: 210. Laura Bohannon, ‘A Genealogical Charter’: 314. Settlers of high status, including an alleged son of Haraldr hárfagri, Þórðr Víkingsson, and Hrollaugr Rögnvaldsson are connected to the Sturlungar through Guðný Böðvarsdóttir and Hvamm-Sturla, respectively. For further information, see Íslendingabók. L­ andnámabók: 180–82, 316–18.

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from the sagas into his own redaction.26 In particular, he included significantly expanded narratives on the settlements of the island’s first colonist, Ingólfr Arnarson, and a more detailed account of Þórólfr mostrarskeggi’s landnám.27 Each of these reworkings was entirely conscious and prompt consideration of Sturla’s concerns, motives and personal interests. For the following discussion of the related issues of memorialising and memorability, Sturla’s account of Þórólfr mostrarskeggi’s landnám provides a useful case study. Landnámabók provided a framework within which otherwise disparate memories could be brought together.28 This framework generated a communal story comprised of composite memories, albeit one that invariably reflects the interests and concerns of each compiler and his patrons. Verbal art and narrative skill are key to unpicking memorability, which Ann Rigney defines in the first instance as ‘the power of something to fix itself in the mind in such a vivid way that it is not easily forgotten’.29 The second aspect of memorability concerns the value or worth it places on certain things and not others. Remembering and forgetting are part of the same process of recollection.30 Some things were simply not worthy of being remembered, whereas certain settlers, including the aforementioned Ingólfr and Þórólfr, lent themselves more readily than others to the generation of a lively and engaging narrative. Without the verbal art of men like Sturla, there may have been little to remember about the life of X other than he settled at Y. But by deliberately intervening in the historical traditions surrounding the landnám to guarantee that certain individuals 26

27

28

29

30

Jonas Wellendorf, ‘The Interplay of Pagan and Christian Traditions in Icelandic Settlement Myths’: 8, ‘Landnámabók and the Sagas of Icelanders interacted in a complicated process of cross-fertilization that in many cases is difficult if not impossible to disentangle. Still there is general agreement that Landnámabók is dependent on Eyrbyggja saga for information about Þórólfr mostrarskeggi.’ For an analysis of the account of Ingólfr’s landnám, see Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, ‘Sagan um Ingólf og Hjörleif: Athugasemdir um söguskoðun Íslendinga á seinni hluta þjóðveldisaldar’: 20–40. This conclusion is based on the argument that Landnámabók is itself an aggregation of more minor works. See also Diana Whaley, ‘A Useful Past: Historical Writing in Medieval Iceland’: 174, who suggests that, based on the work’s plural title (i.e, Landnáma), the bók was a history of accumulated family settlements and not a history of ‘The Settlement’. Rigney, ‘Portable Monuments: Literature, Cultural Memory and the Case of Jeanie Deans’: 380. She continues (p. 381): “It is important to recognize that certain things are remembered not because they are actually true of the past (which may or may not be the case), but because they are somehow meaningful in the present. In other words, ‘authenticity’ may not always be relevant to memorial dynamics, and certain things may be recalled because they are meaningful to those doing the recalling rather than because, from the historian’s perspective, they are actually true.” Ann Rigney, ‘Plenitude, Scarcity and the Circulation of Cultural Memory’: 11–28.

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and their deeds would not be forgotten, a sustained interest was generated in these individuals, ensuring they would not be lost to the vagaries of memory and consigned to oblivion. For Sturla’s part, the construction of expanded and indeed inflated narratives around some of the settlers allowed him to place exemplary figures and epitomes of honourable behaviour at the core of a web of culturally important information. Indeed the way in which men like Þórólfr and his settlement are foregrounded in Sturla’s Landnámabók prompts consideration of the way in which cultural memory is constructed around paradigms of exemplarity. This approach entails a move away from issues of validity and origins and a corresponding shift towards the exemplary function and value-in-the-present of certain memories over others.31 Þórólfr mostrarskeggi appears to have conformed to Sturla’s conceptualisation of memorability. An account of this settler’s landnám is given in each of the three preserved medieval redactions of Landnámabók. Sturla’s account, which was subsequently reproduced by Haukr Erlendsson, is much more developed than that of Melabók, which merely gives Þórólfr’s name, the extent of his land-claim and place of residence before concluding with a list of his descendants down to the sponsors of this version of Landnámabók, the Melamenn. The terse entry in Chapter 25 of Melabók is in stark contrast to the memorable and expansive narrative given by Sturla in Chapter 85 of his Landnámabók. Sturla’s account, which places Þórólfr in Mostr before he emigrated to ­Iceland to flee the tyranny of the Norwegian king, Haraldr hárfagri, dovetails with the paradigm of exodus-migration-settlement found in many chapters of Landnámabók. He describes how, when Þórólfr sailed into Breiðafjörður, he cast his high-seat pillars, carved with an effigy of Thor, overboard, so that the god might direct where he should put ashore. After locating his high-seat pillars, which had washed ashore on a headland which he names Þórsnes, Þórólfr claimed a swathe of land between two rivers and established four sites: his farmstead, which included a temple, at what would later be called Hofstaðir (‘temple-place’); the sacred mountain he called Helgafell; the district assembly on Þórsnes; and the rock called Dritsker. Each of these sites was culturally and politically significant. Sturla’s account then moves to the next generation and the conflict that breaks out between the firstborn native generation, the resolution of this discord by Þórðr gellir, the relocation of the assembly site and the establishment of the Quarter Court, before concluding his account with a list 31

Rigney, ‘Portable Monuments’: 381.

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of Þórólfr’s ­descendants, including Snorri goði.32 A pragmatic chieftain and shrewd politician, Snorri goði was significant for the history of many people, including the Sturlungar. Although Sturla’s account is based on that contained in Eyrbyggja saga, it is an abridgement. Two of his omissions are particularly noteworthy. The first of these concerns the reason behind Þórólfr’s departure from Norway. Sturla attributes this to fyrir ofríki Haralds konungs hárfagra (‘King Haraldr Fairhair’s tyranny’).33 He does not inform us, however, that the reason Þórólfr had incurred the wrath of the king was because he had harboured an outlaw and enemy of Haraldr, Björn Ketilsson.34 This latter point is significant because throughout his Landnámabók Sturla is at pains to connect the departure of many highborn men (to whom he is related) to the tyranny of the Norwegian king yet explicitly does so in a way that states their conflict with royal authority was justified.35 Sturla’s account also fails to mention that Þórólfr was accompanied to Iceland by his household.36 As if to emphasise the isolation of Þórólfr in his new environment, Sturla states that at the time at which he settled at Hofstaðir, there were few other settlements.37 No one else is named in the context of Þórólfr’s arrival and settlement. As a result, Þórólfr is presented as an ultimate pioneer in an uninhabited environment into which he introduces a number of culturally important religious and political institutions. While the religious and political institutions he founded must have ­generated a feeling of community, they are described as Þórólfr’s sole e­ nterprises.38 A number of these institutions continued to enjoy a political and cultural significance in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Sturla’s account of Þórólfr’s landnám defines his settlement ‘more in terms of social actions than fixed chronology’.39 This charismatic patriarch of the Þórsnesingar and local leader is presented as exercising a far greater degree of control over his settlement than is usual. Even Ingólfr Arnarson does not exhibit this degree of control. Sturla’s account describes how Þórólfr sought 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

39

Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 124–26. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 124. Eyrbyggja saga: 5–6. Gísli Sigurðsson, ‘Constructing a Past to Suit the Present’: 184, 193. Eyrbyggja saga: 7. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 125. Eyrbyggja saga: 7–10. For a discussion of Þórólfr’s settlement and its institutions see Kevin J. Wanner, ‘Purity and Danger in Earliest Iceland: Excrement, Blood, Sacred Space, and Society in Eyrbyggja Saga’. Kevin P. Smith, ‘Landnám: the Settlement of Iceland in Archaeological and Historical Perspective’: 321.

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divine guidance on three occasions: he sacrifices to the gods before sailing to Iceland, he then casts his high-seat pillars overboard to determine where he should settle before hallowing his land-claim with fire. While other landnámsmenn are described as engaging in some of these practices, Þórólfr is the only one who carries out all three. The exceptional authority represented by Þórólfr is thus founded in the divine and allows him to demand piety of others towards three of the sites he is remembered as founding: Helgafell, his temple and the assembly ground.40 If Sturla’s account is sensitive to the pre-Christian religion of his ancestors, it also exhibits a ‘powerful sense of place’41 and sensitivity towards culturally – both politically and spiritually – significant sites. His narrative describes how the Þórsnesingagoðorð came into existence. Created in the age of settlement, this chieftaincy features in a number of Sagas of Icelanders and contemporary sagas, indicating it had a sustained existence. Of course, Sturla himself would have known first-hand the more recent history of this goðorð: his father, Þórðr Sturluson, had secured control over half this chieftaincy in 1186 when he married the daughter of Ari sterki. Twelve years later, he gained control over the remainder of it.42 The aboriginal connection of the Þórsnesingar with ­Helgafell allows Sturla to provide an origin myth of sorts for this topographical feature, emphasising a degree of cultural stability between past and present. His account reveals how Helgafell was deemed a sacred place and sanctuary by Þórólfr, who believed that he and his family would enter the mountain when they died.43 Sturla’s interest in the spiritual significance of this site was likely connected to more recent political developments.44 Þórólfr’s belief in the spiritual afterlife of his ‘Holy Mountain’ was borne out when Helgafell became a religious institution in the 1180s and the monastery at Flatey was transferred to 40

41 42 43

44

Wanner, ‘Purity and Danger in Earliest Iceland’: 222, connects Þórólfr’s authority with religious charisma. A number of the original landnámsmenn sacrifice or consult the gods before sailing to Iceland (Ingólfr and Ingimundr) or cast their high-seat pillars overboard to determine where they should settle (Ingólfr and Loðmundr inn gamli) or hallow their land-claims with fire (Sæmundr enn suðreyski). Þórólfr mostrarskeggi is the only settler to make use of all of these methods. Vésteinn Ólason, Dialogues with the Viking Age: 82, made this statement about the sagas, but it is equally applicable to Landnámabók. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Chieftains and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth: 99. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 125. On the naming of Helgafell, see Eleanor Rosamund Barraclough, ‘Naming the Landscape in the landnám narratives of the Íslendingasögur and Landnámabók’: 95–96. While Sturla’s account does not precisely replicate present geo-political relationships, it does acknowledge Helgafell’s status as an important site.

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it. The religious development of Helgafell occurred at the same time as the rise of Hvamm-Sturla. Indivisible from the region’s political, social and religious developments, Helgafell appears to have retained its significance in Icelandic cultural memory, even if the reasons for its recall had shifted over time.45 I propose that the account of Þórólfr’s landnám in Sturlubók functions as a ‘mythic narrative’ within a bigger ‘mythic narrative’ as conceptualised by Jan Assmann. It serves a ‘founding function’: it establishes how the community that sprang up around Þórsnes came into existence by setting forth the present in light of a divinely sanctioned past. The genealogical links between Þórólfr and his descendants connect the past to the present and infuse the account of his landnám with an additional layer of cultural stability and permanence. According to Assmann, mythic narratives also had a second function, which he terms ‘contra-present’ (kontrapräsentisch).46 This element employs an awareness of the difference between ‘now’ and ‘then’ – what Pernille Hermann has termed ‘now/then relations’47 – and is evident in, amongst other things, the contemporary name of Þórólfr’s farm þar heita nú Hofstaðir (‘that is now called Hofsstead’) and the shift in the assembly location from Þórsnes to an undisclosed site þar sem nú er48 (‘where it now is’). Landmarks, such as Helgafell and Thor’s Boulder, all constitute the physical remains of the past and act as an aide mémoire. They are material bearers of memory. Significantly, and often overlooked, are the echoes of Ari’s Íslendingabók in Sturla’s account, particularly in the wording he employs when accounting for the establishment of the legal space within Þórólfr’s land-claim.49 These verbal similarities may 45

Laxdæla saga: 170, describes the switch of residences between Snorri goði and Guðrún. Chris Callow, ‘Reconstructing the Past in Medieval Iceland’: 323, suggests that the saga’s account of this property transfer articulates more recent political and religious concerns in the region. He considers the shift in the locus of political power to echo the realignment Helgafell’s status underwent in the 1180s. 46 Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: 79. 47 Pernille Hermann, ‘Founding Narratives and the Representation of Memory in Saga Literature’: esp. 75–77. Barraclough, ‘Naming the Landscape’: 87, is critical of the reliance of this approach on an ‘over-simplistic dichotomy that polarises the landnám past and the saga-writing present.’ 48 Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 125, 126. 49 Chapter 3 of Ari’s Íslendingabók describes how the Alþingi ‘vas sett at ráði Ulfljóts ok allra landsmanna’ (‘was established where it is now by the decision of Úlfljótr and everyone in the country’). In the case of the district assembly founded by Þórólfr, Sturla states ‘þar var sett heraðsþing með ráði allra sveitarmanna’ (‘there was founded the district assembly with the approval of all the people in the locale’). For further information see Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 8, 125, respectively.

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have ­resulted from Sturla’s desire to mimic the authority of Ari’s account or were simply due to his familiarity with Íslendingabók. Either way, they draw a connection between important events and decisions in early Icelandic history and the community action and consensus that were required to make them binding.

The Legacy of Medieval Memory

As D. Vance Smith has said, By and large, what we know of the Middle Ages is the legacy of medieval memory, not ours. We know what we do because of what people in the Middle Ages chose to designate as memorable.50 Writing in a politically volatile world characterised by social unease, Sturla Þórðarson was a prolific author who was preoccupied with the past. Adept at reconstructing the early Icelandic past in textual form, he made use of a variety of literary genres to generate different ‘modes of remembering’. For Sturla, as for Ari, Kolskeggr and Styrmir before him, the place of the landnám in the early Icelandic past was of particular concern. The learned undertaking of documenting the settlement and the formation of early Icelandic identity were intrinsically linked. The islanders’ sense of themselves as a ‘wise’ or ‘civilised’ people was grounded in a sense of society that had recognisable origins, institutions and traditions, as well as a strong sense of their own kynslóðir (‘family lineages’, ‘progeny’). Sturla, like Ari and Snorri, belonged to the native chieftain class. At a time when the legitimacy of the native aristocratic order was being questioned, he lionised and immortalised the past of his ancestors, a process which endowed the Sturlungar with intrinsic merit and privileged status, derived from genealogical links to prominent Norwegian ancestors. Ostensibly a record of the island’s first colonists and their land-holdings, Sturla’s Landnámabók is much more than the selection of a series of disparate traditions unified within a narrative framework. Writing about the past provided men such as Sturla with a framework within which their contemporary concerns, though temporally located in the past, could be safely articulated, backdated and presented as ‘historical facts’. The past was where the present derived its meaning and quality. When placed within the context of ­thirteenth-century Iceland and 50

D. Vance Smith, ‘Irregular Histories: Forgetting Ourselves’: 171.

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the domestic upheavals of this period, accounts such as that of Þórólfr’s landnám infuse ‘significant aspects of the past with an overlay of meaning and actuality, fitting new ideological circumstances’.51 The memories Sturla opts to present are suggestive of a desire to construct the past in a specific way. Locked within the controlled environment of a text, Sturla could safely manage and manipulate historical memories for his own purposes. ­Deliberate narrative positioning and literary elaboration enabled him to elevate certain traditions while consigning others to oblivion. 51

Hermann, ‘Founding Narratives and the Representation of Memory in Saga Literature’: 79.

chapter 7

Foundational Myth in Sturlubók: An Analysis of the Tale of Ingólfr and Hjörleifr Verena Hoefig Sturla Þórðarson’s redaction of Landnámabók is the first preserved version of this text to add a longer narrative section about the first settlers of Iceland, amongst them Ingólfr Arnarson and his foster brother and traveling companion Hjörleifr Hróðmarsson. While we cannot know with absolute certainty that Sturla was indeed the first to add this section to Landnámabók, his is the most influential of the redactions when it comes to shaping and disseminating a literary memory of Icelanders’ great narration of migration and settlement – the landnám. This article will provide an analysis of the tale of Ingólfr Arnarson and his foster brother as foundational myth. It was written down and preserved by Sturla and later redactors of Landnámabók in an attempt to offer a version of the landnám and the origin of the community of Icelanders reminiscent of foundational stories known from elsewhere in Medieval Europe. While other early works dedicated to the origin of Icelanders, for instance Íslendingabók, written on commission for two bishops, use parallels with the biblical creation myth and allusions to salvation history,1 Sturlubók streamlines its foundational narration with elements of oral storytelling and secular traditions of foundingbrother pairs from early medieval Europe. These traditions go back to earlier and more universal themes dealing with the creation of new civilizations. In light of the recent popularity of Jan Assmann’s and Maurice Halbwachs’ theories of collective and cultural memory in Old Norse-Icelandic studies, the premise here will be to understand all forms of the remembered past as myth, regardless of whether a text may be based on fact or belong to the fictional realm.2 In Cultural Memory and Early Civilization, Jan Assmann argues that since remembering the past is a process that has to focus on selected points, as the past itself cannot be preserved, it inevitably condenses it into figures of 1 John Lindow, ‘Íslendingabók and Myth’: 456, 460; Margaret Clunies Ross, ‘Textual Territory: the Regional and Genealogical Dynamic of Medieval Icelandic Literary Production’: 21; ­Pernille Hermann, ‘Íslendingabók and History’: 23–28. 2 Jan Assmann, Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: 59–62.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_008

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a symbolic kind, to which memory then attaches itself.3 Understanding the account of Ingólfr’s settlement in Sturlubók as such a memory figure enables a perspective beyond notions of either invented and manipulative, or accurate and historical, and opens up the possibility for a deeper analysis of Chapters 6–9 of Sturlubók with a focus on Sturla’s selection and commentary. Who, in his view, constituted Icelanders’ first settlers, and what did he deem worthwhile to record and to preserve about them? What did Sturla want his audience to remember about the beginning of the Icelandic community?

An Exemplary First Settler

More than a century before Sturla Þórðarson, Ari Þorgilsson only briefly mentions ‘a Norwegian called Ingólfr’ as one of several first settlers in Í­ slendingabók, and he does so in a manner that does not explicitly exclude potential earlier settlers or comment on any of the pioneer discoverers of Iceland.4 The first settlers’ exact origin, other than Norway, is not specified, nor are readers informed about his genealogy, nor do they learn about any of his companions. Instead, the text highlights four altogether different settlers as founders of the country’s four quarters, who are later also presented as forefathers of the bishops of Skálholt and Hólar.5 Sturla Þórðarson’s redaction of Landnámabók, Sturlubók, in turn, is the first preserved Icelandic text that includes a longer narrative section on the discovery of the country, and specifically credits Ingólfr Arnarson with being the first permanent settler: Ingólfr was the most famous of all the settlers, because he came to this country when it was still uninhabited and he was the first man to settle here permanently. After that, other settlers came and followed his example.6 The versions of Landnámabók that precede Sturlubók, for instance Melabók, were – from what we can infer – set up differently.7 Landnámabók is generally 3 Assmann, Cultural Memory: 37. 4 ‘Ingólfr hét maðr nórrœn…’ (Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 5). 5 Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 6. 6 The Book of Settlements: Landnámabók: 21; ‘Ingólfr er frægasta allra landnámsmanna, því at hann kom hér at auðu landi ok byggði fyrst landit, ok gerðu aðrir landnámsmenn eptir hans dœmum síðan.’ (Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 47). 7 Jón Jóhannesson, Gerðir Landnámabókar: 132, 224; Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: lxxxiii–iv.

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structured by short descriptive sections on the first settlers, starting ­clockwise in southern Iceland, and only the versions following Sturlubók (Hauksbók ­onwards) interpolate a longer foundational narrative about the two first settlers at the beginning of the text. This is not to say that Melabók did not include Ingólfr and Hjörleifr but that they were placed in a less elevated position as Melabók’s geographically led narrative covered the area of their landnám in southwestern Iceland. In his analysis of the story of Ingólfr and Hjörleifr, Preben Meulengracht Sørensen states that Sturla Þórðarson expanded the section about Ingólfr and Hjörleifr as an exemplum and placed it at the beginning of Landnámabók.8 This tale served to juxtapose the pious, noble and independent heathen Ingólfr, who held a sacrificial feast and used divine guidance to find his place of settlement, as opposed to his unruly foster brother who refused to sacrifice and was eventually killed by his slaves.9 According to Chapter 7 in Sturlubók, in order to determine if he should relocate to Iceland the winter before the planned departure, Ingólfr holds a great sacrifice to ask for good fortune for his future, but Hjörleifr did not sacrifice.10 The two brothers leave, each on his own ship: Hjörleifr with goods he had acquired on a Viking expedition in Ireland, and Ingólfr with their common possessions. Once Ingólfr and Hjörleifr’s boats approach the coast of Iceland, they become separated. Ingólfr casts his high-seat pillars overboard til heilla (‘for luck’) and announces that he will settle where they eventually land.11 Hjörleifr, in turn, is driven further to the west, landing at a place called Hjörleifshöfði. He is said to have built his final dwelling on that spot, and is ambushed and killed by his slaves the following spring. While Hjörleifr’s slaves deceive him, Ingólfr relies on his two slaves, Vífill and Karli, to search for his high-seat pillars. When the two slaves travel west, they find Hjörleifr and his men slain and report this news back to their master. Ingólfr buries his foster brother and then tracks down his slaves, who had fled to islands lying off the coast of Iceland, along with all the women. Ingólfr finds and kills the slaves, retrieves the women and spends the winter at Hjörleifshöfði before moving further west to his final place of settlement near Arnarhóll in Reykjavík.12 The first settler’s reaction to finding his foster brother dead is the following: ‘this is what always happens to those who won’t hold sacrifices.’13 8 9 10 11 12 13

Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, ‘Sagan um Ingólf og Hjörleif’: 25. Sørensen, ‘Sagan um Ingólf og Hjörleif’: 26. ‘Þenna vetr fekk Ingólfr at blóti miklu ok leitaði sér heilla um forlæg sín, en Hjörleifr vildi aldri blóta’ (Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 42). Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 42. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 42–45. Book of Settlements, 20; ‘svá hverjum verða, ef eigi vill blóta’ (Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 44).

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This is indicative of an underlying moral character of the tale, showing Ingólfr as a ‘noble heathen,’ defined by Lars Lönnroth as a person subscribing to, or living under, some of the basic tenets of the Christian faith long before the conversion.14 Besides his general piety – albeit espousing an erroneous faith – his restraint or merciful behavior in freeing his slaves is mentioned in later passages in Sturlubók, which furthermore emphasizes that such positive traits ran in the family. Ingólfr’s grandson, Þorkell máni, is even said to have been one of the ‘noblest heathens’ to have lived in Iceland, having led a life ‘as blameless as the best of Christians.’15

Ingólfr’s Mythical Ancestry

What more is known about Ingólfr Arnason in the preserved texts? In ­Íslendingabók, Ingólfr does not have a föðurnafn, or patronymic – he is, as mentioned, referred to as Ingólfr ‘maðr nórrœnn’ or ‘Ingólfr landnámamaðr’.16 In Landnámabók, Ingólfr’s ancestry differs depending on the redaction – he is either the son of Örn from Telemark as in all versions following Sturlubók, or the son of Björnólfr from Hordaland in Þórðarbók, presumably going back to the oldest fragmentarily preserved redaction, Melabók. The sixth chapter of Sturlubók introduces Ingólfr as Arnarson, the son of Örn, and establishes his ancestry as going back to Hrómundr Gripsson, a legendary warrior and hero memorialized in a now lost fornaldarsaga: There was a man called Björnólfr, and another called Hróaldr, sons of Hrómundr Gripsson. They left Telemark because of some killings and settled down at Dalsfjord in Fjalar Province. Björnólfr had a son called Örn who was the father of Ingólfr and Helga. Hróaldr had a son called Hróðmarr, father of Leifr.17

14 15 16

17

Lars Lönnroth, ‘The Noble Heathen: A Theme in the Sagas’: 1–29; Sørensen, ‘Sagan um Ingólf og Hjörleif’: 34. Book of Settlements: 22; ‘livat svá hreinliga sem þeir kristnir menn, er bezt eru siðaðir’ (Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 46). Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 5, 8. Two of the earliest preserved synoptic histories of Norway written in Latin, Historia Norwegie and Theodoricus Monachus’s Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium likewise mention ‘Ingulfus’ (Theodoricus) or ‘Ingvar et Hjorleifr’ (Historia Norwegie) without patronymic. Theodoricus Monachus, Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium: 8–9; Historia Norwegie: 68. Book of Settlements: 18, ‘Björnólfr hét maðr, en annarr Hróaldr; þeir váru synir Hrómundar Gripssonar; þeir fóru af Þelamörk fyrir víga sakir ok staðfestusk í Dalsfirði á Fjölum. Sonr

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Ingólfr and Hjörleifr are presented as second cousins whose grandfathers, both sons of Hrómundr, had to leave their home district of Telemark because they had killed someone (which foreshadows Ingólfr and Hjörleifr’s later reason for leaving Norway). Looking at an early modern redaction of Landnámabók, Þórðarbók, might allow us a glimpse at how Ingólfr Arnarson was presented in the now lost parts of Melabók. And here we find a different variant of Ingólfr’s ancestry: ‘Ingólfr was a Norwegian man from Hordaland, the son of Björnólfr of Fjalir, the brother of Heyjangrs-Björn.’18 Thus, instead of stemming from Hrómundr and a family based originally in Telemark, Ingólfr here is said to come from a line from Hordaland; Björnólfr, his grandfather in Sturlubók, is now presented as his father. This lineage in Þórðarbók is likely to have been taken from Melabók, and might go back to the oldest lists of settlers on which Landnámabók was based.19 These somewhat confusing, even conflicting, familial relations ascribed to the first settler may have been the reason that Ari Þorgilsson omitted Ingólfr’s patronymic in Íslendingabók. Perhaps the historical Ingólfr Arnarson was, in fact, called Ingólfr Björnólfsson, or Ari faced two conflicting traditions about a man called Ingólfr. Alternatively, the patronymic could have been entirely unknown to him, or he deemed it certain that his audience would know who ‘Ingólfr landnámamaðr’ was and what he stood for.20 In order to reconcile the different, older tradition of ‘Ingólfr Björnólfsson,’ Jakob Benediktsson suggested that Björnólfr must have had Örn as a middle name or a byname, and that this was later confused and thought to be his first name.21 A more likely possibility, however, could be Ingólfr’s connection to ­Arnarhóll as his final settling place, which in a later attempt to explain the place-name, could have been connected to an ancestral kuml, or gravemound, conceivably of Ingólfr’s father, Örn (the genitive of which would be Arnar-). There are several examples of settlers in Landnámabók whose names were changed or invented to explain existing place-names, and it would not be inconceivable that Ingólfr could be among them.22 After all, the place of

18 19

20 21 22

Björnólfs var Örn, faðir þeira Ingólfs ok Helgu, en Hróalds son var Hróðmarr, faðir Leifs.’ (Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 38, 40). ‘Ingolffur var madur norræn haurdskur ad kyne son Biornolfs af fjólum brodir Heyiangs biarnar.’ (Skarðsárbók: Landnámabók Björns Jónssonar á Skarðsá: 10). Jón Jóhannesson, Gerðir Landnámabókar, 133–34; Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: lxxi. A late twelfth century Norwegian text, Theodoricus monachus’s Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium, likewise refers to Hordaland as the place of origin for both Ingólfr and Hjörleifr: Monumenta Historica Norvegiæ: 8–9. Sigurður Líndal, ‘Sendiför Úlfljóts’: 14–18. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: lxxiii. Hallfreður Örn Eiríksson, ‘Þjóðsagnir og sagnfræði’: 273–75; Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Studier i Landnámabók: 203.

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Ingólfr Arnarson’s final settlement, Reykjavík, strangely enough does not bear his name or refer to any other early settler, so Arnarhóll could have been connected to the first settler and his patronymic in a later attempt to explain the etymology of the place name and link it to existing landnám traditions. Finally, to be the son of Örn, or ‘Eagle,’ opens up a mythical layer in the description of the founding father of Icelanders. To be the son of Örn can connect the first settler to Óðinn, who was known to have been able to shift into the shape of an eagle, and whose name Arnarhöfði (‘Eaglehead’) is preserved among the heiti in Snorra Edda.23 Granting the first settler such a mythical quality finds its parallel in other foundational narratives from medieval Scandinavia and the continent, which will be discussed shortly. The fact that Sturla also chose to establish a connection between Ingólfr and the legendary hero Hrómundr Gripsson makes it very likely that he wanted to emphasize such a mythical quality of the first settler. Þorgils saga ok Hafliða, which is preserved in the Sturlunga saga compilation, reports that the saga of Hrómundr Gripsson was performed as part of the entertainment at the famous wedding at Reykhólar in 1119. According to the narrator, several of the guests present at the feast claimed to be directly related to Hrómundr.24 While this description in Þorgils saga ok Hafliða was written long after the event of the actual wedding, the account nevertheless suggests the extended interest and general popularity of this saga in twelfthand thirteenth-century Iceland. A seventeenth-century saga, Hrómundar saga Gripssonar, based on late medieval rímur about Hrómundr, the Griplur, describes him as a legendary Norse hero in the service of the Danish King Óláfr, for whom he battles a berserker and later breaks into the grave mound of an undead king, whose sword and other treasure he takes before killing him. After that, Hrómundr is slandered to the king and has to leave his service, but later returns to help him fight two Swedes, both named Haldingr or Haddingr, and their champion, Helgi Haddingjaskati. Hrómundr kills Helgi, wins back king Óláfr’s support, and is awarded his beautiful sister, Svanhvít, as his bride.25 There are several parallels between the tale of Hrómundr Gripsson and the story of Ingólfr and Hjörleifr in Sturlubók. These parallels suggest that the description of Hjörleifr’s character and his Viking expedition to Ireland was influenced by storytelling traditions about Hrómundr. Both heroes, Hrómundr and Hjörleifr travel abroad, break into a grave mound and battle for a special sword.

23 24 25

Den Norsk-Islandske Skjaldedigtning B.1: 672. Sturlunga saga, Ed. Gudbrandur Vigfusson: 19. Fornaldar sögur Norðurlanda, 2: 405–22.

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While Hrómundr fights an undead king for his magic sword, Hjörleifr breaks into a grave mound, sees a gleaming sword and kills the man holding the sword. From this, his name is changed from Leifr to Hjörleifr, ­‘Sword-Leifr’.26 Both heroes then have to fight against several adversaries – Hrómundr fights against the two kings Haldingr/Haddingr and Helgi, while Hjörleifr fights against three sons of the Norwegian Jarl Atli, Hásteinn, Hersteinn and ­Hólmsteinn, because Hólmsteinn desires to marry Ingólfr’s sister, Helga.27 In the end, each hero obtains the bride they desire, in the case of Hrómundr the king’s beautiful sister Svanhvít, while Hjörleifr marries Ingólfr’s sister Helga.

Ingólfr and Hjörleifr as Divine Twins?

Aside from providing an exemplum of an idealized settler and community founder, Sturla thus connects the protagonists of Iceland’s foundational myth to local story-telling traditions about a legendary and heroic ancestor. ­However, there is a further layer to uncover in the tale of Ingólfr and Hjörleifr in ­Sturlubók. In Reykjavík 871  ±  2 the authors, in their discussion of the tale of Ingólfr, briefly point to parallels concerning the founding of homelands by mythical brother pairs known from foundational narratives from western antiquity and the Middle Ages. This includes Romulus and Remus, the so-called founders of Rome; Dan and Angel, the founding brothers of the Danes; and Hengist and Horsa, the leaders of the Saxons who settled in Kent.28 In a study entitled The Divine Twins: An Indo-European Myth in Germanic Tradition, folklorist Donald Ward analyses the Indo-European tradition of divine twins or dioscuri, and argues that this tradition – going back to a universal mythological theme – was known widely among the Germanic peoples.29 The term dioscuri originally refers to the twin brothers Castor and Pollux, but the term is more widely used for divine twins or brother pairs, most of which have traditionally been associated with the founding of new settlements.30 Even though they are neither twins nor actual brothers, but instead bound by 26 27 28 29

30

Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 41. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 40–41; Fornaldar sögur Norðurlanda, 2: 415. Orri Vésteinsson, Helgi Þorláksson and Árni Einarsson, Reykjavík 871 ± 2. Landnámssýningin: The Settlement Exhibition: 54. The existence of the divine twin brothers or dioscuri among the Germanic tribes was long disputed, but as Rudolf Simek notes (Dictionary of Northern Mythology: 59–60), there are indications already in the earliest texts, for instance Tacitus, and archaeological finds from the Bronze age, suggesting they were venerated in Germanic antiquity. Donald Ward, The Divine Twins: An Indo-European Myth in Germanic Tradition: 51.

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the fictional kinship tie of foster- or blood-brotherhood, the tale of Ingólfr and Hjörleifr parallels several characteristics and themes involving dual kingship known from older Germanic traditions. Many of the twin pairs discussed by Ward share that their father is unknown, unmentioned, or that they stem from separate fathers, one of whom is a divine figure, often Óðinn.31 Paulus Diaconus for instance mentions the brothers Ibor and Aio in Historia Langobardorum (i 3–8), who, along with their mother, migrate from their native Scandinavian homeland and meet a migrating tribe led by another brother pair, Ambri and Assi.32 Other examples of brother pairs active in migration and new foundations are Raos and Raptos, in Cassius Dio’s Roman History (LXXII.12) the leaders of one of the two main tribal groups of the Vandals, or the heroic kings Vinnill and Van(d)ill, who are also briefly mentioned in the heiti of Snorra Edda (albeit here as sea kings).33 A character named Vandill appears as one of two brothers in Fœreyinga saga 19 (his brother named Aðill) as mercenaries hired by the Swedish king to fight in a sea battle; and in Njáls saga one of two Swedish brothers and trouble-makers that Gunnar has to fight (also during a battle on water) is called Vandill, the other Karl (29–30).34 Hengist and Horsa leading the Anglo-Saxon invasion of the British Isles in 449 belong to the most recently preserved traditions about a founding brother pair in Ward’s collection. The texts preserving this tradition date to the eighth century or later (Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica 1.15, Geoffrey of Monmouth’s ­Historia Regum Britanniæ 6, or Historia Brittonum), yet share several similarities with older traditions from the continent, for instance the divine origin of the brothers, in their case from Óðinn.35 Hengist must have been known to an Icelandic audience, as he is explicitly mentioned in the prologue of Snorra Edda as a descendant of one of Óðinn’s sons, put in charge to rule over Saxony.36 As foster- and, presumably, blood-brothers, Ingólfr and Hjörleifr are bound by the closest possible tie existing between two men in the Old Norse world, the duty to avenge each other’s death. In Sturlubók, they are joined by Ingólfr’s sister, Helga, who is married to Hjörleifr and later abducted by his slaves. 31 Ward, The Divine Twins: 3, 54. 32 Ward, The Divine Twins: 50; Paulus Diaconus, Historia Langobardorum: 53–61. 33 Ward, Divine Twins: 53; Cassius Dio, Roman History: 14–16; Snorri Sturluson: Edda: Skáldskaparmál: 1. Introduction, text and notes: 110. Vandill is also mentioned among the Giant heiti. 34 Færeyinga saga. Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar eptir Odd munk Snorrason: 43; Brennu-Njáls saga: 77–78. 35 Bede, Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum 1.15: 50; Geoffrey of Monmouth, Historia Regum Britannie: 65–69, 98–101; Nennius, Historia Brittonum: 66–72. 36 Snorri Sturluson: Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning: 5.

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The inclusion, and often the rescue, of an accompanying sister or wife is a frequent trope of the twin-pairs mentioned by Ward in his study. Also, one of the brothers usually dies young: Hjörleifr dies, as do Remus or Castor, and Horsa who left Hengist as the sole leader of the Anglo-Saxon invaders in the preserved texts.37 A striking number of the pairs of brothers mentioned by Ward fight in ­heroic battles at sea before they liberate the abducted sister or wife.38 This likewise resonates with the tale of Ingólfr and Hjörleifr in Sturlubók, where the two brothers fight the three sons of Jarl Atli while on a Viking expedition out on the open sea. Not only does winning this battle mean that Helga is saved from an unwanted suitor – it is also the reason Ingólfr and Hjörleifr decide to leave Norway and settle in Iceland. After having arrived and settled down in the new country, Ingólfr has to cross water to rescue his sister Helga yet another time, this time from the slaves who abducted her to Vestmannaeyjar after killing Hjörleifr. The named examples point to an apparent echo of dioscuric traditions in the foundational myth of Ingólfr Arnarson. These traditions illuminate several aspects of the tale that go back to earlier and more universal traditions involving a founding brother pair: the unclear paternity or descent from a legendary hero, Hjörleifr’s marriage to Ingólfr’s sister, the battle at sea, Hjörleifr’s early death, and Ingólfr’s mission to rescue his abducted sister. Ingólfr’s patronymic ‘Arnarson’ furthermore hints at a connection to Óðinn, which he would share with several of the other twin brother pairs and founders, for instance Hengist and Horsa, whose line is directly traced to Óðinn in most of the histories.39 This echo of dioscuric traditions in Sturlubók can be interpreted twofold: firstly, Sturla Þórðarson as the first to add or expand the tale of Ingólfr and Hjörleifr, was familiar with textual evidence about dioscuric traditions. ­Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia regum Britanniæ and also Bede’s Historia ecclesiastica were translated or adapted from Latin in Iceland, probably towards the end of the twelfth century, and Sturla furthermore refers to Bede in the Prologue of Sturlubók, so it is quite likely that he was familiar with traditions about Hengist and Horsa.40 But is there further evidence that could reveal a more widespread and earlier presence of dioscuric myth in Iceland and the North, one that was maybe no longer fully understood by the thirteenth century? 37 Ward, Divine Twins: 40, 55. 38 Ward, Divine Twins: 55, 61. 39 Ward, Divine Twins: 54. 40 Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 31; Stefanie Würth, ‘Historiography and Pseudo-History’: 156.

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High-Seat Pillars and Anthropogenic Myth

Another striking feature about several of the brother pairs mentioned by Donald Ward is a connection to the veneration of wooden pillars, often two in number. Ward’s earliest example of a worship of twin brothers among the Germanic tribes refers to the Alcis, a divine twin pair whose veneration is briefly described by Tacitus (Germania 43).41 In his description of their sacred grove, Tacitus remarks that the two are worshipped not as images, nulla simulacra, which Ward understands with Jacob Grimm and Rudolf Meringer as the veneration of trees or wooden pillars located at the center of a grove.42 The names of Raos and Raptos, the Vandal twin brothers mentioned by C ­ assius Dio, have been connected to Old Norse raptr, English rafter, ‘wooden pillar’ and could provide further evidence for a worship of wooden beams by a Germanic tribe.43 The Old Norse word for ‘beam or post,’ áss, can also refer to ‘(a pagan) god,’ albeit as a u- and not an a-stem.44 The etymology of Hengist and Horsa clearly leads to horse, however (a parallel to several other twin-deities with theriomorphic names) and not to a wooden object. Interestingly though, two wooden idols seem to have been associated with their worship, since horse head-shaped gable ends on farmhouses in Northern Germany were called ‘Hengst and Hors’ until the late nineteenth century.45 Several archaeological finds for wooden beams and pillars (always two in number) connected to cult sites from Holstein and Jutland may further corroborate a veneration of the dioscuri in such a form.46 Some scholars have connected the names Ambri and Assi in Paulus Diaconus to Old Norse askr, ‘ash(tree),’ suggesting a connection of the two migrating brothers to Askr and Embla, the first two humans in the world in the anthropogeny in the Poetic Edda (Völuspá 17 and 18) and further elaborated by 41 Tacitus, Germania: 40–41. A more conventional interpretation of the passage from Tacitus is that the cult of the Alcis was aniconic and their worship without any kind of representation. There is a rich archaeological record of wooden figures among the Germanic people, however; see for instance Wijnand van der Sanden and Torsten Capelle, Götter, Götzen, Holzmenschen. 42 Ward, Divine Twins: 43–44. Ward also points to a parallel to the dókana, the two upright posts or beam figures representing the dioscuri as they were venerated by the Spartan army. 43 Ward, Divine Twins: 44, 53. 44 Richard Cleasby and Gudbrand Vigfusson, An Icelandic-English Dictionary: 46. Jacob Grimm suggested a kinship between áss ‘god’ and áss ‘pole,’ see Cleasby-Vigfusson: 46. 45 Ward, Divine Twins: 54; Simek Northern Mythology: 139. 46 Ward, Divine Twins: 44.

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Snorri in the Prose Edda (Gylfaginning 9).47 While the identification of Askr with ash tree is widely accepted, the etymology of Embla is disputed, ranging from elm tree to a twining plant, such as vine, to a variant form of water-pot.48 In Völuspá, Askr and Embla as the first two humans are found by the gods ‘á landi,’ understood by most scholars as ‘on the shore,’ which is supported by Snorri’s version of the anthropogenic myth where the gods were walking along the sea shore when they found two trees or wooden pieces, ‘tré tvau,’ which they picked up and turned into human beings.49 The connection of the origin of man from trees or wood can be found in many mythic traditions in ancient Europe and among Indo-European-speaking peoples.50 To trace the origin of mankind to trees may also underlie the popularity of kenningar, or poetic circumlocutions of men and women that use the analogy between humans and trees in Old Norse skaldic poetry.51 Where this resonates with landnám traditions as preserved by Sturla Þórðarson is not with the etymology of Ingólfr and Hjörleifr directly, but with one of the rituals connected to land-taking, the casting of the high-seat ­pillars, or ­öndvegissúlur, as described for Ingólfr Arnarson’s landnám in Sturlubók ­Chapter 9. Ingólfr and several other landnámsmenn (for instance Þórólfr mostrarskegg, Hrollaugr Rögnvaldsson, even Ingólfr’s former enemy Hásteinn Atlason) cast their pillars overboard at sea and let the place where they wash ashore determine the final location of their settlement.52 The exact form and design of the high-seat pillars is not preserved, though they are always referred to in the plural form, so they must have come in pairs at least. The high-seat was the most important seat in the Old Norse hall, structurally supporting the roof; scholars such as Terry Gunnell and Klaus Böldl have therefore suggested that the pillars could have been understood as part of a microcosmic analogy of the Old Norse universe, the hall representing the cosmos and the high-seat 47 Ward, Divine Twins: 52. W. Steinhauser sees Ambri related to Latin Pl. imbrices, ‘horizontal beams’ while other scholars have pointed to Gothic ans ‘wooden pillar’ (all from Ward, Divine Twins, 52). Rudolf Simek is rather critical of attempts to connect Askr and Embla to the Vandal kings Assi and Ambri however; see Simek, Northern Mythology: 74. 48 Overview in Anders Hultgård, ‘The Askr and Embla myth in a comparative perspective,’ in Old Norse Religion in long-term Perspectives: Origins, Changes and Interactions: 58–62. 49 Snorri Sturluson: Edda: Prologue and Gylfaginning: 13; Eddukvæði: 295. 50 Hultgård, ‘Askr and Embla’: 61. 51 Hultgård, ‘Askr and Embla’: 60. 52 Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 42, 45 (Ingólfr), 124–25 (Þórólfr), 317 (Hrollaugr), 371 ­(Hásteinn). A more detailed overview can be found in Klaus Böldl, Eigi einhamr: Beiträge zum Weltbild der Eyrbyggja und anderer Isländersagas: 163–76 and Jonas Wellendorf, ‘The Interplay of Pagan and Christian Traditions in Icelandic Settlement Myths’: 5–9.

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representing the world tree, world pillar, or axis mundi therein.53 Archaeological finds of large pillars, post-holes and post-hole deposits in buildings from the Viking Age throughout Scandinavia suggest that there was a cultic significance ascribed to roof-carrying posts.54 Setting the high-seat pillars in connection to the world tree would not explain their plural number, however. Jonas Wellendorf has pointed to the occurrence of the motif of pillar-­casting both in Old Norse and several Latin hagiographic texts from Ireland, and argues that the ritual must have been understood by medieval writers as emphasising the pious character of those among the settlers who entrusted the location of their settlement to the will of the Christian God, or the pagan gods.55 This ritual fits well with the moral and exemplary character of the foundational narrative of Icelanders, and the fact that Ingólfr was to be remembered as a pious man. However, adding another layer to this interpretation, the motif of the casting of the pillars was much more than a literary tool, as it preserves a tradition leading back to much older customs and beliefs connected to the origin of humans and the founding of new civilizations. That the function of the pillars was not necessarily understood any longer by the late thirteenth century (or deliberately kept vague by Sturla and his contemporaries) is apparent through their treatment in the texts, since their precise function once found again by the land-taker remains quite enigmatic. That pairs of pillars were a presence in the landscape no longer necessarily understood by the writers and compilers of Old Norse texts could be indicated by a rather obscure passage preserved in Hávamál 49 in which the narrator (presumably Óðinn) states that he gave his clothes ‘to two wooden men’ he saw standing along a way.56 Even Sturla Þórðarson himself may have had a moment like this, pondering the presence of the old high-seat pillars in what he believed to be the remnants of the first farm of Icelanders, Ingólfr’s former dwelling in Reykjavík. As we can read in Chapter 8 in Sturlubók, Ingólfr ‘made his home at the spot where his high-seat pillars had been washed ashore, and lived at Reykjavík. The high-seat pillars can still be seen in the hall there.’57 Sturla may have seen the wooden pillars there with his own eyes, and understood them as proof of the migratory achievements of 53 54 55 56 57

Böldl, ‘Eigi einhamr’: 171–74: Terry Gunnell, ‘Hof, höll, goðar and dvergar: Ritual Space in the Pagan Icelandic Skáli’: 193. Böldl, “Eigi einhamr”: 175. Wellendorf, ‘The Interplay of Pagan and Christian Traditions’: 19–20. The Poetic Edda: 21; Eddukvæði: 331. Book of Settlements: 21, ‘hann tók sér bústað þar sem öndvegissúlur hans höfðu á land komit; hann bjó í Reykjarvík; þar eru enn öndugissúlur þær í eldhúsi. En Ingólfr nam land milli Ölfusár ok Hvalfjarðar fyrir útan Brynjudalsá, milli Øxarár, ok öll nes út’ (Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 45).

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someone he wanted all Icelanders to remember as their exemplary founding father. This first settler was believed to be both descended from and guided by divine powers when he came to his predestined place of settlement, Reykjavík, and with that he provided a ‘meaningful, divinely inspired, necessary, and unchangeable’ foundational myth to all Icelanders.58 In recording the memory of Icelander’s founding father, Sturla Þórðarson either combined or completed his narration of the events utilizing written or oral material about founding brother pairs going back to dioscuric traditions. It seems unlikely that Ingólfr and Hjörleifr were conceived as a (foster) brother pair from the start, since Hjörleifr not only goes unmentioned in Íslendingabók, but is also absent in most of the Icelandic sagas.59 Maybe Hjörleifr was invented, or perhaps he was a companion or relative of Ingólfr who was promoted or highlighted by Sturla to provide Icelanders’ founding father with a (foster) brother worthy of the start of a new community. It is also quite probable that several traditions were conflated in the figure of Hjörleifr, such as the mentioned dioscuric elements, the themes connected to Hrómundr Gripsson (the motif of breaking a mound, taking the sword, and marrying the companion’s sister), and finally, traditions about other supposed family members of Ingólfr. In contrast to Sturla’s redaction of Landnámabók, Hauksbók mentions another foster brother of Ingólfr, Herjólfr, who is said to have settled in the southwest after receiving land from Ingólfr. This passage is also in Skarðsárbók and Þórðarbók, but Sturlubók mentions him only briefly as a frændi of Ingólfr, and not as his foster brother.60 The tale of Ingólfr’s settlement, as it is preserved in Sturlubók, exemplifies Sturla Þórðarson’s versatility as a scholar and poet: a short piece of masterful storytelling, including the themes of friendship, love, jealousy, conflict, and betrayal. At the same time, it aligns with more widespread traditions about founding myths and migration narratives that Sturla, the historian and scholar, would have known about and wanted, with a didactic aim, to pass on to his audience. And lastly, whether intentionally chosen by Sturla or not, the memory of the first settler and the landnám preserved in Sturlubók also contains elements of inherited myth and much older beliefs connected to the origin of humans and the founding of new civilizations. 58 Assmann, Cultural Memory: 62. 59 With the exception of Flóamanna saga, Egils saga, a reference in Theodoricus monachus’ Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium and a fragment of a kvæði recorded by Sturla’s brother Óláfr hvítaskáld Þórðarson in his Málskrúðsfræði. 60 Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 2, 395; Skarðsárbók: Landnámabók Björns Jónssonar á Skarðsá: 186.

chapter 8

‘I’m on an island’: The Concept of Outlawry and Sturla’s Book of Settlements Gísli Sigurðsson Here in – or should I say on – Iceland we are all outlaws with our Icelandic ­króna, constantly waiting for those whom we have wronged to reach out and take their revenge after the bankers grabbed everybody else’s money and took off to yet another island, that of Tortola, not so long ago. This feeling of ex­ ile in a safe haven from our tormentors in the outside world goes a long way back and has its foundation in the origin myth about the Icelandic folk. In the medieval Icelandic texts that have come down to us, exile and outlawry on islands is a common theme. It can even be argued that the concept of outlawry developed into a very central part of the identity of the people who emigrated from Norway and eventually ended up in Iceland as settlers – and characters in the Book of Settlement (Landnámabók) and the Sagas of Icelanders (Íslend­ ingasögur). In the modern popular perception of the country’s settlement, it is often presented as historical fact that the first settlers were independent freedom seekers who had been expelled or who had decided to leave Norway rather than to be subjugated to the tyranny of King Haraldr hárfagri. As all sim­ plified notions about the past and general reasons for human behaviour, this particular idea is unlikely to be of any great value in terms of historical accuracy – except as a reflection of some ideological and/or political interests in the present when the idea is put forward and reinvigorated. It is thus interesting to consider how, and perhaps why, this idea came about, along with how it was expressed and developed in different literary contexts in the medieval period.

Outlawry as a Theme in Sturla’s Grand Narrative

In his doctoral work on Outlawry in the Icelandic Family Sagas that came out in Helsinki in 2014, Joonas Ahola chose a relevant and original topic that is cen­ tral in the medieval literature of Iceland. This topic has not been examined in a systematic fashion that meets our current theoretical thinking about referen­ tiality in traditional and/or orally derived texts, such as the Sagas of Icelanders and other narrative texts from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Ahola’s topic even touches on some basic foundations for thinking about identity of © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_009

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the people of Iceland versus those of Norway that can be developed further. Snorri Sturluson says in his Heimskringla that chieftains fled Norway in outlaw­ ry from King Haraldr1 – and took up residence, among other places, in Iceland – making Icelanders outlaws in a sense. The notion of outlawry even reaches to the highest level in the Nordic countries as kings, such as Óláfr Tryggvason and St. Óláfr Haraldsson, are both said to have been in outlawry. The relevance of this level of Ahola’s theoretical approach can be most clearly demonstrated in the parallels he points out between St. Óláfr in Norway and his outlawed cousin in Iceland, Grettir Ásmundarson – not only on his father’s side as I and others have previously commented on,2 but also on his mother’s side, an area that has not received the same attention. This connection suggests that these seemingly unrelated narratives should be read together in order to compre­ hend their mutual frame of reference. Ahola says: However, the former relations between the family of Grettir and King Óláfr Haraldsson was not unambiguous. According to Grettis saga (Ch. 39), Grettir appeals to his kinship to the King when he wants to join King Óláfr Haraldsson’s forces, in spite of a killing he has accidentally committed. However, through his maternal lineage, Grettir’s family was associated with King Óláfr’s enemies. According to Óláfs saga helga in Heimskringla (Jónsson F. 1911, 371–72), Grettir’s maternal uncle Jökull was a captain of Jarl Haakon, the rival of King Óláfr. King Óláfr had Jökull executed as an enemy of the crown. According to the story, Jökull recited fearless, strong poetry at his moment of death. Grettis saga (Ch. 17) tells that Grettir’s first sword was a family heirloom from his maternal side, called Jökulsnaut (‘Jökull’s Gift’) and even though the name of the sword refers to Grettir’s forefather told about in Vatnsdæla saga, his uncle bore the same name, and the sword was a concrete link between them. Grett­ ir’s uncle Jökull also appears in Grettis saga to warn Grettir from fighting the ghost Glámr, who turned out to become the cause of Grettir’s tragedy (Grettis saga, Ch. 34). This attempt to help further strengthens the bond between Grettir and his uncle Jökull and lays a foundation for enmity between Grettir and King Óláfr. (293–294)

1 ‘… margir ríkismenn af Nóregi flýðu útlaga fyrir Haraldi konungi ….’ Heimskringla 1: 118 (Ch. 19 of ‘Haralds saga ins hárfagra’). 2 Gísli Sigurðsson, ‘Constructing a Past to Suit the Present: Sturla Þórðarson on Conflicts and Alliances with King Haraldr hárfagri’: 182–83.

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It is often said that through his work on Landnámabók, possibly some Sagas of Icelanders, Kristni saga and Íslendinga saga in the Sturlunga collection, Sturla developed a vision of the complete history of Iceland from its beginning to his own time.3 If that history is all regarded as a narrative entity (reminiscent per­ haps of Pernille Hermann’s reading of the papar story in Ari fróði’s Íslendinga­ bók4), it becomes possible to read the story in the beginning of Landnámabók (sh 8)5 about the revolt of Hjörleifr’s slaves, who flee out to the Westmen Islands after having killed their master, as a prelude to the Grand Narrative about the people of Iceland. The slaves are hunted down on the islands by Hjörleifr’s foster brother, Ingólfr, who has them all killed. The memory of the fate of these slaves may well be a reflection of the story about the people who revolt against their master in Norway, Haraldr hárfagri, and flee to the island of Iceland where at first the long and strong arm of the royal power cannot reach them – as is demonstrated in unsuccessful royal missions to Iceland in the early period (such as that of Uni danski/óborni6). Much later the King’s men hunt down the author of this historical view, Snorri Sturluson, and have him killed – as Hjörleifr’s slaves had been killed for their disobedience many centuries before. Disobeying the King in Norway puts individuals in Iceland in a similar social position (from the royal standpoint) as the fleeing slaves in the Westmen Islands had in the eyes of Ingólfr. When Sturla Þórðarson’s Landnámabók is analysed from the perspective of outlawry, it may be argued that a part of his Grand Narrative about the his­ tory of Iceland and the identity of people in the country revolves around the theme of outlawry. Even though we believe that there were earlier versions of Landnámabók and related material that Sturla could use as sources, there is general agreement that the young manuscript referred to as Sturlubók is a relatively accurate reflection of the version that Sturla put together during the last decade or so of his life. This similarity justifies our analysis of Sturlubók as a work reflecting Sturla’s personal vision and view of history. Sturla’s view was closely aligned with that of his uncle Snorri Sturluson in explaining the Norse settlements in the North Atlantic as a result of chieftains in Norway fleeing the tyranny of King Haraldr hárfagri. When Sturla sets out to have his own version of the past written down in Landnámabók, he is a survivor who has finally gained the much sought-after 3 Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ‘Sturla Þórðarson’. 4 Pernille Hermann, ‘Who Were the Papar?’. 5 References to Landnámabók are all to Jakob Benediktsson’s edition, Landnámabók, in Íslend­ ingabók. Landnámabók, S referring to Sturlubók and H referring to Hauksbók. 6 Gísli Sigurðsson, ‘Constructing a Past to Suit the Present’: 185.

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royal favour (Earl Gizurr died in 1268 and Sturla was appointed lawman in 1272) – the quest for which had brought great harm to Sturla’s closest family. Bearing this royal favour in mind, it is only natural that Sturla follows in the footsteps of his uncle Snorri in Heimskringla by being preoccupied with the rise of royal power in Norway as a factor in the settlement process of Iceland. Sturla both emphasises the memory of settlers who took part in the battle in Hafrsfjord and left Norway after Haraldr’s victory there and that of settlers who generally disliked, opposed or confronted Haraldr’s tyranny and left as a result. These individuals are either said to have gone to Scotland, the Scottish Isles and Ireland, or all the way to Iceland – sometimes after a stopover in the British Isles and Ireland. Thinking about the settlement of Iceland along these lines was by no means universal within Iceland, as we read in Ari fróði’s Íslendingabók. Ari does not hint at chieftains fleeing royal power. Rather he describes emigrants who were seeking new and better lands and had to pay a special emigrant tax to the King who feared that Norway would be depopulated.7 In Haukr’s version of ­Landnámabók, we also read (H 294) that King Haraldr laid down guidelines about the size of an individual landnám in Iceland. Both notions fit poorly with the idea of independent chieftains fleeing Haraldr’s power and setting up a new free society on the remote island of Iceland. Perhaps we are looking at a tendency in the Sturlung family to construct a political confrontation in the past in order to provide a parallel for the present. As this historical explana­ tion is not supported by earlier references in Ari fróði, Ágrip or Fagrskinna, it seems to be the invention of Snorri himself – taken all too seriously by many later generations, not least because of how well it is developed in Sturlubók, as I have written about earlier.8 Even though we may have ways to argue that oral memory about events and individuals of the past may have been expressed in oral stories in Snorri’s time, there is no way that we can claim that Snorri had access to any sources or infor­ mation that would enable him to come up with such a sweeping general idea that was based on anything that we would accept as reliable data. It is notori­ ously difficult to give definitive historical reasoning for any events approach­ ing the settlement’s magnitude. We run into extreme difficulties even when we have contemporary data available, as in the case of the emigration from Iceland to North America in the late nineteenth and early twentieth c­ enturies. ­Snorri’s explanatory note ought therefore to be read as a part of his own ­political 7 Íslendingabók, in Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 5–6; Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘Myter om Harald hårfager’: 597. 8 Gísli Sigurðsson, ‘Constructing a Past to Suit the Present’: 193–94.

The Concept of Outlawry and Sturla’s Book of Settlements

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agenda and ideas about the relationship between Norway and Iceland – in the same way as we analyse personal use of traditional material in our own time. Once we start exploring the theme of outlawry in Sturla’s Grand Narrative, the Outlaw with a capital O comes swimming ashore: Grettir Ásmundarson. Sturla is often thought to have written separately on Grettir but it is unlike­ ly that the preserved Grettis saga was composed in Sturla’s time.9 A series of scholars, from Finnur Jónsson, to Guðni Jónsson and Örnólfur Thorsson, have clearly demonstrated that the Grettis saga as we know it can not possibly be the work of Sturla – but the first two scholars thought that the writer might have been acquainted with Sturla. Another idea is that there was an older writ­ ten version of the saga by Sturla, a saga that Sigurður Nordal tried not uncon­ vincingly to reconstruct as a much simpler narrative, focusing on the killings of Skeggi and Þorbjörn, the wrestling with Glámr and other otherworldly beings, Grettir’s outlawry and death, and the legal aftermath and revenge in Mikli­ garður/Constantinople as executed by Grettir’s brother Þorsteinn.10 The saga cycle around Grettir the outlaw is referred to in Sturla’s version of Landnámabók (Sturlubók) – and the parallel text in Grettis saga is one of the few instances where we have an actual proof of a saga writer using the writ­ ten Landnámabók as a direct source, establishing an unmistakeable rittengsl between Sturlubók and Grettis saga. What is of interest here, however, when it comes to the theme of outlawry and the relationship between the people of Iceland and the royal power in Norway, is that Sturlubók links Grettir’s family through his paternal line from Önundr tréfótr with another outlaw in N ­ orway, namely King Óláfr Haraldsson – a parallel that invites the comparison of the different fate of those who stayed in Norway and the branch of the family that emigrated to the island where the long arm of the law eventually reached them, be it Hjörleifr’s slaves, Grettir or Sturla’s uncle, Snorri Sturluson. In Sturlubók, Önundr tréfótr is said to have fought against King Haraldr (S 161, H 130). Önundr later went to Iceland, where he settled in the uninviting place called Kaldbakur (‘coldback’) in the Northwest – which compares poorly with the lush fields of Norway in a verse attributed to Önundr in Grettis saga11 – again inviting comparison between the different fates of those who stayed and those who left. In this context Önundr’s one-leggedness becomes charged with meaning, as we read that his sister stayed in Norway (representing the ‘family leg’ which Önundr lost in the battle in Hafrsfjord), where a great future lay in 9 10 11

Örnólfur Thorsson, ‘Grettir sterki og Sturla lögmaður’. Sigurður Nordal, Sturla Þórðarson og Grettis saga: 19–20. Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar: 22: ‘ …kröpp eru kaup, ef hreppik | Kaldbak, en ek læt akra.’

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store for her descendants. Önundr’s sister became the great-grandmother of King Óláfr the Saint, whereas in Iceland, Önundr himself was both the greatgrandfather of Grettir and the grandfather of Hrefna, the wife of Kjartan, the hero of Laxdæla saga. Even though Kjartan is not an obvious part of the outlawry theme, his fate can be read as an important reflection of how a close relationship with the King of Norway can affect people in Iceland. Kjartan was baptised by King Óláfr Tryggvason in Niðarós and killed in an ambush in Iceland just after the Easter Lenten season – a time which the reader is lead to believe may have weakened Kjartan, thus making it possible for his opponents to kill him. Kjart­ an’s fate is thus a perfect example of an ambitious individual from Iceland pledging a close friendship with a King in Norway and subsequently suffering a tragic downfall in Iceland. Önundr’s relationship with his great-grandson, Grettir the strong, has more relevance for our outlaw-theme. Thus, Óláfr Haraldsson, an outlaw King, Martyr and Saint, and Grettir the strong Ásmundarson are from the same generation of the same family: One is an illustrious King in Norway, and the other is, per­ haps, the most tragic saga hero of them all, who ends his cursed life in exile on the island of Drangey, haunted by the ghost Glámr and hunted down by emis­ saries of the judicial system. It is tempting to read these two parallel family fortunes together as a comment on the fate of people in Norway and Iceland, respectively. This possibility might even call for a re-reading of the travels of their respective half-brothers, King Haraldr harðráði and Þorsteinn drómundr, both of whom go on adventurous journeys to Mikligarður.

The Royal Power and Sturla’s Family

In Sturla’s time these ruminations about the deadly effects of friendships with royal personages in Norway and the different fates of members of the same family in Norway and Iceland can be read as a definition of identity and the nature of the relationship between the two countries at the time when chief­ tains in Iceland were swearing allegiance to the Norwegian crown in the 1260s. Two family-based power blocks dominated the political scene in Iceland in the thirteenth century: The Sturlungar (the family of Snorri and his nephew, Sturla) and the Haukdælir (the family of several bishops and the Norwegian King’s political favourite, Earl Gizurr Þorvaldsson [1208–68]). Individuals who came from one of these two ‘parties’ held the position of the lawspeaker/­ lawman in Iceland for more than a century 1181–1282.12 During this age of the 12

Gísli Sigurðsson, The Medieval Icelandic Saga and Oral Tradition: 61.

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Sturlungar and Haukdælir (usually just referred to as the Age of the Sturlungs), the relations with Norway and the King were extremely important to ambi­ tious chieftains in Iceland. In the 1220s Snorri did his best to gain royal friends in Norway but backed the wrong candidate for the throne (Earl Skúli) and thus fell out of favour – he was finally executed on King Hákon’s orders in the cel­ lar of his Reykholt home by Gizurr and his men in the evening of September 23rd, 1241. Snorri’s revolt brought on him the King’s wrath and fleeing out to the island of Iceland did not secure his life. On the contrary, like Hjörleifr’s slaves and Grettir in his exile, he was ruthlessly tracked down and brutally executed. The fate of his uncle Snorri must still have been on Sturla’s mind when, as a lawman in his sixties, he started making his own version of Landnámabók. ­Gizurr had recently died at the age of 60 and even though he and Sturla had tried to make peace through the arranged marriage of their children in Flugumýri, their attempt dissipated along with the smoke from the blaze which killed ­Gizurr’s wife and the groom whereas Ingibjörg, Sturla’s daughter, survived – as memorably and movingly described by Sturla himself in his Íslendingasaga. The role of the royal power in their internal feud and the fate of the Sturl­ ungar family are likely to have complicated what Snorri and Sturla could say and how they could formulate their thoughts on matters of royal power in the past and their resistance to it. It is therefore interesting to note that the parallel fates of King Óláfr the Saint and Grettir in Landnámabók and Grettis saga are forged into a link that we know of from Heimskringla between Grettir and King Óláfr through Grettir’s mother’s family – referred to by Joonas Ahola in the above quotation. The complicated web of reference in which this embedded meaning is caught only becomes clear, however, when reading Heimskringla, Vatnsdæla saga and Grettis saga all together – but it can easily be assumed that we are dealing here with traditional referentiality or an immanent saga in the oral background of the written texts.13 They would have truly resonated among the audience in Iceland, who would have been well aware of these family con­ nections. In ‘Ólafs saga helga’ in Heimskringla an Icelander is introduced in Chapter 182 just after Kálfr Árnason has left King Óláfr and joined the forces of Earl Hákon: This Icelander, Jökull ‘son of Bárðr Jökulsson from Vatnsdalur,’14 is steering the ship Vísundurinn which has come under the command of Earl Hákon but which had previously belonged to King Óláfr. Jökull gets a chance to brag in a verse about his recently acquired status as stýrimaðr after King Óláfr digri had been defeated the previous summer. When Jökull has composed a 13

14

Immanent saga and traditional referentiality are terms from Carol Clover and John Miles Foley respectively, see Carol Clover, ‘The Long Prose Form’, and John Miles Foley, Imma­ nent Art: From Structure to Meaning in Traditional Oral Epic: 6–8. ‘sonr Bárðar Jökulssonar ór Vatsdali’, Heimskringla 2: 331.

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verse to that effect he is captured by King Óláfr on the island of Gotland and led off to be beheaded – for no fault of his own except for supporting the Earl. Jökull receives a deadly wound from the first blow, and promptly composes yet another verse about the extent of his wounds, and laments his turn of fortune now that his blood is flowing out of him and making him weaker and weaker as a result of becoming the subject of the King’s wrath. For the uninitiated in matters of genealogy, this deed might be read as simply another killing of the King’s opponent, but the link with Iceland and Jökull ‘from Vatnsdalur’ alerts us to think about the traditional referential­ ity of this episode and the assumed immanent saga in the oral background. Neither Jökull nor his father, Bárðr, appear in Vatnsdæla saga (even though Jökull is well known in Sturlubók given the reference to his being killed by King Óláfr). The name Jökull is familiar because of Jökull son of Ingimundr gamli, the grandfather of the Jökull in Heimskringla and one of the main characters in Vatnsdæla. In Grettis saga (Chapter 13), however, Bárðr Jökulsson ‘Ingimun­ darsonar ins gamla’ (son of Ingimundr gamli) appears as the father of Á ­ sdís, Grettir’s mother, and Jökull Bárðarson is also introduced in Chapter 34 as Grettir’s uncle on his mother’s side: ‘Jökull was a big man and a strong, and the most violent of men; he was a seafaring man, very wild, and yet a man of great account.’15 (The word ódæll [‘very wild’] is also used elsewhere in the saga about three others: Grettir, Oddr ómagaskáld who fights Kormákr á Mel’s horse (in Chapter 29) and about Þorbjörn öngull, Grettir’s archenemy). Here Jökull is not associated with King Óláfr; rather Jökull’s role is to advise Grettir not to test his luck against Glámr with these words: ‘Good luck and goodliness are twain.’16 Grettir responds by indicating that Jökull should beware of what lies in store for him, and afterwards Jökull is out of the story. Again, it is left for the initiated in this web of stories to realize that they will both be killed, Jökull on the island of Gotland according to Heimskringla – and Grettir on the island of Drangey in his own saga. Grettir’s weapon comes from the mother’s side of the family, and he receives it when he leaves his mother (in Chapter 17). Upon Grettir’s departure his mother gives him the sword that had belonged to Jökull, her father’s father, and the earlier members of the Vatnsdælir family – thus evoking similar stories we know from Vatnsdæla saga about the family sword Ættartangi that belonged to Ingimundr and Jökull. In Grettis saga the family sword is called Jökulsnautr

15 16

‘Jökull var mikill maðr ok sterkr ok inn mesti ofsamaðr; hann var siglingamaðr ok mjök ódæll, en þó mikilhœfr maðr.’ Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar: 117. ‘sitt er hvárt, gæfa eða gørvigleikr,’ Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar: 117.

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(‘gift from Jökull’) and is last mentioned by name in Chapter 43 after Grettir has given it to his brother Atli when the latter started to farm the family farm after Ásmundr’s death. In the works associated with Sturla Þórðarson and his uncle Snorri Sturlu­ son, we see a well-woven web of references around the themes of outlawry and the identity of Icelanders who rise against authority, which ultimately leads to their downfall and death – in spite of often just, noble and righteous reasons for their behaviour. The chieftains who flee to Iceland from Haraldr’s tyranny in Norway (as the history is narrated first by Snorri and then echoed by Sturla) are doing the right and proper thing in the eyes of their descendants in Ice­ land. From their own perspective Hjörleifr’s slaves are similarly fighting for their own good – even though Ingólfr clearly does not sympathize with their view and actions, as Sturla tells us in his Landnámabók. Grettir’s intentions are never condemned in his saga but rather his luck betrays him and turns his good deeds into tragic events, ‘good luck and goodliness are twain,’ as his uncle Jökull warns him, evoking stories about how the royal power in Norway crashes down on those who rise against it – as Jökull himself experienced when he later in his life backed Earl Hákon in Norway and was later killed by King Óláfr Haraldsson’s men on the island of Gotland. This entire cycle of tales points a finger at the outlawry of Sturla’s uncle, Snorri, whose luck betrayed him when he decided to follow the Earl against the King – only to pay for it with his life after having insisted on travelling out to the island of Iceland where the execu­ tioners of the royal power finally reached him at his home. All this was thought out and written on the island of Fagurey in Breiðafjörður where Sturla man­ aged to live out his life and die a peaceful death, always managing to steer clear of the highest power and thus never having to pay a dear price for revolting against the Kings of Norway or backing the wrong candidate for the throne, as he saw happening all around him in the past and in the present. Escaping from the oppressive rule of King Haraldr is popularly considered to be the single most important reason for the massive emigration of people from Norway to Iceland in the late ninth century. Yet this paper has traced this idea to the literary construction of the past that we can observe in the works associated with Snorri Sturluson and his nephew Sturla Þórðarson, a construc­ tion that is likely to be a reflection of their own political thinking and social conditions in the thirteenth century rather than the historical reality of the ninth. But this conclusion cannot erase the real possibility that there were some family traditions in Iceland about why some ancestors risked their luck in Iceland rather than to stay in the comfort and warmth of their Norwegian motherland – and that these people were telling stories about an upstart, petty king (Haraldr) detested by these same forefathers.

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In the written works associated with Sturla Þórðarson, family traditions about King Haraldr are woven into a complicated and multivoiced web of stories elaborating on revolt against authority and fleeing to islands where the long arm of the superior power eventually reaches them, be it Haraldr ­hárfagri, Ingólfr Arnarson, King Óláfr Haraldsson – or ultimately King Hákon gamli in Sturla’s own time. These themes are developed in the origin story about ­Hjörleifr’s slaves and several settlers in Landnámabók to such a degree that these stories have gained the status of an origin myth on a national level. But we also see it in Grettis saga, both in the figure of Grettir and his uncle Jökull, and can safely assume that this theme must have been close to Sturla’s heart ­after what he experienced with his uncle Snorri. His fate could be re­ flected upon through stories about the struggle for power, exile and outlawry on ­islands – and ultimately revenge.

chapter 9

Narrative Negotiations of Literacy Practices in Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar Lena Rohrbach Several scholars have touched on the narrative function and potential of written artefacts in the historical works in the Old Norse tradition. In his study of the citation of written documents in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, Narve B ­ jørgo raised the question of whether the quotation of letters in the saga should be understood as an artistic device that served the dramatization of the narrative comparable to dialogues and speeches. Bjørgo concludes that this was not the case, but rather that the letters interrupt the narrative flow and thus form ‘eit komposisjonelt problem’ for Sturla.1 Ólafía Einarsdóttir is more positive about Sturla’s narrative achievements: she states that he was ahead of his Icelandic contemporaries, juxtaposing Hákonar saga with the efforts of the author of Árna saga biskups, who lists letters verbatim in a one-dimensional fashion without turning them into a narrative mode.2 In a similar mode, Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir stresses that the letters in Árna saga are deliberate choices of the author in line with the general focus of the saga and serve as authoritative support in the same way as skaldic stanzas do.3 Most recently, Sverre Bagge points out that the frequent quotation of letters in Hákonar saga might indicate a change in saga-style and of what was regarded as söguligt – ‘worth telling’ – grounded in the major socio-cultural changes of the time.4 In what follows I would like to challenge Bjørgo’s negative position and follow up the various assessments of Ólafía Einarsdóttir, Guðrún Ása Grímsdótt­ir and Sverre Bagge. I will argue that references to written documents and literacy practices are not a hindrance to the authors of the contemporary sagas nor merely a dutiful credit to the presence and authority of written sources, but a deliberate act that serves several functions within historical narratives. Guðrún Nordal attests that the citation of skaldic stanzas in the contemporary sagas is a ‘highly political act’ and a ‘conscious semantic layer in the writing of

1 2 3 4

Narve Bjørgo, ‘Om skriftlege kjelder til Hákonar saga’: 201. Ólafia Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeverdi belyst ved Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar’: 37. Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ‘Formáli’: xix–xx. Sverre Bagge, From Viking Stronghold to Christian Kingdom: 375.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_010

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historical works,’5 and I will maintain in this article that much the same holds true for references to written artefacts. Thus, I do not intend to treat the integration of letters in Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga from a source-critical point of view, but rather observe them from a narratological and literary-anthropological perspective. I will not discuss the veracity and historicity of the documents referred to and quoted in these two narratives, but will focus on the modes of and reasons for the integration of written artefacts.6 We cannot deduce that there were no written artefacts from the absence of written artefacts in a historical account, just as we cannot be fully sure that there was a written artefact and that it had a given wording, if we do not have the original or transcripts of the document. But irrespective of the historicity of mentioned documents, the inclusion or noninclusion of the written word and the way the written word is contextualized reveal attitudes toward literacy. My epistemological interest is not whether the artefacts referred to in these narratives really existed, but why they were integrated into the narrative and what these references convey about the societies described, Sturla’s historiographic approaches and genre constraints. Any discussion of the negotiations of literacy practices in Íslendinga saga inevitably has to include the rest of Sturlunga saga and other contemporary sagas written in the same period. Íslendinga saga is integrally embedded in Sturlunga saga. The extent of Íslendinga saga within the compilation of Stur­ lunga saga, in particular the beginning and ending of the saga, is debated, as is the question of alterations by the creative compiler in the making of his compilation.7 A comparison of the findings in Íslendinga saga with the rest of Sturlunga saga may provide insights into peculiarities of Íslendinga saga. Furthermore, I will also include Árna saga biskups in the discussion, as this Bishop’s saga is transmitted together with Sturlunga saga in Reykjarfjarðarbók, am 122 b fol., and has justifiably been called ‘lokaþáttur Sturlungu,’ the concluding part of Sturlunga saga.8 Before beginning the discussion of the contemporary sagas, I would like to say a few words on the narrative negotiations of pragmatic literacy practices 5 Guðrún Nordal, ‘The Contemporary Sagas and Their Social Context’: 238. 6 For a similar approach to epistolary communication in episodes in the Kings’ sagas until c.1150, see Jonas Wellendorf, ‘Letters from Kings: Epistolary communication in the Kings’ sagas (until c.1150)’. 7 The maximal temporal range ascribed to Íslendinga saga stretches from 1183 to 1262. On the certain and more uncertain extents of Íslendinga saga, see Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action in Thirteenth Century Iceland: 17–18. For a recent discussion of the identity and agenda of the compiler of Sturlunga saga, see Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Sturlunga – Tilurð og markmið’. 8 Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ‘Formáli’.

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in the Old Norse tradition in general. Among the earliest references to letters are thirteenth-century manuscripts of translated works such as Karlamagnúss saga,9 Eliss saga ok Rósamundu,10 Strengleikar,11 Barlaams saga,12 A ­ lexanders saga,13 and Þiðreks saga.14 The oldest original narratives that refer to bréf ­(letters) are the Kings’ sagas Morkinskinna, Fagrskinna, Snorri’s separate Óláfs saga helga, and Heimskringla.15 Konungs skuggsjá (The King’s Mirror) also takes up written communication in an exemplum on just judgments in the chapter on the king.16 These earliest references to letters in translated as well as original narratives date from c.1220 to 1275, and are thus slightly ahead of or contemporaneous with Sturla’s authorship of Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga. The translated works originate in Hákon’s endeavours to transform the Norwegian retinue (hirð) into a court with a continental format. The original works are the Kings’ sagas and Konungs skuggsjá, and thus are closely linked to the Norwegian court. The reference to letters in these works is not abundant; we have to make do with single episodes, but in all the episodes – with the exception of the exemplum in Konungs skuggsjá – the mentioned letters originate from royal issuers. The earliest examples of literary negotiations of letters in the Old Norse tradition thus suggest a close proximity of this discourse to the court culture of the Norwegian crown under the reign of Hákon Hákonarson.

Literacy in Íslendinga saga

In total, there are nineteen references to letters in Íslendinga saga, none of which are extant. As illustrated in Table 9.1, of these nineteen letters, seven

9

In the fragment nra 61, c.1250–1275, Karlamagnus saga ok kappa hans: 557. All datings in this article follow Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog. Registre, unless otherwise stated. 10 In dg 4–7 (c.1270), the French message is translated as bréf, Elis saga ok Rosamundu: 77. 11 Strengleikar: 90, 186, 188, 236. 12 In Holm perg 6 fol., c.1275, Barlaams ok Josaphats saga: 57. 13 In am 519 a 4to, c.1280, Alexanders saga: 19, 150. 14 In Holm perg. 4 fol., c.1275–1300, Þiðriks saga af Bern: 149, 151, 287. 15 For a detailed discussion of references to epistolary communication in these Kings’ sagas, see Wellendorf, ‘Letters from Kings’. Wellendorf interprets the mention of letters in these compilations as indications of what was regarded as a plausible means of communication at a given time by the audience and identifies a significant change in the reign of Ingi Haraldsson in the middle of the twelfth century. 16 Konungs skuggsjá: 237–38.

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Table 9.1

Letters in Íslendinga saga

Recipient King Archbishop Icelandic Clerics (Lay) Icelanders Sender King Jarl Hákon Archbishop Icelandic Clerics Lay Icelanders

1

1 1 1

7 1 3 4

o­ riginate from King Hákon,17 one from Jarl Hákon galinn,18 four from the archbishops Tore Gudmundsen and Sigurd Eindridesson,19 two from the Icelandic episcopal sees,20 and five from lay Icelanders.21 Except for a letter of Bishop Páll of Skálholt’s to the archiepiscopal see of Nidaros (Trondheim), all the letters are addressed to Icelanders. Only one of the letters, a letter of Archbishop Tore Gudmundsen’s in 1211 in connection with the Icelandic resistance to Bishop Guðmundr, is rendered as direct quotation in extenso.22 In this letter, Snorri Sturluson and other men are rebuked heavily for their behaviour and summoned before the bishop. Because of inconsistencies with information in Resens annáll, Jón Jóhannesson deemed it improbable that the letter was included by Sturla and considered it a later insertion by the compiler.23 These considerations treat the rendered letter as a historical source and disregard the possibility of literary stylization and embellishment, but in doing so, they unintentionally support the argument that this letter was included in Íslendinga saga only for a narrative reason. In its distinct, sharp rhetoric, it functions as a dramatic speech performed from afar.24 The contents of the remaining letters are given in short summaries, most of which extend to no more than half a sentence. In some cases, the letter’s 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

Sturlunga saga, 1: 400, 444, 447, 453, 477, 524, 528. All translations in this article are my own. Sturlunga saga, 1: 269. Sturlunga saga, 1: 255–56, 337, 360, 400. Sturlunga saga, 1: 239, 459. Sturlunga saga, 1: 365, 415–16, 453, 526, 527. Sturlunga saga, 1: 255–56. Sturlunga saga, 1: 558–59. See Þórir Óskarsson, ‘Íslendinga saga Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 298.

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content is not given at all, but the artefact is only referred to, as upon Gizurr’s return to Iceland in 1252: A general meeting was convened at Hestaþingshamar. The royal letters were read out there, and everyone willingly agreed to accept Gizurr as their leader.25 The narrative negotiations of literacy practices in Íslendinga saga reflect an acquaintance with written communication and display a general expectation of the trustworthiness of the written word, but not without playing with this expectation as a narrative device. The exchange of letters in Íslendinga saga is negotiated as form of communication that is prone to interferences due to the decoupling of sender and recipient; letters can be falsified, they can be illegible, and they can be more easily ignored than a direct order. I have discussed elsewhere that communication by means of the written word among Icelanders is staged as rather deceptive in Íslendinga saga, whereas the royal and archiepiscopal letters work impeccably as a means of communication across the sea and are generally followed.26 There is, however, one significant exception to the unquestioned acceptance of royal writs: Snorri ignores King Hákon’s prohibition conveyed in the form of a letter to leave Norway: But when they were ready and laid at anchor at Munkholm, men came from the south from the king with letters that stated that the king prohibited all Icelanders to leave the country this summer. They showed Snorri the letter and he replied: ‘I want to leave.’27 Snorri’s death is surrounded by even more acts of written communication. Just before his death in 1241, Snorri receives a letter from Oddr Sveinbjarnarson. The saga relates that this letter was written in stafkarlaletr, and that Snorri and his people were unable to read it. Whatever the exact meaning, the point is that Snorri was not able to decipher the letter, but could make out that it 25 26 27

‘Var þá fundr stefndr fjölmennr at Hestaþingshamri. Váru þar upp lesin konungsbréf, ok játtu allir fúsliga at taka við Gizuri at höfðingja yfir sik.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 477. Lena Rohrbach, ‘(Un-)Zuverlässige Buchstaben’; Lena Rohrbach, ‘The Written Legacy of the Sturlung Age: Reflections on a Media Change’. “En er þeir váru búnir ok höfðu lagt út undir Hólm, þá kómu menn sunnan frá konungi ok með bréfum, ok stóð þat á, at konungr bannaði þeim öllum Íslendingum at fara út á því sumri. Þeir sýndu Snorra bréfin, ok svarar hann svá: ‘Út vil ek.’” Sturlunga saga, 1: 444.

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contained a warning.28 This episode exhibits significant parallels to Atlamál in grænlenzko that are indicative of the literary stylization of these accounts.29 Directly following this episode, Gizurr presents the fatal letters of King Hákon to his followers that ultimately lead to the killing of Snorri: Gizurr held up the letters that Eyvindr and Árni had brought from ­Norway. They said that Gizurr should make Snorri leave the country for Norway, voluntarily or enforced, or else kill him for having left Norway under the ban of the king. King Hákon called Snorri a traitor. Gizurr said that by no means did he wish to violate the terms of the king’s letter, and said that he knew that Snorri would not leave the country voluntarily.30 The death of Snorri is thus preceded by a sequence of three letters that reflect upon the functionality and dysfunctionality of written communication: Snorri falls into royal disgrace after ignoring an authoritative written royal order, he is unable to read a warning that might have saved his life, and his death is finally ordered by royal letters. Unlike Snorri, Gizurr does not dare ‘at brjóta bréf konungs’ – to violate the [terms of the] letter and disobey the authoritative order of the king, since after all the letter did not oppose his own interests. 28

29

30

‘[Snorri] hafði þar ok bréf, er Oddr Sveinbjarnarson hafði sent honum af Álftanesi. Var þar á stafkarlaletr, ok fengu þeir eigi lesit, en svá þótti þeim sem vörun nökkur myndi á vera.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 453. (‘Snorri also had a letter that Oddr Sveinbjarnarson had sent him from Álftanes. It was written in beggars’ letters, and they could not read it, but it seemed to them as if it contained a warning’). The exact meaning of stafkarlaletr, literally ‘beggars’ letters’, remains unclear, since this expression is a hapax legomenon in the medieval textual transmission. For further discussion, see Rohrbach, ‘(Un-)Zuverlässige Buchstaben’: 12–13. Guðrún sends a warning to her brothers in runes, but her attempt is undermined by Atli’s messenger Vingi, who falsifies the runes: ‘Rúnar nam at rísta; rengði þær Vingi’. Edda. Die Lieder des Codex Regius nebst verwandten Denkmälern: 242. (‘She carved runes; Vingi falsified them’), and the well-versed Kostbera seems to struggle to decipher the text (‘Kend var Kostbera, kunni hon skil rúna, inti orðstafi at eldi liósom: gæta varð hon tungo í góma báða: vóro svá viltar, at var vant at ráða.’ Edda. Die Lieder des Codex Regius: 243 ‘Kostbera was well-versed, she could understand runes, she read the runes by the light of the fire: she kept her tongue pressed against her teeth: the runes were so strange that they were difficult to interpret’). ‘Helt (Gizurr) þá upp bréfum þeim, er þeir Eyvindr ok Árni höfðu út haft. Var þar á, at Gizurr skyldi Snorra láta útan fara, hvárt er honum þótti ljúft eða leitt, eða drepa hann at öðrum kosti fyrir þat, er hann hafði farit út í banni konungs. Kallaði Hákon konungr Snorra landráðamann við sik. Sagði Gizurr, at hann vildi með engu móti brjóta bréf kon­ ungs, en kveðst vita, at Snorri myndi eigi ónauðigr útan fara.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 453.

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This ­narrative staging does not lack a certain degree of bitter irony, taking into account Snorri’s outstanding role as leading homo scribens of his time – he is let down by the medium he made use of so masterfully throughout his life: literacy.

Literacy in the Remaining Parts of Sturlunga saga and Árna saga biskups

Most of the other sagas within the Sturlunga compilation do not mention the exchange of letters at all. A certain accumulation of references to written communication can be discerned in Prestssaga Guðmundar góða and Þorgils saga skarða. In Prestssaga the exchange of several letters is mentioned preceding the election of Guðmundr as bishop in the years 1201 and 1202. Letters are sent back and forth between Bishop-elect Guðmundr, Bishop Páll, and Sæmundr Jónsson of Oddi; furthermore, Guðmundr receives a letter from Kolbeinn Tumason and sends a letter to Sigurðr Ormsson, and Bishop Páll finally sends his letters of election to Archbishop Eirik.31 Five of these letters are rendered in full, verbatim. In their dramatic rhetoric, these can, again, be read as dialogues from afar, as a variant form of the dramatic, dialogic mode of the sagas. Þorgils saga skarða is only in the Reykjarfjarðarbók part of the Sturlunga compilation. It is thought to have been written after 1275, and the separate fragment dates from c.1300.32 The saga contains thirteen episodes that negotiate the use of literacy, which is a significant number compared to the much longer Íslendinga saga with its eighteen episodes. Of the thirteen episodes, three deal with written orders from King Hákon to his retainers in Iceland,33 one with a letter of excommunication from Bishop Heinrekr to Þorgils skarði and Þorvarðr Þórarinsson,34 two with letters from abbots,35 and seven mention written documents issued by leading Icelanders, retainers, and chieftains.36 Unlike Íslendinga saga or any other individual part of Sturlunga saga, written communication among Icelanders, rather than foreign figures, in Þorgils saga skarða represents the majority of episodes dealing with literacy practices. 31 32 33 34 35 36

Sturlunga saga, 1: 150, 155–57. Úlfar Bragason, ‘Frásagnarmynstur í Þorgils sögu skarða’: 161–62; Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: 27. Sturlunga saga, 2: 120–21, 185–86, 208–09. Sturlunga saga, 2: 193. Sturlunga saga, 2: 125–26, 151. Sturlunga saga, 2: 112, 119, 128, 142, 147, 165, 223.

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The exchange of letters is depicted as a generally stable and trustworthy form of communication among lay Icelanders. There are, however, some episodes that reflect upon the peculiarities of written communication. The remoteness of sender and recipient and the semi-oral setting of the reception of letters is repeatedly highlighted: letters are falsified,37 read out by third parties,38 or ‘murdered’ – suppressed – by not reading them out in public.39 The accumulation of letters in Prestssaga is directly related to the election of Guðmundr as bishop, and these letters all serve to support the case of ­Guðmundr in a dialogic mode, while the letters in Þorgils saga skarða are embedded in the political struggles for supremacy over geographical domains in the last years of the Icelandic Commonwealth. Men send warnings to their allies and ask for assistance in ambushes and battles, and the king appoints his retainers and leases out land by sending out letters to Iceland. On the basis of the transmission of the separate fragment of Þorgils saga skarða in a Norwegian context, and the perspective and plot of the narrative, Guðrún Nordal suggested that Þorgils saga skarða might have been intended for, or at least highly attractive to, a Norwegian audience, as the Norwegians might have been more interested in this loyal royal retainer than the Icelanders.40 If we accept this suggestion, the intended audience – the royal Norwegian court – might provide an explanation for the integration of more references to written communication in this saga than in the other sagas in the Sturlunga compilation. As apparent from the oldest references to letters in the Old Norse tradition, it was obviously en vogue at the Norwegian court of the latter half of the thirteenth century to reflect upon literacy practices, just as in the continental vernacular tradition of the time. In all of Sturlunga saga there are only three episodes that tell us about written documents made by Icelanders and sent to or presented in Norway. The first case is Bishop Páll’s above-mentioned letter to the archbishop in connection with the election of Bishop Guðmundr, which appears both in Prestssaga and in Íslendinga saga. The second episode is in Þorgils saga skarða. In 1245 37 38 39

40

Sturlunga saga, 2: 223. Sturlunga saga, 2: 121–22. When Þorleifr Þórðarson from Garðar rejects the reading out of the royal letter at the gathering at Höfðahólar, Þorgils states: ‘Vita skuluð þér þat, Þorleifr, at ek ætla at láta lesa hér í dag konungsbréf tvau eða þrjú opinberliga, svá at þér heyrið, ok skal ek eigi myrða þetta konungsbréfit, þótt þú hafir myrð þau konungsbréf, er til þín hafa send verit.’ Stur­ lunga saga, 2: 120–21 (‘You shall know, Þorleifr, that I will have read out in public two or three royal letters today, so that you can hear them, and I will not murder this royal letter, although you murdered those royal letters that were sent to you’). Guðrún Nordal, ‘Var Þorgils saga skarða skrifuð í Noregi’: 28.

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Þorgils pleads with King Hákon to allow him to depart for Iceland by sending him a wax tablet. King Hákon is displeased, as Þorgils does not appear in person to ask for permission; the act of sending a written message instead is regarded as stærð ok metnaðr, as sign of arrogance and hauteur.41 The third episode is in Þórðar saga kakala. In 1246 Þórðr and Gizurr are asked to present their claims to King Hákon. While Þórðr has a scroll read with notes on the quarrels between the Sturlungar and the Haukdælir, Gizurr presents an oral report: in this episode it is stressed repeatedly that the written records and the oral report did not contradict each other. In the end, it is said that Hákon seemed more inclined to follow Gizurr, who presented the oral report.42 The episodes in Þorgils saga skarða and Þórðar saga kakala indicate that the written word was not always superior to oral communication or did not always bring an advantage to the writer. In the first case, the choice of remote communication instead of personal presence is interpreted as arrogance, as an unseemly form of communication; in the second case, the oral presentation is regarded as equally trustworthy as written accounts. Thus, the expected and accepted way of communicating with the Norwegian king is, according to ­Sturlunga saga, the personal oral account, while the king’s letters are authoritative messages that should not be ‘broken’. Quite different from Sturlunga saga, the Bishops’ sagas are praised as the best sources for literacy practices and the educational system in late-medieval Iceland. In particular, Árna saga refers extensively to literacy practices. Again, I would like to argue that we have to read these insertions primarily as a conscious undertaking of the author that served the narrative focus of the saga. In his edition of the saga in 1972, Þorleifur Hauksson counted more than sixty references to letters, many of them in the form of direct renditions.43 The vast majority of letters are sent from and to clerics inside and outside of Iceland; other recipients and senders of letters in this saga are mainly the king and his local representatives. Some of the letters refer to or attach other written documents,44 and the authenticity of letters in this saga is never questioned. In accordance with the overall focus of the saga, many episodes reflect upon and negotiate the primacy of ecclesiastical versus royal dominion. Árna saga draws a picture of an Icelandic society that is well acquainted with literacy practices, although mainly in the ecclesiastical sphere. There are also, however, examples of a wider use of literacy, particularly in connection with the 41 42 43 44

Sturlunga saga, 2: 112. Sturlunga saga, 2: 82. Þorleifur Hauksson, ‘Inngangur’: c–civ. For instance, Biskupa sögur iii: 110–12.

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­adoption of J­ónsbók, for which, in lengthy accounts, the saga provides information about the written records, scrolls, and letters, made by the different parties – the bishop and the freeholders – to register their discord with the law-book.45 Reminiscent of Þorgils saga skarða, this demeanour is characterized as arrogance and megalomania by the royal representative Loðinn, who emphasises that it is solely the King’s privilege to make laws: ‘Herra Loðinn was furious that the farmers puffed themselves up and thought that they were to make the law in the land when the king alone should.’46

Literacy in Hákonar saga

But no Icelandic contemporary saga can compete with Hákonar saga in terms of its references to written documents. These references have been studied in detail by, amongst others, Halvdan Koht and Narve Bjørgo, both of whom had the epistemological aim of gaining insight into the nature and extent of sources available in thirteenth-century Norway.47 Bjørgo differentiates between charters and epistolographic letters, concluding that seven documents and ninetynine letters are mentioned. Bjørgo describes Sturla’s use of written sources as brief concentrates of the core of the main contents, with concluding reference to the writ in question. This technique is fully implemented in the case of many letters in the saga. Sturla tries to transfer the documentary material into an epic account, but he did not always succeed in his intentions.48 The extensive mention of written documents notwithstanding, the integration of written documents in Hákonar saga is selective and underlies the general tendency of the work. Sturla obviously omitted available information, if it did not suit the aim of the saga to praise and honour the reign of King Hákon. In her study of Hákonar saga, Ulrike Sprenger pointed out some of Sturla’s 45 46 47 48

Biskupa sögur iii: 87–94. ‘Herra Loðinn varð við þetta mjök heitr at búkarlar gerðu sik svá digra at þeir hugðu at skipa lögum í landi, þeim sem konungr einn saman átti at ráða,’ Biskupa sögur iii: 94. Halvdan Koht, ‘Um kjeldegrunnlage for soga um Håkon Håkonsson’; Bjørgo, ‘Om skriftlege kjelder til Hákonar saga.’ ‘[k]orte konsentrat av kjernen i hovudinnhaldet, med avsluttande tilvising til det aktuelle skriftstykket. Ved mange sendebrev i soga er denne teknikken heilt reindyrka. Sturla […] prøver å føre dokumentarmaterialet over i episk framstillingsform, utan at intensjonane alltid har lykkast,’ Bjørgo, ‘Om skriftlege kjelder til Hákonar saga’: 195.

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elegant moves to avoid mentioning all the documents available.49 Sprenger classifies omissions of this kind as reason of state, prescribed by Magnús, and stresses that Sturla’s hands were tied in his writing of Hákonar saga.50 I would like to suggest a less negative interpretation of Sturla’s literary enterprise than both Bjørgo and Sprenger offer, and illustrate with the examples below that the integration of and allusion to letters in the saga ought to be understood as conscious decisions of its author in the construction of his narrative. Of the ninety-nine letters in Hákonar saga, forty-one originate from Hákon’s court, thirty are sent to the court, while twenty-eight are exchanged ‘utanom kongehuset’ (outside the royal court).51 These are Bjørgo’s statistics. By further differentiating the senders and recipients of letters in Hákonar saga, as illustrated in Table 9.2, I can clarify the narrative focus of the saga.52 The ­highest Table 9.2 Letters in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar. Recipient Sender King Skúli Archbishop Pope Norwegian Clerics Foreign Rulers Subjects

49

King

Skúli

Archbishop

Pope

4 5 3 1

7

3 1

3 2

1 4 12

1

1

Norwegian Clerics

Foreign Rulers

Subjects

6 3

23 7

1

1 1 1

1 1

4

1

1

1

For example, in connection with King Hákon’s coronation, Sturla omits statutes that were in favour of the Church and simply states: ‘Margar skipanir gerði kardináli, þær er eigi eru hér allar talðar.’ (‘The cardinal decreed many statutes, not all of which are listed here.’) Hákonar saga ii: 135; Ulrike Sprenger, Sturla Þórðarsons Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar: 80–81. See also Ólafia Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeverdi’: 61. 50 Sprenger, Sturla Þórðarsons Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar: 128. 51 For a complete list of all letters in Hákonar saga, see Bjørgo, ‘Om skriftlege kjelder til Hákonar saga’: 197–201. 52 The numbers in Table 9.2 differ slightly from Bjørgo’s statistics: The letters from the royal court add up to 46, since four letters addressed to the king’s sons Hákon and Magnús are listed as letters both from and to the royal court. Furthermore, letters sent from King Hákon to Skúli and Archbishop Peter in 1226 are listed as two entries.

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frequency of exchanged letters between individuals in Hákonar saga is to be found between Hákon and Skúli, and Skúli receives and sends nearly as many letters as does Hákon: he sends eighteen letters and receives thirteen.53 This extensive exchange of letters does not cast Skúli in a favourable light. The entire conflict between Hákon and Skúli is woven with letters sent back and forth, and as Sverre Bagge pointed out, the only two letters rendered in extenso as direct quotations in the saga are letters of Hákon in connection with this conflict. These letters are characterized by a very agitated rhetoric that undeniably adds to the drama of the narrative.54 The conflict between Hákon and Skúli is already indicated at the very outset of the saga when it is related that Skúli sent letters hither and yon without the knowledge of the young king.55 The episodes illustrate Skúli’s insincerity already at this early stage, and the saga continues to tell of Skúli’s attempts to abuse written communication, by sending letters within and outside of the Norwegian realm, bypassing the king by impropriating letters sent between third parties or by spreading untruths in letter form. He does not even hesitate to break and falsify an episcopal seal, but in virtually all cases he is caught red-handed.56 Skúli’s violations of the authority and authenticity of the written word, and of the accompanying authorizing mechanisms, the royal seal, depict him as a reckless and ruthless man. A similar abuse of authoritative written orders can be discerned in Gizurr Þorvaldsson’s activities after having received the title of jarl in 1258. Back in Iceland, Gizurr renders the king’s orders rather freely or downright falsely, as Hákonar saga states explicitly: ‘The men soon realized that he had spoken falsely about the words of the king.’57 This episode finds no counterpart in Sturlunga saga.58 Gizurr is not described as a man who violates the sense of the letters of the king in Íslendinga saga, as a bréfabrotsmaðr; this reticence harmonises with Gizurr’s statement before Snorri’s death in the same saga that he does not dare to violate the terms of a royal letter, while Hákonar saga does not mention this letter at all, despite all its numerous references to letters in other contexts.59 53

54 55 56 57 58 59

Of the twenty-eight letters sent outside the royal court, thirteen originate with Skúli, while six are addressed to him; the remaining nine letters are all written by and addressed to different agents. Hákonar saga i: 195, 312. See Bagge, From Viking Stronghold to Christian Kingdom: 246–48. Hákonar saga i: 198–206. Hákonar saga i: 206; 2: 65, 71, 80. ‘Brátt urðu menn þess varir at þat var fals er hann sagði frá orðum konungsins.’ Hákonar saga ii: 204. Sturlunga saga, 1: 524. On the inclination of Sturlunga saga towards Gizurr, see Guðrún Nordal, ‘The Contemporary Sagas and Their Social Context’: 223. For a thorough discussion of the varying

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However, the vile demeanour of Skúli and Gizurr, and their disrespect for the general policies of written correspondence, does not shake the general trust in the integrity of the written word; Hákonar saga displays a well-established written correspondence in administrative as well as diplomatic contexts, in the spirit of high- and late-medieval courtly culture on the continent. With the exception of Þorgils saga skarða, Íslendinga saga contains by far the largest number of references to literacy within Sturlunga saga. Of course, Íslendinga saga cannot compete with the large number of references in Hákonar saga. But the general picture conveyed in these two works is similar. The Norwegian court and the Church are depicted as proficient agents of written ­correspondence in both sagas. On the other hand, the Icelanders are predominantly described as recipients of written communication; the few instances in which the use of literacy is mentioned for communication within Iceland reflect upon the weaknesses and disadvantages of written communication that evolve from the decoupling of sender and recipient. These mediatheoretical reflections avant la lettre also characterize the narrativization of written correspondence in the evolving conflict between King Hákon and Jarl Skúli, as well as the depiction of Gizurr Þorvaldsson in Hákonar saga. Media-theoretical reflections and narrativizations of the kind we find in Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga are nearly absent in the rest of Sturlunga saga. Except for Þorgils saga skarða and Prestssaga Guðmundar góða, Sturl­ unga saga hardly mentions written communication at all. The virtual absence of negotiations of literacy practices in most of Sturlunga saga might indicate that the individual authors and the compiler of Sturlunga saga regarded literacy practices as not söguligt, ‘worth telling,’ as it did not correspond to the narrative mode of saga-telling. A new narrative mode that involved references to written sources was induced and introduced by ecclesiastical traditions and the Norwegian crown in the middle of the thirteenth century, as can be seen in Prestssaga Guðmundar góða and Árna saga, on the one hand, and Hákonar saga, and possibly Þorgils saga skarða, on the other hand. These findings suggest that the integration of letters was dependent on genre constraints, but also to the same extent dependent on the focus of a text, on the authors, the commissioners, and the intended audience or readership of a work.60

60

­ arrative stagings of Snorri’s death in Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga, see Ármann n Jakobsson, ‘Views to a Kill: Sturla Þórðarson and the Murder in the Cellar’: 7–20. These thoughts could be extended to the influence of compilers and scribes. Significantly, Þorgils saga skarða and Árna saga biskups, with their reflections on literacy practices, are only compiled together with Sturlunga saga in Reykjarfjarðarbók, which is thought to have been written in the scribal milieu of the wealthy family of Akrar and the convent of Reynistaður. This scribal milieu has been connected with the writing of quite a number

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Christian Kiening stresses that reflections on literacy and script (Schrift­ reflexionen) in vernacular literacy are rooted in endeavours to participate in the long-standing legitimacy of Latin language and literature.61 The endeavour to participate in continental tradition and culture can also be discerned in Hákon’s reformatory efforts. The extensive reference to letters in Hákonar saga and Árna saga has been explained by influences from Anglo-Norman historiographic traditions, namely Matthew Paris.62 The earliest examples, however, of narrative references to written correspondence appear in the translations of courtly romances and negotiate the advantages and disadvantages of the written medium. This suggests that these innovations in Old Norse historiography have to be placed within a broader European trend that exhibits reflections on literacy practices in literary as well as historiographic contexts from the twelfth century onwards. The same trend was also taken up in medieval Icelandic ecclesiastical historiography, discernable in Árna saga and other Bishops’ sagas, but it needed a talented author to turn sober references into a well-balanced narrative. The inclusion of written artefacts in the contemporary sagas serves many purposes, and these are similar to the different functions of skaldic stanzas and dialogues. The functions go far beyond the mere authentication and authorization of accounts, and they allow for dialogic dimensions of the texts and serve the dramatic staging of events. The integration of letters was not an annoying hindrance to Sturla. Sturla Þórðarson was not a pioneer in the Old Norse tradition in his endeavour to integrate the recent trend of written correspondence into the narrative mode of saga-writing, but he exhibits a distinct awareness for the potentials and risks of the medium literacy and exploits them to shape his characters and to stage conflicts or core moments such as the death of his own uncle Snorri. He turns the references to literacy into structural devices of his narratives, and thus it might be said that he modernized the narrative repertoire of the sagas according to recent trends of European historiography and literature.

61 62

of letters and other kinds of administrative literacy by Stefán Karlsson and others. See Stefán Karlsson, ‘Indledning’: xxxvii–xxxviii. For further references, see Rohrbach, ‘Construction, Organisation, Stabilisation’: 242–43. On the different agendas of Króksfjarðarbók and Reykjarfjarðarbók, see also Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Sturlunga – Tilurð og markmið’: 82–87. Christian Kiening, ‘Die erhabene Schrift. Vom Mittelalter zur Moderne’: 45. Knut Helle, ‘Anglo-Norwegian Relations’: 110–11; Ólafia Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeverdi’: 37.

chapter 10

Gautr Jónsson of Mel: Craftsman of Battle and Chief Oral Source of Hákonar saga Randi Bjørshol Wærdahl Sturla Þórðarson left Iceland for Norway and Bergen in the summer of 1263. When he arrived, Sturla called upon Gautr Jónsson of Mel, one of the king’s lendir menn (‘royal vassals’) and, according to Sturlu þáttr, a friend of the Sturlungar. Gautr invited Sturla to stay with him and then acted as a go-between on Sturla’s behalf and commended him to King Magnús Hákonarson. Gautr’s involvement contributed to Sturla securing a career in royal service, but ­Gautr’s significance would primarily manifest itself after King Magnús commissioned Sturla to compile an account of his father’s life when news of King Hákon Hákonarson’s death in Orkney reached Bergen early in 1264.1 According to Sturlu þáttr, the saga of King Hákon was to be compiled in accordance with the advice of the king and the wisest men’s guidance.2 In 1264, Gautr was in his seventies, and the most senior of King Magnús’s men. Moreover, he was the only lendr maðr alive who had been present when Hákon was elected king in 1217. In this article I will first present and discuss Sturla Þórðarson’s use of information from Gautr and other oral sources in his compilation of Hákonar saga. In addition, I will use the saga’s depiction of Gautr to address some of the challenges historians face when they use Hákonar saga as a historical source and to illustrate that there is still a great need for research on the saga and the context within which it was compiled.

1 Sturlunga saga, 2: 231–35. Hákonar saga ii: 261–63. 2 ‘[King Magnús]… skipaði honom [Sturla] þann vanda at setja saman sögu Hákonar konungs, föður síns, eftir sjálfs hans ráði ok inna vitrustu manna forsögn.’ (‘[King Magnús] … assigned him [Sturla] the difficult task of composing a history of his father King Hákon according to his own counsel and the supervision of his wisest men’), ‘Sturlu þáttr’ in Sturlunga saga, 2: 234.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_011

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The Oral Sources of Hákonar saga

Sturla probably began the compiling of Hákonar saga in 1264.3 Studies of Íslendinga saga confirm that Sturla was an accomplished historian who employed complex narrative techniques in his presentation of historical events.4 However, although it is certainly the work of a gifted historian, Hákonar saga has primarily been examined as an official royal biography: a representation of the court’s understanding and assessment of King Hákon and his reign and an expression of the Norwegian crown’s ideological foundation.5 But Sturla’s work and the end result were also influenced by the sources available to him. Although many have commented on Sturla’s use of written and oral sources, with an emphasis on the former, there are few empirical studies on the ­subject.6 The Norwegian historian Narve Bjørgo is the only scholar who has done a comprehensive study of Sturla’s use of sources. Bjørgo’s analysis of Sturla’s use of written sources is presented in an article from 1967, but his examination of Sturla’s oral sources is less known and only available in his unpublished master’s thesis, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’ from 1964.7 This discussion of Sturla’s use of oral sources should also be considered in the light of Bjørgo’s results. Bjørgo concludes that both written and oral sources are used throughout the saga and that the detailed descriptions of chains of events likely originate in information received from oral sources, for instance, the detailed descriptions from assemblies and festivities where King Hákon was present. Bjørgo argues that the high level of detail is the result of the abundance of information that Sturla received from his informants, although he emphasizes that we must also allow for an element of poetic license by Sturla.8 Bjørgo divides the oral sources that Sturla had access to and that he identifies into three categories: Icelanders and Norwegians that Sturla had contact 3 Hákonar saga ii: xxxii; Sturlunga saga, 2: 234. See, e.g., Hallvard Magerøy, ‘Forord til Håkon Håkonssons saga’: 8, and Hákonar saga ii: xxxiv–xxxv. 4 See, e.g., Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action in Thirteenth-Century Iceland: 26–27; Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga. Magerøy, ‘Forord til Håkon Håkonssons saga’: 7–17. 5 For example, Hans Jacob Orning, Unpredictability and Presence; David Bregaint, ‘Vox Regis: Royal Communication in High Medieval Norway’. 6 Source studies have been in vogue since the nineteenth century. For example, P.A. Munch, Det Norske Folks Historie, 435. Halvdan Koht, ‘Um kjeldegrunnlage for soga um Håkon Håkonsson’: 16–29, and Lennart Sjöstedt, ‘Om Hakonarsagans tillkomstförhållande’, are the most often cited on the subject. See, in addition, Ólafía Einarsdóttir, ‘Om Samtidssagaens kildeværdi belyst ved Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar’. Cf. Hákonar saga ii: xxxiii–xxxvii. 7 Narve Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’ and “Om skriflege kjelder for Hákonar saga’: 185–92. 8 Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 107, 129.

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with and received information from before he came to Bergen in 1263, informers in Norway after 1263, and ‘anonymous circles of tradition’. The latter refers to information that can be traced to specific environments and not to individuals, for instance, the account of King Hákon’s birth and upbringing probably originated amongst the birkibeinar, the men who had become the core of King Sverrir Sigurðarson’s retinue and who had been responsible for the orphaned Hákon Hákonarson’s safety and upbringing.9 The first examination of the oral sources that Sturla had received information from was conducted by the Swedish historian Lennart Sjöstedt. In his article, Sjöstedt focuses on Icelandic informants who were in Norway in the 1220s and ‘30s, but he works with the premise that Dagfinnr bóndi, an old birkibeinn and leading political figure in the first decades of King Hákon’s reign, may have been the primary source for events in the saga that predate his death in 1237. This was originally the Norwegian historian Halvdan Koht’s idea. According to Koht, Dagfinnr bóndi left behind a written document that Sturla could have had access to.10 It is certainly an alluring idea that Dagfinnr bóndi had indirect influence on the contents of Hákonar saga. Sjöstedt substantiates his claim by identifying indirect links between Dagfinnr and Sturla through Icelanders who stayed in Norway, with an emphasis on Snorri Sturluson. He argues that Sturla brought with him to Bergen a preliminary work on a history of contemporary Norway that Snorri had gathered information for.11 Thus, Sjöstedt manages to give Snorri a central role in the compiling of the saga. Hence, Sjöstedt’s analysis results in a lessening of Sturla’s role and leaves us with the impression that he only completed what his uncle and teacher had begun. Bjørgo acknowledges that Dagfinnr bóndi could have been an important indirect source to Sturla, and adds that both Sturla and Dagfinnr’s Norwegian­ son-in-law were present at Snorri’s Christmas feast in Reykholt in 1226. However, Bjørgo is critical of Sjöstedt’s strong focus on Dagfinnr bóndi, and points out that Sjöstedt ignores the possible influence of a man like Bishop Guðmundr­Arason of Hólar, who stayed in Norway in the 1220s and who was close to Sturla’s father.12 While Sjöstedt limits his study to the 1220s and 1230s, Bjørgo continues until 1263. As Bjørgo rightly states, there was, with a few exceptions, at least one Icelander present at court and in royal service at any given time in this period, and Sturla was in close contact with several of them when they were

9 10 11 12

Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 108, 124. Koht, ‘Um kjeldegrunnlage for soga um Håkon Håkonsson’: 16–20. Sjöstedt, ‘Om Hakonarsagans tillkomstförhållande’: 395, 418–29. Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 111.

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in Iceland.13 Icelanders were, for example, eyewitnesses to the deterioration of the relationship between King Hákon and his father-in-law and rival, Earl Skúli Bárðarson. However, as Bjørgo points out, only Þórðr kakali Sighvatsson and Sturla’s brother, Óláfr hvítaskáld, could have witnessed the conflict turn to war in 1239–40.14 In addition to the king’s Icelandic liegemen, Sturla might have received information from others who came to Iceland on the crown’s behalf. Eyvindr brattr and Árni óreiða Magnússon carried letters from the king to Iceland in 1240 – including the infamous letter to Gizurr Þorvaldsson and Kolbeinn ungi Arnórsson with the king’s orders to capture Snorri Sturluson – and told the Icelanders about the conflict in Norway.15 Bjørgo acknowledges that Sturla might have taken notes from the information he received about events in Norway while still in Iceland. He is, however, critical of Sjöstedt’s claim that Sturla arrived in Norway with a preliminary work on Norwegian contemporary history, and that this originally had been Snorri’s draft. As Bjørgo rightfully points out, this claim can neither be verified nor contested.16 However, that Sturla had a great deal of information about King Hákon and the political developments in Norway prior to his arrival in 1263, as Bjørgo argues, was not necessarily the result of a situation where Sturla had actively set out to gather this information.17 Knowledge of the king, his aspirations and actions was widespread in the political elite of Iceland in the 1240s and ‘50s. For instance, from the late 1240s King Hákon claimed the right to Snorri Sturluson’s property and chieftaincy in accordance with the law of the hirð. Snorri had been a lendr maðr and he had left Norway against King Hákon’s will in 1239. A lendr maðr who left the country without a royal permission, was a traitor according to Hirðskrá, and his property was forfeit to the king – a point King Hákon himself made with regard to Snorri’s estate in 1252.18 Any Icelander 13

In addition to Snorri, for instance his son Jón, Gizurr Þorvaldsson, Árni óreiða Magnússon and Sturla Sighvatsson in the 1220s and 1230s, and, of course, all the Icelanders who stayed at court with King Hákon or with Earl Skúli in the 1230s, 1240s and 1250s. Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 112–17. Cf. Randi Bjørshol Wærdahl, The Incorporation and Integration of the King’s Tributary Lands into the Norwegian Realm: 89–103. 14 Snorri and other Sturlungar, including Sturla’s brother, Óláfr hvítaskáld, stayed with Earl Skúli in Trøndelag in the late 1230s. The majority of them returned to Iceland in 1239. Gizurr Þorvaldsson and Þórðr kakali were in Bergen when King Hákon was crowned in 1247. Sturla was in close contact with them when they were in Iceland and others who served King Hákon in the 1240s and 1250s. 15 Sturlunga saga, 1: 447, 453. 16 Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 109–10, 116. 17 Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 115–16. 18 Wærdahl, The Incorporation and Integration: 91–93; Sturlunga saga, 2: 118.

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b­ elonging to the same social environment as Sturla would have known of the background to the King’s claims and most likely would also have had a great deal of knowledge about King Hákon and events in Norway.19 Even so, there were limits to the information available to Sturla before he came to Norway in 1263. Icelanders at court did not generally belong to the innermost circle of the King’s men. Although Icelanders became skutilsveinar and sýslumenn, royal advisers and chief military strategists were usually recruited from the highest ranks within the Norwegian aristocracy: the lendir menn.20 Information about the political considerations of the King and the Earl described in the sagas would therefore have come from other oral sources. Bjørgo’s study of the use of oral sources after 1263 demonstrates that there were numerous people present at court who could have guided Sturla through the last decades of King Hákon’s reign, most notably among them, King Magnús himself, whom Bjørgo regards as one of the chief sources to events after c. 1250. Bjørgo identifies and links informers to events described in the saga. However, as he himself emphasizes, the informers he names are only a selection of the numerous persons who Sturla would have had access to.21 He omits Loðinn leppr, who led the negotiations on Jónsbók at the Alþingi in 1281. Loðinn had been one of the men that had accompanied Kristín Hákonardóttir to Castille when she departed to get married in 1257–58 – a trip described in vivid detail in the saga.22 Bjørgo’s examination of Sturla’s use of oral sources confirms the role of King Magnús and the wisest men in the compilation of Hákonar saga, but it also argues that Sturla probably received information from a much wider group of informers than the leading courtiers and that the amount of oral information he had access to must have been overwhelming. It was Sturla’s responsibility to arrange this information into a work of prose. Although there were numerous people at court in 1263–65 who could give first-hand information of the 1240s and ‘50s, there were, as far as we know, only two people still alive that had personally witnessed the first decades of King Hákon’s reign; Queen Margarét Skúladóttir, King Hákon’s widow, and 19 Wærdahl, The Incorporation and Integration: 89–103. 20 Snorri Sturlason was the only Icelander who became a lendr maðr, but he was not an adviser to King Hákon. See Wærdahl, The Incorporation and Integration: 197. 21 Bjørgo,‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 117–27, where he identifies, for instance, Gautr, King Magnús, Queen Margarét, Queen Ingibjörg, Ögmundr krækidans, Sturla’s nephew, Sturla Bödvarson, Sira Askatin and several others as informers. Bjørgo points out that Sturla also received information from less prominent men, for instance, envoys who represented the king abroad, clerks and others serving the king and the crown. 22 Hákonar saga ii: 185–86, 195–200, 202–03.

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­Gautr Jónsson.23 Queen Margrét had married Hákon in 1225. She was in Bergen in the summer of 1264 and there are references to her responses to events in the saga.24 Bjørgo suggests that the dowager queen could be the origin of a tendency to excuse Skúli in the saga. However, Bjørgo underlines that there are challenges concerning the information about Queen Margrét in some of the saga manuscripts.25 But unlike Gautr, the Queen did not participate in the political and military activities of King Hákon. Gautr was the only eyewitness Sturla had access to who had been present in the decisive years from 1217 to 1225 when Hákon’s right to be the sole king of Norway was secured.

Sturla’s Chief Oral Source

Bjørgo begins his account of Sturla’s informers after 1263 with Gautr.26 Gautr was from Mel in Kvinherrad, south of Bergen. He was the founder of a lendr maðr dynasty, but we know little of Gautr’s family background, except that he had a brother who first served as King Hákon’s chaplain and later as Bishop of Stavanger.27 Gautr was present as a lendr maðr when the magnates of Vestlandet acclaimed Hákon as king at the Gulaþing in 1217, and he was present at the assembly in Bergen in 1223 when King Hákon’s right to the throne was c­ onfirmed by law, although he did not speak publicly in the negotiations.28 Gautr served the king loyally. He belonged to King Hákon’s inner circle of loyal men, but in the saga he is primarily described as a military man, a s­ veitarhöfðingi.29 He was a sýslumaðr and held the unstable Elvesysla region from 1218 in a period with 23

24 25

26 27

28 29

In addition, the lendir menn Nikulás of Giske, who died in the autumn of 1264, and Ögmundr krækidans, who was still alive in 1266, had both been in royal service since ­1238–39. Magnus Lagabøtes saga: 353, 355. Hákonar saga I: 297; Magnus Lagabøtes saga: 353. Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 126–27. According to Bjørgo, the passages concerning Margarét in the Codex Frisianus manuscript vary greatly from those of other manuscripts and illustrate the need for a critical assessment of the saga and the manuscripts. Bjørgo,‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 117. His son Finnr was also one of King Hákon’s lendir menn. The family’s property in Kvinnherad later became part of the core of the Rosendal estate (and barony) in the seventeenth century. For an updated and critical assessment of Gautr’s family background and the reading of the saga manuscripts, see Hallvard Magerøy, ‘Urnes stavkyrkje, Ornes-ætta og Ornes-godset’: 132–35; Cf. Narve Bjørgo’s biography of Gautr (2009, 13 Februar), Gaut Jonsson på Mel, in Norsk biografisk leksikon. Accesssed 11. May 2015 from https: //nbl.snl.no/ Gaut_Jonsson_P%C3%A5_Mel. Hákonar saga i: 257. Hákonar saga ii: 102.

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local uprisings, and he was active in the fighting against the ribbungar during the 1220s.30 According to Bjørgo, Gautr was given a more vital role in the creation of the king’s political and military strategies as the 1230s progressed. Gautr was certainly central in the fighting against Skúli’s men in Oslo in 1240, but he does not seem to have been a central royal adviser or a leading military strategist.31 In the 1260s, he appears to have been the most senior, i.e. the eldest, of the king’s lendir menn and prominent courtiers. He carried the sword of blessing when King Magnús was crowned in 1261 and he is mentioned first among the lendir menn who signed the peace treaty with the Scottish king on King Magnús’s behalf in Perth in 1266.32 He did not participate in King Hákon’s expedition to defend Man and the Hebrides against Scottish aggression in 1263. King Hákon left King Magnús in charge with Gautr and Nikulás of Giske to advise him.33 Gautr was in his seventies in 1263, but it is unlikely that he stayed behind because he was too fragile to travel – he was in Perth three years later – but his military career was over. The relationship between Sturla and Gautr is only described in Sturlu þáttr, where we meet them in a classical scene from the sagas: an Icelander has been forced to leave Iceland for Norway and is assisted by an influential courtier in gaining access to the court and king.34 Upon his arrival in Bergen, Sturla ­probably knew that he needed a go-between in order to gain access to court.35 In the summer of 1263, there were few to choose from. The lendir menn and the 30 31 32 33

34

35

Hákonar saga i: 226, 233–35, 308. Cf. Bjørgo’s biography, 2009. Hákonar saga ii: 102–03. Hákonar saga ii: 218; Diplomatarium Norvegicum 8: no. 9. Hákonar saga ii: 235. According to Sturla þáttr, King Hákon left his reign in the hands of his son, King Magnús, the Queen (i.e., Ingibjörg, although her name is not specified in the þáttr) and Gautr of Mel (Sturlunga saga, 2: 231). In Hákonar saga there is no mention of the queen at all, and nothing to even suggest that this arrangement would have been possible. This information casts doubts on the accuracy of ‘Sturlu þáttr’ and the saga’s information about governmental arrangements in Norway in the 1260s. Such a mistake would hardly have been made by someone close to court or with broad knowledge of life at court in the early 1260s. Rather, it seems that someone has confused the role Queen Ingibjörg allegedly had as a dowager queen in the 1280s in her son’s minority (described in Árna saga biskups) with 1263. Sturlunga saga, 2: 231–32. Our information about Gautr comes chiefly from three sources; Sturla þáttr, Hákonar saga and Arons saga. There is also information about Gautr in Magnúss saga lagabœtis and the diplomas. His death is mentioned in the Icelandic annals (e.g., Islandske Annaler indtil 1578: 138). See Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: e.g., 27, 88–85, 182–85, on Sturlu þáttr. Randi Bjørshol Wærdahl, ‘Friends or patrons? Powerful go-betweens in the Norwegian Realm in the High Middle Ages’, and ‘The Icelandic elite’s troublesome way through the labyrinth of power’.

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rest of the hirð had sailed south with the king and the leiðangr. Sturla’s best options would have been the two lendir menn who had stayed behind to advise King Magnús. We do not know how Sturla and Gautr’s friendship evolved after Sturla was admitted at court. With the exception of Sturlu þáttr’s account, there are no traces of their friendship in the sources, but Bjørgo imagines that Gautr’s assistance became the foundation of a close and amiable relationship between the men.36 Gautr must have been an inexhaustible source of information about people and events throughout King Hákon’s reign. He figures in a row of the saga’s sections from 1217 until 1263, and Bjørgo argues that Gautr himself is the likely source to the events he had participated in.37 The most well-known section with Gautr is the description of the fighting between King Hákon and Skúli in Oslo in spring 1240. Here we accompany Gautr and his sveit in a pursuit of Skúli’s men that culminates in the fight at Martestokker.38 Bjørgo emphasizes that Sturla had access to several informers concerning the fighting in Oslo. There were several simultaneous fights and a number of participants were still alive in 1263–65.39 According to Bjørgo, Gautr’s status as an oral source is also confirmed by personal information about him in the saga, for instance, his failed trip to Jerusalem in 1217–18.40 In the saga, Gautr is depicted as having a close relationship with Magnús Hákonsson. There are, for example, several scenes in the saga where they act together that are most likely the result of King Magnús and Gautr’s combined recollection. For instance, the time that they went with King Hákon and the fleet to Elven in 1253 and were assigned a special mission for the King, is rendered with a very high level of detail in the saga.41 However, it is chiefly in the saga’s sections concerning events from 1217 to the late 1230s that we should look for Gautr’s information. Due to his seniority at court, his association with Sturla and the fact that he was the only one of King Hákon’s lendir menn still alive that had personally been involved in the political events in the first decades of the King’s reign, it is relatively certain that Gautr could have been Sturla’s chief eyewitness. Although Dagfinnr bóndi might have written an account of the events of the 1220s, we cannot exclude that it might be Gautr’s recollection and interpretation of events that Sturla 36 37 38 39 40 41

Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 117. Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 117. Hákonar saga ii: 102–03. Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 117. Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 117; Hákonar saga i: 226. Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 119; Hákonar saga ii: 163, 165.

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conveys in Hákonar saga, and not only Dagfinnr bóndi’s. The detailed rendering of the speeches that the King, Earl Skúli, the Archbishop, Dagfinnr and others held at the negotiations between the King and Skúli in 1223 and the arguments that were exchanged between the parties have been attributed to Sturla’s poetic touch and Dagfinnr’s work.42 We need more research, but we cannot exclude that they could have been the combined product of Gautr’s memory, Sturla’s prose and the collective memory of the court. Virtually all our knowledge about Gautr and his career in royal service derives from Hákonar saga and the main source of this knowledge is most likely Gautr himself. This illustrates one of the numerous methodological challenges facing scholars who use the saga in historical research. However, the role of Gautr in the saga narrative might serve to strengthen the saga’s value and credibility as a source of history. Allowing that Gautr was Sturla’s chief oral source for events from 1217 to the late 1230s, he is surprisingly absent from large sections of the saga. He is hardly mentioned at all during the period 1217–23, although he was present at important political assemblies. In addition, although his participation increases from the 1230s, Gautr is not actually given a leading role in events. In order to give his account authority, Sturla provides detailed records of the people who had been present at assemblies and meetings of political importance and their role in the proceedings. Although Gautr is occasionally mentioned as one of the lendir menn staying with the king, he never became one the king’s central advisers.43 According to Konungs skuggsjá, modesty and restraint were admirable qualities in a courtier, and we cannot rule out Sturla’s portrayal of Gautr as reflecting Gautr’s own wishes.44 However, Gautr’s withdrawn role grants Hákonar saga credibility as a historical source, since it would have been difficult for Sturla to depict Gautr as more central than he had actually been. Sturla’s depiction of Gautr’s role probably reflects King Magnús’s, ‘the wisest men,’ and the court’s collective view of Gautr’s role. For instance, although Nikolás of Giske and Ögmundr krækidans entered royal service from the late 1230s, they would have been present at court as young men and would have heard stories from the men who served with Gautr in the 1220s. We clearly need more research, but the depiction of Gautr might be an example of a positive outcome of the ‘wisest men’s guidance’ and the court’s collective censorship, at least from an 42 43 44

Hákonar saga I: 257–67. Sjöstedt, ‘Om Hakonarsagans tillkomstförhållande’: 418–29; Magerøy, ‘Forord til Håkon Håkonssons saga’: 13. Hákonar saga ii: 61–62, 66. The King’s Mirror: e.g. 230.

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historian’s perspective. Besides, the imposing and spiteful Gautr of Arons saga represents the antithesis of the ideal courtier (see below). Gautr was Sturla’s only eyewitness to the crucial first decades of King Hákon’s reign and probably chief witness to other events. Nevertheless, by accepting Gautr’s contribution we must also take into consideration that Sturla relied on Gautr’s interpretation and validation of events and people when he compiled the saga. For instance, Gautr was the only lendr maðr that had observed the development of the complex relationship between King Hákon and Earl Skúli from its beginning. A relationship Gautr is accused of contributing to the deteriorating of in Hákonar saga. We shall now take a closer look at the depiction of Gautr’s role in the 1230s and 1240s.

The Craftsman of Battle

According to Hákonar saga, Snorri Sturluson composed the following verse at Skúli’s request when he stayed with him in Trøndelag in the late 1230s. Herfanga bauð Hringi Hjaldr einsköpuðr galdra – Gautr hvatti þrym þreyta Þann – ok Hilditanni. Oflengi veldr yngva Ósætt – en vel mætti herstefnandi hafna hans dóm – völundr rómu.45 In the verse Snorri compares Gautr Jónsson to Óðinn, describing the former as a ‘smith of battle’ – völundr rómu – alluding to the role Gautr allegedly had as the chief instigator of disagreement between King Hákon and Skúli in the 1230s.46 According to Hákonar saga, Skúli’s men accused King Hákon’s 45

46

Hákonar saga ii: 42: ‘The charm-creator called to war. Ring and Wartusk rival kings, Gaut stirred up the rush of strife, Odin-Gaut I meant to say; But the warrior duke might well. Quash his sentence and make peace, And be fooled by Gaut no more.’ (Trans. George W. Dasent in The Saga of King Hacon: 180–81) Norw.: ‘Galderers hovedmester. Hildetann og Ring bød heltekampen kjempe. Gaut til stirden egget. Også her for lenge ufredssmeden volder strid imellom fyrster. Dommen hans bør vrakes.’ (Trans. Finn Hødnebø, Håkon Håkonssons saga, Norges kongesagaer 4: 181). See, for example, Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action: 26, on Sturla’s own use of pagan allusions and Gautr/Oðinn as an allusion to instigator of strife in Íslendinga saga.

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lendir menn of actively undermining the friendship between the King and his father-in-law. Skúli’s men saw Gautr as the main source of discord, and, at one point, Skúli asked Snorri if it was true that Óðinn also went by the name of Gautr. Snorri confirmed this, and Skúli then asked him to compose a verse where he compared the two Gautr’s.47 Gautr is the only lendr maðr named by Skúli’s men in the saga, although Gautr and other informers must have known the other lendir menn’s identities in 1264–65. Why is Gautr singled out and identified as the chief warmonger in Hákonar saga? Is this a believable presentation of Gautr’s role? And if so, what could have been Sturla’s (and the wisest men’s) motives for depicting Gautr in this way? What does the depiction of Gautr tell us about the challenges of using Hákonar saga as a source of history? The relationship between Hákon and Skúli forms the dramatic core of Hákonar saga. The saga’s narrative peaks with the description of the open conflict between them and the death of Skúli in 1240. The saga contains several references to gossip that contributed to suspicion and trouble in the relationship between the two parties from the early 1230s. This, ‘in most people’s opinion’, was the undertaking of lendir menn who wanted to divide them more than necessary.48 Sturla’s portrayal of Skúli was most certainly influenced by the presence of Queen Margrét and King Magnús, Skúli’s daughter and grandson, and a wish to avoid an overly negative portrayal of Skúli and his supporters. With the exception of Snorri’s verse, there are no concrete examples of Gautr’s warmongering in the saga, but he had a central military role in the conflict and its aftermath when he carried out the killing of Skúli’s stallari in 1241.49 Besides, of the senior lendir menn in King Hákon’s retinue in the 1230s whose gossip would have had the strongest impact, Gautr was the only one still alive in 1264–65.50 It is possible that Sturla and his advisors refrained from blaming those who had passed away. Bjørgo concludes that Gautr is given the greatest blame for the increased hostility between the parties in the 1230s. He argues that given the close and 47 48

49

50

Hákonar saga ii: 42. Hákonar saga ii: 18. Guðrún Nordal (Ethics and Action: 25) regards this reference to public opinion as a frequent means of focusing the reader’s reaction to events; Íslendinga saga has, of course, received more extensive investigation of narrative technique than has Hákonar saga. Although the majority of Skúli’s men received grace, there were some exceptions. Hákonar saga describes these exceptions and who and how they were killed in 1241. Hákonar saga ii: 61, 66, 102–03, 118. Nikolás of Giske and Ögmundr krækidans only entered royal service as lendir menn in the late 1230s.

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special relationship between Gautr and Sturla, there is good reason to claim that this assessment of Gautr’s political manoeuvring reflects the dominant opinion in their time.51 Sturla evidently had access to several first-hand witnesses who could have confirmed the opinion of Skúli’s men regarding Gautr. In addition to Skúli’s men, of whom the majority received grace by King Hákon, Snorri, Sturla’s brother Óláfr, and the other Sturlungar who had stayed with Skúli, would likely have recited the verse and told the story to Sturla when they returned to Iceland. Bjørgo argues that Sturla maintains a critical distance from Gautr in the saga and that Snorri’s verse is meant to have a political sting, but that it primarily serves to make Gautr lose face.52 If Gautr was Sturla’s chief oral source and they had an amiable relationship after 1263 – as Bjørgo himself suggests – it is difficult to comprehend why Sturla would deliberately have wanted Gautr to lose face. Bjørgo depends on Arons saga’s harsh portrait of Gautr in order to characterize him as sly and temperamental in his biography of Gautr from 2009.53 It is hardly likely that the imposing and vindictive man we meet in Arons saga would have accepted to be made a fool of. It is perhaps our understanding of the depiction of Gautr in Hákonar saga that should be questioned, not Sturla’s or his advisers’ motives for their depiction of Gautr. In the 1260s, the accusations against Gautr put forward in the 1230s did not necessarily reflect badly on him. They were, after all, put forward by Skúli’s men, and immortalized by Snorri, whom King Hákon (and presumably, King Magnús and the wisest men) saw as a traitor. Throughout Hákonar saga, Gautr is portrayed as a loyal supporter of King Hákon. There were a number of people who could relate the various stages of the gradually deteriorating relations between the king and his father-in-law in the 1230s. However, at court only Gautr had observed the developments of the complex relationship even since before King Hákon became king in 1217. As an old birkibeinn, Gautr must have remembered how frail the relationship between the parties had been in 1218, when the tension led to the episode where Skúli stabbed Hákon’s stepfather in the cheek, and how they feared for Hákon’s life.54 In addition, the accusations of Skúli’s men in the late 1230s should perhaps be seen as an expression of their legitimate and understandable distrust of King Hákon’s most senior lendr maðr who had supported King Hákon’s right to be the sole king of the realm since 1217 – accusations that did not necessarily lower the court’s opinion of Gautr in the 1260s. After all, the Oðinn allusion and the portrayal of Gautr in 51 52 53 54

Bjørgo, Gaut Jonsson på Mel. Bjørgo, Gaut Jonsson på Mel. Sturlunga saga, 2: 272–73; Bjørgo, Gaut Jonsson på Mel. Hákonar saga i: 224.

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Arons saga, leave the impression of an old warrior and birkibeinn who did not necessarily comply with the new ideals of chivalry. A man who primarily belonged to a traditional Norwegian (or Norse) world where a man’s honour was not defined by his ability to master imported courtly manners and adapt to the system norms introduced from Europe. The portrayal of Gautr can perhaps be understood as an indication of an ambiguity present at a court in the midst of a transformation from the old hirð of the civil wars to a court that fulfilled King Hákon’s and King Magnus’s ambitions.55 The role of Gautr as the chief oral source to Hákonar saga and Sturla’s depiction of him raises more questions than this limited study can answer. Gautr’s relatively withdrawn role in Hákonar saga can be used to substantiate that the saga has value and credibility as a historical source. By accepting Gautr’s contribution, however, we must also accept that Sturla might p ­ resent us with Gautr’s interpretation and validation of events and people and of Gautr himself. The accusations of Skúli’s men and the depiction of Gautr as a craftsman of battle primarily serve to demonstrate that the lack of comprehensive studies of Hákonar saga – especially compared to Íslendinga saga – influence and limit our understanding of the saga’s contents and its depiction of historical personas. In his master’s thesis from 1964, Narve Bjørgo emphasizes that his study should be seen as a basis for further studies of Hákonar saga and that the aim of these studies should be to reach a final evaluation of the saga’s value and applicability as a historical source.56 Since 1964 several studies of high medieval kingship in Norway have included assessments of the saga’s value as a historical source. There are also studies where the saga’s value as a historical source is discussed explicitly.57 However, Bjørgo’s call for more research is still valid: in order to assess the saga’s value as a historical source and to further study the compilation of the saga, there is need for more research and for a critical edition of the saga.58

55 56 57

Sverre Bagge, From Viking Stronghold to Christian Kingdom: 170–72, 325–28. Bjørgo, ‘Om kjeldene til Hákonar saga’: 128–30. E.g. Ólafía Einarsdóttir, ‘Om Samtidssagaens kildeværdi’; Orning, Unpredictability and Presence; Bregaint, Vox Regis. 58 Cf. Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar etter Sth. 8 fol., am 325 viii,4: o og am 304,4: o., xii. According to the editors of Hákonar saga, Tor Ulset is currently working on a critical edition of the saga (Hákonar saga ii: lix).

chapter 11

Sturla: The Poet and the Creator of Prosimetrum Guðrún Nordal Skaldic verse is at the heart of Sturla Þórðarson’s literary output. Sturla was himself a fine poet and a gifted historian who interpolated verse in all his prose works in an imaginative and sophisticated manner. How he used verse in the two sagas about his own time, Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga, provides an insight into a methodological writer who created unique narratives of medieval prosimetrum. A writer’s authentication of skaldic verse in royal historiography in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, such as in Snorri Sturluson’s sagas of the Norwegian kings from the ninth century to the end of the twelfth century (Heimskringla), was underpinned by a systematic study of skaldic poetry in the grammatical tradition and a careful assessment of the skaldic canon.1 Sturla Þórðarson would most probably have been trained in this tradition when he stayed with his uncle Snorri Sturluson’s at Reykholt. He himself wrote, however, sagas about contemporary events in the thirteenth century, probably in the latter part of his life (after 1260), which were embedded with verse composed in his own time, by himself and his contemporaries. He was not, therefore, faced with the same questions of authenticity, as writers of sagas of the earlier kings of Scandinavia. Snorri Sturluson needed to face the dilemma of depicting events of the remote past, and in the Prologue to Heimskringla he famously explained why he deemed skaldic verse that had been composed centuries earlier as reliable source material. However, the proximity of Sturla to the poets who were often witnesses to the events he portrays in Hákonar saga and Íslendingasaga does not mean that his use of verse was straightforward and simplistic. Far from it, as I will demonstrate by looking closely at one key narrative section in Hákonar saga. In this paper I hope to illuminate two central and interlinked aspects of Sturla’s authorship: (1) his own verse making and the context in which it is preserved, and (2) Sturla’s important role as the creator of prosimetrum in the latter part of the thirteenth century.

1 On the importance of the study of skaldic verse in the writing of royal historiography, see Guðrún Nordal, Tools of Literacy: 344–45.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_012

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Sturla’s Prosimetric Works

Sturla Þórðarson stands out from other thirteenth-century writers in Scandinavia for at least two obvious reasons: Firstly, he is known. He is the best-attested author of the thirteenth century in a tradition of mainly anonymous writers. We have medieval evidence for his authorship of, at least, four historical texts: 1.

his expanded version of Landnámabók (‘the Book of Settlements’), where his authorship is noted by the Lawman Haukr Erlendsson in Haukr’s version of the same work written shortly after Sturla’s death in 1284; 2. Íslendinga saga, preserved as part of the compilation now known as Sturlunga saga; 3. Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar; 4. the Saga of King Magnús, preserved only in a small fragment. ‘Sturlu þáttr,’ now preserved as part of the manuscripts of Sturlunga saga, describes the circumstances of the King’s patronage of both these royal chronicles. Sturla is furthermore mentioned three times in Grettis saga, a late saga of Icelanders (Íslendingasögur), in two of the three most likely in connection with a now lost version of the saga.2 Sturla’s authorship of Grettis saga was most likely noted by his near contemporaries, since he was the original author of the works in question and, furthermore, he was depicting events of his own time. Secondly, Sturla Þórðarson is the only known thirteenth-century Icelandic poet who provided his own verse with a narrative framework in which it is known to have been preserved. This is the case with the ninety-five verses composed in relation to the life and deeds of King Hákon Hákonarson woven into his Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and his four (perhaps five) occasional stanzas preserved in Íslendinga saga. It is worth noting the abundance of his own verse in the saga of the king, compared to the scarcity of verse in Íslendinga saga, which relates events about his own family in Iceland. Even though Sturla was intimately involved in many of the crucial events that he treated in Íslendinga saga, he remained in the background, commenting only rarely in his own voice – and then very forcefully. On both occasions he had been betrayed first by Kolbeinn ungi in 1241, and then Gizurr Þorvaldsson in 1262. When he intended his own voice to be heard he chose skaldic verse as his most effective medium. However, he commonly used the testimony and verse of other known poets, in addition to various anonymous verses, such as dream stanzas, to lend his 2 See Örnólfur Thorsson, ‘Grettir sterki og Sturla lögmaður’: 912–15. See also, Sigurður Nordal, Sturla Þórðarson og Grettis saga: 10–12.

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narrative wider perspective and greater nuance. In Hákonar saga he rarely applied this technique of the multiple viewpoints on the poetic level, except in the politically sensitive episode about Hákon and Skúli, which I will discuss in some detail below. When Hákon Hákonarson became King of Norway in the year 1217, at the tender age of 13, Skúli Bárðarson served as his Regent. Later, as Hákon assumed greater control over the affairs of state, Skúli’s attempts to be recognised as the legitimate heir of his half-brother, the former king Ingi, were thwarted. The tension between Skúli and Hákon, who were also related to each other by marriage, grew steadily in the years between 1220 and 1230 and developed into a war in 1239, when Skúli appointed himself king. A year later they fought their final battle over the sovereignty of Norway, leaving the king victorious and the earl (jarl) – a duke (hertogi) since 1237 – killed in the aftermath. The breakdown between Skúli and Hákon gained tragic poignancy because of their family ties. Hákon’s marriage to Margrét, Skúli’s daughter, had been planned precisely in order to secure the ominous fragile peace between the two men; a case reminiscent of many smaller, but similar disputes in Íslendinga saga. This friction could, and did, compromise the position of many loyal to both, such as the poets, Snorri Sturluson and Óláfr Þórðarson, Sturla’s brother. While writing Hákonar saga for King Magnús, both Hákon’s son and Skúli’s grandson, Sturla was faced with a formidable challenge in depicting in an unbiassed manner the violent conflict that had led to Skúli’s death. Sturla solved this challenge by ingeniously introducing ambiguous poetic matter into the narrative, and another, more powerful, poetic voice beside his own.

The Pairing of Óláfr Þórðarson’s and Sturla Þórðarson’s Verse in Hákonar saga

One of the questions raised in relation to the use of skaldic verses in historical narrative embraces their reliability as historical sources: how far can skaldic stanzas be judged to reflect actual events and portray historical characters and their views? Is Sturla’s verse more accurate historically because of its closeness in time to the events it purports to illustrate? The scholarly verdict has been unfavourable,3 and his verse has surprisingly – and almost unanimously – been judged of little historical value. The question of the stanzas’ reliability 3 Sigurður Nordal, Sagaliteraturen: 228; Knut Helle, ‘Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar’: 52; Gunnar Benediktsson, Sagnameistarinn Sturla: 165–66; Narve Bjørgo, ‘Skjaldekvade i Hákonar saga’: 41–42.

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arises because Sturla Þórðarson is at the same time the maker of Hákonar saga and its main poetic witness. Yet his verse does not necessarily distort the historical truth of the narrative but rather shifts the narrative into a reflective or even interpretative mode, which adds another, or even several, dimensions – such as the mythical and the legendary – to the narrative. Each of Sturla’s four poems about King Hákon (Hákonarkviða, Hákonarflokkur, Hrynhenda and Hrafnsmál) preserved in Hákonar saga is devoted to a particular period of Hákon’s reign (see Table on p. 124). The first stanzas cited in the saga are drawn from the poem Hákonarkviða, which deals with the highlights of Hákon’s life, starting with his birth and culminating in his splendid coronation­in the year 1247. The middle section, about one third of the poem, is dedicated to Hákon’s hostile relations with Skúli, his father-in-law. To gain some insight into how Sturla’s method of composition clashes with that of other skalds and how he contrasted his own verse in Hákonar saga with other scaldic poetry, I will concentrate on this middle section of Hákonarkviða. The poem is composed in kviðuháttr, an uncommon metre for court poems in the thirteenth century. It is, however, the chosen metrical form – which Sturla apparently knew and appreciated – for many genealogical and partly mythical poems about the Norwegian royal family, such as Arinbjarnarkviða, Ynglingatal, Noregskonungatal and Háleygjatal.4 Hákonarkviða is in dialogue with these iconic royal poems, and Sturla clearly makes use of allusive language and condensed mythical and legendary images that often characterise this metre. Sturla’s poem deals with the fantastic miracle of Hákon’s survival, illuminates and glorifies the peaks in the victory over his main – and last – rival, Earl Skúli, and reaches its climax by describing vividly Hákon’s ultimate triumph as the duly crowned Christian king of Norway. The middle part of Hákonarkviða, which illustrates Skúli’s and Hákon’s feud, is quoted in Hákonar saga alongside the verse by Sturla’s brother, Óláfr hvítaskáld. The verses from Hákonarkviða and Óláfr’s stanzas interact in this crucial section in Hákonar saga (see Table 2). All of Óláfr’s verse in the saga is cited in this part of the saga, whereas Hákonarkviða is the only poem by Sturla. Such juxtaposition of verse by two poets in a well-defined sequence of events is unusual in the historical sagas and was born out of the author’s careful planning. Sturla exploited Óláfr’s powerful and biassed stanzas, composed in the 1230s or 1240s, as a kind of counterpoint for his own reflective and majestic verse in Hákonarkviða. To this end, Sturla selected only twelve whole stanzas and two half stanzas by his brother, presumably from a great 4 Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Háttatal: 84; see also Hermann Pálsson, ‘A Classification of Early Icelandic Poetry’: 62.

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number of stanzas available to him (one additional helmingr is preserved in some manuscripts). It is noteworthy that Óláfr is the primary poetic source for the politically sensitive conflict between the two men, whilst Sturla’s verse can be understood only in the context of Óláfr’s stanzas. Only two of Óláfr’s stanzas in Hákonar saga deal specifically with King Hákon, whereas others illustrate either events in Skúli’s life as the King’s Regent or the enmity between Hákon and Skúli. I will attempt to shed light on the way Sturla’s verse differs from Óláfr’s in its treatment of the in-laws’ conflict and endeavour to explain the role and function of Óláfr’s poetry in the narrative. Year

Subject Matter

1206 1217 1221 1225 1233 1236 1236 1237 1239 1240 1240 1240 1240 1240 1240 1247 1249

Birth of Hákon Hákon becomes king Warfare against Ribbungs The burning of farms The conflict between Skúli and Hákon Conflict: Skúli and Hákon Brief reconciliation Skúli, a duke Skúli, a ‘king’ The battle at Láka Hákon’s trip Prior to skirmish in Oslo The final battle Skúli’s defeat Skúli killed Hákon’s coronation Hákon’s trip to Sweden

Hákonarkviða Óláfr’s Verse 1–3 4–5 6 7–8

9 10 11–12 13 14–17 18–22 23–4 25–33 34–8

Hryn 1 Poem 1 Hryn 2 Hryn 3 Hryn 4 Hryn 5 Hryn 6–7 Hryn 8; Lv 2 Hryn 9 Hryn 10–11 Hryn 12

The first three stanzas of Hákonarkviða describe the young prince’s initial years of struggle. Hákon’s fate is compared in the prose, which accompanies Sturla’s stanzas, to that of Óláfr Tryggvason, who also spent years in exile with his mother. This association with the founder of the Christian Church in Norway is clearly not fortuitous, since King Hákon strengthened the bond forged by Óláfr Tryggvason with the Roman Church by becoming the first king of Norway to be crowned by the Pope’s cardinal (1247).

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The Year 1217 (Hryn 1; Hák 4–6)5

When Hákon becomes king in 1217, Sturla quotes a helmingr by Óláfr and then immediately thereafter three stanzas from Hákonarkviða. We can agree with Björgo6 and Hermann Pálsson7 that Óláfr’s stanza is probably Sturla’s source for the idea of linking the growing prosperity of the land with the advent of Hákon: Mærir glöddusk miklu ári menn; báru þá ávöxt tvennan (veglig sýndisk) viðr ok fuglar (vísa grein) á sumri einu. (Hryn 1)8 Sturla uses this image both in the prose and the verse. Sturla unequivocally attributes the ár (prosperity) to Hákon’s gift (luck), whereas Óláfr does not link Hákon’s kingship to the good fortune of the king and the prosperity of the land: þá er allvaldr við jöfursnafni tírargjarn of tekit hafði, ok hans gipt hæstrar tíðar vegilát vaxa náði. (Hák 4)9 5 Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas, is cited throughout the paper. The titles of the poems are abbreviated in the following way: Hryn = Hrynhenda by Óláfr Þórðarson; Poem = Poem about Hákon by Óláfr Þórðarson; Lv = Lausavísa by Óláfr Þórðarson; Hák = Hákonarkviða by Sturla Þórðarson. 6 Björgo, ‘Skjaldekvade i Hákonar saga’: 43. 7 Hermann Pálsson, ‘Kveðskapur Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 74. 8 Prose order: Mærir menn glǫddusk miklu ári; viðr ok fuglar báru þá tvennan ávǫxt á einu sumri; grein vísa sýndisk veglig. Translation: Illustrious men were gladdened by the great prosperity; trees and birds then produced offspring twice in one summer; the ruler’s circumstances appeared magnificent. 9 Prose order: þá er tírargjarn allvaldr hafði of tekit við jöfursnafni, ok vegilát gipt hans náði vaxa hæstrar tíðar. Translation: when the fame-eager mighty ruler had received the royal title, and his splendid good fortune could increase at the most opportune time.

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The Year 1225 (Poem 1.1, Hák 4.8–9)

The reaction of the two poets to the suffering of common farmers caused by Hákon’s burning of their farms in retaliation for their disloyalty to him in 1225 is again distinctly different in tone. Sturla does not highlight the sufferings of the farming community that the fire occasioned, but instead focusses on the fire as a dramatic event in striking images, personifying the fire as ‘swallowing’ the farms: Svalg hvert hús heitum munni viðar hundr Verma bygðar, ok svipkárr selju rakki of garðshlið grenjandi fór. (Hák 8)10 Óláfr, on the other hand, draws the listener’s attention to the real hardship and pain of those farmers who were exposed to the hungry flames: Bœndr hlutu kvöl, þás kyndisk kapps hár logi, sára; gegn, létuð hyr hegna, hialdréls frömuðr, velar. (Poem 1.1)11 Óláfr disapproves strongly of Hákon’s extreme punishment of the farmers for their disloyalty, but in the context of Sturla’s descriptive and almost lighthearted stanzas the hard edges of his criticism are softened.

10

11

Prose order: Hundr viðar svalg hvert hús bygðar Verma heitum munni, ok svipkárr rakki selju fór grenjandi of garðshlið. Translation: The hound of the forest [FIRE] swallowed every house of the settlement of the Vermir with its hot mouth, and the violent dog of the willow [FIRE] ran howling through the yard-gate. Prose order: Bœndr hlutu sára kvǫl, þás kapps hár logi kyndisk; gegn frǫmuðr hjaldréls, létuð hyr hegna vélar. Translation: Farmers suffered bitter torment when the tremendously high blaze was kindled; righteous promoter of the battle-shower [WARRIOR = Hákon], you made fire punish their deceits.

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The Year 1239 (Hryn 6–7; Hák 9)

To comment on Skúli’s dubbing himself a king was a sensitive issue for any poet at the court of King Hákon, or indeed in the company of King Magnús, Hákon’s son and Skúli’s grandson. Once again the reader is moved to conclude that Óláfr responded to this unhappy decision with a greater sense of political urgency and insight than did Sturla: Fláræði kom framm of síðir; friðbann hóf þá öfund manna; eigi má við ørlög bægjask jöfra sveit, þótt ráðug heiti. Stórr vas harmr, þars stríddu harrar stála hregg, þvít æ mun beggja rausnarkapp ok ríki uppi, ramri þjóð, meðan jörð heldr flóði. (Hryn 6)12 Óláfr regards this event in a tragic and fatalistic light: neither Skúli nor Hákon could change the course of their fates. He praises both men equally and places the blame for their enmity on the envy of other men, as he does in other stanzas in Hákonar saga. In the helmingr he regrets the immodesty of Skúli’s decision: Hauksnjallr tók þá hersa stillir hæra nafn en mundang væri. (Hryn 7)13 Sturla, on the other hand, depicts Skúli as a powerless victim of a sudden change in his fortune over which he has no control. Skúli appears, in Sturla’s 12

13

Prose order: Fláræði kom framm of síðir; ǫfund manna hóf þá friðbann; eigi má sveit jǫfra bægjask við ørlǫg, þótt heiti ráðug. Vas stórr harmr ramri þjóð, þars harrar stríddu hregg stála [BATTLE], þvít æ mun rausnarkapp ok ríki beggja uppi, meðan jǫrð heldr flóði. Translation: Treachery emerged at last; the malice of men then led to a peace-ban; a host of princes cannot contend against fate, though it is called wise. It was a great sorrow to the mighty people when the lords fought a storm of weapons [BATTLE], because the eagerness for glory and the power of both will always be remembed, as long as the earth adheres to the sea. Prose order: Hauksnjallr stillir hersa tók þá hæra nafn en mundang væri. Translation: The hawk-brave ruler of hersar [=Skúli] then took a higher title than was fitting.

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verse, as a puppet caught in a greater design of things. This view is illustrated by the image of the descending wheel of fortune: Þat er sköklaust, at Skúli var frægðarmaðr í frömu lífi, þótt hvarbrigð á hann sneri aldar gipt auðnu hvéli. (Hák 9)14 Sturla thereby predicts the outcome of their feud. Of the two poets, he is the more philosophical and dispassionate – using heilli and gipt. Óláfr is clearly the more passionately involved, and since he is in Norway at the time, his stanzas have greater immediacy.

The Year 1240 (Hryn 8–12; Hák 10–24)

The fourth instance where we find stanzas by Sturla and Óláfr quoted side by side in the saga is after Skúli’s victory over Hákon’s men at Láka. Neither Óláfr nor Sturla reproach Skúli for his actions. Óláfr describes the confrontation precisely, referring to the time and place, just as if he were present. Sturla describes Skúli as afarmenni, a term which is not found elsewhere in the skaldic corpus. It is doubtful – even though it is possible – that the term is an ironic description of Skúli, drawing attention to the excesses of the man. The term is repeated again by Sturla, when Skúli is killed (Hák 27). The second of Sturla’s two stanzas compares and contrasts the ár (prosperity) in the land (with which both poets had characterised Hákon’s reign) with the well-being and ár (prosperity) of the beasts of battle – wolves and eagles – which have plenty of corpses to feed on in the year 1240: ok vígálfr vaxanda lét

14

Prose order: Þat er skröklaust, at Skúli var frægðarmaðr í frömu lífi, þótt hvarbrigð gipt aldar sneri hvéli auðnu á hann. Translation: It is not a lie that Skúli was a famous man in his outstanding life, although the fickle luck of mankind turned the wheel of fortune on him.

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úlfa ár ok ara ferðar. (Hák 10)15 There is an ambiguous tone in this stanza. The wild beasts seem temporarily to have entered the society of men; their prosperity is defined in human terms when unlawfulness in society abounds. The next poetic pair (Hryn belongs to the episode where Hákon sails into the fjord of Oslo) describes the situation just before the final battle with Skúli (Hryn 9; Hák 13). The verses refer to the same occasion in the saga, even though the poetic sequence is interrupted by a short prose account. Both poets underline the fortunate conditions enjoyed by the King when preparing for his journey into the fjord. Óláfr associates the favourable winds with the victory in hand, sigrbyr. He does not refer specifically to the King nor to the place, but the context in which the stanza is presented in Sturla’s narrative gives it a historical backdrop. The next group of stanzas by Óláfr and Sturla describes the battle between Hákon and Skúli (Hryn 10–11; Hák 14–17). Sturla’s stanzas are descriptive and do not reflect on the issues at stake in the onslaught. Óláfr, by contrast, describes the men as bleikir, perhaps as fated men in battle. Hákon is protected by his luck (gæfa); no armour is necessary: bleikir fellu menn at velli; hlífarlauss vá gramr með gæfu; gyltar sungu hjalta tungur. (Hryn 10)16 The good luck of the king has become the decisive factor in the battle, just as Sturla had predicted in an earlier stanza (Hák 4). This particular attribute of the king is the same as Snorri Sturluson ascribes to Hákon in stanza 12 of Háttatal. It is noteworthy that in spite of Snorri’s biassed portrayal of Skúli in that poem, he never links the idea of the king’s gæfa with Skúli, but only with the King.17

15

16

17

Prose order: ok vígálfr lét ár úlfa og ferðar ara vaxanda. Translation: and the battle elf [WARRIOR  =  Skúli] made the prosperity of the wolves and of the company of eagles increase. Prose order: bleikir menn fellu at velli; gramr vá hlífarlauss með gæfu; gyltar tungur hjalta sungu. Translation: pale men fell to the field; the king fought successfully without a shield; gilded tongues of hilts [SWORDS] sang. Guðrún Nordal, ‘Skáldið Snorri Sturluson’: 59–60.

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The last instance where the stanzas of Sturla and Óláfr go hand in hand in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar is at the very end of the battle (Hryn 12; Hák 18–19). Sturla emphasises the image of the king who is steadfast ageirtys grenni malu (‘on the green land’). It is interesting to note the use of the colour green, symbolising prosperity and growth which Sturla in another stanza associates with Hákon, where he defends himself with grænir skildir (‘green shields,’ Hák 20). Sturla may here be under the influence of Snorri’s diction about Hákon in Háttatal 30. Óláfr’s verse is introduced after Skúli’s flight, and he sums up the final encounter between Skúli and Hákon, balancing the picture of the two men and regarding them as equals: Aldri börðusk afli stœrðir (ógnsveipanda) blóðgum greipum (hirð sótti þar hvöss at garði) harrar tveir af drengskap meira. Undan reið, sás fremstr vas fundinn, fyrða gramr, at jöfnum byrðum; Sverris ætt fekk sigr at réttu; svá vildi guð framiðr mildi. (Hryn 12)18 Óláfr accepts that Hákon, of King Sverrir Sigurðarson’s royal lineage, deserves the victory, but does not take leave of Skúli without praising him. This stanza is Óláfr’s last comment on Skúli and Hákon’s feud, and his last word in the saga. There is conspicuously no stanza quoted by him in the aftermath of the battle on Skúli’s death or on Hákon’s ultimate victory. Despite the briefness of our comparison of Óláfr’s and Sturla’s verse on these events in Hákonar saga, it is clear that Óláfr is far more involved in the events he illustrates than is Sturla. Óláfr has deep sympathy for Skúli and regards him as the King’s equal, in person and in lineage. He rarely condemns Skúli for his actions, except for his overambitious and fatal zeal for kingship, since he clearly recognizes Hákon as the rightful ruler of Norway. Óláfr experienced 18

Prose order: Aldri bǫrðusk tveir harrar, blóðgum greipum, stœrðir afli, af meira drengskap; hvǫss hirð ógnsveipanda sótti þar at garði. Gramr fyrða, sás vas fundinn fremstr at jǫfnum byrðum, reið undan; ætt Sverris fekk sigr at réttu; guð, framiðr mildi, vildi svá. Translation: Never have two lords, with bloody hands, empowered with strength, fought with more bravery; the fierce retinue of the terror-spreader [WARRIOR = Hákon] attacked there at the churchyard. The leader of the people [RULER = Skúli], who was found to be foremost among those of equal birth, rode away; Sverrir’s descendant [=Hákon] rightly won victory; God, excellent in mercy, willed it so.

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these events at first hand after 1237, yet Sturla only quotes Óláfr as a distant observer on this crucial episode in Hákon’s reign, never as a poet-journalist on the scene. If Óláfr’s stanzas are removed from the context of Sturla’s narrative and his accompanying stanzas, which belong to the reflective and royal mood of Hákonarkviða, it is evident that these stanzas (and others by him in the saga) were not necessarily composed for King Hákon’s benefit, as some scholars maintain.19 They could just as well have formed a part of a poem on Skúli’s life relating the tragic episodes of his last years. The poet is no less generous in his praise of Skúli than of the King and therefore it is possible that these stanzas are a part of a poem that documented the whole story – if not of Skúli alone as Jón Sigurðsson suggested more than a century ago (1880–7: 381) – than of both Skúli and Hákon (in the mould of Snorri’s Háttatal). The manner in which Sturla presented Óláfr’s stanzas to Magnús’s court shifts Óláfr’s emphasis from the sensitive issue of Skúli’s enmity with the King (Magnús’s grandfather), while at the same time giving a valuable insight into the opinions of men such as Óláfr and Snorri, which Sturla could not otherwise convey. Skúli’s departure from this world is described in a strikingly heroic context, an exit more suitable for Earl Hákon, Óláfr Tryggvason’s adversary, than for this Christian duke. Skúli meets his death triumphantly by crossing the river Gjöll on his way to Hel. The religious connotations of this image would not have been lost on a thirteenth-century audience. Skúli is seen as a legendary hero as he rides his horse into the timeless, pre-Christian afterworld, the world of pagan heroes. Skúli is thus fittingly bid farewell in the context of the legendary world, a world that belongs to the past; Hákon is a man of his own age. The parallel between Skúli and legendary heroes is further strengthened by an allusion in Hákonarkviða to the story of hjaðningavíg (the battle of the Hjaðningar, a never-ending battle), the valkyrie Hildr Högnadóttir. This reference can be no coincidence, since Hildr witnessed the eternal fighting of her husband Héðinn and her father Högni. The legendary reference underlines the fatally tragic element in Skúli’s and Hákon’s own relationship: Skúli’s daughter watched helplessly as the fighting between her father and her husband reached its tragic end. Sturla Þórðarson is uniquely placed to shape the verses he inserts in his saga according to his own preconceived idea of the saga’s structure. It is possible that when he found himself in the somewhat unexpected position as Hákon’s biographer, he decided to soften the impact of some of the more ­uncompromising 19

Finnur Jónsson. Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie, 2: 96; Jan de Vries, Altnordische Literaturgeschichte, 2: 86.

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verses that had been dedicated – or partly dedicated – to Skúli, in particular those by his brother Óláfr Þórðarson. Óláfr’s verse, furthermore, gives Sturla an alibi in a politically sensitive episode. We do not know what prompted the composition of the poetry in Hákonar saga or the context in which it was made. We are here at the mercy of the saga author. We know, however, that Sturla Þórðarson was highly selective when he chose verse for his sagas, and indeed for Landnámabók. It is therefore remarkable that he disguises the powerful observations in Óláfr’s stanzas by adorning them with the mythical and legendary quality of Hákonarkviða. By including some of Óláfr’s persuasive and outspoken stanzas in Hákonar saga, Sturla could voice the opinions of Skúli’s court and his close kinsmen that otherwise would have been omitted from the saga. Sturla had neither the courage nor the need to speak those verses himself at the Norwegian court, but instead provided his elegant Hákonarkviða as a framework for Óláfr’s frank testimony. The example of Sturla Þórðarson serves as a sober reminder that if a thirteenth-century author at the Norwegian court had such liberty to manipulate contemporary verse to serve his own ends, other writers would treat older skaldic verse with equal freedom and ease.

chapter 12

The Storied Verse of Sturla Þórðarson Roberta Frank Like beads strung out in a necklace, ninety-four stanzas by Sturla glint and glitter in his saga of Hákon Hákonarson. As that ruler lay dying, or so the story goes, he had the histories of all the kings of Norway read out to him, one after another, ending with that of Sverrir, his grandfather – a final glance at his competitors in the family business.1 Sturla’s stanzas about Hákon look back, too, forging continuities between the present and a multi-storied Norwegian past. They also provide a discreet authorial commentary. No one not born into a language (in the case of Old Norse-Icelandic this includes all of us) can know how poetry sounded to those for whom it was first composed. Many of Sturla’s stanzas, taut and ironic, would fit with ease into today’s one-hundred-and-forty-character universe, our world of incredibly shrinking messages. Reticence, not explicitness, was prized. Poets like Sturla give clues when they are responding to something outside their texts, when they want hearers to know that they mean more than they say. If we do not listen, it is not good manners but laziness. This essay was written in a villa near Genoa, an unexpectedly appropriate location. Reykjavík may have its Sturlugata, but the Italian seaport boasts an entire district called Sturla, with a Sturla river, bay, piazza, valley, beach, medieval bridge, train station, bakery, and cinema.2 Even the poetry of Genoa’s Nobel-prize-winning Eugenio Montale was good for thinking about Iceland’s skald. For what his contemporaries praised in the Italian author’s work – a richness of allusion, the echoing of a long poetic tradition, archaic and arcane vocabulary, chiseled lines, verbal economy, repeated images and themes, heavily veiled meaning – is precisely what two centuries and more of skaldic commentary have ignored or dispraised in Sturla’s art.

1 Hákonar saga ii: 261–62. See Kevin J. Wanner, Snorri Sturluson and the Edda: 85. 2 I here acknowledge with gratitude the support of the Bogliasco Foundation, for the opportunity to write about North Atlantic poetry on the shores of the Mediterranean. My warm thanks, too, to the organizers of the Sturla Þórðarson conference for their invitation and memorably generous hospitality.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_013

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Complaints about Sturla as poet seem always the same. He is without originality, without charisma, spontaneity, authenticity, personal feeling, or what Jan de Vries called ‘the warm tones of the heart.’3 Sturla is a late-comer, a hack, a propagandist, a bureaucrat, a hired-hand composing mechanically for the son of a ruler he never met and whom he had reason to fear and dislike. He never saw the ships or shores or battles he so gloriously describes. Sturla’s verses are mere embroidery (here substitute, according to taste, the adjectives ornamental, conventional, imitative, derivative, and bookish) and of no historical importance. In 1883 Guðbrandur Vigfússon and Frederick York Powell omitted Sturla’s verse from their Corpus Poeticum Boreale on the grounds that to do otherwise would have been to galvanize a corpse: the thing is dead, ‘like flies in amber’; Sturla and his learned relatives ‘were never really genuine court poets, but just would-be revivers of an old perished fashion.’4 Guðbrandur’s 1887 edition of Hákonar saga was translated into English seven years later by George W. Dasent, whose long introduction never mentions Sturla’s poetry (unless I missed something: the pages of Yale’s copy of this translation are still uncut). Alexander Bugge’s 1914 Norwegian translation of the saga removes most of the stanzas.5 Finnur Jónsson in 1898 and in subsequent publications confirmed that Sturla was not a real poet: ‘At its core, his verse is but history in rhyme and meter, without the personal expression and the subjectivity that make older verse so fresh and attractive.’ Finnur accuses Sturla not just of plagiarism but of obtuse plagiarism: he borrows from earlier skalds ‘without even ­recognizing  it.’6 Fredrik Paasche had harsh things to say about Sturla’s 3 Jan de Vries, Altnordische Literaturgeschichte, 2nd ed. and 3rd ed. 2: 88; 1st ed. 2: 360–63. His scattered aspersions quickly became a weather: Lee M. Hollander, The Skalds: A Selection of their Poems (‘products of the library’): 21; Stefán Einarsson, A History of Icelandic Litera­ ture: 64; Knut Helle, ‘Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar’: 52; Hallvard Magerøy, ‘Sturla Tordsson’: 195; Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar: xxxix; Marlene Ciklamini, ‘Sturla Þórðarson’: 613; Heiko Uecker, Geschichte der altnordischen Literatur: 111. 4 Corpus Poeticum Boreale 2: 260. Guðbrandur’s long ‘Prolegomena’ to his edition of Stu (1878) also struck a mortuary note: Sturla was “the ‘last minstrel’ of the Saga time, … left alone, like Ossian, with the dead” (1: lxix). A short practical and easy method of learning the Old Norsk tongue or Icelandic language had already stressed the poet’s belatedness: ‘Sturla, the last skald’: 71. 5 Alexander Bugge, Norges kongesagaer 4/2. The tradition of ignoring the verse goes back to the sixteenth century, in the Danish abridgement of Hákonar saga by Mattis Størssøn (1594), incorporated in the 1633 compendium by Peders Claussøn Friis (587–795). 6 Finnur Jónsson, Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie (1st ed.) 2: 104–05; (2nd ed.) 2: 102. Also, Finnur Jónsson, Bókmentasaga Íslendinga fram undir siðabót, 1: 170–71; Finnur Jónsson, Den Islandske litteraturs historie: 193.

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poetic vitality, as did Jón Helgason.7 Mention of Sturla’s verse invariably brings with it images of decline, decay, vegetation (Hans Kuhn’s contribution),8 over-­ ripeness, rot, a fall from glory, ‘a long autumn without the prospect of any more lovely days or fruit,’ as Hermann Schneider put it self-reflectively in 1948.9 An onslaught of invidious comparisons typically follows: ‘not as good as …’. Even Hermann Pálsson ended his admirable essay on Sturla’s poetry with an apology: ‘Sturla Þórðarson did not quite attain the heights reached in the best verses of Egill and Hallfreður.’10 Worse was to come. Today, if you google the name Sturla, you are directed to an educational site explaining how to use the words ‘oblivion’ and ‘prosaic’ in an English sentence. The model used is from an encyclopedia article by Frederick York Powell, who writes: ‘Moreover, the very prosaic and artificial verse of Sturla and the last of the old school deserved the oblivion which came over them’ [italics mine].11 About the only thing no one has yet blamed our skald for is his mysterious silence on the subject of cheese. Árni Magnússon admired Sturla’s foresight in composing a saga that preserved his stanzas for posterity.12 But not until the opening years of the current century have others expressed even this degree of appreciation. In 2001 Guðrún Nordal argued that Sturla’s verse-making in Hákonar saga was not tedious filler but ‘a conscious semantic layer in the writing of a king’s saga.’13 The present essay is indebted to her work and to the editions of Sturla’s verse in volume 2/2 of Skaldic Poetry of the Scandinavian Middle Ages (hereafter SkP).14 Tradition organizes Sturla’s surviving stanzas into four poems according to their metrical form – hrynhent, kviðuháttr, Haðarlag, or dróttkvætt – the bones beneath the surface.15 Meter acts as a grid or net, letting only certain words

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

15

Fredrik Paasche, Norges og Islands litteratur indtil utgangen av middelalderen 1: 403; (2nd ed., 1957) 1: 431–32; Jón Helgason, Norrøn Litteraturhistorie: 85. Hans Kuhn, Das Dróttkvætt: 329. Hermann Schneider, Geschichte der norwegischen und isländischen Literatur: 41. Hermann Pálsson, ‘Kveðskapur Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 83. The Encyclopædia Britannica, 11th ed, 1910: 14, 235; see , . Árni Magnússons Levned og Skrifter 2: 140. Guðrún Nordal, Tools of Literacy: 143. Nevertheless, the general introduction to SkP 2/2, lvii, still finds that Sturla’s ‘poetic citations in the saga are mainly ornamental in nature.’ I cite Sturla’s stanzas from Poetry from the Kings’ Sagas 2/2: 675–75, with minor changes: Hrynhenda, ed. Valgerður Erna Þorvaldsdóttir; the other three Hákon poems, ed. Kari Ellen Gade. Abbreviations throughout this essay for skalds, poems, sagas, and secondary works follow the usage of SkP. For a description of these meters, see SkP 1/1: lvii–lxiv.

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through while cleansing them, removing accumulated dross. Each of Sturla’s poems has its own distinct rhythm, generic tradition, and politesse; each calls up a particular mood, activity, or social situation.16 In Hákon’s saga, Sturla mixed and matched metrical forms like the fine stylist he was. Whenever in a chapter he inserts alongside his own a stanza by his uncle Snorri or his older brother Óláfr, he makes sure that theirs are in a different meter from his – as well as differently aged and toned. The explications de texte that follow, a series of experiments in skaldic poetics, look at Sturla’s verse from this vantage and that, trying to make a past art mean something to the living. Many have dealt with Sturla’s portrayal in prose of Hákon, father of the king he served and the monarch whose letters served as the justification for Snorri’s assassination.17 But the verse, too, has riches to be extracted. For the historian of medieval Iceland and northwest Europe, Sturla’s stanzas remain an invaluable primary source; and in their craftsmanship and wit, their striving for a gemlike brilliance, they speak to all of us – if we listen.

Hrynhenda, Stanza 12 (SkP 688–89) Hrinda réðuð herskips bröndum hilmir frægr á saltan ægi; eldi hrauð fyrir æsiköldum unnar meið ór dregnum hlunni. Almenningr varð út at sinna, ógnar lundr, á þinni grundu; mildir höfðu herboð höldar harða sveld af Nóregsveldi. Frægr hilmir réðuð hrinda bröndum herskips út á saltan ægi; eldi hrauð ór dregnum hlunni fyrir {æsiköldum meið unnar}. Almenningr á grundu þinni varð at sinna út, {lundr ógnar}; mildir höldar höfðu harða sveld herboð af Nóregsveldi. Famous king, you got the prows of warships propelled out onto the salty sea; fire poured from the worn launching-roller before {the terribly cold

16

17

Jón Sigurðsson, SnE 1848–87: 3, 393, observed that Hryn, Hákkv, and Hrafn appear ‘quasi trilogiam quondam epicam’ with each poem covering a different period of Hákon’s long life. Cited Bjarne Fidjestøl, Det norrøne fyrstediktet: 163. See, e.g., Hans Jacob Orning, Unpredictability and Presence: 254–56.

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tree of the wave} [SHIP]. The general levy in your land set out, {tree of battle} [WARRIOR]; the generous freeholders had a greatly swelled conscripted army from the kingdom of Norway. Hrynhenda was probably composed in Iceland in the summer of 1263 (Sturla’s direct addresses to Hákon, who died in Orkney later that year, suggest a living king). The poem opens with Hákon’s coronation in 1247, and closes with the foreign relations and regional ambitions of a ruler whose power reached from Greenland in the north to the shores of Africa in the south. Its meter, a Norse-Latin hybrid, is stately and supple, resembling the eightsyllable trochaic tetrameter of certain early Latin hymns (stabat mater do­ lorosa), as well as the Witches’ chorus from Macbeth (‘Double, double, toil and trouble’), and Longfellow’s much parodied Hiawatha (‘By the shores of Gitche Gumee’). Sturla here describes the launching in 1256 of Hákon’s ship, part of a royal fleet of over three-hundred vessels (the largest in Europe at the time), an armada summoned up to intimidate Denmark. The poet addresses Hákon in the first three syllables of the second line of each half-stanza, a frequent setting for vocatives. There are extra sound-effects throughout.18 In line 3, hot eldr ‘fire’ chimes with its antonym æsiköldr ‘terrible cold’; in line 4, the rhyme of unnr with hlunnr suggests the inevitability of the ship’s launch into the wave. The final couplet neatly links mildir ‘generous’ to höldar ‘lords of the land’, while sveld ‘swelled’ is enfolded by Norvegsveldi, the expanding kingdom of Norway. This is an advertiser’s trick, the loving subjects enveloped by the beloved object, as in the 1950s American political slogan ‘I like Ike.’ Stanza 22 is a veritable echo-chamber; the great masters are breathing down the poet’s neck. Sturla extracted lines 3–4 (eldi hrauð ór dregnum hlunni) from Snorri’s prose account of Baldr’s funeral. There a giantess pushed that god’s ship to sea with such violence that fire rose up from its launching-rollers and the entire land shook, or as Snorri says: svá at eldr hraut ór hlunnunum ‘so that fire poured from the slipway’ (SnE 2005, 46). The clause (ór/af) dregnum hlunni ‘from the worn launching roller’ is identical to a phrase in the first stanza of Þórðr Kolbeinsson’s poem about the celebrated sea-battle of 995 in which two Norwegian rulers together overcame the Danes (SkP 1/1, 489). As often noted, Sturla’s wording throughout Hrynhenda is heavily influenced by Arnórr

18

Full- and slant-rhymes are repeated, for example, between the half-stanzas (1/6, 4/5, 3/7/8).

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­Þórðarson’s poem of the same name, which commemorated the naval expedition to Denmark in 1042 of Magnús the Good.19 Words in hrynhent poetry tend to be of one or two syllables: trisyllabic words with secondary stress on the long middle syllable, desirable in other meters, are avoided; finite verbs in main clauses regularly occur in the second stressed position: here réðuð, hrauð, höfðu. The startling trisyllabic almenningr in line 5 puts its verb (varð) irregularly in the shade, breaking the rhythm and drawing attention to itself. Almenningr occurs only once again in skaldic verse (and in the same position) in a dróttkvætt stanza by Þjóðólfr Arnórsson describing Haraldr harðráði’s launch of warships against the Danes in 1062 (SkP 2/1,155; st. 5); Þjóðólfr’s stanza may also be the source of Sturla’s phrase herskipa bröndum ‘prows of warships’. The web of echoes running through Sturla’s stanza is not just the result of different skalds at different times working with the same poetic vocabulary, techniques, and subjects. The thirteenth-century poet is highly selective in his borrowings. All three early expeditions called up were famous Norwegian victories, specific sea-battles from her past when Hákon’s predecessors mustered ship-armies against Denmark; their evocation here lends depth and resonance to Sturla’s description of Norway’s overwhelming naval power under Hákon. The allusion to Snorri’s account of the launching of Baldr’s massive funeral ship by a giantess, attended by fire and earthquakes, gives mythological depth, glamor, and a touch of cosmic terror to the power politics of the day. Hákon is the new Northern giant. Sometimes Sturla’s prose and ‘supporting’ verse seem to say rather different things, as in the first verse of the saga, which portrays the infant king as a hunted child:20

Hákonarkviða, Stanza 1 (SkP 699–700) Þá hefr í ætt öðlingr drepit Tryggva niðs tírar höfði, er framráðs

19 20

SkP 1/2: 181–206. See Jan de Vries, Altnordische Literaturgeschichte 2: 87; Hermann Pálsson, ‘Kveðskapur Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 70–71. See Ármann Jakobsson, ‘The Hunted Children of Kings: A Theme in the Old Icelandic Sagas’. Disparities between stanza and prose are not necessarily attributable to Sturla; the extant manuscripts of the saga are fourteenth century or later, by which time other hands may have ‘improved’ the saga-prose.

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flýja þurfti ynglings barn fyr ófriði. Þá hefr öðlingr drepit tírar höfði í ætt {niðs Tryggva}, er barn framráðs ynglings þurfti flýja fyr ófriði. Then the prince [Hákon] pushed his famous head into the family {of the kinsman of Tryggvi} [= Óláfr Tryggvason], when the child of the ambitious king [= Hákon] was forced to flee on account of unrest. Beginnings are important. Hákon’s birth and right to the throne was a delicate subject. He was, according to his mother who underwent an ordeal to confirm his royal pedigree, the out-of-wedlock son of King Sverrir’s short-lived heir, another Hákon; grandfather Sverrir himself was of disputed parentage, claiming on his mother’s word to be the illegitimate son of King Sigurðr munnr ‘the Mouth’. Sturla chooses his words carefully. Hákon’s father, the framráðr yng­ lingr ‘ambitious king’ mentioned in the stanza, died after only a year and a half on the throne; the adjective used of him, ‘ambitious’, occurs again in an anonymous stanza (Anon Sv 6/2; SkP, 847) spoken by Sverrir and rebuking another son for not being like his ambitious kinsmen in former days. Ynglingr ‘king’, too, is a relatively rare word in court verse; its two occurrences in Hákonarkviða designate two descendants of Sigurðr munnr: Hákon’s father (here) and Earl Skúli Bárðarson, Hákon’s chief rival (st.10/5), who proclaimed himself king in 1239. The noun tírar ‘of fame’ modifies either young Hákon’s head or the royal family (the ætt) of Óláfr Tryggvason, great grandson of Harald Fairhair, or both at once: skaldic syntax is nothing if not flexible. Listeners could choose which referent to go with, and their choice had significance. The logic of stanza 1 is elusive. Sturla’s prose reports that ‘wise men have said’ that the infant Hákon’s narrow escape from enemies was reminiscent of the infant Óláfr Tryggvason’s forced flight from Norway, ‘just as it says in Hákonarkviða, which Sturla Þórðarson composed’ (Hák 1, 176). Fine. But Sturla’s verse apparently says something more. All commentators have taken its first half-stanza to confirm that Hákon proved himself of Óláfr Tryggvason’s ilk, that by his flight this infant revealed his descent from the royal line of Haraldr Fairhair.21 We seem to have moved from a parallel – two boys on the run – to a proof of legitimacy. Sturla’s wording – drepa … höfði ‘to push one’s head’ – is pointed, if not undignified. (In poetry this phrase appears again only in an eddic poem, when 21

SkP, 700; Hákonar saga i: 176.

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the horse Grani thrusts its head into the grass.)22 Perhaps ‘thrusting one’s head into the family’ was in Sturla’s day an idiomatic way to indicate legitimacy, like ‘being born to the purple’; but the verb conveys, at least at this distance, something far more aggressive, like forcibly cutting into a queue or muscling into a Mafia clan. Court skalds operated in a world rich in injunctions to silence. Still, there were ways in which poets might evade the censors.23 King Magnús, looking for confirmation of his father’s royal descent, would have found it in the opening stanza of Hákonarkviða: little Hákon was a chip off the old block. But others, listening carefully, might have heard a faint warning, a heads up that Sverrir’s long-lived grandson was not born to power but would have to grab it, and not always prettily. The subversiveness of Sturla’s opening stanza might have emerged only gradually, a process not dissimilar to that claimed for certain brands of slow-release painkiller capsules. Poems in kviðuháttr meter, such as Sturla’s Hákonarkviða, do not divide easily into eight-line stanzas; the form seems best suited for long sequential compositions.24 In kviðuháttr, not only syntax but kennings, too, can be runon, concatenating over stanzaic boundaries. An initial metaphor is sometimes pursued and exuberantly developed in subsequent verses. One three-stanza sequence in Sturla’s Hákonarkviða (sts 20–22), rich in mythological kennings and telling of Skúli’s defeat by Hákon’s forces at the battle of Oslo, depicts monstrous women (‘riding troll-women of green shields’ [AXES], ‘Fenrir’s sister’ [HEL], ‘Gjöll’s girl’ [HEL], ‘dísir of shields’ [VALKYRIES]) assaulting warriors. The first kenning, ‘riding troll-women of green shields’ (20) has been solved (not unanimously) as ‘axes’. The latest edition of Hákonar saga notes discreetly that understanding of the next stanza (21) remains imperfect.25 As for the noisy women in the third stanza, two centuries and more of commentary insist 22 23

24 25

Gðr. ii, 5 in Edda: Die Lieder des Codex Regius nebst verwandten Denkmälern, 2 vols., 1. Text. 5th ed. 1: 225. On the uses and prevalence in skaldic verse of ambiguity and ofljóst, see SnE 1998, 1, 109 and SnE 2007: 12, 13, 14; Third Grammatical Treatise, in Den tredje og fjærde grammatiske afhandling i Snorres Edda: 66, 84–5, 89, 171–72. Kari Ellen Gade, ‘The Syntax of Old Norse kviðuháttr Meter’. Hákonar saga ii: 105, note to stanza 54: ‘Ekki hefur tekist að skýra þessa vísu til fulls.’ Space constraints prevent a full analysis here. The standard interpretation, in which a female Hel, ruler of the realm of the dead, felt ‘hooded’ doomed heads, requires emendation of fell, a verb-form found in all mss. Fell makes good sense, however, if we imagine an axe (Hel, the name of St Óláfr’s axe, still portrayed on the Norwegian national coat of arms) falling upon men’s heads in battle. Cf. Arn Magndr 10/7 (SkP 2/1, 219): Hel klauf hausa fölva ‘Hel (the axe) clove pallid skulls,’ which envisages (as Sturla does) hands clutching the shaft. St Óláfr’s axe appears on the shields of Norwegian kings first in English manuscripts from the time of Hákon Hákonarson.

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that here be valkyries singing.26 Charming but wrong. All three sets of femmes fatales are almost certainly battle-axes.

Hákonarkviða, Stanza 22 (SkP 715–16) Þar sighljóð syngja knáttu harða hvell hvössum munni í herför of höfuð manna Högna mans hlýrna dísir Þar knáttu {dísir {hlýrna {mans Högna}}} syngja harða hvell sighljóð hvössum munni of höfuð manna í herför. There {the dísir {of the sun and moon {of Högni’s girl}}} [= Hildr (hildr ‘battle’) > SHIELDS > VALKYRIES] sang very shrill battle-songs with a sharp mouth around the heads of men in the army-campaign.

These sharp-mouthed valkyries chant piercing battle-songs around the heads of Skúli’s men in George Dasent’s Shakespeare-inflected ­nineteenth-century rendition of this stanza: ‘And aloft the sisters weird/ Valcyries sung with mouths so shrill,/ As the host went marching on,/ A lay of victory round the chief.’27 And they are singing still in the twenty-first century, in all standard editions, commentaries, databases, kenning-indices, monographs, journal articles, and translations. Battle-axes are gendered feminine in skaldic verse and referred to in kennings or circumlocutions using the names of troll-women, giantesses, Norns, monstrous hags, and other supernatural females.28 Einarr Skúlason endows a precious axe with eyelashes and fair cheeks (ESk Øxfl sts 6, 10; SkP 3). Sturla gives his axes mouth (= sharp cutting edge) and melody (= whirring noise). Other skalds describe yawning iron mouths that gape against the enemy and offer 26 27 28

Only Árni Magnússon (Levned og Skrifter: 2, 102) recognized that Sturla’s supernatural females in st. 22 were weapons. The Saga of Hacon, and a Fragment of the Saga of Magnus: 235. Rudolf Meissner, Die Kenningar der Skalden: 148.

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lethal kisses: ‘Many a cherry-tree of meetings of Gunnr [BATTLES >WARRIOR] lay chopped down by iron mouths’ (Hfr ErfÓl 6, SkP 1/1, 408). The thin mouth of an axe awaits another suitor (Hharð Lv 7; SkP 2/1, 48). As for weapons chanting, Sturla himself had called an axe ‘the troll-woman of battle’ and described it ‘singing in the snow-storm of spears’ [BATTLE] (Hryn 6/1–2). Weapons sing in skaldic verse; valkyries, outside Wagner’s operas, rarely do. Sturla’s choice of names is meaningful. When he mentions Högni’s girl Hildr, it is to evoke her homonym, the common noun hildr ‘battle’, activating a form of wordplay sardonically called by Snorri ofljóst ‘excessively clear’, ‘too transparent.’29 The legendary Hildr has a starring role in the ‘battle of the Hjaðningar’30 a tragic son-in-law/father-in-law conflict reminiscent perhaps of Sturla’s subject here, the never-ending strife between Hákon and Skúli, son-in-law and father-in-law. Hel in stanza 21 is the monstrous female ruling the underworld, as well as an axe-name, a weapon whose workings keep that matron’s unhealthy tenements crowded. Sturla’s first axe-kenning in the sequence, gandreið grænna skjalda ‘riding troll-women of green shields’ (st. 20), may also have contemporary relevance. ‘Green shields’ are mentioned only one more time in the corpus, in a verse Sturla knew well. Snorri, in the last stanza of Háttatal devoted solely to Hákon, asks that king to keep him in his good graces; he then refers to himself using the warrior-kenning ‘tree of green shields’ (Hátt 30; SnE 2007, 16). Sturla’s echoing of his slain uncle’s words when identifying the axes that slaughtered the troops of Snorri’s patron is not likely to be accidental. The surviving stanzas of Sturla’s Hrafnsmál or ‘Raven’s Speech’ describe Hákon’s sailing to the Northern and Western Isles in 1263, when he set out to reestablish his rule in the Hebrides and to punish the Scots for their independent ways. Because of the tight restrictions imposed by its meter,31 the poem contains many unique poetic compounds, usually housed in the last three syllables of each line. Compounds in stanza 2 below that do not appear elsewhere are ormvengi, flugstærir, lómblekkir, and herskíð; two other compounds, útstrandir and vígdróttir, occur only one other time, in Snorri’s Háttatal.

29 30 31

For more on this technique using proper names, see Roberta Frank, ‘The Lay of the Land in Skaldic Praise Poetry’. SnE 1998, i: 72–73, tells the story. Haðarlag lines consist of five-syllables, with stress regularly falling on the first, third, and fourth; rhyme falls on the first and fourth syllables, odd-line alliteration, on the first and third.

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Hrafnsmál, Stanza 2 (SkP 728–29) Øngr sá ormvengis ótti vígdróttir fleiri flugstæris fleins í stað einum. Lukði lómblekkir landa útstrandir hríðar herskíðum harðr ok randgarði {Øngr ótti {ormvengis}} sá fleiri vígdróttir {{fleins flug}stæris} í einum stað. {Harðr lómblekkir} lukði útstrandir landa {herskíðum hríðar} ok randgarði. {No terror {of the snake-meadow}} [GOLD > GENEROUS MAN] saw more fighting-troops {of an increaser {of the spear’s flight}} [(lit. ‘of a flight-increaser of the spear’) BATTLE > WARRIOR] in one place. {The harsh deceit-destroyer} [JUST RULER] (lit. ‘deceit-deceiver) enclosed the outer shores of the lands {with the army-skis of the sea} [SHIPS] and the shield-fence.

Hip-hop artists are famous for recasting the verses of their predecessors, keeping their rhymes and basic grammatical form but making a few meaningful changes.32 Lines 5–8 of Sturla’s stanza about Hákon closely echo the first four lines of a stanza by Snorri in praise of Skúli (Hátt 79; SnE 2007, 33), composed forty years earlier when that earl was co-regent with young Hákon: Læsir leyfðr vísi landa útstrandir blíðr ok bláskiðum barða randgarði. The praised leader encloses the outer shores of the lands, cheerful, with a shield fence and {dark skis of prows} [SHIPS]. Sturla’s version changes Snorri’s ‘cheerful, praised leader’ (Skúli) to ‘harsh deceit-deceiver’ (Hákon). He maintains the same rhymes and grammatical 32

Examples can be found in David Caplan, Rhyme’s Challenge: Hip Hop, Poetry, and Contem­ porary Rhyming Culture: 20–21.

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structure as Snorri, but not the alliteration, abandoning Snorri’s ‘b’- alliteration (blíðr ‘happy’ Skúli Bárðarson) and substituting ‘h’ (harðr ‘hard, harsh’ Hákon Hákonarson). Sturla has here (and not for the first time) attributed to Hákon a deed for which Skúli was elsewhere, and more credibly, praised.33 By reusing Snorri’s verse commendation of Skúli for their mutual enemy, Sturla was at the very least drawing attention to his own chameleon-like flexibility. In the eighteenth century Hrafnsmál had some fame abroad, thanks to James Johnstone’s 1782 translation of the final chapters of Hákonar saga – the first English translation of any saga by a native speaker of English.34 (Unlike his earlier translation from the saga, no reference is made to the assistance of an unnamed learned Icelander.)35 Johnstone’s translation, which found a home in Sir Walter Scott’s library, vastly increased the amount of skaldic poetry in print; correspondence of the period makes reference to Sturla’s ‘ode’ (i.e., Hrafns­ mál) and ‘the poet Sturla’.36 A century later, another Scotsman, Robert William Buchanan, turned Johnstone’s prose renditions of Sturla’s stanzas into something resembling verse, lightly adapted his predecessor’s saga-translation, and, never mentioning Johnstone, published the result under his own name – not once but twice.37 Hákon died on December 1263 in Orkney; in the spring his body was brought to Bergen, where he was reburied in Christ Church. Sturla was present, perhaps still reeling from the serendipitous death abroad of the king whose return and wrath he was dreading. The saga introduces the stanza: ‘All people stood over the grave with sorrowful mind. As Sturla said …’ (Hák 2, 264): 33 In Hákonar saga i: 230, Sturla depicts the king himself putting a halt to the idea of an expedition against Iceland; in Íslendinga saga, ch. 38 (Sturlunga saga, 1: 278), Snorri first ‘softens’ the Jarl ‘slævaðist heldr skap jarlsins’ and then Skúli appeals to the king (‘Ok var þat af gert, at konungr réð, at eigi varð herfærin’). Both Snorri and Skúli seem to share the credit. In any event, the inexperience of the king is mentioned: ‘Konungrinn var þá ungr  …’. 34 On Johnstone, see Margaret Clunies Ross, The Norse Muse in Britain 1750–1820: 170–80. His translation of Hákonar saga is cited under the date 2006 (ebook) in Heddle (2013): 162. 35 On Johnstone’s friendship with Grímur Jónsson Thorkelin, see Clunies-Ross, The Norse Muse: 173–74; Andrew Wawn, The Vikings and the Victorians: 61; G. Waterhouse, ‘G.J. Thorkelin and the Rev. James Johnstone’. Johnstone could have made use of the facingpage Latin translation of Hrafnsmál in Hakonar Qvida Sturlu Þordarsonar: 32–45, but he seems not to have. 36 John George Cochrane, Catalogue of the Library of Abbotsford: 64; John MacCulloch, High­ lands and Western Isles of Scotland 1: 83, 423. 37 Robert William Buchanan, The Land of Lorne; or, A Poet’s Adventures in the Scottish Hebri­ des: 306–26; The Hebrid Isles: 245–61.

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Hákonarflokkr, Stanza 11 (SkP 755) Þrimr náttum kom Þróttar þing-hlynr til Björgynjar, áðr en allvald prúðan ófs dynviðir grófu. Margr stóð málma fergir – mikit stríð var þat – síðan lýða grams yfir leiði lítt kátr með brá váta. {{Þróttar þing}hlynr} kom þrimr náttum til Björgynjar, áðr en {{ófs dyn} viðir} grófu prúðan allvald. {Margr fergir málma} stóð síðan lítt kátr með váta brá yfir leiði {grams lýða}; þat var mikit stríð. {The maple {of Þróttr’s assembly}} [(lit. ‘assembly-maple of Þróttr’) BATTLE > WARRIOR = Hákon] was brought for three nights to Bergen, before {the trees {of the din}} [(lit. ‘the din-trees’ { of sword?}) BATTLE > WARRIORS] buried the splendid mighty ruler. {Many a subjugator of weapons} [WARRIOR] thereafter stood little cheerful with wet eyelashes above the grave {of the lord of men} [KING]; that was a great grief.

Hákonarflokkr is in dróttkvætt, the meter suitable for the drótt or king’s band of retainers. Sturla makes all the right generic moves. Only in this meter does he mention the king’s reiði ‘wrath, fury’ (sts 4 and 7), his right and duty as a leader to be reiðr ‘angry’ (st. 1).38 The compound allvaldr ‘absolute ruler’ in line 3 of this stanza occurs fifteen more times in Sturla’s poetry;39 it is his favorite designation for Hákon, whose name he supplies only once, at the precise moment of that king’s coronation.40 Sturla’s last line in this last stanza of his saga, with its halting monosyllables and movement from high front vowel (í) to a series of long, low back vowels (á), effectively mimic pain, grief, bereavement: the king is dead; brightness falls from the air.

38

39 40

On royal wrath in the medieval North, see Sverre Bagge, ‘Vold, spontanitet og rasjonalitet – politisk mentalitet i middelalderen’: 62; Orning, Unpredictability and Presence: 181–89. Hryn, sts 7, 13, 20, 21; Hákkv, sts 3, 4, 7, 12, 14, 25, 27, 33; Hrafn, st. 3; and Hákfl, sts 1, 3, 11. Hákkv 25/3. The name occurs more than 50x in the poetic corpus.

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Public grief with tears that flow is uncommon in dróttkvætt verse.41 Beowulf’s troop indulges in copious weeping at his death (wollenteare ‘with gushing tears’ Beo 3032), and wet eyes and wet cheeks abound in later Icelandic religious verse as well as in biblical and medieval Latin lamentations on the death of kings. But in dróttkvætt memorial poems, real retainers don’t cry. The springtime thaw depicted by Sturla in this final stanza of the saga is something new, like the on-demand general weeping at Baldr’s death. The standard reading printed above employs a lexicographical short-cut (or Humpty-Dumpty thinking) to arrive at the meaning of ófs in line four.42 Editors and translators have consistently glossed that word, required by the rhyme and alliteration, as ‘sword’, a nonce meaning devised to create a traditional warrior-kenning (see lp: ófr). But ófs appears elsewhere in the poetic corpus, either as an adverbial intensifier (‘excessively, greatly’) or as the genitive of a noun meaning ‘too much of something, bounteous’ (see lp: óf), never as a weapon. The word may go with the preceding adjective prúðr: the ‘exceedingly’ magnificent ruler. But its inherent ambiguity (‘much’ versus ‘too much’) also allows Sturla to sketch the impressive caterwauling at the king’s funeral service (‘bounteous din’) as well as, with a light wash of irony, his own ‘dry tears’ during this over-the-top emotional display (‘excessive din’).43 King Magnús, guided by the prose, surely took the stanza as confirmation that the death of his blessed father was universally mourned; other ears might have recorded the unseemly racket that a group of upwardly mobile courtiers was making. As Sturla’s older brother Óláfr put it: ‘At slíkum hætti er víða sett í skáldskap þat nafn er ýmsar hefir merkingar ok folgit svá málit’ (‘Often in poetry a word has various meanings with the result that what is intended is disguised’).44 Sturla knew well how 41

42 43

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One exception: tears dampen the burial in 1047 of King Magnús the Good, at least according to a little-known skald: ‘Men shed many tears when they carried the generous lord to his grave; that was a heavy burden for those to whom he gave gold. The mind was in turmoil, so that the ruler’s housecarls could hardly hold back their weeping, and often thereafter the prince’s people sat drooping’ (Okík st 2; SkP 2/1, 33). ‘When I use a word,’ said Humpty-Dumpty, ‘it means just what I choose it to mean …’: Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass: ch. 6. SnE 2005, 48/5, on the refusal of Þökk (‘thanks’) to weep for Baldr. In either reading, ‘din-trees’ is a half-kenning for ‘warriors’ dependent for completion on Þróttar (a name that occurs only here in Sturla’s verse). On half-kennings in dróttkvætt, see Meissner, Die Kenningar der Skalden, 74–80; Roberta Frank, ‘Snorri and the Mead of Poetry’: 158–62. Sturla’s warrior-kenning for Hákon in the first couplet of the stanza recalls that for Óláfr Tryggvason in the opening stanza of Hallar-Steinn’s Rekstefja: ‘Baldr of the assembly of Þróttr’ (SkP 1/1, 897–98). The Third Grammatical Treatise. In Den tredje og fjærde grammatiske afhandling i Snorres Edda: 84–85.

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to camouflage crass self-interest and to project emotion onto a slate of grey calculation. With a few deft strokes, he turns even political payback – gold ornaments shining like the sun on the arms of the king’s cronies (Hákkv 31) – into a vision of paradise on earth. His art is nothing if not transformative. Sturla’s contemporaries admired his verse: Sturlunga saga begins by naming him not chieftain, historian, or lawman but skáld; it ends with King Magnús entreated to listen to Sturla’s verse: ‘Let him recite, for I am told he is a very great poet and his poem will be exceptionally good.’45 The king gives Sturla a positive review. He deserved nothing less.

45

‘Látið hann kveða, því at mér er sagt, at hann sé it mesta skáld, ok mun kvæðit vera ágæta gott,’ ‘Sturlu þáttr,’ in Sturlunga saga, 2: 233. See Hermann Pálsson, ‘Kveðskapur Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 62. Sturla was given his own þáttr (Sturlunga saga, 2: 227–36), an honor that eluded his uncle and brother.

chapter 13

Sturla Þórðarson’s Two Perspectives on Thirteenth-Century History: Royal Chronicler vs. Icelandic Chieftain Hans Jacob Orning Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar instigated a new trend in Old Norse saga writing by building on archival records. The result was a registration of events with a much greater reliability of detail than previously.1 It was not the first contemporary saga to be written – King Sverrir had realized the potential of putting writing in the service of monarchy a half-century before. Still Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar initiated a new epoch in that it, in Knut Helle’s words, is ‘dry and lifeless’ (tørr og livlaus) compared to its precursors.2 Helle explained this property with reference to Sturla Þórðarson’s inability to tell a story in a vivid fashion. However, we know that Sturla could tell dramatic and vigorous stories on demand – Sturlu þáttr recounts that as a story-teller he found favour first with his shipmates, then with the queen, and finally with King Magnús, In fact, his stories vastly increased his standing with the king. And, finally, we have Íslendinga saga, concrete evidence of his narrative skills. With his narrative abilities in mind, we ought to seek other explanations for Sturla’s alleged ‘dullness’ than his lack of capabilities in storytelling. In this respect, Sturlu þáttr might give us a clue. It tells the story of how Sturla came to Norway as a delinquent, but he quickly scaled the social ladder during his visit with the king, largely as a result of his narrative fare.3 Given the combination of Sturla’s humble point of departure and his meagre knowledge of Norwegian conditions, he was by no means an independent intellectual. He was politically dependent upon the king, and factually dependent on reliable informants, which he was bound to seek in monarchical circles.4 This double reliance indicates that the change in saga writing style stems from other factors than individual talents in storytelling.

1 2 3 4

Narve Bjørgo, ‘Om skriftlege kjelder for Hákonar saga’. Knut Helle, ‘Innleiing’: 7–15. ‘Sturlu þáttr,’ in Sturlunga saga. See Randi Wærdahl’s contribution in this volume.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_014

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Sturla as a Royal Chronicler

When Sturla arrived in Norway in 1263, Hákon Hákonarson had ruled without opposition as Norwegian king since the rebellion of Skúli Bárðarson had been put down in 1240. King Hákon was not a king to be challenged at every occasion, as happened continuously with the kings populating the stories in Heimskringla and Morkinskinna.5 Neither should he be. In the eyes of the king’s court, Hákon was, by definition, chosen by God, and therefore absolved from the political game of challenges and posturing.6 This status makes the saga rather unreliable when it comes to the total image it presents. Since Sturla had been accorded with the task of writing the saga of the recently deceased king, and because the king was deemed to have been elected by God, Sturla’s freedom in portraying him was severely limited. Hákon had to be depicted as an ideal monarch. Hence, Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar suffers from an opposite bias in comparison to the kings’ sagas dealing with the distant past, such as Heimskringla and Morkinskinna. Whereas the latter two sagas are unreliable about concrete historical events, but not infused with a comparable ideological bias in favour of the king(s),7 Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar is reliable in detail, but more biased in the overall view. If Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar is biased in its overall tone but fairly reliable in detail, the question arises where the border should be drawn between (reliable) detail and (unreliable) narrative bias. This question is difficult to answer, given that information in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar is seldom rendered in other sources. However, we are lucky to possess one saga that recounts some of the same events as Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, and this is of course Íslendinga saga. Moreover, since these two sagas were written by the very same ­person – Sturla Þórðarson8 – they offer a unique opportunity to compare different sources and to analyse how one writer, dependent on historical context and influenced by his political and literary aims, viewed the past differently.9 5 Sverre Bagge, Society and Politics in Snorri Sturluson’s Heimskringla; Hans Jacob Orning, ‘Conflict and social (dis)order in Norway, c. 1030–1160’. 6 Sverre Bagge, From Gang Leader to the Lord’s Anointed: 94–107. 7 For alternative viewpoints on the saga authors, see Birgit Sawyer, ‘Samhällsbeskrivningen i Heimskringla’; on Heimskringla, Theodore M. Andersson, ‘The Politics of Snorri Sturluson’; on Morkinskinna, Ármann Jakobsson, A Sense of Belonging: Morkinskinna and Icelandic Identity, c. 1220: 320–28. 8 See Ármann Jakobsson and Andersson this volume. 9 The most important studies on Sturlunga saga are Úlfar Bragason, On the Poetics of Sturlunga; Stephen N. Tranter, Sturlunga saga. The Role of the Creative Compiler.

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Both Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and Íslendinga saga relate how Iceland became part of the Norwegian kingdom in a process lasting some fifty years up to the submission in 1262/64. The stories are roughly identical in the two sagas, yet with some significant deviations, to which I shall return. King Hákon sent out emissaries to gain control over Iceland from 1220 onward. Snorri Sturluson was the first agent, in 1220,10 followed by his nephews Sturla Sighvatsson in 1235,11 and Þórðr kakali in 1247.12 In 1252 Gizurr Þorvaldsson, Þorgils skarði and Finnbjörn Helgason travelled to Iceland as the king’s representatives,13 and six years later Gizurr obtained the mission alone.14 From 1247 the king also used Norwegian bishops as agents to strengthen his case in Iceland,15 and from the 1250s onward he commissioned his own Norwegian retainers, partly to control the chieftains, partly to work independently to influence the Icelanders to succumb to the Norwegian crown.16 During the years 1262–64, Hallvarðr gullskór succeeded in obtaining the subordination needed from the Icelandic quarter assemblies.17 As seen in the previous account, there are some discrepancies between Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and Íslendinga saga about who obtained the diplomatic nod from the king. Still these differences are less interesting than a more overarching divergence between the two sources, namely in how they described and evaluated the strategies, aims and results of the Icelandic chieftains working on the king’s behalf. Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar viewed the case from the perspective of the king. This interrelation implied that the efforts of the Icelandic chieftains to promote the king’s case in Iceland were evaluated according to whether they succeeded in fulfilling their promises to 10

11 12 13 14 15

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17

Hákonar saga i: 229–31; Sturlunga saga, 1: 277–79. Hereafter ‘Íslendinga saga’ will be referred to as Íslendinga saga, as well as other short sagas dealt with here and later. According to Íslendinga saga, but not Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, Snorri Sturluson went to Iceland as Skúli Bárðarson’s earl in 1239 (Sturlunga saga, 1, 444, cf. Hákonar saga ii: 43). Hákonar saga ii: 24–25; Sturlunga saga, 1: 365–67, 439. Hákonar saga ii: 136–37; Sturlunga saga, 2: 81–86; Sturlunga saga, 1: 476–77. Hákonar saga ii: 156, 161–62; Sturlunga saga, 1: 476–77; Sturlunga saga, 2: 132–36, 208–09. Hákonar saga ii: 203–04; Sturlunga saga, 1: 523–24. For example, Heinrekr Byskup: Hákonar saga ii: 136–37,156; Sturlunga saga, 1: 476–77, 506 (nothing on royal mission); Sturlunga saga, 2: 85–86; 118–19. (less clear about royal mission); Sigvarðr: Hákonar saga ii: 169. According to Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, Sigurðr silkiauga sailed to Iceland in 1254, Ívarr Englason the year after, Þóraldi hvíti in 1258, and Ívarr Arnljótsson and Páll línseyma in 1260 (Hákonar saga ii: 169, 170, 203–04, 207). Only Ívarr Arnljótsson is mentioned in Þorgils saga skarða, where he confused with Ívarr Englason (Sturlunga saga, 2: 208–09). Hákonar saga ii: 222–23; Sturlunga saga, 2: 223–26; Sturlunga saga, 1: 528–29.

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the king or not. In Snorri’s case, he had made very binding promises: ‘Snorri should bring the country under the king’.18 He soon ran into trouble, partly because ‘he made no progress among his countrymen’, partly because ‘he did not promote [the king’s case] very much’.19 Sturla Sighvatsson was accused for the opposite reason: he promoted the royal case in too uncompromising a manner (‘it seemed to the king that Sturla had pursued the case harder than he had advised him to do’).20 Common to both Snorri and Sturla is that they failed in their efforts to bring Iceland under the Norwegian king. Þórðr kakali inversely succeeded in his task by clearing the island of opposition during a remarkably successful two-year military campaign. However, Þórðr ran into problems, not because of the lack of success, but because he was accused of promoting his own case more than the king’s (‘Þórðr kakali cared little about the royal mission’).21 It was crucial not only to succeed in advocating the king’s case in Iceland, but also to present the case in an appropriate manner. This latter aspect grew in importance during the last decades of the Free State period when Gizurr Þorvaldsson became a key figure. After he arrived as a royal envoy in 1252, he was accused of disloyalty towards the king by his fellow delegate Bishop Heinrekr, put under interdict and summoned to Norway by the king in 1254.22 Judging from this series of misadventures, one would not expect Gizurr to get a second chance, but actually he did so, in 1258. Once again, accusations of disloyalty were levelled against him by the king’s officials, now even more precisely explained by the deviation between Gizurr’s and the king’s aims.23 Even if Gizurr obtained success in Iceland, and actually played a considerable part in bringing the country under Norwegian rule, his efforts were not compatible with the instructions that he had been given by the king. This discrepancy was brought to a head when the king’s retainer Hallvarðr gullskór arrived, confronting Gizurr with the stipulations of King Hákon. Hallvarðr encouraged Gizurr to yield, but according to Hákonar saga, Gizurr did not do so until he was forced to at the Althing in 1262.

18 19 20 21 22 23

Hákonar saga i: 229–31. ‘Snorri skyldi koma landinu undir konung.’ Hákonar saga i: 231, ‘engu kom Snorri áleiðis við landsmen; flutti hann [kongssaka] ok litt.’ Hákonar saga ii: 36; see also 43, ‘ok virði konungr svá sem Sturla hefði harðara at farit en hann hafði honum ráð fyrir gert.’ Hákonar saga ii: 152, ‘Þórðr kakali legði litla stund á konungs mál.’ Hákonar saga ii: 161–62, 169–70. Sturlunga saga, 1: 525–28.

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Sturla Writing as an Icelandic Chieftain

Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar evaluated the efforts of royal Icelandic envoys by comparing their results to their initial aims. Two aspects were crucial in this evaluation: whether they had promoted the king’s case properly, and whether they had met with success. Common to all of the Icelandic chieftains is that they failed to adhere to the king’s commands, even if they enjoyed success in Iceland. In Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar Sturla judged their loyalty according to royal standards, and these were set once and for all, allowing for no negotiation or adaptation. In Íslendinga saga, by contrast, the undertakings of these Icelandic magnates were evaluated according to other criteria. Whereas Sturla as a royal biographer regarded the issue from the king’s point of view, in Íslendinga saga he described these same envoys’ undertakings in Iceland quite differently by applying a twofold strategy. Firstly, the royal mission was downplayed in the account in Íslendinga saga. In some instances, as with Sturla Sighvatsson in 1235 and Snorri Sturluson in 1239, the royal commission was not mentioned at all in the saga, and only afterwards was it revealed that the chieftains in question had acted on behalf of the king.24 Snorri’s first mission explains why it was advisable to follow this strategy, because Íslendinga saga recounts that Snorri met with much opposition and scorn when rumours of his submission in Norway leaked out.25 The downplaying of the royal mission is nowhere more evident than in a comparison between the accounts of Cardinal Vilhjálmr’s visit to Norway in 1247 in the two sagas. In Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, he exclaimed the proverbial statement that ‘it was improper that the country [Iceland] did not serve under a king like all other countries in the world’.26 However, according to Þorðar saga kakala he recommended that ‘one man should govern the country if peace was to be secured’.27 The cardinal probably meant this 24

25

26 27

Íslendinga saga refers to Sturla’s appointment with the king as a secret, and it was only after Sturla’s death that the rumour circulated (Sturlunga saga, 1: 363–64, 439). On his arrival in Iceland there is no mention of a royal commission (Sturlunga saga, 2: 388–89). Concerning Snorri, according to Sturla, Arnfinnr Þjófsson stated that Skúli gave Snorri the title of jarl, ‘en engi þeira Íslendinganna lét þat á sannast.’ (‘but none of the Icelanders present regarded that as true’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 444). Mocking verses were made about Snorri’s submission in Norway, and he was accused of having taken the Norwegian’s side against the Icelanders in a conflict (Hákonar saga i: 227, 229–31, Sturlunga saga, 2: 271). Hákonar saga ii: 136, ‘hann kallaði þat ósannligt at land þat þjónaði eigi undir einhvern konung sem öll önnur í veröldinni.’ Sturlunga saga, 2: 83, ‘kvað þat ok ráð, at einn maðr væri skipaðr yfir landit, ef friðr skyldi vera.’

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‘one man’ to be King Hákon, but it is remarkable that no name is mentioned, so that an equally valid interpretation was that Þórðr kakali could fill that role. Sturla’s second strategy of relating the chieftains’ royal mission in Íslendinga saga lay in concentrating his account of the rivalry between chieftains in Iceland, whereby the loyalty to the king soon waned into the background. The Sturlungaöld is famous for its bitter struggles between chieftains. Whereas the struggles intensified both in quality and quantity, at times resembling wars, at the bottom of the hostilities lay the rivalry between chieftains that had fuelled Icelandic development since the Age of Settlement. Things were bigger and bloodier now, but different merely in degree and not in kind.28 Sturla knew these power plays by heart, and in Íslendinga saga he described them with the insight of the insider. Some chieftains succeeded in these power plays, but others did not. Their various fortunes had diverse reasons, but it was their ability to manoeuvre in the political game that was decisive for their success, not their royal mission. It can be argued that Snorri behaved too compliantly, but Sturla too overbearingly,29 and thereby both lost valuable support and were outmanoeuvred by others. Þórðr kakali and Gizurr were more successful, in particular Þórðr, who left Iceland in 1247 as governor of the country.30 Gizurr had more troubles on his first voyage, encountering stubborn resistance from Bishop Heinrekr, who launched a ban against Gizurr. However, the bishop’s course of action was controversial if judged by Icelandic and – one would suppose – also by Norwegian standards, since he supported Gizurr’s enemy Eyjólfr ofsi (‘the overbearing one’) after he burned Gizurr’s family to death at a wedding party in their own home.31 The problems created by supporting Eyjólfr did not stop there. Eyjólfr had been appointed head of parts of Þórðr kakali’s realm, a claim which now ran directly against the king’s claims. Finally, by opposing Gizurr, Bishop Heinrekr also plotted against an envoy of the king, even though the bishop explained his resistance to Gizurr as a result of Gizurr’s disloyalty towards the king.32 The divergence between observing affairs from a royal and Icelandic point of view, respectively, emerges clearly in the last days of the Free State. Gizurr Þorvaldsson had been made jarl by King Hákon in 1258, and subsequently he worked for the king’s case in Iceland. However, after four years not much had been accomplished, and the impatient king started sending Norwegian 28 29 30 31 32

Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Chieftains and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth. Sturlunga saga, 1: 279–84, 414–16. Sturlunga saga, 2: 84–86. Sturlunga saga, 1: 492–501. Sturlunga saga, 1: 492–94; Sturlunga saga, 2: 192–95.

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bishops and retainers to Iceland to further his will.33 As outsiders in Iceland, these men were more loyal to the king, and not surprisingly, they soon entered into conflict with Gizurr, who did things ‘the Icelandic way’. His conduct was labelled as disloyalty by the Norwegians, who considered Gizurr as inserting himself between the people and the king, and they managed to have the submission case brought up at the Althing, where the thingmen swore an oath to the king directly.34 However, Gizurr’s plotting, so negatively portrayed in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, emerges in a quite different light in Íslendinga saga. Even though Gizurr did things otherwise than agreed on, his behaviour did not really mean that he had opposed the king. For instance, the king had demanded that Icelanders pay a tax, but the peasants wanted to pay it via Gizurr to King Hákon. Was this disobedience? Probably not according to Gizurr, but certainly so in Hallvarðr gullskór’s opinion. Now Hallvarðr entered into the paradoxical situation of refusing the Icelanders’ tax to the king, because he thought it would strengthen Gizurr’s standing. At the Althing negotiations in 1262, Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar turned Gizurr into a scapegoat by making him cling to his position and give it up only involuntarily.35 Íslendinga saga saw this event altogether differently. For one thing, it accorded Gizurr a positive and important role in convincing the Althing to swear allegiance to King Hákon.36 And for another, Íslendinga saga acknowledged what everyone knew: that monarchy had to work through intermediaries. This policy meant that in practice the king needed men like Gizurr. Gizurr continued as jarl until his death in 1268. Sturla knew that the king could not do without Gizurr. Even though Sturla and Gizurr came from rival Icelandic families, King Hákon was much more of a stranger to them. Sturla’s ‘Icelandic outlook’ in Íslendinga saga concerning the royal emissaries had two ramifications: He did not measure their success in terms of how close they came to fulfilling promises given to the king beforehand, and he did not distinguish between success on behalf of the king and success for themselves. The two were as intertwined for them as they were for the protagonists he wrote about. I mentioned at the start that Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and Íslendinga saga basically tell the same story of Iceland’s subjugation to Norway. However, it is interesting that the deviations between the two sagas become progressively greater the closer we get to the time of Sturla’s writing and the Icelandic 33 34 35 36

Hákonar saga ii: 207. Hákonar saga ii: 207, 222–23. Hákonar saga ii: 207. Sturlunga saga: 528–29.

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submission. This tendency shows that it cannot be the distance in time, and an eventual lack of information, that caused these discrepancies. How then are we to explain this discrepancy? Is it a result of Sturla’s deliberate lying, or is it a product of his differing positioning in the two sagas? I think the latter option is most likely. Sturla did not outright lie, but merely viewed the past from different points of view in the two sagas. He wrote Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar in Norway while closely attached to royal circles. In this saga, he adopted a royal perspective, and attributed the difficulties in bringing Iceland under the Norwegian king to the lack of commitment on behalf of the Icelandic chieftains to advocate the king’s case in Iceland.37 On the other hand, when writing Íslendinga saga, he had been living in Iceland for many years as a royal lawman. Here, the very same Sturla went far in implicitly pardoning the Icelandic chieftains for this alleged ‘failure’, and defended their right to make the necessary adaptions of the royal case to the Icelandic context in which they operated. Differing interpretations of the past created different pasts as well. Sturla was both an Icelandic chieftain and a royal official, and King Hákon was a rex iustus and, at the same time, a king intent on using his power to outmanoeuvre Icelandic magnates and to reduce their influence as mediating links between king and people in Iceland.

37

See Andersson and Ármann Jakobsson this volume.

chapter 14

Sturla Þórðarson’s Narrative Personalities Theodore M. Andersson There are no doubt many ways to classify the kings’ sagas, but this paper confines itself to just one classification. It proposes to distinguish between two groups of kings’ sagas, one group with a clear Icelandic orientation and a second group with, I believe, an equally clear Norwegian orientation. The I­ celandic bent is peculiar to Morkinskinna and Heimskringla. A Norwegian alignment is most prominent in Sverris saga, Fagrskinna, and, as I will argue here, Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar. The contrast is most easily explained by the supposition that one group came into being as the result of strictly Icelandic initiatives while the other group was written under Norwegian auspices and with royal supervision. The latter group comprises biographies that we might refer to as ‘authorized biographies,’ biographies that have been given a royal imprimatur.1 In a volume devoted to memorializing Sturla Þórðarson the question is how he fits into these two groupings. It appears that he is the only writer of the thirteenth century to compose two long sagas, one belonging to the first group and the other to the second. Íslendinga saga is a purely Icelandic undertaking, whereas Hákonar saga was written at the explicit bidding of King Hákon’s son Magnús and Magnús’s advisers.2 Sturla therefore gives us the best opportunity to compare and differentiate between these two types of literature. As a point of departure for such a comparison we might refer to a statement in Finnur Jónsson’s great literary history to the effect that Hákonar saga and Íslendinga saga are written in the same style.3 The gist of what follows is that they are in fact crucially different. The concept 1 Ólafía Einarsdóttir referred to Sverris saga as a ‘bestillingsværk’ in ‘Sverrir – præst og konge’: 68. 2 ‘[King Magnús]… skipaði honum [Sturla] þann vanda at setja saman sögu Hákonar konungs föður sins, eftir sjálfs hans ráði ok inna vitrustu manna forsögn’. (‘[King Magnús] assigned him [Sturla] the difficult task of composing the saga of his father King Hákon according to his own advice and the supervision of his wisest men’). See ‘Sturlu þáttr’ in Sturlunga saga, 2: 234. 3 Finnur Jónsson, Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie 2: 727: ‘Alt, hvad vi i så henseende kan fremdrage, passer på ham [Sturla], som vi kender ham fra hans Hákonarsaga, stilen, nøjagtigheden, forfatterintresser, alt er talende nok.’ More recently Hans Jacob Orning recognizes differences and accounts for them by assuming that Sturla adjusted half-consciuosly to the differing contexts in which he wrote. See Orning, Unpredictability and Presence: 255–56. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_015

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‘style’ can of course mean a number of things. It can refer to syntax or sentence formation, but it can also refer to much larger categories such as outlook or overall perspectives, attitudes, or thought patterns. It is with respect to these larger categories that the two texts differ, and to my mind they differ radically.

Contrasting Styles

Íslendinga saga gives the impression of being unsurveyable but is in fact all of a piece, at least down to 1242, a little after the Battle of Örlygsstaðir. Ever since the days of Björn Magnússon Ólsen it has been observed that Íslendinga saga can be considered a continuation of Sturlu saga since the two sagas fit together chronologically and tell the ongoing story of the same family.4 Each chapter is either pinpointed on, or leads up to, an important moment in the lives of the Sturlungar – Snorri Sturluson or Sighvatr Sturluson (less often Þórðr Sturluson) or Snorri’s son Órækja or Sighvatr’s son Sturla. It is truly a family saga, if that term had not been reserved for use elsewhere in the saga lexicon. Alternatively, the book could have been titled ‘Sturlunga saga’ if that title had not been preempted to describe the larger compilation. Like Sturlu saga the continuation is cast as a series of lesser encounters leading up to major confrontations: the battle at Víðines, the battle at Helgastaðir, the battle at Hólar, the battle on Grímsey, the burning in of Þorvaldr Snorrason at Gillastaðir, the pillaging and burning at Sauðafell, the battle in Hundadalur, the battle at Bær, and the face-off at Skálholt.5 This part of the narrative can be viewed as a unified story leading up to the great culmination at the Battle of Örlygsstaðir, in which two of the chief Sturlungar succumb, Sighvatr and his son Sturla. The narrative, though more detailed, has the same shape as the classical sagas, in which a series of lesser encounters prefaces a catastrophic ­finale.6 In other words, the Icelandic author has chosen a native Icelandic structure to articulate his narrative. 4 See Björn M. Ólsen, ‘Um Sturlungu’: 224, 391, 435; Pétur Sigurðsson, ‘Um Íslendinga sögu’: 3; Jón Jóhannesson, ‘Um Sturlunga sögu’ in Sturlunga saga, 2: xxxv. 5 On the segment from Bœr to Örlygsstaðir see Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, ‘Historie­ fortælleren Sturla Þórðarson’: 14–23. 6 The styles of Íslendinga saga and the classical sagas are often compared. See Ármann Jakobs­ son, ‘Sannyrði sverða: Vígaferli í Íslendinga sögu og hugmundarfræði sögunnar.’; Marlene Ciklamini, ‘Biographical Reflections in Islendinga saga: A Mirror of Personal Values’: 206; Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, Chieftain and Power in the Icelandic Commonwealth: 33; Jónas Kristjánsson, ‘Íslendingasögur og Sturlunga’; Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Actions in Thirteenth-Century I­ celand: 220, and ‘The Contemporary Sagas and Their Social Context’ in Old Icelandic Literature and Society: 224; Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: 37, 84.

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Altogether different is the shape of Hákonar saga. Here the structure is not a sequence of escalating conflicts but a strictly biographical arrangement. It tells of Hákon’s birth and infancy, the competition for the throne, Hákon’s problematical dealings with Jarl Skúli, and his ultimate emergence as an international figure. If the author had opted for Icelandic saga structure, he would have placed the opposition between King Hákon and Jarl Skúli at the center of the story, marked Skúli’s fall as the climax, and added Hákon’s rule from 1240 to 1263 as an aftermath.7 In contrast to saga style the narrative does not tell us much about Hákon’s personal involvements or his military actions.8 To be sure, he fights against the Slittungar and Ribbungar, but his participation is not much emphasized. He is cast as a commander, not a warrior. It is as if the author wishes us to believe that everything is under control. In Íslendinga saga everything falls apart, but in Hákonar saga success seems preordained. The handling of conflict is also strikingly different. Íslendinga saga is a notoriously sanguinary account, and the author is unsparing in his depiction of violence. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson famously tried to relativize the violence by emphasizing the cultural achievements of the Sturlung Age; he noted the estimate of 350 killings in this period and he found that number not to be inordinate.9 It naturally shrinks in comparison to the millions killed in modern warfare, but the recurrent descriptions of how men are dragged from their houses or otherwise captured and executed or maimed is nonetheless chilling. I have noted forty-two such instances in Íslendinga saga with a total loss of life amounting to seventy-six.10 Such moments are less prominent in the classical sagas.11 It is indeed the absence of the practice in the classical sagas that makes the scenes so grim in Íslendinga saga. We can account for the difference by supposing that the classical sagas are idealizing documents. Execution and maiming may in fact have

7 See Hákonar saga ii: 39. 8 See Sverre Bagge, From Gang Leader to the Lord’s Anointed: 120–31. 9 Einar Ólafur Sveinsson, Sturlungaöld: 76–77; Trans. Jóhann S. Hannesson, The Age of the Sturlungs: 72. Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action: 199, calculated an average of seven killings per year in the period 1208–1260. 10 See Sturlunga saga, 1: 244, 246, 249, 253, 264–65, 271, 274–77, 287–88, 296, 297–98, 301–2, 316, 324, 356–57, 361–62, 364–65, 365–67, 368–70, 380, 381, 383–84, 392–94, 417–18, 421, 436, 437, 438, 442, 443, 449, 454, 457, 475. 11 I have not tabulated the cases in the classical sagas. Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Sannyrði sverða’: 50, notes an execution in Eyrbyggja saga (eds. Einar Ólafur Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson: 164) and there are probably other examples, especially executions of suspected sorcerers, but they are not nearly as numerous as in Íslendinga saga.

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existed in the earlier period, but if so, the saga authors seem to have thought that such matters were best left unmentioned. That in turn suggests that we are not the only ones to experience a distaste for the practice; thirteenth-­century Icelanders may have had the same reaction and may therefore have omitted the practice from the accounts of their golden age. If we turn to Hákonar saga, however, we find an entirely different picture. There is virtually no recourse to execution or hand-hewing or foot-hewing. At the very end of the saga King Hákon is credited with a contrary policy: ‘He put an end to all killings and foot-hewing within the country, and hand-hewings as well, unless there was adequate justification’.12 This policy probably does not mean that the Norwegians were more delicate about killing and maiming than the Icelanders were in the thirteenth century. The very fact that Hákon enacted ‘new laws’ against the practice means that it must have been common in Norway as well. Wanton killing is, for example, illustrated by the rampaging Várbelgir after Skúli assumes the title of king,13 and we know from both Íslend­ inga saga and Guðmundar saga dýra that some Norwegians hand-hewed an Icelander named Skæringr in the early thirteenth century.14 If they engaged in this practice abroad, they presumably did so at home as well. How do we account for the fact that Hákonar saga makes no mention of the practice except to discredit it? The same writer, Sturla Þórðarson, details it for the most part in a neutral tone in one book and excludes it altogether from another book. He is clearly not inventing it for narrative effect in Íslendinga saga. He must therefore be omitting it as a matter of policy from Hákonar saga. But why does one policy prevail in one book and a different policy in the other book? The explanation may be that the policy decision was not in Sturla’s hands. The policy in Hákonar saga was probably dictated by King Magnús and his advisers, who wished to convey an idealized portrait of King Hákon and the favorable conditions he promoted in the country he ruled.15 It was noted above that King Hákon is a virtually invisible presence in the military operations of his reign. Moreover, he is never explicitly shown to be present at a killing. His role is not to kill but to grant pardon, to give grið ­(‘amnesty’) in cases where killing might be expected. There are ten or a dozen 12 13 14 15

Hákonar saga ii: 265, ‘Af tók hann öll manndráp ok fóthögg innanlands ok svá handhögg, útan ærnar væri sakir til.’ Hákonar saga ii: 53–58. Sturlunga saga, 1: 212, 246, 253. See also William Ian Miller, Bloodtaking and Peacemaking: 1–4. See Ólafía Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeværdi belyst ved Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar’: 61–62.

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such cases.16 Nor does Hákon ever order killings, with one particularly instructive exception.17 In this case he is reproached for being too lenient toward the rampaging Birkibeinar. King Hákon responds with unaccustomed severity and orders one of the offenders to be killed because he has been óspakr (‘undisciplined’), probably a matter of wanton plundering, or perhaps worse. This one exception to the general rule of pardon in Hákonar saga seems designed to protect Norwegian civilians against unruly troops and therefore does not compromise the king. If there is blame to be assessed in Hákonar saga, it is aimed at the Birkibeinar as a group rather than at the king as an individual.18 There is, it should be said, one other execution ordered by King Hákon. It is located in an episode in which a Norwegian seriously wounds an Icelander to exact revenge for a matter growing out of the great trade dispute of 1215–1220. The Norwegian makes good his escape and runs off, but King Hákon orders that he be pursued and executed wherever he is found. We may note that he is caught at a distance from the court and is therefore not executed in the king’s presence. The most interesting aspect of this incident is that it is not told in Hákonar saga but only in Íslendinga saga.19 Sturla knew about the incident but chose not to include it in Hákonar saga. He may of course have omitted it because it was not important enough to include, but we could also imagine that it was excluded because the author or his patrons thought that it implicated the king too directly in the spilling of blood. The author, or more likely the sponsor (King Magnús), may have wished King Hákon to have perfectly clean hands. Although the incident is omitted, it could very well have been included in Hákonar saga because it would have served to underscore a recurring theme in the saga, that is, Hákon’s special concern for the Icelanders, in this case vengeance for a badly wounded Icelander. The theme is sounded at the very outset of Hákon’s career. When Jarl Skúli proposes a punitive expedition to Iceland in 1220, King Hákon, at the ripe age of seventeen, is credited with lecturing him on the matter of policy:20 16

Hákonar saga i: 240, 242–43, 283, 287; Hákonar saga ii: 5, 63, 69, 81, 106, 107–8, 258 (2 cases). See also the ‘Formáli’ in Hákonar saga ii: xxxvi–xxxviii. On grið in general see Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action: 183–98. See also Orning, Unpredictability and Presence: 173–74. 17 Hákonar saga i: 316. 18 See Hákonar saga i: 240 and especially the conduct of the Birkibeinar when Skúli is killed in Hákonar saga ii: 114. 19 Sturlunga saga, 1: 286. 20 Hákonar saga i: 230, “‘Herra jarl,’ sagði hann, ‘ætlan sú er hér hefir verit í sumar sýnisk ráðinu ekki vitrlig, at herr sé gerr til Íslands, því at sú ferð þykkir torsóttlig. En land þat hefir heðan byggzk, ok várir frændr ok forellrar hafa kristnat landit ok veitt landsmönnum

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‘Sir Jarl,’ he said, ‘the intention voiced here during the summer does not appear to the council to be wise, to wit that an army should be dispatched to Iceland, for such a mission seems problematical. That country was settled from here, and our kin and ancestors Christianized the country and gave their countrymen an excellent new start. Most of the people are blameless with respect to us, though some of them have done our citizens harm. But it will be to everybody’s disadvantage if the land is ravaged.’ No one is likely to believe that these were the actual words of the teenage king, but it is not unlikely that they represent a court consensus. They are in fact directly followed by the well-known words: ‘This was the first time it was discussed by the jarl that Snorri should bring the country [Iceland] under the king’s rule.’21 Hákon’s reticence suggests an agreement that, if Iceland is to be mollified in preparation for annexation, it would not be wise to begin with an attack. Consequently, there is a gentle approach to Iceland in the early years of Hákon’s reign. Thus when Sturla Sighvatsson comes to the Norwegian court in 1234 and talks to the king about unification, Hákon is distressed by the news of unrest in Iceland and urges a civil consensus. At the same time Hákon cautions his visitor:22 The king said that the country should not be won at the cost of killing and advised him [Sturla] to capture men and send them abroad or appropriate their territory by other means if he could. But when Órækja comes to court the following year and reports continued unrest, we are told ‘. . [that] the king judged that Sturla had proceeded more aggressively than he [Hákon] had advised him.’23 The author seems to be telling us that King Hákon had Icelandic interests at heart even more than the Icelanders themselves, but that is surely more an official stance than an accurate assessment.

21 22 23

mikil hlunnendi. Eru þar ok flestir menn saklausir fyrir oss, þó at sumir hafi illa gert til várra þegna. En þat mun verða allra skaði ef landit er herjat’.” Hákonar saga i: 230, ‘Var þá fyrsta sinni rætt um þat af jarli at Snorri skyldi koma landinu undir konung.’ Hákonar saga ii: 25, ‘Konungr sagði svá at eigi skyldi með manndrápum vinna landit, en bað hann taka menn ok senda útan eða fá ríki þeira með öðru móti af hann mætti.’ Hákonar saga ii: 36, ‘… ok virði konungr svá sem Sturla hefði harðara at farit en hann hafði honum ráð fyrir gert.’

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Sturla and Iceland

The theme of Hákon’s solicitude on behalf of the Icelanders persists even after Snorri Sturluson has been killed in 1241.24 There cannot be much doubt that King Hákon issued an order that Snorri either be returned to Norway or be killed, as we are told in Íslendinga saga.25 Since Hákon is portrayed as being averse to executions, such an order would not have been recorded unless it were true and known to a wider circle.26 And yet King Hákon does not stand by it. When Órækja appears before him in 1242, the king forgives him for sailing without permission, but he goes on to say that because of this disobedience he deserves to die more than his father did.27 He says further that ‘his father would not have died if he had come to meet with me.’ King Hákon might very well have spared Snorri in line with his general policy, but it sounds as though the king is claiming that he was misunderstood and that he did not intend that Snorri should be killed. In other words, it sounds false; the king is trying to excuse himself. As late as 1261, when the northern Icelanders agree to taxation, King Hákon’s representative Hallvarðr gullskór reassures them by stating that the king did not want the farmers to be forced to make such great e­ xpenditures – he said that the king wanted the allegiance of the farmers and whatever land taxes it would cost them no great strain to render.28 This is sweet talk pure and simple, and surely too sweet to be true. King Hákon has clearly adopted the posture of being the Icelanders’ special friend. Or is it the Norwegian court, King Magnús and his advisers, who have elected to give him this appearance in retrospect, as Ólafía Einarsdóttir has argued?29 Ármann Jakobsson and by extension the editors of the new Íslenzk fornrit edition express the view that King Hákon’s serious designs on Iceland date from the visit of Cardinal William of Sabina in Norway in 1247, but the discussion of 24 25 26 27 28

29

Hákonar saga ii: 119. Sturlunga saga, 1: 453. Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Hákon Hákonarson: Friðarkonungur eða fúlmenni?’: 175–76, finds grounds for mitigating King Hákon’s responsibility for Snorri’s death. Hákonar saga ii: 119. Hákonar saga ii: 222, ‘… konungrinn vildi ekki at bændr væri pyndir til svá mikilla fé­ gjalda, sagði hann at konungrinn vildi hafa hlýðni af bóndum ok slíkan skatt af landi sem þeim yrði engir afarkostir í at gjalda.’ Gunnar Benediktsson, Sagnameistarinn Sturla: 140, notes that Hallvarðr gullskór puts a ‘courtly construction’ on Hákon’s demand for taxes. Ólafía Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeværdi’: 61–62.

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Norwegian rule in Iceland in 1220 may suggest that the annexation of Iceland was a fairly long-standing item on the Norwegian foreign policy agenda.30 That ambition would explain why King Hákon is credited with such a consistent attempt to make himself agreeable to the Icelanders. Hákon kills no one with the exception of one war criminal. He is not a real presence on the battlefield, and he is absent from the most important killings. When he seems to be associated with a killing, he is at pains to distance himself, as in the case of Snorri Sturluson. Most importantly, he is always motivated to grant pardon (grið), especially when it is requested.31 The point is made with special vigor on one occasion when he does actually seem to be involved in the fighting. At the conclusion of the battle we are told: As fierce as King Hákon had been during the day in destroying his enemies, it was no less exceptional how merciful he was afterward in the granting of amnesty to all those who submitted to his authority.32 But can we really suppose that Hákon was as irreproachable as his saga would have us believe? It is difficult to accept the idealized portraiture at face value because the signs of programmatic vindication are so manifest. The author tries too hard to make Hákon into what Ármann Jakobsson has called a peaceloving king. Hákon does not appear to have been the sort of peaceable stayat-home that Óláfr kyrri was reputed to have been in the late eleventh century. On the contrary, he seems to have conducted a very vigorous, even aggressive, foreign policy. He raised large armies against Denmark and Sweden but had the good fortune to arrive at settlements before it came to armed conflict. He reached out to the Holy Roman Empire and Spain as no previous Norwegian monarch had done. He also organized a huge fleet to re-conquer the Celtic possessions that the notoriously aggressive Magnús berfœttr had annexed in the early twelfth century. Finally, there is the matter of Iceland. It is a complicated matter, but Hákonar saga can be read to mean that King Hákon intended to lure Iceland into ­compliance rather than trying to force it, which would have been a difficult military undertaking. The constant interaction between Icelandic c­ hieftains 30 31 32

Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Hákon Hákonarson: Friðarkonungur eða fúlmenni?’: 176–77, and Hákonar saga i: lxvi–lxvii. See Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action: 195. Hákonar saga ii: 107, ‘Ok svá grimmr sem Hakon konungr hafði verit um daginn at fyrirkoma sínum óvinum þá var ok eigi hit minnr frá móti hversu miskunnsamr hann var síðan í griðgjöfum við alla þá er á hans vald gengu.’

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and the Norwegian king, as well as the repeated complaints that the Icelandic chieftains were not doing what they had undertaken to do, suggest that the annexation of Iceland was a steady focus of Norwegian policy in the thirteenth ­century.33 The ultimate goal may have been taxation because, although the saga does not say so, King Hákon must have run an expensive government and must have needed whatever resources he could muster.34 The indications in Hákonar saga are that the Icelanders were not enthusiastic about annexation, any more than they were in the days of Óláfr Haraldsson two hundred years earlier. Indeed, the account given in Heimskringla about Icelandic resistance to annexation in the 1020s may well be read as a reflection of and a commentary on the Norwegian policy in the 1220s. Provided that we believe Snorri Sturluson to be the author of Óláfs saga helga in Heimskringla, it is tempting to make this connection because we are told that Snorri was the first with whom it was discussed that Iceland be brought ‘under the king’s rule.’ Hákonar saga tells us that he did not get very far with his countrymen, nor did he have his heart in it.35 His account of the dealings with Óláfr Haraldsson in the 1020s, if he is the author, might well explain why. That the Icelanders were resistant to the rule of a Norwegian king in the thirteenth century is confirmed by a passage in the fragment of Sturla Þórðarson’s saga about King Magnús Hákonarson. It recalls the moment at which Hallvarðr gullskór brings news of Iceland’s submission. The text reads as follows:36 He [Hallvarðr gullskór] was accompanied by Þorvarðr Þórarinsson, who submitted to King Magnús and handed over all his authority for the wrongs he had committed against royal rule in the killing of Þorgils skarði and Bergr, the retainers of King Hákon. Since then the Icelanders have never opposed the commands and interdictions of King Magnús. They also submitted to him with greater accommodation than they did to his father King Hákon.

33 34 35 36

Dissatisfaction with the performance of the chieftains is found in Hákonar saga ii: 153, 161–62, 170, 207, 210. See Ólafía Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeværdi’: 48. Hákonar saga i: 231. Hákonar saga ii: 273, ‘Þar var þá með honum Þorvarðr Þórarinsson, ok gekk hann á vald Magnúss konungs ok gaf allt sitt ríki í hans vald fyrir þá hluti er hann hafði brotit við kon­ ungsdóminn í aftöku Þorgils skarða ok Bergs, hirðmanna konungs Hákonar. Hafa síðan Íslendingar aldrigi í móti mælt at hlýða boði ok banni Magnúss konungs. Gengu þeir ok með meiri blíðu undir hann en Hákon konung, föður hans.’

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This implies that they did indeed resist King Hákon, no matter what efforts are made in Hákonar saga to minimize their resistance. It has sometimes been said that Hákonar saga is the most reliable of the kings’ sagas.37 It may be more reliable than others with respect to such matters as chronology and the cast of characters, but it may be less reliable on attitudes and perspectives. We might even consider whether it is not something of a political whitewash designed to disguise the real King Hákon and project an ideal. If we ask how this came about, the answer might be that the saga is technically written by Sturla Þórðarson but that the writing was tightly controlled by the Norwegian court, where as we know from ‘Sturlu þáttr,’ in Sturlunga saga, King Magnús and his advisers oversaw the commission.38 The point has been made by Ólafía Einarsdóttir.39 It was of course in the interest of the court to make Hákon appear in as favorable a light as possible. The collaboration of an Icelandic writer with court sponsors raises the question of the extent to which the resulting document is an Icelandic creation and the extent to which it is a Norwegian creation. We know that Sturla went to Norway in 1263 and wrote the book in two years. He appears not to have traveled much, at least not before he wrote the book. He was therefore completely dependent on his immediate court surroundings for the details of his narrative. There are a great many personal and place names apart from the information on events, and all of this must have been communicated by his Norwegian informants. If he was so dependent on N ­ orwegian sources for his story, it is reasonable to think that he would also have been dependent on them for his point of view. Íslendinga saga belongs in an Icelandic context because it echoes Sturlu saga and the classical sagas in composition and narrative rhythm. But can we argue that Hákonar saga belongs in a contrasting Norwegian context? Sverr­ is saga suggests that there may have been such an alternative, a tradition in which the king’s interests and perspectives dominate the tone and viewpoint of the text and in which the authorial stance is obscured by royal concerns. Fagrskinna is an equally telling example of a Norwegian orientation. It looks very much like a direct response to the Icelandic orientation in Morkinskinna, which is peopled by a host of Icelanders whose presence sometimes compromises the Norwegian king. In Fagrskinna there is only one isolated reference to the Icelanders.40 This is remarkable since more than 250 Icelandic skaldic 37 38 39 40

See Peter Hallberg, ‘Sturlunga saga – en isländsk tidsspegel’, and Hákonar saga ii: xxxvi. Sturlunga saga, 2: 234. Ólafía Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeværdi’: 45. Ágrip: 261.

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stanzas are cited and the text is based on as many as nine different Icelandic prose compositions. Readers may feel that they are being urged to consider Norwegian history as an autonomous entity quite separate from the Icelandic codifications, which are relegated to the background as quite incidental. Furthermore, Fagrskinna is at pains to make the Norwegian kings better than they were in the Icelandic sources. Haraldr hárfagri is freed from the charges of tyranny that will haunt him in Egils saga and Heimskringla.41 Eiríkr blóðøx’s cognomen is explained not from the fratricide attributed to him elsewhere but from his viking activity in general.42 In other sources Hákon góði is criticized for his participation in a heathen sacrificial ritual in Mœrr, but in Fagrskinna his participation is characterized only as an expression of good will.43 Fagrskinna does not dwell on Jarl Hákon’s paganism and suppresses the ugly details of his death in a pigsty.44 In the story of Óláfr Tryggvason the author draws on Oddr Snorrason’s Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar but eliminates all the conversion atrocities in that account. Haraldr harðráði, who is a problematical character in Morkinskinna, undergoes a complete transformation. As Gustav Indrebø wrote a century ago: ‘It is hard to point out an episode or a single sentence that contains anything negative about King Haraldr.’45 In short, in the early 1260s when Hákonar saga was written there would have been nothing new about a pro-Norwegian, pro-royal bias. If it is true that the ‘konungatal’ that was read to King Hákon on his deathbed was in fact Fagrskinna, we may guess that a pro-royal bias would have appealed to the dying king.46 That bias seems to have originated in Sverris saga, which was also read to Hákon. The preference for a Norwegian outlook could very well have been revived in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and have served to exalt the most recent king. It is therefore not certain that King Hákon was as peace-loving as his saga suggests, although that is certainly the way he wished to be seen and remembered. We might rather view him as a skilled politician who was able to promote a positive image of his activity, an image that was carefully cultivated by his successor King Magnús and his courtiers who advised Sturla Þórðarson in the tradition of royal panegyric. The contrast between an Icelandic historical bias and a Norwegian historical bias is not without larger implications. There has been a considerable 41 See Gustav Indrebø, Fagrskinna: 127. 42 Indrebø, Fagrskinna: 132–33; Ágrip: 79. 43 Ágrip: 80. 44 Indrebø, Fagrskinna:158; Ágrip: 139. 45 Indrebø, Fagrskinna: 200. 46 See Hákonar saga ii: 261 and Ágrip: cxxiv–cxxv.

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d­ ebate in Iceland about when the Icelanders began to perceive themselves as having an identity quite distinct from the Norwegians. Space does not permit a rehearsal of that debate, but there is much to recommend Gunnar Karlsson’s view that a sense of separate status in Iceland reaches quite far back, perhaps even into the tenth century.47 By the time the thirteenth century came around, the Icelanders must have felt that the distance from Norway was not only appreciable but also problematical, while the Norwegians may have felt that the long association was loosening or even failing. The sense emerges from Hákonar saga that the king was contending with real resistance from the Icelanders and that the time had come for quite forceful or even aggressive diplomacy. One of the clear tendencies in Hákonar saga is to sheathe and conceal the aggressive impulse and make it appear in the guise of good will or even special solicitude for the welfare of the Icelanders. It is difficult to believe that King Hákon was really attuned to the welfare of the Icelanders. Surely his policy was guided by his own interests, and one of his important interests was the acquisition of Iceland. Returning to the contrast between Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga we may conclude that they were written by the same author but under very different circumstances. The Sturla Þórðarson who wrote Íslendinga saga was a relatively free agent, but in Hákonar saga he was not free. He was subject to the outlook of King Magnús and his advisers, who gave him the commission to write the saga. It was a carefully controlled commission. This view accords with what Ólafía Einarsdóttir wrote in 1995, but she emphasized the new direction in King Magnús’s policy, whereas the present paper emphasizes a tradition of royal control in the writing of the kings’ sagas going back to Sverris saga and Fagrskinna.48 Where Sturla was free from centralized control, he has often been admired for his relative neutrality, but where he was subject to royal constraint, it is more difficult to assume a neutral posture. Sturla wrote what King Magnús and his courtiers wanted him to write.49

47 48 49

See, for example, his papers ‘Íslensk þjóðernisvitund á óþjóðlegum öldum’, and ‘Syrpa um þjóðernisumræðu.’ Ólafía Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeværdi’: 45. Sturla’s reputed neutrality in Íslendinga saga has naturally also been questioned, for example by Jón Jóhannesson, ‘Um Sturlunga sögu’ in Sturlunga saga, 2: xiii. The most telling and detailed study is Árni Pálsson’s exploration of Sturla’s subtle undermining of his uncle Snorri, ‘Snorri Sturluson og Íslendingasaga.’

chapter 15

Reykholt Revisited Úlfar Bragason Translated by Anna H. Yates ‘I’ve been here before.’ The words seemed to ring back to me enriched from the vaults of my dungeon. ‘Oh well, you know all about it. …’ I had been there before; I knew all about it.1 Thus ends the Prologue to Evelyn Waugh’s novel Brideshead Revisited: The Sacred and Profane Memories of Captain Charles Ryder, with a dialogue between the protagonist/narrator and his young officer Hooper about Brideshead Castle and its World of Yesterday. Mutatis mutandis, we may say that Ryder stands in the footsteps of saga-writer Sturla Þórðarson (1214–1284) when, in his old age, he looked back over his long life to tell his pupil Þórðr Narfason about the time he spent at Reykholt in the family home of his uncle Snorri Sturluson. In this paper I shall address particularly the relationship between Snorri and Sturla – which had many features of a father-son relationship – the character description of Snorri in Íslendinga saga, and the reasons for the saga’s assumed criticism of him. But let us first consider what kind of work Íslendinga saga is.

Íslendinga saga

Sturla Þórðarson’s Íslendinga saga is the backbone of Sturlunga saga, which is a compilation of contemporary sagas recounting events supposed to have taken place in Iceland in the late twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The saga is preserved in two parchment manuscripts dating from the latter half of the fourteenth century, Króksfjarðarbók and Reykjarfjarðarbók – neither of which survives complete – and in about 40 copies on paper from later periods. Scholars believe that the compilation was originally made around 1300. Guðbrandur Vigfússon postulated a link with the lawspeaker Þórðr Narfason of Skarð at 1 Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited: 26.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_016

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Skarðsströnd (d. 1308); according to ‘Sturlu þáttur,’ Þórðr had stayed with Sturla the saga-writer.2 Scholars’ views have differed regarding the span of time covered by Íslendinga saga, but today the general consensus is that the saga recounts conflicts between and within Iceland’s leading clans during the period from 1183 to 1262/1264.3 The saga splices together biographies of many people, generation after generation, within the genealogical framework. The Sturlungar are, according to the saga, one of the major clans, and the compilation derives its name from them; but it may not necessarily have been known by that name originally. Precisely when Íslendinga saga was written is unknown, but the general view is that Sturla continued working on it until the last years of his life. However, it remains unclear when he began writing the saga – or having it written.4 By way of comparison, in late medieval England chronicles appear to have been predominantly written by middle-aged to elderly males.5 The presumption is that they were regarded as having the wisdom and knowledge required for the task. Hence Sturla may have begun writing as late as around 1260. If the compiler’s Prologue to Sturlunga is to be believed, Sturla based his work on accounts from the elderly, his own experiences, as well as written documents (Lat. breve (scriptum)).6 He himself may have penned some of these, in the context of the genealogies he is reputed to have compiled.7 Such genealogies were a common phenomenon in the Middle Ages, and as Lesley Coote suggests they served a purpose similar to the family photograph album in modern times: These memories, including their ‘forgettings’, were in part formed by groups of people – families, friends, acquaintances, neighbours, ­patrons – sitting around a genealogical tree. In this situation they would rehearse their own knowledge of, and participation in, the history connected with the document. This would include prophecies, the remembrances of personages, living and dead, maybe quotations from the Bible or from 2 Guðbrandur Vigfússon, ‘Prolegomena’ Sturlunga saga, Ed. Guðbrandur Vigfússon, 1: c–cvi, cviii–cx. 3 Jón Jóhannesson, ‘Um Sturlunga sögu’ Sturlunga saga, 2: xxxiv–xxxviii. 4 Jón Jóhannesson, ‘Um Sturlunga sögu’ Sturlunga saga, 2: xxxviii–xxxix; cf. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Sturla Þórðarson, minni og vald’: 320–21. 5 Chris Given-Wilson, Chronicles: 61–62. 6 Sturlunga saga, 1: 115. 7 Björn M. Ólsen, ‘Um Sturlungu’: 383–85.

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romance, and other narratives which they considered to be appropriate to the debate, the renegotiation of memory, arising from what they saw on the page.8 As an example, Þórðr kakali had a long ‘roll’ (Lat. rotula) read aloud to King Hákon Hákonarson of Norway ‘which he had had written about the dealings between the Haukadalur clan and the Sturlungs.’9 The obvious candidate as the compiler of the roll was Sturla, on whom Þórðr kakali placed great reliance for his wisdom and experience. Around 1900 three leading scholars of Nordic studies – W.P. Ker, Björn M. Ólsen and Kristian Kålund – laid the basis for all subsequent research on Sturlunga: Kålund with his essential edition of the compilation, published in Copenhagen in 1906–1911; Björn M. Ólsen with his research into the elements which make up the compilation published in his study Um Sturlungu (1902); and W.P. Ker in his study of the saga as art in Epic and Romance: Essays on Medieval Literature (1897). Sturla Þórðarson and his school have probably nowhere received such unequivocal praise as from Ker in his remarkable work – and Ker was far ahead of his contemporaries in his assessment of the narrative art of the sagas. Describing the narrator, perspective and impartiality of the sagas, W.P. Ker took Sturla Þórðarson’s Íslendinga saga as an example: […] the Icelandic narrators give the succession of events, either as they might appear to an impartial spectator, or (on occasion) as they are viewed by some one in the story, but never as they merely affect the writer himself, though he may be as important a personage as Sturla [Þórðarson] was in the events of which he wrote the Chronicle.10 This narrative mode makes it difficult, of course, for the analyst to discern the views, values and feelings conveyed in the saga. Just as in historical writings of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the narrator stands back, while the objective narrative draws up what appears to be a vivid image of the past.11 This narrative method has sometimes led to the conclusion that the contemporary sagas artlessly give an account of life as it was. Harsh judgements 8 9 10 11

Lesley Coote, ‘Prophecy, Genealogy, and History in Medieval English Political Discourse’: 44. ‘er hann hafði látit rita um skipti þeira Haukdæla ok Sturlunga.’ (Sturlunga saga, 2: 82.). W.P. Ker, Epic and Romance: 273. Cf. Robert F. Berkhofer, Jr., Beyond the Great Story: 160.

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have been made of the state of Iceland in the thirteenth century, based on the evidence of Sturlunga. It sometimes seems that it has not occurred to readers that this dark picture of the Sturlung Age is informed by their sources – the compilers of the contemporary sagas: how they selected what to include, and how they presented it. No distinction is made between the narrative and the reference; these readers have bought into its referential illusion (Fr. effet de réel).12 Historians have, however, been well aware of the two sides of Sturlunga as a narrative source: on the one hand, it is a collection of accounts of events which are supposed to have happened, and, on the other, a source regarding the writers/compilers, their attitudes and textual community.13 For the word saga embraces two meanings: both the events, and the narrative of the events. In his introduction to the Sturlunga edition of 1946, Jón Jóhannesson complained that the authors of the compilation had been more interested in individuals than in the history of the nation, expressing the wish that more had been recounted of the protagonists’ peaceful activities.14 He maintained that the sagas of the compilation were not impartial as was widely believed, but that they were evidence of the views and attitudes of those who wrote them. This view expressed by Jón Jóhannesson should long ago have diverted historians from their positivist research on Sturlunga, and led more literary scholars to explore the narrative art of the contemporary sagas. Sturla Þórðarson’s Íslendinga saga is a historical interpretation, often the only extant version of the events. In addition, Sturla was not only the principal source of the saga, but also its narrator, and one of the characters in the story. The saga includes some of the main points of the saga-writer’s own life story. It must be borne in mind, however, that the emphases in the narrative, and the selection of material, are a function of the literary conventions of Iceland in the thirteenth century. The saga provides limited insight into the characters and the relationships between them, although it purports to be a true account. Nonetheless, Íslendinga saga is a product of the saga-writer’s values and his time, his view on people and issues, his affect and empathy.15 Historian Domenick LaCapra has defined empathy as follows: […] empathy is mistakenly conflated with identification or fusion with the other; it is opposed to sympathy (…) empathy should rather be 12 13 14 15

See Roland Barthes, ‘The Reality Effect’. See Gunnar Karlsson, Inngangur að miðöldum: 73–75. Jón Jóhannesson, ‘Um Sturlunga sögu,’ Sturlunga saga, 2: xii–xiii. See Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: 141–58.

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­ nderstood in terms of an affective relation, rapport, or bond with the u other recognized and respected as other. It may be further related to the affirmation of otherness within the self – otherness that is not purely and discretely other. This affirmation applies to the imbrication of the past in the present as well as to one’s interaction with particular others, including the dead.16 Sturla Þórðarson ‘recognized and respected’ Snorri Sturluson, his uncle, as ‘other’ in his narrative, while his saga should also be seen as an ‘affirmation of otherness within himself’ when he recounts from memory his interaction ‘with particular others,’ including Snorri, who had died long before. However, one must keep in mind that where medieval writings are concerned little distinction was generally drawn between writer, scribe and patron. For that reason, it is possible that the views and feelings expressed in medieval writings may be attributable to some kind of emotional community, rather than to any specific individual. Historian Barbara H. Rosenwein writes: An emotional community is a group in which people have a common stake, interests, values, and goals. Thus it is often a social community. But it is also possibly a ‘textual community,’ created and reinforced by ideologies, teachings, and common presuppositions. With their very vocabulary, texts offer exemplars of emotions belittled and valorized. In the Middle Ages, texts were memorized, made part of the self, and ‘lived with’ in a way analogous to communing with a friend.17 The accounts of Íslendinga saga were probably memorised and lived with before they were written down.

Father-son Relationship

The stories in Sturlunga recount events that supposedly occurred and portray people who were purportedly involved in them. The character descriptions are hence, in some degree, a function of the narrative material selected and, in other respects, a function of the interpretation of the writer and his contemporaries of the driving force behind the events and of the narrative methods employed. Because the narrator describes events and people as they are 16 17

Domenick LaCapra, Writing History, Writing Trauma: 212–13. Barbara H. Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages: 24–25.

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­ erceived by an eye- and ear-witness, the character descriptions must be based p upon what people say and do, and how they appear to others. The focus is thus on the characters’ narrative conduct. As the narrative processes followed by the stories are fixed – like threads of destiny – it is the will to follow that thread which determines whether certain events will ensue. The will to act is not only a function of character, but also of the renown that may be won by doing so. The characters of the sagas are thus highly conscious of how others see them, and they want to influence how they are judged.18 Sturla was the son of Þórðr Sturluson, a chieftain of Staður by Ö ­ lduhryggur, and Þóra, his mistress. Þórðr’s younger brother was Snorri Sturluson the historian; nothing is known of Þóra’s family. Sturla grew up with his fraternal grandmother Guðný Böðvarsdóttir, and later spent time with Snorri at Reykholt. Marlene Ciklamini argues that Íslendinga saga displays the affection and respect of Sturla for Þórðr Sturluson, his father: ‘What he did value was his father’s affection and teaching.’19 According to the description in Íslendinga saga, Þórðr evinced all the virtues of an ideal medieval lord: wisdom and justice, spiritual strength and equanimity (Lat. prudentia, justitia, fortitudo, temperantia). He was a vir magnus.20 For Sturla, Þórðr had become a model that he was obliged to imitate. Cathy Jorgensen Itnyre has come to similar conclusions about the relationship between fathers and sons in the Sagas of Icelanders and the contemporary sagas, but has pointed out that ‘fathers demand obedience and are angry when it is not forthcoming; sons above all demand tangible proof (property and advantageous marriages) that they are their heirs, and often their impatience for both is palpable and a source of discontent with the elder generation.’21 Since Sturla the historian was illegitimate, he was favoured with neither power nor wealth, even though his father was a chieftain. Íslendinga saga clearly indicates that Sturla was very conscious that he was not truly noble by birth. His close relationship with his father was particularly important to him, since his future depended on his father’s supporting him financially and promoting him in other ways. Þórðr also placed his faith in Sturla by granting him an inheritance and acknowledging him formally on the day of his death, thereby both

18 19 20 21

See Ker, Epic and Romance: 235–47; Richard Bauman, ‘Performance and Honor in 13thCenury Iceland’. Marlene Ciklamini, ‘Biographical Reflections in Íslendinga saga’: 208. Sverrir Tómasson, ‘Perfecta Fortitudo’. Cathy Jorgensen Itnyre, ‘The Emotional Universe of Medieval Icelandic Fathers and Sons’: 191.

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according him recognition and laying a more stable foundation for his future advancement. Sturla’s relationship with Snorri Sturluson, his uncle, is no less important, and Snorri appears in the saga as Sturla’s substitute father. Íslendinga saga bears witness to the fact that in his childhood and teenage years, Sturla spent a great deal of time with Snorri, most likely guided by his uncle and other learned men at Reykholt in the study of poetry, law, history, and saga-writing. In all probability it was at Reykholt that the major works (the Prose Edda and Heimskringla) attributed to Snorri were composed. Sturla was thus in Snorri’s service, and Snorri’s warning when Sturla makes legal claims on Staðarhóll in Saurbær, later his estate, put them at odds. However, Snorri also trusts Sturla more than his own illegitimate son Órækja to take over the hereditary chieftaincy Snorrungagoðorð. Despite the fact that Sturla and Snorri do not always see eye-to-eye, Sturla feels that it is his duty to avenge Snorri after his murder in 1241, even though this means attacking Klængr, Snorri’s stepson. Sturla named one of his two sons after his uncle Snorri, believing, like his contemporaries, that the name would bode well for the boy’s happiness in life.22 So he was probably not unhappy to be like his uncle.

The Description of Snorri

Snorri Sturluson was named after his forefather, the chieftain Snorri of Helgafell. According to Eyrbyggja saga Snorri the chieftain was in fact named Þorgrímr after his father, who had been killed before he was born. But as a child he was said to have been snerrinn (‘restless’ or ‘cheeky’), giving rise to the soubriquet Snorri.23 Snorri is twice described directly in Íslendinga saga, firstly when Snorri moves from Borg to Reykholt around 1206: He then became a great chieftain, for he did not lack wealth. Snorri was very astute with money, and promiscuous, and had children by women other than Herdís [his wife].24 Secondly, when the outcome of the Gufunes dispute (1216–1217) is reported:

22 23 24

See Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: 112. Eyrbyggja saga: 20; see also Guðrún Kvaran and Sigurður Jónsson, Nöfn Íslendinga: 501–02. ‘Gerðist hann þá höfðingi mikill, því at eigi skorti fé. Snorri var hinn mesti fjárgæzlumaðr, fjöllyndr og átti börn við fleirum konum en Herdísi.’ (Sturlunga saga, 1: 242.)

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And as a result of this matter he gained new heights of respect here in this country. He became a fine poet, and was skilled at all he undertook, and was an excellent supervisor of all that had to be done.25 The saga thus tells both of Snorri’s virtues and his vices. His accumulation of wealth is evidence that he knows how to handle money; and the position of Lawspeaker being assigned to him several times demonstrates that he was respected for his knowledge of the law, and probably also for his political abilities – although some people felt that Snorri had outwitted them. But the vices of which Snorri is accused – avarice (Lat. avaritia) and fornication (Lat. ­fornicatio) – were both among the gravest sins in medieval times, and hence Sturla is far from lenient in his judgement of his foster-father.26 Snorri’s married life and extramarital adventures must be viewed in the context of his financial affairs and his fathering of children. Snorri has only one legitimate son, Jón murtr. Once grown up, Jón asks his father to settle money on him for a bride-price, so that he can marry. Snorri suggests that Jón use the assets of his mother, Herdís Bersadóttir, and refuses to make any contribution. Snorri’s unwillingness to assume a financial obligation leads to an estrangement between father and son. Jón’s planned marriage comes to nothing, and he leaves Iceland and dies abroad. Nor is Snorri willing to grant his illegitimate son, Órækja, a property of his own after he has arranged a match with a woman of the Ásbjörn clan; instead Snorri sends him away to deal with his grandson’s estate and authority in Vatnsfjörður in the west – where Órækja causes a lot of trouble. Snorri marries off his daughters to reinforce his position of power – which does not turn out well for them, for him or for anyone else. The political alliances break up, and the marriages do not last. Finally, after the death of his second wife, Hallveig Ormsdóttir, Snorri challenges her sons from a previous marriage over the division of her assets; and one of them, Klængr, conspires with Snorri’s former sons-in-law to have him killed. The descriptions of Snorri Sturluson in Íslendinga saga have caused offence in various quarters. Árni Pálsson took issue with the veracity of the way Snorri was portrayed in Íslendinga saga in a paper, published in part in Eimreiðin in 1941 (and later in its entirety in Á víð og dreif in 1947) – because his own

25

26

‘Ok af þessum málum gekk virðing hans við mest hér á landi. Hann gerðist skáld gott ok var hagr á allt þat, er hann tók höndum til, ok hafði inar beztu forsagnir á öllu því, er gera skyldi.’ (Sturlunga saga, 1: 269.) See Úlfar Bragason, ‘The Structure and Meaning of Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar’: 276–77.

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c­ onception of Snorri was different. Since then, many have joined in the chorus of disapproval.27 We do not have much in the way of sources to provide information about Snorri Sturluson – in fact, neither about his life, nor about his writing. Most of what we have issues from the scriptorium of Sturla Þórðarson – Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and, especially, Íslendinga saga. The ambiguities in the description of Snorri are partly due to his character type, the ‘trickster type’ (Icelandic bragðarefur) familiar in Old Icelandic literature. Dean A. Miller has explored the principal features of the trickster, pointing to such characters as Skalla-Grímr and his son Egill Skallagrímsson in Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar as examples of the type.28 He describes them as ‘edgy, prickly, talented individualists with a strong whiff of supernatural but little sense of social solidarity or group loyalty, except, minimally, to their own family.’ Miller adds that the trickster is ‘frequently invested with excessive sexual energy,’ and that ‘his enemies style him forsworn and untrustworthy.’ Finally he points to the trickster’s tendency towards ‘manipulation of words,’ not only in ‘ordinary speech … but in songs, spells, and celebratory poems.’29 In Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, Gautr Jónsson of Mel is called a ‘troublemaker’ between Earl Skúli and King Hákon. The earl is said to ask Snorri Sturluson whether ‘that Óðinn, who incited the ancient kings to fight, was also known as Gautr?’ Snorri says that this is so, and the earl then asks Snorri to compose a verse about how much Gautr Jónsson resembles Óðinn.30 This story shows that trickster types were likened to Óðinn, who in Snorri’s Prose Edda, as we know, is represented as the highest of the gods, and the god of poetry. Thomas N. Bisson has pointed out that research on how feudal authority was exercised in the Middle Ages, and how people of that period viewed that authority, is lacking. He has maintained that medieval literature is important in providing insight into the nature of feudal power, and that in the later Middle Ages the power of lords was linked to high birth and nobility. However, the feudal lord’s power derived just as much from his conduct and actions in

27 28

29 30

Árni Pálsson, ‘Snorri Sturluson og Íslendingasaga’. See also, e.g., Gunnar Benediktsson, Sagnameistarinn Sturla: 178–79; Óskar Guðmundsson, Snorri: 13. Lars Lönnroth calls this personality type the ‘Grettir type’, ‘Odin type’, or ‘Loki type’ depending upon the character’s role in the story (see Lars Lönnroth, Njáls saga: 62–64). But one may equally well see this as a single personality type, displaying different aspects in different contexts. Dean A. Miller, The Epic Hero: 245–46, 249, 250. ‘at Óðinn sá, er atti saman fornkonungum, héti Gautr öðru nafni?’ (Hákonar saga ii: 42).

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how he manifested his power, and in how he met the expectations of lordship. This exercise of power is evidenced by narratives, chronicles and poetry, for instance in accounts of feasting, war and reconciliation, and guardianship and treaties. Good faith, probity in financial matters, and moderation are deemed admirable traits. Nevertheless, the lord must stand aloof from the common people and be capable of exercising his power, in extreme fashion when necessary. But by being both just and merciful, he manifests his wisdom.31 A comparable concept of lordship permeates Íslendinga saga. By the standards of the saga, Snorri does not match his brother Þórðr in manifesting true qualities of lordship, although Snorri acquires more power. Snorri is not a vir magnus. And this lack ought to be kept in mind when using Íslendinga saga as a historical source; the saga refracts reality in the historical mirror of Sturla the saga-writer and his textual community.

Empathy for Snorri

Does this mean that Íslendinga saga is as severe in its judgement of Snorri as some have claimed? Is the saga devoid of empathy with Snorri? Let us consider the saga’s account of Snorri’s relations with Hallveig Ormsdóttir. Snorri became a half-share partner with Hallveig, whose grandfather, Jón Loftsson of Oddi, had fostered and educated Snorri as a child.32 By then Hallveig was a widow, and the wealthiest woman in Iceland. Snorri married her, although he had thought ‘her appearance somewhat ludicrous and smiled at it’ when he met her on the road soon after she was widowed.33 Snorri had clashed with Björn Þorvaldsson, Hallveig’s late husband, and Björn’s supporters had heaped scorn on Snorri’s poetry about Earl Skúli of Norway, for which he had been extravagantly praised and richly rewarded in Norway. They even accused him of sycophancy. It is possible that Snorri was partly responsible for Björn’s death, as he was thin-skinned where his literary reputation was concerned. Þórðr Sturluson had made an unfortunate prophecy about Hallveig and Snorri’s relationship, and criticised his brother’s greed. However, Snorri and Hallveig lived together in Reykholt until she died in the summer of 1241, and their relationship appears to have been good, even though none of their children survived. Hallveig was thus in charge of Snorri’s estate during the years when he was at the height of his power – which was grounded, among other things, in her 31 32 33

Thomas N. Bisson, ‘Medieval Lordship’. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Snorri í Odda’. ‘hennar ferð heldr hæðilig ok brosti at.’ (Sturlunga saga, 1: 299.)

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wealth. By that time Sturla Þórðarson had been at Reykholt for many years. Hallveig could thus have been a substitute mother figure for him, even an object of desire, not unlike the chatelaine adored from afar by the young knight in chivalric romances.34 The narrator of Íslendinga saga also conveys emphatically Snorri’s sorrow when he tells of the death of Hallveig: “This seemed to Snorri a great loss, and so it was for him.”35 Snorri had taken from Sturla a legacy to which he was entitled from his grandmother Guðný, who had brought him up, and that had led to a dispute between Snorri and his brother Þórðr. Before Hallveig dies, Sturla and Órækja, Snorri’s son, with his father’s support, are in conflict over the Staðarhóll estate, because Snorri does not want his son Órækja nearby in Borgarfjörður. Sturla was the victor in that dispute, but it is clear from the account that Snorri is difficult, and hardly avuncular or fatherly in his dealings with Sturla. But after Hallveig’s death Snorri turns to Sturla and Órækja, when he finds himself at odds with Hallveig’s sons over her legacy. According to the saga he was in high spirits, but distrustful of the southerners, and he intended to stay alternately with Órækja at Reykhólar and Sturla at Staðarhóll, once he had made arrangements for the running of his estate at Reykholt. The once-powerful magnate has not much dignity left, as he plans to flee his home at Reykholt to escape his stepsons. In reality, Snorri never got away, as he was murdered on 23 September 1241. Sturla takes it badly that Klængr, Hallveig’s son, participated in the attack on Snorri, and Sturla is obliged to take vengeance on him. It is entirely uncertain whether the saga-writer had been in agreement with his father, Þórðr, concerning Snorri’s domestic arrangements. Indeed, the saga’s wavering attitudes toward Snorri could have been coloured as much by Sturla’s feeling for Hallveig and her stories of her life as by the fact that Sturla and Snorri did not always get along as foster-father and foster-son. Snorri Sturluson was taken utterly unawares when Gizurr Þorvaldsson, the uncle of Hallveig’s sons, and his own former son-in-law, led an attack on Reykholt and had him killed. To the medieval mind, an attack by night was a murder. It was generally deemed shameful to die unprepared, not least by murder; and in Iceland similar opinions probably prevailed. Snorri’s final words – ‘Strike not’36 – have been taken as a sign of his unheroic character, like most of his conduct as recounted in Íslendinga saga. Snorri is seen as lacking the willpower and stoicism displayed by his brother Þórðr at the hour of 34 35 36

See Sulamith Shahar, Childhood in the Middle Ages: 218. ‘þótti Snorra þat allmikill skaði, sem honum var.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 452. ‘Eigi skal höggva.’ (Sturlunga saga, 1: 454.)

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his death. However, Lýður Björnsson has pointed out that Snorri’s dying words echo those of Earl Skúli of Norway, when he was slain at Helgeseter in Trøndelag in 1240, as recounted in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar. He is said to have uttered these words: ‘Strike not at my face, for it is not customary to do so to a nobleman.’37 Whether or not this is a direct reference, and Skúli’s words throw light on Snorri’s, does not alter the fact that Snorri is quite unprepared for his death, and so utterly friendless at the end that even his stepson, who is also his foster-son, takes up arms against him – and he makes no attempt to defend himself against his murderers. He is assassinated like Earl Skúli and therefore the empathy is with him. It has been suggested that Snorri in fact spoke the dying words of Earl Skúli. That is not unlikely; and the skald may have wanted his corpse to be beautiful. Whatever the truth of Sturla’s account, it is clear that he decided what to include in his saga, and chose to follow the narrative conventions of his time. If we consider the saga-writer’s detailed account of the brothers Snorri and Þórðr, the relationship between them and their disputes, the obvious inference is that the narrator intends the reader/listener to compare the deaths of the brothers.38 Þórðr Sturluson appears in the saga in the role of a man of good will and good counsel, while Snorri is portrayed as a devious schemer who will stop at nothing to get what he wants – not unlike the way his father is depicted in Sturlu saga. By describing Þórðr’s peaceful death, and thus giving the listener/ reader the opportunity to compare the deaths of the brothers, the narrator underlines how different they were, and the value of living with moderation, as Þórðr appears to have done in his wisdom. And the comparison between the brothers is carried on to the next generation: the unhappy fates of Snorri’s children are in contrast with Sturla, who survives all the conflict and bloodshed of the age. Sitting at the genealogical tree, Sturla Þórðarson delivers his eulogy to the Sturlung Age in the manner of his time. Although he describes both Snorri’s virtues and his vices while revisiting Reykholt, his portrayal of the magnate and his family is affective and empathetic, like Captain Charles Ryder’s s­ tory in Evelyn Waugh’s novel about Brideshead Castle. Sturla’s empathy for his uncle reaches its high point in his incomparable, unforgettable portrayal of the poet’s death in the cellar at Reykholt.

37 38

‘Höggvið eigi í andlit mér, því at þat er eigi siðr við höfðingja at gera.’ (Hákonar saga ii: 114.) See Lýður Björnsson, ‘Eigi skal höggva’. Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: 113–40.

Chapter 16

Becoming Visible: Viewing Women in Íslendinga saga Auður Magnúsdóttir My title alludes to a book1 whose purpose was to visualise women in the past and to supplement traditional historiography in which men for centuries had been the shot callers. As stated by the editors of this first edition (1976), the book was seen as a product – and a consequence – of the radical women’s movement of the 1970s.2 Their struggles for equal rights had led to the realization that in order to understand the inequality between the sexes, the past had to be interrogated in order to uncover the hitherto unseen women and write their history. ‘Until recently,’ the editors Bridenthal and Koonz stated, ‘the average woman of the past has remained obscure, almost invisible.’3 Now the time had come to make them visible. At the time Bridenthal and Koonz were editing their book, men heavily outnumbered women engaged in historical research.4 Furthermore, the majority of the written sources, the foundation of historical research itself, was of course composed and written by men and thus informed by the male perspective. This overload in turn had – and still has – significance for how and to what extent it is possible to visualise women and conceive of gender relations in the past. This challenge is, of course, highly relevant when studying Sturla Þórðarson and Íslendinga saga. The reader interested in depictions of gender in Sturla’s magnificent account of one of the most turbulent periods in Icelandic history faces the same problem inherent in other interpretations of medieval written records; for the male author the lives, activities and fates of women were of slight interest. However, as we will see, there are exceptions to this ­professional

1 2 3 4

Becoming visible: Women in European history. Becoming visible: Women in European history: ix. Becoming visible: Women in European history: i. There has, of course, been a development towards some kind of balance, although this progress is remarkably slow. Still, in the heavily revised third edition of the book, the original title was still assumed to be appropriate.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_017

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myopia.5 In what follows I want to concentrate on a few of the women Sturla portrays in order to provide a more rounded portrait of women in the age. Given how rarely women are depicted in their own right, the how and why with which their destinies are treated in Íslendinga saga poses a rich field of investigation.

Women in Íslendinga saga

In Íslendinga saga women occupy the background. Even if they are highly involved in the events of the period that Sturla examines – through their positions as daughters, sisters, wives and mothers – only a handful of them take an active part in the narrative. Given the social and political context of Sturla’s authorship, this excess is in part understandable. We can assume that his main purpose in Íslendinga saga is to study how Iceland underwent a social and political transformation; that is, he endeavoured to cast light on the various power struggles, conflicts and battles that eventually led to Iceland’s submission to Norway.6 Sturla mainly focused on the political aspect of this process, and since women seldom figure as political agents in the saga, they receive short shrift. Furthermore, the period included ruthless violence and battles in which women seldom took part. Thus, the absence of women in Íslendinga saga is explainable. But although violence obviously played an important role in the pursuit of politics, it can hardly be defined as the foundation of a powerful position. With the risk of oversimplification, the basis of power during the Middle Ages might be thought of as twofold; resources and relations. As a politician and chieftain himself, Sturla was well acquainted with the political strategies of his time. He was keen on describing how upcoming chieftains secured their future position; that is, through exploiting networks and financial resources. In this process women were indispensable.7 One of the most important ways of acquiring wealth was by inheriting it. Although their inheritance rights were limited, women could acquire ownership of considerable property, but a woman’s husband or closest male relative usually managed her assets. Marriage negotiations included the settlement 5 For example, Sturla’s grandmother Guðný Böðvarsdóttir, his cousin Steinvör Sighvatsdóttir, and his mother-in-law Jóreiðr Hallsdóttir are by no means ignored. 6 Sverrir Tómasson, ‘Sagnarit um innlend efni – Sturlunga saga’. 7 Auður Magnúsdóttir, ‘Älskas, giftas, stöttas, slåss. Om svaga och starka länkar som politisk resurs på Island 1180–1270’.

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of the dowry, resources that could make a great difference in securing the groom’s political position. Thus, when describing his father’s second marriage, Sturla specifically mentions the economic aspects of the relationship: ‘Þórðr Sturluson married Guðrún … she brought a great deal of property with her. Þórðr then became a great chieftain.’8 Þórðr’s youngest brother, Snorri, married Herdís Bersadóttir, obviously to acquire her estate. Snorri was, as Sturla points out, impoverished, and Herdís was the sole heir of her father, Bersi ríki (the rich).9 As legal guardian of his children and his wife, Snorri gained control over Bersi’s estate.10 When the couple separated a few years later, it seems that Snorri maintained ownership of the property, probably since his and Herdís’s two children were still minors. Thus, women were important as conduits of property but rarely allowed to control their own means. Women may have been important pawns in the political game, but in the narrative they are seldom highlighted for their own sake. Still, this lack of attention does not necessarily mean that Íslendinga saga is a poor source when it comes to characterizing women. We catch glimpses of women attending to work, getting married, having children, dying and even fighting. Accounts of important marriage negotiations and concubinage involved women. Sturla also depicts women heading households, arranging marriages on behalf of their daughters and, on occasion, controlling their own property. Although this evidence is put forward briefly, it constitutes reliable information. However, in order to visualise women and the feminine in Íslendinga saga, we cannot rely solely on the literal word, but must read the text with all the narrative interpretive tools available to the modern literary scholar. Sturla’s narrative style is often said to be objective, but perhaps a better term would be reticent. His presence in the narrative is seldom, if ever, felt, and his opinions and judgments are subtle and difficult of access.11 When he wrote Íslendinga saga he was looking back at his own past and events he – and his closest friends and relatives – had often been a part of. Sturla wrote according to the literary style he was schooled in, and his storied impartiality comprises an apparent difficulty to be surmounted. As has often been stated by recent literary theorists, no text is completely without bias and certainly not 8

9 10 11

Sturlunga saga, 1: 232. Hereafter cited as Sturlunga saga, ‘Þórðr Sturluson fékk Guðrúnar … Tók hann við henni mikit fé. Gerðist Þórðr þá höfðingi.’ All translations from Sturlunga saga are my own. Sturlunga saga, 1: 237. Sturlunga saga, 1: 240. For a thorough analysis of Sturla’s narrative style, see Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: Um frásagnarfræði Sturlungu eða Íslendinga sögu hinnar miklu: esp. Chapter vi.

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neutral. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that he gets more involved, – even ­emotionally – when he accounts for events and persons closer to him in time or linked by ties of kinship and friendship. Here the women in Sturla’s world are no exception.

Sturla and His Grandmother

The Church’s attempt to implement Christian monogamous marriage for which the woman’s consent was required for its validity had by the time Íslendinga saga was fixed in writing become widely accepted. It is possible that the new political order resulted in women’s having some say in who they would marry, but here the sources are fairly mute.12 Although the idea of Christian marriage was accepted in theory, concubinage, albeit not as widespread among married men as before, was by no means unknown.13 It is important to bear in mind that Sturla, as a prominent member of Icelandic society in the Commonwealth and later, was well aware of the church’s view on marriage and sexuality. It is possible therefore that he was keen to underline that although his father, Þórðr, was sexually associated with several women, he enjoyed their favours serially rather than collectively. Furthermore, besides having concubines, his father also divorced his first wife, and then remarried. Here Sturla offers an explanation: ‘Þórðr did not have the blessing to love Helga as he should have, and so their divorce was arranged.’14 Sturla’s attitude towards his grandmother Guðný Böðvarsdóttir’s love affair with Ari sterki (the strong) is equally broadminded (see below). Sturla’s grandmother appears quite frequently in his narrative. Although only visible in fairly short scenes, a picture emerges of a tough and independent woman. Guðný was about fifteen years old when she was married to Sturla, some thirty years older than she. The couple had five children, of whom our author’s father, Þórðr, was the oldest.15 12

13 14 15

On the implementation of Christian marriage in Iceland, see, amongst others, Bjørn Bandlien, Strategies of passion: love and marriage in Iceland and Norway; Agnes S. Arnórsdóttir, Property and virginity. The Christianization of marriage in Medieval Iceland ­1200–1600. Jenny Jochens has explored the impact of Christianity on marriage and sexuality in a large number of articles. For an overview see her Women in Old Norse society. See also Roberta Frank’s pioneering article, ‘Marriage in the Middle Ages: Marriage in twelfth- and thirteenth-century Iceland’. Auður G. Magnúsdóttir, Frillor och fruar. Politik och samlevnad på Island 1120–1400. Sturlunga saga, 1: 231, ‘Þórðr bar eigi auðnu til at fella þvílíka ást til Helgu, sem vera átti….’ As is well known, all three sons became prominent and powerful chieftains.

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When Sturla died in 1183 Guðný was in her late thirties and thus by contemporary standards quite mature and perhaps for this reason never remarried. However, shortly after her husbands death Ari sterki ‘grew accustomed to visiting her at Hvammur, and they grew very fond of each other.’16 As a widow Guðný became more autonomous than while married, but she obviously had responsibilities towards her children and their future positions. Probably, she was in need of male protection, and the relationship with Ari may have been attractive to her for several reasons. When the couple decided to travel abroad, a marriage was arranged between Ari’s daughter, Helga, and Guðný’s oldest son, Þórðr, who was to be caretaker of Ari’s farm and exercise authority over the property during his absence. Shortly afterwards, Ari died, leaving his inheritance to Helga and Þórðr. As mentioned above, the marriage was not a happy one and a divorce was arranged.17 Alas, Sturla reveals nothing of how the estate was divided between the spouses, but Þórðr evidently kept the farm Staður whereas we get no information on Helga’s destiny. Although not explicit in the saga, the marriage formed a basis for Þórðr’s future position. It is, of course, likely that Guðný used her relation to Ari to provide for her oldest son’s future, and probably their relationship was beneficial to both parties. Guðný was one of many widows in Iceland at that time, for in most cases women were considerably younger than their husbands. Despite the dangers of childbirth, the chances were good that they would outlive their husbands. Consequently, many women would have been aware that it was merely a matter of time before they would assume responsibility over their household and children.18 Nevertheless, most of the widows of Íslendinga saga’s countless male actors remain anonymous. Although Guðný’s conduct might be defined as ambiguous, Sturla abstains from commenting on it. Instead, his short account of Guðný’s love affair emphasises the emotional bond between the lovers. Here Sturla obviously i­ ntrudes 16

17 18

Sturlunga saga, 1: 229: ‘…Ari in sterki [vanði] ferðir sínar í Hvamm, ok gerðust með þeim Guðnýju kærleikar miklir.’ In this case I assume that Ari’s wife was still alive, even if Sturla is not precise about it. However, according to the church remarriage was comparable to bigamy, even if it was preferable to fornication. Interestingly, this prohibition does not prevent Sturla from revealing the affair. On the church and remarriage of widows/widowers see Conor McCarthy, Marriage in Medieval England: 148–50. Sverrir Jakobsson has underlined the political dimension of this liaison in his article ‘Konur og völd í Breiðafirði á miðöldum’. Sturlunga saga, 1: 231. Sandy Bardsley (Women’s roles in the Middle Ages: 117–18) shows not only that in the Middle Ages the number of widows exceeded the number of widowers, but also that widows were less likely than widowers to remarry.

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into the narrative. One cannot but suspect that it was Guðný herself who conveyed this information to him.19 By adding the terse comment, ‘they came to develop great affection for each other,’ Sturla gives us a sense of i­ ntimacy – an opportunity of coming close to the persons he depicts. The same intimacy can be sensed in Sturla’s portrayal of Snorri Sturluson’s three daughters.

Snorri and His Daughters

It has often been maintained that Sturla had an ambivalent attitude towards his uncle, Snorri. We sense this fluctuation even as Sturla describes him. Unlike Sturla’s own father, Snorri was a real womaniser: ‘Snorri had very good financial skills, he was promiscuous, and he had children by other women than Herdís.’20 Apart from Snorri’s legitimate children, Hallbera and Jón murtr, he had at least three illegitimate children who reached adulthood, a son, Órækja, and two daughters, Ingibjörg and Þórdís. All these children were in some ways involved in the events of Íslendinga saga. In the following our focus will be on his three daughters. We have little information about where Snorri’s children were brought up and whether Snorri’s divorce from his first wife was a formal one. However, as the guardian of his and Herdís’s minor children, Snorri was responsible for their upbringing. It would therefore seem likely that they spent much of their time in his household in Reykholt, and, as we will see, Hallbera evidently became very attached to the place. Given the father’s obligation to support his illicit children, one can assume that Snorri’s illegitimate children were also living with him. Reykholt was by no means a place unfamiliar to Snorri’s nephew, Sturla, for he himself resided there from time to time. The insignificant age difference between Sturla and his cousins allowed him to establish a close relationship and even develop emotional bonds with them. Could these bonds serve as one explanation for Sturla’s concern about Snorri’s daughters and the need to give an account of their destinies? Sturla is an exceptionally skilful narrator and consequently a master of significantly withheld information.21 However, as we have seen, in describing someone close to himself, he s­ ometimes

19 20 21

Sturla was brought up by his grandmother; see Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: 107. Sturlunga saga, 1: 242, ‘Snorri var inn mesti fjárgæzlumaðr, fjöllyndr ok átti börn við fleium konum en Herdísi.’ On Sturla’s rhetoric skills see, Auður Magnúsdóttir, ‘Bilder som inte finns. Ord som illustration i Íslendinga saga’; Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga.

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deviates from his impartiality. This certainly applies to his portrayals of his female cousins. Aside from the fact that women often figure in the background in Sturla’s works, there are several differences between how men and women are characterised in Íslendinga saga. As in Old Norse literature in general, little attention is given to women’s outward appearance, whereas in the case of the male hero, his bodily constitution and skills are frequently described in detail.22 Another notable disparity is that women rarely become visible before marriagenegotiations get underway. Before considering marriage, male characters were supposed to have gained maturity and reputation, very often abroad while performing swashbuckling deeds of derring-do. Their arena was thus outside the household and their endeavours became known, which as a narrative convention was precisely their purpose. We have less information about young women. If and how they were educated, where and by whom they were raised or what qualifications they had been endowed with before marriage are matters over which a thick pall is spread, perhaps generated as much by the authors’ indifference to these states as by narrative demands. Consequently, we first catch a glimpse of Snorri’s daughters in connection with their marriages. As a politician Snorri had an eye for propitious networks, and he used his children recklessly to attain profitable relations through marriage. Unfortunately, none of these alliances matched his political hopes, and as Sturla demonstrates, the unions brought his daughters little happiness. Sturla’s ambivalence towards Snorri becomes clear when his paternal duties are touched upon and the image of a callous father emerges. To modern readers, the age difference between Þórdís Snorradóttir, the youngest of Snorri’s daughters, and her husband – a gap of approximately 45 years – seems sufficient to rule out the idea of a harmonious relationship. Left a widow after four years of marriage, and at the age of nineteen, Þórdís stood up against her father, defied his efforts to make her move back home to Reykholt, ran her own farm, raised her children, and, following in her grandmother’s footsteps, took at least two lovers and had one child with each of them. In due time, when her son became of age and took over his legacy, Þórdís withdrew to a separate household. She never remarried.

22

However, as Úlfar Bragason has underlined, the large number of characters in Íslendinga saga makes it impossible for Sturla to describe the appearance of each in detail, and he thus makes choices. Furthermore, as Úlfar underlines, Sturla has other ways of bringing his characters to life; for example, through their actions, utterances, and anecdotes. See Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: 105–40.

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When describing the relationship between Þórdís and one of her two lovers, the married Oddr Álason, Sturla uses a similar expression as when he depicted his grandmother’s liaison to Ari: ‘… there was great affection between Oddr and Þórdís.’23 Although both were widows there are differences between Þórdís and her grandmother’s position. As previously mentioned Guðný was in her late thirties when her husband died, her father was an old man with little need to consolidate alliances through marriage, whereas her oldest son had reached maturity. Although capable of giving birth, Guðný was less likely to bear more children than the nineteen-year-old Þórdís. Obviously, Snorri would have chosen to marry her off once again for his own purposes. This scheme, however, his strong-willed daughter seems to have been determined to avoid. We can assume that Snorri was not content with Þórdís’s lifestyle and love affairs. Her cousin, Sturla, however, seems keen on informing his readers about the divergence between Snorri and Þórdís. In a few relatively short scenes we gain some insight into her reactions to her father’s interventions in her life. A few years after her husband’s death Snorri sent his son Órækja to visit Þórdís. He was to settle at her farm at Vatnsfjörður and take the authority that was Einar’s [her son] but when he would become of age he [Snorri] would split the property between the two so that both would be content. But Þórdís was invited to come and live with him. This was, of course, an intervention she had difficulty tolerating. Legally, Snorri was Þórdís’s guardian, and as such also his grandson’s guardian. Here, however, his plan seems to have been to make use of his grandson’s inheritance in order to enrich Órækja. Snorri removed Þórdís from her own household, and Sturla’s short comment illustrates the conflict between the two: ‘She was not happy to have to move away.’ Instead of accepting her father’s offer Þórdís settled at Mýrar in Dýrafjörður.24 Sturla clearly sympathises with Þórdís. But why is it important to highlight her independent standpoint towards her father? Perhaps the answer is to be found in his reflections on the destinies of Þórdís’s two sisters. Ingibjörg was married to Gizurr Þorvaldsson. The union was part of an agreement between their fathers, a way to consolidate their friendship.25 Ingi­ björg and Gizurr were about sixteen years old when the marriage was a­ rranged. 23 24 25

Sturlunga saga, 1: 361: ‘Váru þá kærleikar miklir með þeim Oddi ok Þórdísi.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 361, ‘…taka þar við mannaforráði því, er Einarr átti, en lézt mundu skipta hvárum þeira til handa slíku, sem honum líkaði, þá er Einarr þroskaðist.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 302.

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Sturla makes an effort to describe the unhappy union. When accounting for the divorce seven years later, he first explains how both fathers tried to mediate between the young couple in order to save the marriage, an effort that failed. Describing the inevitable separation, Sturla becomes remarkably intimate. True to his reticent style he chooses to refer to rumours to comment: ‘…their marriage was always difficult, and people say that it was more her fault than his. Yet she loved him greatly.’26 Once again Sturla’s focus is on his cousin, her fate and her feelings. Despite his stylistic approach, in referring to rumours, the information is so intimate that it is difficult to resist the temptation to imagine Ingibjörg having a heartto-heart conversation with Sturla, and that it is Ingbjörg’s own voice we hear through him. Whatever the actuality on this point, it seems clear that Sturla’s compassion is with Ingibjörg and not the men surrounding her. It is, however, in the portrayal of Snorri’s oldest daughter, Hallbera, that Sturla’s sympathies towards his three cousins are most easily perceived. Hallbera is introduced in connection with her first marriage in 1219. The summer Snorri was preparing for his journey abroad. Sturla accounts for the practical things Snorri had to deal with before his departure, such as the caretaking of his resources and his farm at Reykholt, but he concludes with a somewhat heart-breaking observation: That summer, before Snorri went abroad, he married his daughter Hallbera to Árni, the son of Magnús Ásmundsson. Their wedding took place in Reykholt … The following year they spent most of their time at Reykholt because she was miserable if they were not there.27 By the time of her marriage Hallbera would have been 17 or 18 years old, that is, a quite normal, even mature age, for girls to enter matrimony. However, this sequence in Sturla’s text indicates that she was emotionally unstable and ­apparently not ready to leave home. Consequently, she was unable to take responsibility over her own household. It is, of course, unlikely that her father consulted her before giving her away and Sturla’s account indicates that the marriage was organised in a hurry. The union was economically and politically important for both men, but it turned out to be a very unhappy one. 26

27

Sturlunga saga, 1: 346, ‘Fóru þau Ingibjörg þá til einnar vistar, ok var þeira hjúskapr jafnan óhægr, ok segja þat flestir, at hon ylli því meir en hann. En þó voru ástir miklar af henni.’ Italics are mine Sturlunga saga, 1: 271, ‘Þat sumar, áðr Snorri fór útan, gifti hann Hallberu, dóttur sína, Árna, syni Magnúss Ásmundssonar. Var brúðlaup þeira í Reykjaholti … Váru þau í Reykjaholti lengstum þau missiri, því at ekki nýtti af henni um samvistur, ef þau váru eigi þar.’

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Subsequently, the marriage was dissolved five years later. By then Árni had been abroad for three years. Upon his return, and without reuniting with his wife, Árni met up with Snorri and negotiated the terms of the divorce.28 Hallbera is not mentioned at all during the process. In fact, she is not mentioned again until Snorri was able to arrange her second marriage. Four years later, the upcoming chieftain Kolbeinn Arnórsson asked for Hallbera’s hand in marriage. Sturla’s comment is short: ‘The wedding was held immediately and she went up north together with Kolbeinn.’29 Although an equally important alliance as her first marriage, the prerequisites for a happy marriage – mutual affection, to name one – were minimal or non-existent. The following summer Hallbera accompanied her husband to the Alþing. ‘It was obvious,’ writes Sturla, ‘that she was not well.’30 When Kolbeinn left the Alþing, Hallbera was at her father’s; Sturla comments: And when Kolbeinn rode away from the Alþing, he took no notice of her. She went to [her father in] Reykholt and stayed there for a while. Some time later her father had her escorted to Hvammr in Vatnsdalr, but Þorsteinn and Ingunn helped her further to Víðimýri. She stayed there for a short time, and she did not share a bed with Kolbeinn. She then went south to her mother in Borg.31 The account demonstrates Sturla’s muted, reticent voice at its best. Here we witness the only legitimate, and as Sturla has underlined, unhealthy daughter of a powerful, wealthy chieftain, and, furthermore, the wife of a prominent chieftain, being sent cross-country in a way scarcely suitable for an ordinary married woman, let alone one of her preeminent status. Sturla’s short, ­pregnant comment, that she and her husband did not share the same bed (literally, ‘she did not come into Kolbeinn’s bed’) clearly indicates her tragic situation. Kolbeinn’s nonchalance at the Althing and Hallbera’s humiliating, and no doubt painful, journey northwards (unaccompanied by her father or husband!) delineates a marital betrayal that Sturla portrays in its understated

28 29 30 31

Sturlunga saga, 1: 304. Sturlunga saga, 1: 319: ‘Ok var þá þegar brúðlaup þeira, ok fór hon norðr þegar með honum.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 333: ‘Ok var þá auðsætt á henni, at hana firrðist heilsa.’ Sturlunga saga, 1: 335, ‘Ok er Kolbeinn reið af þingi, gaf hann engan gaum at henni, ok fór hon í Reykjaholt ok var þar um hríð. Nökkuru síðar lét Snorri fylgja henni norðr í Hvamm í Vatnsdal. En þau Þorsteinn ok Ingunn létu fylgja henni norðr í Víðimýri, ok var hon þar skamma stund ok kom ekki í hvílu Kolbeins. Fór hon þá norðan til Borgar ok var þar með móður sinni.’

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and grisly detail. The neglected Hallbera at last found refuge with her mother and died shortly afterwards. As mentioned before there is a difference between how men and women are visualised in Íslendinga saga. One aspect of this is Sturla’s account of impending death. How men fought for their lives, how they died of their wounds during or after battle, are frequent elements in his saga. How women, who mostly died of natural causes, faced death was of less interest. Hallbera’s death was obviously an exception. In his account of the political conflicts with which Sturla is primarily concerned, the reader might well question why he finds it important to make a detour to describe the destiny of a woman who had slight relevance for his main narrative. In my view Hallbera’s fate and the space she is given in Sturla’s account serves the purpose of reducing the stature of the men closest to her, Kolbeinn and Snorri. Finally accommodated with her mother at Borg it was evident that she had become very ill, states Sturla. On his way northwards bishop Guðmundr lodged at the farm. Amongst his followers was a priest named Dálkr who was known for his medical skills. ‘When at Borg,’ Sturla writes, ‘the issue of whether Dálkr could heal Hallbera in some way came up.’ Dálkr stated that he could ‘make her a bath, which – if she could endure it – should cure her.’ As Hallbera ‘­wanted to regain her health, she was willing to take the risk.’ And Sturla continues: ‘Then the priest prepared the bath and she stepped in. Thereafter she was wrapped in clothes, but shortly afterwards she felt a pain in her chest. She died shortly afterwards.’ However, while Hallbera’s pains are blessedly over, Sturla does not let up on the reader: ‘When Kolbeinn heard of her death, he immediately travelled southwards and asked for the hand of Helga Sæmundardóttir, and she was married to him.’32 Hallbera’s story, as Sturla depicts it, is tragic. Ingibjörg and Gizurr’s unhappy marriage illustrates how political interests overshadowed a woman’s happiness in matrimony, whereas Þórdís represents the rebellion that managed to even the balance somewhat in favour of women. However, Snorri’s daughters and the details Sturla provides us with are not obviously related to the political development, the main focus of Íslendinga saga. Why then does Sturla find it important to reveal the destinies and – perhaps more importantly – feelings of his female cousins?

32

Sturlunga saga, 1: 345: ‘En er þat spurði Kolbeinn ungi, reið hann suðr um land ok bað Helgu Sæmundardóttur, ok var hon gift honum.’ This sad tale could well be regarded as a thirteenth-century As I lay dying in miniature and Hallbera as an able precursor of Addie Bundren.

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We will have to remind ourselves that when writing Íslendinga saga Sturla was looking back on his life and his losses as well as interpreting the political and social development of his lifetime. When he wrote his account, Hallbera had been dead fifty years and Iceland had been subjugated to the king of Norway and all the subsequent power this new political situation entailed. Sturla was at the time of writing an old, experienced author and politician who had been deeply involved in the power struggles he describes. As an old man, he probably had achieved some distance to his material, and he clearly tried to adopt an objective point of view. However, when reading his magnificent account we have to bear in mind his life, his losses, and how he managed to become involved in and survive the conflicts of the thirteenth century. A close reading of Íslendinga saga reveals an author who despite his illusory objective approach is in every way involved in his own narrative. Although cleverly hidden, his emotions, sympathies and antipathies occasionally become visible. We will, of course, never be able to conclude anything about Sturla’s emotional bond to his female cousins. However, I would argue that when looking back he abhorred how they were sacrificed in the political struggle of the time. Although we cannot doubt Sturla’s emotional bonds to his three female cousins and his urge to depict their destinies, we can conclude that his account of them has bearing beyond that. Sturla is not accustomed to add unnecessary information to his narrative, and although all his female cousins may have been dear to him, their destinies are only partly brought up for their own sake. His account serves the purpose of characterizing his uncle, Snorri, and his less appealing features. But Sturla’s illustration of how Snorri mistreated his daughters also reveals one of several unattractive sides of political practice of the Middle Ages. In the struggle for power and resources the lives and destinies of one’s children became entirely subordinate. As becomes apparent from Sturla’s many lists of those who died in the battles of the thirteenth century, the lives that had been sacrificed for power were something he considered. Judging from Íslendinga saga Snorri himself never took part in armed battles. However, as Sturla so intimately illustrates, there were other ways of ruining the lives of one’s loved ones, and of that Snorri was a master.

chapter 17

A Personal Account: The Official and the Individual in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar Ármann Jakobsson

Is Sturla Always Sturla?

The anonymity of the Icelandic sagas has been frustrating scholars for centuries,1 and there have been no shortage of ‘solutions’ in the form of modern attributions of texts to individual authors, mainly from the thirteenth ­century.2 At the same time we are faced with other, and more arduous, obstacles such as the question, what are authors and how are they responsible for their own texts? This second issue tends to be ignored when texts are being attributed to authors, but emerges in the few cases where we do have a medieval attribution. Sturla Þórðarson’s dual authorship of Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and ­Íslendinga saga is thus of fundamental relevance to the issues concerning saga authorship in medieval Iceland. Contemporary accounts attribute Hákonar saga to Sturla Þórðarson, and its composition in 1263–65 at the behest of the king.3 Thus in this case there is an established author, a date and 1 See, for example, Theodore M. Andersson, The Problem of Icelandic Saga Origins: A Historical Survey, in which he traces the painstaking troubles the question has caused scholars over the years. 2 Most famously Snorri Sturluson has been credited with Egils saga: e.g., Sigurður Nordal, ‘Formáli’ Íslenzk fornrit 2, lxx–xcv; Peter Hallberg, Snorri Sturluson och Egils saga Skallagrímssonar: Ett forsök till språklig författarbestämning; Vésteinn Ólason, ‘Er Snorri höfundur Egils sögu?’, and a recent trend has been to credit Sturla Þórðarson with Njáls saga: e.g., Matthías Johannessen, Sagnir og sögupersónur; Einar Kárason, ‘Njálssaga og Íslendingasaga Sturlu Þórðarsonar’. The quest for the individual author is, of course, intimately related with biographical literary criticism, which sees the literary text chiefly as a reflection of its author’s life and times. It was heavily criticised by the New Critics of the 1920s and the 1930s. However, there has been little opposition to the heavy emphasis on origins and authorship in saga criticism, although it could be argued that the various literary trends of the 1960s led to less emphasis on the issue of saga origins. 3 Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘Formáli’: xxxii. The main source for this attribution of the saga to Sturla is ‘Sturlu þáttr,’ in Sturlunga saga, 2: 234, (hereafter cited as Sturlunga saga), which seems to have belonged only to the Reykjarfjarðarbók version of the compilation, available now only in

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_018

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a situation and the matters ought to be unambiguous. And yet, upon further reflection, certain questions refuse to go away. Is an author writing for a king his own man? Is any retainer of a king ever independent of his liege? And who is Sturla? Which Sturla Þórðarson wrote this text? These issues may perhaps be better illustrated by a personal story of my own, indeed one of my earliest memories.4 I am lying in bed at the age of five and thinking: when I become an adult, will I still be myself or will I be so different that I can no longer think of myself as the same person? This is a question that has so far eluded an answer, although I can easily provide two answers: I am the same person, and I am not the same person. And both are true in their own ways: the five-year old Ármann is both the same and quite different from the adult. I mention this here because Old Norse scholarship has throughout the last two centuries or so, perhaps ever since it became a serious field of scholarship, been replete with statements like the following: Sturla Þórðarson liked his cousin Sturla Sighvatsson (d. 1238) and disliked his uncle Snorri Sturluson (d. 1241).5 Even though these biases have been argued in depth using Sturla Þórðarson’s own texts, I would contend that such a statement cannot be true, as it is too banal and, besides, families do not function in this way. In intimate relationships, people cannot be so unhesitatingly grouped into friends and enemies. People do not simply like or dislike their siblings or parents; they have a complex and often contradictory relationship with them that may keep developing in their own psyche even when the close relative is long dead. The closer the relationship is, the less it may be captured in a single statement, which may be one of the reasons why it was customary in Iceland some decades ago not to allow people to write obituaries about their own parents.6 One’s parent cannot be easily summarised in one short statement. seventeenth century copies. The saga’s completion can be dated to 1265 through a statement in the text itself (Hákonar saga ii: 159). 4 Since I am focusing here on the individual Sturla Þórðarson, collective and cultural memory do not need to be brought into the discussion. However, I would agree with the main premise of that field: which is that memories are essentially constructed and that the past and the present are intertwined both in individual and public memory. 5 The historian Árni Pálsson (‘Snorri Sturluson og Íslendingasaga’) argued that Sturla depicted his uncle in a less than favourable light in Íslendinga saga and explained this portrait as an inevitable result of the less than ideal relations between Snorri and his brother, Sturla’s father Þórðr. On the other hand, Árni regarded Sturla as having idolized his cousin Sturla Sighvatsson, and contended that these considerations were reflected in Sturla’s depictions of both Snorri and Sturla in Íslendinga saga. 6 In Iceland, obituaries are, as a rule, not composed by trained professionals but by friends and relatives of the deceased who sometimes have no previous writing experience. Thus there

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There is no doubt that Sturla Þórðarson’s relationship with both his uncle Snorri and his cousin Sturla was complicated, since he was in the immediate circle of both in the 1220s and the 1230s. In addition, there is the question that I remember posing to myself at the age of five. Perhaps we can answer that when it comes to textual analysis, we do not necessarily have to think of Sturla Þórðarson as a single person regarding his evaluations and estimations of people or events. The Sturla Þórðarson described as taking part in the events of Íslendinga saga in the 1240s and 1250s does not necessarily have to feel the same way about everything as the Sturla Þórðarson who wrote Hákonar saga in 1264. And the historian Sturla who wrote the king’s saga in middle age will well be unlikely, perhaps, to share all the views of the historian Sturla who wrote Íslendinga saga in old age. This complexity of emotions and attitudes can be argued in more detail if both texts are examined further.

Sturla’s Commission

The ‘Sturlu þáttr’ of Sturlunga saga contains a compelling dramatisation of Sturla Þórðarson’s fall from favour with King Hákon through his disobedience to Hrafn Oddsson, the king’s representative in Borgarfjörður. After having travelled to Norway and been cold-shouldered by the king, he charms first the queen and then King Magnús Hákonarson into making him a royal biographer and later lögmaðr of Iceland.7 While this narrative may not in all details be a faithful version of Sturla’s fairly sudden and undeniably dramatic reversal of fortune, its main features have a plausible ring: Sturla never actually met King Hákon before he received King Magnús’s mandate to write King Hákon’s biography, and he was essentially a hired hand or a hack. Thus it is tempting to juxtapose Íslendinga saga, his labour of love, with Hákonar saga, a career move and a job like any other, undertaken to please his king. Thus, in addition to the simple passing of time, there is the added complication of Sturla’s role as a commissioned biographer. Yet neither can we look away from his later role as a royal official in Iceland, as its lögmaðr, which is equivalent of today’s attorney general, since he was the main legal officer of the country, an office he held in his old age (from 1272 to 1283) when he was presumably writing Íslendinga saga. It might prove premature to simply contrast the royally appointed Sturla Þórðarson of Hákonar saga with an ­independently minded are often four or five obituaries published about a single person and often more than a dozen if the deceased is a person of note. 7 Sturlunga saga, 2: 231–34.

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Sturla Þórðarson who composes Íslendinga saga.8 The main argument against this positioning would be that both Sturlas are in the king’s service albeit not in the same direct way. In addition, both are also authors, which means that they will always bring something of themselves to any text. Although there must undoubtedly be some difference between an author who seeks out his own subject, following only his own interests, and an author essentially hired for a job, it nevertheless should not be excluded that in the latter case the author can still throw himself into the task with gusto and bring his own aesthetic ideals to it. An author may end up being as heavily involved with a commissioned work as with a work of his own choosing. May we not see this in Hákonar saga? Sturla certainly went as far as composing his own poetry for this saga, clearly feeling a king’s saga without skaldic verse was incomplete, and it can be argued that he used the text to further his own interests and even to settle his own scores.

Changing Perspectives on Gizurr

With respect to the major events of Hákonar saga, we can only guess to what degree Sturla is simply relating the official version and to what degree he actually helped invent the saga’s events. It seems likely that the royal biographer had some freedom in presenting his material, although his stance is likely to be highly coloured by his authorities and his situation, in this case, the points of view present at the court of King Magnús. As duly noted, Hákonar saga cannot be read as a neutral account of the life of Hákon.9 King Hákon is carefully constructed as an ideal king and his behaviour tends to be exemplary. There is a particular focus on his desire for peace and his strong tendency towards mercy, the latter having been refashioned into a carefully constructed system where the adversary asks for mercy and the king responds by giving it, provided that the adversary has supplicated himself to Hákon. The King Hákon of the narrative is a great civilizing force who 8 See Andersson, this volume. 9 This has been emphasized by Theodore M. Andersson, The Sagas of the Norwegian Kings (1130–1265): An Introduction. For further illumination of the saga’s tendencies, see, for example, Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Hákon Hákonarson – friðarkonungur eða fúlmenni?’; Ólafía Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeværdi belyst ved Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar’; Sverre Bagge, From Gang Leader to the Lord’s Anointed; Ulrikke Sprenger, Sturla Þórðarsons Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar: 77–125. Adam Oberlin, ‘Vita sancti, vita regis: The Saintly King in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar’.

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s­ ubstitutes the king’s justice for the feuds and the bloodletting of rival parties. This portrayal can be seen as somewhat particular to Hákonar saga,10 or as something more or less in accordance with how royal authority is presented in the Icelandic kings’ sagas of the thirteenth century, a shared rather than a particular ideology.11 The emphasis on peace and order can also be regarded in the light of Sturla Þórðarson’s own opposition to violence and his critical stance towards the Sturlung age, as reflected in Íslendinga saga.12 When it comes to Sturla’s concise references to Icelandic events in Hákonar saga, his own evaluations must have become even more prominent since he was closer to the main participants than the average courtier would have been. His depiction of Gizurr Þorvaldsson is a case in point. When Sturla is composing Hákonar saga, Gizurr is the main royal representative in Iceland, the ruler of the country after a bitter power struggle where he managed to outlast and outwit all his rivals. If Sturla’s own voice was silent in this commissioned work, one might expect a sympathetic portrayal of the king’s main liege in the country. However, the depiction of Gizurr in Hákonar saga is characterised by palpable hostility; it is even suggested that Gizurr was disloyal to the king and deceived the Icelanders: He claimed that he had gotten this title without promising King Hákon monetary gain in return and that no new taxes would be levied against the country. He also said that those who became his retainers in Iceland would hold the same titles in Norway with King Hákon. This made many a good man swear allegiance to him and to King Hákon. But soon they learned that his claims about the king’s promises were false and yet they kept faith with him and King Hákon. Many things are related about the relations between the Earl and the Icelanders that we do not find necessary to write here.13 10 11 12

13

See e.g. Bagge, From Gand Leader to the Lord’s Anointed, who emphasises the ideological shift in how royal authority is portrayed from Sverris saga to Hákonar saga. Ármann Jakobsson, Í leit að konungi: Konungsmynd íslenskra konungasagna. Several scholars have noted Sturla Þórðarson’s opposition (in hindsight) to warfare, his gruesome death scenes and his emphasis on the peace and the king’s role in keeping the peace; see, e.g., Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Sannyrði sverða: Vígaferli í Íslendinga sögu og hugmyndafræði sögunnar’; Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Hákon Hákonarson – friðarkonungur eða fúlmenni?’; Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Snorri and His Death: Youth, Violence, and Autobiography in Medieval Iceland’; Gunnar Karlsson, ‘Siðamat Íslendingasögu’; Guðrún Nordal, ‘Eitt sinn skal hverr deyja’; Guðrún Nordal, Ethics and Action in Thirteenth-century Iceland; Oberlin, ‘Vita sancti, vita regis’. ‘Þat lét hann ok fylgja at Hákon konungr hafði svá gefit honum þessa nafnbót at hann skyldi þat engan penning kosta, ok engi skattr skyldi við þat leggjask á landit. Sagði hann ok

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Of course, it is perfectly possible that Gizurr had other detractors at the court of King Magnús and that Sturla was partially influenced by them. However, it seems close to impossible that this fairly snide depiction of Gizurr does not reflect his own evaluation of the new ruler of the country. Might the acrimony of this depiction owe something to the fact that Sturla is now the king’s official historian while Gizurr is his foremost vassal in Iceland? If so, then we must attribute this to the biographer himself rather than his patron. The most tempting conclusion is that the power game of Iceland’s magnates did not end when they became subject to the king of Norway in the 1260s – it may even have intensified.14 In addition, Sturla’s depiction of Gizurr in Hákon’s saga could very well be informed by injured feelings. In Íslendinga saga, Sturla relates how Gizurr gave him Borgarfjörður to rule but later took the region from him and presented it to Hrafn Oddsson: ‘Sturla then felt that Gizurr had not kept the fair promises that he had made to him’.15 It does not seem unlikely that during Sturla’s writing of Hákonar saga in 1264–65, this fairly recent betrayal may have weighed heavily on his mind, resulting in the palpable animosity towards Gizurr in the narrative. If we regard the author as simply a mouthpiece for King Magnús Hákonarson, this portrayal of the highest-ranking royal vassal in Iceland may be regarded as incongruous. It seems more logical to see this as one example among many in the account that become personal. Sturla uses his role as a royal biographer to settle scores with Gizurr, thus making the narrative his own. Does that mean that we can allow ourselves to characterise Sturla Þórðarson as opposed to Gizurr in all his works and even decide that a text that is sympathetic to Gizurr cannot be from his pen? If we keep in mind the intimacy of the two men, this viewpoint does not appear the most reasonable; the relationship is too close to expect a single-minded portrayal. We may recall Íslendinga saga’s famous portrayal of Flugumýrarbrenna where Gizurr is depicted with obvious sympathy, down to his single tear when he is presented with the charred bodies of his wife and son carried out of the fire. We do not need to go to different sources or different influences on Sturla to explain the

14 15

um þá menn er honum gerðusk handgengnir, hirðmenn eða skutilsveinar, at þeir skyldu þvílíkar nafnbætr hafa í Nóregi af Hákoni konungi. Urðu við þetta margir góðir menn til at gerask honum handgengnir ok sóru honum eið en Hákoni konungi trúnað. Brátt urðu menn þess varir at þat var fals er hann sagði frá orðum konungsins. En allt at einu heldu menn trúnaði við hann ok Hákon konung. Eru frá viðskiptum þeira jarls ok Íslendinga margar frásagnir, þær sem oss þykkir eigi nauðsynligt at rita í þessa frásögn.’ Hákonar saga ii: 204; see also 171 and 207. See also, Jón Viðar Sigurðsson, “The making of a ‘skattland’: Iceland 1247–1450”. ‘Þótti Sturlu þá eigi efnd við sik af Gizuri jarli þau in fögru heit, er fram váru mælt við hann’ (Sturlunga saga, 1: 528).

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apparent sympathy with Gizurr in the later text.16 Sturla and Gizurr have had far too much in common for Sturla not to have his own opinions about this contemporary and rival. It seems far more helpful to consider the passage of time between the two texts. Íslendinga saga, possibly Sturla’s greatest achievement, was probably only begun in the 1270s, and the situation in Iceland had been much transformed. In 1268, Earl Gizurr died and possibly the greatest part of Sturla’s ill feelings towards him died with him. A living rival is easier to malign than a dead contemporary with whom you have had mixed relations. Sturla’s relationship with Gizurr, like almost all relationships between the Icelandic magnates of the thirteenth century, was not only complicated but also in a state of continual flux. Soon after Gizurr’s death, Sturla returned to Iceland holding the new office of attorney general. When he began writing his history of Iceland, Sturla was an older, wiser and more settled man with fewer unfulfilled ambitions. Fittingly his depiction of Gizurr in Íslendinga saga becomes far more nuanced and perhaps also more complex. Any attempts to explain the different attitudes in the two texts by the simple claim that Sturla composes Hákonar saga as a servant of the king and Íslendinga saga as his own man fails to do justice to his partisan attitude to Icelandic events in Hákonar saga that sometimes seem to have more to do with Sturla Þórðarson’s own life and politics than those of King Hákon’s or King Magnús’s. It also misses the point that after 1263, Sturla never stopped serving his king, and was working on Magnúss saga lagabætis even in his final years.17 Thus Sturla’s allegiance is twofold in both texts: he serves the king and his own interests at the same time.

The Source Value of a Contemporary Account

Sturla Þórðarson’s authorship could serve as a testament to the elusive reliability of even the contemporary Icelandic sagas.18 Unlike the authors of the sagas of Icelanders or the legendary sagas, Sturla is not engaging with distant events and a long-standing narrative tradition. However, his reliability is still 16

17 18

See, e.g., Ármann Jakobsson, ‘Sannyrði sverða: Vígaferli í Íslendinga sögu og hugmyndafræði sögunnar’. Cf. Björn M. Ólsen, ‘Um Sturlungu’: 310–83; Pétur Sigurðsson, ‘Um Íslendinga sögu’: 13–20. Sverrir Jakobsson and Þorleifur Hauksson, ‘Formáli’: lx. See also, Ólafía Einarsdóttir, ‘Om samtidssagaens kildeværdi belyst ved Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar’.

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limited, in this case by his subjectivity. This subjectivity, in turn, evolves as he himself evolves, meaning that the Sturla Þórðarson who wrote Íslendinga saga has naturally reconsidered many of his own previous verdicts from Hákonar saga. This is very clear in his portrayal of the late earl Gizurr Þorvaldsson. When it comes to the thirteenth century presented to us by Sturla Þórðarson, ‘truth’ is inevitably an opaque notion. His account is intimate and subjective and there is no way of avoiding the personal aspect. How could this be any other way? The conflicts of the Sturlung age were deeply personal and ignoring the personal and subjective aspects of these conflicts will not help us to ­evaluate them. However, modern scholars at times have been too unimaginative in believing that historians like Sturla constantly sided with one party against another. Another point of view would be that there is no single Sturla Þórðarson when it comes to views and evaluations but that the man aged and evolved and perhaps changed his views on this and other matters. When it comes to close relatives and people that he had known all his life, it makes little sense to assume that his views of them were as one-sided as the views of those less familiar with his subjects. Furthermore, when it comes to close relatives and friends and anyone they have long-standing and intimate relationships with, observers – including historians – are never going to be neutral. As a skilled craftsman, Sturla Þórðarson did not lack the confidence needed to take on subjects close to himself, but that does not mean that his views of close relatives or long-standing rivals such as Gizurr Þorvaldsson were either simple or constant or uniform. Yet, while these accounts are deeply personal, the political dimension also plays a role, as it must when a politician writes about his colleagues. Although parts of Hákonar saga may be said to represent the political ideology of King Hákon and his son Magnús, Sturla’s own views are present in this text as well as in Íslendinga saga. In addition, the author is heavily involved on his own behalf; he has his own points to make and is actively engaged in the reconstructing of the past that is the task of all historians and biographers. A medieval author, no less than his modern counterpart, can be a convoluted and contradictory figure. When, in carrying out his task to write reality as he himself sees it and is able to express it, he writes about things close to himself, and his views are bound to reflect some of the conflicts within the individual experience.

chapter 18

The Bias and Alleged Impartiality of Sturla Þórðarson Helgi Þorláksson Sturla Þórðarson’s Íslendinga saga is our main source for the period 1200 to 1262 in Icelandic history and in many cases our only source for the years 1213 to 1242. From around 1235 on Sturla was active in politics and was involved in all the main events until the end of the Icelandic Commonwealth in 1262–1264. Scholars have found Sturla Þórðarson to be an exceptional politician. They usually see him as wise, moderate and peaceloving. There is also a general consensus that as an author Sturla shows these same qualities. It is quite common that scholars when expressing their opinions about Sturla use words like ­‘factual, accurate, unbiased, impartial, objective.’ However, among most modern historians, who are trained as academics and experienced in sifting evidence and presenting their views in muted prose, bias is seen as inevitable for historians and a problem which they have to recognise and neutralise in their own works. And in the case of impartiality, conflicting evidence has to be produced and discussed, objections to one’s own points have to be weighed and, where possible, refuted. So the question should not be, was Sturla Þórðarson biased, but rather, how much did he attempt to reign in this inevitable bias? As a politician who surely attracted opponents and followers to perhaps an equal degree, did he all the same show impartiality in his rendering of persons and events? Was he balanced – I am straining hard here to avoid the word ­objective – in the treatment of his opponents?1 In the following, examples will, firstly, be offered of scholars who find Sturla unbiased or impartial. Secondly, examples will be given of Sturla’s partiality, how he on occasion promoted his own interests and those of his family and supporters. Thirdly, Íslendinga saga will be discussed and its source value evaluated. 1 Biased here means a predictable leaning towards someone, to favour someone from the outset. Impartial means to be fair and just, unprejudiced, to render balanced judgements with pros and cons. Objective would mean that Sturla’s views were not distorted by his personal feelings in the opinions he expresses. Above all a historian should be fair in his opinions and judgements.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_019

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General Views about Sturla and His Works

Ideas about Sturla as impartial and unbiased seem to a certain extent based on the fourteenth-century preface to the Sturlunga compilation; its author saw Sturla as the wisest and most moderate of men, a chronicler of sound reason and honesty.2 In this manner influential scholars have understood Sturla as the author of Íslendinga saga. In sum, an excellent historian, knowledgeable, factual, accurate. For instance in 1993 Peter Hallberg wrote that ‘[c]onsidering that Sturla was himself involved in the violent strife of his time, the balanced and objective attitude of his account is admirable.’3 In 1975 Jónas Kristjánsson called Sturla an excellent historian and a brilliant author. Jónas sums up the general ideas about Sturla, determining that he was peaceloving, unbiased and moderate, and had composed a balanced account.4 It has also been a prevailing view that Sturla based his account on the best of sources.5 Sturla most probably began his Íslendinga saga after 1263, perhaps circa 1266 and at that time covered the period prior to 1243 and continued in c. 1276 to 1284.6 During this period he was a devoted and faithful royal servant, served as lawman and was knighted. The general idea seems to be that from about 1276 he withdrew from the secular scene. To support this view scholars refer to Árna saga biskups, which relates that in a letter to the king in 1276 Þorvarðr Þórarinsson complained that the lawman Sturla was evasive and referred cases to bishop Árni and others for judgement. In 1277 bishop Árni himself wrote to the king that Sturla was not as effective as he should be, probably meaning not taking a stand in vital issues.7 Also, Sturla moved to an island, Fagurey, which scholars usually describe as remote and even isolated. Therefore, scholars conclude that Sturla chose to withdraw and meditate and assess his own life in retrospect. Pétur Sigurðsson says that at this time in his life Sturla had become

2 ‘Formáli’ in Sturlunga saga, 1: 115. 3 Peter Hallberg, ‘Sturlunga saga’: 618. 4 Jónas Kristjánsson, ‘Bókmenntasaga’: 250–53: ‘mikill friðsemdarmaður … viðbrugðið hve óhlutdrægur Sturla sé … Gullvægt mundangshóf í frásögn … afburða sagnfræðingur og snjall rithöfundur.’ 5 The ‘Formáli’ (see note 2) states that Sturla spoke with knowledgeable men who provided him with information on the early decades of the thirteenth century, a time he could not remember himself. Furthermore, the ‘Formáli’ tells us that Sturla used contemporary written documents for his Íslendinga saga, which forms the bulk of the Sturlunga compilation. 6 Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Sturla Þórðarson, minni og vald’: 320–21. 7 Biskupa sögur iii: 63, 65.

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passive and withdrawn, and therefore Sturla’s Íslendinga saga is r­ easonable and sober.8 Sturla is seen as not defending any course, not keeping anything back. However, one exception has been pointed out: Sturla has been found rather critical, even ironic towards Snorri Sturluson. This stance was pointed out by Árni Pálsson, who added that Sturla’s attitude was not overt and did not originate in a conscious desire to disparage Snorri. According to Árni, Sturla probably was totally unaware of his state of mind.9 Nor does Jónas Kristjánsson think that Sturla was intentionally blackening Snorri’s character, nor did Sturla intend to defame Snorri, since many facts in Snorri’s life seem to corroborate the picture Sturla draws, his portrait was intended more to be accurate than maligning for its own sake.10 Like many a good Icelander, Sturla has been seen by several of his countrymen as opposing King Hákon the Old (Hákon iv) and his policies prior to 1262. Finnur Jónsson called him a good patriot, and others have seen him as a nationalist in the early twentieth-century vein.11 He swore allegiance to King Hákon in 1262, but Jónas Kristjánsson believed that Sturla had no alternative.12 It is most probably a misconception that Sturla was anti-king per se. As I have explained earlier, what he had been doing was to fight for his own political position on the local level in Iceland, not against Iceland’s joining the Norwegian kingdom.13 And such a political position might help explain why Sturla’s Hákonar saga is not much acclaimed.14 However, Sverre Bagge has pointed out that Hákonar saga was written under the auspices of King Magnús and became exactly the saga of a rex Dei gratia it was commissioned to be. If it has been found dry, that is precisely because Hákon resembles a conscientious bureaucrat, responsible, virtuous, and duty bound. This authorised biography is how Sturla was expected to depict him, and depict him in this way he did.15

8 9 10 11

12 13 14

15

Pétur Sigurðsson, ‘Um Íslendinga sögu’ 153. Árni Pálsson, ‘Snorri Sturluson og Íslendingasaga’: 115. Jónas Kristjánsson, ‘Bókmenntasaga’: 252. Finnur Jónsson, Den oldnorske og oldislandske litteraturs historie 2, ‘stadig var tro mod sit fædreland’: 721; cf. 98. For an overview see Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Var Sturla Þórðarson þjóðfrelsishetja?’. Jónas Kristjánsson, ‘Bókmenntasaga’: 250–51. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Var Sturla Þórðarson þjóðfrelsishetja?’. Probably few Icelanders are familiar with the saga, and many of those who have read it think it is rather dull. It has been suggested it is dull because the title hero himself was dull. Nor have Norwegians been overly fond of Hákonar saga, and they tend to think more highly of Snorri and Heimskringla. Sverre Bagge, From Gang Leader to the Lord’s Anointed: 91–93.

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Sturla’s third major historical work is Landnámabók (‘The Book of Settlements’); his redaction is called Sturlubók. Many scholars have reluctantly admitted that here Sturla startles them, because his judgement seems to fail him where he adds chapters from the family sagas as factual material, a quite common procedure in his redaction. Scholars ask why he did not show his highly praised critical sense, why he did not sort out his sources, keep the original material of Landnámabók and reject material from sagas like the unreliable Hænsa-Þóris saga, which they generally believed he preferred? In this case Jónas Kristjánsson tried to solve the problem by arguing that Hænsa-Þóris saga was based on Sturlubók, not the other way round.16 What can we expect from a man who told the legendary saga of the giantess Huld in a better and more informed way than anyone had done before?17 To the saga of Huld, the giantess, Sturla probably added material about the historical context, genealogy, placenames and so on, as he does in Sturlubók, and thus makes the tales more interesting and memorable, more appealing to his listeners and readers.

A Lack of Objectivity, Impartiality and Bias

In his general judgement of Sturla, Gunnar Benediktsson is almost unique when he says that Sturla was not an unbiased scholar and that we should not rely on the historical value of his works, since Sturla, like so many others, was guided by his own interests.18 The ultimate proof of this conclusion for ­Gunnar is how Sturla in his Sturlubók demarcates the settlement of Skallagrímr; Sturla adopts the conclusions reached by Egils saga whereby the land settled is much more extensive than originally explained in Landnámabók. In Egils saga the land-settlement has been vastly expanded; the original area between the rivers Hítará and Norðurá is extended and covers the area between Kaldá and Hafnarfjall.19 This extension has been explained earlier by several scholars, and the reason usually given is Snorri Sturluson’s political interests in the Borgarfjörður district. Snorri would have liked to be seen as Skallagrímr’s heir, and he strived to seize complete power in the whole area.20 Jakob Benediktsson points out the possibility that the narrator of Egils saga based his description of the settlement on oral traditions (‘[n]ærtækari skýring virðist vera að hann 16 17 18 19 20

Jónas Kristjánsson, ‘Landnáma and Hænsa-Þóris saga’: 134–48. Sturlunga saga, 2: 232–33. Gunnar Benediktsson, Sagnameistarinn Sturla: 172. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 70–71 (S 30), 95–97 (H 55 note 8). For references see Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Reykholt vokser fram som maktsenter’: 83–84.

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hafi stuðzt við munnlegar sagnir …’) and thus is independent of Snorri.21 However, Sturla even enlarges the area, which is described in Egils saga, as Sigurður Nordal has explained.22 This is the area where Sturla, himself a descendant of Skallagrímr, after the demise of Snorri, fought a fierce political battle against Hrafn Oddsson. There are more examples of the same kind in Sturlubók, material which seems selected to promote the interests of the Sturlungar. One is the genealogy of the descendants of Hrólfr Kjallaksson at Ballará in the west of Iceland, ending with the priests and goðar Páll and his son Magnús at Reykholt (formerly Reykjaholt). When Sturla wrote his Sturlubók, Hrólfr became a son of Hróaldr, not Kjallakr, and like Hróaldr his father lived in Geitland, not at Ballará, far away in the west. Jakob Benediktsson says this could be based on some oral traditions with which Sturla was familiar. Sturla had Hrólfr move west and live at Ballará as well. He also has an explanation for why he moved from Geitland, claiming that Hrófr wanted to live close to his daughter in the west. Therefore, in Sturla’s redaction he first lived in Geitland, later at Ballará in the west. But in the older redactions, he only lived at Ballará. Why this discrepancy? I think the control of Geitland was at stake here. As I understand the twelfth-century charter of the church at Reykholt, Geitland did not belong to the church in Snorri’s time, and it only became its landed property in the fourteenth century. In Snorri’s time Reykholt probably only had grazing and wood-harvesting rights, and in Geitland, as on other farms, grazing rights were of great importance to the farmers in the Borgarfjörður area. Ownership of Geitland for Reykholt would have been of the utmost importance for Snorri. Therefore, it was vital to see Snorri’s predecessors in Reykholt, the priest and goði Páll, who died in 1185, and his son Magnús who turned Reykholt over to Snorri, as descendants of Hrólfr Hróaldsson, the owner of Geitland. This ownership supported claims of the Reykholt church on Geitland, whether extensive use or ownership.23 Another example of Sturla’s defending the interests of Reykholt is the discussion of the farm, Örnólfsstaðir, mentioned in Sturlubók but not in earlier 21 ‘A more likely explanation seems to be that he [the author of the saga] relied on oral accounts …’, Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: lxii. 22 Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar: xxxiv, note 1. 23 Sturla also says that the same family in Geitland, together with the people at Breiðabólstaður later Reykholt, upheld the temple or hof at Hofstaðir, c. 35 km from Geitland but close to Reykholt. According to Egils saga, farmers of the area had to pay customs to the hof. In many ways I find suspect this alleged participation of the Geitland people in running the hof, as I have explained in a recent article, see Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Reykholt vokser fram som maktsenter’.

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versions. Jakob Benediktsson pointed out that Sturla must have invented this farm and moved the settler Örnólfr there from his other farm, Örnólfsdalur, the former Örnólfsstaðir being Sturla’s complete fabrication.24 But Jakob does not try to explain why Sturla went to such lengths. I think this has to do with the land for the shieling which was ascribed to Reykholt in the area. According to Hænsa-Þóris saga the chieftain Tungu-Oddr of Breiðabólstaður or Reykholt simply seized this land of distant Örnólfsdalur with no legal rights. Sturla is making the point that the church at Reykholt did not come into possession of this land, the land of the shieling included, in an unjust way as explained in Hænsa-Þóris saga. The saga may be younger than Sturla’s redaction, as Jónas Kristjánsson suggested. In that case Sturla is most probably relying on oral traditions when denying an unjust acquisition.25 It is not difficult to understand why Sturla is defending the rights of Reykholt, since he was brought up there and seems to have been fond of the place. It was dedicated to Saint Peter, his favourite saint.26 Sturla was brought up by his grandmother, Snorri’s mother. In 1218 he was only four years old when she moved to Reykholt. She died in 1224 but Sturla lived on in Reykholt. In the same year Snorri married Hallveig, who brought her son Klængr with her to Reykholt. Klængr is called Sturla’s fosterbrother which means that Sturla was brought up by Snorri for some years.27 Reykholt was important to Sturla, and Snorri was close to him. Reykholt was of considerable importance to the Sturl­ ungar family, not least to Snorri’s heirs and Sturla’s relatives, the family of Egill Sölmundarson. There are other examples of this kind in Sturlubók. Sturla adds a certain Þorkell kornamúli as a settler at the farm Ás, east of Reykholt. A new tithe area for Ás was established in the 1250s, and this area was the same as the settlement of Þorkell kornamúli, as Sturla explains it. This must have been a delicate matter, especially for the people at Gilsbakki whose church lost some income when the new tithe area had been established. Sturla seems to have been well acquainted with the people at Ás and supported their church and its tithe.28 A similar case is found for the rich farm Skarð in the west where a new tithe area was formed. In the 1250s three farms were taken from the church of 24 25 26 27

28

Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 84, note 4. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Reykholt vokser fram som maktsenter’: 107–11. Sturlunga saga, 2: 171, 236. At least Sturla (born 1214) was staying at Reykholt in 1226–7, then with his father in 1231. Again he was in Reykholt in 1233, serving Snorri. He was also there in 1235. On Klængr as his fosterbrother see Sturlunga saga, 1: 413. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Reykholt vokser fram som maktsenter’: 85–86.

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Skarð. They were made part of another tithe area, and the Skarð people without doubt were dismayed. Sturla was close to them, and in his Sturlubók the settlement of Geirmundr at Skarð was extended to include the land for these three farms. This was because of the new tithe area as explained by Þórhallur Vilmundarson.29 Sturla Þórðarson lived at the important farm, Staðarhóll, in the Saurbær area and in his redaction of Landnámabók the settlement has been rearranged. It adds that Sturla’s ancestor and namesake Víga-Sturla, the grandson of the settler Sléttu-Björn, was the first to settle at Staðarhóll and Sturla was probably the first to state this in Landnámabók.30 Staðarhóll was a rich manor with a church and several farmlands annexed to it. Sturla explains how Sléttu-Björn and his son Þjóðrekr acquired the whole of the important Saurbær area. We are to understand that his namesake, Sturla Þjóðreksson at Staðarhóll, i.e., VígaSturla was his father’s and grandfather’s heir. To explain that the big man at Staðarhóll was in possession of the whole of Saurbær would have served Sturla Þórðarson’s interests. The Melabók redaction of Landnámabók, most probably older, has it that Þjóðrekr was the settler of the whole of Saurbær area but it does not account for the Staðarhóll valley, the land of the Staðarhóll farm which is not mentioned. However, this is what counted most for Sturla Þórðarson, who added Staðarhóll to his redaction. Scholars could defend Sturla and say that he possibly found some new evidence for the changes in his redaction.31 He may have heard some oral traditions contradicting the earlier redactions, as Jakob Benediktsson suggests in one case. Jakob, however, is absolutely certain that Sturla invented what he wrote about the farm, Örnólfsstaðir. Some of the incidents which were favourable to his family and friends Sturla may have taken from others. However, he can hardly have been convinced that they were absolutely reliable, and he more or less bypasses obvious discrepancies in the redactions of Landnámabók. Thus as a historian Sturla was biased and promoted the interests of his own group. He did not allow for any doubts nor for contradicting evidence.

29 30

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Harðar saga, cxxxii. See also, Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Reykholt vokser fram som maktsenter’: 85. The older redaction(s) as shown in Melabók (M 32) has Þjóðrekr, son of Sléttu-Björn and father of Sturla, living at Hóll (‘undir Hóli’), Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 158. Hóll could be Saurhólll rather than Staðarhóll, cf. Laxdœla saga: 86 (á Hóli); Haraldur Matthíasson, Landið og Landnáma i: 198. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: lxx–lxxi, 84.

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Íslendinga saga

Let us return to Íslendinga saga. Scholars often praise Sturla for not making himself the centre of the tale, and only twice does he use the first person pronoun I and otherwise he calls himself Sturla, which gives the feeling that he, as a narrator, stands aloof and is disinterested. However, Sturla is at the centre of the saga, as well as his family. Íslendinga saga is apologetic. For instance Sturla as a leader was together with Órækja Snorrason in Reykholt at Christmas 1241 when they wanted to take revenge for the slaying of Snorri. For a day or two Órækja brooded over what to do with Klængr, Sturla’s fosterbrother. This was a dilemma for Sturla, since Klængr had been on Gizurr’s side when Snorri was executed, even though he was not present in Reykholt. Many men asked ­Órækja to spare Klængr, and a messenger came from Böðvarr in Bær asking mercy for Klængr. Sturla says in his narration of these events that he himself suggested to the messenger that Böðvarr should travel from his home to Reykholt to ask for mercy for Klængr and, if so, others would join in. Otherwise, he does not seem to have tried to prevent the execution. When Klængr was executed Sturla says he himself was in church at mass. Together with Órækja, Sturla was made responsible for the execution and was prosecuted.32 Sturla’s relation is apologetic enough and indicates a repenting sinner. He preferred mass and God to being present at the execution. The downfall and death of Sturla Sighvatsson, as his namesake describes it, is in the spirit of theocracy, or guðveldi in Icelandic, which means that God Almighty decides and the teachings of the Bible are the standards to be followed. As explained earlier Sturla composed his Íslendinga saga at some time after the eclipse of the Commonwealth. This would mean that he was familiar with the ideology of theocracy, which for instance is prominent in The King’s Mirror. It is the ideology of rex iustus and rex Dei gratia and a part of it was the notion that the great victor, Hákon the Old (Hákon iv), was blessed by God and destined to secure peace. According to the same ideology Sturla Sighvatsson’s vice of pride (superbia) and godless behaviour and Snorri’s high treason were despicable and had to be duly punished. However, Sturla Þórðarson is apologetic, and he clearly makes the point that his namesake in his last hours behaved like a repenting sinner. In his last days he was absent-minded, and acted more like a monk than a warrior, was given to prayer and hardly defended himself.33 His final moments were tragic, his corpse was maltreated, his death 32 33

His explanation for the execution is that the vindictive expediton he and Óækja stood for would have been abortive if they failed to get Gizurr and spared Klængr. Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Sturla Þórðarson, minni og vald’: 328–33.

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was gruesome. The general view around 1275 (1265–1284) probably was that the Sturlungar family had to take most of the blame for the violent war of the Sturlung Age. Therefore, the repentance of Sturla Sighvatsson was mitigating, and he had hopes of being saved and was not as great a shame for the family of the Sturlungar as he would otherwise have been. Under the rule of the Norwegian king the men of the old families like Sturla Þórðarson had to defend their positions, as new men jockeyed to seize the opportunities the new royal rule could provide. By depicting Snorri’s execution in a negative manner, Sturla is probably suggesting that there were no excuses, that the execution was justifiable, and was only what could be expected for a man betraying his lord. Sturla makes Snorri the scapegoat for his time and often adopts an ironical tone when he mentions him. According to Sturla, Snorri could be greedy and mean. He was often vain and his counsels could be cold. As is often pointed out Sturla was critical towards Snorri, he admits Snorri’s failings and even seems to make a case of them. It is hardly to be doubted that Sturla staged the deaths of his namesake and Snorri. For instance, Þórðar saga says that Símon knútr was one of those who struck or wounded Snorri when he was killed and that therefore Símon was killed in revenge. Sturla says Snorri was struck by Árni beiskr and says Símon was present but does not mention the latter striking Snorri. Inconsistency about Símon knútr’s role and several other points make the event look arranged and staged by Sturla, and a fine staging it is. Earlier I have argued that Sturla wants Snorri’s death to look heinous and ugly.34 When Sturla is reviewing the events of the Sturlung Age many years later, it is from the point of view of the king and the leading people at the Norwegian court and in Iceland. This is the time of the influential Bishop Árni, who made matrimony a holy institution and forbade men who kept mistresses to enjoy the host during Easter.35 Kings were now supposed to abstain from concubines and conceive children exclusively in wedlock. When Sturla writes about his father, he says, bar eigi auðnu til at fella þvílíka ást til Helgu, sem vera átti ok … skilnaðr þeira var gerr (‘was not destined to love Helga in the way he should have, and they separated’).36 Seeing this as a failure is looking at matters from the point of view of the church. About Snorri he writes, that he was fjöllyndr ok átti börn við fleirum konum en Herdísi (‘promiscuous and had children with more women than Herdís’).37 Sturla was not obliged to point 34 35 36 37

Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Sturla Þórðarson, minni og vald’: 333–34. Biskupa sögur iii: 123. Sturlunga saga, 1: 231. Sturlunga saga, 1: 242.

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out Snorri’s fjöllyndi (‘promiscuity’). And even though Sturla Sighvatsson in 1223 was married to Solveig Sæmundardóttir, he kept on meeting his concubine Vigdís in 1227 and was at her home when his enemies attacked his own home.38 He also spent some time in bed with a mistress in 1230, according to a verse his namesake Þórðarson produces.39 Why does Sturla Þórðarson go to such lengths to point out Sturla Sighvatsson’s purported moral failings? He is probably confessing: Yes, his family sometimes behaved badly, and he is apologetic. However, men of other leading families were no better in this respect, as he duly points out. The conclusion seems to be: Alas, such were the times. One of the points often made is that in his Íslendinga saga Sturla is humane and forgiving towards his enemies. Earl Gizurr is seen as his enemy, and in the year 1261 Sturla made a verse where he says that Gizurr deceived him. Gizurr broke his promises, was a liar and Sturla calls him Óðinn.40 The picture of Gizurr in Íslendinga saga is mixed; there are bits and pieces where Gizurr is praised, and this is a problem. Scholars suggest these laudatory parts have been added by the compiler.41 Sturla would hardly have brought forward this verse of his if he intended to forgive Gizurr, and several times Íslendinga saga suggests that Gizurr was deceitful and not sincere. Something similar can be said about Kolbeinn ungi: Sturla was in his custody in 1242 and felt he was compelled to agree to some very disagreeable conditions, such as being expelled from the country. Sturla brings forward a contemporary verse by himself, where he wishes death to those who were responsible for such conditions and especially for the expulsion from the country.42 Those responsible were Kolbeinn ungi and Gizurr. The picture Sturla draws of Kol­ beinn ungi is not flattering, and he is harsh and ruthless. This contrasts with the picture of Kolbeinn drawn in Þorgils saga in the Sturlunga compilation where Kolbeinn is very popular among the people of Skagafjörður because he was amiable, hospitable and generous.43 What Sturla seems to be doing is to point out the failings, flaws or shortcomings of the most prominent men of the age. The Sturlungar were not alone and could not take all the blame for the violent age. For instance, Sturla repeatedly tells us how harshly Kolbeinn ungi and his family treated Bishop Guðmundr the Good and conversely how gently his 38

39 40 41 42 43

Sturlunga saga, 1: 262, 300, 325, 328. Sturla Sighvatsson was bathing at the home of Vigdís at Reykir in Miðfjörður when he heard the news about the attack. It is not stated that they were still lovers. Sturlunga saga, 1: 341. Sturlunga saga, 1: 528. See Úlfar Bragason, Ætt og saga: 112–15, 232–36 (refers to Pétur Sigurðsson). Sturlunga saga, 1: 471. Sturlunga saga, 2: 207.

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f­ ather treated the bishop. In Íslendinga saga Sturla shows himself as both politically ambitious and aggressive outside his home district, and, fully armoured, taking part in a vindictive expedition. However, he points out that the Sturlung­ ar were not alone. The leading families in the country were lead astray and accordingly it was a relief when the king’s rule was introduced into Iceland. Íslendinga saga is far from unbiased, and could be said to be a defence, an apologia. It is a confession and at the same time an accusation, and Sturla acknowledges the blunders of his family and simultaneously accuses the enemies of the Sturlungar for their ungodly behaviour, their vindictive actions, their aggression and violence. They killed, maimed, robbed and burned. It was Sturla’s task to introduce the king’s new law into Iceland in 1271. These were new ideas, and the foremost of them was that vengeance killings were to be abolished. This was the dawn of the age of theocracy, and Sturla saw the history of the Sturlung Age in light of this ideology. In a poem he depicted King Magnús as blessed by God. Magnús was the son-in-law of a holy man, King Erik of Denmark, who was close to God and helped King Magnús according to a poem by Sturla.44 Sturla himself approached King Magnús as a repenting sinner and asked for mercy. This he received, more than once. Sturla was receptive and was quick at grasping what was expected of him. Hákonar saga had a political purpose: Sturla was to promote King Hákon as rex Dei gratia and rex iustus. His Íslendinga saga was equally political. There he defended his interests and those of his family. He did the same with his redaction of Landnámabók. Sturla the politician was a versatile author. Íslendinga saga is biased, not always objective and often partial. Can we use it as a historical source? Yes, to a great extent. Sturla most probably was careful enough to have the major facts right, even if his interpretations or the pictures he draws were biased. He was an author who would rearrange and simplify for his staging. Major facts would for instance be, who were opponents, where and when they met and what the outcome was. However, Sturla could be reticent, leave out points if they didn´t fit into his interpretation It was common to draw a picture of Sturla as though he resembles a modern scholar, trying his best to be unbiased, objective, impartial. Here it has been shown that Sturla does not seem to have done much to counterbalance his bias and avoid partiality. Even though we give him the benefit of the doubt and take it that he got from others most of the new information he publishes in his redaction of Landnámabók, he must have been fully aware that the information in the examples we mentioned favoured him and his followers. He seems to have made little or no attempt to compare it with different, less favourable 44

Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Sturla Þórðarson, minni og vald’: 324–26.

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flattering evidence. He promoted the interests of his family by trying to assert their title to lands and church foundations associated with them and which they coveted and even by strengthening historical claims to regions where they wanted to dominate. He would do the same for his friends and supporters. He is not objective in Íslendinga saga when he discusses some of his opponents. And obviously he became a dedicated royalist, inspired by theocracy, and sees the events of the Sturlung Age in that light. He admits the faults and vices of his family, at least Sturla Sighvatsson and Snorri, but demonstrates that many of the leaders of the other chieftain families were no better. Íslendinga saga is often biased, subjective, partial. This fact should hardly surprise us. We have to realize that this work is apologetic and has its limitations. Its author was sophisticated and could take on different roles. Sturla may at times perplex readers of Íslendinga saga and Sturlubók, but that is only as long as they don’t see him as a politician and the king’s official. We should not forget the politican when we enjoy the texts of the author.

chapter 19

Codex Reseniani: Sturla Þórðarson as an Encyclopaedic Writer Sverrir Jakobsson We seldom get the chance to look into the process of writing medieval history. Usually, the traces of medieval historians have been lost, with the exception of single works, finished and polished in their final versions or even added to by later copyists. In this regard, Sturla Þórðarson may be an important exception. It has been argued that Membrana Reseniana no. 6, a manuscript that burned in the great fire of Copenhagen 1728, was an encyclopaedic work originally belonging to Sturla Þórðarson, and at least partly written by him. Copies of several individual parts of this compilation have survived, and from these fragments we are able to gain a partial insight into the learning and interests of Sturla in the very years he was composing the historical narratives for which he is best known. In the following article the relationship between the contents of this volume, henceforth known as the Encyclopaedia of Sturla Þórðarson (Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar), and the other works of Sturla will be explored in order to illuminate the scholarly process by which Sturla Þórðarson conducted his research and composed the books attributed to him. The varied contents of the Encyclopaedia and the lengthy period over which it was written (from the late 1240s to the death of Sturla in 1284) make it a work of unique importance for such an analysis. Through this text, we can glimpse a historian practicing his craft through the pursuit of his variagated delvings into the past, not all of which made it into his more coherent narrative works.

Membrana Reseniana No. 6

In the 1680s the Danish scholar Peder Hansen Resen (1625–1688) donated an Old Norse manuscript to the University Library in Copenhagen. In a catalogue made of Resen’s donation the contents of the manuscripts are listed in the following manner: Codex Islandicus membraneus M. SS. Continens. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_020

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1.

Ætates mundi Supputatas per Judices Israeliticos, Reges Judæorum, Persarum, et Ægyptorum, Imperatores Romanos et Pontifices Romanos. 2. Pauca qvædam de Imperatoribus Germanicis. 3. Annales ab An. Christ. 230. ad An. 1295 continentes varia Danica, Norvegica, Svecica, Islandica, et Grönlandica. 4. Præcepta qvædam Geometrica. 5. Mappam Geographicam totius orbis tunc temporis cogniti. 6. Breviarium Vitæ Gudmundi Episcopi Holensis in Islandia. 7. Fragmentum Carminis cujusdam Anonymi de Magno Norvegiæ Rege Laga-bæter: Legum restauratore dicto. 8. Astronomica qvædam de cursu syderum. 9. Genealogiam majorum Odini nec on ab eo deducta stemmata et Successiones Regum Occidentalium, Saxonum, Cantianorum, Dierorum, Anglorum, Danorum usqve ad Regnerum Lodbrog/Svecorum usqve ad Haraldum Pulchricomum, Regulorum et Comitum Norvegorum usqve ad Haqvinum Haqvini apostatæ Nepotem: Deinde à Regnero Lodbrog Descendentia Stemmata Regum Daniæ usqve ad Ericum Glipping: Norvegiæ usqve ad Magnum Smeck; Sveciæ usqve ad Birgerum Magni filium. 10. Schema de Ecclipsibus. 11. Kalendarium Latinum. 12. Præcepta Arithmetica. 13. Varia Computum Ecclesiasticum concernentia.1 [An Icelandic membrane manuscript containing: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Ages of the World divided into Jewish judges, kings of the Jews, Persians and Egyptians, Roman emperors and Roman popes. A smattering about the German emperors. Annals from ad 230 to the year 1295 containing various items concerning Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Iceland and Greenland. Some geometrical precepts. A geographic map of the whole world known at that time. A short Life of Guðmundr, bishop at Hólar in Iceland. A fragment of an anonymous poem about King Magnús of Norway, called the Law-mender. Some astronomical notes on the course of the stars.

1 Petri Johannis Resenii Bibliotheca Regiœ academiœ Hafniensi donata cui præfixa est ejusdem Resenii vita: 371.

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9.

A genealogy of the ancestors of Odin and the lines of inheritance from him, and the lines of western kings in Saxony, Kent, Deira, England, Denmark all the way to Ragnar Loðbrók, the kings of Sweden to Harald Fairhair, the petty kings and dukes of Norway to Hákon, the grandson of Hákon the apostate. From then on the line of Danish kings from Ragnar Loðbrók to Erik Glipping, Norwegian kings to Magnús Smek, Swedish kings to Birger, son of Magnús. 10. A scheme of the Eclipses. 11. A Latin Calendar. 12. Arithmetical Precepts. 13. Various calculations concerning ecclesiastical affairs.] This is the original manuscript containing the Encyclopaedia of Sturla Þórðarson, which, as mentioned above, was lost in the great fire in Copenhagen in 1728. Of the 13 parts of the original manuscript, eight have been preserved in copies but five have been lost. Stefán Karlsson managed to trace the existing parts and provided most of the arguments for attributing the writing of this manuscript to Sturla Þórðarson.2 These arguments will not be dealt with at present, but the reasoning in the present article assumes that the conclusions of Stefán Karlsson and a number of other scholars concerning Sturla’s role in creating this manuscript are indeed correct. In particular, the arguments based on a comparison between the spelling of the existing copies and those of Sturla’s other work are convincing. As far as I know, they have not been challenged. It is difficult to make any assumptions about the lost components of the Encyclopaedia, the parts listed as no. 4, 5, 8, 10 and 12 in the catalogue. Four of these five are on similar themes as texts that have been preserved in the Icelandic mathematical texts known as Rímtöl, and it is possible that traces of these lost parts of the Encyclopaedia could yet be discovered behind the existing texts in this edition. Of particular interest might be the relationship between Membrana Reseniana 6 and am 415, 4to, which was also written in the west of Iceland and contains much material similar to that of the Encyclopaedia of Sturla Þórðarson.3 The fifth lost component is the map that seems to have so impressed Árni Magnússon that he consulted it on several occasions. From his writings we can surmise that among the toponyms found on this map were Þrasnes (also 2 Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 54–58. 3 See for instance the geometrical information derived from am 415, 4to, in Alfræði íslenzk: Islandsk encyklopædisk litteratur: Rímtöl, Vol. 2, 31–35, which might correspond to item 4 of the Encyclopedia. Hereafter cited as Alfræði íslenzk 2.

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mentioned in Orkneyinga saga), the Dead Sea (Hafið dauða) and Ermland or Greater Ermland (Ermland hið mikla).4 Clerical education at that time was mainly directed towards Latin grammar and verse, but an interest in astronomy, geometry and mathematics was also a sign of clerical education, which we have evidence for in the twelfth century in the works of clerics such as Ari Þorgilsson (1067–1148) and Bjarni Bergþórsson (d. 1173). Knowledge of the lost components of the Encyclopaedia would thus be of immense value if we wanted to make an educated guess as to whether Sturla Þórðarson received any clerical education. From Hákonar saga and Íslendinga saga we can see that he was proficient in the use of chronology, and any writings on the course of the stars, eclipses and arithmetical precepts might add to what we already know about his interests in clerical learning of this type. Would it be possible to describe Sturla Þórðarson as an ‘interpreter and teacher of a world view’ in a manner similar to that of Haukr Erlendsson (d. 1334), the redactor of Hauksbók?5 In many ways the Encyclopaedia of Sturla Þórðarson is an early precursor to larger and more comprehensive fourteenth century manuscripts, such as Hauksbók. In the same manner as Hauksbók, the Encyclopaedia reflects the erudition, interests and general world-view of its owner and redactor. One could argue that Sturla’s interests were more stringently historical than those of Haukr Erlendsson, whose Hauksbók includes texts of geographical, mythological, mathematical and philosophical nature. However, this is hardly possible given the current state of the evidence. There are too many sections of the Encyclopaedia missing for a general comparison between the Codex Reseniani and later, more complete works such as Hauksbók. The surviving components of the Encyclopaedia have either been edited or are only preserved in manuscripts, but their content serves as a basis for comparison with Sturla Þórðarson’s other known works. Most of this material is of historical nature; indeed all of it is, if we regard the poem about King Magnus the Lawgiver as a likely component, or even a source, of his biography, Magnúss saga, written by Sturla himself, which has unfortunately only been preserved in fragments.6 In this material we can thus glimpse Sturla the historian at work. In the following, I will review Sturla Þórðarson as a scholar of world history, Scandinavian history and the history of Iceland in the light of the material preserved from the Encyclopaedia. 4 Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 43–44. 5 See Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘Hauksbók and the Construction of an Icelandic World View’. 6 See Hákonar saga ii: 269–85.

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The World History of Sturla Þórðarson

Parts 1–3, and 13 of the Encyclopaedia of Sturla Þórðarson all contain material pertaining to world history (although item no. 3, the annals, interweaves it with material concerning Scandinavian and Icelandic history). Item no. 13 is found in several other encyclopaedic manuscripts and deals with the five great ecclesiastical councils; it has been edited as a part of Veraldar saga.7 There is also a note on chronology that probably stems from the Encyclopaedia.8 An interest in key events of world history and the reckoning of time is a feature of the existing works of Sturla Þórðarson, and is evident in both Hákonar saga and Íslendinga saga. In a prologue to Landnámabók there is also a list of rulers of various nations and institutions during the discovery of Iceland; the popes in Rome, Carolingian and Byzantine emperors, and kings of Norway, Sweden, Denmark, England, Dublin and the Orkneys.9 The same also applies to components 1 and 2 of the manuscript in Resen’s Collection, neither of which has been edited but exist in copies written at the behest of Bishop Brynjólfur Sveinsson (1605–1675) and are currently found in the De la Gardie Archive at Uppsala.10 The first item is a brief world history, based on the Chronicum epitome by Isidore of Seville (c. 570–636). This history consists mainly of lists of rulers and their regnal years: the Hebrew kings, the Achaemenid kings of Persia, the Hellenic kings of Egypt and the Roman emperors up to the time of Heraclius (reigned 610–641), the monarch contemporary with Isidore himself. This survey continued into a list of Byzantine emperors, popes, patriarchs and the abbots of Monte Cassino. There are no dates for the patriarchs listed, but a list of the abbots continues up to 1126, that of the Byzantine emperors to 1180 or 1183, while the list of popes includes the time of Boniface viii (reigned 1294–1303). However, the last four popes were listed with a different hand from that of the original scribe, who ended his list with Martin iv (reigned 1281–1285). This list is similar to the annals that were continued with a different hand after 1283, up to the year 1295. The catalogue of German emperors (listed separately in the collection) embraces the time of Frederick ii (reigned 1212–1250), who is frequently mentioned in Hákonar saga.11

7 8 9 10 11

Veraldar saga: 89–91. Alfræði íslenzk 2: 238. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók: 32. Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 44. Hákonar saga ii: vi–viii.

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This list was probably derived from a twelfth century original, and Peter Foote suggested that the list of abbots of Monte Cassino came to Iceland as a part of the foundation of the monastery at Þingeyrar.12 The continuation of the lists of the popes and German emperors to the day of Sturla is evidence of an interest in ‘world affairs’ that is also very evident in Hákonar saga.13 We then turn to the annals, which have been edited as a part of the edition of Icelandic annals by Gustav Storm, under the name Annales Reseniani.14 Most scholars have noted the interest and knowledge of the annalist in the Sturlung family, including the father and grandfather of Sturla himself. In 1941 Jón Jóhannesson remarked on the likelihood that Sturla Þórðarson had composed the annals, based on the similarity between the chronology of Sturla’s version of Landnámabók and that of the Annales Reseniani.15 Hermann Pálsson also pointed to similarities between material in the annals and Magnúss saga lagabætis by Sturla Þórðarson.16 Furthermore, Stefán Karlsson emphasized some notes in the annals that seem to point towards Sturla himself.17 The annals are evidence of an erudition relating to chronological matters, also notable in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, Íslendinga saga and the S­ turlubók version of Landnámabók. It also indicates a keen interest in world history. The bulk of the early material, before the ninth century, is connected with the reigns of popes and emperors and thus connected with the lists found in the same manuscript. There is a marked interest in the activities of well-known saints, and the date of the Council of Nicea is mentioned, in line with the interest in church councils evidenced later in the manuscript. As for more recent periods, there are notes on several events of importance throughout the whole of Christendom during the thirteenth century. A few examples will suffice: in 1217 there is a reference to one of the later crusades (hófz Jórsala för mikla), and in 1228 to the excommunication of Emperor Frederick ii. In 1241 there is mention of the Mongol campaigns in Hungary and in 1277 to their war against the ‘sultan of Babylon’ (the Mamluk leader of Egypt). There is a notable increase in the mention of international events in the years 1263–1271, which happen to be the years Sturla Þórðarson spent at the royal court in Norway.18

12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Quoted by Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 41–42. Hákonar saga ii: v–vi. Islandske Annaler indtil 1578: 1–30. Jón Jóhannesson, Gerðir Landnámabókar: 134–35. Hermann Pálsson, Eftir þjóðveldið: 60–61. Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 47–50. Islandske Annaler indtil 1578: 27–28.

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Since Sturla Þórðarson as a scholar interested in world history has been neglected by most scholars interested in Sturla as an author, The Encyclopaedia of Sturla Þórðarson offers grounds for a refocus on his scholarly endeavour. A brief overview of this manuscript demonstrates that, like many of his predecessors among the narrators of Icelandic and Scandinavian history, including Ari Þorgilsson and Sæmundr Sigfússon, Sturla was concerned not only with the history of Iceland and Scandinavia but also with the history of Christendom in general.19 Moreover, he wanted to place his Icelandic and Scandinavian history within the context of world history, as evidenced by Hákonar saga and the Sturlubók version of Landnámabók. In short, Sturla, like many other medieval historians, was attempting to fit his knowledge about these areas into an overriding master narrative, that of Biblical history from the Creation to the times of Jesus Christ.

The Ancient Past of the Scandinavian Kingdoms

Parts 3, 7 and 9 of the Encyclopaedia of Sturla Þórðarson all contain material pertaining to Scandinavian history. This interest is evident in the poem about King Magnús, which might have served as supplementary material in his biography, similarly to the poems about King Hákon in Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar. In the Uppsala-Edda, Sturla Þórðarson is the only poet mentioned to have composed a poem about Magnús, so it may be assumed that the poem in the Encyclopaedia was actually his own creation.20 It may even have been used in Magnúss saga, although no remnants of it are found in any of the existing fragments. In the Annales Reseniani there are several references to Scandinavian history from the ninth century onwards, the first in 836 when Gorm the Old is said to have become the king of Denmark.21 For later periods several references are made to the reigns of Danish and Norwegian kings, and occasionally to Swedish kings, although only one Swedish king is mentioned in the annals between 1022 and 1195. In the late thirteenth century there seems to be a particular interest in the affairs of the Scandinavian kingdoms, which is also 19 20 21

See Sverrir Jakobsson, ‘Hin heilaga fortíð’. Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 53–54. Islandske Annaler: 13. There is an even earlier reference to the slaying of King Reric of the Frisians and Godfred of the Jutes in 810, but this might be mangled information derived from the Latin Carolingian annals, which mention the death of King Godfred that year and his attack on the Frisian town of Reric a few years earlier; see Peter Haynes Sawyer, Kings and Vikings: 73.

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e­ vident in his royal biographies, Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar and Magnúss saga lagabœtis. The text Langfeðgatal, item no. 9 in the Encyclopaedia, is found in the Uppsala manuscript derived from Bishop Brynjólfur Sveinsson. It offers important evidence as to when the Encyclopaedia was written. The genealogies of Norwegian, Danish and Swedish kings on the third page of the manuscript all conclude with kings who were in power between 1252 and 1259, but the names of later kings have been added with a different scribal hand and different ink.22 As Sven Axelsson demonstrated, there is a correlation between these lists and annalistic information in Annales Reseniani, except that there are no dates for the Swedish kings who ruled between 1022 and 1195 (apart from one king whose death is also mentioned in Ari Þorgilsson’s Íslendingabók).23 On the first page of the manuscript there is a list of Óðinn’s ancestors, as well as lines of descent from Óðinn to a few of the kings of England, ending with Henry iii (reigned 1216–1272). On the second page of the manuscript there are lines of descent from Óðinn to the royal lines of Skjöldungar, Ynglingar, Háleygjajarlar and Hlaðajarlar, ending with kings from the ninth to the eleventh centuries. These lines correspond in some degree to genealogies in the Prose Edda, Heimskringla, and Skjöldunga saga, although there are some differences that make direct copying unlikely.24 This demonstrates the interest of Sturla Þórðarson in the history of ancient Scandinavian kings, similar to the material found in these early thirteenth century works. It is tempting to regard Sturla as a continuator of the work of his uncle, Snorri Sturluson (1179–1241), when it comes to an interest in the genealogies of the Scandinavians, both ancient and contemporary. In the cases where their reign or date of death could be reliably provided, there is a reference to them in the Annales Reseniani, but generally Sturla exercised restraint in attempting to date things that actually could not be dated. On the whole, however, Sturla did not continue delving into ancient history after he wrote down the genealogies in the 1250s. They serve as background material to his historical works of which he made little further use, proof of his erudition if nothing else.

22 23 24

Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 44. Sven Axelsson, Sverige i dansk annalistik 900–1400: 124–28. For a more thorough discussion see Anthony Faulkes, ‘The genealogies and regnal lists in a manuscript in Resen’s library’. On the possible oral sources of Langfeðgatal see, Daniel Sävborg, ‘Kungalängder och historieskrivning: Fornsvenska och fornisländska källor om Sveriges historia’.

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Fragments of the History of Iceland

As the composer of the Sturlubók version of Landnámabók, and the Íslendinga saga, part of the Sturlunga saga compilation, Sturla Þórðarson was a productive narrator of the history of Iceland. Nevertheless, not much of the material in the Encyclopaedia can be connected directly to this writing. Apart from frequent references to Icelandic affairs in the Annales Reseniani, the items of most note for Icelandic history are the epitome of the life of Bishop Guðmundr Arason (item no. 6) and the obituary (item no. 11), which many scholars have connected with the monastery at Helgafell. Both have a clear connection with the life and historical writings of Sturla Þórðarson. The epitome has been edited by Stefán Karlsson after a copy made by Halldór Guðmundsson at Sílastaðir in Kræklingahlíð in 1656.25 It contains a chronological summary of the life of Bishop Guðmundr Arason, listing where he spent the winters from his birth to the end of his life. There is an obvious congruity with the annalistic style of the earliest sources to the life of Guðmundr, Prestsaga Guðmundar góða and the Íslendinga saga of Sturla Þórðarson himself, both included in the Sturlunga compilation. It can be guessed that Sturla himself intended to write a history of Guðmundr in order to complement what he had already written in Íslendinga saga, and the epitome in the Encyclopaedia can be seen as an outline of such a work. The obituary was included in the collection of Icelandic obituaries edited by Jón Þorkelsson (1859–1924) in the 1890s.26 In his edition, Jón Þorkelsson pointed to the fact that the death dates of all the priors at Helgafell were listed there up until 1244, but only a few for other abbots. Thus, he connected the composition of the obituary with the West of Iceland around the middle of the thirteenth century. This matter has been taken further by Lars Lönnroth, who has demonstrated the relationship between this obituary and an older one from Viðey, which is a part of the manuscript gks 1812, 4to. The priory of Viðey can be connected with Sturla’s uncle, Snorri Sturluson, and the lawspeaker Styrmir Kárason served there as a prior. According to Lönnroth, the obituary of the Viðey priory must have been copied into the Encyclopaedia between 1246 and 1250. Later additions to it included the priors at Helgafell up to 1244 as well as many other deaths from the later half of the thirteenth century. However, only a handful of deaths from the fourteenth century are recorded in the obituary. Lönnroth also remarked 25 26

Guðmundar sögur biskups: 1–13. Íslenzkar ártíðarskrár eða Obituaria Islandica: 82–114.

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upon many similarities between the dates of the death mentioned both in the obituary and in Sturla Þórðarson’s Íslendinga saga.27 To this, Stefán Karlsson added the observation that there are many dates of death of the closest ­relatives of Sturla Þórðarson in the obituary in the Encyclopaedia. Another important group represented in the obituary are the Norwegian kings and their closest relatives. Stefán Karlsson regarded the obituary as some sort of historian’s manual, as it was not primarily devoted to the death dates of saints whom canons in priories such as Viðey and Helgafell were supposed to celebrate.28 In the collection of death dates we thus see the historian Sturla Þórðarson at work, as the obituary was probably of much use in the composition of both Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga. The Encyclopaedia of Sturla Þórðarson is easily the least known of his works, but it is of enormous importance for the understanding of how he worked – Sturla’s process in the crafting of history. From its contents it is possible to sketch the following evolution of Sturla Þórðarson as a historian: Sturla Þórðarson had no formal education that we know of but he spent his youth in the company of his uncle, Snorri Sturluson, who was not only a poet, a mythologist and a historian, but also held the position of the key authority on the laws of Iceland – the lawspeaker. Before the writing of the laws in 1117–1118, the lawspeaker was supposed to memorize the law and recite one third of it every year at the parliament. When the law was written down this function became obsolete, and the key authority on Iceland’s laws was now a book whose most important copies were kept by the bishop. Yet the office did not disappear. Instead the lawspeakers became authorities of a different kind of learning, whether in writing about world history (Gizurr Hallsson), Scandinavian kings (Styrmir Kárason, Snorri Sturluson, Óláfr hvítaskáld Þórðarson), poetry and rhetoric (Snorri Sturluson, Óláfr hvítaskáld Þórðarson) or the settlement of Iceland (Styrmir Kárason). In 1251 Sturla Þórðarson was elected to this office, and became an authority on this kind of learning. It is probable that he had already been groomed for such an occupation by Snorri Sturluson in a manner similar to that of his brother, Óláfr Þórðarson, who was only two years older and preceded him as lawspeaker. Among the works written down first in the Encyclopaedia are the obituary and the Langfeðgatal. Both might have come to Sturla as an inheritance from his uncle, who was connected with the priory in Viðey, where the obituary ­originally came from, and an authority on ancient royal genealogies. Around 27 28

Lars Lönnroth, ‘Styrmir’s Hand in the Obituary of Viðey’. Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 50–52.

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Sturla’s election as lawspeaker, he probably started writing the annals, of which the earliest notices can be traced to the West of Iceland, even to Ari Þorgilsson himself, the great grandfather of the first wife of Þórðr Sturluson, Sturla’s father. During the time Sturla wrote Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar, around 1263– 1265, he had probably gained a keener interest in world events, the evidence of which can be seen both in the annals and in the lists of world rulers. In the 1270s, when he had become the king’s lawman in Iceland, Sturla must have been working on both Íslendinga saga and his version of Landnámabók. His interest in the life of Guðmundr Arason might date from this period, but Sturla also kept on adding to the annals and the obituary, probably to the end of his life. The manuscript then fell into the hands of his heirs, who continued to add to it, frequently until 1295, but only sporadically afterwards. In the Encyclopaedia, we can see Sturla Þórðarson at work as a historian from the late 1240s to the time of his death in 1284. His erudition was such as one would expect from a secular official like the lawspeaker, but his interest in chronology, astronomy and mathematics might be evidence of a clerical education, wherever Sturla acquired it. Sturla used this learning while writing his great works of history, of which the Encyclopaedia is only a supplement. The lack of a similar insight into the work process of many other medieval historians makes the Encyclopaedia of Sturla Þórðarson a work of unique value.

chapter 20

Narrative, Evidence and the Reception of Járnsíða Patricia Pires Boulhosa The currently accepted narrative of the introduction of the first law-book commissioned by King Magnús Hákonarson for the Icelanders, known as Járnsíða, goes like this: In the summer of 1271, the king sent his men and Sturla Þórðarson to Iceland with the law-book. Later that summer, only some parts of the book were sanctioned in the Alþingi because Icelanders were unhappy with its contents; they quarrelled about it, and the book was ratified two years later. This narrative is solidly based on the sources, aside from the unhappiness and quarrelling – these are inferred from the sources. The name Járnsíða itself is only recorded in an eighteenth-century manuscript of Resensannáll (am 424 4to x, c.1700) in the entry for the year 1271: ‘Sturla arrived in Iceland with the law-book Járnsíða.’1 Fourteenth-century annals speak either of the ‘law-book’ (Elztu annálar and Konungsannáll) or the ‘Norwegian law-book’ (Lögmannsánnáll).2 The fullest entry is found in the Konungsannáll: King Magnús sent to Iceland Þorvarðr Þórarinsson, the lawmen Sturla Þórðarson, and Eindriði bögull with the law-book. And then the payment of fines to the king was accepted in Iceland. And then the section ‘Þingskapabálkr’ from the law-book was also ratified, as well as two chapters from ‘Erfðabálkr’ on the children of betrothed women and adoption.3 1 ‘Stvrla com vt [með] logboc Jarn siðv.’ Islandske Annaler indtil 1578: 28. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own. The datings of manuscripts are taken from Ordbog over det norrøne prosasprog, unless stated otherwise. 2 Elztu annálar or Annales vetustissimi (am 415 4°, c.1310): ‘Arrival in Iceland of Þorvarðr Þórarinsson and Sturla Þorðarson with the law-book’ (vt kvama Þorvarðar Þorarins sunar ok Sturlo Þorþar sunar með logbok…). Lögmannsannáll (am 420 b 4to, c.1362–1390): ‘The Norwegian law-book arrives in Iceland’ (komu norren logh a Island). Islandske Annaler, 49 and 259, respectively. The passage in Annales regii or Konungsannáll (gks 2087 4to, c.1300–1328) is transcribed in the following footnote and translated above. 3 ‘Magnv́s konungr senndi til Islanndz Þorvarð Þórarins son. ok Stvrlv Þórðar son lögmann ok Eindriða böngvl með lögbók. ok var þá iatat konungi þegngilldi á Islanndi. þá var ok logtekinn þingskapabálkr í lögbókinni. ok. .ij. capitvlar i erfðabelki. vm fastarkonv börn ok vm arfleiðing.’, Islandske Annaler: 138.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_021

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Konungsannáll and Elztu annállar also record subsequent ratifications of the other parts of the law-book in the years 1272 and 1273.4 These sources are unforthcoming when it comes to the Icelanders’ mood about the law-book, and as this was an event without precedent in Iceland, it is not possible to state with certainty whether the gradual ratification signified a troublesome reception. Whatever the king’s expectations, the Icelanders might have felt entitled to take their time to examine the new laws. The fullest account of Járnsíða is found in Árna saga biskups, the oldest copies of which date from the middle of the fourteenth century.5 The saga is the main source for the events of the so-called staðamál, Bishop Árni’s attempt to gain control of the churches which were owned by the laity,6 and the account of Járnsíða is interspersed with accounts of the staðamál. According to the saga chronology, Járnsíða was brought to the country in 1271 when the troubles with staðamál, which began in 1269, were in full swing: In this summer the venerable lord King Magnús sent to Iceland Þorvarðr Þórarinsson and Eindriði bögull, his retainer, along with Sturla Þórðarson, with the Norwegian law-book, and then later in the summer ­Þingfararbálkr, two chapters from Erfðabálkr on the children of betrothed women and adoption, and the payment of fines to the king were accepted over all the country, but nothing more.7 As also happens in the annals, this brief account is complemented by two ­other passages on the gradual ratification of the other parts of the book.8 This has led scholars to speculate why the law-book was not accepted at the first sitting 4 Islandske Annaler: 139 (Konungsannáll) and 49 (Elztu annálar). 5 Only a few leaves survive from fourteenth-century manuscripts of the saga: three leaves from am 122 b fol., ca. 1375–1400 (Reykjarfjarðarbók) and two leaves from am 220 vi fol., ca. 1340–1360. Modern editions rely on seventeenth-century manuscripts. Árna saga biskups, Ed. Þorleifur Hauksson: vii–xxxi; Biskupa sögur iii: lii–lvi; Stefán Karlsson, ‘Ritun Reykjarfarðarbókar’. 6 For a discussion of the staðamál, including a review of scholarship, see Magnús Stefánsson, Staðir og staðamál: Studier i islandske egenkirkelige og beneficialrettslige forhold; a summarized version of the book is found in Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Um staði og staðamál’. 7 ‘Á þessu sumri sendi virðuligr herra Magnús konungr til Íslands Þorvarð Þórarinsson ok Eindriða böggul, hirðmann sinn, þar með Sturlu Þórðarson með lögbók norræna, ok var þá eptir um sumarit játat þingfararbælki ok tveimur kapítulum ór erfðabælki; um festarkonu born ok um arfleiðing ok þegngildi um allt land, en eigi fleira.’ Árna saga biskups, in Biskupa sögur iii: 1–212, 27. 8 Biskupa sögur iii: 29, 43–44. See discussions below.

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of the Alþingi in 1271 and it has been generally accepted that the Icelanders were unhappy with the laws and quarrelled over its contents.9 Although this theory is plausible enough, it has to be said that it does not come from a close reading of the saga narrative. Rather, scholars have plucked the factual information from the saga in order to construct their own narrative. It has often been said of Árna saga biskups that is dry and official in language and structure.10 There is no doubt that the text displays an overblown formality; for example, the narrator makes constant use of expressions such as ‘fyrrnefndr Árni byskup’ (aforementioned bishop), ‘virðuligr herra Magnús konungr’ (honourable lord King Magnús).11 Some of its sentences read as if transcribed directly from a document or letter (and some indeed claim to be transcriptions), but this formality is both a ruse to hide the narrator’s subjectivity and partiality, and a means to hide the most subtle of criticisms. By supposedly reporting from a document, the narrator is free from the restrictions of the third-person narrative – the reader may feel as if they are peering over the shoulder of the document writer to read the words, an illusion that allows the narrator to claim the utmost objectivity. The text of Árna saga biskups is not difficult for its own sake but because its narrator is a master of illusion and subtlety. As I hope to show, there is more to the saga than factual information, and a fresh reading can be made of these events. Staðamál After the brief account of the reception of the Norwegian law-book at the Alþingi quoted above, the narrative immediately returns to the staðamál: ‘When the agreement concerning Oddi had been made, those who had delayed pursuing similar cases had to submit to the bishop concerning the church property which they held.’12 The narrator goes on to explain that the king had given the control of half of Iceland to one of the bishop’s opponents, Hrafn Oddsson. This Hrafn has been claiming that the king is against the bishop’s 9

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For example, Sigurður Lindal, ‘The Law Codes of Skarðsbók’: 53, Skálholtsbók eldri: am 351 fol, 11, and Randi Bjørshol Wærdahl, The Incorporation and Integration of the King’s Tributary Lands into the Norwegian Realm c. 1195–1397: 124–25. Rory W. McTurk, ‘Review of Árna saga biskups, edited by Þorleifur Hauksson’; Joseph Harris, ‘Review of Árna saga biskups, edited by Þorleifur Hauksson,’; and Sverrir Tómasson, ‘Old Icelandic Prose’: 90. For example, Biskupa sögur iii: 26–27. ‘At gerðum þessum samningi um Odda seinkuðu margir þeir sem þvílík mál áttu at ganga at borði við byskup um þær kirkjueignir sem þeir heldu.’ (Biskupa sögur iii: 27.).

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plans and that the bishop’s opponents are being unfairly treated. Feeling the pressure, Bishop Árni writes to the archbishop but also to the king, whose support for the staðamál, he claims, would silence the enemies of the Church and the king’s opponents: In the same year in which the agreement with the sons of Steinvör was made, the aforementioned Bishop Árni also wrote to the venerable lord King Magnús, whom he believed to be the true and absolute friend of the Church, that his royal power would silence those enemies of the Church and his own opponents.13 Here there is a subtle hint that the king will fall short of Árni’s expectation – Árni ‘believed’ the king to be the true and absolute friend of the Church. The passage also spells out the nature of the struggle that will unfold – ‘royal power’ would silence the enemies of the Church: the interests of king and Church are not aligned and Árni, perhaps too bluntly, demands the support of the king. At first, the king seems to warm to the bishop’s cause as the narrator uses the conventional formula hann tók vel hans málum (‘he thought well of the Bishop’s cause’) but, flanked by two conditional clauses, the king’s support is shown to be half-hearted and subject to Árni’s agreement to support the king’s affairs: And when lord King Magnús saw these documents he thought well of the bishop’s cause and wrote his own request in return, so that, subject to its acceptance, he would help the lord bishop to secure his wish if, in return, he would obtain the fulfilment of his own wish. And it was the stated wish of the king that the lord bishop should urge the people in Iceland to receive his law-book, and the king said that he had been told that the bishop, because of his ancestry, authority and deeds, would make the most progress in this matter with his countrymen.14 13

14

‘Þetta sama ár sem samningr var gjör við Steinvararsyni ritaði ok fyrrnefndr Árni byskup til virðuligs herra Magnúss konungs, þess er hann trúði sannan ok fullkominn vin kirkjunnar, at með sínu konungligu valdi byrgði munn á þessum hennar óvinum ok sínum mótstöðumönnum.’ (Biskupa sögur iii: 28.). ‘En þá er herra Magnús konunugr sá þessi bréf tók hann vel hans málum, en ritaði á móti sinni beizlu svá sem at henni þeginni vildi hann fulltingja herra byskupi at fá framkvæmð sín vilja, ef fyrir hans fullting fengi hann framkvæmð síns vilja. En sú var konungsins vilja beizla at herra biskup skyldi eggja menn á Íslandi at taka við lögbók hans ok sagði at honum var svá flutt at sakir burða, vígslu ok framkvæmðar mundi hann mestu áleiðis koma um þennan hluta við landsfólkit.’ (Biskupa sögur iii: 28–29.).

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The king does not beat about the bush – Árni must put his weight into the approval of the law-book. And here, it seems, the narrator adds a measure of sarcasm to the king’s response by the mention of Árni’s ancestry. Although the bishop comes from an old and powerful family in Iceland, the Svínfellingar, the saga hints at an early life lived in some adversity; his father’s inability to settle anywhere forces the family to move from farm to farm and live under the dependence of an extended family whose troubled affairs Árni eventually abandons with just the clothes on his back and a horse.15 But the king also goes on to remind Árni of his duties: He also noted that it was his duty as a bishop to urge people in a matter of honour and respect, reform and necessity. The king also wrote that he took the lord bishop’s request in such a way that he sent for him in the most friendly terms, and said that he wanted to have both him and the other best men with him to consult on that difficult matter.16 So, effectively, the king summons Árni to Norway – reminding him that, at this time, these are friendly terms. The difficult matter, ‘vandahlutr’, from which the king wants to physically remove Árni, is the staðamál. He does so before Árni’s staðamál generates more problems. What the narrator seems to be saying is that Árni’s intended reform, staðamál, got in the way of the king’s legal reform – and the king was impatient. The narrator even evokes conventional ideas of gift-giving to moderate the king’s irritation with Árni.17 Properly admonished, Árni ‘set his whole mind to ensuring success in these matters’ and then, at the Alþingi, the law-book is ratified, with the exception of the Section on Inheritance (‘Erfðabálkr’):

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Biskupa sögur iii: 6–7. An insightful reading of the saga’s depiction of Bishop Árni’s early life is found in Richard Cole, ‘Desiderium Ex Machina: The Theme of Desire in the Life of Bishop Árni Þorláksson’: 10–13. ‘Hann tjáði ok þat fyrir honum at þat væri byskuplig skylda at eggja fólk á þá hluti sem þeim var bæði í sæmð ok uppreist, siðbót ok nauðsyn. Konungrinn ritaði ok hvernig hann tók beizlu herra byskups at hann kallaði hann til sín með fullkommun blíðskap, ok sagðiz bæði hann ok aðra hina beztu menn hjá sér vildi hafa at ráða um þennan vandahlut.’ (Biskupa sögur iii: 29). ‘He also saw to it that the letter was accompanied by fine gifts, a silver vessel inlaid, both inside and outside; two worm-tongues; and a bow of electuarium, good against the cold.’ (‘Lét hann ok fylgja þessu bréfi fagrar presentr; silfrker gyllt utan ok innan, ormstungr tvær, buðk af electuario, gott við frosti’). (Biskupa sögur iii: 29).

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These [i.e. letter and gifts] came to the lord bishop the following summer at the Alþingi with the aforementioned Eindriði bögull, and he received the message well, and set his whole mind to ensuring success in these matters. It was also at this Alþingi that the whole book which the king had sent to Iceland was ratified, except that the Section on Inheritance was not ratified, apart from the two chapters which had been accepted the previous summer.18 The saga mentions the Section on Inheritance twice – here and in the first passage mentioned above. Inheritance is at the heart of the staðamál. One of the landowners’ arguments against the bishop was that their churches had been legally acquired by inheritance. Indeed, when the archbishop finally intervenes to mediate between the bishop and the landowners, in 1273, his decision refers to the landowners and their descendants.19 After the archbishop’s intervention – and these events involving the staðamál occupy the following five consecutive chapters of the saga – the opponents of the Church renounce their claims to the churches: After this event, all opponents of the Church renounced what they thought they were entitled to keep, and stopped claiming the churches for themselves, whether they had previously bought them at a price or had taken them by inheritance.20 Árni and his opponents, who were in Norway to hear the archbishop’s decision, go back to Iceland. And it is only now, with the settlement of their cases concerning the staðamál, that the new law-book is fully ratified: In this summer [1273], the lord Bishop Árni went to Iceland at a time of great affection among the chieftains, the king and the archbishop. In the summer Hrafn Oddsson and Þorvarðr Þórarinsson went to Iceland, and with the support of the lord bishop and the aforementioned s­ heriffs, 18

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‘Kómu þessar til herra byskups annat sumar fyrir þing með fyrrnefndum Eindriða böggul, ok bráz hann vel við konungsins sendiboð ok lagði á allan hug at þat fengi framkvæmð. Var ok á þessu þingi lögtekin öll bók sú er konungrinn hafði utan sent nema erfðarbálkr var eigi lögtekinn nema tveir kapítular er hitt fyrra sumarit var játat.’ (Biskupa sögur iii: 29). Biskupa sögur iii: 42. ‘Eptir þenna atburð lögðu allir mótstöðumenn kirkjunnar niðr þat sem þeir þóttuz eiga á at halda, ok létu af sér at kalla kirkjur hvárt sem þeir höfðu þær áðr með verði keyptar eðr í erfð tekit.’ (Biskupa sögur iii: 43.).

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the Norwegian Section of Inheritance was accepted in the autumn at St Martin’s Day.21 According to Árna saga biskups, then, the ratification of Járnsíða was delayed because of Árni’s staðamál. Its narrative is focussed upon the conflict between king and bishop, in which the approval of the law-book is an incidental part. While the law-book was not fully approved, the power of the king in Iceland was weakened, and the narrative craftily shows that the king’s impatience with Árni was justified. The staðamál effectively voided the inheritance rights which were guaranteed in the new laws (and also in the old laws) – it was an act of confiscation that affected rights that had been acquired in the past and were expected to survive into the future.22 With the king’s legal reform under way, it was hardly the best time to remind the Icelanders of the instability of the laws against the whims of a king. These tensions, and the king’s irritation in particular, are never openly stated in the saga. As Richard Cole remarks, the narrative style of Árna saga biskups has ‘a remarkable propensity to strain our suspension of disbelief’ by making exaggerated and incongruous claims.23 This, for example, can be seen in the last passage quoted above, in which it is said that there was ‘great affection’ among the parties, including the chieftains and the archbishop, even though the latter had just pronounced a judgement that hurt the former’s rights and interests in the staðamál conflict. Although readers would expect Árna saga biskups to cast its gaze on Bishop Árni, it is worth asking how we should understand the total erasure from the narrative of the man who was made lawman of the Alþingi in c.1272, Sturla Þórðarson. Árna saga biskups conveniently depicts Sturla as uninterested in the staðamál conflict; when Þorvarðr Þórarinsson reports the deliberations of the Alþingi in c.1276, he notes that Sturla was not expeditious (ógreiðr) and referred most cases to the judgement of the bishop and other men.24 Even if 21

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‘Þetta sumar fór herra Árni byskup til Íslands með mikilli blíðu við hvárntveggja höfðingjann, konung ok erkibyskup. Þetta sumar kómu þeir til Íslands Hrafn Oddson Þorvarðr Þórarinsson, ok með flutningi herra byskups ok þeira fyrrnefndra valdsmanna var þetta haust játat norrænum erfðabælki at Marteinsmessu.’ (Biskupa sögur iii: 43.). It is likely that the saga overplays the reach and impact of Bishop Árni’s reforms. See also Magnús Stefánsson, ‘Um staði og staðamál,’ 152–55, Orri Vésteinsson, The Christianization of Iceland: 126–27, and Ármann Jakobsson and Ásdís Egilsdóttir, ‘Er Oddaverjaþætti treystandi?’ 97–98. Richard Cole, ‘Desiderium Ex Machina’: 7. See also Patricia Pires Boulhosa, ‘Narratives and Documents’, in The Routledge Companion to the Medieval Icelandic Saga, forthcoming. Biskupa sögur iii: 63. A different sentiment emerges from the account of Sturla’s apparent dissociation from the staðamál conflict in Sturlunga saga. There, it is said that Sturla

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this account is reliable, it would have been impossible for Sturla not to take on a central role during the discussions about Járnsíða and, if anything, the suspicious expurgation of Sturla from the saga narrative warns us against attempting to reconstruct historical events from it. I hope that this brief analysis is sufficient to show that the traditional reading of the events surrounding the reception of Járnsíða in Árna saga biskups deserves attention. More to the point, it is not enough to plunder the saga for factual information and leave behind the nuances of its narrative.25 I do not want to argue that Járnsíða was received with joy and that it would have been approved with no delay if Árni’s staðamál hadn’t got in its way. However, the discontent over the contents of Járnsíða at the moment of its introduction is just not there in the saga. The events described in the successive chapters of the saga seem to describe some level of discontent (or perhaps bewilderment) with the new laws, but these events are filtered through Bishop Árni’s actions and interests, and especially his rivalry with Þorvarðr Þórarinsson. These passages have not received the attention they deserve, and future analysis of the introduction and reception of Járnsíða would benefit from a close reading of them.26 We also need to turn our attention to the laws themselves and to the manuscript in which they have been recorded, Staðarhólsbók (am 334 fol., c.1260–1270). The text and layout of Staðarhólsbók show the complexity of its composition. I have argued elsewhere that revision may have been behind the recording of Staðarhólsbók while compilation might have been the main rationale behind Konungsbók (GkS 1157 fol., c.1250).27 Staðarhólsbók seems to

25

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kept his position of law-men ‘until the disagreements between the clergy and layman concerning the staðamál flared up’ (til er hęfuz deilur milli kennimanna ok leikmanna um staðamál); he gave up his position and ‘kept apart from all the troubles that arose’ (settiz hjá öllum vandræðum, er þar af gerðuz). The narrator adds that many people heard Bishop Árni say that Sturla probably got something from the king for having ‘walked away from these difficulties’ (gekk frá þessum vanda). Sturlunga saga efter membranen Króksfjarðarbók udfyldt efter Reykjarfjarðarbók, 2: 328. The quoted passages come from bl Add 1127, c.1696 and are not found (in the so-called ‘Sturlu þáttr’) in Reykjarfjarðarbók, am 122b fol., c.1375–1400. In Boulhosa, ‘Narratives and Documents,’ I discuss how the use of documents in sagas, and especially Árni saga biskups, is interpreted as a great sign of their historical reliability and generally leads scholars to neglect the analysis of their narratives. Analysis of these episodes tends to be factual, and not to take into account the saga narrative style and wider textual context. Patricia Pires Boulhosa, ‘Layout and the Structure of the Text in Konungsbók’, and ‘Ideas of Law in Medieval Icelandic Legal Texts’: 170–71.

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be at the forefront of a tradition of recording the legal history of Iceland and not unlike later manuscripts such as am 350 fol. (c.1363–1525) and am 351 fol. (c.1360–1500). Indeed, this historical preoccupation can be seen in the opening lines of its Grágás text. In contrast to the formulaic opening lines of Grágás in Konungsbók – ‘It is the beginning of our laws’ (Þat er upphaf laga vaRa)28 – Staðarhólsbók looks towards the past: ‘In the days of our fathers these laws were established’ (‘Á dögum feðra vara voro þav lög sett’).29 In its present state, Staðarhólsbók has two other texts in addition to Járnsíða on folios 92verso to 108verso. On folio 1verso, a text of Grágás begins. On folio 1recto there are legal provisions, jointly known as ‘Dómakapítuli’ (Chapter on Judgments), of which only the first words are recorded on folio 98verso in the Járnsíða portion of the manuscript. ‘Dómakapítuli’ embodies the greatest change in the Icelandic legal tradition, as it introduces ideas of evidence and legal evaluation opposite to those established in Grágás. Although scholars have attempted to understand the composition of the manuscript and the dating of its individual parts, their research has to some extent been influenced by the idea that its parts were recorded in the same manuscript by chance.30 Recently, though, Lena Rohrbach has studied the layout of Staðarhólsbók and has convincingly argued that the placing of ‘Dómakapítuli’ at the beginning of the manuscript was an attempt to produce a ‘prologue’ in the model of Continental law-codes. The recording of ‘Domakapítuli’ is thus contemporary with the writing of Járnsíða, with the ‘missing’ provisions displaced from their original place on folio 98verso to the front of the manuscript. Rohrbach has also made important suggestions about how and why the manuscript was put together; she argues that Staðarhólsbók was a template for legislators in Norway, who were preparing the new law-book (introduced in Iceland in c.1281 and known as Jónsbók).31 There is unfortunately no space in this paper to give Rohrbach’s arguments the attention they deserve and to discuss whether or not Staðarhólsbók was intended for a non-Icelandic audience, and whether its three parts – ‘Dómakapítuli,’ Grágás, and Járnsíða – were assembled together as a template for the making of Jónsbók. My own on-going research on the contents and layout of Staðarhólsbók suggests that what is called Járnsíða, that is, the text on folios 92v–108v of the manuscript, is an incomplete ­working copy 28 29 30

31

Grágás: Islændernes Lovbog i Fristatens Tid, Ia: 3. Grágás efter det Arnamagnæanske Haandskrift nr. 334 fol: Staðarhólsbók: 1. See, for example, Grágás efter det Arnamagnæanske Haandskrift nr. 334 fol: ix, and also references provided by Lena Rohrbach, ‘Matrix of the Law?: A Material Study of Staðarhólsbók’. Rohrbach, ‘Matrix of the Law?’: 118–25.

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of something that might not entirely correspond to current ideas of Járnsíða. Inconsistencies in the layout and text of Járnsíða seem to indicate that the scribes were working on the text as they copied it during what was a complex and time-consuming process. These inconsistencies include an unfinished revision of terminology (Icelandic terminology replaced Norwegian terminology), unsystematic and scruffy layout (especially when compared to the Grágás-portion of the manuscript), the absence of legal provisions on important subjects such as the payment and collection of the king’s tribute, hreppar (districts, communes) and the maintenance of dependents, as well as a limited number of provisions on renting of land, land claims and use of land and pastures.32 The recording of Járnsíða, and of Staðarhólsbók as a whole, show that the process of accepting or rejecting legislation, however formally enacted in the Alþingi – and however neatly described in the narrative sources – happened at the hands of the scribes and other legal players who were involved in the preparation of the Icelandic legal manuscripts. A fresh reading of Árni saga biskups, including the passages dealing with the bishop’s clashes after the introduction of Járnsíða, as well as the later ratification of Jónsbók, would help us to understand the narrator’s representation of the introduction of King Magnús’s laws in Iceland. However, the saga narrative cannot inform our reading of the legal texts themselves. An independent assessment of the text of Járnsíða in Staðarhólsbók and of the text, layout and physical elements of the whole manuscript, is the best hope for trying to understand the reception of Járnsíða in Iceland.

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It therefore seems that if the Járnsíða text was a complete piece of legislation, Iceland would have been under-legislated.

chapter 21

‘New Worlds Emerging’: History and Identity in Twelfth-Century Eurasia R.I. Moore Historians of Europe have long acknowledged the twelfth and thirteenth centuries as a period of supreme cultural achievement in every field.1 They have understood, somewhat more slowly, that those achievements rested on dramatic increases in population and disposable wealth, and in the sophistication of the means by which the wealth was collected and distributed.2 They have agreed that these developments, however explained, constituted a stepchange amounting to a permanent transformation of society and institutions, with enduring consequences for the future.3 Much more recently – in the past generation or so – historians with research expertise in other parts of the world, and with interests in world history as such, have begun to recognise transformations of a similar kind, and on a similar scale, throughout the Afroeurasian landmass, despite the enormous differences of wealth, sophistication and culture among its inhabitants. I mention two books as emblematic of this historiographical development, not because of their immediate impact – which indeed in both cases has been less than it ought to have been – but because both arose from the observation of suggestive patterns and similarities in the findings of historians in different fields by an author (of the first) and editors (of the second) who were not themselves historians by training. That is often the case with paradigm shifts. In 1989 the sociologist Janet Abu-Lughod published Before European Hegemony: The World System, 1250–1350.4 The title refers to Immanuel Wallerstein’s 1 Landmarks include W.P. Ker, Epic and Romance; Henry Adams, Mont St. Michel and Chartres; Charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century; R.W. Southern, The Making of the Middle Ages. 2 Marc Bloch, Les caractères originaux de l’histoire rurale français; Georges Duby L’économie rurale et la vie des campagnes dans l’occident médiévale; Jacques Le Goff, La civilization de l’occident médiévale; Robert Fossier, Enfance de l’Europe, Xe–XIIe siècle: aspects économiques et sociaux. 3 Georges Duby, Le chevalier, la Femme et le Prêtre; R.I. Moore, The First European Revolution, c. 970–1215; Thomas F.X. Noble and John Van Engen, eds. European Transformations. 4 Janet L. Abu-Lughod, Before European Hegemony: The World System a.d. 1250–1350.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_022

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thesis that, from about 1450, Europeans developed a system of exchange which subordinated to itself the trading and manufacturing systems of other parts of the world, upon which the world domination of the European empires in the nineteenth century was founded.5 Abu-Lughod’s conclusion – which has been widely accepted – was that by 1250 or thereabouts the several trading networks of the vast area comprising modern Asia, the Middle East and Europe (to which I shall refer below as the Old World) had become sufficiently well-integrated both in themselves and with each other to constitute a single World System. It is a question particularly relevant to the concerns of this conference, to which I will return, whether the eight networks identified by Abu-Lughod ought to have been nine. For the moment, however, that does not affect the usefulness of her insight or the validity of the largest conclusions that she drew from it. Both her eight distinct networks and the whole which they constituted differed from Wallerstein’s in being neither dominated by, nor providing the foundation for, any single, over-arching political power. Abu-Lughod argued that the collapse of this World System in the century following the Black Death, under the impacts of demographic collapse and political disintegration, created a vacuum for Wallerstein’s system to fill. For the present purpose the significance of her work is that she was able to describe the territories of Asia, North Africa and Europe as a functioning whole, with a reasonable prima facie probability that it had become so in consequence of analogous or at least comparable developments in each of its constituent regions over the preceding centuries. Abu Lughod’s concern was with how she found the world in 1250, not with how it got to be that way.6 For that we may turn to my second exemplar, the work of two more sociologists, Bjorn Wittrock and Johann P. Arnason. In 2003 they assembled at Uppsala a group of historians representing specialists in several regions of the Old World. The agenda was to consider whether, from their various perspectives, the period between the tenth and thirteenth centuries ce had been characterised by ‘changes in society, economy and culture amounting to a transformation of the quality and conditions of social and political life’ throughout the region, to make this an epoch in world history comparable 5 Immanuel Wallerstein, The Modern World-System i: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European World-Economy in the Sixteenth Century and subsequent volumes. Wallerstein’s use of the definite article distinguishes ‘a kind of social system the world has not really known before, and which is the distinctive feature of the modern world-system’ as opposed to other world-economies (self-contained systems of production and exchange) which were ordinarily achieved by and sustained political domination (15–16; Cf. Abu-Lughod, Before European Hegemony: 8–14). 6 Abu-Lughod, Before European Hegemony, 12.

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with the so-called ‘Axial Age’ of the mid-first millennium bce. I treasure my invitation to that seminar as one of the most fortunate, as well as most fruitful, of my life as an historian. Its conclusions, broadly supportive of the editors’ hypothesis, were published in 2004 as Eurasian Transformations, Tenth to Thirteenth Centuries: Crystallizations, Divergences, Renaissances.7 Among that volume’s many contributions to the collective task of achieving and expressing a common understanding of this enormously rich and tumultuous period in global history, not least is the first word of the sub-title.8 All historians, I imagine, are familiar with the deeply frustrating and all too often entirely futile exercise of trying to reconcile the appearance of sudden and profoundly radical change with what invariably turn out on close inspection to be the stubbornly enduring continuities that lie beneath it, and of finding a vocabulary in which their conclusions about that relationship may be conveyed to colleagues and students without fear of over-simplification or misunderstanding. Ever since Henri Pirenne discovered the Urban Revolution in the 1920s, Charles Homer Haskins the Twelfth-Century Renaissance in the 1930’s, Georges Duby the Feudal Revolution in the 1970s,9 historians of Europe in this period have been entangled in the semantic as well as the real difficulties of describing a world so obviously in the throes of radical and permanent change which yet becomes harder to discern the more closely it is inspected.10 Wittrock’s metaphor of cystallization brings to our dilemma a simple but profound truth, that quantitative change may become qualitative, that there may come a point when a long, slow, continuous process leads to rapid and quite sudden transition from one state to another, even though no new element has been introduced.

The Extension of Civilization

The world whose economic system around 1250 Abu-Lughod described – the medieval world, not just medieval Europe, at its height – was the product both of crystallization (or of crystallizations in several spheres, and on several 7 8 9 10

Johann P. Árnason and Björn Wittrock eds, Eurasian Transformations,. Björn Wittrock, ‘Cultural Crystallizations in World History: the Age of Ecumenical Renaissances’. Henri Pirenne, Medieval Cities; Haskins, Renaissance; Georges Duby, Les trois ordres ou l’imaginaire de féodalisme. Thomas N. Bisson, ‘The Feudal Revolution’; Dominique Barthélemy, Stephen D. White, Timothy Reuter, Chris Wickham and Thomas N. Bisson, “Debate: The ‘Feudal Revolution’”.

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t­ ime-scales) and also of more abrupt, even catastrophic changes. Among the former the most elementary, in both senses of the word, and the most taken for granted, is best conveyed by a simple, familiar fact. In the early centuries of the Common Era the spread of city life and the civilizations founded on it faltered, and in varying degrees receded. By around 1200 ce city life had not only recovered, but had been extended to many regions where it had previously been precarious or non-existent. In this respect the achievement of the first millennium ce far exceeded that of the preceding three thousand years, during which city life had spread beyond its earliest sites in the vallies of the Yellow River, and of the Indus, Nile, Tigris and Euphrates, but remained confined to relatively restricted, amply watered areas of warm climate and fertile soils, friendly to dense population and imperial pretensions. By 1200 what turned out to be lasting citied civilization had taken root in northern and western Europe, Russia, the Yangtzi basin, Japan, peninsular India, both mainland and island Southeast Asia, central Asia, the African coast of the Indian Ocean, and the valley of the Niger – in fact, to more or less every part of AfroEurasia in which it has flourished since. Regions that had previously been incapable of sustaining cities over long periods had acquired economic, social and cultural infrastructures and governmental institutions that now enabled them to do so. It follows that many of the inhabitants of those regions had undergone what is universally acknowledged, along with industrialisation, as the greatest transformation of human existence in its entire history, that from hunter gathering or subsistence cultivation to organised agriculture, and from simple, relatively undifferentiated ways of living to strictly hierarchical, disciplined and sophisticated forms of social organisation – a social conversion no less momentous than the religious conversion that regularly accompanied it.11 The steady and often invisible growth that was under way in many parts of the Old World by around 500 is often spoken of as ‘recovery,’ but it did not simply reproduce the economy of antiquity. Over the following centuries new land was brought under cultivation, effective growing seasons were extended and productivity increased by the diffusion of new crops and new technologies, supporting larger and more concentrated populations. Around the end of the first millennium such development entered a new phase, accelerating so dramatically at both the eastern and the western ends of the Eurasian landmass as to be commonly described as revolutionary in character and impact. Larger surpluses became available for exchange, and agricultural production and producers were increasingly governed by the demands of markets, both reflecting and supporting the growth of cities. The major cities themselves had a very 11

R. I Moore, ‘Medieval Europe in World History’.

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different character from their counterparts in the ancient world, as centres of production and exchange rather than of ritual and government, and therefore stimulators of the economy rather than burdens on it. This transition, from the ‘ancient’ to the ‘medieval’ city, offers a good illustration of the historiographic change I have mentioned: once regarded as the sudden result of catastrophe it is now seen rather as that of slow and gradual evolution – in fact, as crystallization.12 The focus of long distance trade changed from the overland (‘silk’) to the maritime routes and the volume and variety of exchange increased exponentially at all levels, both within and between the Eurasian civilizations, assisted by analogous and almost simultaneous technical developments in several regions. For example, the dhow, the junk and the cog – vessels capable of carrying bulk goods over long distances and therefore of creating and supplying regular markets in staple commodities – all appeared at this time, in (respectively) the Indian Ocean and the China and Baltic Seas. By the middle of the thirteenth century the economies of the entire territory, including not only the Mediterranean basin but parts of sub-Saharan Africa, had become closely and regularly enough linked to form Abu Lughod’s ‘World System.’ Just as that World System far surpassed the economies of the ancient world in breadth and in depth as well as in connectedness, so did the political structures which accompanied it. Revival was apparent, and indeed impressive, in the ancient imperial heartlands of inner China, northern India, the Middle East and the Mediterranean, including Byzantium. All of them saw reinvigorated state structures and cultural revival, including spectacular building programmes, the codification and dissemination of learning on an epoch-defining scale, and the more or less aggressive promulgation of religious, or ideological, orthodoxy. But change was even more dramatic in what had hitherto been peripheral regions (Victor Lieberman’s rimlands13), including Japan, south and southeast Asia, and northwestern, central and eastern Europe. In these lands the heartland cultures and traditions were both extended and transformed, embedded by religious conversion, proclaimed in massive ­ architectural 12 13

Hugh Kennedy, ‘From Polis to Madina: Urban Change in Late Antique and Early Islamic Syria,’. Victor J. Lieberman, ‘Transcending East–west Dichotomies’. Lieberman, the leading pioneer of global comparative history in the medieval and early modern periods, has pointed to parallel developments in the states that emerged from around the millennium in the Angkor, Pagan and Java in southeast Asia, Kievan Rus, and the English, French and Aragonese kingdoms. He describes them as ‘charter polities,’ because each of them, he argues, established religious, territorial, dynastic and vernacular traditions which were looked back to by successor states until the industrial age, and indeed until the present day, as sources of identity and legitimacy.

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­complexes, and articulated in more compact and effective polities. This transformation is usefully envisaged as an urban revolution, taking the strict definition of a city as a community that cannot live on its own resources, and must therefore, to secure its needs regularly and reliably, transform the world around and beyond it. The appearance and growth of such communities was everywhere the main driver of change, at least from around 1000 and probably earlier. In the rimlands these urban nuclei were at first mainly cult centres and military strongholds. They became true commercial and even manufacturing centres much later: in northwest Europe, for example, it is not until perhaps 1180 or thereabouts that we begin to see cities with substantial export industries, luxury production directed to the consumption of urban elites rather than only princely courts, and as genuinely central places for their regions, even regional political capitals.14 Even then, it hardly needs saying, many remained, and long would remain, no more than overgrown farmers’ markets. Nevertheless their appearance and growth was directly and intimately linked with the emergence of a new set of regional identities and vernacular cultures.

The Great Transformation

About the general character of this transformation two things are obvious. In the first place, it both required and gave rise to increasing social complexity and greater specialisation. At every level there were more roles to be filled, more tasks to be performed, more responsibilities to be allocated and discharged. Secondly, there was, again at every level, intense and often ferocious competition, not only for resources, but for power, status and legitimacy in the new era. New solidarities and new identities must therefore be created, asserted and defined, starting with the most elementary, the construction, both deliberate and fortuitous, of communities of producers. I say deliberate, with the west European case particularly but not exclusively in mind, because mere extension of cultivation was not enough. Agricultural productivity also increased, and the product was more efficiently, not to say ruthlessly, collected. That was a result of the creation and expansion of communities of cultivators by every available means from brute force to pastoral care, not directed by any programme but shaped and reshaped by contingency and opportunity. So, for example, around the millennium fixed village communities began to appear in most parts of lowland Europe. In Tuscany and Latium peasants were driven from their scattered holdings into fortified hilltop towns, not for protection but 14

David M. Nicholas, ‘Lords, Markets and Communities’.

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for exploitation. This was the time, as Chris Wickham has vividly put it, of the caging of the peasantry.15 But, in the critical change from antiquity, exploitation became predominantly indirect. Jurisdiction rather than direct coercion was the key to the construction of enduring, universal power. The justice exercised by every lord over his dependants was a source not only of profit but of the opportunity to formulate as well as to enforce the rules and ‘customs’ (consuetudines), that constituted the lord’s prerogative and the wellspring of his revenues, his bannum. Ancient slavery was replaced by medieval serfdom.16 From the 1030s onwards the seignurial ban became the foundation of lordship in western Europe. It supplied the legitimation of every usurpation and forced dispossession, and its profits were conveyed by every charter and every donation. It also became the basis of the first great redefinition of identity from which all the others would follow. Every European, in principle, either exercised the ban or was subject to it, was either free or unfree. Among the latter the creation of communities of producers also involved a creation of particular identities, often fortuitous, and often expressed in religious form, by the acclamation of miracles or the designation of shrines, as their inhabitants began to work out their own ways of expressing their solidarities and regulating their affairs. In these ways new complexity gave rise throughout Eurasia to new identities, and new oppositions of identity – between lords and peasants, between townsmen and countrymen, between newly imagined ethnicities and so on. Such oppositions might be listed almost indefinitely. Among them three which stand out were of social function, gender and religion. I need say little about the first. Everybody knows that medieval society comprised those who work, those who fight and those who pray. It was one of the great insights of Georges Duby that a formula which embraced all parts of society when it was used by Alfred of Wessex in the 890s had come by 1200 to include only the privileged. The laboratores were no longer the peasants, who now simply didn’t count, but the bourgeois, who had become not only rich enough but important enough to command an independent place in the new vision of society.17 This was the west European expression of the growing and often well-documented habit of merchants and craftsmen throughout Eurasia, of joining together in guilds and associations. A growing body of inscriptions from the ninth century onwards proclaims the activity, and especially the 15 16

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Chris Wickham, The Inheritance of Rome: 529–51. Pierre Bonnassie, From Slavery to Feudalism in South-Western Europe; Dominique Barthélemy, The Serf, the Knight and the Historian; Charles West, Reframing the Feudal Revolution: esp. 173–98. Georges Duby, Three Orders: Feudal society imagined.

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­ hilanthropy, of merchant guilds whose members provided trade links among p the agrarian communities, of South India, Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia.18 As to those who fought, no reminder is necessary of the elaboration and literary glorification of knights in twelfth-century Europe.19 It does not by any means simply reflect the increase in their power and importance, which goes without saying. Trained and mounted knights were fundamental not only to military combat, but to social and political transformation. But their position had its ambiguities. Contrary to the romantic image they were usually and by the late twelfth century almost always mercenaries, and widely condemned as a source of godless disorder. They were also the chief victims, after women, of the gender revolution which had been central to the reshaping of Europe since around the millennium. To bring about the orderly transmission of landed property undivided from each generation to the next, the warrior caste found itself compelled to a radical alteration of the structure of the family. The essential was to exclude the claims to inheritance of daughters and of all sons except (usually) the eldest by a legitimate wife.20 Hence the elevation of matrimony and female chastity, while the independence of women themselves was correspondingly diminished. That is usually a consequence of increasingly articulated social hierarchy, and so it was throughout twelfth-century Eurasia, though, of course, in forms as various as the societies themselves.21 This brings us to the excluded, the younger sons made famous by Georges Duby,22 and with them to the heart of the transformation. The clarification and codification of religious identities is everywhere among its clearest signs. The Gregorian reforms of the Latin Church, culminating by the middle of the thirteenth century in the provisions of the Fourth Lateran Council of 1215 and their sporadic but often energetic implementation, the appearance of the universities, and comprehensive statements of Christian theology and canon law, were paralleled by the elevation of neo-Confucianism in China, of a reinvigorated Brahmanism in northern India, of cohesive and influential schools of scholars and jurists through much of the Islamic world. Almost everywhere, that is to say, an eleventh-century crisis in the stability and influence of the 18 19 20

21 22

R. Champalakhshmi, Trade, Ideology and Urbanization: South India 300BC to ad 1300: 3­ 11–30; Burton Stein, A History of India, 2nd ed.: 120–21. Maurice Keen, Chivalry; Robert Bartlett, The Making of Europe. Georges Duby, The Knight, the Lady and the priest: the making of modern marriage in medieval France; R.I. Moore, ‘Property, Marriage and the Eleventh-Century Revolution’; Moore, First European Revolution: 65–101. Cf., e.g., Morris Rossabi, A History of China: 188–90; Patricia Buckley Ebrey, The Inner Quarters. Georges Duby, The Chivalrous Society.

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learned elites was followed in the twelfth by a rallying and reassertion, based in the first instance on their claim to be the sole and authoritative interpreters of sacred texts and on systematic control over entry to and promotion in their own ranks.23 Hence the construction of more formal and comprehensive educational and legal structures, and conversely of increasingly systematic repression of heresy and intellectual deviancy of every kind. Religious revival and its accompaniments appeared at their most complete, however, in Latin Europe.24 For many younger sons who had been brutally ­deprived of their claims on family property, and hence of their traditional lifestyle and expectations, the wealth and splendour of high clerical office provided a direct exchange. But the creation of new sources of prestige and new instruments of power also offered the means of securing influence and status as clerics and courtiers, all the greater because largely invisible, though when visible often greatly resented. As the functionaries who devised and manipulated the new levers of power, and pointed out to their titular masters what might be done with them, many younger sons had the opportunity to assert their own interests and those of their kind against the pride of the hereditary nobility from which they had been excluded. By the end of the twelfth century, Europe had a single clerical caste and culture, rapidly ascending in power and influence. It was largely formed in the schools of Paris and Bologna, whose graduates used their positions in proliferating courts of every kind, and in every sense of that word, to construct what has been remembered as ‘the medieval world,’ and was in fact the beginning of the ancien régime.25 Between the tenth and thirteenth centuries, changes like these were almost everywhere bringing about the emergence of new centres of power on more compact and clearly defined regional bases. There are, to take one example, signs of similar developments in peninsular India, where a reinvigorated Brahmanism, making use of revived and reinterpreted ancient texts, was closely associated with the extension of field agriculture and the consolidation of regional kingdoms.26 That the eleventh century was one of the great ages of temple building, in central and south India, as well as in the Ganges valley and Orissa, is a sign of intense competition both between and within kingdoms for control over settled areas and the revenues and increasingly m ­ alleable 23 24 25

26

R.I. Moore, ‘The Eleventh Century in Eurasian History’. R.I. Moore, ‘Medieval Christianity in a World Historical Perspective’. Jacques Le Goff, Intellectuals in the Middle Ages; Alexander Murray, Reason and Society in the Middle Ages; R.W. Southern, Scholastic Humanism and the Unification of Europe i: Foundations. Burton Stein, Peasant State and Society in Medieval South India: 216–53.

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­populations associated with them. From the India of the Chandellas, the Pallavas and the Cholas to the Europe of the Capetians, the Angevins and the Hohenstaufen, however, lavish patronage ultimately reflected not only the strength but the weakness of the titular rulers. Both their grandiose claims and the rivalry of their ambitious subjects were displayed in fortresses and palaces, temples, churches and shrines. These were the military, civic and religious dividends of closer networks of increasingly productive and more efficiently exploited village communities. The splendour of courts and cities necessarily depended on and reflected the specialisation of skill and function in every aspect and at every level of social life, and the correspondingly more rigorous and self-conscious differentiation of rank and status. Intimately associated with all this was the process described by Sheldon Pollock as vernacularisation.27 He did not invent the term or the idea, but he has pointed out that it is marked by a parting of function between the ancient classical languages of the sacred texts, which remained the languages of learning and government, and the vernaculars in which poetry, romance, and history flourished. That development was marked especially in the new lands where (as opposed to the ancient heartlands) the new powers were most vigorous and most urgently in pursuit of identity – in Europe, most dramatically in England, France and Aragon. In doing so Pollock brings into a common frame some of the oldest, but also currently some of the most innovative preoccupations of medieval studies.28 On the face of it, the description of change in twelfth-century Eurasia offered in this paper has little relevance to Sturla Þórðarson and his world. Like most exercises so far in large scale comparative history it has been based essentially on the agrarian societies which have sustained the largest and densest populations, and the most familiar and enduring political structures – and which, by and large, have not only written the history but shaped the forms in which history has been cast, and the questions that it asks. There is still some way to go in integrating with that history those of the societies and structures that have not been built primarily on agrarian foundations. At least two alternative models are available. The first, that of the empires of the steppes, has indeed not lacked attention. I would mention especially the work of Thomas Barfield.29 He showed, with particular but not exclusive reference to China 27 28 29

Sheldon Pollock, ‘The Transformation of Culture-Power in Indo-Europe, 1000–1300’; Sheldon Pollock, The Language of the Gods in the World of Men: 330–467. Cf. Gabrielle Spiegel, Romancing the Past; Teofilo F. Ruiz, From Heaven to Earth: The re-ordering of Castilian Society, 1150–1350. Thomas Barfield, The Perilous Frontier: Nomadic Empires and China.

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­between the end of antiquity and the Mongol conquests, that the normal relationship between the structures of power in the steppe and on the sown was complementary, not antithetical. The regular tribute of silver, textiles, cereals and maidens supplied to the ‘barbarians,’ disguised as gifts bestowed on suppliants at court, sustained steppe leaders in whose interest it was to restrain the predatory ambitions of their followers and rivals, thus permitting stable government of the sown, and therefore a regular flow of tribute. David Christian has completed the model by placing that insight into the larger framework of an entirely distinct mode of production, which he calls the smychka (linking of disparate elements).30 Whereas efficient extraction of the surplus of intensive agriculture and its comcomitants required the closely integrated social and governmental structures described above, the widely dispersed and individually modest surplus to be had from the enormous territories of the Eurasian steppe and the northern forests could be accumulated on a massive scale only through correspondingly dispersed methods of collection, exercised at great distances by unhesitating and ruthlessly exercised force. Beside Christian’s account however, we need to place what is in one way an analogous mode, in that it collects individually small amounts over very large distances, but in another quite different, in that it does so by means of riverine or maritime traffic and voluntary exchange. That has very different implications for the social mechanisms by which it is nourished and the political structures it may sustain. At the beginning of the second millennium two regions, the Northern seas and rivers (arguably constituting a ninth trading network to add to Abu-Lughod’s eight) and Southeast Asia, immediately call out for consideration in that light. Precisely because they were so extremely different in so many respects it seems at least possible that something might be learned from comparison of the relations in each case between the conditions in which wealth was accumulated, distributed and sustained and the social and cultural implications thereof. Both regions, for example, ordered gender relationships very differently from the increasingly hierarchical dispositions of the neighbouring agrarian heartlands.31 That is a comparison that it is well beyond my power to conduct further, but it seems reasonable to suggest that it might be capable of casting useful light on the world and time of Sturla Þórðarson. 30

31

David Christian, A History of Russia, Central Asia and Mongolia i: 412–19. Christian develops the metaphor of the smychka (used, e.g., by the Bolsheviks to describe the relationship between workers and peasants) in A History of Russia, Central Asia and Mongolia II, to appear in 2017. Anthony Reid, A History of Southeast Asia: 21–6, 39–47.

chapter 22

Postscript: The Subjectivity of Sturla Þórðarson Gunnar Harðarson Translated by Philip Roughton After a long and snowy winter and an unusually cold spring, part of a verse from Kormáks saga comes to mind: ‘Shake must we, Skarði, the rime from the tent. The poet’s booth is cold; the mountains are cloaked with ice.’1 The verse draws an analogy between the poet’s booth and the surrounding mountains: as the former is covered with frost, so are the latter covered with ice and snow. Despite the fact that Kormákr and Skarði are on board a ship to Norway at this point in the saga, Kormákr could easily have drawn inspiration for his poetic analogy from the landscape at Þingvellir, where the nearby Botnsúlur is perhaps the most tent-like mountain in all of Iceland. Kormákr could just as well have recited this verse after arriving with Skarði at the Alþingi (the Icelandic general assembly or ‘parliament’) and tenting over their booth just before a spring snow squall. As we know, however, the Alþingi no longer convenes at Þingvellir, and lawmakers no longer need worry about cold, wet, and miserable conditions in turf booths tented with sailcloth. The Alþingi has long since been relocated to Reykjavík, and is housed in geothermally heated quarters. Even so, it is no place for indolence: bickering, filibustering, and chicanery are still the name of the game there. And it was in Reykjavík that our conference on Sturla Þórðarson took place – at the end of November, no less – the start of winter, when any sort of weather is possible. The conference was held at the Nordic House, on the campus of the University of Iceland. Kormákr could very easily have composed a verse about the Nordic House, which is modelled on the mountains of the Reykjanes Peninsula. Alvar Aalto, the building’s Finnish architect, sketched it on a napkin: a low, rectangular surface, topped by a mountain, Keilir, visible on Reykjavík’s southeast horizon. The conference was held in an auditorium whose ceiling rises like a mountain peak from the top of the ­building – or like a 1 This is a literal (and rearranged) translation of the verse: ‘Skaka verðum vér, Skarði,/skald á búð til kalda,/fjöll eru fjarðar kelli/faldin, hrím á tjaldi.’ Kormákskver. – This chapter ­reflects the author’s subjective impressions of the conference and may not altogether correspond to the exact content of the present book. I wish to thank Philip Roughton for translating the text of this essay from the Icelandic and Mikael Karlsson for his careful reading of the translation. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���7 | doi 10.1163/9789004342361_023

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tent over a turf and stone enclosure. Is Sturla himself like one of the ­mountains that rise above the lava fields of the Reykjanes peninsula? We would soon find out. There was an air of eager anticipation among the conference participants as they entered the auditorium and took their seats. The programme was divided into nine themes, each with two papers, as well as three keynote lectures that punctuated the program at regular intervals.2 The themes were diverse, encompassing many different aspects of the life and work of Sturla Þórðarson. The conference organizers, however, also wished to emphasize the medieval Icelandic literary world as a living tradition, and invited two well-known ­modern Icelandic poets to deliver readings. Gerður Kristný, who has derived material and inspiration from the Eddic poems, read from her most recently published work.3 Matthías Johannessen, who has written about Sturla Þórðarson, read from older works.4 These readings were then mirrored at the end of the conference, when the poet Þorsteinn frá Hamri read Sturla’s poem Hrafns­ mál (‘Speech of the Raven,’ from Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar). The French writer Roger Caillois once remarked that the imagery of the skaldic poets is perhaps the most direct precursor to surrealism, and although Sturla’s poem is not surrealist, it is interesting to compare the ways in which poets past and present wrestle with words, rhythms, and imagery.5 Þorsteinn delivered Sturla’s poem in a low voice, doubtless providing a very interesting experience for the foreign conferees as they witnessed the poem come alive in an oral performance; everyone in attendance, in any case, held their breath as Þorsteinn read, bringing such a hush to the auditorium that one could have heard the proverbial pin drop. ‘Most elegantly was the poem delivered.’6 Did the conference alter our perceptions of Sturla Þórðarson in any way? Perhaps not immediately, but as they were delivered, the scholarly papers on diverse topics cumulatively revealed some surprisingly similar views. In fact, there turned out to be more coherence and harmony among Sturla’s 2 The themes were: ‘Sturla Þórðarson,’ ‘Memory and Learning,’ ‘The Court of Magnús Lagabætir,’ ‘Iceland and Norway,’ ‘Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar,’ ‘Encyclopedic Knowledge and the Making of Manuscripts,’ ‘The Women in Sturla’s Milieu,’ ‘Íslendinga Saga,’ and ‘Sturla’s Legacy.’ 3 Gerður Kristný, Drápa. 4 Matthías Johannessen, ‘Umhverfis Sturlu Þórðarson’. 5 ‘Deux écoles poétiques au moins ont attribué à l’image une importance préponderante, sinon exclusive, quoique opposée: les scaldes de l’Islande aux ixe–xie siècles, les surréalistes, à Paris, au xxe.’, Roger Caillois, Approches de la poésie: 177. 6 A reference to a poem by Þorsteinn frá Hamri published in his volume, Jórvík. The scene is Egill Skallagrímsson composing his poem ‘Höfuðlausn’ at York, as reported in Egils saga Skal­ lagrímssonar: 182–83.

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many different aspects than might have been expected initially. What this research revealed most clearly is what we might call the subjectivity of Sturla Þórðarson – a subjectivity that is, of course, reflected in different ways in different contexts, and which must be assessed in light of the prevailing views on Sturla that formed the background for this conference. According to those views, Sturla was, indeed, a biased participant in the events of the Sturlung Era; yet in his Íslendinga saga, he described events and incidents in an impartial, reticent manner. His Hákonar saga has been considered a dry chronicle, characterized by a recitation of facts and details. In addition, Sturla has primarily been read as a historian and his writings received, for the most part, as sources of Norse history. His poetry has been deemed superficial, although attesting to an excellent grasp of the techniques and imagery of skaldic poetry. By the end of the conference, all of these views seemed to have undergone significant transformation, leaving us with the following questions: How have our views of Sturla Þórðarson as a historian, or as a poet, changed? How has our view of Sturla’s education and abilities, and his position within his era, changed? We might perhaps have encountered something akin to ‘new worlds emerging,’ to quote R.I. Moore’s term for the expansion of civilization and emergence of collective identities throughout Eurasia in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. In order to answer these questions, let us first briefly consider the perception of Sturla Þórðarson as elucidated at Sturlustefna, a conference held in Reykjavík in 1984.7 The conference proceedings delved into Sturla’s life and career, encyclopaedic works that can be attributed to him, his poetry, his work’s relationship to other medieval histories, his narrative art, political position, moral consciousness, and historiographical purpose. As evidenced by these proceedings, it is clear that even as new views of Sturla were being propounded, scholarly attitudes toward him were still marked to a significant extent by previous views – particularly, perhaps, in the assessment of his objectivity as a historian, his technical perfection as a poet, and his personal ideology as an author. Regarding Sturla’s balance, it is apparent that the scholars who attended Sturlustefna, like their predecessors in the field, still held it up as a hallmark of his historiography, yet were more willing to admit that his works are shaped by his views and attitudes as a Sturlung chieftain. For example, Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir observes in her paper that Sturla employs the same methods in both Hákonar saga and Íslendinga saga; and Hermann Pálsson notes that

7 Sturlustefna: Ráðstefna á sjö alda ártíð Sturlu Þórðarsonar sagnaritara 1984.

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Sturla allows himself considerable personal liberty in his occasional verses (lausavísur).8 Thus, it is not as if Sturla’s narrative attitude and subjectivity were not taken into account decades ago, but the difference is that, by 2014, these had become central and pervasive themes. As far as Sturla’s poetics are concerned, Hermann Pálsson notes similarities between Sturla’s poems and other skaldic poetry, and points out that Sturla alludes to older poems as a kind of sounding board or semantic foundation. In other words, Sturla employs a variety of allusions and analogies, although it is uncertain whether his audience explicitly recognized them as such. There may have been a gap between the background and knowledge of the poet, who clearly had a copy of the Edda at hand, and of those who heard his poems. On the other hand, the audience may have been familiar with much of this material, and may also have had access to the Snorra Edda and older skaldic poetry. Hermann also suggests that Sturla’s knowledge of astronomy and geography are in evidence in various places throughout his poems.9 These observations harmonize with Stefán Karlsson’s conclusion that Sturla possessed some sort of encyclopaedia – and the views expounded by both Stefán and Hermann at the Sturlustefna conference were novelties at the time. It should also be noted that, traditionally, Sturla’s poetry was mainly considered the product of an expert craftsman, testifying to elegance and skill, but not to personal expressivity, at least in his skaldic poems, in which poetic genius and elegance of style are paramount – even if Sturla might be considered more personal in some of his occasional verses. The poet may simply have been too limited at the court of the Norwegian king in his choice of topics for his poems, no less than for his historical writings; yet he may have had more freedom to express his personal views by artistic means in poetry than in narrative prose. Here we come to the third point raised above – Sturla’s personal ideology and how it is displayed in his works. In a masterly contribution to Sturlustefna, Preben Meulengracht Sørensen analyses Sturla’s narrative style as an interpretation of events.10 By delineating a difference between panoramic narrative and dramatized scenes, Sørensen manages to demonstrate convincingly how Sturla uses dramatization to hint at, or to comment on, his own interpretation of the course of events, something that he would find more difficult to do in a terse, chronological account of facts. Many of the dramatizations are fictional, and display the interactions and reactions of the c­ haracters, providing Sturla 8 9 10

Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir, ‘Sturla Þórðarson’: 27, 34; Hermann Pálsson, ‘Kveðskapur Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 65. Hermann Pálsson, ‘Kveðskapur Sturlu Þórðarsonar’: 65. Preben Meulengracht Sørensen, ‘Historiefortælleren Sturla Þórðarson’.

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with an opportunity to express certain things indirectly that he cannot express by means of direct narrative. Thus it may be seen that narrative style and artistic method can act as effective media for the interpretation of events and/or commentary on them. Political and moral ideas came somewhat under discussion at the Sturlustefna conference, but such discussion has in the meantime been reduced. The influence of the nationalist movement’s historical perspective is still quite evident in the 1984 proceedings, but in 2014, other perspectives appear to have gained momentum. For instance, in Sturlustefna, Helgi Þorláksson interprets Sturla’s stance in light of medieval ideologies, and, in doing so, rebels against ingrained attitudes from the early twentieth century.11 Helgi draws up an image of parliamentarians versus monarchists, each of whom hold different views on the sources of law and the premises for control over the provinces. In Helgi’s view, Sturla appears to have been a parliamentarian who could have settled for an earldom in Iceland, but not for a direct monarchy, although he may have altered his position after his stay at the court of King Magnús, where the ideology of the monarchists was likely dominant. Questions such as these, as well as moral/ethical and religious perspectives, were rather less apparent at the conference in 2014, whereas at the 1984 Sturlustefna, such concerns were fairly central; see, for example, Gunnar Karlsson’s paper.12 Another approach to viewing Sturla Þórðarson’s ideology in light of his era, evidenced at Sturlustefna and elsewhere, is to read into his works a religious, and consequently moral, understanding of the course of events.13 In the Sturlung Era, Icelanders were Christians, not pagans, and despite the influence of a heroic ethic, they basically lived and moved in a world of Christian notions of the fall and redemption; these influences can be detected in a moral and religious consciousness discernible in Sturla’s writings. Thus, at 1984’s Sturlustefna, the issue of Sturla’s subjectivity did make an appearance, despite the continued prevalence of previous conceptions of his objectivity. However, at the conference in 2014, there was a marked change, in that Sturla’s subjectivity became a common thread in many of the papers, despite its not having been the main topic of the conference or the papers.

11 12 13

Helgi Þorláksson, ‘Var Sturla Þórðarson þjóðfrelsishetja?’. Gunnar Karlsson, ‘Siðamat Íslendingasögu’; cf. Hermann Pálsson, Art and Ethics in Hrafn­ kel’s Saga. Marlene Ciklamini, ‘Sturla Sighvatsson’s Chieftaincy: A Moral Probe’.

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How, then, has our view of Sturla as a historian been modified? This question is important due to the value of Sturla’s writings as a source for the history of Norway and Iceland in the thirteenth century. Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga are the two main narrative sources for this time period, and the question also comes up in connection with Landnámabók. Sturla’s description of the course and context of events shapes our understanding of the Sturlung Era, and therefore it matters whether he narrates events factually, or whether one particular party is given preferential treatment over another.14 In the preface to Sturlunga saga, Sturla is described as being wise, generous, honest, and frugal. Yet doubts arise, perhaps due mainly to Sturla’s active role in contemporary political and military events, as well as his paradoxical position as an Icelandic chieftain and a Norwegian courtier. On the one hand, Sturla appears to be a neutral registrar, but, on the other, an active participant in events, with interests of his own to protect. Answers to this question were given on the first day of the 2014 conference, but were clarified more fully over its next two days. In his discussion of Hákonar saga, Hans Jacob Orning expressed the issue concisely: reliability in detail. Sturla does not manipulate facts and can generally be trusted in recounting events  – for which he has reliable, documented sources for events, in addition to others’ eyewitness accounts and his own personal experiences to draw on. In this respect, the preface to Sturlunga saga can be trusted. On the other hand, the question remains concerning how events are narrated, the narrative context in which events are presented, and omitted details. Hákonar saga, for example, leaves little room for personal interpretation, yet Sturla manages to provoke reactions from his reader through dramatization. However, as Guðrún Nordal has pointed out, Sturla has to take his audience into account.15 He is basically holding a conversation with his audience, who know what happened and have a grasp of the basic facts, and are even, on occasion, in possession of written evidence of events. Thus, the issue is rather complicated if the idea is to turn Sturla, without further ado, into a biased, unreliable historian. Yet the differences between Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga naturally provide us cause to consider Sturla’s personal and ideological inclinations. In the papers concerned with Sturla as a historian, the opinion was expressed that Sturla comes across almost as two different people, according to his narrative stance in Íslendinga saga or Hákonar saga; that is, whether he is writing for Icelandic chieftains or for the Norwegian court. Ted Anderson emphasized different aspects: verisimilitude and the political viewpoints of the 14 15

Cf. Guðrún Nordal, ‘Sturla’: 239. Guðrún Nordal, ‘Sturla’: 234.

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sagas, the former being based on the classical tradition of the Icelandic family sagas, and the latter on the sagas being biographies composed under the auspices of the royal court, in which an ideological ‘true’ image of Hákon is drawn up – an image that does not correlate with his aggressive approach to foreign affairs, for example. Orning emphasized the same aspect, pointing out Sturla’s ‘combination of reliability in detail and ideological bias.’ This raises questions concerning the value of the texts as historical sources, since it seems that what we have are two interpretive perspectives. Historical reliability was also Helgi Þorláksson’s topic, and he connected it with questions about Sturla’s political agenda and whether he comes across as two different people before and after 1264 – earlier as an Icelandic chieftain, and then later as a Norwegian courtier. Sturla, of course, bases his work partially on written sources, and his use of these sources and their interpolation into his narratives was discussed by Lena Rohrbach. At the conference, the issue of Sturla’s historical perspective and the value of his works as sources for the study of the history of Norway and Iceland in the thirteenth century were in the spotlight, although the literary aspects of Sturla’s works were much more of a priority for Ármann Jakobsson, who felt that Sturla’s authorial voice is distinguishable in Hákonar saga, despite all of the limitations to which it is subject. In that saga, it is indeed dialogue and dramatization that grant us insight into how Sturla narrated and interpreted his own life and his era, and which allow us to perceive Sturla’s self-understanding and thought processes. Turning to Sturla as a poet, we might safely say that the very first day of the conference provided us with new perspectives, thanks to Guðrún Nordal’s paper and Roberta Frank’s keynote address. To a certain extent, this conference vindicated Sturla as a poet – resulting, perhaps, from the fact that we as readers have become accustomed to perceiving more layers of meaning in Sturla’s texts (and in literary texts generally) than scholars did in the past. Roberta Frank emphasized the multi-layered narrative in Sturla’s poetry and highlighted, as did Guðrún, Sturla’s elegant and artistic grasp of the dróttkvætt form, his polyphony, which has its analogue in music, and his scenic composition, which might be compared to that often seen in the tapestries of his era. As Guðrún noted, this polyphony plays an important role in the way in which Sturla creates a balance between the antagonists, Skúli jarl and Hákon, which is no simple task. Sturla manages to establish Hákon’s unequivocal, legitimate claim to the throne, while simultaneously using imagery from myths to exalt Skúli, who retains his dignity. The fact that Sturla himself interpolates his own verses into the narrative makes it possible to interpret them as evidence of his personal points of view. This may apply particularly to Hákonar saga, in which Sturla is not, in all likelihood, free to write as he pleases, but is nevertheless

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able to provide clues by commenting in verse; and careful reading can reveal discrepancies between the text and the verses.16 Sturla’s poetry thus provides occasion to assume a subjective, personal viewpoint behind it, which appears both in the choice of the imagery and in the position of the poems or verses in the text of the narrative. If Sturla’s poetry provides insight into his personal attitude toward the king and the duke, we can perhaps also catch a glimpse of his views on different subjects in his other writings. Auður Magnúsdóttir and Philadelphia Ricketts were interested in shedding light on the characterization of women in Sturla’s narratives; on his relationship to various women and their role in his interpretation of the events of the past and what he perceived as their possibilities for independent action. In Sturla’s narratives, women are generally in a lower position than men, as was often the case in the Sturlung Era, even though many Icelandic women appear as strong characters in medieval Icelandic literature. However, Sturla portrays women as independent actors. Presumably, he took women whom he knew as models; as Úlfar Bragason noted, Sturla spent his childhood with his grandmother Guðný in Reykholt. His uncle Snorri also returned to Reykholt from Norway, and Sturla’s portrayal of Snorri is based on rich personal experience – although their relationship seems to have produced more than a little friction. Snorri and Reykholt were certainly key factors in Sturla’s education as a poet, lawyer, and historian. Jón Viðar Sigurðsson addressed the education of Icelandic chieftains in the thirteenth century, arguing that they received a broad education that included law, geography, history, mythology, and poetry. According to Jón, Sturla was an excellent example of an educated Icelandic chieftain. Sverrir Jakobsson ­suggested that the encyclopaedic manuscript Membrana Reseniana 6 is representative of Sturla’s intellectual background, including, as it does, annals, geometry, a world map, a summary history of the life of Bishop Guðmundr a poem about Magnús lagabætir, astronomy, a pedigree of Óðinn and genealogies of kings, a calendarium in Latin, arithmetic and computus, and lists of emperors, popes, and abbots.17 If Sturla were in possession of this manuscript, this might suggest that he had learned Latin and some calendrical- and natural science. The fact that Óðinn’s pedigree is included in the manuscript suggests that Sturla’s intellectual background was not dissimilar to what Sverrir has previously posited as the intellectual milieu of Icelanders in the thirteenth century. The education of privileged Icelanders has been presumed to have been relatively good in the twelfth century, and the intellectual training that Sturla seems 16 17

Cf. Guðrún Nordal, ‘Sturla’: 240, 242, 243, 245. Cf. Stefán Karlsson, ‘Alfræði Sturlu Þórðarsonar’.

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to have received is of course its offspring; he was a lawspeaker and therefore received instruction in both Latin and law, possibly from his uncle Snorri. In addition, Sturla must have had access to some sort of scribal workshop at Reykholt, where sagas were written. It is interesting to note that Sturla’s works, apart from Hákonar saga, were not widely disseminated, as Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir pointed out in her paper. The manuscripts may have remained within the same extended family, as they occasionally did in later centuries. All the same, Sturla produced a copy of, and perhaps shaped to some extent, yet another important source text for Nordic medieval history: Landnámabók. Although this work was most likely composed in the twelfth century, Sturla’s is the oldest extant version and contains detailed accounts of settlement in the new country and of the people who migrated there. As stated by Verena Hoefig and Ann-Marie Long, Landnámabók is important as a foundation narrative, as a repository of memories and a medium for their dissemination, and, perhaps not least, as a reflection of the Icelanders’ self-image. Knowledge of history and origins were also important during the Sturlung Era as regards claims to land ownership, and therewith to legal requirements and political influences. Helgi Þorláksson suggested that Sturla must have had political biases as a participant in the power struggles of the thirteenth century, and that he appears to have been an opponent of increased royal control in Iceland. Moreover, Sturla’s redaction of Landnámabók explicitly describes the settlers who fled Harald Fairhair’s oppression and subsequently settled in Iceland. The theme of exile, discussed by Gísli Sigurðsson, thus set its mark, from the earliest phases of Iceland’s settlement, on the selfimage of the country’s inhabitants, although, as Gísli noted, the community eventually managed to impose laws upon the exiles in the same way that the monarchy imposed itself on Icelandic chieftains. The freedom enjoyed by Icelandic chieftains certainly contrasted with the restrictions they faced as courtiers to the Norwegian king. Randi Wærdahl, indeed, chose as her topic Sturla’s position at the royal court in 1263, pointing out how he was completely dependent on the goodwill of both the royal retainers and, later, the king. In Hákonar saga, different views of the Icelanders and Norwegians are conveyed in a somewhat comical manner, for instance when Loðinn leppur comments on how churls presume to be capable of making and enacting laws. Self-rule and the imposition of royal authority by the grace of God are rather incompatible. Ted Anderson’s feeling that Sturla comes across as two different people – as the author of Íslendinga saga and Hákonar saga – and Sturla’s position as lawman in 1271, when he returned from Norway with the law code Járnsíða, raises the suspicion that Sturla’s actions may have been dictated by self-interest. Járn­ síða was also the topic of Patricia Pires Boulhosa’s paper, which both analysed

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the narrative strategies in Árna saga byskups (which gives an account of how the law code was received in Iceland) and examined the material evidence of its manuscript. Actually, the ideology that Járnsíða reflects is well worth considering. In this ideology, a clear distinction is made between secular and spiritual authority – reflected in the fact that Járnsíða deprives bishops of their seats on the secular Lögrétta (‘law council’) at the Alþingi. It is also possible that Sturla simply underwent conversion during his tenure at court; that he accepted the ideology most clearly reflected in the King’s Mirror and which comprises a divine mandate for the office of king and separation of worldly and religious power. Járnsíða is, accordingly, a law code based on the general European dichotomy between monarchy and bishopric, secular and spiritual, the theory of the two swords; and Sturla brings this worldview to Iceland, embedded in the law code that he played a part in composing. With Járnsíða, he translates the old form of governance in Iceland into the ideological system of the monarchy, in which the lawman replaces the lawspeaker and a single authority and power replaces the goðar and their office. The idea of an earldom, however, is abandoned; it was enough for Sturla that Gizurr held that rank! All humour aside, it may be said that in some regard, Sturla followed the advice of the son in the modern novel The Leopard: everything needs to change so that everything stays the same. As a result, Sturla became a living symbol of his era: a man with sufficient adaptability and talent, sense and determination to navigate the pitfalls of his contemporary world and emerge a victor of the Sturlung Era. To sum up, it is the stance that the conference delegates took toward the subjectivity in Sturla’s writings that comprised the most significant and noticeable change in attitudes toward Sturla between the 1984 Sturlustefna conference and the 2014 conference. It is primarily in Sturla’s artistic methods that his subjectivity becomes manifest, whether in his historical writing or poetry, and in their interaction. Consequently, one might ask how this subjectivity is made manifest, and what it shows. Perhaps it appears in the form of ‘unhappy consciousness’ when the events of history are predetermined according to fate or providence, and the only thing that a thinking being can do is take a subjective stance toward them.18 The chieftains’ freedom proves to be only an illusion; they go too far, abandoning moderation, and perhaps wisdom, in their arrogance, and pay for it later, while those who come out on top by underhanded means – such as Gizurr and his men at the Battle of Örlygsstaðir – sacrifice their honour, after also going too far and displaying neither moderation nor mercy. Sturla’s ideology thus becomes basically religious, and in ­accordance 18

Cf. Kristján Kristjánsson, ‘Að geta um frjálst höfuð strokið’.

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with ­medieval Catholic ideology. It is particularly the artistic elements in Sturla’s writing that reveal this ‘stance,’ and provide us with an opportunity to interpret his point of view and subjective attitude. It might perhaps be worthwhile to study Sturla and his work more intensively against the general backdrop of medieval European ideologies, moving somewhat in the direction in which scholars had begun heading at the 1984 Sturlustefna. As mentioned above, the conference concluded with Þorsteinn frá Hamri reading Sturla Þórðarson’s poem, Hrafnsmál. Preceding this, however, Einar Kárason spoke about his experience writing novels about characters from the Sturlung Era, his research on that era, and the ideas that he derived from those efforts. Einar has written four novels about the Sturlung Era – ­Óvinafagnaður (‘A Gathering of Foes,’ 2001), Ofsi (‘Violence,’ 2008), Skáld (Poet, 2012), Skálmöld (‘Sword Age,’ 2014) – and two essays in which he defends the view, set forth by Matthías Johannessen in the previously cited publication, that Sturla wrote Njáls saga.19 Scholars may be rather sceptical of this idea, but at least the conferees were able to witness, in this suggestion, the extent to which the Icelandic sagas constitute a living legacy for modern Icelandic writers. On the third day of the conference, the inevitable occurred. The speakers asked for more water, coughed, apologized for the hoarseness of their voices, cleared their throats more often than previous speakers—and even the most polite English gentlemen started sniffling! The cold had begun to bite; the wind picked up around the Nordic House. And the conferees received the following notification: Unfortunately, we must cancel the day trip that was scheduled for tomorrow, Sunday, November 30, and was planned first for Dalir but later changed to Reykholt. This cancellation is due to a travel warning from the Icelandic Meteorological Office, based on a forecast of heavy storms. We offer our sincere apologies, having long held onto the hope that it would be possible for us to make a trip, even with an altered itinerary – but finally, we had to give up. We hope that you have enjoyed this conference in other respects.

19

Einar Kárason, ‘Káserí um Sturlu Þórðarson, höfund Njálu’; ‘Njálssaga og Íslendingasaga Sturlu Þórðarsonar’.

Postscript

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Snowstorms often allow no other choice but to postpone or cancel trips. As it happened, this was the first snowstorm of forty or so from late November 2014 to mid-April 2015. That winter turned out to be unusually difficult in this regard, even for Icelanders, who are not quick to label bad weather a storm. It is no joke to drive in a snow squall; everything blends into a single white vortex, and visibility is limited to one or two metres beyond the windscreen. The only way to make any progress is to take the risk of driving just a bit farther, in the hope of making it to the next road marker. The scheduled day trip could only have ended badly. Perhaps, however, it would have been an educational experience for those enthusiastic enough to take it, and might have reflected, in a metaphorical way, the obstacles facing wise and benevolent chieftains in the belligerent atmosphere of the Sturlung Age. Hopefully, the participants were fully compensated.

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Index a Life of St Olaf, see Óláfs saga helga Abu-Lughod, Janet 233, 234, 235, 243 Akrir 17 Alexanders saga 95 alkirkjur 20 Alþingi 44, 48, 67, 111, 189, 223, 225, 227, 228, 229, 232, 244, 253 Anderson, Theodore 249, 252 annals 1, 12, 18, 48, 113, 216, 217, 218, 222, 223, 224, 251 archbishop 6, 10, 22, 53, 100, 226, 228, 229 archdiocese 6 archiepiscopal 96, 97 Ari Þorgilsson (Ari the strong) 183, 184 Ari Þorgilsson (Ari the Learned) 21, 23, 24, 30, 42, 45, 48, 49, 60, 66, 71, 74, 85, 86, 215, 218, 219, 222 Arinbjarnarkviða 124 Arnarfjörður 17 Arnarhóll 72, 74 Askr 79, 80 Assmann, Jan 58, 59, 67, 70 Atlamál in grænlenzko 98 Atli jarl 76, 78 Ágrip af Noregskonungasögum 86, 165, 166 Álfheiðr Tumadóttir 38, 39, 40 Ármann Jakobsson 104, 138, 149, 155, 157, 158, 162, 163, 192, 195, 196, 198, 229, 250 Árna saga biskups 54, 93, 94, 99, 101, 105, 106, 113, 224, 225, 229, 230, 253 Árni Magnússon 7, 8, 9, 11, 12, 13, 16, 17, 18, 135, 141, 214 Árni Þorláksson 6, 53, 227 Ásbirningar 1 Ásgeir Jónsson 11 Ásmundr father of Grettir 91

beneficial churches 6 birkibeinn, birkibeinar 109, 118 Bjarnar saga Hítdælakappa 52 Björn M. Ólsen 51, 157, 169, 170, 198 Björnólfr, father of Ingólfr 73, 74 blood kin 36 blood-brotherhood 77 Blönduhlíð 17 Borgarfjörður 3, 4, 194, 203, 204 Botnssúlur 244 Brahmanism 240, 241 Breiðafjörður 16, 17, 64, 91 Brynjólfur Sveinsson 11, 13, 216, 219 Buchanan, Robert William 144 bændakirkjur 6, 20, 21 Bær 21, 157, 207 Böðvarr Þórðarson 2, 30, 40, 207

Barðaströnd 17 Barfield, Thomas 242 Barlaams saga 95 Battle of Örlygsstaðir 253 Bárðar saga 28 Bárðr Jökulsson 89, 90 Bárðr Snæfellsáss 28 Bede the Venerable 77, 78

Dagfinnr bóndi 109, 115 Dalasýsla 14 Dalir 4, 254 Drangey 88, 90 Dritsker 64 Droplaugarsona saga 52 dróttkvætt 136, 138, 145, 146, 250 Duby, Georges 34, 233, 235, 239, 240

Canon law 20, 30 chieftain, chieftaincies 1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 39, 40, 41, 42, 48, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 60, 62. 65, 66, 68, 84, 85, 86, 88, 89, 91, 99, 110, 147, 148, 150, 152, 153, 155, 163, 164, 173, 174, 181, 182, 183, 189, 205, 211, 228, 229, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 255 Christian, David 243 Cholas 242 chroniclers 59 clergy 6, 51, 52, 53, 54, 229 Codex Frisianus 3, 9, 10, 112 computus 25, 251 contemporary sagas 34, 36, 93, 94, 106, 168, 170, 171, 173 court system 26 courtier 113, 115, 196, 249, 250

286 ecclesiastical 6, 20, 23, 50, 55, 101, 105, 106, 214, 216 Edda, Eddic poems 30, 77, 79, 80, 81, 98, 124, 133, 140, 146, 218, 245, 247 Edward the Confessor 47 Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar 52, 176, 204 Einarr Skúlason 141 Einarr Þorgilsson 26 Einarr Þorvaldson 2, 32, 187 Eiríkr Ívarsson 99 Eiríkr Magnússon 53 Eirspennill 4, 10 Eldgjá 45 Eliss saga ok Rósamundu 95 Elvesysla 113 Embla 79, 80 Esphælinga saga 51 etymology 75, 79, 80 evangelists 29 exemplum 72, 76, 95 extra-marital 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 40, 41, 42, 43 Eyjafjörður 3, 4, 21 Eyjólfr Þorsteinsson 3 Eyrbyggja saga 18, 52, 65, 158, 174 Eysteinsstaðir 2 Fagridalur 16 Fagrskinna 86, 95, 156, 165, 166, 167 Fagurey 16, 91, 201 feud 89, 124, 128, 130 Finnbjörn Helgason 4, 150 Finnur Jónsson 18, 49, 87, 130, 134, 135, 156, 202 First Grammatical Treatise 23, 27, 29 Flateyjarbók 3, 11, 21 Fljótshlíðinga saga 52 Flugumýri 4, 5, 89 fornaldarsaga 73 foster brother 70, 72, 82, 85 Frank, Roberta 133, 142, 146, 183, 250 Free State 2, 5, 20, 23, 24, 27, 29, 30, 151, 153 freeholders 102, 136 friendship 3, 4, 31, 41, 82, 88, 114, 117, 144, 183, 187 Fríssbók 9, 10 Fœreyinga saga 77 Garðar 4, 100 Gautr Jónsson 107, 112, 117, 176

Index genealogies, genealogical 23, 46, 48, 49, 52, 59, 62, 67, 68, 124, 169, 179, 219, 222, 251 General Assembly 4, 26, 27 Gerður Kristný 245 Gísla saga 52 Gísli Jónsson 17 Gísli Sigurðsson 61, 62, 65, 83, 84, 85, 86, 88, 252 Gizurr Þorvaldsson 1, 3, 4, 5, 21, 37, 38, 40, 41, 42, 88, 89, 97, 98, 101, 104, 105, 110, 122, 150, 151, 153, 154, 178, 187, 190, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 207, 209, 221, 253 goðar 1, 20, 50, 54, 65, 67, 81, 204, 253 goðorð 4, 66 Gottskálk Jónsson 12 Grágás 14, 26, 27, 28, 45, 54, 231 Grettir Ásmundarson 84, 87, 88 Grettis saga 8, 15, 18, 84, 87, 89, 90, 92, 122 Griplur 75 Guðbrandur Vigfússon 45, 134, 168, 169 Guðmundr Arason 96, 99, 100, 109, 190, 210, 213, 220, 222 Guðmundr Brandson 21 Guðni Jónsson 87 Guðný Böðvarsdóttir 2, 24, 42, 62, 173, 181, 183 Guðrún Ása Grímsdóttir 8, 13, 24, 85, 93, 94, 246, 247, 252 Guðrún Nordal 38, 40, 93, 94, 100, 104, 108, 117, 121, 129, 135, 157, 158, 160, 163, 196, 249, 250, 251 Gulaþing 112 Gullinskinna 11 Gunnar Harðarson 23, 25, 244 Gylfaginning 77, 80 Haðarlag 136, 142 Haddingr 75, 76 Hagi 17 Haldingr 75, 76 Halla Þórðardóttir 38, 40 Halldóra Tumadóttir 37, 38, 39, 40, 42 Hallr Teitsson 4, 21 Hallvarðr gullskór 5, 150, 151, 154, 162, 164 Hallveig Ormsdóttir 37, 41, 175, 177 Hannes Þorleifsson 17 Haraldr harðráði 47

287

Index Haraldr hárfagri (Harald Fairhair) 46, 61, 62, 64, 83, 84, 85, 92, 139, 166, 214, 252 Harðar saga ok Hólmverja 21, 28, 52, 206 Harold Godwinson 47 haugar 47 Haukadalur 21, 23, 170 Haukdælir 1, 4, 27, 88, 101 Haukr Erlendsson 12, 49, 64, 122, 215 Hauksbók 18, 46, 49, 50, 52, 56, 61, 72, 82, 85, 215 Hákon galinn Fólkviðsson 96 Hákon Grjótgarðsson 46 Hákon Hákonarson 1, 4, 5, 8, 12, 61, 89, 92, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 101, 102, 103, 105, 107, 109, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 122, 123, 124, 125, 127, 130, 133, 140, 144, 149, 150, 151, 153, 154, 155, 156, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 170, 176, 194, 195, 196, 198, 199, 202, 210, 218 Hákon Sverrisson 12 Hákonar saga Hákonarsonar 1, 3, 8, 9, 10, 11, 18, 19, 29, 55, 93, 94, 95, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 121, 122, 123, 124, 126, 128, 130, 131, 133, 134, 135, 139, 140, 144, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 154, 155, 156, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 176, 179, 192, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 202, 210, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 221, 222, 245, 246, 249, 250, 252 Hákonarflokkr 124, 145 Hákonarkviða 124, 125, 126, 130, 131, 138, 139, 140, 141 Hálfdan Sæmundarson 39 Hálfs saga 52 Hásteinn Atlason 76, 80 Háttatal 124, 129, 130, 131, 142 Hávarðar saga 52 Heimskringla 11, 23, 52, 84, 86, 89, 90, 95, 121, 149, 156, 164, 166, 174, 202, 219 Heinrekr Kársson 3, 99, 151, 153 Helgi Haddingjaskati 75 Helgi Þorláksson 26, 76, 94, 105, 169, 177, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 210, 248, 250, 252 Hermann Pálsson 124, 126, 135, 138, 147, 217, 247, 248

Hersteinn Atlason 76 Hestaþingshamar 97 Heyjangrs-Björn 74 hirð 95, 110, 114, 119, 130 hirðmenn 1, 3, 48, 196 Hirðskrá 111 Historia Brittonum 77 Historia Ecclesiastica 77, 78 Historia Langobardorum 77 Historia regum Britanniæ 77, 78 Hjarðarholt 21 Hjörleifr Hróðmarsson 70 Hjörleifshöfði 72 Hofstaðir 64, 65, 67, 204 Hohenstaufen 242 Holy Mountain 66 household 17, 21, 32, 41, 65, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188 Hólar 3, 4, 11, 21, 22, 24, 25, 71, 157, 213 Hólmsteinn Atlason 76 Hrafn Oddsson 4, 5, 38, 194, 197, 204, 225, 228 Hrafnsmál 124, 142, 143, 144, 245, 254 Hrani Koðránsson 3 Hrollaugr Rögnvaldsson 62, 80 Hróars saga Tungugoða 52 Hróðný Þórðardóttir 41 Hrólfr Hróaldsson 27 Hrólfr Kjallaksson 27 Hrólfr on Skálmarnes 204 Hrómundar saga Gripssonar 75 Hrómundar þáttur 52 Hrómundr Gripsson 73, 74, 75, 82 Hrynhenda 124, 126, 135, 136, 137 hrynhent poetry 136, 138 Húnaþing 4, 11, 17 Hvammur 62, 189 Hvítadalur 2 Hænsa-Þóris saga 52, 203, 205 höfuðskáld 28 illegitimacy 30, 31, 34, 37, 39, 40, 139, 173, 174, 175, 185 Ingibjörg Eiríksdóttir 111, 113 Ingibjörg Gunnarsdóttir 42 Ingibjörg Jónsdóttir 17 Ingibjörg Snorradóttir 37, 40, 185, 187, 188, 190

288 Ingibjörg Sturludóttir 4, 37, 89 Ingimundr Einarsson 21 Ingimundr gamli 90 Ingólfr Arnarson/Björnólfsson, the first settler of Iceland 63, 65, 70, 71, 73, 74,   75, 78, 80, 92 Íslendingasaga 1, 5, 8, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 17, 18, 19, 29, 30, 42, 50, 54, 85, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 104, 105, 108, 117, 119, 121, 122, 123, 144, 148, 149, 150, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 162, 165, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 207, 209, 210, 211, 215, 216, 217, 220, 221, 222, 246, 249, 252 Íslendingabók 13, 23, 45, 48, 57, 62, 65, 66, 67, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 78, 80, 81, 82, 85, 86, 203, 204, 205, 206, 216, 219 Íslendingasögur 1, 14, 16, 23, 30, 66, 83, 122, 157 Íslenzk fornrit 51, 162, 192

Index Ketill Guðmundarson 21 Ketill Þorsteinsson 21 kinship 34, 77, 79, 84, 183 kinswomen 36, 38, 39 Kjalleklinga saga 52 Kolbeinn ungi Arnórsson 1, 3, 110, 122, 189, 190, 209 Kolbeinn Tumason 99 Kolfinna Þorvaldsdóttir 32, 41, 42, 43 Konungs skuggsjá (King´s Mirror) 95, 115, 207, 253 Kormákr á Mel 90, 244 Kormáks saga 244 Kristín Hákonardóttir 111 Kristni saga 8, 18, 21, 22, 50, 51, 85 Króksfjarðarbók 10, 15, 16, 17, 54, 105, 168, 229 kviðuháttr 124, 136, 140

Járnsíða 1, 5, 8, 13, 14, 18, 19, 223, 224, 229, 230, 231, 232, 252, Se Johnstone, James 144 Jón Eggertsson 10 Jón Erlendsson 13 Jón Hákonarson 11 Jón Jóhannesson 18, 50, 51, 52, 54, 57, 71, 74, 96, 157, 167, 169, 171, 217 Jón Loftsson 6, 23, 41, 177 Jón Magnússon 10 Jón Sigurðsson 131, 136 Jón Viðar Sigurðsson 1, 5, 20, 21, 22, 24, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 36, 66, 153, 157, 197, 251 Jón Sturluson 4 Jón Þorvarðarson 21 Jónssaga 25 Jónsbók 1, 17, 102, 111, 231, 232 Jöfraskinna 11 Jökull Bárðarson 84, 89, 90, 91, 92 Jökulsnautr 84

Landnámabók 1, 8, 12, 13, 18, 19, 21, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 78, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 89, 91, 92, 122, 131, 203, 204, 205, 206, 210, 211, 216, 217, 218, 220, 222, 249, 252 landnámsmenn 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 66, 71, 80 Langanes 17 Laurents Hanssøn 10 law-book 102, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 228, 229, 231 lawman 5, 13, 17, 20, 27, 48, 49, 54, 86, 88, 89, 147, 155, 194, 201, 222, 229, 252 lawspeaker 20, 27, 48–50 Laxdæla saga 18, 67, 88 lendir menn (liegemen) 4, 107, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119 lénskirkjur 6 Loðinn leppr 102, 111, 252 Long, Ann-Marie 56, 252 lögmaðr, lögmenn, see lawman Lögrétta 253 lögsögumaðr, lögsögumenn, see lawspeaker

Kaldbakur 87 Karlamagnúss saga 95 Karli 72 Ketill flatnefr 50

Magnús Guðmundarson 26 Magnús lagabætir Hákonarson 5, 8, 9, 12, 13, 53, 107, 111, 113, 114, 115, 117, 118, 122, 123, 127, 140, 146, 147, 148, 156, 159, 160,

289

Index 162, 164, 165, 166, 167, 194, 195, 197, 198, 202, 210, 213, 218, 223, 224, 225, 226, 232, 248, 251 Magnús Þórðarson 21 Magnúss saga Hákonarsonar lagabætis 8, 12, 18, 19, 55, 198, 217 manors 53 Margarét Skúladóttir 112 matrimony 188, 190, 208, 240 Matthías Johannessen 245, 254 Mattis Størsøn 10 Melabók 46, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 57, 64, 71, 73, 74, 206 Melamenn 64 Membrana Reseniana 212, 214, 251 Mikligarðr 87, 88 monastery 50, 66, 217, 220 Morkinskinna 95, 149, 156, 165, 166 Mostr 64 Munkholm 97 Múli 2 Mýrar 32, 33, 187 Möðruvellir 21 Niðarós 6, 88 Njáls saga 14, 15, 18, 27, 77, 176, 192, 254 noblemen 49 Noregskonungatal 124 óðal 47 Oddamál 53 Oddaverjar 23, 38 Oddi 23, 177, 187, 225 Oddr 28 Oddr ómagaskáld 90 Oddr (Tungu-Oddr) 205 Oddr Álason 32, 33, 42, 187 Oddr Snorrason 166 Oddr Sveinbjarnarson 97, 98 Oddr Þórarinsson 38 Orning, Hans Jacob 108, 136, 148, 149, 156, 249 Óðinn 75, 77, 78, 81, 117, 145, 176, 209, 219, 251 Ólafía Einarsdóttir 108, 119, 156, 159, 162, 164, 165, 167, 195, 198 Óláfr Haraldsson 84, 87, 88, 89, 92, 164 Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld 28, 82, 110, 123, 124, 126, 131

Óláfr the Saint, see Óláfr Haraldsson Óláfr Tryggvason 51, 84, 88, 125, 131, 139, 146, 166 Óláfs saga helga 10, 11, 21 84, 95, 164, 166 Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar 53, 77 Ólafur Halldórsson 11, 13, 16, 17 oral storytelling 70 Orkneyinga saga 52, 215 Ormr Jónsson 39, 41 Ormr Ormsson 5 Órækja Snorrason 1, 2, 3, 26, 33, 157, 161, 162, 174, 175, 178, 185, 187, 207 outlawry 26, 83, 84, 85, 87, 88, 91, 92 pagan 45, 50, 53, 79, 81, 117, 131 Páll Hallsson 3 Páll Jónsson 96, 99, 100 Pallavas 242 Paulus Diaconus 77, 79 Percivall, Nic 33 Pollock, Sheldon 242 Powell, Frederick York 134 Prestssaga Guðmundar góða 99, 100, 105 Prose Edda 23, 80, 174, 176, 219 Randalín Filippusdóttir 38 Rauðasandr 17 Resen, Peder Hansen 13, 212 Resensannáll 96 Resensbók 48 retainer 5, 37, 100, 151, 193, 224 Reykdæla saga 52 Reykholt 21, 22, 24, 28, 30, 89, 109, 121, 168, 173, 174, 177, 178, 179, 185, 186, 188, 189, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 251, 252, 254 Reykhólar 75, 178 Reykjarfjarðarbók 11, 15, 16, 17, 54, 94, 99, 105, 168, 192, 224, 229 Reykjarfjörður 17 Reykjavík 7, 72, 75, 76, 81, 133, 244, 246 Reynistaður 17, 105 ribbungar 113, 158 Roman History 77 Saga Böðmóðs gerpis ok Grímólfs 52 Sauðafell 2, 157 Saurbær 2, 14, 17, 174, 206 Saurhóll 2

290 Schier, Kurt 56 Schneider, Hermann 135 scribes 9, 10, 15, 16, 19, 105, 232 scriptorium 16, 176 secular law 20, 28, 30 Sighvatr Sturluson 39, 40, 157 Sigríðr 39, 40 Sigurðr Eindriðason 96 Sigurðr Ormsson 99 Sigurður Nordal 18, 22, 87, 122, 123, 192, 204 Símon Jörundarson 21 Skagafjörður 3, 4, 10, 11, 16, 209 skalds, skaldic poetry 20, 25, 28, 29, 30, 80, 121, 128, 133, 134, 135, 144, 146, 179, 244, 246, 247, 254 Skarð 244 Skarðsárbók 46, 48, 57, 74, 82 Skálholt 6, 9, 11, 13, 21, 22, 24, 25, 26, 71, 96, 157 Skálholtsbók yngsta 4, 9, 10 Skálmarnes 27 Skálmöld 254 Skúli Bárðarson 89, 103, 104, 105, 110, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 123, 124, 125, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 149, 150, 152, 158, 159, 160, 176, 177, 179, 250 110, 144, 149, 250 skutilsveinar 111, 196 slittungar 158 Snorra Edda 75, 77, 247 Snorri Markússon 49, 53 Snorri Sturluson 1, 2, 3, 22, 23, 24, 26, 28, 30, 31, 37, 39, 40, 49, 50, 53, 60, 61, 62, 65, 67, 68, 77, 80, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 91, 92, 95, 96, 97, 98, 104, 106, 109, 110, 111, 116, 117, 118, 121, 123, 124, 129, 130, 131, 133, 136, 137, 138, 142, 143, 144, 146, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 157, 161, 162, 163, 164, 167, 168, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 182, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 196, 202, 203, 204, 205, 207, 208, 211, 219, 220, 221, 251, 252 Snorri Þorgrímsson (Snorri the Chieftain)  65 Snorrungagoðorð 2, 31, 174 Snæbjarnar saga galta 52 Solveig Hálfdanardóttir 37, 38

Index Sólveig Sæmundardóttir 2 Spákonufellshöfði 17 staðamál 6, 20, 52, 53, 54, 224, 225, 227, 228, 229, 230 Staðarhóll 2, 3, 14, 16, 54, 174, 178, 206 Staðarhólsbók 14, 230, 231, 232 staðir 6, 20, 22 stafkarlaletr 97, 98 Stefán Karlsson 16, 18, 105, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 224, 247, 251 Steinvör Sighvatsdóttir 37, 40, 181, 226 Strengleikar 95 Sturla Sighvatsson 1, 2, 3, 31, 32, 110, 150, 151, 152, 161, 193, 207, 209, 211, 248 Sturla Þórðarson (Hvamm-Sturla) 2, 62, 67 Sturluþáttr 107, 113, 114, 122, 147, 148, 156, 165, 192, 194, 229 Sturlubók 18, 44, 45, 46, 48, 49, 50, 52, 54, 55, 56, 61, 67, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80, 81, 82, 85, 86, 87, 90, 203, 204, 205, 206, 211, 217, 218, 220 Sturlung Era 1, 4, 246, 248, 249, 251, 252, 253, 254 Sturlunga saga 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 12, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 22, 24, 26, 27, 28, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 37, 38, 40, 41, 42, 53, 54, 75, 85, 94, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 104, 105, 107, 108, 110, 111, 113, 118, 122, 144, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 162, 165, 167, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 174, 175, 177, 178, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 187, 188, 189, 190, 192, 194, 197, 201, 203, 205, 208, 209, 220, 229, 249 Sturlungar 4, 27, 28, 40, 48, 54, 60, 62, 65, 68, 88, 89, 101, 107, 110, 118, 157, 169, 204, 208, 209, 210 Styrmir Kárason 21, 28, 49, 51, 62, 220, 221 Styrmisbók 50, 53, 62 Svarfdæla saga 52 Sverrir Jakobsson 1, 86, 184, 192, 198, 212, 215, 218, 251 Sverrir Sigurðarson 12, 109, 130 Sverris saga 10, 11, 21, 50, 156, 165, 166, 167, 196 Svínfellingar 5, 227 sýslumaðr, sýslumenn 111, 113 Sæmundr Jónsson 99

291

Index Sæmundr Sigfússon 21, 23, 24, 30, 218 Sørensen, Preben Meulengracht 22, 63, 72, 157, 247 The Great Saga of Óláfr Tryggvason 13 The Leopard 253 Tostig Godwinson 47 Tortola 83 trúnaðarmenn 29 Tumi Kolbeinsson 39 Úlfar Bragason 99, 108, 113, 149, 157, 168, 171, 174, 175, 179, 182, 185, 186, 209, 251 Uni danski/óborni 85 Vaðlaheiði 4 Valgerðr 39, 40 Vatnsdalur 90 Vatnsdæla saga 51, 52, 53, 84, 89, 90 Vatnsfjörður 32, 33, 175, 187 Verena Hoefig 70, 252 vernacularisation 242 versagerð 25 versification 25 Vébjarnar saga 52 Víðidalstunga 11 Vífill 72 Viking Age 66, 81 Völuspá 79 William the Bastard 47 Wærdahl, Randi 107, 148, 252 Ynglingatal 124 Þiðreks saga 95 Þingvellir 244 Þorbjörn öngull 90 Þorgils skarði Böðvarsson 4, 37, 150 Þorgils Oddason 27 Þorgils saga ok Hafliða 27, 75 Þorgils saga skarða 99, 100, 101, 102, 105, 150 Þorkell máni Þorsteinsson 73 Þorlákr Þórhallsson 6 Þorlákur Skúlason 11

Þorleifr Þórðarson 4, 100 Þorleifur Hauksson 17, 101, 198, 224, 225 Þorleifr Kortsson 17 Þormóður Torfason 12 Þorskafjarðarþing 2 Þorskfirðinga saga 52 Þorvaldr Snorrason Vatnsfirðingr 31, 40 Þorvarðr Þórarinsson 5, 38, 99, 164, 201, 223, 224, 228, 229, 230 Þóra Eiríksdóttir 41, 173 Þóra, mother of Sturla 1 Þórðar saga gellis 52 Þórðar saga kakala 101, 152 Þórðarbók 57, 73, 74, 82 Þórdís Snorradóttir 31, 33, 36, 42, 43, 186 Þórðr Kolbeinsson 137 Þórðr Narfason 54, 168, 169 Þórðr gellir Ólafsson 64 Þórðr kakali Sighvatsson 3, 4, 37, 38, 42, 101, 110, 150, 151, 153, 170 Þórðr Sturluson, father of Sturla 1, 2, 24, 30, 40, 41, 42, 54, 62, 66, 157, 173, 177, 178, 179, 182, 183, 184, 193, 222 Þórðr Sturluson, son of Sturla 55 Þórir Gudmundsson 96 Þórólfr mostrarskeggi 63, 64, 66 Þórsnes 64, 67 Þórsnesingagoðorð 2, 66 Þórsnesingar 65, 66 Þróndur Gerðarsson 10 Þuríðr 37, 38, 39 Þuríðr Sturludóttir 37, 38, 39 Þverárþing 26 Þverdalur 2 Þverfell 2 Ættartangi 90 Ölfusingakyn 52 öndvegissúlur 80, 81 Önundr tréfótr 87 Örlygsstaðir 1, 157 Örn from Telemark 73 Örnólfur Thorsson 87, 122