The Medieval Icelandic Saga and Oral Tradition: A Discourse on Method 067401457X, 9780674014572

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The Medieval Icelandic Saga and Oral Tradition: A Discourse on Method Citation: Sigurðsson, Gísli. 2004. The Medieval Icelandic Saga and Oral Tradition: A Discourse on Method. Trans. Nicholas Jones. Milman Parry Collection of Oral Literature 2. Cambridge, MA: Milman Parry Collection of Oral Literature. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn3:hul.ebook:CHS_SigurdssonG.The_Medieval_Icelandic_Saga_and_Oral_Tradition.2004.

Table of Contents                  

Series Foreword Foreword, Lars Lönnroth Preface Introduction. Written Texts and Oral Traditions Part I. Oral Tradition in Iceland in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries. 1. From Lawspeaker to Lawbook 2. Óláfr Þórðarson Hvítaskáld and the Oral Poetic Tradition in the West of Iceland c. 1250: The evidence of the verse citations in The Third Grammatical Treatise 3. Conclusions to Part I Part II. The Saga World of the East of Iceland 4. The Same Characters in More Than One Saga 5. The Same Event in More Than One Saga 6. Conclusions to Part II Part III. The Sagas and Truth 7. The Saga Map of Vínland Part IV. New Perspectives 8. Implications for Saga Research Bibliography Pronunciation Guide

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Series Foreword This series is dedicated to the empirical study of oral traditions in their historical contexts. The rigorous methods of investigation developed by Milman Parry and Albert Lord, as documented in Lord’s The Singer of Tales (Harvard University Press 1960; Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature 24. Second edition 2000, with an Introduction [vii-xxix] by Stephen Mitchell and Gregory Nagy) serve as a model for the books included in the series. As the second volume in the series, Gísli Sigurðsson’s The Medieval Icelandic Saga and Oral Tradition: A Discourse on Method extends the fields of inquiry temporally, geographically and linguistically to include the Old Icelandic prose sagas. Both Milman Parry and Albert Lord foresaw that our understanding of these older northern European materials would one day be mediated by their findings. Explaining why a Classicist would find it necessary to immerse himself in a living tradition of epic singing, Milman Parry wrote: My purpose in undertaking the study of this poetry was as follows. My Homeric studies […] have from the beginning shown me that Homeric poetry, and indeed all early Greek poetry, is oral, and so can be properly understood, criticized, and edited only when we have a complete knowledge of the processes of oral poetry; this is also true for other early poetries such as Anglo-Saxon, French, or Norse, to the extent they are oral. [emphasis added] “To the extent they are oral” had, as Parry no doubt knew, long been a matter of debate for scholars of Old Norse literature. Tackling this point directly, Gísli Sigurðsson examines in this book questions at the heart of orality in Old Icelandic: How did the lawspeakers, embodying traditional Norse reliance on orality, regard the new written culture? How do we best understand characters, genealogies and events that appear in several sagas between which a written link cannot be established? Based on our understanding of oral tradition in a cross-cultural context, can we reconstruct the mental map with which the sagas about the Vínland voyages are likely to have provided their audiences? Through his answers to these and other critical questions, Gísli Sigurðsson adds significantly to the growing body of evidence demonstrating that the role of orality in Old Norse is both recoverable and necessary for the understanding of the sagas, just as Parry predicted. — Stephen Mitchell and Gregory Nagy Curators, Milman Parry Collection of Oral Literature

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Foreword The relationship between oral tradition and literary authorship is a classic bone of contention in the study of early epic narrative. Works like the Iliad, Beowulf, La Chanson de Roland and Njáls saga have all been interpreted as orally transmitted texts, but they have also been interpreted as literary artifacts composed in writing by an author. Within the field of saga scholarship this disagreement was for a long time known as the conflict between Freeprose and Bookprose. The Freeprose Theory, vigorously defended by Knut Liestøl in Norway, Andreas Heusler in Germany and by several other Germanists and folklorists before the Second World War, maintained that the Íslendingasögur originated essentially in the Viking period and then circulated in oral tradition for a couple of hundred years until they were finally written down in the Sturlung Age. The Bookprose Theory, which was particularly influential in Iceland after the war and brilliantly represented by Sigurður Nordal, Einar Ól. Sveinsson and other prominent members of the so-called “Icelandic school,” maintained that Íslendingasögur originated essentially in the Sturlung Age as individual written literary compositions by prominent authors such as, for example, Snorri Sturluson. Adherents of Freeprose could occasionally admit that individual saga-writers had sometimes left their trace on the saga texts, thereby modifying or in some cases even radically changing the previous oral tradition. Likewise, adherents of Bookprose have often admitted that the authors of the sagas probably had access to some kind of oral tales as basic source material for their literary compositions. Yet the adherents of Freeprose worked primarily as folklorists, while adherents of Bookprose worked primarily as philologists or literary historians, trying to establish manuscript relationships and literary influences. And it is the latter approach that dominated in Scandinavian scholarship until the late 1960’s. In more recent years, however, partly as a result of Albert Lord’s influential book, The Singer of Tales, oral tradition has come back into focus, and there has been, internationally, an increasing reaction against the Bookprose theory of the “Icelandic School.” Gísli Sigurðsson’s book is a part of that reaction as can be seen already from its title, and still more from his introductory chapter, in which he states his aims and presents the previous discussion about oral tradition and literary authorship in the sagas. Unlike many American scholars, however, he does not count epic formulas or use other methods of the oral-formulaic school. His ambition is to introduce new methods in dealing with the oral tradition behind the written sagas. One of these methods, and perhaps the most important one, consists in comparing sagas that deal with events that supposedly took place at roughly the same time in the same district of Iceland. To what extent can the similarities in content between these sagas be explained as a result of literary influence, as the adherents of Bookprose have maintained? To what extent is it more reasonable to explain the similarities as resulting from the fact that saga-writers had access to the same oral traditions circulating in the district? In trying to answer such questions, Gísli makes use of a concept that was first introduced by Carol Clover and later taken over by John Miles Foley, namely that of “immanent narrative.” An “immanent narrative” or an “immanent saga” is one that is not explicitly told in the text but assumed to be known by the audience or the reader. The narrator or some character in the story may, for example, refer in passing to some event that has never been told or some hero that has never been introduced but is still considered well known by everybody. When this happens in a saga text, it usually indicates that the saga was told for people who were already well informed about at least some of the characters and events, and this information is likely to have come through oral tradition. One of the things that Gísli thus tries to do is to find traces of immanent sagas that were probably never written but still somehow part of common knowledge.

4 Although Gísli Sigurðsson is searching for oral tradition he does not really believe in a purely oral saga as some Freeprose advocates did. He is quite willing to accept the fact that the sagas were influenced by literary texts such as saints’ lives or foreign romances. He is also quite willing to accept the fact that saga-writers influenced each other through literary borrowing. Thus he does not completely reject the Bookprose theory but rather defines its limitations in explaining the origins of the saga. What he himself wants to establish is not the oral Urgestalt of any saga but rather its oral roots. And although one may in some cases disagree with his conclusions about individual sagas, he does convince us that numerous oral tales are indeed concealed behind the literary saga texts we nowadays read and admire. — Lars Lönnroth Göteborg, November 2003

5 for Saswati and Pratichi

Preface ‘That’s my cue,’ says my father when he wants to get in with one of his stories and link it in with something someone else has just said apropos of something completely different. My interest in the oral telling of stories and reciting of verses goes back, like so much else in our lives, to influences in my childhood. At the time when I was growing up in the residential suburbs of Reykjavík, it was considered a proper sort of way of spending a Saturday or Sunday morning for fathers of mature years to get together in each other’s homes and have a glass of something invigorating and tell stories and recite verses and poems, while the mothers got on with the housework and the cooking. I suppose it was my father’s contribution to the child minding to have me with him on such occasions and let me listen in to what went on, encourage me even to put in something of my own to the conversation. My father’s guests, and he himself, appeared to possess a vast fund of verses that they would bring out to accompany their stories about past events and notable individuals, and each tale told acted as a cue for the next, and then the next after that. Even though these men — whom my aunt Ragnheiður called ‘the rubber men’ from the certain flexibility in their veracity induced by the schnapps — presumably already knew each other’s repertoires inside out and back to front, it was an unspoken rule that none of them would ever tell a story that one of the others had made his own. Each of them could give chapter and verse on where his stories came from — sometimes from personal experience, but more often from oral accounts of things that had happened in the country regions around Iceland where their families originally came from, or even lifted from printed books. But such origins did not prevent them from treating these stories as theirs and theirs alone, both through how they selected the bits and put them together, and in the contexts in which they were told. In this way they established a kind of copyright over material that was for the most part acquired from others, if we judge things from the standpoint of the modern concept of intellectual property. My experience of the art of oral storytelling acquired on these weekend mornings broadened greatly when as a teenager I started to attend the midday sessions of the dining club Gnægtir (‘Plenty’), which met regularly every working day at my father’s law practice at Laugavegur 18 in downtown Reykjavík. Here people of all sorts came together, each with something to contribute to the lunch table, to entertain each other with their skills as raconteurs. These were wells that appeared inexhaustible, and I fear that the legal work often found itself conveniently forgotten when things got into full swing. I never came across anything like this in books. Sometimes I tried to track down the sources that people said they had gotten this or that out of, and I scoured the volumes of Íslensk fyndni (‘Icelandic humor’) from cover to cover in search of this material — but always in vain. Now and then I stumbled on something a bit reminiscent, but nothing that came anywhere near to sitting among these people and listening to them talk. Many years later, when at university I came to read academic studies of oral cultures, it dawned on me that there, in my father’s office, I had been witness to a completely independent art form, one that cannot easily be captured in writing or set down on paper: the art of oral entertainment. [1] Within the family, too, the passing on of information and entertainment in this kind of form was something we took for granted. My grandmother Maren from the island of Engey off Reykjavík told me stories of shipwrecks and the perils of the sea going back to people who lived there in the 19th century; and my grandmother Kristín from Reykjavík and Hofsós in Skagafjörður in the north could talk about her extended family all the way back to the Móðuharðindin, the volcanic disasters and famines of the 18th century, as if they were people known to her personally, and had at her fingertips all the intricacies of their genealogies

6 backward and forward over the last two hundred years. My grandfather Gísli from Eyrarbakki on the south coast told me a love story from Flói in the southern lowlands that went back to the middle of the 19th century as if he had been there at the time; and at Halldórsstaðir, the farm in Kinn in the north where I spent my summers, it was as if Kristjana and Sveinn vert (‘publican’), the parents of my grandfather Baldur, had only just served the last drinks in their inn Baukurinn at Húsavík on the coast nearby, and parties of emigrants had recently been leaving for America, and our common forefathers and foremothers down to the seventh generation were all still within the reach of time. When I started to study literature at university in 1979, there was much talk about sagas and novels, poems and plays, but not a word about the form of literary art I had grown up with and in my innocence believed to be a natural, everyday source of entertainment in the lives of most Icelanders. This sense of something missing grew even stronger during a winter spent in Winnipeg as part of my BA at the University of Iceland; there I sat at the feet of Haraldur Bessason and his courtiers in the Montcalm Society, where they practiced an art of conversation not unlike what I had experienced at the Gnægtir dining club — though moved to a totally different cultural environment. [2] At university, literature was studied, for understandable reasons, entirely ‘by the book,’ and when any attempt was made to discuss the esthetics or oral origins of ancient texts using the methods of contemporary literary criticism, very little use was made of examples drawn from living traditions of oral storytelling. Folklore studies, too, seemed very distant from this world that I had come to know; folktales turned primarily around beliefs in elves and huldufólk (‘the hidden people’), and students were still being led to believe that the classic collections of folktales were more or less word-for-word transcriptions taken straight down from oral tradition. This worried me, though it was a long time before I was able to put my finger on quite what it was that struck me as questionable about this book-based approach. I was well on into my university studies when I first became aware that there were areas of scholarship where the questions I was asking myself were at the very center of academic debate: how experience gained from living oral traditions might be applied to the study of ancient texts whose roots lay, at least to some extent, within such traditions. Much of what I now read struck me as obvious, being in various ways reminiscent of what I had seen with my own eyes in the circles around my father and later Haraldur Bessason, and I felt sure that others would see things this way too — if only they would take the trouble to look at the evidence. But far from it. The reaction of some people to comparative work of this kind was, and remains, like the one described by von Sydow (1922:22) among Norse scholars to the idea of Gaelic influences on the Icelandic sagas: ‘[Det] verkar […] som ett rödt kläde på en tjur’ — ‘like a red rag to a bull.’ Or, put another way: ‘Unsere Germanen sind nicht mit den wilden Hottentotten zu vergleichen’ — ‘You can’t go comparing our Germans with the savage Hottentots’ — a phrase I heard ascribed to a certain Germanist when I was in Freiburg in 1995 about the use of living oral traditions from illiterate modern societies to shed light on societies in northwestern Europe in pre-Christian times. I was also told that it was not so long since these words had been uttered. I had completed my master’s dissertation in Ireland in 1986 on Gaelic influences in Iceland (Sigurðsson G. 1988) and was taking my first steps in the fields of academia, working on a popular edition of the sagas for the publishers Svart á hvítu under the critical eye of Örnólfur Thorsson, when I came up against the fact that not everyone went along with my view of the potential significance of research into oral culture for our understanding of the ancient sagas. During these years, between sessions of peering into the company’s computer screens, Örnólfur and I spent most of our time discussing the sagas. As was only to be expected, I was much taken up with my recently completed essay on the Gaelic influences that I felt to be of considerable significance in explaining the origins of the sagas; for Örnólfur, what mattered was the literary value of these ancient texts — and it is this vision that has been the cornerstone

7 of the many successful saga editions that he has seen though the press. After many hours of intense debate it seemed to me that I was at last managing to move Örnólfur just a little in the direction of acknowledging the role of Gaelic influences, when he launched into a counterattack — that the Icelandic sagas were literature, written by particular individuals at particular times, individuals who were in no cultural contact with any Gaelic influences that might or might not have come to Iceland many centuries earlier. ‘Yes, but the oral tradition…’ I mumbled in my defense, but Örnólfur would have none of it. In such a stalemate I began to see that to make any headway with my Gaelic influences I would first need to put in some work on connecting the sagas to an oral tradition. One might thus say that it was the Gaelic influences that provided the ‘cue’ that finally sparked in me a serious interest in the study of oral culture and literature. This work got under way with a conference on Icelandic literature of former times that Örnólfur, Gunnar Harðarson and I arranged in 1989 under the name Skáldskaparmál [3] — a name we also used for the journal we launched the following year, starting off with articles based on papers delivered at the conference. At the conference I delivered a short paper on oral culture and the sagas, outlining various general points that I felt to be of particular significance. This led afterwards backstage to a fairly sharp exchange of views with the Nestor of Icelandic studies Jakob Benediktsson, who found my approach in the lecture rather gung-ho, as with my ideas on the edda poems [4] — I had at the time recently produced an edition of some of these poems for schools and Jakob had done me the great service of reading over it for me. Jakob was, let it be said, well at home in oral studies and told me how he had first been introduced to the subject by Halldór Laxness, who had come across the work of Milman Parry, found it interesting and challenging, and directed Jakob’s attention to it over fifty years earlier. [5] Around the time we were organizing this conference I was writing the entries on Old Icelandic literature for Íslenska alfræðibókin [6] and found myself face to face with the classic problem of all areas of study, that of defining what we know and how we know it. This compelled me to give careful thought to the foundations on which accepted knowledge stands, for a general encyclopedia is hardly the place for information based on unproven theories and dubious premises. In my search for a secure foothold I thus had to clear away everything that depended on the disparate theories of the origins of the sagas; what was needed was hard facts, not received opinions about the age of original texts, authors, and verbal correspondences claimed as evidence of loans between one written text and another. All right, I couldn’t take the same course as Descartes in rejecting everything except his own existence: ‘Cogito ergo sum’ — ‘I think, therefore I am’ — he said, and that was about as far as certainty went. But I was not all that much better off. I could read the sagas and poems as they were preserved in particular manuscripts, but beyond this there was not much I could feel really secure about, with the possible exception of the dating of the manuscripts; here at least I reckoned I could trust the research, to within a century or so. Perhaps no more would have come of these ideas if Hallfreður Örn Eiríksson had not offered me a temporary post at the folklore studies department of the Stofnun Árna Magnússonar (Árni Magnússon Institute) from the middle of 1990 to the end of the year — funded with money extracted from Sighvatur Björgvinsson, who was a member of the Althingi’s finance committee at the time. The then director of the Institute, Jónas Kristjánsson, was very supportive in this, despite being avowedly in disagreement with most of my ideas, and arranged my appointment in such a way that I could continue my research into oral culture and ancient literature even if, nominally, I was supposed to be working for the section of the Institute that saw to the sound recording archives. This was an offer too good to refuse. Soon after I started working at the Institute I began to give serious thought to how I could construct a thesis based on what I considered to be sound working principles. There were problems. The main subject matter, the connections between oral tradition and ancient written

8 texts, has been under the scholarly spotlight from the earliest times, and no obvious way presented itself of taking up such a well-worn discussion and moving it forward enough to justify a doctoral thesis. However, my conviction that the last word had not been said on the sagas and oral tradition never wavered. I also had a very strong sense that in just about all scholarly work on the sagas there was a blithe acceptance of certain premises that could not be justified. In the interests of objectivity, scholars needed to give more thought to the foundations on which their scholarship was built — as I had had to do in my work for the encyclopedia — and might, by adopting a different approach, find ways of putting their work on a sounder footing. The minimum requirement was that people be clear in their own minds, and to others, about the limits of their scholarship and stop pretending that something was solid and reliable that was in fact constructed on unquestioned premises and unprovable theories. Now, a good ten years on, and after much thought, reading, attendance at conferences and seminars, and writing of articles, I have put together something that I feel fulfils what I set out to achieve — and goes rather beyond it. Some of the material has already seen publication, at various stages of completion, in books, journals, and conference papers, in deference to the cardinal principle of academic life that I first heard from the lips of the linguist Helgi Guðmundsson in one of his lessons on the history of the Icelandic language — ‘Publish or perish!’ — which at the time seemed a rather risible eccentricity of the university system in North America. As is only to be expected, there have been many twists and turns along the way and the research has turned up various unexpected matters that it never occurred to me beforehand might find a place within the basic idea I started with, that of hypothesizing a strong oral tradition within the society that produced the Icelandic sagas and considering the implications: matters such as the party politics of the ancient lawspeakers, the localized poetical knowledge of Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld, the figure of Þorkell Geitisson in the saga tradition of eastern Iceland, and the riddle of *Saga Njarðvíkinga, the ‘lost’ saga mentioned in passing in Laxdæla saga, and its connections with the eastern sagas. [7] All this came as a surprise, yet lay clearly within the bounds of what I might have expected when I set out. Rather more of a surprise was my subsequent realization that this approach and the overall view I was taking of the sagas might also bear fruit in the quest to unravel the problem of Vínland. At the outset I took a conscious decision to avoid letting the discussion of oral tradition get bogged down in questions of historicity; I had enough on my plate trying to demonstrate the likelihood that the ancient texts had connections with an oral tradition at the time when they were written, and it was a weight off my mind not to have to be forever looking for links between the sagas and the events and chronology of the 9th, 10th and 11th centuries. But the hand of fate decided that in spring 1996 I should go, at the instigation of Dagný Kristjánsdóttir, as a Nordplus lecturer to the University of Nuuk in Greenland. There, as a specialist in the Icelandic sagas, there was no way of getting out of having to play the part of resident authority on Greenland in medieval Icelandic writings, and as a result I found myself drawn into discussions and controversies in the field of Vínland studies. The university library contained a good selection of books on Norse finds in Greenland and at L’Anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland. I had the great benefit of being able to discuss these matters with the rector of the university, Claus Andreasen, who was himself an archaeologist. Shortly after my return from Greenland I found myself at a gathering at the home of my cousin Guðrún Pétursdóttir and Ólafur Hannibalsson. Among the guests was a party from Prince Edward Island on the south side of the Gulf of St. Lawrence in Canada, off the coast of New Brunswick — Harry Baglole, director of a research institute of island studies, and his colleagues. They were in Iceland to foster cooperation among the various island peoples of the north Atlantic and felt themselves at times a little left out of things, for all the other representatives, from Man, the Hebrides, Orkney, Shetland, the Faeroes, Iceland, Greenland, and even Newfoundland, could come together in shared memories of vikings on their patch.

9 The people of Prince Edward Island however had nothing in their European past that went back further than the 16th-century French explorer Jacques Cartier. At the time, the only thing I knew about their island was where it lay on the map, but it had excited my interest while I was in Greenland and deep in my reading of the Vínland material. So I asked these people whether there were extensive tidal flats in the channel between their island and the mainland. ‘Oh yes, so much so you can walk dry-shod from the provincial capital Charlottetown all the way to an island that lies far out in the firth when the tide is in.’ ‘And were there then tidal pools and lagoons along the coast?’ ‘Quite a few, but more of them in New Brunswick, especially around the mouth of the Miramichi, just as you come west out of the channel.’ ‘And how about the salmon fishing in these parts?’ ‘Yes indeed, no shortage of salmon in the Miramichi. The first explorers in the 16th century complained about not being able to sleep by the river for the splashing of leaping salmon.’ ‘And wild grapes?’ I finally asked, with some trepidation. ‘Not so much of them, but on his travels Cartier described seeing great bunches of grapes all along the south side of the Gulf, especially round the mouth of the St. Lawrence, but also at the lagoon where the Miramichi comes out into the sea. The place is even called Baie du Vin — Wine Bay. But we grow vines at home and Harry makes his own wine…’ By this point in the conversation I reckoned I’d heard enough to be able to offer them the consolation that, if they were feeling the lack of a viking past, I could easily supply them with one, for the description of Leifr the Lucky’s journey in Grœnlendinga saga fitted precisely the route across the Gulf of St. Lawrence to Prince Edward Island and then on into the strait that lies between it and the mainland. And the saga says that Leifr came to this island from the north, sailed east along it, and made a landfall and tasted the sweet dew, and then sailed west through the strait until he came to a tidal lagoon with an abundance of salmon and wild grapes. So these people had just as good a claim as many others to a share in the vikings. This was news to their ears, and they offered to arrange a lecture tour if I would come over and tell them about it on their home soil. All went ahead as planned, and this might have been the end of it if it had not been for the millennium. Around the year 2000 ‘Vinlandicists’ suddenly found themselves in great demand; the international media got together to report on Leifr Eiríksson and his voyages a thousand years earlier, and exhibitions sprang up here in Iceland and elsewhere designed to do justice to these journeys. Within the academic community there was a lot of tut-tutting at all these goings-on, and a marked absence of scholars willing to come forward and be associated with historical interpretations of what they saw as the consciously literary figures of the Vínland sagas, the products of creative imaginations working in a Christian cultural environment — but whom the general public and their political representatives preferred to look upon as real historical people. I seemed to be just about the only relatively young saga scholar to have shown any indication of reading anything other than religious symbolism out of the saga accounts and thus found myself besieged with requests to take on the various projects that were now piling up. So I had no choice but to roll up my sleeves and immerse myself in these matters from the bottom up, in the rather forlorn hope of being able to do something more than just posting Leifr Eiríksson off to Prince Edward Island. Little by little it dawned on me that, by applying to the Vínland sagas the methods I was myself proselytizing in my already largely completed doctoral thesis — that is, of looking at the sagas not as a source of facts but of an oral tradition that passed on in story form the information that society deemed necessary to keep from oblivion — the route descriptions in the sagas could all be shown to make coherent sense. This left me no option but to go along with the suggestion of my chief adviser in the writing of this book, Vésteinn Ólason, current director of the Árni Magnússon Institute, and add a chapter to incorporate this material, thereby bringing my discussion of oral tradition to a close with precisely what I had started out intending to avoid: the grain of truth inside the sagas.

10 As is only natural at the end of such a long-drawn-out, wide-ranging, and, some might say, disparate work, I owe a debt of thanks to many people. As well as Vésteinn Ólason, mentioned above, who has read over the book in its entirety, the following have read individual chapters at various stages of their completion: the chapter on the lawspeakers as originally written for the Jónas Kristjánsson Festschrift in 1994 — Guðrún Nordal, Gunnar Karlsson, Helgi Skúli Kjartansson, and Peter Foote; the chapter on Óláfr hvítaskáld, which originally appeared in the proceedings of the 1997 saga conference in Akureyri — Sverrir Tómasson, Örnólfur Thorsson, Jónas Kristjánsson, Gunnar Harðarson, and Margaret Clunies Ross (the editor of the English version of this paper as it appeared in Old Icelandic literature and society in 2000). I received a detailed and valuable appraisal of all the chapters (other than the one on the Vínland sagas) in nearly finished form from the adjudication panel in January 2000 following my application in August 1998 for a transfer between pay scales; the panel comprised Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Jón Hnefill Aðalsteinsson, and Davíð Erlingsson — the self-styled Þríhöfði (‘Three-Head’) — and when dealing with a troll of that kind it is well advised to offer thanks for suggestions and constructive criticism. I also have to thank Sverrir Tómasson, who read over the entire typescript with his customary eye for detail and picked up on many points that had escaped my attention — even if I was not able to incorporate all his comments. The general introduction and the studies of the lawspeakers and Þorkell Geitisson benefited from a short survey of the material that I published under the editorship of Hildegaard L. C. Tristram in the series ScriptOralia in 1997. I was also able to refine the section on *Saga Njarðvíkinga considerably following a lecture I delivered on the subject at a meeting of Vísindafélag Íslendinga (Icelandic Science Association) in spring 1998. The material in the chapters on the Vínland sagas is based in part on work carried out for conferences, exhibitions and exhibition catalogs on the millennium of the voyages in 2000. In this I received valuable advice from William Fitzhugh and Elisabeth Ward, my editors at the Smithsonian Institute (see Sigurðsson, G. 2000a). I also thank my collaborators at the exhibition ‘Landnám og Vínlandsferðir’ (‘Vikings and the New World’) at Þjóðmenningarhúsið (Culture House) in Reykjavík, who added greatly to my understanding of the questions raised by this material. As well as Sigurjón Jóhannsson, my co-presenter of the exhibition, I would mention especially the archaeologist Birgitta Wallace, who was exceptionally generous with her time when we first met on Prince Edward Island in spring 1998 and has since written me a number of long letters that have opened my eyes to many of the problems associated with Vínland studies; for others who gave advice and assistance with the exhibition at Þjóðmenningarhúsið, see the exhibition catalog (Sigurðsson, G. 2000b). I have also had deep and lively discussions on the Vínland voyages with Páll Bergþórsson which have made me much clearer about the questions that need to be addressed; Páll has found much to criticize in various aspects of my interpretation, but I am amazed at how many things we do agree on (especially in light of the fierce debate endemic in this area of study), for all that our backgrounds and approaches differ radically. In the final chapter, I make free use of material on Finnbogi rammi previously published in Skáldskaparmál (1994) and in the ScriptOralia series under the editorship of Hildegaard L. C. Tristram, and on Hœnsa-Þórir in the University of Akureyri conference papers Líf undir leiðarstjörnu (1994c), edited by Haraldur Bessason. I should also make a general mention of all the people I have met and discussed things with at conferences and seminars, whose comments have very often proved extremely fruitful for the work presented here. With no prejudice to anyone else, perhaps the greatest benefits have accrued from the folklore conferences I have attended in connection with the Nordic Institute (and later Network) of Folklore. Last but not least, there is no way I could have completed this work without the facilities and understanding I have enjoyed at the Árni Magnússon Institute; perhaps most important here

11 was my sabbatical in Freiburg in spring 1995 as a visiting scholar at the research project Übergänge und Spannungsfelder zwischen Mündlichkeit und Schriftlichkeit. My time in Freiburg proved particularly inspiring, especially my discussions with Stephen Tranter, as well as with Hildegaard L. C. Tristram and various students and scholars either based there or passing through for conferences and lectures held in connection with the project, such as the ever encouraging Gregory Nagy. For the final preparation of this book in spring 2001 I have again been granted study leave and sit here among the mountains of Aquila in central Italy, a little inland from Rome, in perfect conditions provided by my friend from my time in Ireland, Paolo Taviani, and his family. Outside the window rises the Gran Sasso of Italy and our little daughter, now in her second year, puts her head in regularly to have a go on the computer while I drink the coffee Guðrún brings me and make my way through her perspicacious comments entered on the printout. The cues and prompts in reaching this point have been many. Possible answers to one question have called up other, new questions, but all the diversions and sidetracks have only served to direct my thoughts along the same channels. Faced with matters that might at first sight appear to have only the most tenuous connections, like the genealogies of the lawspeakers and the voyages to Vínland, I have kept finding myself saying the same thing: ‘Yes, that sounds just like oral tradition…’ To be sure, my mother has found it bordering on obsession with me, whatever the subject, going on about the need to take account of oral tradition. But that’s the way it has had to be. And now it is time for a break — as farmer Þórhallur of Halldórsstaðir would say when he reckoned he’d done enough fence building or haymaking and felt like going in, putting his feet up, and having a cup of coffee. At the Borghetto a Fonte Romana in Scoppito, Lent 2001, Gísli Sigurðsson

 

Acknowledgements for the English Translation Shortly after its publication in Icelandic, in the late summer of 2002, I was delighted to hear from Stephen A. Mitchell of Harvard University that the book had been accepted for publication, in English translation, in the Parry Collection’s monograph series. By happy chance, I had then recently been in contact with Nicholas Jones, an old friend from my university days, who has for some years divided his time in England between publishing and translation work. I now asked him whether he might be willing to undertake the onerous task of translating my book into English, if some means could be found for paying him. He responded enthusiastically and immediately set to work, without regard to the funding uncertainties. His efforts have produced a significantly better book in English than the one with which he began in Icelandic; and, moreover, the translation was delivered on exactly the date promised some seven months earlier. I am also very grateful for the support provided at every stage of the editorial process from the Harvard University Press team: I benefited greatly from the guidance of Stephen A. Mitchell and Ryan Hackney, David Elmer’s close supervision kept the project securely on schedule, and Leonard Mueller’s technological expertise saved us from many a potential mishap with unfamiliar fonts and symbols. With all this assistance at my disposal it may truly be said that any faults that remain in the book are entirely my responsibility. GS

12

Footnotes 1. Despite the problems, to celebrate my father’s seventieth birthday, my brother Baldur, our cousin Baldur Hafstað, and I had a go at putting together a little volume of the kinds of things we had gotten to hear among his circle, and gave it out under the name Þetta geturðu lært (‘This you can learn’) (Baldursson 1993). 2. A taste of Haraldur’s oral storytelling is now available to a wider audience in literary form in his Bréf til Brands (‘Letters to Brandur’) (Bessason 1999a). 3. ‘Poetic Diction,’ taken from the title of a section of Snorri Sturluson’s Edda. 4. The Old Norse mythological and heroic poems, first written down in Iceland in the 13th century, but some at least containing material going back to a common Germanic heritage. 5. Halldór Laxness (1902-98), Nobel Prize winner for Literature, 1955, and éminence grise of 20th-century Icelandic letters. My essay on Gaelic influences in Iceland was treated in some detail in a weekend edition of the newspaper DV, in an interview taken by Andrés Eiríksson. It gives me great pleasure to relate that the day the paper came out Halldór Laxness himself phoned me to talk about these matters: he had given the subject a fair amount of thought and felt that by no means the last word had been said on the possible significance of Gaelic influences in the earliest days of Icelandic culture. 6. ‘The Icelandic encyclopedia,’ 3 vols. 1990. Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfan Örn og Örlygur. 7. In this text, postulated lost sagas are indicated by a prefixed asterisk (*).

13

Introduction. Written Texts and Oral Traditions The Medieval World View and the Individuality of Iceland Life in Scandinavia lies beyond the horizons of most courses in medieval studies, based as they are almost entirely on ecclesiastical sources from continental Europe. To be sure, specialists in the field are aware of the writings in Latin of Adam of Bremen, Theodoricus, and Saxo Grammaticus, but the unique literature written in their native language by the people of medieval Iceland remains little known outside Scandinavia and Germany, the main centers for Norse and Germanic studies — plus the few universities in the English-speaking world where Old Norse is taught. This limited outlook makes it impossible to apply the methods of what we might call common European medievalism directly to research into the Norse and Gaelic cultural heritage that lies behind the ancient Icelandic sources. The image of the European Middle Ages familiar to most people is one of compact little towns and cities with the spires of Gothic cathedrals towering over their squares, and of wealthy and powerful monasteries where worldly and pleasure-loving monks sat copying illuminated scriptures while the commoners roistered in the streets. We know too about kings, dukes, earls, counts, and barons who gathered around themselves troops of knights in armor and waged war against similar troops from the next castle, or sometimes all got together at the trumpet’s blast under the sign of the cross and went off on crusades to the Holy Land to fight against the warriors of Mohammed. Against this background people composed courtly heroic romances and sang of noble loves, pondered the fate of man beyond this life and wrote tales of earthy comedy. And from time to time, into this glittering world of the European Middle Ages sailed shaggy long-haired men who poured from their ships to ‘steal and kill and rape and burn’ with a smile on their lips: the so-called vikings. In the words of an Irish general history of the period: ‘And then came the Danes, so called because they came from Norway.’ To speak of ‘medieval man’ as a single entity is not without its problems. The Middle Ages extended over a long period of European history, from the fall of Rome to the time of Columbus, when the Genoese adventurer, using the experience of Atlantic waters he had gained in 1477 when sailing with English seamen from Bristol northwest to Iceland (where he might, or might not, have heard of Norse discoveries of lands in the distant west), set out across the ocean much farther to the south and discovered what is now called America rather than Vínland (see Taviani 2000:103-21). These centuries in Europe cover a wide range of cultures and thought, and the ‘medieval man’ who cut intricate carvings into the stones of Gotland would have had little in common with the ‘medieval man’ composing sonnets in 14th-century Florence, or the ‘medieval man’ from northern France in the time of Charlemagne who drew up colored images of the constellations according to his classical exemplar and copied out Caesar Germanicus’ poem based on the Phaenomena of Aratus of Soli, in which we find the idea of the dome of the heavens as the setting of myths. [1] But even if it were possible to find a single homogeneous world view among all the peoples of medieval continental Europe, it is questionable how applicable this would be to the thoughts that turned in the heads of the people who inhabited the isolated turf farms of rural Iceland, who never constructed buildings or fortifications from stone, and who never needed to live in fear of armor-clad knights, but who amused themselves by reciting verses filled with ancient lore telling of the creation and history of the world, of the gods Óðinn, Þórr, and Freyr, and of the heroes Sigurðr Fáfnisbani, Guðrún Gjúkadóttir, and Atli, king of the Huns [2] ; who let themselves dream of traveling to foreign lands and reciting intricate and highly-wrought poems of praise before a king who paid them with a ring of gold; and who warmed themselves with tales of ancient kings and vikings or of the people who had settled the barren coasts of

14 Iceland and who, despite the meager resources of their cold land, never wavered in the unconditional moral demand of choosing death with honor over life with shame. As elsewhere in Europe, once Iceland had been brought within the family of the Catholic Church it acquired with it the Church’s technology of reading and writing and its international literature of learning, philosophy, and long, well-structured stories of saints and distant lands and peoples. But, for whatever reason, in Iceland things were different: having gained the new technology and the learning that went with it, the Icelanders were not content merely to translate and reproduce the literature the Church supplied them with, but set about exploiting their newly acquired skills to write down their own stories and poems as well as to create new ones. The Icelanders occupy a unique position in the literature of medieval Scandinavia for the quantity of new and, above all, completely original literature that they produced in their native language, notably the sagas of Icelanders [3] and the sagas of the kings of Norway and Denmark, the earls of Orkney and the peoples of Greenland and the Faeroe Islands. Other Icelandic manuscripts record stories of heroes and vikings who moved around Europe before the time of the settlement of Iceland in the late 9th century, the so-called fornaldarsögur or ‘heroic sagas,’ while our knowledge of Norse mythology too derives almost entirely from Icelandic sources, particularly Snorri Sturluson’s Edda and the edda poems. The myths related here are not confined to gods and divine beings pure and simple; they also tell of ancient heroes who were known throughout the Germanic world, with a frequent blurring of the line dividing the worlds of gods and men. This great surge of writing among the Icelanders has a counterpart in the field of poetry, where it seems that from the close of the 10th century the art of dróttkvætt was largely in the hands of Icelandic skalds. [4] While the Icelanders were immersed in their literary activities, the Norwegians appear to have been content to confine themselves largely to religious writings and courtly romances based on southern models, chiefly translations of foreign originals. Exceptions include some 12th-century works in Latin on the history of Norway, and the 13th-century manual of courtly advice Konungsskuggsjá (‘King’s Mirror’). Even the early Old Norse historical works that were written in Norway — Ágrip probably by a native Norwegian but Fagrskinna conceivably by an Icelander (see Einarsson, B. 1985:cxxxi) — appear to have been better known and to have excited more interest in Iceland than in Norway, judging from the preservation of the manuscripts in Iceland and the impetus they gave to the creation of later kings’ sagas. The kings of Norway themselves tended to look to Icelanders for the writing of histories of this kind, as in the cases of Sverris saga and Hákonar saga, the biographical sagas of kings Sverrir (d. 1202) and Hákon (d. 1263), both of which were commissioned by their respective monarchs from the pens of Icelandic saga-men. The special position of the Icelanders in medieval historiography is reflected not only in the number of works that have survived, it is also acknowledged by the 12th-century Scandinavian historians who wrote in Latin. Theodoricus, who around 1180 composed a Latin account of the kings of Norway, Historia de Antiquitate Regum Norwagiensium, says at the start of his work, plainly referring to the Icelanders: ‘hæc in suis antiquis carminibus percelebrata recolunt’ (‘they cultivate these much-celebrated things in their ancient songs’) (p. 3 in the1880 edition of his work). A similar, even clearer testimony appears in the words of Saxo Grammaticus in the fourth paragraph of the preface to his history of the Danes, Gesta Danorum, written in Latin around 1200, where he speaks of the special status of the Icelanders and their love of history and stories: Nec Tylensium industria silentio oblitteranda: qui cum ob nativam soli sterilitatem luxuriæ nutrimentis carentes officia continuæ sobrietatis exerceant omniaque vitæ momenta ad excolendam alienorum operum notitiam conferre soleant, inopiam ingenio pensant. Cunctarum quippe nationum res gestas cognosse memoriæque mandare voluptatis loco reputant, non

15 minoris gloriæ iudicantes alienas virtutes disserere quam proprias exhibere. Quorum thesauros historicarum rerum pignoribus refertos curiosius consulens, haud parvam præsentis operis partem ex eorum relationis imitatione contexui, nec arbitros habere contempsi, quos tanta vetustatis peritia callere cognovi. (p. 5 in the 1931 edition of Saxo’s work) [5] Most probably, Theodoricus and Saxo are here referring primarily to poems, stories, and ancient lore in oral preservation, since at the time they were writing literacy in Iceland was still in its infancy — though Bjarni Guðnason (1977) and others allow for the possibility that Theodoricus had access to some Icelandic writings alongside his oral sources. [6] Some continental Scandinavian scholars have sought to minimize the literary uniqueness of the Icelanders. For instance, the Norwegian Knut Liestøl (1929:7-28) maintained that oral family sagas of some kind had existed in Norway from ancient times, basing his view on the curiosity that stories of this type aroused among Norwegians in the 19th century and on folktales written down at this time and resembling the Icelandic sagas in their genealogical interests. To explain why the Norwegians failed to commit these stories to parchment in the 13th century as the Icelanders had done, Liestøl appealed to specific external conditions in Iceland that he claimed had been exceptionally conducive to literary creation of all kinds. It is undoubtedly true that the Norwegians would always have told stories for their own and other people’s amusement: this practice appears, to varying extents, to be common to all peoples. However, it remains the case that saga writing achieved a far greater impetus and breadth among the Icelanders than the Norwegians, and this may in large part have been due to the special nature of their settlement society (see Schier 1975). Other explanations for this difference between Iceland and Norway have been suggested by the Dane Hans Bekker-Nielsen and others (1965:135 ff). Most of these ideas center around the belief that the Norwegians did indeed produce a fair amount of writing but that it has simply not survived. Such theories, however, must be treated with skepticism, since a reasonable number of old manuscripts have been preserved from Norway, only many of them were written by Icelanders, either working at the Norwegian court or produced in Iceland with a view to export (see Karlsson, S. 1978, 1979). The Norwegian manuscripts we have contain nothing to suggest that anything like the same kind of historiographical tradition existed in Norway as we find in the sagas of Icelanders. There thus seems little reason not to take the testimony of Theodoricus and Saxo at face value and accept that the Icelanders were, to an appreciable extent, set apart from the other peoples of Scandinavia in the world of letters of the 12th and 13th centuries. To explain this distinctive position, various factors can be adduced: one, as mentioned, is the generally conservative nature of settlement societies in matters such as customs, traditions, and stories, but it is also worth bearing in mind that Iceland was not, originally at least, a purely Scandinavian country but had, at the time of the settlements, been a cultural and ethnic melting pot of people from both Norway and the Gaelic British Isles (see Sigurðsson, G. 1988).

*  In the works produced by Icelanders we find a world view that reflects a very different culture from the ‘Mediterranean’ culture that came to the North with the Church, and we may suppose that the roots of this culture lie in the lands of the North and stretch back long before the coming of Christianity, before eventually flourishing in Iceland. In the writings of the 13thcentury Icelander Snorri Sturluson — his Edda, a handbook for poets based on myths, edda poems, and dróttkvætt verses by himself and others; his Heimskringla, the fullest and most systematic saga of the kings of Norway from earliest times down to his own day (which in

16 passing preserved about a seventh of all the dróttkvætt verse we still possess: see Frank 1985:162); and perhaps the first of the sagas of Icelanders, the life of the poet, farmer, and viking Egill Skallagrímsson (see Hafstað 1990; Kristjánsson 1990; Ólason, V. 1991) — the author shows little sign of having assimilated large amounts of the Latin learning of the Middle Ages (see Faulkes 1993). We can assume that Snorri learned to read and write at Oddi while still young, and he was later elected to the highest secular position in the country, that of lawspeaker. He ought thus to have had ready access to all the available sources of medieval Latin learning. But Snorri’s learning as it appears to us in the writings attributed to him bears witness first and foremost to a man highly educated in the oral culture and lore of his own people, in knowledge that was passed on from man to man and added to and changed by each generation, and that constantly took on the shape of the present while preserving material that went back to the mists of antiquity. Snorri was so fully at home in this learning, the laws, genealogies, stories, and poems, that it must have taken him all his ‘school years’ to build up the fund of knowledge he needed to write the books he left behind — while still leaving him time to become a highly regarded chieftain of national standing by the age at which youngsters nowadays are just finishing junior high school. To say the least, Snorri’s works show little sign of an author fired with spiritual devotion, immersing himself in the scholastic and religious literature of the medieval Church. Among the questions raised by Snorri Sturluson’s writings is where he learned all the things he tells of in his Edda. Did he have nothing to go on but a miscellaneous and unstructured collection of dróttkvætt and edda verses which he then attempted to integrate into connected narratives and etiologies, as Roberta Frank (1981) believes to be the case with his account of the myth of the mead of poetry? Or did the connected prose accounts that he includes in his Edda also have a background in oral preservation? [7] By close comparison of Snorri’s prose passages and the poems he knew on the same subjects we can obtain an insight into his working practices and thus perhaps reach some kind of conclusion as to whether Snorri and his contemporaries are likely to have known the myths in the form of connected oral stories from live performance — and even whether Snorri had the benefit of an organized training in mythology, as suggested by Gabriel Turville-Petre (1960:215-6).

Oral Preservation, Latin Learning, and Snorri’s Edda The genesis of Snorri’s Edda and its relationship to its sources, written or oral, domestic or foreign, are of great importance when it comes to assessing how far it may be used as a source for pre-Christian myths and religious beliefs. [8] To what extent was Snorri influenced by the scholastic learning of his times? And to what extent does his work reflect a domestic tradition of learning? Or should it be viewed largely as an independent creation on Snorri’s part constructed out of limited sources? These questions and the possible answers to them shed considerable light on the problem that is central to this study: how much can we say about oral tradition in the 13th century armed only with the testimony of written sources? Over the course of the 20th century, scholarly voices have chosen to emphasize with ever increasing insistence the ideological connections between Snorri’s Edda and the Latinbased learned tradition of the medieval Church, and to downplay any potential internal tradition of stories and poems with roots reaching back into the northern heathendom. The most obvious influences of foreign learning in the Edda appear in the Prologue and were highlighted by Andreas Heusler (1908) in his study of how Snorri and other Scandinavian writers conceived and presented the prehistory of the Norse gods (see also Meyer 1911 and Nordal, S. 1920:107128). A major step towards a clearer understanding of the significance of scholasticism in Old Norse mythography was taken by Walter Baetke (1950), who argued that Snorri based his ideas

17 on the origins of the gods and his entire presentation of the myths in the Edda on contemporary doctrines relating to paganism and pagan gods as demons; one of Baetke’s purposes in this study was to refute the contention of Hans Kuhn (1942) that Snorri had himself been heathen at heart. [9] Working along similar lines, Anne Holtsmark (1964) attempted to distinguish Snorri’s personal contribution from, on the one hand, the pre-Christian inheritance that had come to him from his cultivation of poetry and, on the other, the dominant Christian ideas of his times. Holtsmark also drew attention to Snorri’s models for the dialog form he uses in Gylfaginning, a form which would have been familiar to him both from the edda poems and from the school book, the Elucidarius, which Holtsmark ‘finner nedslag af […] flere steder i Gylfaginning’ (‘finds numerous echoes of in Gylfaginning’) (Holtsmark 1964:82). An upsurge in research into learned influences on the Prologue to the Edda followed the work of Ursula and Peter Dronke (1977), who attempted to account for Snorri’s positive attitude toward the heathen past in light of various scholastic writings by the Christian neo-Platonists of the 12th century — an attitude for which they say he could have found learned support among a number of Christian authorities. This approach was taken up by others and has led to a deeper understanding of the Edda, especially particular aspects of the Prologue and its ideological connections with learned works that Snorri may have been familiar with (see Faulkes 1979, 1983; Frank 1981), and Snorri’s treatment of the poems upon which he based Gylfaginning and Skáldskaparmál (Schier 1981). The theological context underlying the work as a whole has been studied by Heinrich Beck (1993), building largely upon Baetke, and by Gerd Wolfgang Weber (1986a; 1987), though Weber is in no doubt that Snorri knew both poems and prose narratives about the gods and stories that he integrated into the Edda (see Weber 1993:197; see also Tómasson 1996:10-13). The most thorough treatment along these lines in recent years is that of Margaret Clunies Ross (1987), who examines Snorri’s conceptual framework and presentation of material in light of Latin scholastic works on language and poetics. Snorri’s purported scholastic learning has thus been the subject of much scholarly research in recent years (see also Halldórsson, H. 1975:11-12), though without any particular consideration being given to exactly where and how this learning makes itself manifest. In the face of these widely-accepted attitudes, Anthony Faulkes’s article (1993) on Snorri’s intellectual background — in so far as it can be deduced from the inferred sources of Skáldskaparmál, but also with reference to the sources of the other sections of the Edda — came as a breath of fresh air. Faulkes makes little of Snorri’s scholastic learning, pointing out that, even if he appears to have had some familiarity with Latin writings on poetics, he shows no clear sign of actually having read them. Though Snorri arranges his categories in the same way as them, his actual classification is different, and he confines himself to discrete aspects of poetic style and avoids the kinds of theories of overall structure of literary works that we find commonly among the 12th-century Latin critics. In stark contrast to his predecessors, Faulkes maintains that the only things in Snorri’s Edda that cannot be accounted to native sources occur in the Prologue and the section on Troy in Gylfaginning. For example, Snorri does not use his myths as a springboard for moral exegesis, and is thus strikingly unlike those who demonstrably draw on scholastic sources, such as Saxo Grammaticus and Óláfr hvítaskáld. Neither does he ever refer to Latin writers (with the sole exception of Sæmundr fróði [10] ), nor to the Bible — making him unique among medieval writers. The one Latin work he may have used is the version of the saga of King Óláfr Tryggvason by Oddr Snorrason, a monk at the monastery of Þingeyrar — and even this is by no means certain. Snorri does not use the works of Sæmundr fróði, Theodoricus, or Adam of Bremen, nor the Historia Norwegiae, and is thus the only medieval historian never to make any definite reference to Latin sources. Faulkes thinks it possible that Snorri may have known something of the contents of books written in Latin from conversation with learned churchmen and suggests that his cosmogony may have been acquired from looking at maps rather than reading Latin texts (see also Simek 1990:189-92).

18 In addition, Snorri’s style is quite different from that of writers who knew Latin and had assimilated scholastic culture — in Faulkes’s view, Snorri would have been unable to write as he did if he had known Latin. Snorri never vaunts himself on his familiarity with Latin learning, the probable explanation being that he did not actually have much to boast about. Though he knew of Latin writings he does not use them directly and often misunderstands their ideas. To be sure, Snorri makes the gods into men or demons, as was common practice, but he never attempts to allegorize them. His methods of interpretation are restricted to etiologies, etymologies, and wordplay (ofljóst), [11] and his writing shows no sign of any general philosophy or moral typology such as we find pervading the works of the Christian Latin writers of continental Europe. In short, it is fair to say, and of considerable importance, that any superficial correspondences with Latin literature that we find in Snorri are heavily outweighed by his individuality, most notably his total lack of references to Latin writers.

Figure 1: Sources of Snorri’s Skáldskaparmál, as per Faulkes 1993 In spite of undisputed scholarly advances in our understanding of the importance of the learned tradition of the medieval schools and Church for our reading of Snorri’s Edda, the undeniable fact remains that it has proved extremely problematic to track down specific Latin models. That the author was not entirely unfamiliar with the ideas that dominated intellectual thinking in his day need hardly surprise us; what is much more striking is the work’s originality. The general conclusion that emerges from all the research aimed at identifying connections between Snorri’s Edda and Latin-based learning must remain, at least for the time being, that the bulk of the material contained in his work and the ideological background holding it together come from a native tradition of learning on poetry and myths that Snorri could hardly have acquired other than from the lips of those who had mastered the tradition. But this still leaves the question: Was this domestic tradition largely bound up with the poems themselves? Or did Snorri and other learned men of his times also know ancient stories that they eventually committed to parchment? [12]

19

One story in skaldic verse, on stone, and in Hymiskviða As an illustration, we can look at one of the best-known myths in Snorri’s Edda, that of Þórr’s fishing expedition with the giant Hymir. In this tale, Þórr uses a bull’s head as bait for the world serpent Miðgarðsormr, which he catches and pulls up as far as the gunwales of the boat; but when god and serpent meet eye to eye and he raises his hammer to strike, Hymir cuts through the line and the serpent sinks back into the sea. A special feature of this story is that it is also known from other sources — the edda poem Hymiskviða and pictorial representations inscribed on stones in continental Scandinavia and the British Isles — and we may thus, in this case at least, be confident that the myth is not Snorri’s invention but has roots going far back into pre-Christian times. [13] Skaldic verses and fragments. The dróttkvætt verses that have been associated with the story of Þórr’s fishing expedition are generally reckoned to come from five poems by different poets, none of which we have in full and some of which are known only from unconnected fragments. This arrangement goes back to Finnur Jónsson in his edition of the complete skaldic corpus in Den norsk-islandske skjaldedigtning (1912): [14] 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Ragnarsdrápa by Bragi gamli Boddason (‘Bragi the Old’) An otherwise unknown poem about Þórr by Ǫlvir An otherwise unknown poem about Þórr by Eysteinn An otherwise unknown poem about Þórr by Gamli gnævaðarskáld Húsdrápa by Úlfr Uggason.

This arrangement of the verses and fragments into poems has led scholars to believe that it is possible to distinguish different versions of the myth according to whether Þórr is presented as killing the serpent or not. Úlfr’s Húsdrápa has been interpreted as representing the version in which Þórr does kill the serpent, a version reflected in several other Indo-European myths telling of battles between a young hero and a monster or dragon. In Ragnarsdrápa, however, it seems that the serpent survives, and this is the view taken by Snorri in Gylfaginning, where it is said that the serpent will be Þórr’s opponent at Ragnarǫk (i.e. at the end of the world). This version is also consonant with the emended version of stanza 54 of Vǫluspá in Codex Regius: ‘gengr Óðins sonr / við [orm] vega’ (‘Óðinn’s son goes forth to fight the serpent,’ with ‘orm’ for MS ‘úlf’ in conformity with what follows in the poem). [15] Pictures on stone. What makes Snorri’s account of Þórr’s fishing expedition particularly interesting as a source is the existence of a number of stone carvings from Sweden, Denmark, and England that have been interpreted as illustrating scenes from the same story. Most importantly, two of these stones — one from Sweden, found in 1918 in the churchyard at Altuna in Uppland, about 40 km west of Uppsala between Heby and Enköping, and one from Denmark, found in 1954 in the stairs of the church tower at Hørdum in Thy in northwest Jutland — appear to show a fisherman’s foot projecting down through the bottom of a boat. This has been taken as lending support to the multiform of the story found in Snorri, in which both of Þórr’s legs are said to have gone through the boat as he braced himself against the serpent. [16] Though apparently attested in the carvings, and thus part of the myth from early times, this detail does not seem to come from any of the skaldic verses cited by Snorri and has thus been taken as evidence that Snorri had access to sources of information no longer known to us. However, it should be borne in mind that these pictures come with no accompanying text that might put their content beyond doubt and thus great care is needed in their interpretation; for instance, the Altuna stone is unique in portraying a single fisherman in the boat, [17] and the Hørdum stone’s value as evidence is limited by it having been cut during the building of the church, resulting in the loss of part of the picture. The same story may also appear on a stone

20 from Gosforth on the coast of Cumbria in northwest England, dated by Brøndsted (1955:98) to the 10th century. Here two men are shown in a boat using a head as bait for some kind of sea creature like a fish; one of them has a hammer in his hand, the other has an axe, possibly to cut the line. Also of relevance here is a stone from Ardre in eastern Gotland, near the coastal village of Ljugarn. This stone is dated to the 8th century (Brøndsted 1955:95) and known as Ardre VIII. Three pictures on the stone have been interpreted as presenting a sequence of events: first, two men are collecting bait (which could be an ox’s head), then come two pictures showing men fishing in a boat; in one they could be using an ox’s head to fish for Miðgarðsormr, and in the other they are spearing a fish. [18] It is perhaps worth noting that three of these stones are situated near the sea, as if at the front line of the Scandinavian peoples: in eastern Gotland, in northwest Jutland (though this is geographically in the middle in this context) and in northwestern England. The Altuna stone is not far from Uppsala, which appears to have played a central role in the pre-Christian religion of the North. This positioning in marginal locations lends support to the interpretation of the myth as embodying a clash between a representative of civilization and the destructive forces of nature surrounding and threatening it. [19] At the very least, it would have been incongruous if all the stones with depictions of this myth had been found in flourishing agricultural regions like the Altuna stone. Hymiskviða. Þórr’s fishing expedition forms the subject of an entire edda poem, Hymiskviða. The version of the story found here has a degree of independent value, especially in the events leading up to the expedition and in its aftermath, since here it comes out that Þórr’s reason for visiting Hymir is to obtain a cauldron for a drinking feast at the halls of the sea god Ægir. The god Týr accompanies Þórr on his journey, and on the way they visit the parents of a boy called Þjálfi, the same boy as accompanies Þórr to Geirrøðargarðar in Eilífr Guðrúnarson’s poem Þórsdrápa. It is notable that Hymiskviða makes no mention of Hymir cutting through the fishing line, nor does it make anything of the eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation between the god and the monster when its head appears over the side of the boat, the incident which appears to be at the thematic center of the myth as it has been interpreted (see Meulengracht Sørensen 1986a: 267) and which is described in Gylfaginning and in at least three and perhaps four of the skaldic fragments. [20]

*  Putting all the evidence together, the story of Þórr’s fishing expedition emerges as one of the best known and best attested myths of the Scandinavian heathendom. The sheer variety of the sources that refer to it provide an unambiguous indication that the myth rests on ancient roots and almost certainly, in some form, constituted an element in the belief system of the peoples of the North prior to the arrival of Christianity. It is rare to be able to provide such strong grounds for believing in the existence of a Scandinavian myth as in this instance. The case thus serves to increase our general faith that the extant written sources for Scandinavian heathendom must be in some way linked to a living oral tradition going back to ancient times. This in turn acts as a powerful counterargument to all notions that Snorri and his contemporaries were in the habit of ‘making up’ their myths themselves.

Poetry and prose in Snorri’s Edda Because of its wide distribution, the story of Þórr’s fishing expedition provides an excellent test case for investigating how — and whether — Snorri constructed his prose narratives out of existing poems [21] and, just as importantly, the ways in which Snorri presents his verse examples (which can tell us a great deal about his working practices in general). In

21 this investigation it should be possible to assess the potential importance of the skaldic verses as sources for a story that, not inconceivably, Snorri and others might have heard and told without reference to individual poems. Is the narrative in Gylfaginning based on skaldic verses? Snorri relates the story of Þórr’s fishing expedition in connected prose in chapter 48 of Gylfaginning. It is often claimed that this account is based, at least in part, on the skaldic verses and verse fragments listed above. These verses are quoted by Snorri himself in Skáldskaparmál, where they are attributed to Bragi gamli, Ǫlvir hnúfa, Eysteinn Valdason, Gamli gnævaðarskáld, and Úlfr Uggason, and in most cases cited as examples of ways of referring to Þórr in poetry, [22] though five appear in other contexts, one of them twice. In Gylfaginning, the story is put into the context of another of Þórr’s journeys, to the giant Útgarða-Loki: Þórr’s humiliation at the hands of Útgarða-Loki requires vengeance, and the vengeance is directed against Miðgarðsormr. Þórr is said specifically to travel alone on this occasion, without his goats or other companions, ‘svá sem ungr drengr’ (‘like a fearless young man’). This is at variance with the account in Hymiskviða, in which Þórr has with him both his goats and the god Týr. However, in Hymiskviða stanza 18 it says: ‘Sveinn sýslega / sveif til skógar’ (‘Sveinn briskly / turned toward the wood’), with Þórr here too referred to as ‘sveinn’ (‘boy, young man’). Similarly, stanza 10 makes it quite clear that Þórr is of rather small stature beside Hymir when Hymir comes home from hunting with a great creaking of the ice fields; this too might be thought suggestive of Snorri’s reference to Þórr as a youth, i.e. not yet fully grown. [23] Snorri’s account of the meeting of Þórr and Hymir and the preparations for the fishing differ substantially from the one given in Hymiskviða, but when it comes to the fishing expedition itself the two coincide on a number of points. It is therefore instructive to compare the two versions. It seems universally agreed that Snorri did not use Hymiskviða when writing Gylfaginning; the poem thus has independent value as a source, and in fact the account in the poem is in other respects so unlike Snorri’s that there is no way of conflating the two. The poem thus provides confirmation that the story was widely known in differing versions. It is notable that Hymiskviða makes no mention of the terrifying glowering eyes of Þórr and Miðgarðsormr, a feature described by Snorri and a repeated motif in the skaldic verses, occurring in two places in chapter 12 of Skáldskaparmál (in the first fragment ascribed to Eysteinn [‘Leit á brattrar brautar…’] and the third Bragi fragment [‘Ok borðróins barða…’]) and in both fragments from Úlfr Uggason’s Húsdrápa quoted elsewhere in the Edda (‘En stirðþinull starði…’ and ‘Innmáni skein ennis…’). [24] The question is thus whether there is any way of deciding from the relationship between the skaldic verses and the text of Gylfaginning whether or not Snorri constructed the account he gives in his prose on the basis of the verses alone. There is no problem demonstrating that most of what Snorri says in his prose receives material support from attested verses, either from Hymiskviða or the skaldic sources. However, Snorri also has much to say that is not to be found in the skaldic verses but has certain parallels in Hymiskviða. These parallels at least prove that Snorri was using traditional material when creating his account; he can hardly be accused of making up something that is also found in another source. The only major point that is not confirmed by the verses is, as previously mentioned, the matter of Þórr’s foot going through the bottom of the boat and his subsequent wading back to land. [25] It is also notable that Snorri only rarely follows the wording of the poems, though there are many correspondences in individual words with both Hymiskviða and the skaldic verses. This might be seen as evidence both of a formalized tradition of poetic diction and of an intentional independence on Snorri’s part in his use of the poems. We might even question whether it is justifiable to speak of the skaldic verses as being ‘sources’ at all; the independent

22 selection of material and the personal choice of diction might rather be taken to suggest that Snorri was familiar with the story on its own, in prose form, and so did not need to piece it together out of skaldic stanzas he knew from elsewhere. The existence of an independent narrative of this sort is further supported by the fact that none of the poems makes mention of Þórr’s feet going through the bottom of the boat. There are two main possible explanations: either Snorri simply failed to record any verse or verses that included this detail (the poems in question are known only in extremely fragmentary form), or he knew the story divorced from any poems, i.e. the story formed a part of a living prose tradition in Snorri’s times. But which of these two possible explanations is the more likely? It is a priori extremely improbable that Snorri included all the poems he knew in his Edda. The fragments he quotes bear witness to a much greater body of material in the background; for instance, it is his general practice to quote only half stanzas, of which he in most cases would presumably have known the other halves. And it is also highly improbable that a man with such a vast fund of ancient poetry at his command would have been unable to recount the stories on which the poems were based without needing to rely specifically on these same poems as a kind of source. This kind of piecemeal reconstruction of stories is the province of scholars who come across fragments of a lost culture and try to fit them back together again in a kind of academic jigsaw puzzle. In addition, working practices of this sort are inconceivable unless the fragments have a fixed form, either iconographic or in writing, which enables them to outlive the culture that produced them; when the fragments are all preserved orally, out of context and misunderstood, they are unlikely to survive for long. And in an oral culture, once something has been forgotten it can never be recovered. It therefore seems reasonable to assume that Snorri knew both poems and stories, and thus that his prose retellings can stand as original sources every bit as much as the poems he quotes from. If this is the case, we need hardly be surprised if there is not always complete agreement between the versions of stories reflected in the prose and in the verse. If both poems and prose accounts of the gods were still current in Snorri’s day, we also have cause to doubt the value of research aimed at classifying the multiforms of the stories by their age; for instance, in this case according to whether Þórr kills the serpent or not in a particular poem and whether this is then the original version of the story, though, as noted above (p. 11), scholars discussing this myth have generally permitted themselves to indulge in speculation of this sort without comment. It would be closer to the mark to assume that at any given time there would have been various versions of the story in circulation, without any one of them precluding any other. Looked at this way, arguments based on the form of the sources — that the intricate and fixed form of skaldic verse ensured a stricter word-for-word preservation at the oral stage than was possible with prose accounts — hold considerably less weight. With myths, the elements are usually so fully formalized and conventionalized that they can survive for long periods in oral transmission, in either prose or verse, and there is no reason to expect word-for-word preservation other than in the case of specific and universally familiar formulas. Applied to our research, this conclusion can change the ways in which we handle and interpret multiforms of myths, while also having a broader affect on how we evaluate the sources of Scandinavian mythology and the strength of oral tradition in the 13th century. For instance, it lends support to the belief that Snorri was writing from a living tradition that was familiar to him and his contemporaries, even if by this time the tradition was in all probability in decline; the very fact that Snorri felt the need to record this learning in book form suggests that it was already on the way to becoming moribund. Before modern scholars start accusing Snorri of ‘misunderstanding’ or ‘misinterpreting’ something ‘correct’ or ‘original,’ we need to examine closely exactly what he and his contemporaries say in their writings and take it as genuine evidence of the tradition as it existed in their times. What it might have to say about

23 the ancient stories, myths, and customs of the North in pre-Christian times is, of course, a quite different matter and a subject for other research; but the business of Þórr’s foot points at least to a tradition that was homogeneous throughout the North from viking times all the way up to the time when literate men in the southwest of Iceland took up their pens and started compiling books in the first half of the 13th century.

*  As stated previously, the world view of Snorri Sturluson and other Scandinavians who grew up and were familiar with domestic oral culture can be explained only to a very limited extent through the Latin writings of monks in continental Europe, i.e. through conventional medieval studies. We are much more likely to come to an understanding of this world view if we read the works written by the Icelanders in their national tongue not first and foremost as the ideological offshoot of Christian scholasticism, but as the product of a quite different tradition of learning, one that was just as broad in range. This tradition was preserved orally by people who had to learn it from those older and more learned than themselves, and it was molded and developed without recourse to written books. Such an emphasis on the domestic tradition of learning should not be taken to suggest that Christian writings that people may have known about or heard read out in church had no influence on the traditional culture that existed among learned men outside the Church. [26] There is of course little we can say for sure about the prehistory of this domestic culture — we cannot, for example, discuss and explain the religious ideas of 10th-century Swedes and Norwegians as if Snorri’s Edda and the narratives in Heimskringla were direct firsthand records of the pre-Christian North — but we can stop and examine various things that the sources are likely to be evidence for, because we do know a certain amount about how culture works in general and we can assume that much of this will also apply to Scandinavian culture in ancient times. But before we can start talking about oral culture as it may have existed in Iceland before the advent of writing, we must be clear first about the nature of the written sources and the part of Latin-based education in the writing of the sagas, and second about the methods that may be used to elicit evidence about the oral culture of a lost age.

The Origins of the Sagas: Two Types of Theory The study of medieval Icelandic texts from a literary and historical perspective has come a long way since the 17th century, when Þormóður Torfason, keeper of the privy archives and historiographer royal to the king of Denmark, wrote his history of Viking-Age Scandinavia directly from his old Icelandic sources, without distinction between the legendary sagas (fornaldarsögur), kings’ sagas, and the sagas of Icelanders (and in spite of the strictures of Árni Magnússon in his review of Þormóður’s Series dynastarum et regum Daniæ: see Halldórsson, Ó. 1992, Malm 1996:59-61). Philology, source criticism, and textual interpretation had not as yet entered the scholarly armory and the texts were treated pretty much as on-thespot reports of real societies. The importance of the manuscript history of texts was first understood by Þormóður’s contemporary, Árni Magnússon (see Rafnsson 1987), and since then historians and paleographers have come to realize the necessity of investigating the manuscripts and genesis of texts before anything worthwhile can be said about any relation they might have to the external reality they claim to describe. The early notion, shared by most scholars, was clearly that the oral tradition behind the texts had been strong and reliable and that the original scribes had done little more than set down on parchment what the tradition had handed on to them. From this it followed that the oldest text would always be the best and most trustworthy.

24 The problem of how an oral text might be captured in writing was not even considered — something we now know to be technically impossible without modern sound recording equipment. [27] The 19th century saw great advances in classical philology, both in the areas of biblical research (see Culley 1986) and Homeric studies. On the Homeric poems two main schools of thought emerged according to the emphasis placed, on the one hand, on the part of tradition in the shaping of the poems and, on the other, on the creative input of the individual poet Homer (see Foley 1988:1-18). The role of scholarship thus became either to elevate Homer’s poetic genius or to identify the sources of individual episodes in older sources. This quest for origins shed light on many aspects of the texts but on occasion led scholars some distance away from the actual object of their research, the works themselves, as memorably described by the English medievalist J. R. R. Tolkien (1936) in his lecture ‘Beowulf: the monsters and the critics.’ Tolkien compares the Old English poem Beowulf to a splendid tower dismantled by scholars in order to investigate the provenance of individual stones and the fragmentary inscriptions found on them, while the master builder stands by and weeps because from the tower he had once been able to look out upon the sea. A similar preoccupation with origins manifested itself among those working in the field of old Icelandic literature. Andreas Heusler (1913) categorized these approaches as the freiprosa (‘freeprose’) theory and the buchprosa (‘bookprose’) theory, according to the importance scholars ascribed to the assumed existence of oral tales behind the written works or to the part of the individual authors working at their writing desk. [28] The subjects scholars chose to study were largely determined by the theory of origins they adhered to: within the bookprose school, research centered around questions of literary relations (intertextuality) and age, together with the search for specific named authors and the learned influences of Latin culture; freeprose research tended to concentrate on the historicity of the sagas and explained related passages by appeal to an underlying oral tradition. For a time it was the former approach that became dominant, providing for instance the scholarly basis behind the Íslenzk fornrit series — that it was the editors’ job to sift carefully through each work for indications of manuscript transmission, literary relations, age, and possible author, thereby avoiding the risk of letting the research be distorted by unprovable theories of origin (see also below, p. 34). Against this background, speculation about oral tales became something of pariah: what was the point in talking about an oral background many centuries after the last storyteller had fallen silent? Much safer to stick to the actual words as they appeared in the manuscripts. Scholars’ attitudes to the origins of the sagas do not, however, appear always to have been motivated by solely scholarly arguments; national pride and ambition also came into it. [29] The main early advocates of the freeprose theory were, for example, mostly Swedes and Norwegians, who argued that, to be sure, the edda poems, myths, legendary sagas, and kings’ sagas had been written down in Iceland, but even so they were really Germanic, or common Norse, or even Norwegian literature (see Keyser 1866:3-25). The argument went that all this material had been preserved orally from before the time that Iceland was settled, and that Icelanders had done little more than consign it to memory and preserve it there in their solitude and isolation through the long dark winter nights out in the middle of the North Atlantic. Somehow built into the freeprose argument was the idea that oral tradition was a reliable record of past events and that the texts had been preserved verbatim from generation to generation. This gave the theory popular appeal within Iceland; it supplied the ordinary people of Iceland with scholarly justification for their belief that the sagas of Icelanders were true descriptions of life in their country in the Saga Age, and that their ancestors really had been the splendid heroes portrayed in the sagas of Icelanders — and these, by definition, could not have come from Norway or Sweden and must have originated in Iceland because they told of Icelanders of the settlement period and on after the arrival of Christianity. [30]

25 The origins of the bookprose theory can be traced to the work of the German scholar Konrad Maurer (1871), who applied methods of textual research developed in Germany in the field of classical literature to a study of Hœnsa-Þóris saga. Though academically the discussion of the origins of the sagas centered around the application of scholarly methods similar to those used more generally in the study of ancient texts, both classical and medieval, it is notable that the heyday of the bookprose theory in Iceland coincided with a growing sense of national identity and awareness among Icelanders during (and after) the struggle for independence from Denmark. Much effort was employed in demonstrating to the Danes and the world at large that medieval Icelandic literature was the product of an impressive body of learning that had been brought to Iceland and flourished there in the hands of a vigorous and independent people prior to their submission to the king of Norway in 1262. The sagas were used to lend weight to the Icelanders’ demand for independence. The Icelanders could point to the sagas with pride and say that they provided irrefutable evidence that the Icelandic people were and had always been a culturally separate and independent nation; they had preserved their cultural heritage both in language and literature, unlike the Norwegians and later the Danes, who for all that had ruled over the Icelanders and even oppressed them in times of hardship. With the establishment of the University of Iceland in 1911, Icelandic academics, led initially by Björn M. Ólsen, the first rector, and then by Sigurður Nordal, set out to demonstrate to the world just how learned, literate, and creative their forebears had been in ancient times. The ‘golden age’ of Icelandic literature was held to have been the final years of the Commonwealth, while the Icelanders still controlled their own affairs; and then, within a few years of the Icelandic chieftains pledging their allegiance to the king of Norway, the rot set in, characterized among other things by a taste for exaggerated wonder stories (ýkjusögur) and increasingly untrammeled fantasy at the expense of realism (see Thorsson 1990:42-3). Emphasis was laid on the medieval literature of Iceland as the creation of educated and selfconscious Icelandic authors rather than mere recorders who did little more than set down on vellum things that had been preserved in an oral tradition inherited from Norway. The fruit of this scholarly mission appears in the Íslenzk fornrit series, initiated in the 1930s as a kind of flagship of the ‘Icelandic school’ of saga research. [31] The series places primary emphasis on manuscript research and the study of literary relations, grounded in the view that all correspondences between sagas are evidence of (written) textual borrowings, and that scholarship consists in identifying these correspondences and then working out which text is the provider and which the recipient. [32] The general view of origins was that the factual ‘foundation’ had been laid with Landnámabók (‘Book of Settlements’) and that writers had then started to piece together sagas from this and from other material derived from kings’ sagas, bishops’ sagas and saints’ lives, philosophical writings and leechbooks, local topographical knowledge, incidents from the Sturlung Age, [33] and other written sagas. With the lines thus laid down, the debate turned around what in particular texts might be of oral origin and what might be traced to other written works. Within this debate, the written was associated with the learned Latin tradition, aesthetics, and authorial stamp, and there was a general assumption among scholars of the bookprose school that oral accounts could not assume any hard form: they were intended merely to preserve isolated fragments of historical information rather than serve as artistically created stories. The most extreme bookprose men, such as the German Walter Baetke in the 1950s, even went so far as to assume that, if it could be shown that a particular episode in a saga conformed to aesthetic principles of narrative, it was automatically suspect historically and thus the work of a literate author who was consciously creating a saga rather than writing up traditional tales from oral transmission (see Baetke 1956:49-54). We now know from research into living oral cultures throughout the world that this argument is fallacious, even if it has formed, and continues to form, the theoretical underpinning

26 of innumerable books and academic articles in the spirit of the bookprose theory. The fact is that an anonymous oral tale can be every bit as creative, artistic, and historically unreliable as a piece of written fiction made up by a specific, named author. [34] If advocates of the bookprose theory found themselves no longer able to use dubious historicity to disprove oral transmission, their recourse was simply to claim that it was ‘unlikely’ that oral stories could survive for so long, i.e. from the 10th to the 13th century: see Guðmundsson, H. 1967:94; 1997:42, 81, 296. But this claim rests on equally weak premises as the misconception that aesthetic form precludes oral origins. We now know that the social memory and historical consciousness of peoples and ethnic groups can easily extend back 300 years in time (with, of course, considerable caveats concerning reliability), and that oral folktales can survive within a cultural area for far longer periods, though the names of the people they are told of may always be subject to change. [35] To be sure, the concept of oral tradition was never entirely ignored by the bookprose men of the Icelandic school. But it was reserved to account for the ‘leftovers’ in their studies; once the sources, models, and artistic input of the ‘author’ had been identified and highlighted, there was always a residue of minor details for which there were no apparent sources, and these could be said to derive from oral tradition. There was a constant reluctance to tackle the problems inherent in postulating an oral tradition behind the literary texts; instead, little by little the attention was turned ever more toward the supposed learned Latin influences in the writing of the sagas. So it is worth spending a little time over the question, Where precisely do these learned influences manifest themselves?

Christianity and the Arrival of Literacy Book culture, that is, the knowledge needed to be able to read and write and use vellum to make books, arrived in Iceland with Christianity. Christian monasteries became centers of learning and culture and played an important part in the writing of the sagas, although wealthy farmer-chieftains also took up their pens or employed scribes to record and copy sagas and poems. [36]

The development of saga writing in Iceland in light of Latin literature The importance of the Church’s literary occupations has featured ever larger in research over recent decades, in part due to the pioneering work of Hans Bekker-Nielsen et al. 1965 on the aesthetics of narrative in Old Norse literature. The fact remains, however, that despite the patent and pervasive evidence of Latin learning in works such as Ari fróði’s Íslendingabók [37] (see Benediktsson, J. 1968:xx-xxiv) no direct model for this work has been identified in literatures outside Iceland. The influence of foreign learning here should surprise no one; what is much more remarkable is Ari’s independence and originality. The Latin learning introduced by the Church was already firmly established by the time the Icelanders started to write the kings’ sagas and sagas of Icelanders. This led Sigurður Nordal (1953), Turville-Petre (1953), and later Lars Lönnroth (1965:15 ff.) to the view that Icelandic literature developed as a domestic efflorescence upon a stem of Latin historiography. However, others have found this development as Nordal and Lönnroth envisaged it — broadly from foreign saints’ lives and hagiographical writings to royal biography, which then merged with an internal tradition to produce the sagas of Icelanders — far from self-evident. For instance, in his critique of these ideas Michael Chesnutt observes that the subject matter of the sagas of Icelanders is not such as to suggest itself automatically to clerics intent on putting their native language to literary use:

27

[…] Icelandic authors might well have restricted themselves to imitating the works from which they learned the basic techniques of their craft. (This is actually what they did in the twelfth century, and what their Norwegian cousins for the most part continued to do.) (Chesnutt 1973:36) Thus Nordal and Lönnroth’s theory of an autogenous literary development of saga writing is far from being unchallenged. On top of this, in recent years there has been a considerable modification in ideas about the age of the sagas — ideas which were central to Nordal’s system. Individual sagas have been shifted around within the system as he constructed it (see, for example, Kristjánsson 1972, Guðnason 1993), though without any general assault on the underlying view of a development starting with saints’ lives, through kings’ sagas (with a stopover for the íslendingaþættir [38]), to the sagas of Icelanders, which then ‘degenerate’ into legendary and courtly sagas. Örnólfur Thorsson (1990, 1994) has started a root-and-branch reassessment of all our ideas about the age of the sagas on the basis of their vocabulary and the dates of the manuscripts, but no firm conclusions are yet to hand. A second main approach to the origins of the sagas of Icelanders follows the line taken by Margaret Schlauch (1934). This relates the Icelandic literary tradition to mainland Europe, especially French romances, which arrived in Iceland fairly early and, according to Schlauch, ‘meant nothing less than a literary revolution, accomplished in a very short time.’ [39] A great amount of research has gone into tracing influences from Latin scholastic writings from mainland Europe in old Icelandic literature. [40] How this research is interpreted is important for all our ideas about oral tradition, and it is therefore necessary to look into this matter in rather greater detail and try to come to some assessment of the true extent of the debt owed by the Icelandic sagas to learned traditions imported from abroad.

Three types of learned influence in the sagas It is possible to divide the suggested learned influences of foreign texts, mainly Latin, on the Icelandic sagas under three broad headings: 1. Individual motifs and short episodes in the sagas derived directly from foreign writings. 2. Ideological influences. Hermann Pálsson has propounded the view that various of the sagas of Icelanders can be seen as a kind of fable constructed around proverbs or well-known sayings, or as romans à clef based on real incidents from 13th-century history, and that they reflect more than anything the theological and philosophical preoccupations of that century. 3. Various features of the narrative technique of the sagas; i.e. how their elements are put together to create integrated works using methods developed in historiographical writing in continental Europe in the 12th century. Direct loans and individual motifs. A sizeable number of direct borrowings from Latin writings have been identified in the Icelandic sagas, as itemized by Ursula Dronke (1971). To give an idea of the nature of this kind of borrowing, two examples can suffice. The first is from the Flateyjarbók text of Fóstbrœðra saga (ÍF VI: 233): Ǫll bein hans skulfu, þau sem í váru hans líkama, en þat váru tvau hundruð beina ok fjórtán bein. Tennr hans nǫtruðu, þær váru þrír tigir. Allar æðar í hans hǫrundi pipruðu fyrir hræzlu sakar, þær váru fjǫgur hundruð ok fimmtán. [41]

28 The figures given here for the number of bones, teeth, and veins in the human body can be found in various Latin writings. The source that resembles Fóstbrœðra saga most closely is the didactic poem Regimen Sanitatis, which originated at the medical school of Salerno in Italy and was known widely throughout Europe in the Middle Ages. The oldest known text is from the 12th century. This passage from Fóstbrœðra saga has been discussed in detail by Jónas Kristjánsson (1972:240 ff.), chiefly with respect to whether or not the Flateyjarbók text is modeled directly on the Regimen Sanitatis. But it in fact makes little difference for our purposes whether the saga writer had Regimen Sanitatis or some other related text at his elbow as he wrote. Whatever their immediate source, these lines come directly from the learned tradition of the times and are thus indicative of an educated writer inserting examples of his own learning into a piece of literature he is working on. This snippet of scholastic erudition forms an obvious interpolation, stylistically at odds with the saga itself, and stands out like a sore thumb against what we might call the internal saga tradition. What is also clear is that this is not carelessness or incompetence on the part of the writer, but rather a sign of playfulness or humor. Helga Kress (1987) has indeed suggested that Fóstbrœðra saga, and particularly the Flateyjarbók text, is a parody directed to some extent against the conventional heroic ideal and that this comic function is revealed among other things by passages like the interpolation quoted. [42] In the second example, from Njáls saga, the loan is better disguised than in Fóstbrœðra saga. Einar Ól. Sveinsson (1943:8-13) traced the models for the account of Flosi Þórðarson’s dream, which Flosi tells to Ketill of Mǫrk and Ketill interprets as presaging the deaths of those named in it, to the dream of Anastasius in Gregory the Great’s Dialogues, where the dreamer hears the names of doomed monks being called out. [43] There is no reason to doubt the connection between Njáls saga and the Dialogues, and Sveinsson, quite properly, puts great emphasis on how the author of the saga adapted his source and incorporated it into his own work in conformity with Icelandic folk beliefs and personal experience. Flosi’s dream is set within an Icelandic landscape and linked with a specific mountain, Lómagnúpur, and what is only a voice in the dream of Anastasius is turned in the saga into an Icelandic troll or giant called Járngrímr. To quote Sveinsson: Mér finnst ég sjá í gegnum þetta allt. Höfundurinn hefur áreiðanlega séð Lómagnúp, horft upp til hans heiman frá bænum, fundið til hins ósjálfráða og óskiljanlega geigs, sem getur gripið menn, þegar þeir horfa út úr mannheimum, út í jötunheima náttúrunnar. Ef til vill var haustnótt, ef til vill hefur gnýr af grjóthruni í fjallinu rofið kyrðina, eða hver veit hvað. Hann var alinn upp við sögur um bergbúa, hvort sem hann hefur nú heyrt einhverjar sagnir einmitt um þetta fjall eða ekki; það má vel vera, þó að það verði ekki sannað. Var það kannske hér heima á bænum, að klerkur eða djákn las honum eða sagði söguna af Anastasiusi og gnúpnum Suppentonia? Var það kannske hér sem hann heyrði söguna af furðusýn Guðmundar, sem mætti Járngrími? Því er ekki unnt að svara. En það er Lómagnúpur og sá skapblær sem hann er sveipaður í huga söguritarans, sem dregur þetta efni að sér og gerir það að einni heild. (Sveinsson 1943:12-13). [44] Here, therefore, the foreign source is made to serve native story material, and it needs a trained eye to identify that what we have here is a case of a borrowing from outside. Other similar examples have been traced in the sagas, but what stands out from these cases above all is the independence and skill shown by the saga writers in their treatment of the foreign sources they used as background for their texts. [45] Influences on the ideological background of the sagas. We must now look a little closer at the suggestion that the Icelandic sagas reflect the preoccupations of 12th- and 13th-century philosophy and theology. The purest example of this approach to saga research is to be found in Hermann Pálsson’s studies of Hrafnkels saga (1962a, 1966, 1971). Pálsson strongly rejects

29 the idea that in writing the saga the author was in any way interested in the preservation of historical material from pre-Christian and viking times; the saga should rather be read as something produced by a Christian man, for Christian men, in a 13th-century world of Christian values (1971:10, 15). Neither the authors of the sagas nor their readers had any real knowledge of the pre-Christian past, and the sagas can thus only be understood in light of the cultural environment in which they were produced. To Pálsson, Hrafnkels saga is a kind of test case for how the sagas were created. He takes the view that it was written a little after the middle of the 13th century and points to stylistic similarities with Gyðinga saga (‘Saga of the Jews’) by Abbot Brandr Jónsson (d. 1264), a compilation based on various Latin texts (see Wolf, K. 1995:lxxxviii-c). From these supposed similarities, Pálsson suggests that Brandr was also the author of Hrafnkels saga. According to genealogies, Brandr was a descendant of the Hrafnkell mentioned in Landnámabók, and Pálsson takes the view that there is more reason to believe in the historicity of the Hrafnkell of Landnámabók than his namesake in the saga (see also p. 197 ff). Pálsson (1962a: 25-68; 1971:12-22) also sees Hrafnkels saga as a kind of roman à clef, whose ‘real’ subject is the tragic events suffered by Brandr’s family in the middle years of the 13th century, as described in Svínfellinga saga, part of the Sturlunga saga compilation. On this basis he comes to the conclusion that the saga of Hrafnkell is built around people and incidents from the 13th century, which the author of the saga deliberately archaizes by use of information gleaned from texts such as Landnámabók. These incidents are then examined in light of 13th-century Christian ideas on ethics and morality. A number of earlier scholars, including Gordon (1939) and Sigurður Nordal (1940), had already shown that Hrafnkels saga was not reliable as a historical source and should therefore rather be read as a piece of creative fiction, i.e. a conscious effort on the part of an author to write a good story. Pálsson goes further and claims that the author was not remotely interested in presenting his readers with information about their pre-Christian past; his main aim had been to give them a conscious lesson in ethics, and the saga can only be interpreted in this way. Pálsson (1971:16-7) also points to features he considers evidence of an author deliberately employing distancing techniques, such as the introduction of names familiar from other sagas like King Haraldr hárfagri (‘the Fine-Haired’) and Þórólfr Skallagrímsson, the brother of the poet Egill. He considers the passage on Hrafnkell in Landnámabók to be the main historical source for the first two chapters of the saga. To illustrate the saga author’s supposed use of his sources, the two passages are reproduced below (my italics): Landnámabók (S 283, H 244) Hrafnkell hét maðr Hrafnsson; hann kom út síð landnámatíðar. Hann var enn fyrsta vetr í Breiðdal, en um várit fór hann upp um fjall. Hann áði í Skriðudal ok sofnaði; þá dreymði hann, at maðr kom at honum ok bað hann upp standa ok fara braut sem skjótast; hann vaknaði ok fór brutt. En er hann var skammt kominn, þá hljóp ofan fjallit allt, ok varð undir gǫltr ok griðungr, er hann átti. Síðan nam Hrafnkell Hrafnkelsdal ok bjó á Steinrøðarstǫðum. Hans son var Ásbjǫrn, faðir Helga, ok Þórir, faðir Hrafnkels goða, fǫður Sveinbjarnar.

Hrafnkels saga (ÍF XI:97-8) Hallfreðr setti bú saman. […] En um várit fœrði Hallfreðr bú sitt norðr yfir heiði ok gerði bú þar, sem heitir í Geitdal. Ok eina nótt dreymði hann, at maðr kom at honum ok mælti: ‘Þar liggr þú, Hallfreðr, ok heldr óvarliga. Fœr þú á brott bú þitt ok vestr yfir Lagarfljót. Þar er heill þín ǫll.’ Eftir þat vaknar hann ok fœrir bú sitt út yfir Rangá í Tungu, þar sem síðan heitir á Hallfreðarstǫðum, ok bjó þar til elli. En honum varð þar eftir gǫltr ok hafr. Ok inn sama dag, sem Hallfreðr var í brott, hljóp

30 skriða á húsin, ok týndusk þar þessir gripir, ok því heitir þat síðan í Geitdal.a a. Landnámabók (S 283, H 244): ‘There was a man called Hrafnkell, the son of Hrafn; he moved to Iceland late in the settlement period. He spent his first winter in Breiðdalur, and in spring went up into the mountains. He set his sheep to graze in Skriðudalur and fell asleep; he dreamed that a man came to him and told him to stand up and get away as quickly as possible; he woke up and moved away. He had not gone far when the whole mountain collapsed, burying a boar and a bull that he owned. Afterwards, Hrafnkell settled Hrafnkelsdalur and lived at Steinrøðarstaðir. His sons were Ásbjǫrn, the father of Helgi, and Þórir, the father of Hrafnkell the Chieftain, the father of Sveinbjǫrn.’ Hrafnkels saga (ÍF XI: 7-8): ‘Hallfreðr put a farm together. […] But in the spring Hallfreðr moved his farm north across the moors and set up farm in the place called Geitdalur. And one night he dreamed that a man came to him and said: ‘There you lie, Hallfreðr, and rather heedlessly. Move your farm away, west across Lagarfljót water. All your good fortune awaits you there.’ At this he wakes up and moves his farm up across the river Rangá in Tunga, to the place that has since been called Hallfreðarstaðir, and lived there till old age. But he happened to leave behind a boar and a billy goat. And the same day that Hallfreðr moved away a landslide fell onto the buildings, and this stock was lost, and so the place has since been called Geitdalur.’ These two passages Pálsson interprets as demonstrating that the author of Hrafnkels saga never had any intention of simply recording facts or he would not have changed so many things from his source. [46] This conclusion, however, is highly debatable; suffice here to mention the work of Óskar Halldórsson (1976:15-33), in which the same examples are used to argue that the author of Hrafnkels saga based his account on oral tales about Hrafnkell rather than written sources (see also p. 197). Halldórsson points out that the storyline is similar in the two passages; the differences lie in the minor details such as personal names and place names, precisely the kinds of details that research into oral tradition has shown are the most liable to undergo alteration in the treatment of storytellers. When writers get material from written sources, on the other hand, things like names are likely to be transferred unchanged between works. As well as bringing in known characters from the past, Pálsson believes that the author deliberately spiced his story with familiar bits and pieces of archaizing color, such as heathen customs, sacrifices and feasts, priests and burial mounds. He is also guilty of anachronism when he speaks of Icelanders traveling to Mikligarðr (Constantinople) at the time of the saga, i.e. in the 10th century, since, on the basis of other sagas, Pálsson claims that such journeys did not get under way until the 11th century. Pálsson (1971:19) cites as another example of historical ‘error’ in the saga that it seems as if the author believed that new land was still being claimed and settled in the Eastern Quarter of Iceland at the time when the action takes place. This he considers a blatant anachronism, since anyone who had read Landnámabók would have known immediately that this could not be the case; Landnámabók is quite specific that the Eastern Quarter was fully settled at an early date, while according to the chronology of the saga Hrafnkell was driven out of Hrafnkelsdalur many years after the end of the settlement period. Pálsson’s arguments call for three main comments: 1. Traditional oral tales are equated with historical reliability. 2. Pálsson attempts to show that the ‘author’ used written sources to obtain historical information for his story, but then goes on to say that the author used these sources with such lack of care that it is obvious he had no intention of writing history.

31 3. Pálsson cites a number of what he considers serious historical ‘errors’ and anachronisms on the part of the ‘author’ of the saga, basing his knowledge of the ‘true’ facts on the very sources that the ‘author’ is supposed himself to have used when seeking information about the past. In view of the general unreliability of oral tradition, we are likely to come to a deeper understanding of the ancient sagas and how they work if we leave aside all accusations of historical error and speculations about possible inaccuracy in the way the writers used their sources. From the examples cited by Pálsson, it in fact seems better to suppose that whoever wrote Hrafnkels saga never made use of any written sources such as Landnámabók and related historical writings. The saga is too unlike such works for this to be at all probable. The most natural explanation for the so-called errors in the saga is that the person who wrote it got his material from traditional oral tales. As is well known, looking to such tales for strict historical accuracy is a waste of effort, all the more so when the tales are rooted in events that took place three hundred years earlier. But in spite of this, we must allow for an unbroken chain of telling throughout the intervening period, with the stories undergoing changes each time they are told. This makes it extremely unlikely that bits of old material would have been tacked on to the saga to divert the audience’s gaze away from the 13th century. It is, of course, perfectly true that authors of all ages have used knowledge of local conditions and geography to gives their stories a ‘real’ setting, without there being any need to assume that these stories are based on ancient accounts, let alone ancient events. Nor is it unlikely that the class divisions that constitute an important theme in the saga reflect conditions in the 13th century rather than the settlement period. And it is extremely probable, as Davíð Erlingsson (1971) has said, echoing Pálsson, that the ethical values of the saga are closer to the teachings of the 13th-century Church than to the heathen outlook of the 10th century, whatever that may have been. The error in the argumentation, however, lies in the belief that, if a writing from the 13th century is not thoroughly heathen and historically accurate on events from the 10th century, it must then be a work of pure imagination by a 13th-century ‘author’ without any connection to oral tradition. This argument runs counter to the basic and proven fact that stories preserved orally are subject to constant change and, just like purely written works, are influenced by the present and colored by the prevailing values of their times. Prehistorical characters are always viewed through the eyes of the times when the stories about them are told. Thus, Pálsson fails to demonstrate convincingly that Hrafnkels saga is not, to some extent at least, based on oral accounts purporting to tell about Hrafnkell. The parallels with events of the 13th century are certainly interesting, but there is nothing to stop contemporary events from shaping and coloring stories from earlier times in oral tradition. The person who wrote the saga might also have noted similarities between contemporary events and things related in the ancient stories, and so it is by no means inconceivable that he modified the story and tailored it to the expectations that people made of written works, for instance so that the saga’s message to his own times might stand out more clearly. It is perfectly plausible that whoever wrote Hrafnkels saga did so with an eye to providing his contemporaries with a lesson in ethics — as Pálsson has stressed repeatedly in his studies; this is something storytellers of all ages are prone to dreaming of. But this purpose certainly does not mean that he could not have used oral tales as the basis for his saga. This is not the place to analyze the individual examples presented by Pálsson in support of his contention that Hrafnkels saga exhibits a pervasive influence from proverbs and Christian ethics. The conclusion remains the same: that such influences do nothing to reduce the likelihood of the saga being based on oral tales about Hrafnkell. It is perfectly conceivable that some of these tales go back in some way to the 10th century and actual events. They must,

32 however, have changed over time and been colored by the personal tastes and attitudes of their storytellers and audiences. The writer of the saga was undoubtedly familiar with 13th-century Christian ethics and would have read the schoolbooks that came with an education provided by the Church. It might also well be that he recognized some sort of connection between his school learning and the oral tales he had heard about Hrafnkell and thus set out deliberately to write a saga demonstrating the validity of certain ethical rules, so it need come as no surprise if the saga reflects problems the writer might have had to struggle with as part of his education. In addition to all this, it should not be forgotten, as Davíð Erlingsson (1971:12) pointed out, that there is often no way of deciding for sure whether a particular ethical feature is typical of Christianity or heathendom. There are views and attitudes that are common to all humanity and have little to do with the specific ethical codes promoted by individual religions. Bjarni Guðnason (1965) has taken this a step further and maintained that the course of the saga is determined by the heathen and humanistic attitudes of the edda poem Hávamál. The dominant ethical imperatives espoused in Hrafnkels saga are self-knowledge, wisdom, honor, and vengeance, and thus akin to what may be deduced of the heathen view of life as it appears in Hávamál; the central concept of Christianity, forgiveness, says Guðnason, is notable by its absence from the saga of Hrafnkell. Influences on the structure of the sagas. The third and final area in which critics have sought to identify influences from Latin writings in the sagas concerns their structure and narrative technique. A valuable contribution to this debate was made by Carol Clover in her book The Medieval Saga (1982). Clover relates the Icelandic sagas to the wider narrative tradition of the Middle Ages, with particular emphasis on the contrast between the sagas and the Aristotelian precept of literary works as self-sufficient wholes with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Medieval stories tend to be un-Aristotelian in being ‘open’ at both ends, and Clover sets the sagas within the context of this tradition. The sagas start a long time before the main course of events gets underway and often relate large numbers of incidents that appear to have no direct relevance to the story, if viewed from an Aristotelian literary perspective. Thus the sagas of Icelanders generally have extended prologues and continue to include apparently adventitious details even after the action has reached the main events. Additionally, the sagas are open ended: they sometimes close with short résumés of the characters’ later lives and list their descendants down to the time when the saga was written, just as they list their forefathers at the beginning. This, according to Clover (1982:41), indicates that the sagas are not to be seen as discrete units but rather as parts in an overall conceptualization of the history of Iceland reaching right back to the settlement period — just as each individual king’s saga is not so much a self-contained entity as a constituent element in an inclusive history of the kingdom of Norway. The unAristotelian features of saga style should not therefore be viewed as structural defects, but rather as integral to what people expected of stories, how they thought stories ought to be. These formal features offered a more detailed and discursive presentation of events (Latin amplificatio), as well as allowing the saga writers to assemble a number of disparate stories under one hat. Both these features are found widely in medieval literature, which tends to treat the same events again and again but with constant accretions of new material into the narratives. Another feature common in medieval literature, including the sagas, is that originally unconnected deeds tend to accumulate around just a few heroes — just as fugitive and anonymous verses tend to become ascribed to a limited group of named poets. Similarly, saga style shares with works from mainland Europe techniques of bipartite narrative, used to create tensions and allow significant events to be highlighted and intensified; events from an earlier part of a saga are made to re-occur in some later part, generally more impressively and set at a higher level. As a simple example we may cite the structural parallels in Egils saga, where the account of Egill’s Norwegian forefathers sheds light on later events in the saga.

33 Clover uses such features to argue that the writers of the sagas were benefiting from a learned European tradition in the construction of their works. Another authorial device viewed by Clover as an importation is the way saga authors allow two stories to run side by side. One of the chief characteristics, she says, of oral narrative is that storytellers present events in strict chronological order and avoid multiple storylines. Thus it should be taken as evidence of written literature when we meet phrases in the sagas like ‘nú ferr tvennum sǫgum fram’ (‘now two stories progress’), ‘víkr nú sǫgunni til’ (‘now the story turns to’), ‘nú er þar til at taka er áðr var frá horfit’ (‘now we must return to where we left off before’). Similar phrases appear in Latin writings, and even if we cannot demonstrate direct models for the Icelandic formulas in Latin works it is the general technique that is significant; having adopted the technique, the saga writers were perfectly capable of developing their own phraseology. This technique provided the key to much more complex and sophisticated modes of narrative than had previously been known or would have occurred in oral narratives. By allowing two stories, or even more as in Eyrbyggja saga, to move forward concurrently it became possible to break up narrative time in a way that constitutes an important innovation of medieval European literature. Clover (1982:147) maintains that this technique plays a key role in the Icelandic sagas and is not paralleled before the experiments of 20th-century authors aimed at creating disjunctures of time and plot. Clover assumes that this technique developed among historiographers writing in Latin, and that the Icelanders encountered it there and assimilated it in the same way as happened on the continent. It is difficult to demonstrate direct influences from French prose romances on Icelandic literature of the 13th century, since there is no conclusive proof that such writings were known in the North at such an early date; French poems had been translated into Old Norse prose, but that is as much as we can say. And it seems rather unlikely that innovations in France would have been taken up immediately in Iceland except through the medium of translation; in former times ideas and innovations were not very quick to reach Iceland. Since it is impossible to demonstrate direct influence, Clover (1982:188) believes it safer to conclude that both the French romances and the Icelandic sagas represent independent responses to developments that had taken place in medieval Latin, and that the sagas may thus be regarded as part of a general European historiographical movement of the late 12th and 13th centuries. So far as oral storytelling goes, Clover (1982:61-2) considers its contribution to be restricted to smaller elements within the sagas, the shorter sagas and þættir, and individual themes and incidents (see p. 45), but she sees little ‘oral’ in the way these elements are arranged in the longer sagas. [47]

*  The general conclusion from this discussion of the influences of learned Latin culture on the Icelandic sagas is that the sagas may be viewed as the outcome of a happy synthesis of scholastic learning acquired from books and a purely domestic artistic tradition of oral storytelling. Romances based on continental models appeared early in Icelandic and went on to become extremely popular after the end of the period in which most of the sagas of Icelanders were written. Literary tastes appear to have changed, with a gradual increase in interest in translations from French and in the composition of new sagas constructed to foreign models. The picture that seems to emerge is one of a strong, domestic oral narrative tradition coming into contact with historiographical works from abroad and flourishing by way of attempts to reproduce the methods used in them. At the end of the golden age, the domestic culture is overwhelmed by the international culture that had initially breathed life into it. Margaret Schlauch (1936:149) pointed to similar developments in England and Germany, where the heroic poems about Beowulf and Sigurðr the Vǫlsung gave way to romances based on French

34 originals. But even when the romances took over as the dominant literary form in Iceland they were shaped by domestic traditions and attitudes. The ideas and principles of the age of chivalry, love and courtesy, seem never to have gripped the imagination of readers in Iceland (Schlauch 1936:169); when producing their Icelandic versions, whether abridging the stories themselves or working from already abridged versions, the translators and adapters preferred to concentrate on the battles and feats of heroism. [48] That the Icelandic sagas should have features in common with learned writings of the Middle Ages need come as no surprise. Much more remarkable is just how different the Icelandic literature is from the works that are supposed to have influenced it. The explanation can hardly be other than that in Iceland there was a strong and independent tradition of oral stories that merged with the learning brought in from abroad and modified it to its own rules and demands. Without the learning there could have been no sagas as we know them, since it was the learning that made it possible for the native tradition to find expression in written form. But it is equally clear that this learning on its own and unsupported could not have engendered the Icelandic sagas and the literary tradition as we know it from 13th-century Iceland; as proof of this, we need only look to mainland Scandinavia, where the same learning existed, but produced only negligible results in terms of original literature.

Do Origins Matter for the Sagas as Literature? As Tolkien pointed out in his article on Beowulf mentioned previously, research into the models and sources of particular works of ancient literature has not generally been very illuminating when it comes to considering them as works of art. The new direction in 20thcentury approaches to literature known as New Criticism eventually found its way to Iceland and the field of saga studies. Under New Criticism the primary emphasis was laid on the aesthetics of literary texts and scholars applying its precepts tended to take the view that the sagas should be read much like modern novels and be subject in that reading to the same tools and methods as had yielded results in the analysis of works of this sort. [49] This raises the question of whether the problem of origins is of any importance in such a reading, or in the interpretation of the sagas in general; whether it is not enough simply to acknowledge that there may indeed have been an oral tradition, before turning one’s attention to the literary analysis of the texts. Whatever may be said about origins, there is no escaping the fact that the only thing we have is the texts and research should therefore be directed at them alone. A related approach applied by various scholars, originally deriving from the field of medieval Biblical and theological studies, centers on notions of the multiple ambiguity of texts (see Weber 1987, Tómasson 1988:251-3). Much of the research on the sagas conducted in this vein has been characterized by entertaining, if highly speculative, interpretations (see, for instance, Pálsson, E. 1990), but tends to skate over an important fact — that the Icelandic sagas do not contain any key as to how they should be interpreted, such as we usually find in genuine medieval allegories — and thus modern scholars in this area have been apt to let their imaginations run far beyond what is likely to have been in the minds of the writers as they wrote their sagas and their readers as they read them. Perhaps a more promising way forward is along the lines suggested by Torfi Tulinius (1995:203-9; 2001), of looking to ideas we know were familiar to Icelanders of the 13th century of hidden meanings within skaldic verse and seeing if we can identify similar semiotic forms in the prose works produced at this time. This kind of comparison is not without its problems and there are various approaches that might produce results — or not, as the case may be. Against the refusal of literary critics to take a stance on the question of origins, it may be argued that where we stand on the bookprose/freeprose debate shapes all our attitudes toward

35 the traditional problems of saga studies, such as the relationship between the sagas and the events they describe, the role of the author, the dating of the sagas, and the significance of their supposed literary relations: It has been argued that the question of orality is of little moment, but it is clear that our understanding of the sagas depends to a large degree on how we think they developed. If we assume they are novels created by skilled writers, the emphasis in our study will rest on the identification of these writers, their relationships to one another, their literary culture, the circumstances under which they lived and worked, the relationship of their experiences and of contemporary events to the stories they wrote, and the implicit or explicit messages which they tried to convey, in short, all the emphasis of traditional literary history. If, on the other hand, we judge that the stories were largely preformed and binding on the authors, we will focus our attention, not on the writer’s circumstances, but on the conditions of oral transmission, the possibility of reconstructing the pre-literary form of the stories, and the relationship of the oral tradition to the actual events of early Iceland. (Andersson 1978:150) [50] There is thus no way around the need to discuss and adopt a position on theories of the origins of medieval texts like the Icelandic sagas, since the position we adopt on origins will influence all our attempts to interpret the texts. All research is conducted in light of a theory of origins, if only in the choice of subjects that the researcher chooses to deal with. Many bookprose scholars would, it seems, disagree, claiming that their approach is based not on theory but on method. As an example we may cite the comments of Einar Ól. Sveinsson (1958:7-8) in his book on the dating of the sagas, which may be read as a kind of statement of principles of the ‘Icelandic school’: The chief difference between the two theories [book-prose and free-prose] is that the bookprose theory is not, in the first place, a theory, not in the first place a doctrine, but rather an attempt to follow the tracks from the known to the unknown without prejudice, to pass with the help of experience and probability from one point to the other. On the other hand the freeprose theory, at least in its German form, is primarily a Lehre, a doctrine, which is set forth fully fashioned, and the origin of the Family Sagas is explained in accordance with it. Sveinsson appears not to have been alone in his confidence regarding the bookprose theory; Sigurður Nordal (1993:40) allows himself similar claims in his work Fragmenta Ultima, dated 10 September 1958: Buchprosa-heitið var upphaflega lítilsvirðingarorð Heuslers um hinn amusiska Maurer og hans nóta, en ekki valið af þeim sjálfum, enda var hér í rauninni ekki um neina, kenningu‘ að ræða, heldur aðeins rannsóknastefnu. [51] Nordal and Sveinsson appear to have encouraged a similar conviction among their disciples: that the theorizing was all on the part of those who advocated oral tradition; that they themselves were concerned only with the written texts as they were preserved; and that since, unfortunately, the oral tradition had fallen silent it was no longer a fit subject for academic inquiry. However, this attitude involves a danger of raising scholarship on unreliable grounds. Anyone who deals with medieval texts needs to work with some kind of theory of origins, and it is better to be aware of this and make allowances for the limitations of the research than to live in a fool’s paradise where everything is safe and secure and in perfect working order long

36 after the walls have started to fall in around us. It is thus impermissible to claim that the question of origins is settled and no longer of any relevance; it is ever-present and demands a response from all who are involved in scholarship, demands that they be clear in their own minds, and to others, about where they think the most probable answers lie before they can proceed any further. You cannot both have your cake and eat it.

Direct References to Oral Tradition — Evidence of What? How then can we investigate oral tradition in the Middle Ages when all we have to go on are written sources and there are no sound recordings? Are there any means available to us that might help in tackling the question of what oral tradition in medieval Iceland was really like? What used to be done was simply to gather together references in written texts to oral storytelling and poetry performance and leave it at that. Here was living oral tradition for you; the ancient Icelanders were forever telling each other stories and reciting poems; what more do you need? Perhaps the most celebrated passage occurs in Þorgils saga ok Hafliða (‘Saga of Þorgils and Hafliði’) in the Sturlunga saga collection, dated by Ursula Brown (1952:xxix) to some time after 1237. The passage describes a wedding at a chieftain’s farm at Reykjahólar in western Iceland in 1119 where, as part of the celebrations, ancient poems were performed and legendary sagas recited (by a priest) for the entertainment of the guests. Sturlu þáttr, another part of Sturlunga saga from around 1300, tells of the poet, lawman and saga writer Sturla Þórðarson entertaining the court of the king of Norway with ‘Huldar saga,’ presumably a legendary saga of some kind (see Bragason 1990 and Mitchell 2001). The source says that Sturla told the story better than other people, but it is conceivable that the author regarded the saga here as being in written form, since he then has the queen ask Sturla to come to her and bring the saga with him — which might suggest that the queen is thought of as envisaging it as a book. From around the same time we have a more literary tale, Norna-Gests þáttr, set at the court of Óláfr Tryggvason (c. 1000), which tells of a visit by a certain Norna-Gestr (‘Gestr of the Fates’) in a disguise suggestive of Óðinn; Norna-Gestr recites ancient heathen poems on the kinds of subjects we know from the heroic poems of the edda, and is finally baptized and laid to rest where he dies after a candle he has brought with him burns out (see Lonnröth, L. 1971, Harris and Hill 1989). Another classic case concerns an account of the travels of Haraldr harðráði (‘the Hard-Ruler’), king of Norway, which Halldórr Snorrason taught to Þorsteinn sǫgufróði (‘the Story-Wise’) at the Alþingi and which Þorsteinn subsequently repeated to Haraldr himself at his court (see Þorsteins þáttr sǫgufróða). Much has also been made of the testimony of the late 12th-century Scandinavian historians of the ancient North writing in Latin, Theodoricus in Norway and Saxo Grammaticus in Denmark (see pp. 3–4), whose comments have been taken to support the general view that Icelanders were renowned for their ability to tell each other stories and perform poems without the aid of written support. [52] These references to oral storytelling have sometimes been enough to convince scholars that the Icelanders were in the habit of telling artistically created stories both at home and at the courts of Scandinavia where they made their livings as court poets and historians. The story from Norna-Gests þáttr about Óláfr Tryggvason and Óðinn was taken as evidence of how the edda poems were performed orally — as well as being symbolic evidence that the heathen cultural heritage of the poems lived on despite the change in religion for which Óláfr acts as representative. A further reference used to argue the case for the sagas of Icelanders having existed in oral form occurs at the end of Droplaugarsona saga (‘Saga of the Sons of Droplaug’), where it is said that the saga was told by a descendant of one of the main characters, Grímr Droplaugarson. More generally, various elements of saga style have been viewed as suggestive

37 of oral tradition, notably fixed formulas such as ‘svá er sagt…’ (‘it is so said’), ‘sagt er…’ (‘it is said’), ‘sumir segja…’ (‘some say’), ‘þat er annara manna sǫgn’ (‘it is the report of others’), [53] and the fact that the narrative perspective in the sagas is almost invariably restricted to what somebody could have seen and then told to others. With the backing of the saga accounts of the oral composition and performance of skaldic verse, it was thus possible to draw up from the written sources an image of a vigorous and artistic oral culture before the coming of the age of writing. [54] Skeptics of oral tradition have no problem dismissing this line of argument: for all we know, they counter, all these references to tradition are the work of authors who sought to create an impression among their readers that oral stories and poetry recitals had flourished in olden times and who larded their texts with formulaic references to oral sources in order to make them appear authentic in the eyes of their readers. In other words, these texts are not historical documents, compiled to give us a realistic picture of oral tradition, but rather fictions in which the oral tradition and references to it are stylistic devices on the part of the authors. Direct references to orality in ancient texts have thus been viewed both ways, without bringing us any closer to firm conclusions. [55] To this we may add that even if the references to orality are taken at face value they are not actually of much use to us. They do not explain whether the texts were floating, i.e. constantly changing — as it seems most oral texts are unless they have a sacred or ritual function and there is a trained group of specialists responsible for their verbatim preservation (see Finnegan 1988:86-109); they do not explain how the oral texts came to be written down, e.g. whether learned performers dictated them to scribes or whether the writers and oral performers were one and the same; they do not say how widespread the texts were in their oral form, when and where they were performed, by whom and for whom, how they were passed on from generation to generation, and so on. The direct references to orality are thus of sadly little use when it comes to the questions we would like to have answers to, and we must therefore turn elsewhere for a more reliable method of studying oral tradition in medieval Iceland and its part in the writing and understanding of the sagas of Icelanders.

Impasse — And New Perspectives At the point reached here, scholarly discussion of oral tradition stalled. The research interests and methodology of the bookprose school became utterly dominant and all speculation about oral origins was pushed to one side. However, around 1960 news started to filter through to Western scholars of Vladimir Propp’s (1928; first English edition 1958) discoveries of formalized and recurrent patterns in the structure of Russian folktales and legends, as well as Albert B. Lord’s (1960) descriptions of his and Milman Parry’s research into the oral poets of the Balkans, and the idea arose that certain fixed and replicable elements of form, ranging from short formulas to longer episodes and even whole stories, might be used as evidence of originally oral material within written texts. A number of studies appeared based on formula counts and the identification of common structural units, both of which were held to indicate the presence of such material. By the use of these methods, attempts were even made to distinguish what was oral from what was written within individual works. Lord’s ideas grew out of research conducted by his teacher, Milman Parry. He used their field studies of long narrative poems from a living tradition to explain the origins and aesthetic properties of the Homeric poems. Though originally formulated on the basis of long epic poems, Lord’s theory had a profound influence on research into other ancient literatures and their possible links to oral tradition. His work was followed by a great surge in field studies of the oral performance of poems and stories in a wider range of contexts than those described by

38 Lord. It has now been demonstrated beyond dispute that orality is much more pervasive and productive, and is capable of producing much finer works of verbal art, than was generally assumed possible when there was nothing more to go on when assessing the nature of oral literature before the age of writing than the experience of bookish academics and the 19thcentury collections of folktales. [56] These new ideas greatly strengthened the position of those who believed oral tradition to be a significant source of the form and material of the ancient sagas. It was clear that oral theory had answered many of the chief reservations of the bookprose scholars concerning the oral origins of sagas, for instance as regards long term social memory, the number of stories individual performers could master, and the aesthetic possibilities of oral literature. This point was made by H. M. Heinrichs (1976), who commented that much of what some people had previously felt to be impossible or implausible had turned out to have living parallels and was thus academically unproblematic. Heinrichs’s conclusion was that the Church and its educational system had provided the tools in the form of writing, but that the art of narrative had already been in place. The rug had previously been pulled from under the literary-relations approach by Theodore M. Andersson (1964:82-119), who had drawn attention to so many flaws in Einar Ól. Sveinsson’s argumentation for verbal borrowings between Njáls saga and other sagas that there was no alternative but to assume that the sagas owed some kind of debt to an oral tradition. Andersson (1967) went on from here to draw up a typical structure for the sagas of Icelanders, a structure that he traced to oral tradition. Among others to apply the Parry-Lord theory to Old Icelandic literature were Scholes and Kellogg (1966:43-51), soon followed by a host of others: Clover 1974 drew attention to oral narrative techniques in the settings of events; the studies of Allen (1971) and Lönnroth, L. (1976) on Njáls saga were valuable attempts to bring out narrative patterns that they associated with orality, while also attempting to evaluate the part of the author in the overall composition of the work; and Vésteinn Ólason 1989 used not dissimilar methods to uncover traditional narrative patterns in Eyrbyggja saga, while also emphasizing the role of an educated writer in bringing the various elements of the saga together into a whole. [57] The new ideas represented in these writings have been given the covering label of ‘formalist-traditionalism’ or ‘new traditionalism,’ a movement which established itself firmly in Iceland with Óskar Halldórsson’s book on Hrafnkels saga (1976). Halldórsson demonstrated the existence in the east of Iceland of stories concerning the events related in the saga and went on from here to interpret the saga in light of oral tradition. Various critics had difficulties coming to terms with the sea change in attitude that this book represented, for instance Peter Hallberg (1977) and Hermann Pálsson (1978, 1979). Halldórsson answered this criticism in 1978 with an excellent survey of developments within the field of saga research and reiterated his view that the sagas were independent and integrated works of art, but with roots in orality. Hughes 1980 provided a detailed review of Halldórsson’s book, setting it in its intellectual context and detailing the discussions it had provoked. A further contribution to this debate appeared with Jesse L. Byock’s book (1982) on the feuds in the sagas, which put forward a number of challenging ideas on links between oral narratives and the handling of real disputes during the Commonwealth period; Byock envisaged an interaction in which feuds engendered sagas, which in turn offered people lessons in how to deal with and solve similar kinds of disputes — not unlike Eric Havelock’s (1963) ideas on the function of the Homeric poems in Greek society, which Havelock saw as a kind of knowledge bank and model for ethical and social behavior. In other areas of medieval studies, attempts to apply Lord’s methods to identifying the oral within written texts produced only mixed results. The main problem was that it soon became clear that so-called oral features were open to contradictory interpretations, as signs of genuine orality or as creative input on the part of writers. The same features could thus point in

39 opposite directions, just as the direct references to oral tradition in the sagas had for scholars of the previous generation. It was, to be sure, beyond doubt that traditional poetry and storytelling at the oral stage were grounded on fixed formulas and that their material was integrated into prestructured themes. The problem was that the same aesthetic methods were also available to authors who were not performing in front of a live audience (see Benson 1966); these techniques were simply a recognized way to tell a story or construct a poem, and they survived long after people had started to compose their works in silence with quill in hand. Robert Kellogg’s (1979) contribution to this debate was to introduce in this context the terms ‘traditional art’ on the one hand and ‘high art’ on the other, with an intermediate stage which he designated ‘popular art.’ Traditional art is not the creation of a particular artist, but rather communal and conservative in nature; high art is the innovative and personal work of an author. Popular art combines the two, being based on common property but at the same time created by people with the deliberate intention of producing something new. Oral culture is always traditional in this sense, while high art only appears with written culture. But even after the influence of literacy began to make itself felt, people continued to create new works in the spirit of traditional artistic forms; people’s ideas of what art was had been shaped by the tradition and so the saga authors and poets continued to write using traditional modes based around the formulas and narrative themes that had been handed down to them. According to Kellogg, it is not until Dante that we find the emergence in medieval European literature of personal originality, and with it high art. Accordingly, a work written by a single author might still display all the characteristics of oral literature, because that was how it had to be to be considered a work of art in the eyes of its audience. Throughout the first centuries of writing authors continued to struggle with the intractable task of holding the attention of their readers and listeners, and to this end they resorted to the methods that had proved their effectiveness in the oral performance of poems and stories. As a result, ‘oral features’ continued to live a good life at the authorial writing desk. Along with these studies there grew a clearer understanding of something that Lord (1960) had touched on in his chapter on ‘Writing and oral tradition’ — that oral tradition could only be recorded successfully with the aid of modern technology. Oral performers never used the same words when performing to a single plodding scribe as when entertaining a live audience, and the task facing literate storytellers who might want to transfer their own oral artistry to the page was fraught with difficulties (Lord 1986) — a problem all too familiar to schoolteachers when trying to get reasonably articulate pupils to write essays. It is thus simply not possible to speak of medieval ‘oral texts.’ Even the popular tales that the folklore collectors fired by the ideals of 19th-century Romanticism were supposed to have taken down direct from the lips of ordinary people were in fact dressed up in literary style; what had been oral entertainment had been converted into written literature, to be enjoyed in private by silent reading of a printed book. Had the classic 19th-century collections of folktales been published as verbatim transcriptions of modern electronic recordings, they would in all probability never have achieved the success that they did as literature; however good it may sound in performance, oral storytelling simply does not transfer directly to paper (see Sigurðsson, G. 1996:409-27). So it might appear that we are left to conclude that it is simply not possible to use written texts in our search for orality in the way that has been done hitherto. It is just not feasible to sift the oral from the written in the sagas, because they were all written using the same stylistic techniques. But rather than throw up our hands in despair, we need to look again at the fundamental questions we wish to ask. Perhaps the preoccupation with finding ways to identify where the oral and the written meet in written texts is the wrong question to ask and has simply led us down a blind alley.

40

The Comparative Approach Now, four decades on from the publication of The Singer of Tales, and after many field studies and much subsequent scholarly theorizing on the oral versus the written, we can attempt some kind of status report on what oral theory has done to increase our understanding of medieval texts and their possible links with oral tradition. As noted, little progress has been made in our ability to distinguish the oral from the written, but we have come a long way from early notions of the formula, which is now seen as serving a central aesthetic role in oral tradition in building up layers of meaning and reference, rather than being simply a convenient tool to fill the silences and help poets meet their metrical demands (Foley 1991). Perhaps the most important thing we have learned is how orality lives and operates within a culture, whether in storytelling and the performance of poetry, or in the preservation of legal texts and ancient lore. It is now clear that societies can function perfectly well on an oral level, with organized systems of administration and education. Oral knowledge can be preserved and passed on from generation to generation. Although this transmission of knowledge is not flawless, it is sufficiently effective that people who have grown up and acquired their education in an oral environment do not necessarily feel that writing presents an inherent advantage. Such people do not automatically share our sense of the self-evident benefits to be had from writing in terms of, for example, the word-for-word preservation of legal texts, which might reduce the risk of boundary disputes or wrangles over the correct letter of the law. In other words, there is ample reason to question the widespread belief that writing has always been welcomed with open arms as a relief to the overburdened memories of those unfortunate souls (in our eyes) who have had to learn the laws and conventions of society without the aid of writing or books (see p. 159). The most important achievement of recent research has thus lain not in the counting of formulas and the identification of formalized themes in large bodies of ancient texts, but in the possibilities opened up by the so-called comparative method, in which data from modern-day field studies are used to plug gaps in our fragmentary knowledge from the past. [58] This is rather like the methods that have been accepted in the geological sciences for nearly two centuries, ever since the Englishman Charles Lyell (1797-1875) started using the findings of modern-day researchers to build up an understanding of things that had happened in prehistorical times. Unfortunately, much research conducted in the spirit of comparativism has been vitiated by the lumping together of societies and literary genres so different that they cannot justifiably be compared in any plausible manner, and the method has consequently laid itself open to criticism. Using information from societies that are amenable to modern research to shed light on ancient cultures requires great care; scholars need to take account of the peculiarities of each society and avoid the temptation to take conditions from one society and superimpose them blindly onto another. What we can do, however, is to use new information gathered from living oral societies to formulate new questions of the limited sources at our disposal. Perhaps the most important thing to emerge from modern-day field studies of oral societies is that many of the basic assumptions that scholars formerly made about the nature of orality were, quite simply, wrong — though obviously there was no consensus of ignorance and not all of the mistakes listed below apply equally to all previous scholars. Among the most prevalent misconceptions have been: 1. end. 2. 3.

That oral tradition necessarily maintains information accurately for centuries on That the oral can be equated with what might be historically true. That artistic expression precludes oral origins, and vice versa.

41 4. That oral stories cannot survive for two or three hundred years among peoples and families living in a single location. This misconception has even led some scholars to assume that people in oral societies are incapable of having any genuine knowledge about their pasts (see Guðmundsson, H. 1997:42, 81, 296). If all these assumptions are wrong — and they have, to varying extents, provided the basis for most older ideas about orality and remain remarkably persistent even today — we must also conclude that all ideas based on them are in urgent need of reappraisal. In other words, we need to start from scratch and work our way through the written sources in search of clues about and residual elements of the oral tradition as it once existed in medieval Iceland; only then can we determine whether orality might affect the way we understand and interpret a saga or particular literary text, and if so in what ways. One way out of the dilemma facing us is to adopt the approach of anthropologists and sociologists in recent years, and throw overboard all the research and traditional problems surrounding ancient texts; instead, the sagas should be treated as if they were some kind of field report from an alien society, as sources that can be used to construct a picture of the social reality of the 12th and 13th centuries, and we can forget about looking to them for direct evidence of specific people and events of the 10th century. [59] Writings on the social reality of the Commonwealth period in Iceland using the sagas as sources have raised many questions about how far it is possible to bypass entirely traditional research and its preoccupations, such as the problems of textual history and classification. Preben Meulengracht Sørensen’s doctoral thesis from 1993 may be read in part as a riposte to such attempts to cut through this particular scholarly Gordian knot (see Meulengracht Sørensen 1993:323-4). Meulengracht Sørensen places emphasis on methodology in saga research (1993:17-33) and tries to construct a way of viewing the sagas that takes account of the foundations on which previous research has been based and the main questions that people have tackled when dealing with the sagas. Rather than ask whether the sagas are history or fiction, he attempts to approach them from the perspective of what people in the Middle Ages would themselves have thought — as their attempt to create a particular image of a past which he associates with social changes that occurred first with the coming of Christianity and then with loss of independence to the king of Norway in 1262. The sagas themselves are subject to artistic laws and are not to be regarded as descriptions of reality, even if they are written as part of a tradition that their immediate audiences would in all probability have viewed as conveying reliable information about the past. [60] The center of interest in the sagas revolves around the evaluation, dignity, and honor of people as revealed in their behavior and interaction with their families and society. While the writers were using the saga tradition to address what were to them burning issues, their stories of former times also set up a benchmark for the ethical comparison of people as social beings, as comes out, for example, in the deaths of the brothers Snorri and Þórðr Þorvaldsson as described in Sturlunga saga: På en måde døde de to unge mænd, fordi de havde lyttet til for mange fortællinger om tapperhed. Deres død var jo ikke nødvendig, ikke ved den lejlighed. Med deres handlemåde viste de som så mange før dem, at æren var vigtigere end livet, og på den måde skabte de selv fortælling. (Meulengracht Sørensen 1993:331) [61] Meulengracht Sørensen’s work centers on the functions of the written sagas and places less weight on the extent of any debt they may owe to oral tradition, other than to say that the sagas are written in the spirit of the tradition and are supposed to sound as if they derive from real oral accounts (pp. 53-6). He thus takes a rather different line from the one attempted here

42 to try to add to our understanding of the sagas. The same applies to some extent to Vésteinn Ólason 1998, who examines the world of the sagas of Icelanders from a literary perspective, though often with explicit regard to the tradition lying behind them. The formalist-traditionalist approach has breathed new life into many of the ideas behind the freeprose theory, while discarding its emphasis on historicity and the verbatim preservation of texts in oral tradition. Formalist-traditionalism teaches that artistically created traditional oral tales were an important element in the writing of the sagas but were never put together as integrated wholes before the time they were committed to parchment. But despite the great progress that has been made in our understanding of the laws to which oral tradition is subject, little has been done to address the question of how the way in which we view their origins might affect how we view the sagas as works of art, i.e. what it means for our interpretation of individual sagas to assume an oral tradition somewhere in the background. General scholarly debate in the field of oral studies has, however, started to edge its way towards aesthetic questions of this sort. Instead of squabbling about whether particular works come from oral tradition or are purely written literature, we now speak of works being grounded in oral tradition; and instead of bickering about whether formulas and formulaic narrative themes are evidence of oral origins or stylistic tics on the part of the writers, we now attempt to assess their aesthetic value (see Foley 1991). Thus it becomes possible to consider how the aesthetics of stories and poems may have been shaped by the oral tradition that both they and their audiences were elements in, and to demonstrate how familiarity with the tradition may have helped audiences in their interpretation of the works. The findings of research in this area ought to be of use when we come to considering the Icelandic sagas — with all the general qualifications that need to be made regarding the application of learning gained in one culture to our interpretation of another. The fundamental point is that we must put to one side for the time being all arguments aimed exclusively at proposing or rejecting an oral background to the sagas on the sole basis of the direct testimony of the texts. Most of the relevant points have already been made and thrashed out in detail, and there seems little we can add to them. The path taken here to find a way out of this stalemate is to say, as it were, that the sagas are the product of a tradition in which people practiced an oral form of art which included stories about the same characters and events as we find described in the written texts. From our modern experience of orality, however, we must suppose that these oral accounts were very different from the sagas that we know from the manuscripts. But the same experience also tells us that it is a matter of considerable importance whether or not the written sagas were put together while this tradition was still alive, and were thus the work of people who knew the tradition and presupposed the same kind of knowledge on the part of their audiences. [62] One of the most significant recent accounts of the ways in which long stories survive in oral tradition is to be found in an article by Carol Clover from 1986. She notes that such stories are not usually told from beginning to end in the way we are accustomed to with written works; instead, it is generally assumed that the audience is familiar with the story material and the main characters beforehand, and a typical performance extends only to individual incidents from, to use Clover’s term, the ‘immanent whole,’ the conceptual saga as it exists as the sum of its parts at the preliterary stage. This immanent whole is never told in full and exists only in the minds of the members of the traditional culture, and only achieves an integrated form when the story comes to be written. This is how Clover sees the origins of the written sagas. Clover relates her ideas to the so-called ‘þáttr theory’ (see Andersson 1964:61-4), a theory of origins that had previously been discarded because scholars assumed verbatim recording from oral tradition and could not see how short episodes like the ones we know as the íslendingaþættir (see p. 31) could have been combined to form full sagas like the sagas of Icelanders.

43 John Miles Foley’s book Immanent Art (1991) owes a direct debt to Clover’s article and represents a major contribution to the aesthetical interpretation of oral culture. Foley takes his central concept of ‘immanence’ from Clover and works out from the idea that the meaning of traditional works in oral preservation is founded on formulas and prefabricated themes that build up a series of links to other works within the tradition which treat of similar characters and events; this differs fundamentally from the idea that long dominated thinking in this area, that such elements were first and foremost mnemonic devices to help storytellers and poets perform fluently and coherently. Thus Foley envisages a traditional superstructure that colors meaning and interpretation: no aspect of a text can be understood simply from its immediate context; each requires to be viewed in light of the tradition as a whole, wherever similar circumstances occur. This overall view, says Foley, helps people to make sense of what is happening through hints and allusions, without everything needing to be spelled out specifically on each occasion. This differs from textual relationships between written works (intertextuality, rittengsl) in that in oral tradition it is meaningless to talk about one work coming before another and another copying it, or about one particular work having correspondences with another; it is rather a case of all works obtaining their material from a single tradition. As a consequence of this characteristic of oral art, certain texts often appear to be deeply flawed if judged from modern literary perspectives; but what would be a clear defect in a written work by a single author might be a feature of the artistic technique of an oral storyteller, something which Foley calls ‘immanent art.’ Foley also stresses that, when discussing medieval and even older texts, we cannot properly regard them as ‘oral,’ even if we have good reason to believe that they tell of the same characters and events as figured in the oral tradition of their times. Instead, he speaks of ‘orally derived texts,’ texts built out of material from oral tradition. By such means we can relate discussions of the origins of old Icelandic literature to developments that have taken place in recent decades in the fields of philology and literary theory and which are characterized by, among other things, a growing interest among scholars in oral performance and the reception of medieval texts among their original audiences (see Schaefer 1993). It may be said that Carol Clover’s ideas have opened a way for us to look again and in a new light at the question of how much the sagas owe to orality, and ask ourselves what differences it makes to our interpretation of the sagas if we presuppose the existence of an oral tradition in the background. [63] At the same time, we must try to visualize what form this oral tradition may have taken and carry out a thorough re-assessment of all our ideas about its functions in Icelandic society in the 12th and 13th centuries.

*  Scholarly thinking has now reached a point where it is safe to say that the premises on which we base all discussion of the relationship between ancient texts and oral storytelling traditions are now quite different from what they were only a few decades ago. Research into living traditions has shown that many older ideas were, to a greater or lesser extent, incorrect, but because of the resistance between different academic disciplines it has proved difficult to mediate this new knowledge beyond the ranks of the ethnologists and folklore specialists. Literary specialists continue to analyze ancient texts using the methods of 20th-century literary criticism, and historians and archaeologists continue to reject the sagas as sources of preliterate times and concentrate largely on the age of the manuscripts, which in turn are the special province of the paleographer. Anthropologists have taken refuge in electing to view ancient texts as sources for the times in which they were written, a course that scholars in other disciplines often find decidedly unsatisfactory. Despite the chilly reception it has been accorded among other academic disciplines, the change that has taken place in our understanding of oral stories and poetry as art can be compared with the revolution in the natural sciences in the 19th

44 century that followed the publication of Darwin’s ideas on natural selection. In the humanities, however, things move slowly and within many disciplines there still seems to be no awareness that this revolution has taken place. This in itself gives us food for thought, to observe how long it takes for new knowledge to come to the fore and produce results where it is needed. The proper task of the humanities is to talk about man and human culture under the banner of the search for truth — however elusive the truth often proves to be. This search sometimes involves the use of different methods associated with different disciplines. But scholars are apt to suffer from tunnel vision and are often reluctant to take any interest in what goes on outside the walls of their own departments. There is always the danger of forgetting the task we all have in common and believing that the ultimate aim of research is to ascertain the history of the documentary sources, or of some literary genre, or of whatever ideas are most in fashion at any moment in time. With such a narrow perspective it is all too easy to lose sight of the main point, of which the particular methods of research form only a part. According to the methods of literary history, we begin from a fixed starting point and explain the development of a particular literary genre in terms of works appearing in a definite order and one book leading to other books, and so on. People tend to think they have identified the origin of all kinds of ideas when they first come across them in books. There is a danger of solipsism here unless we bear constantly in mind that stories and poems existed without writing, that individuals and societies had a particular mental image of their pasts, that world views were constructed, laws established, judgments passed, and religions practiced, and that people engaged in genealogy, navigation, astronomy, poetics, and rhetoric — all without being able to read or write. Medieval studies that do not take account of what can be ascertained about oral culture of this kind run the risk of bypassing medieval life and culture entirely and losing themselves within the narrow task of tracing just the sources and their provenance. Before the coming of literacy, knowledge was preserved in an organized manner and stored in the memories of learned men and women who passed it on in the form of poems and stories. Knowledge and eloquence invested men with power and prestige. Within the tradition that existed under these conditions, old material became mixed with new, some individuals were more accomplished than others, and everything was colored by external circumstances. The tradition was subject to the interests of those who had control over it at any given time and new material was constantly adapted in light of what was already there. Thus, for example, the medieval Church deliberately exploited the forms and communication channels that people were already familiar with from the tradition — witness, for example, the poem Merlínusspá (‘Prophecies of Merlin’), translated around 1200 and set in a form that people would recognize from poems such as Vǫluspá. [64] People had always told stories and performed poems about gods and heroes and kings and settlers, and recited the law and trained young people to memorize and preserve traditions. Much of this was not touched by writing in any way. The art of speaking and telling did not change, nor the art of composing poetry, and learned men continued to hold their honored position in society — at least to start with. It took a long time for people to accept the precedence of the written word over the testimony of the wise. The main changes brought about by the arrival of writing were that religion became associated with books, or the book (i.e. the Bible), that people acquired a wider outlook once they could read in books about things from far away in place and time, and that it became possible to produce bigger works, structured in a more organized way. An external chronology was established, and knowledge began to pile up as libraries came into existence and the learned tradition of the Church was added to the knowledge and culture that society already possessed. This general epistemological background, the result of research into living oral traditions in the latter part of the 20th century, has completely revolutionized the foundations

45 underlying all study of the Icelandic Middle Ages. In the research that follows, I attempt to build on these foundations and take them a step further.

About This Research The main subject of the research that follows is oral tradition in medieval Iceland and the sagas of Icelanders. The research considers the methods available for investigating oral tradition at the time when the sagas were created, and how this tradition might affect our interpretation of individual sagas and our choice of subjects for research. In this I make use of the body of knowledge on oral tradition that has built up over recent decades to ask new questions of the ancient sources, regarding a) the oral tradition that we know existed in 12thand 13th-century Iceland in connection with the law and poetry, and b) the possible interrelationship between the written sagas and the oral story tradition. Broadly, there are two main questions that need to be considered, on the one hand concerning the tradition, and on the other concerning the interpretation of individual texts. These questions are, however, closely related, since it is difficult to talk about an unspecified oral tradition behind saga texts without discussing the oral tradition in general and being explicit about what can be known of it. In the foregoing Introduction I have traced the history of research relating to the main questions to be addressed. Particular emphasis has been placed on how great a role Latin and scholastic learning may have played in the writing of the sagas and the methods and evidence scholars have applied when discussing oral tradition and the part of orality in the origins of the sagas: viz. a) direct information about storytelling and the performance of poetry, and references to oral stories in particular texts, and b) research into the structure of sagas and oral tales, the ‘prefabricated’ diction of formulas, and thematic narrative patterning. Both approaches have proved unsatisfactory because a) the descriptions in the sources fail to answer the questions we would like to ask, and b) the structural units, formulaic diction, and narrative themes that were held to be a sure sign of orally preserved works can all equally appear in works produced with pen in hand. The discussion of oral tradition and the oral origins of sagas thus stalled on the methods that could be applied. The research itself is divided into three sections. In the first section I look to field studies of oral traditions for ideas and information that may shed light on traditions that we know existed in medieval Iceland. The intention is not to superimpose conditions from various societies scattered around the world today directly onto society in medieval Iceland, but to come up with new questions for which answers may be sought through fairly conventional textual criticism of the ancient sources. The two areas considered are: 1. The role of the lawspeakers of the Icelandic Commonwealth and what we can find out about these men from the meager sources available, particularly as regards a) their attitudes to the writing of the laws, b) the party politics surrounding the election of the lawspeakers, and c) the growing role of the Church in 11th-, 12th-, and 13th-century Icelandic society. 2. The range and scope of the oral poetic tradition in 13th-century Iceland as evidenced by the examples of verse quoted by Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld in the Third Grammatical Treatise (Icelandic Þriðja málfrœðiritgerðin). By investigating where the poets he refers to came from and when they lived, we can build up a picture of the literary horizons of a man of the 13th century who was well versed in both the oral, secular learning of his family, the Sturlungar, and the Latin learning associated with the Church.

46 The second section deals specifically with a group of sagas from the east of Iceland and attempts to assess whether their internal relationships are better explained as literary borrowings or through an oral story tradition shared by them all. These internal relations manifest themselves in three areas: 1. Four characters that appear in more than one saga: the two father and son pairs Brodd-Helgi Þorgilsson and Víga-Bjarni, and Geitir Lýtingsson and Þorkell Geitisson. Here the focus is on whether and to what extent their characterizations match and/or conflict in the sources, and what this may signify. 2. The genealogical information given about Helgi Ásbjarnarson and the Droplaugarson brothers in the different sagas. The questions addressed here concern the function of the genealogies and whether they can be supposed to derive from authorial ‘source work’ or whether there is anything to suggest that they are based on a general knowledge of genealogy shared by both the writers and their audiences. 3. Accounts of the ‘same’ incidents in different sagas, viz. a) the battle of Bǫðvarsdalr, b) the story of how one of the Droplaugarson brothers’ ancestors obtained a wife abroad, c) the drowning of Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s first wife, d) the killing of Þorgrímr torðyfill, and e) the killing of Gunnarr Þiðrandabani. Tentative conclusions are drawn about the relationships between the different accounts and what they tell us about the genesis of the written sagas in light of their interplay with oral tradition. The third and final section turns to the sagas and truth, specifically the historical reality that may lie behind sagas based on a unified and unbroken story tradition going back to the Viking Age and the settlement period. I look particularly at the picture passed down to us by the saga tradition of the lands explored by sea-rovers from Iceland and Greenland to the west and south of Eric the Red’s settlement in Greenland and which they called Helluland, Markland, and Vínland. According to this tradition, these men discovered an island lying north of the mainland to the southwest of Markland and named the area nearby Vínland. The tradition also mentions places by the names of Leifsbúðir, Kjalarnes, Furðustrandir, Straum(s)fjǫrðr, and Hóp — and says that on one journey the explorers came upon a one-legged man on the far side of some mountains they had previously seen from Hóp. The main areas of interest here are how theories of saga origins have shaped people’s ideas about the Vínland sagas, and how advances in archaeology, textual criticism, and, not least, our understanding of oral tradition may be used to shed new light on the Vínland question. It will be shown that, with the change in premises advocated in this research, it may be possible to move Vínland studies a step forward toward the solution of an otherwise extremely intractable problem. The final chapter contains some general comments on what allowing for an oral tradition behind the Icelandic sagas means for the principles on which research is based and the conclusions that can be drawn from it. Two particular examples are taken for consideration: the scholarly debate surrounding the connections between Vatnsdœla saga and Finnboga saga ramma; and the way in which Hœnsa-Þóris saga refers to and works with its audience’s familiarity with the mythological tradition and how this forms an essential part of the interpretation of the saga. It should be stated here that, because of the different methods used to locate information in the works under discussion, I have not been completely consistent in my use of texts. Section II is based largely on the indexes and notes in the Íslenzk fornrit series and the quotations are therefore from these editions. Elsewhere I have made extensive use of a computer-based corpus of the sagas in modern Icelandic spelling. For this English translation an attempt has been made where possible to substitute the modern Icelandic spelling with the ‘Fornrit standard’ spelling for Old Icelandic.

47

Footnotes 1. I am thinking here of the beautiful manuscript of this work, now in Leiden and published with detailed critical apparatus by Bischoff et al. 1987-9. 2. Characters in the main cycle of heroic poems in the edda collection. A closely related story is preserved in German in the early 13th-century Nibelungenlied and retold in Richard Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Sigurðr Fáfnisbani (‘Slayer of [the dragon] Fáfnir’), or Sigurðr the Vǫlsung, is the Siegfried of the Nibelungenlied and Wagner. Guðrún Gjúkadóttir corresponds in German tradition to Kriemhilt but is more fully developed in the edda poems. The Atli, i.e. Attila the Hun, of the edda is very different in character from his counterpart Etzel in the German sources. 3. Icelandic íslendingasaga, pl. íslendingasögur, the group of sagas, mostly written in the 13th and 14th centuries, set mainly in Iceland and purporting to describe events between the settlement in the late 9th century and the middle of the 11th century, and including most of the best known sagas both within Iceland and abroad, e.g. Njáls saga, Laxdœla saga; also known as the Icelandic family sagas. The term is used here when it is necessary to distinguish this group from other genres, e.g. the kings’ sagas (konungasögur) and the heroic sagas (fornaldarsögur, literally ‘sagas of ancient times,’ sometimes called ‘mythical-poetic sagas’ or ‘legendary sagas,’ see Mitchell 1991). 4. Unlike the edda poems, which are anonymous, traditional, usually narrative, and generally simple, dróttkvætt (Icelandic dróttkvæði) are extremely highly-wrought and allusive poems, usually composed by specific poets for specific occasions. The form was most typically used for praise poems for kings and noblemen in continental Scandinavia, and such poems appear to have been highly prized and well paid for. While the term skáld can be used of any poet, it is typically restricted to professional poets working the courts of Scandinavia; hence skaldic verse is more or less synonymous with dróttkvætt. 5. ‘The diligence of the men of Iceland must not be shrouded in silence; since the barrenness of their native soil offers no means of self-indulgence, they pursue a steady routine of temperance and devote all their time to improving our knowledge of others’ deeds, compensating for poverty by their intelligence. They regard it a real pleasure to discover and commemorate the achievements of every nation; in their judgement it is as elevating to discourse on the prowess of others as to display their own. Thus I have scrutinized their store of historical treasures and composed a considerable part of this present work by copying their narratives, not scorning, where I recognized such skill in ancient lore, to take these men as witnesses.’ Trans. P. Fisher, in Ellis Davidson, H. R., ed. 1979-80. Saxo Grammaticus: the History of the Danes. Cambridge: D. S. Brewer. 6. For a discussion of the sources used in the earliest Scandinavian historical writings, both preserved and conjectured, see Ellehøj 1965 7. Margaret Clunies Ross and B. K. Martin (1986) have shown that Snorri’s account of the god Þórr’s journey to Geirrøðargarðar contains strong structural similarities to adventure Märchen according to the analytical methods developed by Vladimir Propp (1958). But rather than view this as an indication that the story may have been molded by oral performance like an adventure tale, they conclude that Snorri reshaped his material according to a familiar legendary pattern with the aim of making it more accessible to his audience. There is something about this line of reasoning that sounds too far fetched. Joseph Harris (1979), however, put forward a similar idea concerning the tale in Gylfaginning of the smith who built fortifications for the gods to keep out the rock giants and frost giants; Harris rejected the idea that this story had any genuine roots in the mythological world of the ancient North, seeing it rather as Snorri’s own invention, intended to account for certain references in the edda poem Vǫluspá and constructed on the model of a well-known migratory tale about a master builder, a story he

48 could have known as a localized etiology of Berserkjahraun on Snæfellsnes in western Iceland or from Trójumanna saga (‘Saga of Troy’). 8. It is customary to speak of Snorri’s Edda as if it were a single work by a single man, Snorri Sturluson. It would, however, perhaps be more accurate to distinguish different versions in the seven manuscripts and fragments that include the Edda along with other works: Skáldatal and the genealogies of the Sturlungar in Uppsala Book; the four grammatical treatises, a longer version of the Prologue, and Rígsþula in Codex Wormianus; Grottasǫngr, Jómsvíkingadrápa and Málsháttakvæði in Codex Regius; and þulur (metrical lists) in other manuscript fragments (see Faulkes 1993a; Nordal, G. 2001:41-72). The preservation of the work is such that it is impossible to speak of a single original version; closer to the mark would be to speak of the learned tradition of which the Edda forms an inseparable element in the manuscripts. Even so, the figure of Snorri has been central to all discussion of the work, alongside the domestic and foreign learning he had access to and utilized in its creation. 9. Baetke was in part inspired by Eugen Mogk (1923, 1924, 1932), who maintained that Snorri had more or less created his myths himself and was thus of little value as a source of Norse mythology except when he quotes directly from poetry. Later, however, George Dumézil (1948; see also Dumézil 1973 and Page 1979) demonstrated that various central ideas in Snorri’s myths reflect themes going back to common Indo-European mythology, and presumably no one nowadays would still accept Mogk’s view that Snorri created the myths in the sense of spinning them out of thin air. 10. Sæmundr fróði Sigfússon (1056-1133, ‘Sæmundr the Wise,’ ‘Sæmundr the Learned’) is believed to have compiled a (probably short and certainly now lost) synopsis in Latin of the kings of Norway — which would make him the first known Icelandic writer. 11. Ofljóst, a trope used in skaldic verse, approximating to rhyming slang in modern English; that is, it replaces elements of kennings with others dependent on punning. 12. For evidence that pre-Christian myths continued to play a living role in popular imagination in the 13th century, see Nordal, G. 1992. 13. For a general overview of this story, see Turville-Petre 1964:75-6. Turville-Petre interprets the sources as reflecting multiform versions of the myth in pre-Christian times: in Bragi’s Ragnarsdrápa the serpent appears to escape Þórr’s blow, while other sources, such as Úlfr Uggason’s Húsdrápa, suggest that Þórr manages to kill it. Turville-Petre sees Hymiskviða as reflecting this latter version. Snorri’s ideas about the serpent escaping and returning to fight against Þórr at Ragnarǫk (at the mythological end of the world) Turville-Petre sees as being based on Vǫluspá, possibly influenced by the account of the dragon that is bound and then escapes in chapter 20 of the Book of Revelation. Jan de Vries (1957:142-3) makes a similar point, commenting that many scholars have identified biblical influences here, but notes that the story is in fact widely distributed, as analyzed by Schröder (see note 15, p. 11). See also Kabell (1976:125-6) and references there, for and against; Kabell is inclined to accept the biblical connections and cites Jewish stories about a monster and an ox which could have spread to northern Europe. 14. Finnur Jónsson’s arrangement and reconstruction of various skaldic poems have been the subject of much recent discussion, especially as they affect the poems composed for kings and noblemen: see Fidjestøl 1982 and Poole 1991. 15. For a detailed discussion of Þórr’s encounter with Miðgarðsormr, see especially Schröder 1955:30-5. Schröder traces related motifs in widely distributed myths from Asia and the Pacific; his conclusion is that the story was very ancient among the peoples of Scandinavia and hardly of Christian origin. Schröder 1957 discusses Þórr’s Indo-European connections. Preben Meulengracht Sørensen 1986a considers the different multiforms of the myth with a view to identifying its original form. Schier’s (1976:433 ff.) study of the Þórr story in Húsdrápa also includes a discussion of multiforms and original forms; in tracing the sources, Schier has

49 no hesitation in classifying them according to whether Þórr kills the serpent or not. Snorri himself, in chapter 9 of Skáldskaparmál, compares the story of how ‘Ǫku-Þórr egnði uxahǫfði ok dró at borði Miðgarðsorm en ormrinn hélt svá lífinu at hann søkktisk í hafit’ (‘Chariot-Thor baited with an ox’s head and pulled Miðgarðsormr up to the side of his boat, but the serpent survived and sank back into the ocean’) with Greek tales of Hector and Achilles. 16. The age of the carvings is uncertain. Von Friesen 1924 dates the Altuna stone to the 11th century on the basis of style and the names inscribed on the stone — those of the runemaster Lífsteinn, who was working in the first half of that century, and his apprentices, Bal(l)i and Freysteinn, who would presumably have been a little younger. The Hørdum stone has no particular features that might allow the carvings to be dated with any certainty; Brøndsted 1955:102 considers it to be from the Viking Age, when stories about Þórr were in popular currency, i.e. the 8th-11th centuries. 17. Preben Meulengracht Sørensen 1986a: 265 rejects von Friesen’s explanation (1924:482) that this was due to lack of space on the stone, preferring to see it as a deliberate device on the part of the stone carver to emphasize Þórr’s part in the story within the overall context of the carvings, which depict a tripartite world of gods and men, with heaven, earth and underworld. 18. See Lindqvist 1942:24, who numbers the pictures 14, 17, and 19. 19. See Meulengracht Sørensen 1986a: 268, 272, who puts forward the view that Þórr’s fishing represents a threat to the balance of nature, in which the serpent forms an integral part, and that it was thus necessary that the god be thwarted in his intentions. In this way the myth valorizes the order of the universe. This interpretation is, however, by no means evident from Snorri’s account and only emerges from a comparison of all the available sources. 20. It is not the intention to discuss Hymiskviða in detail here. Fuller treatments may be found by, among others, Del Zotto 1979, who translates the poem into Italian with detailed notes and considers its age and connections with the poetic tradition, and Glendinning 1980 who demonstrates how the framework and structure of the poem are determined by its mythic basis. 21. Many commentators on this myth appear to presume that Snorri did indeed construct the prose with the poems as his source; for instance, Alois Wolf 1977 who takes such working methods for granted without comment in his article on Snorri’s narrative technique in Gylfaginning. The same is true of Vilhjálmur Þ. Gíslason 1942 in his book on Snorri and his mythology. 2. Old Norse poetry, particularly formal skaldic verse, makes wide use of allusive ways of citing frequent referents, e.g. sword, ship, warrior and the gods. Heiti are poetic synonyms; kennings are conventionalized periphrastic metaphors, as in ‘steed/horse/charger of the sea/ocean/waves’ for ‘ship.’ A large part of Skáldskaparmál lists ways to kenna different referents, i.e. the kinds of kennings that are applicable to them; for example, in chapter 12 of Skáldskaparmál Snorri notes that Þórr may be called ‘son of Óðinn,’ ‘hammer wielder,’ ‘destroyer of giants.’ (In non-technical prose usage, kenna has meanings such as ‘know, recognize, identify.’) 23. See Meulengracht Sørensen 1986a:273 and references there for differing views as to whether this is to be interpreted as Þórr having made himself small to deceive the giant Hymir or whether the use of the word sveinn merely indicates that Þórr is here thought of as a young god. 24. Lie 1952:33 ff. compares Hymiskviða and Bragi’s Ragnarsdrápa in order to bring out their differing stylistic approaches. Meulengracht Sørensen 1986a compares Snorri’s account of Þórr’s fishing expedition with those in his ‘sources.’ 25. Here may be mentioned the idiosyncratic interpretation of the myth by Björn Jónsson (1989:60-3). Jónsson places the story in the context of the orbit of the planet Jupiter

50 (which he associates with the god Þórr in the manner of classical mythology), which in the year 233 moved in conjunction with Saturn (corresponding to Hymir) through the sign of Pisces (i.e. the Fish), below the ecliptic through Taurus (the Bull) and returning through the constellation Cetus (the Whale), which Jónsson identifies in part with Miðgarðsormr in the region called ‘The Sea of Heaven’ by Björn and in ancient astronomy, before moving back on his track. In this passage Jupiter reached its nadir in the zodiac before it and Saturn turned back up to the ecliptic and moved out of conjunction. The ferocious glaring eyes Jónsson associates with the variable star Mira in Cetus; as Jupiter and Saturn passed Mira, Jupiter achieved a high luminosity (-2.0) while Saturn faded to 0.0. The interesting feature of this interpretation is that Jupiter passes through regions that recall many aspects of the fishing expedition — through the sign of the Fish to the Bull, and as far from the ecliptic as it is possible to go, to where the Whale/ Serpent awaits Jupiter and Saturn. Jónsson’s interpretation must be seen in light of his overall view of Scandinavian mythology as being bound up with astronomical phenomena; for instance, according to his approach, this passage of Jupiter/Þórr comes in direct continuation of his visit to Útgarða-Loki. As a general consideration, it is not unlikely that stories of journeys and actions among the gods may be connected in some way with astronomical phenomena; this is true of the myths of most peoples and was, for example, a widespread way of viewing classical myths in the first centuries after Christ and on into the Middle Ages: see p. 12; see also Santillana and Dechend 1994. This makes Jónsson’s interpretation extremely interesting, though hardly amenable to direct proof in its particular details. 26. Gurevich 1988 discusses the interrelationship between clerical writings and popular culture in the Middle Ages, with particular reference to how the Church sought to harmonize its doctrines with existing patterns of thought (pp. 39-77) and how Christianity manifested itself in the lives of ordinary people (pp. 78-103). 27. On methodological problems for the interpretation of the sagas of Icelanders as regards the relationship between literature and reality, see Meulengracht Sørensen 1992, 1993:17-33; for Sturlunga saga, see idem 1988. 28. Excellent book-length surveys of the ideas and methods of the freeprose and bookprose schools can be found in Andersson 1964 and Mundal 1977; see also Mundal’s article (1993). For a general overview from the perspective of the ‘Icelandic school,’ see Nordal, S. 1993:32-47. 29. See for example Halldórsson, Ó. 1978, Sigurjónsson 1984, and Byock 1993, 1994a. 30. On the Icelandic sagas as historical sources, see Sveinsson 1971, Harris 1986, Skovgaard-Petersen 1987, Ólason, V. 1987, Kristjánsson 1987. The question of historicity in the sagas is dealt with in greater detail below (p. 253 ff). 31. On the ‘Icelandic school,’ see Lie 1939, Halldórsson, Ó. 1978, Thorsson 1990, and Aðalsteinsson 1991. 32. The key concept of the ‘Icelandic school,’ rittengsl, denotes correspondences between texts believed to indicate that the author of one was using material from the other. This is translated ‘literary relations,’ ‘verbal borrowing,’ ‘intertextuality’ or the like (see also p. 123 ff). 33. The period from around 1200 to the end of the Commonwealth, characterized by an increasing concentration of power around a small number of clans (notably the Sturlungar) and described in the Sturlunga saga compilation. 34. Much has been written in recent decades on the art of oral narrative: see, for example, Dégh 1969, who describes narrative art among Hungarian peasants in the middle years of the 20th century, the settings and conditions of storytelling as entertainment, how tales are performed, and how the style and choice of material of individual performers is shaped in active interplay with their audiences; Stahl 1989, on the interpretation of stories based on personal recollection; and the collections of articles on oral storytelling edited by Nøjgaard et al. 1990,

51 Röhrich and Wienker-Piepho 1990, and Honko 2000 (esp. the articles by Honko himself, Lauri Harvilahti, and Anna-Leena Siikaala). See also the article by Carol Clover 1986, dealing specifically with the Icelandic sagas; this subject is treated in more detail below, p. 45. 35. On the social memory of peoples and groups within societies, see Liestøl 1929:189216, who advanced a number of arguments in support of long-term folk memory among the medieval Icelanders; Assmann 1988, who discusses how social memory among peoples and cultural groups may be grounded in both oral communication between individuals and concrete objects (including books); and Fentress and Wickham 1992, for a general account of the social memory of units within society (for the Icelanders and the Icelandic sagas in particular, see pp. 162-72). See also the collection of articles edited by Hildegard L. C. Tristram (1994), which discusses various aspects relating to texts preserved for periods of 300 years or more within the same cultural area, with examples of both oral and written preservation from Iceland, Ireland, England, and mainland Europe. See also Kristjánsson 1987 for a discussion of extended social memory and the historicity of the sagas. 36. This has been the subject of some debate. For example, Lönnroth, L. 1965 held that literary work in the Middle Ages was almost entirely restricted to the Church, but this view has been contested by both Hallberg (1965, 1966) and Chesnutt (1973). 37. Íslendingabók (‘Book of the Icelanders’) by Ari fróði (‘the Wise,’ ‘the Learned’) Þorgilsson, written some time in the years 1122-33, is the oldest extant work of Icelandic literature. It gives a brief account of the settlement and history of Iceland and is notable for its historiographical scrupulousness, e.g. attention to chronology and citation of sources. 38. (Íslendinga)þáttr, pl. –þættir, a ‘short saga,’ a short, discrete text in a style very similar to that of the sagas of Icelanders but usually dealing with a single event and a limited number of characters. Many are found incorporated into the texts of longer works, especially the kings’ sagas. For a discussion of þættir see Harris 1972 and 1976a, and Lindow 1978. For the literary role of þættir within the context of the kings’ sagas, see Jakobsson 2002:78-92. 39. Schlauch 1934:170. Similar ideas were expressed by Rubow 1928, for whom the main literary influences on the sagas of Icelanders came almost entirely from translations of European literature rather than from any internal tradition. For more recent attempts to associate the Icelandic saga tradition with influences from the continent, see Bjarni Einarsson’s work on the sagas telling the lives of Icelandic poets (1961), and on Egils saga (1975); and Tulinius (1995) on the style of the legendary sagas and Egils saga. Along similar lines, see also Tulinius 1993, 2000. But even with the best will in the world it seems futile to look for any inspiration from continental literature in the great majority of Icelandic literature, such as the edda poems, the sagas of Icelanders, Sturlunga saga, Landnámabók, the legendary sagas, and the kings’ sagas. 40. For instance, Christianity and west Norse literature was one of the two main subjects for discussion at the Sixth International Saga Conference held in Roskilde in Denmark in 1985. 41. ‘All the bones that were in his body shook, and that was two hundred and fourteen bones. His teeth chattered, there were thirty of them. All the veins in his flesh quivered with fear, there were four hundred and fifteen of them.’ 42. For reactions to Kress’s ideas, see Hallberg 1991 and Meulengracht Sørensen 1993a. Meulengracht Sørensen 1994 discusses ways of interpreting the oral tradition behind Fóstbrœðra saga against the background of its hero Þormóðr’s adventures in Greenland. 43. A related dream which Sveinsson believes may also have influenced the author of Njáls saga is that of Guðmundr guðiþekkr in Sturlunga saga following the Battle of Ørlygsstaðir, in which a giant also called Járngrímr appears, saying he is on his way among the dead. The Battle of Ørlygsstaðir, 1238, was the biggest battle ever fought on Icelandic soil, at Blönduhlíð in Skagafjörður in the north; it resulted in the defeat of the Sturlungar clan and is

52 described in detail in Sturla Þórðarson’s Íslendinga saga, the central saga within the Sturlunga saga compilation. 44. ‘It is as if I can see what is going on here. The author had without doubt seen Lómagnúpur, looked up at it from down at the farm, felt the instinctive and incomprehensible dread that can take hold of people when they look out of the world of men into the world of giants, the world of nature. Perhaps it was an autumn night, perhaps the crash of falling rocks in the mountain shattered the silence, or who knows what? He had been brought up with stories of dwellers of the rocks, whether or not he had heard any stories about this particular mountain — perhaps so, though it cannot be proved. Was it perhaps here at home on the farm that a clerk or deacon read out to him or told him the story of Anastasius and the peak of Suppentonia? Was it perhaps here that he heard the story of Guðmundr’s vision, when he met Járngrímr? There is no way of saying. But it is Lómagnúpur and the atmosphere that shrouds it in the mind of the saga writer that draws this material to itself and makes it into a unified whole.’ 45. See for example Dronke, U. 1971:145-6 and Kristjánsson 1956:xxxix ff. 46. ‘…the author’s treatment of this source [sc. Landnámabók] shows unmistakably that it was not his main purpose to record historical facts.’ Pálsson, H. 1971:16-17. 47. An excellent general survey of historiographical translations and their development in Iceland in association with foreign learning can be found in Tómasson 1992:411-418, 517571. For translations of historical works specifically from Latin, see Würth 1996, 1998. 48. In their attempts to explain why the subtleties of courtly literature tend to get lost in Norse translations, scholars have made appeal either to the primacy of entertainment value or to a simple lack of understanding on the part of the men of the North of the finer shades of meaning and message with which writers like Chrétien de Troyes imbued their work: see Kalinke 1981, 1985:335-349; Barnes, G. 1975, 1977; Weber 1986; Tulinius 1993:214-217. 49. This kind of analysis has produced some interesting results in saga research, for instance regarding class attitudes (see Njarðvík 1971) and the portrayal of individual characters (see Cook 1971). See also the introduction and various articles in vol. 1 of the periodical Skáldskaparmál (Sigurðsson, G., Harðarson, G., and Thorsson, Ö., eds., 1990), which was founded with the expressed aim of providing a forum for the discussion of the literary value of ancient texts. 50. See also Lonnröth, L. 1979, who also makes the point that the oral performance of written works has an influence on the ways in which they are interpreted; the sagas were largely written to be read aloud to audiences and are thus not directly amenable to methods of criticism designed specifically for the analysis of modern works intended to be read silently and alone. 51. ‘The label Buchprosa was originally applied by Heusler as a term of condescension for the unpoetically-minded Maurer and his ilk; it was not their own choice, which is hardly surprising, since we are not really talking about a “theory” here so much as simply a program of research.’ 52. Most of the references in the sagas to oral storytelling have been collected and discussed by Hermann Pálsson (1962, 1999). Much has been written particularly on the Reykjahólar wedding and Sturla Þórðarson’s recitation: see for instance Foote 1984, Meulengracht Sørensen 1993:42-50, 68-69. For a general discussion of oral storytelling among the Icelanders in ancient times, see Mitchell 1991:92-114. On the question of whether it is necessary to prove the existence of oral traditions in the Middle Ages, see the comments of Franz H. Bäuml 1978:42 regarding German medieval poetry: ‘The theory of oral-formulaic composition cannot well serve to establish the fact that these epics [sc. Nibelungenlied and Kudrun] were once transmitted orally, for that fact was never in doubt and played a role in theories of their evolution from Lachmann’s “Liedertheorie” on. All historical evidence upon which our knowledge of the culture of north-central Europe from the period of the migrations to the twelfth century is based, requires our acceptance of the oral transmission of vernacular

53 “heroic” epic as historical fact, just as surely as the orality of the South-Slavic songs recorded by Parry and Lord must be accepted as historical fact.’ 53. No agreement has been reached on whether these references should be interpreted as a stylistic mannerism on the part of the authors (Baetke 1956:29-31) or as genuine evidence of orality (Liestøl 1928, 1929; Andersson 1966). Andersson collects 230 examples of this type, of which 80 come from Reykdœla saga, putting it in a unique position in this respect. Of the remaining cases, he estimates that 24.7% refer to a genuine tradition, most of them relating to feuds, which he considers likely to have formed the core of oral tales. Hofmann 1972, 1977, 1977a has discussed this matter and comes to the conclusion that these are genuine references to oral tradition; this he links to the way people experienced contemporaneous events, which they would have heard about in the form of spoken accounts that would have been viewed in the same sort of way as accounts of ancient events. Thorsson’s (1993:93-6; 191-203) exhaustive computer-based research of saga vocabulary, especially the formulas in Grettis saga and the words used in the sagas for ‘to tell about’ and ‘to remember,’ has not dispelled any of the doubts in this area, though it has increased the number of examples significantly. 54. The evidence and argumentation presented here have also been used in attempts to come to some kind of understanding of how poems were delivered in oral performance, specifically whether they were interspersed with prose story material to provide explanations or to act as narrative links; for instance, the manuscript texts of many of the edda poems contain prose passages alternating with the verse, while much of the extant skaldic corpus is hard to imagine ever having existed other than embedded within a larger narrative context: see Lönnroth, L. 1971, Hofmann 1971, 1979, O’Donoghue 1991:170-185, Harris 1997. Stephen A. Mitchell 2001 has recently reopened the entire debate in this area by turning away from the freeprose-bookprose controversy and using the evidence of performance studies from modern times (in a way similar to that applied to sagas below) to interpret the textual evidence of Old Norse poetry and attempt to draw conclusions on how it may have been performed and enjoyed in its original oral environment. 55. Here may be mentioned the work of Bo Almqvist (1975, 1988, 1998), who has identified a wide range of folktale material in the sagas and used this as an indication of connections between the sagas and oral tradition. A further example of how the same material has been used both in support of and against the existence of oral stories about the heroes of the sagas appears in articles by Jónas Kristjánsson (1975) and Bjarni Einarsson (1989) on the skaldic poem Íslendingadrápa (‘Drápa of the Icelanders’). If the poem is as old as Kristjánsson maintains, it may provide evidence of oral tales before the time the sagas of Icelanders came to be written (though, in Kristjánsson’s opinion, not very strong evidence). Einarsson, on the other hand, considers the poem to be much younger and thus evidence of nothing more than that its author had access to books. Kristjánsson (1988) has also compared the sagas of Icelanders and Sturlunga saga and shown that the closer in time the sagas are to the events they describe, the more precise and accurate the narrative is, and that with the passage of time the sagas become more ‘literary.’ Perkins 1989 argues that sagas could have been preserved orally in association with ancient artifacts and features of the landscape such as ruins and burial mounds. 56. There are excellent summaries of research into oral culture in the wake of Lord’s book in Ong 1982, Lord 1986a, and Foley 1985, 1988; see also the journal Oral Tradition, founded in 1986. Detailed discussion of recent developments in this area can be found in the collection of articles edited by Olson and Torrance 1991 and in Raible’s (1994) introductory article on oral culture and literacy in a major English-German anthology on writing and its uses throughout the world. Another important contribution is Lauri Honko’s comprehensive treatment of the Siri poem from India: see Honko 1998, which includes a text of the poem extending to 15,683 lines, and the collection of articles in Honko 2000. A second edition of

54 Lord’s The Singer of Tales (1960), edited by Stephen Mitchell and Greg Nagy, came out in 2000. 57. See also Meulengracht Sørensen 1977, Ólason, V. 1978, Byock 1984, 1990, and Clover 1985:272-294, all of whom highlight ways in which research into oral culture has influenced attitudes toward the Icelandic sagas. Mitchell 1991 deals specifically with the legendary sagas, providing an excellent survey of medieval ideas on literary genre in light of the links between these sagas and oral tradition and the role of storytelling within society: see also Buchholz 1980. The subject of literary genre in the Middle Ages is also treated in some detail in various places in the first two volumes of Íslensk bókmenntasaga (‘History of Icelandic Literature’) (Ólason, V., ed. 1992, 1993a). 58. See Foley 1991:14-17 for a discussion of how the comparative point of view may be used in research into poems and stories without falling into the trap of comparing the uncomparable. 59. Fundamental writings in this spirit include Miller 1990 and the introduction to Andersson and Miller’s translation of Ljósvetninga saga and Reykdœla saga (Andersson and Miller 1989). See also Durrenberger 1992 and the collection of articles edited by Gísli Pálsson (1992). 60. Similar ideas are implicit in Steblin-Kamenskij’s (1973:21-48) concept of ‘syncretic truth,’ which is also based around the working assumptions of the writers and audiences of the sagas and their attitudes to their source value. 61. ‘In a way, the two young men died because they had listened to too many tales of heroism. Their deaths were not necessary, not on that occasion. By their conduct they showed, as so many before them, that honor was more important than life, and in this way they shaped the telling themselves.’ 62. These ideas are closely related to what many have seen as being true of language in general, i.e. that it occupies a central position in all human communication, imbued with its own values and charging everything that is said or written with meaning determined by the cultural heritage and environment of which the language forms a living part. In such matters, in so far as they affect literary studies, it is customary to refer with ringing hyperbole to the words of Roland Barthes (1977:143), that it is the language that speaks, and not the author. 63. On the premises accepted by scholars in their research and the influence these exert over their conclusions, see Sigurðsson, G. 1990. See also Mundal 1990 on comparable problems in light of Clover’s article. 64. It is perhaps emblematic of the state of scholarship, which may be compared with pre-Darwinian natural history, that the historian Sveinbjörn Rafnsson should have published an article on these poems in 1999 without giving any indication of acquaintance with research into oral tradition and the preservation of poems in the Middle Ages. That such an article should appear in a learned journal demonstrates how little communication there is between the academic disciplines, and perhaps provides yet another example of people being more interested in preserving the purity of their own areas of scholarship than in participating in a common search for truth within the humanities.

55

Part I. Oral Tradition in Iceland in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries 1. From Lawspeaker to Lawbook A Power Struggle between the Church and Secular Leaders? [1]   There can be little doubt that the rich and varied secular literary works that flowed from the pens of the writers of medieval Iceland in their vernacular tongue can only be explained against a background of a people with a stock of tales to tell about the ancient gods and the heroes of the Viking Age, the kings of northern Europe, and Icelandic chieftains of earlier centuries. We can also suppose that poets and others interested in poetry cultivated the art of reciting lays in the simple eddic meters about the Norse gods and Germanic heroes, and of memorizing the more complex court poetry — the drápur, flokkar, and occasional verses that the sagas tell us were composed by named skalds in earlier times and taught to their contemporaries for oral preservation (or even inscribed in runes), some of this verse going well back to the Viking Age. And beyond this, the oral tradition the saga writers were familiar with would have encompassed a wide and miscellaneous range of other learning, such as genealogical and legal lore. So far so good. But here the consensus breaks down and the questions start to arise: How is it possible to investigate this oral tradition? And what is the relationship between this tradition and the written texts we find in manuscripts of the Middle Ages and later? The early history of writing in Icelandic can be established with a fair degree of certainty: we can assume that some Icelandic texts of relevance to the Church found their way onto parchment quite soon after the conversion; the written recording of the laws was instituted in the winter of 1117-8 at Breiðabólstaður in Vesturhóp in northern Iceland; Ari fróði (‘the Wise’) Þorgilsson wrote his short history of Iceland, Íslendingabók (‘Book of the Icelanders’), some time during the years 1122-33; possibly around the same time, work began on the collection of information on the settlement claims and genealogies of the original settlers of the country, work that was eventually to lead to the various versions of Landnámabók (‘Book of Settlements’) that we know from the 13th century and later; and some time in the period 1125-75 the so-called ‘First Grammarian’ produced his Fyrsta málfrœðiritgerðin (‘First Grammatical Treatise’) with the aim of adapting the Latin alphabet to the needs of the Norse language. To justify his work, the author pointed out that, with a standardized alphabet, it would be easier ‘at rita ok lesa, sem nú tíðisk ok á þessu landi, bæði lǫg ok áttvísi eða þýðingar helgar, eða svá þau in spakligu frœði er Ari Þorgilsson hefir á bœkr sett af skynsamligu viti’ (‘to write and read, as is now the custom in this country too, both laws and genealogies, or exegetical writings, as well as the erudite lore that Ari Þorgilsson has set down in books with reason and intelligence’) (cf. The First Grammatical Treatise, ed. Hreinn Benediktsson 1972:208). This passage from the First Grammatical Treatise is our main source for the earliest days of literacy in Iceland in the 12th century and shows that, as might be expected, the first products were law books, genealogies, and vernacular religious writings, together with various other types of information held to be of special importance to society. We know that some time after this people started to record secular historical material and poetry, and it is clear from the burgeoning of the kings’ sagas late in the 12th century and beyond that the writers were able to

56 tap into a rich reservoir of oral sources. Little by little, authors added to the sparse written records that already existed and, chiefly between 1190 and 1220, produced longer and longer sagas by expanding them with new material that does not appear to come from earlier written books. Theodore M. Andersson 1985:221) expressed it thus: No matter what dimensions we choose to assign to Sæmundr and Ari, they cannot explain the emergence of novel-like biographies at the end of the century. And no matter how confidently we reject Beyschlag’s oral biographies as an explanation of the synoptics, we cannot elude the impression that the great sagas of the generation 1190–1220 show an enormous accretion of oral material that must have circulated earlier and was drawn on only very selectively by Sæmundr and Ari. By a rough estimate, Oddr’s Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar, the Legendary Saga of St. Olaf, and Morkinskinna’s account of Magnús góði and Haraldr harðráði are forty to fifty times the length of the equivalent sections in Ágrip. The oral tradition of poetry, stories, and ancient learning kept alive a fund of information about people and events that went all the way back to the settlement period, information that was held to be reliable regardless of whether preserved orally or in books, at least up until around 1300 — as evidenced by the fact that even this late Haukr Erlendsson was still expanding his version of Landnámabók with new material for which we know of no written source (Jóhannesson 1941:52-3, 175-203). There can be no doubt that the edda poems and skaldic verse were also preserved by memory, however little is known of the actual conditions of their preservation and performance. The same may be said of the legal and genealogical lore and the Viking Age tales that could still be heard told at the time when the legendary sagas (fornaldarsögur) came to be written down. All this had churned about in popular memory over many centuries and undergone the whole range of modification, loss and accretion that inevitably accompanies such preservation. As a general account of conditions, this is all fairly uncontroversial. There is, however, much less unanimity when it comes to individual works and their relationships with oral tradition. Differing ideas about the oral tradition behind the family sagas in the written form in which we know them were discussed in the Introduction, but the problem extends to many other written works. Snorri Sturluson, for example, could never have written his Edda if some kind of information on the ancient gods and the myths in which they appear had not still been current on people’s lips in the 13th century. On this everyone is agreed, though views differ fundamentally on the nature and form of this information: Did Snorri have only odd verses and unconnected fragments of poems preserved piecemeal to go on and use these as ‘sources’ to ‘create’ myths that conformed with the learned ideas he had acquired from books? Or did he have access to a coherent body of knowledge still preserved orally in an organized and structured form? And what can we say about the state of the oral poetic tradition in the middle years of the 13th century, after Snorri had compiled his Edda and Heimskringla and the saga of the poet, farmer, and viking Egill Skallagrímsson had first appeared in written form? On this last question scholars have had little to say beyond general comments on the decline of the skaldic art in the 13th century. But all these questions are highly pertinent and need to be faced if we are to provide a reasoned account of how much it is possible to say or know about an oral tradition that no one doubts lay somewhere behind the written works that have come down to us. It is a major step in the history of any culture when written books take over from human memory as the main repository for essential information. This step was relatively drawn out in Iceland. The age of writing took about 200 years to establish itself fully, from around 1100 to around 1300, in the sense that writing came little by little to dominate all the areas of knowledge to which it might be applied. So far as we know, no secular books at all were written in Iceland

57 in the first century of Christianity, after the year 1000; during these years writing seems to have remained the preserve of the Church. The situation changes early in the 12th century with the codification of the laws, and after this writing comes to extend its influence from one area to the next. But even 200 years on writing had not entrenched itself so firmly that people inevitably turned to books rather than oral tradition when searching for reliable information, not if we judge by lawman Haukr’s redaction of Landnámabók, compiled around 1300. In other words, even this late it was still felt possible to add to the information already to be found in books by tapping into information available only from oral sources. The only possible source for Haukr’s addenda is oral tradition (unless he made them up himself), which tells us that this tradition was still held to be a reliable source on an equal footing to the written word — though of course the fact that something is considered to be reliable says nothing about whether it actually is reliable. Eventually, inevitably, writing won out. But it is worth asking whether this shift in dominion over knowledge, from the memories of learned men to the written page, was accomplished entirely without friction or controversy.

Power and Prestige in Oral Society Before the arrival of the Church, Iceland was an oral society. People learned stories and poems one from another and practiced their religion and governed themselves with laws and legal judgments without the aid of writing. To be sure, there were people who were familiar with runes and runes form a living part of the reality described in skaldic verse (see Harris 1996), but it is unlikely that they played any significant part in administration or the perpetuation of knowledge — at least, there is nothing to suggest this in any surviving runic inscriptions. It has been suggested that runes were used to record the law at an early date, [2] but the arguments for this are based on the preconceptions of modern scholars who know nothing other than literacy and assume that oral preservation is a serious inconvenience to any society that relies on it. With Christianity came books, and people would soon have realized that writing could also be applied to areas that had previously been entirely oral. Iceland became part of the greater world of Christian culture, and the unifying symbol of this world was a book — the Bible. [3] In Iceland, the writing of Íslendingabók and Landnámabók doubtless promoted a kind of community of spirit among the inhabitants and opened up previously unknown ways of uniting the people and their origins in a single place — recorded for perpetuity in a book. The power of the Church was built upon faith in the written word, and to start with written culture extended only to matters of the spirit. The general system of education and the secular forms of government remained untouched by the technological innovation of book culture. Children and young people would have continued to assimilate the learning and ethical values of society from stories and poems handed down orally from earlier times, and the lawspeakers continued to act as keepers of the law as they always had, to recite it aloud at the Alþingi, and to adjudicate on points of dispute without reference to written books. Helgi Skúli Kjartansson (1986) has argued that the clause in Grágás, the legal code of the Icelandic Commonwealth, that it was the function of the lawspeaker to recite the law, was first introduced only in the 12th century. It is quite true, as Kjartansson says, that Grágás can be treated as unequivocal evidence only for the time of the extant manuscripts, that is, the 13th century. However, it is hardly open to doubt that the lawspeaker was in some way responsible for pronouncing on the letter of the law, whether this was done formally, by reciting all the laws over a three-year period at the Alþingi, or by making judgments in individual disputes. Men with legal learning needed to keep their knowledge fresh and this could only be done by training new people to maintain the tradition (see Miller 1990:226-7) and passing knowledge on to them

58 by the only means available, public recitation. Formal confirmation of a legal ruling or agreement could only take place ‘í heyranda hljóði’ (‘in the hearing of all’) when there were no books to refer to. Sigurður Líndal has, for instance, drawn attention to the confirmation value of the recitation of the law even after the text was put into writing, [4] and to the convenience of flexibility that oral laws offered over written ones. [5] Goody (1986:127-70) provides a general discussion of the kinds of changes that occur when oral laws are given written form, with particular reference to the experience of the British colonial rulers in Nigeria when recording the genealogies and origin tales used by the locals when settling disputes. The British attitude was that it might be useful to have this information set down incontrovertibly in writing. But when this attitude was put to the test forty years on, the locals vehemently refused to accept that the written records were correct, saying that they themselves were the better judges of how things stood. The experience was similar in Ghana. In both cases the changes in the oral tradition reflected events in the ‘pasts’ of the local peoples, social changes that had occurred since the first written recording of the information (Goody and Watt 1968:32-3). Contemporary social groups can in a similar fashion express their conflicting interests with contradictory and inconsistent myths (Leach 1967:264-278). We can assume that the position of lawspeaker conferred power and prestige on its holder. But this power and prestige was based not on a book, as happened within the Church, but on knowledge that the lawspeaker had had to acquire from the lips of other wise men. It should not be forgotten that a working knowledge of the law was essential to every chieftain who engaged in litigation (see Meulengracht Sørensen 1993:110). We should also never underestimate the importance of rhetoric and eloquence in a society that lacked writing and, out of political and social necessity, used stories and poetry as a kind of knowledge bank. In such circumstances, power and influence generally go hand in hand with linguistic ability, as shown by Eric Havelock (1963:115-30). Havelock subjected the functions of the Homeric poems in Greek society to close scrutiny, particularly Plato’s attitude to ‘poetry’ in The Republic. Havelock came to the conclusion that Plato’s animosity toward poetry was only explicable by assuming that Plato was here referring to the function of traditional poetry as the central medium for the propagation of knowledge and ethical values. In Iceland we have examples from the Sturlungar clan in the 13th century of men who acted as lawspeakers but were also prominent as secular authors and poets, i.e. men who managed, with conspicuous success, to combine familiarity with traditional oral lore (laws, poems, genealogies, and stories) with accomplishments in the field of writing. The training of legal experts was still entirely oral as late as the early years of the 12th century. This is clear from Ari’s account in Íslendingabók of events at the Alþingi in the summer of 1118. The lawspeaker Bergþórr Hrafnsson had spent the previous winter at Breiðabólstaður with the chieftain Hafliði Másson, assisting in the creation of a written record of the Vígslóði (the section of the law dealing with manslaughter) ‘ok margt annat í lǫgum’ (‘and much else in the law’) which was then ‘sagt upp í lǫgréttu af kennimǫnnum of sumarit eptir’ (‘declaimed at the Lǫgrétta [the central legislative court at the Alþingi] by clerics the following summer’) (ÍF I.1: 24). Bergþórr stood by and listened, taking no part in the reading of the text that he had helped to create — to read, you had to have priests. Perhaps it is not fanciful to imagine a look of bewilderment on Bergþórr’s face and to ask ourselves what he might have thought of this technological innovation, and whether it occurred to him that summer day on the plains of Þingvellir that sooner or later all his oral skills would be redundant — and with them him himself. What role was there left for a lawspeaker once he had given away his knowledge to a book and thereby provided priests with ready access to it — priests who now read the written law? We have no reason to suppose that Bergþórr ever learned to read or write, and there is no evidence to suggest that from this point on the position of lawspeaker included with it a right to possession of a law book (see Jóhannesson 1956a:67). Grágás (463) even contains a

59 provision to the effect that, in the case of any discrepancy between law books, precedence should be given to the book kept at Skálholt, i.e. by the bishop. Previously, to judge from the Lǫgsǫgumannsþáttr (the section of Grágás dealing with the functions of the lawspeaker), this power had been invested in the lawspeaker himself: Þat er ok at lǫgsǫgumaðr skal svo gerla þáttu alla upp segja at engi viti einna miklugi gerr. En ef honum vinnst eigi fróðleikr til þess, þá skal hann eiga stefnu við fimm lǫgmenn in næstu dœgr áðr eða fleiri, þá er hann má helst geta af, áðr hann segi hvern þátt upp, ok verðr hverr maðr útlagr þrem mǫrkum er ólofat gengr á mál þeira, ok á lǫgsǫgumaðr sǫk þá. (460) [6] If this provision was indeed in force before the age of writing, it gives an idea of the power this lack of a book to consult on points of dispute put into the hands of a small group of legal experts who were able to decide among themselves on what was law and what was not. In light of what is said later about Hafliði Másson’s connections with the episcopal sees of Skálholt and Hólar, the writing up of the law at Breiðabólstaður in the winter of 1117-8 maybe viewed as the first step in a movement led by the allies of the Church to encroach upon the secular domain of the lawspeakers, a domain in which the Church was later to exercise considerable influence. There has been a general tendency to assume that the power and influence of the lawspeakers must have declined in the 12th century once the law started to be put into writing. Sigurður Líndal (1984:131), for instance, notes that the lay chieftains had no command of literacy and that this might have given rise to certain tensions, without being specific as to what form these tensions might have taken. But it is also worth considering whether perhaps the lawspeakers may simply have preferred to preserve the law orally — an idea that may seem farfetched to us but which receives some backing from what we have learned from other oral societies. It is by no means certain that the lawspeakers would have been very taken by the new technology of writing, since their power and status within society was based on a knowledge that they alone possessed and had acquired orally. As Grágás tells us, these men could gather around them a group of legal experts to adjudicate on disputes concerning the letter of the law, and no one was permitted to listen in on their deliberations or challenge their decisions. By fixing the law in a book and ruling that when copies differed it was the bishop’s book at Skálholt that should decide, this power was removed from the orally trained lawspeaker and orally practiced lawmen and invested in the book and the bishop. There is thus good reason to question whether the lawspeaker — a learned layman elected to his position for three years and holder of the only secular office in the country — would necessarily have welcomed the introduction of writing with open arms. All the evidence suggests that this office was held in high regard; for instance, Ari’s chronology in Íslendingabók for the history of Iceland from earliest times is based on the years in office of particular lawspeakers, very much as historians elsewhere used the regnal years of kings. [7] It remains unclear, however, how deep of an impact Ari’s chronology had on popular historical consciousness; there are few signs of other writers adopting his system of dating events by the official years of the lawspeakers. But clear evidence of the high status that the office conferred on its incumbent, long after the laws were put into writing, appears in the fact that all the lawspeakers of the 13th century came from the two most powerful families in Icelandic society, the Haukdœlir and the Sturlungar (see below). This would hardly have been the case if these families had reckoned there was nothing to be gained from having the office in the pocket of one of their own number. We have no way of knowing whether the lawspeakers found it a burden to preserve the law in their memories before the advent of writing, as assumed by Einar Arnórsson (1937:108): ‘Eftir að lögin voru skráð, varð starf lögsögumanns stórum auðveldara’ (‘Once the law was

60 recorded the job of the lawspeaker became considerably easier’). It is in fact unlikely that people felt hampered by the lack of something they did not know existed — the ability to write down an article of law for later reference, or to send off a directive on a piece of vellum. People were not conscious of learning things ‘off by heart,’ because this was the way it was always done and there was no alternative. [8] Nor would they necessarily have found it a great relief to their overtaxed memories to have the law fixed in writing — as modern scholars seem to assume when they express astonishment that the law was not put into writing earlier. Thus Sverrir Tómasson (1992:266-7) claims that it is highly unlikely that no laws were written before the winter of 1117-8, mentioning (quite properly) the tithe laws; but he then goes on to say that it is inherently probable that some other parts of the law would also have been written down earlier, since it must have been in the interests of both the secular and spiritual leaders to have their authority validated by reference to written lawbooks. In general, the belief that the creation of a written record of the law was welcomed wholeheartedly by the lawspeakers and secular leaders appears to have been accepted uncritically by almost all commentators — without a shred of evidence to support it. [9] In light of what has been said above, there is in fact no compelling reason to suppose that it came as a relief to the lawspeakers to have the law in written form. On the contrary, they may well have been proud of their knowledge and looked upon the oral exercise and learning of the law as an essential part in the training of young lawmen. The tithe laws may be considered a special case here: these were established in 1096-7 during the lawspeakership of Markús Skeggjason and were in all probability written from the very outset since the initiative behind their introduction came from the Church itself. Other procedures would thus probably have applied to the tithe laws than to the traditional laws.

Literacy and the Key to Power So what were people’s attitudes to written culture as it started to make its influence felt throughout Icelandic society? [10] Was everyone equally convinced of its merits? Was everyone equally quick to adopt it? And did the acquisition of literacy become a significant factor in the political developments of the 12th century? Once we admit that data provided by research into oral cultures in modern times raises doubts as to whether the ancient lawspeakers necessarily viewed the new technology in a positive light as a powerful tool for the preservation of knowledge, we need to look at our sources afresh and ask whether they contain anything that might point to a power struggle between the secular lawspeakers and the representatives of the increasingly powerful Church. Regrettably, though unsurprisingly, our written sources contain no direct references to the views expressed by lawspeakers in the 12th century, good or bad — history, after all, was not written by them. The earliest surviving texts were written either by clerics in the 12th and 13th centuries or by learned laymen in the 13th century. Most of the laymen who are known to have cultivated writing came from the same well-established family, the Sturlungar, or were closely associated with it. The first person from this family that the sources tell us must have had access to the book learning of the Church was Snorri Sturluson, who as a boy late in the 12th century was fostered by one of the most powerful families with strong ecclesiastical connections, the Oddaverjar, as a part of a peace settlement between two local chieftains in the west of Iceland. Snorri grew up to become one of the best known writers of the Middle Ages, producing books packed with traditional poetry, myths, and secular narratives, works that have no parallel elsewhere in the European Latin Middle Ages. When Snorri came of age, he and his relatives became leading figures in a struggle for power and influence in Iceland, and for the whole of the 13th century this Sturlungar family and its men shared the post of lawspeaker with representatives of another powerful clan, the Haukdœlir.

61 This development was first noted by Jón Sigurðsson (1886:36), the leader of the movement for Icelandic independence in the 19th century, and the table below is based on Sigurðsson’s idea. It is assumed that Jón Einarsson should be counted with the Haukdœlir and Styrmir fróði (‘the Wise’) with the Sturlungar: Table 1-1: Lawspeakers of the Haukdœlir and Sturlungar clans, from the first Haukdœlir lawspeaker, Gizurr Hallson, to the abrogation of the laws of the Icelandic Commonwealth and the institution of the office of royally appointed lawman.

Haukdœlir

Sturlungar

1181–1202 Gizurr Hallsson 1203–1209 Hallr Gizurarson 1210–1214 Styrmir the Wise; member of Snorri Sturluson’s circle but of unknown family background 1215–1218 Snorri Sturluson 1219–1221 Teitr Þorvaldsson, nephew of Hallr and brother of (Earl) Gizurr Þorvaldsson 1222–1231 Snorri Sturluson 1232–1235 Styrmir the Wise 1236–1247 Teitr Þorvaldsson 1248–1250 Óláfr hvítaskáld Þórðarson, nephew of Snorri 1251 Sturla Þórðarson, brother of Óláfr 1252 Óláfr hvítaskáld Þórðarson 1253–1258 Teitr Einarsson, appointed through the offices of Gizurr and possibly his nephew 1259–1262 Ketill Þorlákssona, husband of Halldóra Þorvaldsdóttir and brother-in-law of Gizurr 1263–1265 Þorleifr hreimr Ketilsson, son of Ketill and Halldóra 1266 Sigurðr Þorvaldsson 1267 Jón Einarsson, possibly Gizurr’s nephew and brother of Teitr 1271 Þorleifr hreimr Ketilsson [1272–1276 Sturla Þórðarson, lawman] a. The patronymic also appears in the sources in the related form ‘Þorleiksson.’

62 The power of the Haukdœlir had increased gradually, hand in hand with the increasing influence of the Church. The family had provided land for the first episcopal see at Skálholt in 1056 and the first bishops had come from its ranks. But it was not until the 12th century, when the Church had become genuinely powerful — as witness the huge cathedral consecrated at Skálholt shortly after the middle of the century (see Ágústsson 1990:287-96) — that a priestly member of the family, Gizurr Hallsson, was appointed to the secular office of lawspeaker. For the next hundred years two power groups competed for supremacy: the Sturlungar, whose influence within the Church was negligible but whose secular learning in the form of stories and poems ran all the deeper, and the Haukdœlir, whose power had grown with and was inextricably linked to that of the Church. Illustrative of the literary supremacy wielded by the Sturlungar is an incident from the middle years of the 13th century: Þórðr kakali of the Sturlungar and Gizurr Þorvaldsson of the Haukdœlir go to Norway to lay their petitions before King Hákon; Þórðr has a written account of his side of the dispute to refer to, but not so Gizurr: Hákon konungr lagði stefnu til mála þeira Þórðar og Gizurar. Ok á stefnunni lét Þórðr lesa upp rollu langa er hann hafði látit rita um skipti þeira Haukdœla ok Sturlunga. Birtist þar á margr skaði er Þórðr hafði fengið í mannalátum. Þá mælti konungrinn: ‘Hvat flytr þú hér í mót Gizurr?’ Hann svarar: ‘Ekki hefi ek skrásett sagnir mínar en þó kann ek hér nǫkkuru í móti at svara. En þó kalla ek hér einarðliga frá sagt várum skiptum.’ [11] (Sturlunga saga 545) The importance of book learning for political and social advancement in the years after 1200 is perhaps reflected in the rise of the Sturlungar. The Sturlungar do not become a prominent force in disputes among local chieftains until late in the 12th century, immediately after Snorri’s time spent among the Oddaverjar at Oddi. It is quite probable that it was here that Snorri learned to read and write, or at least how to use books and appreciate their importance, whether as a personal accomplishment or through access to specialists trained in reading and writing. [12] Sturla Þórðarson’s history of the period, Íslendinga saga (Sturlunga saga 183-90), describes the rise of the three Sturlusons, Þórðr, Sighvatr, and Snorri, following the death of their father in 1183. At the point where they are introduced into the saga they are already grown men. The rise is portrayed as having occurred largely through enthusiastic involvement in litigation. The two older brothers are well set financially to begin with and strengthen their positions through prudent marriages. They then adopt a policy of intervention in minor disputes among their client farmers whose legal ramifications bring them face to face with other chieftains. Þórðr, for instance, is incensed at his failure to hang a thief while on a trip to the baths in Sælingsdalur, and then prosecutes a case for damages incurred in local disputes arising from the collection of brushwood and a scandalous case of womanizing in Reykjardalur in Borgarfjörður. Sighvatr comes to prominence by preparing a case for manslaughter at the Alþingi against a descendant of the lawspeaker Markús Skeggjason; the chieftains take the view that this is a man of no significance and decide to sacrifice him in the interests of expediency rather than incur the enmity of Sighvatr. Meanwhile, Snorri, the third and youngest, returns from Oddi without a penny to his name and has to marry for money. By the time he is twenty he has become embroiled in a major dispute between powerful chieftains, the Oddaverjar on the one hand and Sigurðr Ormsson on the other. The scenario as depicted in Íslendinga saga elevates Snorri to the national arena, drawing a distinction between him and his brothers. Snorri avoids getting involved in litigation on behalf of his clients independently and without support, in the manner of petty local chieftains like his brothers; instead he builds up a web of alliances in Borgarfjörður among the followers of the great chieftain Jón Loftsson, enabling him to stand

63 up against the powerful Svínfellingar and their allies the Ásbirningar (as well as his own brother Sighvatr). Snorri’s part in these disputes can hardly be explained other than in the light of his fosterage at Oddi and the links he forged there with Jón Loftsson and his son Sæmundr. But Snorri enjoyed a further advantage over his brothers — his book learning, which was to prove extremely valuable to the entire family, in particular to his brothers, whose political careers were at this time taking off in earnest, even if they did not always see eye to eye. Sighvatr’s rise in Eyjafjörður in the north of Iceland, for instance, coincides with the lawspeakership of Styrmir, one of Snorri’s circle, and Snorri’s nephews (Sturla Sighvatsson, and Sturla and Óláfr Þórðarson) all spent time with Snorri at Reykjaholt and clearly benefited from the education they received there at his hands. After the chapters in Íslendinga saga dealing with the rise of the Sturlusons comes a section known as ‘Haukdœlaþáttr.’ As mentioned above, between the conversion and the 13th century the Haukdœlir had acquired considerable influence through their connections with the bishopric of Skálholt. Their power appears to have grown hand in hand with that of the Church. Here, too, the development suggests an increasing role for book culture in national politics, epitomized by the lawbook now kept at Skálholt and used in place of the lawspeaker’s memory as final arbiter in disputes of law. It thus appears that the families who wielded most power in the later years of the 12th century and on into the 13th were connected with the Church and book culture in different ways. The Haukdœlir had been closely associated with the see of Skálholt since its inception and had allies in the north in the Húnrǫðlingar, the family of Hafliði Másson. Well on into the 13th century many of the incumbents of both bishoprics, Skálholt in the south and Hólar in Eyjafjörður in the north, were either members of the Haukdœlir clan or had close links with it. The Sturlungar, on the other hand, were little associated with the Church, if we leave aside Þórðr and Snorri’s support for Bishop Guðmundr Arason throughout his interminable disputes. It is hard to judge how devout and orthodox the Sturlungar were in an ecclesiastical sense, but they were undeniably considerably more bookish than the general run, at least once Snorri had returned home from Oddi to Borgarfjörður bringing his literacy and learning with him. Of the other powerful clans, the Ásbirningar in the north had a short period of ascendancy but never succeeded in gaining a command of book learning, nor control over the ee of Hólar, despite their hand in the election of Guðmundr Arason. The same may be said initially of the Svínfellingar in the south, though towards the middle of the 13th century they produced the imposing figure of Brandr Jónsson, priest, abbot, writer, and eventually bishop of Hólar. The Oddaverjar from Oddi in the south prospered as a result of their control of Church lands and their central position in the communications system (Þorláksson 1989). They acquired a reputation for learning, and had powerful influence both at Hólar, where Brandr Sæmundsson was bishop 1163-1201, and at Skálholt, for instance through the elections of Þorlákr Þórhallson in 1174 and Páll Jónsson in 1195. [13] Our information on the power groupings of the late 12th and 13th centuries is thus good. But what of the 11th and early 12th centuries? Who were the most powerful families on the political scene in this earlier period? And what means do we have to find out? The position of the highest secular officer of preliterate times, the lawspeaker, remained unchanged even after the Church and bishops replaced the allsherjargoði (chief priest) as the spiritual leaders of Icelandic society. The word of God was read from a book, but a considerable time passed before people saw any reason to apply the same approach to the recitation of the law and produce a lawbook to adjudicate on matters that had previously been the province of the lawspeaker. As we have seen, it is by no means certain that the lawbook was immediately accorded precedence over ‘learned men,’ and additions continued to be made to the legal codices long after the original writing of ‘Hafliðaskrá’ in 1117-8. [14] We may suppose that at

64 all periods the choice of lawspeaker was largely determined by the standing and success of particular families in national politics, just as we know happened in the 13th century when representatives of the Sturlungar and Haukdœlir alternated in office. The section in Grágás dealing with the functions and duties of the lawspeaker, the ‘Lǫgsǫgumannsþáttr’ (459), contains detailed provisions for settling disputes over the election of lawspeakers, but there are no direct records of any such disputes in earlier times — other perhaps than at the conversion, when, according to Ari in Íslendingabók, the Christian party at the Alþingi asked Hallr of Síða to declaim a version of the law suitable for those who wished to follow the new religion, since the existing lawspeaker, Þorgeirr, was then still heathen. The problem is thus to find some approach that might perhaps reveal patterns suggestive of different groupings and interests around the choice of lawspeaker before the position became the monopoly of the leading families of the Sturlung Age (for which we have copious written records). As is well attested, from the very beginnings of Christianity in the country the Icelandic chieftains exerted great influence over the Church. The Church thus enjoyed the patronage of the most powerful people in the country (as opposed to, at this early stage, there being any question of influence being acquired through connections to the Church). The nowChristianized traditional priests (goði, pl. goðar) had churches built on their lands and took undisputed charge of them up until the second half of the 12th century, when Bishop Þorlákr Þórhallson asserted the Church’s claim over their jurisdiction (thereby incurring the enmity of the powerful Oddaverjar led by Jón Loftsson). People endowed their local churches with lands in return for retaining use of the land itself, control of tenancy rights, and agreement that control over the church and its revenues remained in the family (Stefánsson 1975:89, 2000:206-16). The first bishop of Skálholt, Ísleifr Gizurarson, was the nephew of Skafti Þóroddsson, lawspeaker 1004-30, and Ísleifr’s descendants and relations included a number of highly regarded figures in Icelandic society: his son Gizurr Ísleifsson succeeded him as bishop of Skálholt; Hafliði Másson, the leading light behind the move to make a written record of the law, was the son-in-law of Ísleifr’s son Teitr; and the first 12th-century lawspeaker we know about in any detail, Gizurr Hallsson (lawspeaker 1181-1200), was Ísleifr’s great-grandson and a leading representative of the Haukdœlir. Hafliði Másson also had connections with the northern bishopric of Hólar, since the priest Illugi Bjarnason, having endowed the see with his patrimony, moved to Hafliði at Breiðabólstaður and ‘hvílir hans líkami þar’ (‘his body rests there’), as it says in Laurentius saga (3).

Figure 1-1: Family connections linking lawspeakers Grímr Svertingsson and Skafti Þóroddsson, the first bishops, Hafliði Másson, and lawspeaker Gizurr Hallson

65 One way to look for signs of any power struggle surrounding the lawspeakers is to examine what the written records have to say about them, not so much for what we can find out about their lives [15] as for how they are presented, described, and distinguished. We may suppose there would have been a certain cachet in being able to trace one’s lineage back to lawspeakers. It seems intrinsically likely that those who controlled the pen in the 12th and 13th centuries would have taken pains, if at all possible, to trace their own lines or those of their powerful contemporaries back to such distinguished ancestors. If this does not occur, the reason might lie in a genuine lack of genealogical information (though this is perhaps unlikely in the case of lawspeakers); but it might also be because the writers and patrons of writers in the 12th and 13th centuries (who were simultaneously the most active figures in the politics and religious affairs of their times) simply did not have any family relations with lawspeakers of earlier times and thus had only limited interest in recording their histories. We might perhaps expect some kind of disruption in social stratification accompanying the introduction and spread of writing. Many parallel cases can be cited from various parts of the world. For instance, in the former British colonies in West Africa, literacy provided a means of accessing positions of authority that had formerly been the monopoly of certain families; this resulted in a period of rapid social mobility until new class boundaries became established (Goody 1986:113-9). Something very similar happened in Iceland during the mass migration to Reykjavík after the Second World War; general public education, social changes and the new geographic environment provided opportunities for children from the impoverished families of farmers and fishermen to advance themselves in ways that had previously been inconceivable. The question then arises of why some of the most powerful and highly regarded men of the 11th and 12th centuries came to be held of such little note when we reach the 13th that their names are conspicuously absent from the genealogies found in books reflecting the outlook of the dominant families of this later period. We know that two leading families alternated in the post of lawspeaker throughout most of the 13th century; we know nothing about any such families or interest groups behind the lawspeakers of earlier times. By examining what the records have to say about these earlier lawspeakers, how they are introduced and how their genealogies are presented, we can perhaps extract some indirect evidence of groupings that competed for power at the time when the new technique of writing was taking over functions that had previously been the province of oral practitioners. At the same time it is also worth seeing whether there is anything in the sources that might allow us to classify the lawspeakers according to whether or not they are likely to have embraced the new technology, or perhaps show any particular allegiance to the traditional ways.

Ari’s Records of the Earliest Lawspeakers Ari fróði Þorgilsson’s Íslendingabók is our oldest and best source of information on the lawspeakers from the earliest days up to the time of its composition in the third decade of the 12th century. From what Ari says about them we can attempt to build up an idea of whether he links any of them together or associates them with particular power interests, such as particular families, the Church, or even regions of the country. Table 1-2: Lawspeakers of the 10th, 11th, and 12th centuries 927–929 Úlfljótr í Lóni 930–949 Hrafn Ketilsson hœngs 950–969 Þórarinn Ragabróðir Óleifsson

1075 Gunnarr spaki Þorgrímsson 1076–83 Sighvatr Surtsson 1084–1107 Markús Skeggjason

66 970–984 985–1001 1002–03 1004–30 1031–33 1034–53 1054–62 1063–65 1066–71 1072–74

Þorkell máni Þorsteinsson Þorgeirr Þorkelsson of Ljósavatn Grímr Svertingsson Skafti Þóroddsson Steinn Þorgestsson Þorkell Tjǫrvason Gellir Bǫlverksson Gunnarr spaki Þorgrímsson Kolbeinn Flosason Gellir Bǫlverksson

1108–16 1117–22 1123–34 1135–38 1139–45 1146–55 1156–70 1171–80 1181–1200

Úlfheðinn Gunnarsson Bergþórr Hrafnsson Guðmundr Þorgeirsson Hrafn Úlfheðinsson Finnr Hallsson Gunnarr Úlfheðinsson Snorri Húnbogason Styrkárr Oddason Gizurr Hallsson

Pre-conversion lawspeakers by geographical region The respect accorded to the office of lawspeaker is apparent in Ari’s use of it as a basis for his chronology — similar to the use made by historians elsewhere of the regnal years of kings. Ari names the closest relatives of some of the very early lawspeakers but otherwise does not provide genealogies. He does, however, say where in the country they were from, and there is reason to think that the selection of lawspeaker was in part based on regional considerations: see the provision in Grágás (459) that the deputy shall come from the same quarter as the lawspeaker himself. [16] On the first five lawspeakers, Ari provides the following information: 1. Úlfljótr (927–929) comes to Iceland from Norway armed with his knowledge of law; he is first said to be ‘austrœnn’ (‘eastern,’ but also ‘from continental Scandinavia, Norwegian’), before he settles ‘austr í Lóni’ (‘at Lón in the east’). 2. Hrafn, son of Ketill hœngr (930–949) is ‘ýr Rangárhverfi,’ i.e. from the Rangá district in the south. 3. Þórarinn Ragabróðir (950–969) is ‘borgfirzkr,’ i.e. from Borgarfjörður in the west. [17] 4. Þorkell máni (970–984) is simply designated ‘Þorsteinssonr Ingólfssonar’ (‘son of Þorsteinn, son of Ingólfr’). Ari presumably considered Ingólfr Arnarson, traditionally the first settler of Iceland, and his land claim at Reykjavík to be too well known to need further specification. 5. Þorgeirr Þorkelsson (985–1001) is said to be ‘at Ljósavatni,’ i.e. from Ljósavatn in the north. Ari also specifies the regional origins of some of the leading chieftains at the time of the conversion: Hallr ‘á Síðu’ (from Síða in the extreme south); Hjalti Skeggjason ‘ýr Þjórsárdali’ (from Þjórsárdalur in the southern lowlands); and Gizurr inn hvíti (‘the White’) son of Teitr son of Ketilbjǫrn ‘frá Mosfelli’ (from Mosfell in Grímsnes in the southern lowlands). The apparent emphasis on where people came from indicates that their region of origin was considered important (just as in modern Iceland), though it is difficult from such limited material to draw broader conclusions about any legally sanctioned distribution of power between regions.

67

Lawspeakers after the conversion: increased emphasis on family connections The first lawspeaker after the conversion, Grímr Svertingsson (1002-1003), is said to be ‘at Mosfelli’ (from Mosfell in Mosfellssveit near Reykjavík); Ari does not make it clear that this is a different Mosfell from the one settled by Ketilbjǫrn (see above), though we know this from other sources. Grímr held the post for two summers ‘en þá fekk hann lof til þess, at Skafti Þóroddsson hefði, systurson hans, af því at hann vas hásmæltr sjalfr’ (‘but then he got permission for Skafti Þóroddsson (1004-1030), his sister’s son, to have [the post] because he had lost his voice’) (ÍF I.1:19). [18] Skafti Þóroddsson and his successors. Skafti Þóroddsson is the first lawspeaker who is identified not by place of origin but by his relationship to his predecessors. Ari also has more to say about his actions in office than he has about any other lawspeaker, notably his severity in the matter of punishments and fines imposed on chieftains, something that is not mentioned in other sources. Ari provides no information on the families or origins of the subsequent lawspeakers: Steinn Þorgestsson, three summers (1031-1033); Þorkell Tjǫrvason, twenty summers (10341053); and Gellir Bǫlverksson, nine summers (1054-1062). These bare details are followed by an account of the first bishops, Ísleifr and Gizurr, in the course of which Ari gives the names and terms of the lawspeakers during the relevant period: Gunnarr inn spaki (‘the Wise’) for three summers (1063-1065); Kolbeinn Flosason, six summers (1066-1071); then Gellir for a second term, three summers (1072-1074); then Gunnarr for a second term, one summer (1075); then Sighvatr Surtsson, ‘systurson Kolbeins’ (‘the son of Kolbeinn’s sister’), eight summers (1076-1083). Sighvatr Surtsson is the second case of the nephew, specifically the son of a sister, of a previous lawspeaker acceding to the office. [19] Markús Skeggjason. Ari cites Markús Skeggjason, lawspeaker (1084–1107), as one of his main sources of information: ‘At hans sǫgu es skrifuð ævi allra lǫgsǫgumanna á bók þessi, þeira es váru fyrir várt minni, en hónum sagði Þórarinn bróðir hans ok Skeggi faðir þeira ok fleiri spakir menn til þeira ævi, es fyrir hans minni váru, at því es Bjarni enn spaki hafði sagt, fǫðurfaðir þeira, es munði Þórarin lǫgsǫgumann ok sex aðra síðan’ (‘It is from his testimony that I have written in this book the lives of all the lawspeakers there were before I can remember; and he got the information about the lives of those who came before he could remember from his brother Þórarinn and his father Skeggi and other wise men, just as Bjarni the Wise, their father’s father, had told it to them, and he could remember lawspeaker Þórarinn [Ragabróðir] and six others since’) (ÍF I.1:22). Even though Markús is not said to have been closely related to other lawspeakers, the genealogical emphasis in this passage describing how Markús acquired his information from his brother, father, and grandfather suggests that the cultivation of ancient learning tended to go in families, and it is not improbable that expertise in the law went hand in hand with a more general familiarity with historical learning (see Meulengracht Sørensen 1993:113-116). Also of great interest is the close cooperation between Markús and Bishop Gizurr Ísleifsson; Ari devotes a long passage to the tithe laws, which he says were introduced after consultation with Markús and on the initiative of Gizurr and the priest and historian Sæmundr Sigfússon (Sæmundr fróði, ‘Sæmundr the Learned’). From this it seems that Markús had closer connections with the Church than his predecessors among the ranks of lawspeakers; his poems on the Christian kings of Denmark and Sweden may perhaps point in the same direction. Úlfheðinn Gunnarsson. Markús’s successor, Úlfheðinn (1108-1116), is said to be the son of a former lawspeaker, Gunnarr the Wise. Earlier in Íslendingabók Ari refers to Úlfheðinn twice as his source for particular pieces of information: on the finding of a body in Kolsgjá in

68 connection with the establishment of the Alþingi site at Þingvellir; and on the division of the country into quarters in 965 following a dispute between the chieftains Þórðr gellir and TunguOddr (see p. 321 below). Other than this, Ari has nothing to say about Úlfheðinn. Bergþórr Hrafnsson. Bergþórr Hrafnsson (1117–1122) is the last lawspeaker named in Íslendingabók. [20] Ari gives a detailed account of his part in the writing of the law, a project initiated ‘at sǫgu ok umbráði þeira Bergþórs ok annarra spakra manna’ (‘on the word of and in consultation with Bergþórr [and Hafliði Másson] and other wise men’) (ÍF I.1:23). The significance of ecclesiastical connections in Ari’s accounts. The post-conversion lawspeakers listed in Íslendingabók fall into two groups according to what and how much Ari has to say about them (see table). Table 1-3: Lawspeakers in Ari’s Íslendingabók by how much is said of them Lawspeakers about whom Ari says more than just their names Grímr Svertingsson Skafti Þóroddsson (son of Grímr’s sister) Markús Skeggjason Bergþórr Hrafnsson

Lawspeakers merely named by Ari (with some genealogical details) Steinn Þorgestsson Þorkell Tjǫrvason Gellir Bǫlverksson Gunnarr Þorgrímsson Kolbeinn Flosason Sighvatr Surtsson (son of Kolbeinn’s sister) Úlfheðinn Gunnarsson

What stands out is that it is the lawspeakers who had particular links to the Church about whom Ari has more to say than just their names and immediate lineage: Grímr was the brother of Skafti’s mother, and Skafti was, as noted above, closely related to Bishop Ísleifr; Markús collaborated with Bishop Gizurr in the establishment of the tithe laws, and Skafti and Markús were associated in the genealogies (and later distinguished from Steinn, Gellir, and Sighvatr by being traced back to well-known descendants of Bjǫrn buna); and Bergþórr assisted in the writing of the law alongside Hafliði Másson, the son-in-law of Bishop Ísleifr’s son Teitr. [21] It is thus fairly clear that these four had closer connections to the Church than the other lawspeakers, and even perhaps a rather greater familiarity with ecclesiastical learning. In other words, Ari seems keener to talk about the lawspeakers who it is known were closer to the Church than those who do not appear to have had such connections. This provides indirect evidence that such connections were considered important, and perhaps that the men of the Church formed a kind of party in opposition to the more secular chieftains at the other side of the political divide from the priest and historian Ari Þorgilsson — assuming that interest groups were competing for power at this time in anything like the way we know they did in the 13th century.

Other records of the lawspeakers of whom Ari gives only names and family details What then of the post-conversion lawspeakers who seem to have had no connections with the Church? Ari may not have much to say about them, but is this true of other sources? And do we find any evidence in these sources of these men being associated in other ways that might allow us to categorize them into particular family or political groupings?

69 Steinn Þorgestsson. Steinn Þorgestsson’s genealogy is given in Landnámabók (S 88, H 76). [22] His paternal great-grandfather was Steinn mjǫksiglandi (‘the Much-Sailing’), who settled at Skógarströnd in western Iceland, and his mother was Arnóra, the daughter of Þórðr gellir. No details are given of any descendants. Steinn is also mentioned in Grettis saga (ÍF VII:244, 269), where his ancestry is traced as in Landnámabók and where he is said to have been ‘vitr maðr’ (‘a wise man’ — on the grounds that he ruled against Ǫngull getting the bounty offered for the killing of Grettir because he had used magic to do so). Þorkell Tjǫrvason. Despite his having been lawspeaker for twenty years (1034-53), Þorkell Tjǫrvason is a shadowy figure indeed. Other than Íslendingabók, no ancient source applies the title of lawspeaker to any man of the relevant period bearing the name Þorkell. Ari’s lawspeaker has often been identified with the grandson of the 10th-century lawspeaker Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði (‘Priest of the House of Ljósavatn’); this man is mentioned once in Ljósvetninga saga: ‘Hrólfr hét sonr Þorkels Tjǫrvasonar Þorgeirssonar frá Ljósavatni’ (‘There was a man called Hrólfr, son of Þorkell, son of Tjǫrvi, son of Þorgeirr of Ljósavatn’) (ÍF X:101). Speaking against this identification, it is highly surprising, if this Þorkell really had held the distinguished position of lawspeaker, that Ljósvetninga saga should make no mention of this fact. However, cultivation of the law seems to have run in families, and the grandfather of this Þorkell Tjǫrvason had been the lawspeaker Þorgeirr of Ljósavatn, and this may be taken as evidence in favor of the conjectured identification. In his history of the lawspeakers, Jón Sigurðsson (1886:18) mentions a suggestion put forward by Bogi Benediktsson that lawspeaker Þorkell might be identified with Þorkell, the son of Torfi Valbrandsson from the island of Skáney in Borgarfjörður, mentioned in Landnámabók; this conjecture has generally been rejected, in part on the grounds that this man is nowhere mentioned as having been a lawspeaker, and in part because it is hard to reconcile a confusion between the names ‘Torfi’ and ‘Tjǫrvi’ on the part of the author or copyist of Landnámabók. Gellir Bǫlverksson. The genealogy of Gellir Bǫlverksson is given in Landnámabók (S 129, H 101). His paternal grandfather was Eyjólfr grái (‘the Gray’) and his mother was Ísgerðr, daughter of Þorsteinn, son of Oddleifr, the father of Gestr inn spaki (‘the Wise’), to whom Haukr Erlendsson traces his own descent at this point in Hauksbók. Landnámabók gives no line of descent from Gellir, but his mother’s sister was Véný, the mother of Þórðr krákunef (‘CrowNose’), ‘þaðan eru Krákneflingar komnir’ (‘from whom the Krákneflingar are descended’) (S 129). The line from Þórðr krákunef to his grandson, Þorvaldr of Vatnsfjörður, is given in Sturlunga saga. Gellir’s half-brother Eyjólfr figures in Njáls saga, where he is described as ‘virðingamaðr mikill ok allra manna lǫgkœnastr, svá at hann var inn þriði mestr lǫgmaðr á Íslandi […] Hann var fégjarn sem aðrir frændr hans’ (‘a man of great distinction and as astute as they come in matters of law, so that he was the third greatest lawman in Iceland […] He was avaricious, like other members of his family’) (ÍF XII:363). Eyjólfr pleads Flosi’s case at the Alþingi and almost succeeds in having the prosecution for the burning of Njáll thrown out of court, but is discovered to have breached legal procedures and is killed in the ensuing battle, ‘lagiðr ógildr fyrir ójǫfnuð ok rangyndi’ (‘his life deemed forfeit for his injustice and misdeeds’) (ÍF XII:413). Bǫlverkr, the father of Eyjólfr and Gellir, was the brother of Ari fróði’s greatgrandfather, and so it would have been only natural if Ari had tried to make something of Gellir, if only for reasons of family pride. But in view of Njáls saga’s comments on his brother Eyjólfr, and Hungrvaka’s scathing remarks about a certain lawman of the time (which could well be Gellir), [23] it may be that this was a member of the family that the priest in Ari was happier to gloss over. Gunnarr spaki (‘the Wise’) Þorgrímsson. The sources tell us little about Gunnarr the Wise, although both his sons and probably two of his grandsons followed him in the post of lawspeaker. He is mentioned in various genealogies, but without any strong connections to well

70 known chieftains, and he is unique among all the lawspeakers in that his ancestry is unknown. Jón Sigurðsson (1886:19) suggested that Gunnarr’s ancestry went back to Víðimýri in Skagafjörður in northern Iceland, but produced no particular evidence and there is no way of confirming this. [24] The genealogies in Sturlunga saga trace a line of descent from Gunnarr to Ketill Þorleiksson, priest and lawspeaker in the final years of the Commonwealth (1259-1262). This Ketill was the son of Þorleikr/Þorlákr and Guðlaug, who was descended on her father’s side from Guðmundr ríki (‘the Powerful’) and whose mother was Sigríðr, daughter of Hallr, ‘Hrafnssonar lǫgmanns Úlfheðinssonar lǫgmanns Gunnarssonar lǫgmanns’ (‘son of Hrafn the lawspeaker, son of Úlfheðinn the lawspeaker, son of Gunnarr the lawspeaker’) (Sturlunga saga, 51) — but this is as far back as it goes. The genealogy is apparently intended to relate Ketill to Gunnarr and other lawspeakers, though Ketill’s power and position undoubtedly owed more to his maternal connections with the Haukdœlir (he himself was married to Halldóra Þorvaldsdóttir, the sister of Earl Gizurr) than to any descent from previous lawspeakers.

Figure 1-2: Genealogy of lawspeaker Gunnarr the Wise and his probable connections to Hafliði Másson and Finnr Hallsson Kolbeinn Flosason. The lawspeaker Kolbeinn Flosason (1066-71) has been identified by different scholars with two different men known to have borne this name in the mid-11th century: Kolbeinn son of Flosi, the son of Valla-Brandr; and Kolbeinn the son of Flosi Þórðarson, the leader of the burners of Njáll in Njáls saga. Jakob Benediktsson (1968:364-365) in the Íslenzk fornrit edition of Landnámabók favors the latter. The name appears in the sources in the following contexts:

71 Landnámabók (S 270, H 232) traces the genealogy of the Vápnfirðingar clan from Ǫlvir hvíti (‘the White’), father of Þorsteinn hvíti, father of Þorgils, father of Brodd-Helgi, father of Víga-Bjarni, father of Skegg-Broddi, father of Þórir, father of Guðrún ‘er átti Flosi, son Kolbeins’ (‘the wife of Flosi son of Kolbeinn’), this Kolbeinn being the son of Flosi Vallabrandsson. Later (S 359, H 315) a line of descent is given from the settler Flosi Þorbjarnarson, who moved to Iceland after killing three of King Haraldr hárfagri’s local governors; this includes the information that his daughter Ásný was the mother-in-law of VallaBrandr, father of Flosi, father of Kolbeinn, ‘fǫður Guðrúnar, er Sæmundr fróði átti’ (‘father of Guðrún, the wife of [the historian] Sæmundr fróði’). In the Hauksbók redaction, Haukr Erlendsson extends this line down to himself and adds that Flosi married Guðrún, the daughter of Þórir, son of Skegg-Broddi: ‘þeira synir váru þeir Kolbeinn, er fyrr var nefndr, ok Bjarni, faðir Bjarna, fǫður Flosa, fǫður Valgerðar, móður herra Erlends, fǫður Hauks’ (‘their sons were Kolbeinn, mentioned previously, and Bjarni, father of Bjarni, father of Flosi, father of Valgerðr, mother of Squire Erlendr, father of Haukr [i.e. himself]’). We may suppose that Haukr would have noted that his ancestor Kolbeinn Flosason had held the title of lawspeaker if he had felt justified in doing so.  The very last person mentioned in Njáls saga is Kolbeinn, the son of Flosi, the son of Kári and Hildigunnr, ‘er ágætastr maðr hefir verið einn hverr í þeiri ætt’ (‘one of the finest men to have come from that family’) (ÍF XII:463-4).  In an uncontextualized genealogy at the end of the Sǫrla þáttr episode in Ljósvetninga saga, Kolbeinn Flosason is named as the father-in-law of the historian Sæmundr fróði: ‘Dœtr þrjár áttu Kolbeinn ok Guðríðr. Eina dóttur, Guðrúnu, átti Sæmundr inn fróði, ok tvær dœtr hans áttu tveir brœðr Sæmundar. Kolbeinn Flosason var grafinn í Fljótshverfi, en hon fœrði hann til Rauðalœkjar’ (‘Kolbeinn and Guðríðr had three daughters. One of these daughters, Guðrún, married Sæmundr fróði, and two of his [i.e. Kolbeinn’s] daughters married two of Sæmundr’s brothers. Kolbeinn Flosason was buried in Fljótshverfi but she had his body removed to Rauðalækur’ (ÍF X:112).  Toward the end of Þorsteins saga Síðu-Hallssonar there is a lacuna, after which the text picks up with a series of genealogies. Among these there is a mention of Álǫf, the sister of Hallr of Síða, who is said to have been ‘móðir Kolbeins Flosasonar, Þórðar sonar Freysgoði at Svínafelli’ (‘the mother of Kolbeinn, son of Flosi, son of Þórðar Freyr’s-Priest of Svínafell’) (ÍF XI:319). Other notable people traced back to Hallr of Síða at this point include Bishop Jóhann the Holy; Gróa, the wife of Teitr, son of Gizurr the White (‘Their son was Hallr, father of Gizurr, father of Bishop Magnús and of Þorvaldr, father of [Earl] Gizurr’ (ibid.)); his son-inlaw Eyjólfr, the son of Guðmundr ríki of Möðruvellir (‘Their daughter was Þórey, the mother of Sæmundr fróði, father of Loftr, father of Jón, father of Sæmundr of Oddi’ (ibid.)); and his grand-daughter Þórdís, who was mother of Jórunn, wife of Teitr Ísleifsson. In view of the obvious interest here in family connections to important personages it is surprising that Kolbeinn Flosason is neither named as lawspeaker nor said to be Sæmundr’s father-in-law — if this is one and the same man. Such distinction as accrues to this Kolbeinn comes from his blood connections to Flosi and Þórðr of Svínafell rather than from any official position he may have held.  Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs traces the family of Bjarni of Hof. One of Bjarni’s daughters is said to be Halla, the mother of Guðríðr ‘er Kolbeinn lǫgsǫgumaðr átti’ (‘wife of lawspeaker Kolbeinn’) (ÍF XI:78); Kolbeinn’s father is not named, nor any relationship through marriage to Sæmundr fróði. One of Bjarni’s sons-in-law is said to have been Þorsteinn, the son of Hallr of Síða and the ancestor of Bishop Magnús Einarsson. Other notable figures listed here among Bjarni’s descendants include Þóra, the wife of Þorvaldr Gizurarson; Ormr of Svínafell; Guðný Bǫðvarsdóttir and the Sturlusons; Arnfríðr, the wife of Digr-Helgi; Finnr the priest (possibly the same man as lawspeaker Finnr Hallson); and ‘many men of noble lineage.’ 

72 Kolbeinn Flosason is named in the genealogies in Sturlunga saga (37:46), where it is said that Sæmundr fróði married his daughter Guðrún. 

The sources thus tell us that a man called Kolbeinn Flosason (the son of Valla-Brandr) was the father-in-law of the historian Sæmundr fróði: see Landnámabók, Ljósvetninga saga (no father specified) and Sturlunga saga (no father specified). A man of the same name appears as the son of Flosi Kárason in Njáls saga and of Flosi of Svínafell in Þorsteins saga SíðuHallssonar, and as a lawspeaker in Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, though here without details of his paternity or son-in-law. Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs agrees with Ljósvetninga saga in giving the name of Kolbeinn Flosason’s wife as Guðríðr. Whoever lawspeaker Kolbeinn Flosason really was, the compilers of the written sources do not appear to have shown much interest in tracing connections between him and the chieftainly clans of Iceland, except perhaps Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, which mentions him in the same breath as Bishop Magnús, Þorvaldr Gizurarson, and the Sturlusons — though without giving clear details of his own background and family connections. Sighvatr Surtsson. Sighvatr Surtsson appears more widely in the sources specified as a lawspeaker than his maternal uncle Kolbeinn, generally in contexts that link him either with the Church or with descendants of the legendary Norwegian/Hebridean progenitor of noble families, Ketill flatnefr (‘Flatnose’). Landnámabók (S 129, no corresponding passage in H) says that Þórdís, the daughter of Helgi skarfr, was married to Þorsteinn Ásbjarnarson from Kirkjubær; [25] ‘þeira son var Surtr, faðir Sighvats lǫgsǫgumanns’ (‘their son was Surtr, the father of Sighvatr the lawspeaker’). In the same place there is the added nformation that Þorsteinn Oddleifsson, the nephew of Helgi skarfr, was the father of Ísgerðr, the mother of lawspeaker Gellir. Sighvatr’s genealogy is given again later in the context of the land claim of Ketill fíflski (‘the Foolish’), the grandson of Ketill flatnefr: ‘Ketill bjó í Kirkjubœ; þar hǫfðu áðr setit papar, ok eigi máttu þar heiðnir menn búa. Ketill var faðir Ásbjarnar, fǫður Þorsteins, fǫður Surts, fǫður Sighvats lǫgsǫgumanns, fǫður Kolbeins’ (‘Ketill lived at Kirkjubær; there had previously been papar [i.e. Irish Christian monks] settled there and it was impossible for heathen men to live there. Ketill was the father of Ásbjǫrn, father of Þorsteinn, father of Surtr, father of lawspeaker Sighvatr, father of Kolbeinn’) (S 320). Hauksbók (H 280) continues the line on from Kolbeinn by adding some otherwise unknown descendants: a daughter Guðrún, the mother of Narfi and Loðmundr Skeggjason. Laxdœla saga includes a genealogy starting from Jórunn manvitsbrekka, the daughter of Ketill flatnefr, sister of Auðr djúpúðga and mother ‘Ketils hins fiskna, er nam land í Kirkjubœ; hans sonr var Ásbjǫrn, faðir Þorsteins, fǫður Surts, fǫður Sighvats lǫgsǫgumanns’ (‘of Ketill fiskni [sic.], who settled at Kirkjubær. He was the father of Ásbjǫrn, father of Þorsteinn, father of Surtr, father of Sighvatr the lawspeaker’) (ÍF V:3). However, Njáls saga does not mention Sighvatr in its account of the travels round Iceland of the missionary Þangbrandr in the company of Hallr of Síða preaching the new religion. At Svínafell, Flosi is given the prima signatio (provisional baptism), and from there they go on to Kirkjubær: ‘Þar bjó Surtr Ásbjarnarson, Þorsteinssonar, Ketils sonar ins fíflska; þeir hǫfðu allir langfeðgar verit kristnir’ (‘There lived Surtr, son of Ásbjǫrn, son of Þorsteinn, son of Ketill fíflski. Their ancestors had all been Christians’) (ÍF XII: 259). [26] Related passages in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in mesta (‘Greatest saga of Óláfr Tryggvason’ in Flateyjarbók, 216:156) and Kristni saga (‘Conversion saga,’ 21) give the same account of Surtr’s lineage, except that the name of Þorsteinn is missing in Kristni saga. The Þórðarbók redaction of Landnámabók (using material from Melabók) adds a brother of Sighvatr called Þórðr and traces a line of descent from him to Hallbera, the wife of Markús Þórðarson of Melar (ÍF I.2:325 n. 5).

73 Úlfheðinn Gunnarsson. Outside Íslendingabók, the only non-genealogical source to mention Úlfheðinn Gunnarsson is the lawbook Grágás (431), where he is cited as having promulgated the law on giving succor to outlaws. He is named in genealogies alongside his father Gunnarr (see above, p. 73) and appears in an addendum to the Þórðarbók/Melabók redaction of Landnámabók detailing the genealogy of Hafliði Másson: ‘Halldóra hét dóttir Húnrøðar, móðir Vigdísar, móður Úlfheðins, fǫður Hrafns, fǫður Hallberu, móður Valdísar, móður Snorra, fǫður Hallberu, er átti Markús Þórðarson á Melum’ (‘Halldóra was the daughter of Húnrøðr; she was the mother of Vigdís, mother of Úlfheðinn, father of Hrafn, father of Hallbera, mother of Valdís, mother of Snorri, father of Hallbera, wife of Markús Þórðarson of Melar’) (ÍF I.2: 226 n. 4). Here, as elsewhere in Melabók (see Rafnsson 1974:181-8), lines of descent are traced to Hallbera, the wife of Markús Þórðarson of Melar (head of the family which probably had a hand in compiling the Melabók around 1300), without any apparent interest in the official status of three generations of lawspeakers on the way, from Gunnarr, through Úlfheðinn, to Hrafn. According to this version, Gunnarr the Wise’s wife was a cousin of Hafliði Másson; this connection appears in no other source, and no special emphasis is placed on it.

Figure 1-3: Family relationships of lawspeakers Kolbeinn Flosason and Sighvatr Surtsson, showing their connections to lawspeakers Gellir Bǫlverksson, Steinn Þorgestsson, and Þórarinn Ragabróðir Contrasting records: ancestry or descendants. It is possible to divide the lawspeakers about whom Ari says nothing beyond their names and brief genealogical details into three groups, according to what is known about them from other sources.

74 Table 1-4: Lawspeakers named by Ari without further details Identity unclear Þorkell Tjǫrvason Kolbeinn Flosason

Ancestry known, descendants unnamed or obscure

Ancestry unknown, descendants specified

Steinn Þorgestsson

Gunnarr Þorgrímsson

Gellir Bǫlverksson

Úlfheðinn Gunnarsson

Sighvatr Surtsson Two of the post-conversion lawspeakers whom Ari merely names without offering further information are so obscure that there is no unambiguous record in any source of even their immediate family relations: Þorkell Tjǫrvason and Kolbeinn Flosason. About the others we have some information, either concerning their ancestry or descendants (or both). Þórðr gellir is named as the grandfather of Steinn Þorgestsson and the great-grandfather of Gellir Bǫlverksson, but nothing at all is known about the descendants of these two lawspeakers. Sighvatr Surtsson is the son of Kolbeinn’s sister; on his father’s side, Sighvatr is descended from Christian settlers and from Ketill flatnefr and he shares with Gellir a common great-great-grandfather (Geirleifr, the father of Helgi skarfr and Oddleifr). Of Sighvatr’s descendants, all we have are empty names, so in his case we may say that his ancestry is better known than his descendants. The ancestry of Gunnarr the Wise Þorgrímsson is not recorded but we know that there were lawspeakers in the next two generations of his family, his son Úlfheðinn, and Hrafn and Gunnarr (both probably the sons of Úlfheðinn). Other than this, little renown seems to attach to the family of Gunnarr the Wise; some of his descendants are mentioned in the genealogies in Melabók, but even here nothing is made of the fact that their families included a number of lawspeakers of previous generations. Conclusions. The genealogical information we have on the lawspeakers in the first century after the conversion indicates that the writers of books in the 12th and 13th centuries did not go out of their way to trace their own families or those of influential people of their times back to the 11th-century lawspeakers Steinn, Gellir, and Sighvatr. These men, however, were all of excellent stock and were themselves mutually related by blood or marriage according to those who recorded their histories. One possible explanation is, of course, that there really were no family connections between these lawspeakers and the leading families of the 12th and 13th centuries. It is perhaps more likely, however, that the writers chose not to associate themselves with these people — it is a truism of most genealogy that, if a particular figure is attractive enough, there are generally ways of finding some kind of family connection to him, however tenuous. Around the year 1100, on the other hand, the star of Gunnarr the Wise and his son Úlfheðinn was clearly in the ascendant, and as we get on into the century two members of the third generation from Gunnarr were to follow in the family footsteps as lawspeakers. These men clearly form a distinct kinship group that stands apart from the other lawspeakers, unconnected with them through family relations, marriage or shared interests. Descendants of Gunnarr the Wise held the post of lawspeaker both before and after the writing of the laws at Breiðabólstaður in 1117-8, and so it is worth considering whether it is possible to deduce anything about their reactions to the introduction of the new technology. This of course would go hand in hand with their connections to the Church; book learning probably grew in importance as the century progressed, all the more so in this case if it is correct that efforts to make written records of the law came from within the Church and gathered strength as the

75 power of the Church increased. Perhaps it is possible to see in the waning political influence of the family of Gunnarr the Wise a reluctance to accept and adopt the new technology of writing. It is thus worth taking a closer look at the lawspeakers who came after Bergþórr, up to the time of Gizurr Hallson in the late 12th century (after whom we can safely assume that all lawspeakers would have been literate and book trained), to see if there are any indications of the extent of their book knowledge and their attitudes toward it.

Lawspeakers after the Earliest Writing of the Laws Guðmundr Þorgeirsson Guðmundr Þorgeirsson (1123–1134) is not mentioned in Landnámabók. In Þorgils saga ok Hafliða there is a man of this name who is said to be Þorgils Oddason’s brother-in-law and who joins Þorgils’s party when he rides to the Alþingi to confront Hafliði Másson in the summer of 1121. Sturlu saga describes the support given by Hvamm-Sturla Þórðarson (father of Snorri) to Bǫðvarr Þórðarson in the ‘Deildartungumál’ dispute; his opponent, Páll Sǫlvason, is supported by the chieftain Guðmundr dýri and his half-brother Jón Þórarinsson, who the saga says share the same mother, Þuríðr, the daughter of Guðmundr the lawspeaker, but beyond this passing reference the saga has nothing to say about him. Jón Sigurðsson (1886) notes that there is no mention of Guðmundr (or any other secular leaders) at the time of the enactment of the first religious laws, which were introduced at the instigation of bishops Þorlákr and Ketill during Guðmundr’s first year as lawspeaker. Sigurðsson conjectures that Guðmundr was from the north of Iceland, the father of a priest called Þorgeirr whose name occurs in a list of northern priests dating from 1143. The Codex Regius text of Grágás mentions two rulings made by Guðmundr on the legality of particular aspects of the law: on poor relief (101) and on homicide (regarding the summoning of jurors from the scene of the crime and from the litigants’ home districts) (259) — which suggests that the lawspeaker’s oral ruling was taken to complement the existing written version of the law. If it is correct that lawspeaker Guðmundr was the brother-in-law of Þorgils Oddason, it is interesting that Þorgils should have managed to get him elected as lawspeaker in 1123, only two years after the settlement of his bitter dispute with Hafliði Másson; it is quite possible that this may have been part of the settlement, in return for Hafliði having his own man, Ketill Þorsteinsson, appointed bishop of Hólar in 1122 (see Þorsteinsson 1991:81).

Hrafn Úlfheðinsson The name of Hrafn Úlfheðinsson (1135–1138) appears three times in the Þórðarbók version of Landnámabók (from Melabók) in genealogies tracing the ancestry of Hallbera, the wife of Markús Þórðarson of Melar: first in connection with the pedigree of Úlfheðinn’s mother, and then twice in genealogies from his own mother: see the discussion of his grandfather, Gunnarr the Wise, p. 72 above. Other than the genealogical reference in Sturlunga saga mentioned previously (see p. 73 above), nothing more is known of this man.

Finnr Hallsson from Hofteigur The sources have rather more to say on Hrafn’s successor, Finnr Hallson from Hofteigur (1139-45). He appears at the head of a register of ten priests from the east of Iceland compiled in 1143. His ancestry in the east is traced in Landnámabók (S 282, H 243), where it is stated

76 that Kolskeggr fróði (cited in Landnámabók as the main informant on the settlement of the East) was the brother of Finnr’s paternal grandmother. The Hauksbók redaction (H 351) traces Finnr’s mother’s pedigree back to the settler Eyvindr of Kvíguvágar (Sturlubók goes back only as far as Finnr’s grandfather), and continues the line forward through Finnr’s sister Freygerðr two generations to Guðlaugr the Smith. [27] A little earlier (H 346), Hauksbók includes an account of how Hrolleifr, lawspeaker Grímr Svertingsson’s paternal great-grand-father, challenged Eyvindr to a duel and drove him off his lands. Finnr also figures in an incident from 1120 described in Þorgils saga ok Hafliða: Grímr Snorrason has killed a groom of Þorgils Oddason’s and sought the protection of his kinsman Hafliði Másson; Hafliði sends him ‘austr í fjǫrðu í Hofsteig til Finns Hallsonar lǫgsǫgumanns. Hann hafði átt Halldísi dóttur Bergþórs Mássonar bróður Hafliða. Ok kømr Finnr honum útan’ (‘to the eastern fjords, to lawspeaker Finnr Hallson at Hofteigur [n.b. Finnr did not actually become lawspeaker until 1139]. He had been married to Halldís, the daughter of Hafliði’s brother, Bergþórr Másson. Finnr got him out of the country’) (25). In the end, things turned out badly for Grímr: he returned to Iceland and settled in the east, ‘þótti vera mannhafnarmaðr ok var veginn af húskarli sínum’ (‘was considered a fine figure of a man and was killed by one of his domestic servants’) (25). [28] Finnr Hallson is the first lawspeaker to be an ordained priest, and thus probably the first to have a knowledge of books. His relationship through his wife to Hafliði Másson strongly suggests that he was in on the first writing of the laws in the winter of 1117-8, making him the first lawspeaker to represent the views of the reformers: of his predecessors, Guðmundr Þorgeirsson was probably the brother-in-law of Þorgils Oddason, Hafliði’s archenemy, and Hrafn came from an established line of lawspeakers going back to before the writing of the laws. Finnr is also unique in that he does not appear to be linked with any other lawspeakers anywhere in his genealogy. He may thus represent an example of a new group within society with influence that derived not from dynastic connections but from command of the new technology that only he and other clerically educated men possessed, writing.

Gunnarr Úlfheðinsson and his probable bloodline Finnr Hallson was succeeded by Gunnarr Úlfheðinsson (1146–1155). He is entirely unknown from the sources, though, as Jón Sigurðsson (1886:25) suggested, it seems eminently likely on the basis of his patronymic that he was the brother of lawspeaker Hrafn Úlfheðinsson; if this is so, it makes Gunnarr Úlfheðinsson the last of the descendants of Gunnarr the Wise to fill the post, for the time being at least. However, as is clear from Guðmundar saga dýra in the Sturlunga saga compilation, the descendants of Gunnarr the Wise were by no means entirely without influence in the second half of the 12th century. The saga includes an account of a group of rich and well-born farmers from Reykjardalur in Þingeyjarsýsla in the north some time around 1180: ‘Þar var þá gott bóndaval í dalnum. Þá bjó í Fellsmúla Sigurðr Styrkársson lǫgsǫgumanns en á Grenjaðarstað Eyjólfr son Halls Hrafnssonar lǫgmanns Úlfheðinssonar lǫgmanns Gunnarssonar lǫgmanns’ (‘There were many fine farmers in the valley at the time. Sigurðr, son of lawspeaker Styrkárr [Oddsson], lived at Fellsmúli, and at Grenjaðarstaður lived Eyjólfr, son of Hallr, son of lawman Hrafn, son of lawman Úlfheðinn, son of lawman Gunnarr [the Wise]’) (123). This is followed by a recapitulation of the line given elsewhere in the genealogies down to the mid-13th-century priest (and lawspeaker) Ketill Þorleiksson (see p. 73), with the added note that Ketill was the grandfather of the Narfasons’ mother. The noble pedigrees of the farmers of Reykjardalur are significant. When Teitr Guðmundsson of Helgastaðir in Reykjardalur asks for the hand of Otkatla, the daughter of Þórólfr of Möðrufell (who is said to be the grandson of Hafliði Másson), the prospective couple are compared, with one of them being adjudged richer and the other of greater lineage (though it is not made clear which is which). Teitr left the country in 1185 and

77 died while abroad. This led to disputes as to who should inherit his share in his and Otkatla’s property, viz. Teitr’s father Guðmundr Eyjólfsson, who had retired to the monastery of Þverá where Hallr Hrafnsson was abbot, or the brothers of Teitr’s father, who claimed that as a monk their brother was debarred from inheriting or controlling property. The dispute turned largely on disputed points of the law and broadened to involve Sigurðr of Fellsmúli and Eyjólfr of Grenjaðarstaður. Thus the relations of these men to lawspeakers past and present mentioned in the saga become a significant theme and imply that the reader can expect an expert knowledge of the law on the part of the disputants, whether it may also have been in Eyjólfr’s personal interests to take on the case or not. For instance, Eyjólfr uses his position to purchase the inheritance at half its value from Guðmundr, who is now a monk in his (i.e. Eyjólfr’s) father’s monastery. Eyjólfr’s wife Guðrún is Otkatla’s cousin (their mothers being sisters), making him a relation by marriage to the descendants of Hafliði Másson. The disputes between Eyjólfr and Ǫnundr Þorkelsson of Lönguhlíð, the local titular chieftain (goði), become increasingly bitter and the local magnate, Guðmundr dýri Þorvaldsson, steps in and wins great prestige from the whole affair (129). After Ǫnundr is burned to death in 1197, Guðmundr gains control of the titular chieftaincies (goðorð) of both Ǫnundr and the men of Grenjaðarstaður, but then retires to the monastery of Þingeyrar, where he dies in 1212. Eyjólfr’s power is thus destroyed and his titular chieftaincy later falls under the sway of Sighvatr Sturluson during the lawspeakership of Styrmir fróði (see above; see also Sigurðsson, J. V. 1989:58-9). On the evidence of their successes in elections to the lawspeakership, the descendants of Gunnarr the Wise remained ambitious and influential well on into the middle of the 12th century. It is worth noting that both Hallr Hrafnsson and his son Eyjólfr appear to have become abbots in their later years. Hallr was already abbot of the Benedictine priory at Þverá in 1184, the point at which Guðmundar saga dýra opens — the third abbot of Þverá according to the lists of abbots in AM 415 4to and the Stockholm manuscript, both dating from the 14th century (see Íslenzkt fornbréfasafn, vol. 3, letters 12 and 114). According to the annals and Prestssaga Guðmundar Arasonar, Abbot Hallr died in 1190. However, the Prestssaga makes no mention of Hallr being consecrated at the time he is visited at Grenjaðarstaður in the autumn of 1173 by Guðmundr Arason and his kinsman Ingimundr the Priest, though the saga otherwise contains several references to consecrations, e.g. that of Guðmundr himself as an acolyte at Grenjaðarstaður by Bishop Brandr the following spring. The same applies to the genealogical lists in Sturlunga saga, where both father and son Hallr and Eyjólfr appear without clerical titles among other people specifically designated as priests, lawspeakers, or lawmen. Formally, it was a precondition of monastic abbots in the 12th century that they should have received consecration, together with the requisite book learning. However, flouting of the Church’s rules and ethical demands was by no means uncommon at the time and it is quite conceivable that a secular chieftain of Hallr’s standing might have chosen to spend his twilight years in a position of high esteem within the walls of a cloister, without this having much to say about his level of learning or religious fervor. This at least seems to have been the case with his son Eyjólfr, if he is indeed the same Eyjólfr that the annals say was consecrated abbot of the Augustinians of Saurbær in 1206 and died in 1212. (The only source to name him ‘Hallsson’ is Høyer’s Annal, written in Norway around 1600 from an Icelandic exemplar; see Storm 1888:x.) In the list of abbots in AM 415 4to Eyjólfr Hallsson appears as the second abbot of Saurbær, while in the Stockholm Manuscript he is said to have been the first abbot of the monastery on the island of Flatey in Breiðafjörður. In Íslenzkt fornbréfasafn it is suggested that there may be an error in the Stockholm Manuscript, and it is noted without comment that this entry in fact refers to Eyjólfr Hallson, abbot of Saurbær (Íslenzkt fornbréfasafn, vol. 3, p. 154), presumably on the assumption that the copyist read over a line or lines from his exemplar, resulting in a conflation of the abbots of Saurbær and Flatey. According to the 14th-century a text of Guðmundar saga biskups (chapter 97, p. 126), Guðmundr Arason (later to become bishop

78 himself) asked Eyjólfr ‘prest’ (‘the priest’) Hallsson to accept the episcopacy. However, Eyjólfr is not called a priest in our oldest source, Prestssaga in Sturlunga saga, even though other characters in the saga are regularly accompanied by their clerical titles: Guðmundr himself and Halldórr of Hof (to whom Guðmundr offered the episcopacy before Eyjólfr) are, for instance, said to be priests, while Guðmundr’s two attendants are specified as deacons. Since Eyjólfr is described in Guðmundar saga dýra as an avaricious chieftain ready to take advantage of legal loopholes to line his own pockets, and then later as a conciliator in the dispute, without once being designated with the title of priest, there is good reason to doubt the authenticity of Guðmundr’s offer to make him a bishop. The only thing remotely Christian about his behavior as portrayed in the saga is that he asks Jón Loftsson ‘fyrir guðs sakir’ (‘for God’s sake’) (Sturlunga saga, 154) to go to court to try and arrange a settlement after the burning of Ǫnundr. Even if the Eyjólfr Hallson of Guðmundar saga dýra is the same Eyjólfr as was consecrated abbot of Saurbær in 1206, it is at least clear that he can hardly have devoted himself to the study of Christian writings while still a young man. So we may conclude that even if Hallr Hrafnsson was the abbot of Þverá and that his son Eyjólfr conceivably followed in his father’s footsteps at Saurbær, neither of them appears in Sturlunga saga as a devout and dedicated man of the cloth while still living at home on the church farm at Grenjaðarstaður. [29] In other words, Sturlunga saga gives us no strong reason to believe that they ever played a significant role as men of the Church, or that they were particularly literate, or that their family had any close ties with the ecclesiastical authorities. Eyjólfr is the last in an unbroken line of influential descendants of Gunnarr the Wise and the family does not come to the fore again until the time of Ketill the Priest Þorleiksson (see p. 73). In the Þórðarbók (Melabók) redaction of Landnámabók, the lines of descent from the mothers of Úlfheðinn Gunnarsson and Hrafn Úlfheðinsson are continued down to lawman Snorri Markússon (d. 1313) and at this point reconverge when Snorri marries Helga, the daughter of Ketill, the priest and lawspeaker. [30] The Þórðarbók genealogies make no mention of the fact that Hrafn and Úlfheðinn had been lawspeakers.

Snorri Húnbogason Landnámabók gives no direct genealogical information on the next lawspeaker, Snorri Húnbogason (1156-70). However, his mother-in-law Halla appears among the descendants of Steinólfr inn lági (‘the Short’) (S 116, H 88), to which Sturlubók adds information not found in Hauksbók and apparently intended to bring the line on to Snorri: ‘þeira dóttir Halla, er átti Atli Tannason, þeira dóttir Yngvildr, er átti Snorri Húnbogason’ (‘their [sc. Jódís Snartardóttir and Eyjólfr Hallbjarnarson’s] daughter [was] Halla, who was married to Atli Tannason; their daughter [was] Yngvildr, the wife of Snorri Húnbogason’). It is interesting that Snorri’s family connections are given in rather greater detail in the short saga Geirmundar þáttr heljarskinns, where the line is continued on to Skarð-Snorri, the son of Snorri’s son Narfi and his wife Yngvildr. The þáttr also traces the line from Steinólfr the Short to Snorri’s wife, Yngvildr; then another branch from Ingólfr Arnarson, the settler of Reykjavík, to the family of Snorri’s mother; then the line from the settler Hrollaugr, son of Rǫgnvaldr, earl of Møre in Norway, to the family of Snorri’s father; and finally from his mother’s family back to the semi-legendary Ketill flatnefr. [31] At the start of Þorgils saga ok Hafliða the two protagonists are introduced in conventional fashion: Hafliði Másson of Breiðabólstaður in Vesturhóp and Þorgils Oddason of Staðarhóll in Saurbær. (According to Geirmundar þáttr heljarskinns, Þorgils was descended from Steinólfr the Short.) Þorgils’s neighbors are then listed, among whom is Húnbogi ‘faðir Snorra lǫgsǫgumanns’ (‘the father of Snorri the lawspeaker’) (Sturlunga saga, 8). This is interesting in that it follows Geirmundar þáttr heljarskinns in deliberately bringing out a

79 connection, however tenuous, between Þorgils Oddason and Snorri the lawspeaker — in the þáttr, Þorgils is of the sixth generation from Steinólfr the Short, Snorri’s wife Yngvildr of the eighth. In a list of farmers of good standing living in the area around Þorgils, next after Húnbogi comes a priest called Már Þormóðsson of Sælingsdalstunga: ‘Hann var frændi náinn Hafliða Mássonar. Halldóra hét móðir hans, dóttir Védísar Másdóttur, en Védís var systir Hafliða Mássonar’ (‘He [sc. Már] was a close relative of Hafliði Másson. His mother was called Halldóra, daughter of Védís Másdóttir, who was the sister of Hafliði Másson’) (Sturlunga saga 8). In 1120, Húnbogi leads a party of two hundred ‘worthy’ men to try to ease tensions between the chieftains when Hafliði comes south with almost a hundred men and stays with Már the priest at Sælingsdalstunga the night before the court of confiscation where Hafliði intends to press charges against Þorgils (Sturlunga saga, 31-2). Thus, Már is on the side of Hafliði because of their close family relations, while Húnbogi tries to arbitrate, possibly because of his connections with the other party in the dispute. On his introduction into Sturlu saga, Snorri the lawspeaker is supplied with an even nobler ancestry than in Geirmundar þáttr heljarskinns. Here, his mother’s line is traced back to Þorbjǫrg, the daughter of Óláfr Hǫskuldsson (the hero of the first part of Laxdœla saga), and thence to Óláfr the White Ingjaldsson and the legendary progenitor, Sigurðr Snake-Eye (Sturlunga saga, 52). Later in the saga, Snorri’s sons, Narfi and Þorgils, lend their support to Þorleikr Birningsson and Snorri sveinn from Heinaberg, who in 1185 had attacked Einarr Þorgilsson after Einarr had attempted to force the issue in his simmering dispute with HvammSturla over Birningr Steinarsson’s property. By this time Sturla was already dead, but by their action Snorri Húnbogason’s sons threw in their lot with the Sturlungar (Sturlunga saga, 181-2) — as comes out again a little later in the saga when Þorgils hands over to Þórðr Sturluson a half share in the Þórsnes goðorð (i.e. the titular chieftaincy of the Þórsnes district) (Sturlunga saga, 187). It is interesting to note that the Konungsannáll (‘Royal Annals’) says that ‘Snorri Húnbogason, priest and lawman’ died in 1170; there is nothing in Sturlunga saga to say that Snorri was a priest, but if he was he would certainly, like Finnr Hallsson before him, have known how to read and write. From all this emerges a picture of Snorri Húnbogason as a person of fairly humble background in the older versions of Landnámabók, but who is then given a rather more elevated profile by Sturla Þórðarson when he includes him in his version, and by the compilers of Sturlunga saga, who link him through his wife to a number of great figures of the past. Snorri was a priest and his father Húnbogi is mentioned as a farmer of good standing from the neighborhood around Þorgils Oddason (along with Már, the priest at Sælingsdalstunga and kinsman of Hafliði Másson, even if they stood on opposite sides in the feud that forms the central subject matter of Þorgils saga ok Hafliða). Later, Snorri’s sons throw in their lot with Hvamm-Sturla and thus associate themselves with the most powerful family of the next decades, the Sturlungar. It may well be, then, that this enhancement of the reputation of Snorri the lawspeaker that we find in the later sources came about as a result of his sons’ connections with the Sturlungar.

Styrkárr Oddason The final lawspeaker before Gizurr Hallsson is Styrkárr Oddason (1171–1180). He is not mentioned in Landnámabók but a list of names in Prestssaga Guðmundar Arasonar includes the information that he became lawspeaker in 1174 and died in the plague winter of 1180-1. Nothing more is known about him directly, but his son Sigurðr appears in Guðmundar saga dýra as a supporter of Eyjólfr Hallsson (see above, p. 81). In the same source, Ingiríðr, the wife of the priest Kleppjárn Klœngsson, is said to be Sigurðr’s sister, which would make her Styrkárr’s daughter assuming they were full siblings, though the relationship between them is

80 never specified per se. These people all came out on the losing side in a series of disputes in 1187 (after Gizurr Hallsson had assumed the lawspeakership), disputes from which Guðmundr dýri emerged with his reputation much enhanced. According to Sturla Þórðarson’s Íslendingasaga (Sturlunga saga, 228-9), in 1212 Sighvatr Sturluson offered his support to Kálfr Guttormsson after the killing of Hallr Kleppjárnsson. These sparse snippets of information enable us to infer a connection between Styrkárr and the lawspeaker dynasty of Gunnarr the Wise, since Styrkárr’s son Sigurðr supports Eyjólfr Hallsson in the disputes described in the early chapters of Guðmundar saga dýra (see p. 81). Thus, through his son, Styrkárr is indirectly allied to the party that appears to be on the back foot in the power struggle described in the saga, and his descendants finish up in the opposing camp to the Sturlungar. There are no suggestions in any of the sources of Styrkárr himself being associated in any way with the priesthood or book learning.

Conclusions The men who filled the post of lawspeaker from the time of the first writing of the laws up until Gizurr Hallsson can be divided broadly into two groups, according to whether or not the sources link them in any way with the priesthood, and therefore with book learning: Table 1-5: Lawspeakers according to literacy Priests, literate men Not priests, no indications of literacy Finnr Hallsson Guðmundr Þorgeirsson Snorri Húnbogason Hrafn Úlfheðinsson Gunnarr Úlfheðinsson Styrkárr Oddason One of the two literate lawspeakers, Finnr Hallsson, is related to Hafliði Másson through his wife. Snorri Húnbogason’s father also has connections to Hafliði Másson through his neighbor Már the priest, but his reputation appears to derive more from other factors: Snorri stands alone among these 12th-century lawspeakers in being at the center of the clan politics described in Sturlunga saga by virtue of his sons’ close association with the rising family of the next century, the Sturlungar. Of the remaining lawspeakers, there is no indication that any of them ever assimilated book culture or had connections with the episcopal sees: Guðmundr Þorgeirsson appears to come from the circle around Þorgils Oddason after his reconciliation with Hafliði Másson; Hrafn and Gunnarr are probably both descendents of Gunnarr the Wise; and Styrkárr is also linked to this family through his son Sigurðr’s support for Eyjólfr Hallsson. There might be an indication here that these four men held faith with the traditional, oral preservation of their knowledge despite the moves to record the laws in writing. The sources exhibit little interest in tracing family links to these lawspeakers who may have continued to follow the oral tradition, and there is no mention of Hrafn or Úlfheðinn as being men of any particular distinction at the few places where their names do turn up in the genealogical lists in Þórðarbók/ Melabók. Their status as lawspeakers is, however, mentioned in the genealogies in Sturlunga saga when the writer traces the forebears of the mid-13th century priest and lawspeaker, Ketill Þorleiksson, and in Guðmundar saga dýra when Eyjólfr Hallsson is introduced into the story and related to this same Ketill.

81 The descendants of Gunnarr the Wise, who were evidently influential enough in their time to exercise a powerful grip over the position of lawspeaker from the 11th century to the middle years of the 12th, finished up on the losing side in the political game of chess described in Guðmundar saga dýra; but their influence (and/or wealth?) was enough to ensure that their relatives Hallr, son of lawspeaker Hrafn, and his son Eyjólfr, were able to gain positions as abbots of Þverá and Saurbær in their old age. However, both these men entered their monasteries in their last years and died only a few years later; their monastic lives cannot therefore be taken as evidence of any competence in writing before, or indeed after, this point in their lives. Sturlunga saga does mention the family as having some connection with men of the Church, since Ingimundr the Priest and Guðmundr Arason stayed with Hallr at Grenjaðarstaður, and it was also at Grenjaðarstaður that Guðmundr was himself consecrated by Bishop Brandr. Later, when Guðmundr is elected bishop, he asks Eyjólfr to take over the appointment for him, despite the fact that nowhere in Sturlunga saga is Eyjólfr ever mentioned with any clerical title appended to his name. Whatever we make of this, by the time the descendants of Gunnarr the Wise are finally seen in such close association with the Church that they appear as abbots of monasteries, several decades have passed since one of their number last occupied the position of lawspeaker.

Three Main Groups of Lawspeakers in the 11th and 12th Centuries It appears that the lawspeakers of the 11th and 12th centuries can be classified broadly into three main groups according to how they are treated in the sources, either through the genealogies or through the positions they are described as having taken in particular disputes. These groups are: 1) those who are related to bishops, work within the Church, or are trained priests; 2) those descended from well-established and well-known families going back to Bjǫrn buna, Þórðr gellir and Ketill flatnefr; and 3) the descendants of Gunnarr the Wise and their supporters. Table 1-6: The three main groups of lawspeakers of the 11th and 12th centuries, according to their genealogies and stances in political disputes Lawspeakers with Church connections

Gunnarr the Wise and his Lawspeakers from well-known families descended from Bjǫrn buna family and associates

1002–03 Grímr Svertingsson 1004–30 Skafti Þóroddsson 1031–33 Steinn Þorgestsson 1034–53 Þorkell Tjǫrvasona 1054–62 Gellir Bǫlverksson

1034–53 Þorkell Tjǫrvasona 1063–65 Gunnarr the Wise Þorgrímsson

1066–71 Kolbeinn Flosason 1072–74 Gellir Bǫlverksson

82 1075 Gunnarr the Wise Þorgrímsson 1076–83 Sighvatr Surtsson 1084–1107 Markús Skeggjason 1108–16 Úlfheðinn Gunnarsson 1117–22 Bergþórr Hrafnsson 1123–34 Guðmundr Þorgeirssona

1123–34 Guðmundr Þorgeirssona 1135–38 Hrafn Úlfheðinsson

1139–45 Finnr Hallsson 1146–55 Gunnarr Úlfheðinsson 1156–70 Snorri Húnbogasonb 1171–80 Styrkárr Oddason a. Classification uncertain for Þorkell Tjǫrvason, (?) grandson of Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði; and for Guðmundr Þorgeirsson, (?) brother-in-law of Þorgils Oddason and maternal greatgrandfather of Guðmundr dýri, the eventual victor over the descendants of Gunnarr the Wise and Styrkárr in Reykjardalur. b. Sturlunga saga makes more of Snorri Húnbogason’s connections to the Sturlungar than to the priesthood. The first group includes Grímr Svertingsson and Skafti Þóroddsson, both of whom were closely related to the champions of Christianity at the time of the conversion; the conversion thus enjoyed the support of the same power grouping as controlled the lawspeakership at the time. Markús Skeggjason assisted Bishop Gizurr Ísleifsson in the establishment of the tithe laws late in the 11th century. Bergþórr Hrafnsson clearly cooperated with Hafliði Másson in the winter of 1117-8 when representatives of the Church first obtained permission to make a written record of the law. Bergþórr’s genealogy is unknown, but Hafliði had family relations to the bishops of Skálholt and considerable influence over the see of Hólar. Later in the century we find two priests as lawspeakers in amongst four laymen. The former, Finnr Hallsson, seems to have been from an otherwise rather humble background, which perhaps suggests that his newly acquired competence in the use of writing and written materials may have been instrumental in his elevation to a position of secular authority. The other, Snorri Húnbogason of Skarð, is mentioned only once in the genealogies in the (older) Sturlubók redaction of Landnámabók (as an incidental detail within his mother-in-law’s line of descent), but in the later Sturlunga saga his name appears within a much more exalted genealogy going from the Narfasons, through him, back to Earl Rǫgnvaldr of Møre, Ketill flatnefr, and Ingólfr Arnarson, and including a number of other noble figures on the way. This impressive genealogy, which is found only in younger sources, may point to an enhanced reputation for Snorri and his family following his term as lawspeaker and his sons’ association with the Sturlungar.

83 The second group comprises lawspeakers with family connections to the issue of Þórðr gellir and Ketill flatnefr, both well-known descendants of the legendary progenitor Bjǫrn buna. This perhaps demonstrates nothing more than that a sizeable number of those who held sway in the 11th century could trace their lines back to a single kinship group among the original settlers. But it is not impossible that the saga writers of the 12th and 13th centuries went out of their way to link certain lawspeakers in the first century after the conversion with those among the settlers whom folk memory associated with early (Gaelic) Christianity in Iceland (including Þórarinn Ragabróðir, the early lawspeaker with family origins in Shetland and the brother-inlaw of Þórðr gellir). Steinn Þorgestsson and Gellir Bǫlverksson are traced back to Þórðr gellir (the son of Óláfr feilan, whose background was in Ireland and the Hebrides, and Álfdís barreyska, i.e. from Barra in the Hebrides), and from here it is a short step to the primitive Christianity brought to the Dalir region of western Iceland by Auðr djúpúðga, Þórðr’s greatgrandmother. The ancestors of Sighvatr Surtsson at Kirkjubær remained Christian for some generations after the settlements, and Kolbeinn Flosason is said to have been Sighvatr’s uncle. Relationships are also specifically brought out between Kolbeinn and Sighvatr’s family and Gellir and Steinn, indicating that these four lawspeakers were thought of as constituting a distinct group. Though none of them appears to have had any direct dealings with the Church in the 11th century, their family connections with early Christian settlers appear to be a matter of interest in the sources, whatever construction we wish to place on this. In the second half of the 11th century a third group emerges: Gunnarr Þorgrímsson the Wise and his descendants. Initially they alternate as lawspeakers with the descendants of Bjǫrn buna and representatives of the Church, but after the writing of the laws in 1117-8 this group appears to form the only counterweight to the growing clerical influence. Later in the century the vitality of this dynasty of lawspeakers appears to be on the wane: the position of its chief representatives becomes less secure; they begin to disappear from national affairs and toward the end of the century we find them retiring to monasteries to spend the last years of their lives. A few generations later, however, this family makes something of a comeback in the person of the priest Ketill Þorleiksson, who was related to the Haukdœlir through marriage and through this connection managed to regain the lawspeakership in the final years of the Commonwealth. The evidence seems to suggest that, however large it features in the written records, the Church did not become an influential force in Icelandic society until after the end of the 11th century. [32] It is, of course, perfectly understandable that the sources should give a rather distorted view of the general importance of the Church, since it was the Church that lay behind the production of most of the oldest sources. The status of the Church increased considerably in the 12th century. Apart from the writing of the laws, this is symbolized by the massive importation of timber in 1152 for the new cathedral at Skálholt, ‘er at ǫllu var vǫnduð fram yfir hvert hús annat, þeira er á Íslandi váru gør, bæði at viðum ok at smíði’ (‘over which more pains were taken than for any other building in Iceland, both as regards timber and craftsmanship’) (Hungrvaka, 107). In 1181 Gizurr Hallsson was elected lawspeaker, an indication that by now the interests closest to the bishopric of Skálholt, the Haukdœlir, were powerful enough to ensure the appointment of one of their own men. From this point on, all the lawspeakers come either from the ranks of the Haukdœlir or the Sturlungar. Around the time that the Haukdœlir are starting to enjoy the fruits of their support for the Church, a tough warlord from the west of the country, Sturla Þórðarson of Hvammur, gets into a dispute with his neighbors and is not pacified until his son Snorri is offered fostering at the most significant cultural center in the country at Oddi. Perhaps Sturla realized that by this move his offspring were being put in a position to become leaders in the new world that was opening up, just as at the start of the computer age ambitious parents packed their children off to computer courses to get a head start on their contemporaries. Snorri and his book learning gave the Sturlungar the impetus they needed to advance themselves in the world. (Exactly what Snorri learned at Oddi is unknown, but his later

84 works and career are more suggestive of a secular training in poetry, storytelling, genealogy, and law than of devoted study of theological texts.) The Sturlungar thus mastered the technique of writing without having to become the Church’s men, and for a time became the most powerful family in the country in secular politics. Their reputation, of course, has not suffered by the fact that it was they who wrote the history themselves, leaving out or playing down the parts of those who failed to grasp the power that followed from a command of literacy.

Conclusions We have started our search for the oral tradition of medieval Iceland among the cultural conditions that existed at the time when traditional, orally preserved learning was first put into written form, i.e. when the laws were recorded early in the 12th century. Learned scholars of modern times have hitherto been almost unanimous in regarding this change as an undisputed step forward: the ancient lawmen were now able to rely on a book as a repository for their fund of knowledge, and so it went without saying that the lawspeakers received the new technology introduced by the Church with open arms. But this picture changes if we apply the comparative approach and ask ourselves whether this assumption is necessarily justified. From what we can read out of our meager sources, the lawspeakers appear always to have been representatives of whatever groupings enjoyed most influence in the country at the time, and to achieve influence in Icelandic society in the 13th century it was necessary to have mastered the literate culture that had come with the Church in the 11th century and gained increasing importance throughout the 12th. Those who did not care to take advantage of the opportunities provided by this ecclesiastical innovation found themselves at a disadvantage in the struggle for power and influence, and their descendants were doomed to obscurity unless they could ally themselves through marriage to those who had heeded the call of the times and learned to read and write. Those who did so then went on to use this new technique to achieve immortality by recording, shaping, and fixing in permanent form knowledge that previous generations had kept alive without the aid of writing — and without any idea of what they were missing. By asking new questions of the sources, it is perhaps possible to discern signs of a struggle between the clergy and lawspeakers from secular backgrounds in the first decades of the age of writing. People with close connections to the Church were instrumental in taking down the law from the memory of lawspeakers (who thereby lost their right to arbitrate in disputes over the letter of the law) and recording it in books which then took over the function of deciding on the legality of particular provisions (with the bishop’s book at Skálholt taking precedence where books differed). A previously powerful family of lawspeakers that shows no sign of having assimilated the technology of writing gradually loses its influence as the 12th century progresses — not least in the records of those who came after them. This interpretation of the development is reflected in the way these earlier lawspeakers are spoken of in the written sources. It seems that the lawspeakers are treated differently by later writers according to whether or not they are connected in any way with the Church and the book learning that went with it. Other than their genealogies, essentially nothing is known of the 11th and 12th-century lawspeakers who had no connections with the Church, but from these genealogies they appear to fall into two groups, those said to be descended from well-known early settlers of the line of Bjǫrn buna, and those descended from or associated with Gunnarr the Wise. The line of Gunnarr the Wise seems to have enjoyed considerable influence in the second half of the 11th century and on into the 12th, but then disappears entirely from the political scene once the written law texts have become fully established towards the end of the century. These people, who in their time must have been major figures in society, appear to have been of little interest to the saga

85 writers and ruling élite of the 13th century, judging from their absence from the genealogies presented in the written sources. After the first writing of the laws early in the 12th century there appears to have been a transition period in which lawspeakers from established families and the descendants of Gunnarr the Wise alternated with priests without inherited influence but with command over the technological innovation of the age, i.e. they could read and write. This of course is not a unique case of mastery of a new technology enabling people to rise swiftly up the social ladder at the expense of more conservative groups with an entrenched position bolstered by family connections and accumulated wealth. This clash between literate priests and orally trained lawspeakers appears emblematically in Íslendingabók in the passage where Ari describes how the laws were read out aloud for confirmation by clerics at the Alþingi the summer after they had first been written down, while the lawspeaker, the man who had previously had the honored duty of reciting the law from memory, stood by and listened. There is no way of knowing what passed through his mind that June day on the plains of Þingvellir, but perhaps it occurred to him then and there that this new technique would sooner or later render his oral skills redundant, when any little priestling could read from a book what he had spent his youth learning by heart without even knowing what writing was. Late in the 12th century the office of lawspeaker came under the control of churchmen of the Haukdœlir clan. Their influence over the election of lawspeakers was not to be challenged until the secular chieftains of Iceland had acquired a literate and educated representative of their own in the person of Snorri Sturluson, with the priest Styrmir fróði as his right-hand man. In addition to a thorough knowledge of the law, which must always have been a precondition of the office of lawspeaker, Snorri’s written works reflect an intimate familiarity with the oral tradition of poems and stories. The rise and career of Snorri Sturluson can therefore be viewed as an emblematic reflection of the way in which oral knowledge of the law would have gone hand in hand with other forms of oral knowledge and a command of the rhetorical uses of language inherent in literature. From this point on, representatives of the Sturlungar and the Haukdœlir alternated in the post of lawspeaker up until the end of the 13th century. It therefore seems reasonable to conclude that the tradition of oral learning remained strong at least into the 13th century and was held to be of considerable importance in the world of politics vis-à-vis the new technique of writing that had been gaining ground since early in the 12th. In the very nature of things, only the written records have survived, making the part of the Church in 11th and 12th-century events appear greater than it may really have been at a time when orally trained lawspeakers must still have enjoyed considerable influence in political affairs, however little we hear of them in the later written sources. From a modern methodological perspective, the evidence presented here can be viewed as an example of how the findings of field studies of modern-day oral societies can be applied to ancient sources in order to tease out significant new information. Firstly, the comparative method helps us to recognize that previous discussions of orality in Iceland were based on unquestioned assumptions and therefore led to unfounded conclusions about historical developments at the time of a ‘step forward’ in cultural history — in this case, the introduction of literacy. We are thus in a position to reassess older ideas in light of new knowledge gained from research into oral traditions elsewhere. Secondly, we are forced to recognize the importance of taking into account how the written sources refer to historical characters. Thus, the genealogies do not only record raw historical data about who was related to whom in reality; they also serve to valorize individuals and family lines, indicating, as it were, who was in and who was out in the eyes of the writers of history. As often as not, the genealogies are used to elevate the status of particular families and individuals and thus tell us much about the people who recorded them — such as who they considered important, and who they chose not to be associated with. Using this approach, we can detect traces of an underlying power struggle

86 which is never identified as such in the sources and which remains hidden if our research is confined to reconstructing a reality out of the direct testimony of the sources rather than seeking to decode the indirect thoughts and intentions of the scribes through whose eyes all knowledge of their contemporary culture has come down to us. The comparative method has thus helped us to identify a previously unsuspected historical development that occurred when writing was first used for the large-scale preservation of knowledge in a society that had previously relied overwhelmingly on oral tradition.

Footnotes 1. This chapter is an expanded and revised version of my article (Sigurðsson, G. 1994) in the Jónas Kristjánsson Festschrift, Sagnaþing. 2. See Líndal 1984:127, 129 and references there. 3. See Stock 1990:22-4, 140-58 on ‘textual communities,’ i.e. groups within medieval society united around the use of particular texts. 4. Rafnsson 1974:151-8 makes the same point with respect to deeds and charters. 5. See Líndal 1984:126-8, 134, and reference there to the work of Frederik Stang. 6. ‘Moreover, the lawspeaker shall recite aloud all parts completely, in such a way that no one knows them more completely in any way. But if his knowledge does not extend so far, then he shall convene a meeting with five or more lawmen the day before, from whom he can get the best [information], before he recites each part, and anyone who tries without permission to interfere in their deliberations will be liable for a fine of three marks [of silver], with the charge to be brought by the lawspeaker.’ 7. One of the first tasks of most newly literate societies in the Middle Ages was to establish a chronology of their own histories and align it with the chronology used within the Church. This was generally done by setting calendar dates to events that had previously only been identified by reference to the periods in power of particular individuals. 8. It is highly misleading to categorize a particular stage in culture on the basis of the lack of some unknown technology. For instance, no one would dream of defining Western culture in the first half of the 20th century as being a ‘computerless culture.’ 9. For expression of this view in a popular history, see for instance Aðalsteinsdóttir 1990:106; for a comparable academic example, see Jakob Benediktsson 1968:24. Benediktsson believes there is no need to interpret Ari’s words (‘vas nýmæli þat gǫrt, at lǫg ór skyldi skrifa á bók at Hafliða Mássonar,’ ‘an innovation was introduced, that part of the law should be written into a book at the home of Hafliði Másson’) as implying that this was the first time that any of the law had been set down in writing, and considers it unlikely that at least some passages of the laws were not recorded earlier. Peter Foote 1977:204 makes similar comments. Since an earlier version of the present chapter was published in 1994, Judy Quinn (2000) has made similar observations to my own regarding the writing of the law not necessarily serving the interests of the lawspeakers. 10. The articles in McKitterick 1990 consider the spread and uses of reading and writing in various European societies in the Middle Ages. The book makes clear the enormous impact of the introduction of literacy while also shedding light on its diverse roles in the relations between the Church, the secular authorities, and the ordinary people. Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1944:181, 190 makes no allowance for any tension between the secular, orally trained lawspeakers from well-established families and the newly learned priests from modest backgrounds who filled the post of lawspeaker during the course of the 12th century (see below, p. 79 f). Sveinsson’s research into literacy in ancient Iceland is characterized by the modern view that literacy constituted an undisputed attribute of education in all areas from the very outset.

87 11. ‘King Hákon made an appointment to hear Þórðr and Gizurr’s cases. And at the hearing Þórðr got someone to read out a long scroll that he had had written about the dealings between the Haukdœlir and the Sturlungar. It included details of much harm Þórðr had suffered in the way of losses among his men. Then the king said, ‘What have you got to plead in return, Gizurr?’ He answers, ‘I haven’t written down what I want to say, but I do have a few things I could say in reply. Still, I’d call this a fair enough account of our dealings.’ 12. There is no reason to suppose that Snorri’s brothers, Þórðr and Sighvatr, ever learned how to use and apply literacy in the way Snorri had done at Oddi. Snorri’s interest in the office of lawspeaker is apparent from the list of lawspeakers in the Uppsala manuscript of his Edda (Snorre Sturlassons Edda. Uppsala-handskriften DG 11, pp. 48-9), giving the names of all the lawspeakers from earliest times down to Snorri himself: see also Nordal, G. 2001:50-5. 13. See Karlsson, G. 1975:31-9, Stefánsson 1975:86-119, Þorsteinsson 1991:72-4. On the Oddaverjar, see Hermannsson 1932. 14. Compare the remarks above (pp. 56–57) on the experience of the British when recording local traditions in Africa. See also Guðmundr Þorgeirsson’s additions to the legal texts discussed below. 15. This has already been done in exemplary fashion by Jón Sigurðsson (1886). For another attempt to build up from the fragmentary sources a comprehensive overview of particular chieftains and magnates, including many of the lawspeakers, see Ingvarsson 1986-7. See also Guðmundsson 1936, 1937; and Hermannsson 1943. 16. Peter Foote 1977:204 notes that the lawspeakers from Markús Skeggjason to Styrmir Kárason (i.e. over the period 1084-1214) appear to come from different quarters of the country. 17. Ari uses the same word ‘borgfirzkr’ of Tungu-Oddr when describing his dispute with Þórðr gellir (Ari’s forefather of the fifth generation) during Þórarinn’s term as lawspeaker. 18. Grímr is described in Egils saga (ÍF II:241-2) as a wealthy and well-connected lawspeaker at the time of his marriage to Egill’s niece and stepdaughter, Þórdís Þórólfsdóttir. The same source also mentions that Grímr and Rannveig, Skafti’s mother, had the same mother. 19. Ari’s way of presenting the early lawspeakers perhaps implies that he considered the regional origins of the lawspeakers to have been more significant in the 10th century than in later periods. This may suggest that an equity built into the original system, with control of the office alternating between parts of the country, had begun to break down by the time we reach the 11th century and that kinship connections had taken over as the overriding factor in the choice of lawspeaker. This would be well in line with the experience of more recent societies in which the equitable ideals of the founders of political systems have been eroded by an everincreasing concentration of wealth and power in the hands of a few families. 20. Assuming that a sentence about the twelve-summer term of Guðmundr Þorgeirsson (1123-1134) is a later interpolation: see Benediktsson, J. 1968:23. 21. Markús is mentioned widely in the sources. His descendants are listed in the Þórðarbók redaction of Landnámabók (based on material from the lost Melabók), and both the Sturlubók and Hauksbók manuscripts (S 355, H 313) trace lines of descent from Hrólfr rauðskegg (‘Redbeard’), the settler of Foss between the rivers Fiská and Rangá, to three later lawspeakers: viz. Hrólfr is said to be the maternal grandfather of Þorkell máni, the greatgrandfather of Þorgeirr of Ljósavatn, and the great-grandfather of Ásborg, wife of Þorsteinn goði, who was the great-grandfather of Markús Skeggjason. (Þorsteinn goði was also related to lawspeaker Skafti Þóroddsson in the second and third degrees.) About Bergþórr less is known; he is not mentioned in Landnámabók and his family details are uncertain. The history of the early bishops, Hungrvaka, mentions that he died during the episcopacy of Þorlákr Runólfsson: ‘Þá var lǫgdeila þeira Hafliða *Mássonar ok Þorgils Oddasonar; þá var ok sætt þeira. Margir hǫfðingjar váru Þorláki byskupi óhœgir fyrir sakir sinnar óhlýðni, en sumir í óráðvendi ok lagabrotum, en *hann hafði allt í hǫndum sem bezt váru efni á’ (‘This was the time of the

88 dispute between Hafliði Másson and Þorgils Oddason; then they were reconciled. Many chieftains created problems for Bishop Þorlákr through their disobedience, and some were unrighteous and committed crimes, but he conducted every case in the best way he could’) (98). 22. In references to Landnámabók (‘The Book of Settlements’), S refers to Sturlubók and H to Hauksbók, the two most complete redactions. 23. The history of the early bishops, Hungrvaka (77), bemoans the general immorality in Iceland at the time of Bishop Ísleifr’s return to his native country. It mentions a certain ‘lawman’ (whom, perfectly naturally from the point of view of the Church, it considers subordinate to the bishop) who was having an affair with both a mother and her daughter at the same time — though it does not state directly that this was during Gellir’s term in office. The reference may, in fact, be construed as applying to any period within Ísleifr’s episcopacy, which makes it impossible to be sure that the lawspeaker in question was Gellir rather than one of the three others during these years. The matter is discussed by Einar Arnórsson 1947 (see also Guðmundsson B. 1936:55-7 (p. 135, note 9) who suggests that the lawspeaker was Kolbeinn Flosason). Arnórsson is certainly too ready to assume a general compliance with the rules and strictures of the Church, which there is good reason to believe was at best uneven: see for instance the comments in Hungrvaka cited previously (p. 70, note 21); and two letters from Archbishop Eysteinn of Niðarós (Trondheim), one from around 1170, complaining that Icelanders have been beating up clerics and keeping whores, and one from 1180, regarding rampant debauchery (‘búfjárlíf’) among Icelandic chieftains (see Stefánsson 1975:94-5; Íslenzkt fornbréfasafn, vol. 1, pp. 218-23, 260-4). See also the general laxness in sexual matters among the leading chieftains as depicted in Sturlunga saga and Bishop Árni’s disputes with various chieftains over their abuse of women — to say nothing of the Icelandic bishops who kept wives and had children long after the Church’s attempts to enforce celibacy. For the keeping of mistresses among Icelandic chieftains, see Magnúsdóttir 1988, 2001; Guðmundsson, G. J. 1989. For the growing influence of the Church on ideas about marriage and domestic life in the 12th and 13th centuries, see Rafnsson 1982; Arnórsdóttir 1995:105-23, 1996; Jochens 1995:17-64. 24. In Íslenzkar æviskrár (‘Register of Icelandic Biography’), vol. 2, 1949, Páll Eggert Ólason claims that Gunnarr was the son of Þorgrímr, son of Eyjólfr grái (‘the Gray’), son of Þórðr gellir, citing as evidence a manuscript by Steinn Dofir; I have not been able to trace this source. 25. Modern Kirkjubæjarklaustur in central southern Iceland. 26. The order of Ásbjǫrn and Þorsteinn is the reverse of that in Laxdœla saga. In light of the possible family connection between Sighvatr’s maternal uncle, Kolbeinn, and Flosi the burner of Njáll, it is worth noting that Njáls saga says that Flosi appointed Surtr as a mediator in the peace negotiations following the killing of Hǫskuldr (ÍF XII:310). 27. A priest called Finnr is mentioned in a genealogy in Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs (ÍF XI:79); the details differ from the Landnámabók genealogy, so it is unclear whether this Finnr can be identified with Finnr the lawspeaker. 28. In volume 1 of Íslenzkt fornbréfasafn, p. 187, Jón Sigurðsson makes the suggestion that Þórhallr Finnsson was the son of Finnr the lawspeaker. Þórhallr appears in Sturla saga (Sturlunga saga, 51, 55). His wife Valgerðr was the daughter of Þorgils Oddason, and in 1150 he gave shelter to a killer called Aðalríkr who had been sent to him by his brother-in-law Oddr Þorgilsson (foster son of Sæmundr fróði of Oddi) and whom Hvamm-Sturla Þórðarson (Snorri Sturluson’s father) was after for killing his kinsman Skeggi; this incident marked the start of Sturla’s political career. Þórhallr is not mentioned in the saga again. In view of the affinity through marriage between Finnr and Hafliði Másson, it seems unlikely that his son Þórhallr should marry Þorgils’s daughter and protect criminals sent from Oddi in exactly the way that Finnr had previously done for Þorgils’s enemy Hafliði

89 29. The Auðunnar máldagi (‘Auðun’s Cartulary’) mentions that a certain Ísleifr (possibly Hallsson) endowed the Church with land at Grenjaðarstaður (see Níelsson 1869:195), and it is generally assumed that the father and son Hallr and Eyjólfr served there as priests. The evidence of Sturlunga saga, however, speaks against this. On monasteries in Iceland, see Jónsson, J. 1887. 30. It is somewhat puzzling that Helga is not mentioned in Sturlunga saga, since her brothers and sisters are there: Þorleifr hreimr, Ketill, and Valgerðr, daughter-in-law of lawspeaker Snorri Húnbogason and mother of the Narfasons: see the Haukdœlir family tree in ‘Ættir og átök,’ 54, in Sturlunga saga, vol. 3, Skýringar og fræði, p. 102. 31. See ‘Ættir og átök,’ 1 and 2, in Sturlunga sögu, vol. 3, Skýringar og fræði, pp. 734. On the functions of the genealogies in Sturlunga saga, see Rafnsson 1985, Bragason 1993, and Arnórsdóttir 1995:43-77. 32. See Vésteinsson 2000 on the stages in the gradual development of the Church’s power within Icelandic society. Vésteinsson does not, however, consider the significance of writing as a tool in this development.

90

2. Óláfr Þórðarson Hvítaskáld and the Oral Poetic Tradition in the West of Iceland c. 1250: The evidence of the verse citations in The Third Grammatical Treatise Collections, Anthologies, and the Literary Corpus As pointed out in the Introduction (p. 6–17), there is good reason to reject the often expressed idea that Snorri Sturluson had to ‘construct’ the passages of prose narrative in his Edda out of the diverse assortment of skaldic verses that had come down to him through tradition. It seems altogether more probable that he would have known the stories anyway, presumably from having heard them as part of an oral story tradition (which would not always have been fully consistent with the poems as we know them). The part of oral tradition in the writing of the sagas has long been the subject of scholarly debate, but little thought has hitherto been given to the extent of the corpus of skaldic verse preserved in oral tradition and how much people might generally have known of the poetry of particular skalds. Which skalds did people need to know to be au fait with the art of poetry, as it were? Nowadays we can turn to anthologies as a guide to which authors are considered ‘important.’ An Icelandic student, for instance, who has worked through the selection in Sigurður Nordal’s Íslenzk lestrarbók (‘An Icelandic reader’) (1924), will be reasonably well up on the main sagas, poems, and authors that people need to be familiar with for the purposes of general knowledge quizzes and the like. The widely used teaching book, E. V. Gordon’s An Introduction to Old Norse (1927), fulfills a similar function for students outside Iceland taking their first steps in Old Icelandic literature. It is possible to squeeze out indirect evidence about the extent of the common knowledge of poetry in the 13th century by looking at the nephew of Snorri Sturluson and elder brother of the saga writer Sturla Þórðarson, Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld (‘White-Skald’) (1210/12?-1259). Óláfr is known to us as a poet, scholar, and teacher. He was a consecrated subdeacon and served twice as lawspeaker, 1248-50 and 1253. He traveled abroad with Snorri in 1237 and spent time in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark. Later he probably founded a school at Stafaholt in Borgarfjörður in western Iceland. He was a highly educated man, fully conversant with the language of the skalds, and thus provides an excellent test case for investigating the ideas and interests of literary enthusiasts of his times. The most important work that can be ascribed to him with certainty is his Málskrúðsfrœði (‘Ars Rhetorica’), often known as The Third Grammatical Treatise, preserved in the Codex Wormianus manuscript of Snorri’s Edda. [1] In this work Óláfr quotes from a large number of Icelandic poems and poets, and we can suppose that the poets Óláfr quotes are the ones that would have sprung most naturally to the mind of an educated member of the literary circle in western Iceland in the middle years of the 13th century. Óláfr’s examples thus make it possible to draw up an image of the heritage of poems and poets that a lover of poetry in the 13th century might refer to with familiarity, and expect his readers to be familiar with through their first names alone. This allows us to ask certain questions: Did Óláfr’s perspective cover the entire country? Did he know verses by his counterparts in the east? What poets did he know from the past? We can suppose that Óláfr himself knew considerably more than he happens to quote in his treatise, but even so his choice of examples provides an indication of what he felt he might expect of his readers, of what he could be confident was part of their common knowledge. [2] Óláfr’s life provides a striking example of the family conflicts and party politics surrounding the chieftains of the Sturlung Age. He himself is mentioned frequently in the most important record of his times, Sturlunga saga. His first known home was at Bjarnarhöfn, west of modern day Stykkishólmur on the Snæfellsnes peninsula. As a teenager in 1226 we hear of

91 him at a midwinter feast at Snorri Sturluson’s manor at Reykjaholt — in a winter of volcanic eruptions and sand drifts in which Snorri lost a hundred head of cattle at Svignaskarð. In summer 1227, at the family’s ancestral home of Hvammur, Óláfr acts as peacemaker between his father Þórðr and his irascible cousin Sturla Sighvatsson. From 1234 we hear of him taking an active part (at times with his brother Sturla, the saga writer) in clashes with another cousin, Órœkja, son of Snorri Sturluson, and in 1236, on Snorri’s advice, he moves from Hvammur to Borg in the Mýrar district (the home of the poet Egill Skallagrímsson in the 10th century and closer to Snorri himself). In 1237, on the death of his father on April 10 at the age of 82, Óláfr comes into his inheritance and that winter composes a drápa (a formal poem of praise in dróttkvætt meter) to Bishop (Saint) Þorlákr; nothing of this poem survives, but the next summer saw the institution of the most important festival in the Icelandic Church calendar, Þorláksmessa, June 20. In Lent of the same spring, Óláfr went to Skálholt to perform his drápa, calling in on the way at Reykir, where he finds Snorri Sturluson and Gizurr Þorvaldsson hatching their plots. Nine days after Easter, on April 28, Óláfr is present at the Battle of Bær (‘Bœjarbardagi’), on the side of Þorleifr Þórðarson [3] against Sturla Sighvatsson. Snorri fled south before the battle. Þorleifr’s men suffer a crushing defeat and 29 are slain. After the battle Sturla’s ambitions become so extreme that his father Sighvatr mocks his arrogance in a famous exchange reported by their close relative Sturla Þórðarson in his Íslendinga saga. The losers, Óláfr and Þorleifr, leave the country in the summer of 1237, accompanied by Snorri himself and Þórðr kakali Sighvatsson (Sturla’s own brother, who had been with him when he captured Reykjaholt from Snorri that spring). They all spend the winter in Niðarós (Trondheim), Snorri with Pétur, the son of Earl Skúli. Skúli himself is in Oslo, with Snorri’s son Órœkja, along with King Hákon. Two years later, in the winter after the Battle of Örlygsstaðir, 1238-9, Snorri, Órœkja and Þorleifr are with Earl Skúli at Niðarós and Þórðr kakali with King Hákon at Bergen. The next spring Snorri’s party wishes to depart for Iceland but the king refuses them permission to leave. Óláfr hvítaskáld is also said to have been with the earl at this time, together with the Norwegian Arnfinnr Þjófsson, who is cited as the source for the news that Skúli has made Snorri an earl (probably of the island of Fólskn (modern Norwegian: Storfosna) off Niðarós: see Pálsson, H. 1992:165-8). A little later, when Earl Skúli sails off to face Hákon, Óláfr composes a poem about his ship Langafrjádagr (‘Good Friday’). The Battle of Láka (modern Norwegian: Låka) took place on March 6, 1240; the king suffered heavy losses and Earl Skúli moved south to Oslo and had himself proclaimed king. Óláfr Þórðarson is next heard of again at Niðarós, but now with the king, composing a poem about the battle in which he announces it his wish that the king be restored to his rightful position. This change of allegiance on Óláfr’s part is puzzling; Björn M. Ólsen (1884:xxxiv) suggested that Óláfr had gone to Sweden in 1239 to perform a poem in honor of King Eiríkr and, on his return to Niðarós, found Earl Skúli already gone and King Hákon newly arrived (Skúli left on 18 February 1240 and Hákon arrived shortly afterwards), leaving Óláfr little option but to go over to the king’s side. Óláfr is also said to have spent time in Denmark with King Valdimarr (probably the winter of 1240-1), [4] and to have been treated with great honor there. According to Þorgils saga skarða, this forms part of the commendation of Aron Hjǫrleifsson and the Norwegian Brynjólfr Jónsson when introducing Óláfr’s nephew, Þorgils skarði Bǫðvarsson, to the court of Hákon the Old in 1245 — with the accompanying suggestion that Þorgils will turn out to be no less accomplished than his kinsman Óláfr. After his return to Iceland nothing is heard of Óláfr until 1248, when Þórðr kakali has him appointed lawspeaker. Björn M. Ólsen came to the conclusion that Óláfr was not in Iceland by 1242, since he is not associated with the arrest of Sturla Þórðarson and Órœkja Snorrason at the Hvítá bridge in that year, but that he must have returned with an account of his journeys

92 before 1245, the year when Aron and Brynjólfr are boasting to King Hákon about his reception at the court of King Valdimarr. Back in Iceland, aged just over 30, Óláfr found conditions much changed from when he had left over five years earlier: Sturla Sighvatsson, who had been all powerful at the time of Óláfr’s departure for Norway, had died with his father in 1238 at the Battle of Örlygsstaðir; Snorri had been killed by agents of King Hákon in 1241; and Órœkja Snorrason and Sturla, Óláfr’s brother, were now a spent force. Óláfr relinquished his position as lawspeaker to his brother Sturla in 1251 but was reinstated the next year. The same year he received Þorgils skarði at Stafaholt when Þorgils arrived from Norway bearing Hákon’s demand for a share in Snorri’s estate. Óláfr supported the king’s claim at a meeting at Höfðahólar late in August, thereby setting himself in opposition to his brother Sturla and second cousin Þorleifr Þórðarson of Garðar. In December the same year, Þorgils turned up at Stafaholt with a large band of supporters and in considerable fear. The same evening, Sturla Þórðarson and Hrafn Oddsson sprang an attack and captured Þorgils, who prepared himself for death. Óláfr was incensed, declaring the attack a sacrilege and saying that God and St. Nicholas, to whom the church was dedicated, would have revenge. Subsequently Óláfr persuaded Þorgils to agree to break faith with Gizurr Þorvaldsson (on the grounds that they all had scores to settle with him following Snorri’s killing) and to accept terms from Sturla and Hrafn. That same night Þorgils went back on the oath coerced from him and rode north. In 1253 Óláfr resigned the lawspeakership on the grounds of ill health. The same year he tried to prevent Þórðr of Hítarnes from carrying out missions on behalf of Þorgils skarði. [5] For the year 1255, Þorgils saga skarða says of a priest called Þorsteinn tittlingr that he ‘hafði verit til kennslu í Stafaholti með Óláfi Þórðarsyni, ok var hann kunningi Þorgils ok Sturlu ok allra vestanmanna’ (‘had been taught at Stafaholt by Óláfr Þórðarson, and he was an acquaintance of Þorgils and Sturla and all the men of the west’). This is generally taken as evidence that Óláfr ran a school for priests at Stafaholt; there are no other references to the existence of such a school, but it is clear from The Third Grammatical Treatise that Óláfr possessed a far greater than average learning in classical works on rhetoric and grammar, just as he did in runes and the domestic poetic tradition. Table 2-1: Chronology of the Life of Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld (based on Sturlunga saga, Hákonar saga, and Knýtlinga saga) 1226 1227 1234 1236

1237

1239

present at a midwinter feast at his uncle Snorri’s at Reykjaholt in the west. (summer) promotes peace at Hvammur between his father Þórðr and his cousin Sturla Sighvatsson when Sturla arrives in militant mood. start of ongoing struggles between Óláfr (and his brother Sturla) and Órœkja, son of Snorri Sturluson. on Snorri’s advice, moves from his father’s estate at Hvammur south to Borg in Mýrar. (spring) inherits from his father and composes a drápa about Bishop/Saint Þorlákr. Present at the Battle of Bær. During the summer, he flees to Norway with his uncle Snorri, and at the same time as Þórðr kakali, to escape the fury of Sturla Sighvatsson. with Earl Skúli when Snorri declares his intention to return to Iceland. Composes a poem about Skúli’s ship.

93 after the Battle of Láka (modern Norwegian: Låka), Óláfr is with King Hákon. He has probably spent some of the interim in Sweden and composed poetry to King Eiríkr. ?1240-1 with King Valdimarr I of Denmark, held in high esteem. Þórðr kakali has Óláfr appointed lawspeaker. Indirect evidence suggests he returned to Iceland between 1242 and 1245 as he is not present when Sturla and Órœkja are 1248 arrested at the Hvítá bridge in 1242 but by 1245 has already told his kinsmen about his time in Denmark. 1250 Sturla Þórðarson replaces Óláfr as lawspeaker. Óláfr appointed lawspeaker for a second term but resigns the same year on the 1253 grounds of ill health. 1240

Óláfr is often believed to be the author of Knýtlinga saga, which traces the history of the kings of Denmark on the model of Snorri’s Heimskringla (see Guðnason 1982:clxxixclxxxiv and references there). Knýtlinga saga refers to Óláfr’s stay at the court of Valdimarr Valdimarsson (d. 1241) ‘er einhverr hefir verit ágætastr konungr hingat á Norðrlǫnd. Með honum var Óláfr Þórðarson ok nam at honum marga frœði, ok hafði hann margar ágætligar frásagnir frá honum’ (‘who was one of the finest kings yet seen in Scandinavia. With him was Óláfr Þórðarson, who obtained a great deal of information from him and had many excellent stories from him’) (Knýtlinga saga, ch. 127). Óláfr himself refers to Valdimarr in The Third Grammatical Treatise in connection with the runic characters (Ólsen 1884:45): ‘Þessa stafi ok þeirra merkingar compileraði minn herra Valldimarr konungr með skjótu orðtæki á þessa lund’ (‘My lord King Valdimarr compiled these letters and their meanings in brief as follows’). Óláfr acquired some knowledge of Danish and German, probably while in Denmark, as he refers to these languages in the Treatise. Laxdœla saga has also been ascribed to Óláfr (Hallberg 1963), though the arguments in support of this have been disputed (Allén 1971, Thorsson 1994). Óláfr’s poetic remains are meager: we have three single occasional verses; one verse from a poem on King Hákon the Old; twelve verses in hrynhenda meter from a poem about King Hákon and Earl Skúli; two verses from a drápa about Aron Hjǫrleifsson; and two fragments from a poem on Thomas à Becket (the English saint, 1117-70, murdered in Canterbury Cathedral). Nothing survives of the poems he is known to have composed on Earl Knútr Hákonarson, King Eiríkr of Sweden, King Valdimarr the Old of Denmark, and Saint Þorlákr. Thus, in addition to his clerical learning, Óláfr was trained in poetics and a writer of prose. He may well have gotten some of his education from his uncle Snorri Sturluson and thus been ideally placed to absorb the poetic tradition cultivated by the educated and literate elite of the Dalir and Borgarfjörður regions of western Iceland in the 13th century.

Scholarly Neglect of Óláfr’s Poetic Examples Óláfr probably wrote his Third Grammatical Treatise shortly after his return to Iceland from his time abroad. In support of this, Björn M. Ólsen pointed to the warmth with which Óláfr refers to King Valdimarr and a certain animosity toward King Hákon that appears in the glosses to one of the verses. The treatise is divided into two sections, on grammar and rhetoric, and is based largely on the works of Priscian and Donatus. Óláfr’s task was thus to find or compose examples of verse in Icelandic to exemplify the main concepts of Latin poetic style that he introduces. These examples demonstrate the independence of the domestic poetic tradition visà-vis the Latin learning that the work attempts to expound to its readers (see Tranter 2000). The treatise also reveals that Óláfr had a thorough knowledge of Norse runes, since one of his

94 purposes is to show his readers that the Roman alphabet is better suited to the sound system of Icelandic than runes — which he takes for granted that his readers will also be familiar with. Scholarly attention to the Treatise has been directed first and foremost at Óláfr’s command of the Latin tradition of learning, and in particular at his sources and how he used and interpreted them (Ólsen 1884; Collings 1967; Raschellà 1983; Albano 1985-6; Tómasson 1992:529-32). The section on grammar — ‘Málfrœðinnar grundvǫllr’ (‘Basics of grammar’), which follows Priscian — has been studied by Micillo (1993); Kristján Árnason (1993) has discussed pitch in Old Icelandic in light of Óláfr’s evidence; Björn M. Ólsen (1884) and Raschellà (1994) have looked into the background of the chapter on runes; and Tómasson (1993) has analyzed the prefaces to the four grammatical treatises in the Codex Wormianus. The examples of skaldic poetry cited by Óláfr have, however, received less scholarly attention, [6] except perhaps one verse that he ascribes to Kormakr and another ascribed to Bjǫrn Hítdœlakappi in the saga that bears his name (see p. 102, note 9). A certain amount of scholarly fun has been had with Óláfr’s example of the trope ofljóst, [7] and there is a wellknown verse found only in the Treatise that is generally given as the final stanza of Egill Skallagrímsson’s lament for his friend Arinbjǫrn, Arinbjarnarkviða (‘Vas’k árvakr’). [8] It seems fair to assume, however, that Óláfr’s choice of examples reveals his knowledge of and taste in the poetry that was known to him and his contemporaries, and which he also expected of his readers. As Finnur Jónsson (1923:924) observed, without further comment, the poetry cited comes from all ages of Icelandic history, by both Icelandic and Norwegian skalds. The examples serve as evidence of systematic thinking on the art of poetry at the oral stage, prior to the arrival of Latin learning (Raschellà 1983:293, 298), but their potential source value has nevertheless escaped scholars, as typified by the following comment from a recent literary history (Tómasson 1992:531), reflecting the conventional view: ‘Einstaka vísur eru og hvergi til annars staðar’ (‘A few of the verses are not found elsewhere’). As is made clear below, this is simply not true: a simple count of the lines reveals that in fact over two thirds of Óláfr’s examples are not found in other sources, going by the comparative evidence cited in the footnotes in Finnur Jónsson’s 1927 edition of the Treatise and in his standard edition of the extant skaldic corpus Skjaldedigtningen IA (esp. pp. 590-602; see Jónsson, F. 1912-15). Despite the lack of interest among scholars, Óláfr’s indigenous verse examples merit special investigation. As stated previously, one may suppose that, when Óláfr cites a stanza or verse fragment by a particular poet without further specification, he is taking it for granted that it will be reasonably familiar to his audience or readership. This assumes, of course, that Óláfr was writing for people who were interested in this poetry and had a fair knowledge of it, up to the level, say, one might expect of beginners in formal book-learning; but in this regard it may be said that the whole treatise bears the marks of having been written for readers already possessed of a sound knowledge of both runes and skaldic verse. By looking into Óláfr’s examples and taking account of their provenance, we may therefore be able to draw up some kind of picture of the condition and strength of the skaldic tradition in the mid-13th century. From this we should be able to see which poems and poets were so familiar to him that he turned to them automatically when looking for Icelandic examples to illustrate his Latin stylistic concepts — in the confident belief that the poets he refers to with familiarity would also be familiar to his potential audience.

The Provenance of Óláfr’s Citations In the Treatise, Óláfr names 34 poets and presents 123 examples of poetry, 354 lines in all. Most of the examples are only fragments of stanzas, but seven stanzas are quoted in full, of which one is repeated.

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Figure 2-1: The verse examples in The Third Grammatical Treatise The question that now arises is: Where did Óláfr get these examples from? There are at least four possibilities: 1. 2. 3. 4.

from written sources from oral tradition Óláfr composed or reworded them himself translated or adapted from the Latin exemplar

Examples known from other written sources If Óláfr composed or translated some of his examples himself, it seems most likely that they would be among the 51 examples that are both a) unknown from other sources, and b) presented without a named author. Since there is no way of getting any further information on the origins of the examples in this group there is very little we can say about them. With the other examples things are rather different, and I will start by considering the forms used to introduce the 33 verses that are known from other written sources. Table 2-2: Introductory formulas to verses cited in The Third Grammatical Treatise that are also known from other sources sem Snorri kvaða (‘as Snorri said’) 2 lines (from Háttatal 83) 1 line (from a verse by Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld, in sem hér (‘as here’) Fóstbrœðra saga but not in Heimskringla) sem Egill kvað (‘as Egill said’) 8 lines (Arinbjarnarkviða 16) sem kvað Hárekr í Þjóttu (‘as 2 lines (in Óláfs saga helga, which names the poet Hárekr of Þjótta said’) Hárekr Eyvindarson) 4 lines (Glúmr Geirason, from Gráfeldardrápa, in sem Glúmr kvað (‘as Glúmr said’) Heimskringla) 2 lines (ascribed to Bjǫrn Hítdœlakappi in Bjarnar saga sem hér (‘as here’) Hítdœlakappa) 2 lines (by Einarr skálaglamm, from Vellekla, in sem hér (‘as here’) Heimskringla) sem Eyvindr kvað (‘as Eyvindr 2 lines (Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, in said’) Heimskringla)

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sem Arnórr kvað (‘as Arnórr said’) sem kvað Halldórr skvaldri (‘as Halldórr skvaldri said’) sem Sighvatr kvað (‘as Sighvatr said’) sem Snorri kvað (‘as Snorri said’) sem Bjǫrn kvað (‘as Bjǫrn said’) sem Sighvatr kvað (‘as Sighvatr said’) sem Snorri kvað (‘as Snorri said’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem Snorri kvað (‘as Snorri said’) sem Hallfreðr kvað (‘as Hallfreðr said’) sem kveðit er í Grímnismálum (‘as is said in Grímnismál’) sem Máni kvað (‘as Máni said’) sem Eyvindr kvað (‘as Eyvindr said’) sem Markús kvað (‘as Markús said’) sem Ormr Steinþórsson kvað (‘as Ormr Steinþórsson said’) sem Snorri kvað (‘as Snorri said’) enn sem Snorri kvað (‘again as Snorri said’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem hér er kveðit (‘as is said here’)

2 lines (Arnórr jarlaskáld Þórðarson, from Hrynhenda, to Magnús, king of Norway, in Morkinskinna) 4 lines (? from Útfarardrápa) 1 line (Sighvatr Þórðarson, from Nesjavísur, in Fagrskinna) 2 lines (from Háttatal 28) 2 lines (in Kormaks saga, where it is attributed to Hólmgǫngu-Bersi) 1 line (Sighvatr Þórðarson, in Heimskringla) 3 lines (from Háttatal 15-16) 4 lines (Snorri Sturluson, from Háttatal 40) 4 lines (from Háttatal 73) 2 lines (Hallfreðr vandræðaskáld Óttarsson, from Heimskringla, not in Hallfreðar saga) 2 lines (from Grímnismál 47) 4 lines (in Skáldskaparmál in Snorri’s Edda) 4 lines (Eyvindr skáldaspillir Finnsson, from Háleygjatal, in Heimskringla) 2 lines (Markús Skeggjason, in Snorri’s Edda) 2 lines (in Snorri’s Edda) 2 lines (from Háttatal 5) 2 lines (from Háttatal 5)

4 lines (by Þórðr Kolbeinsson, in Heimskringla) 4 lines (also in Snorri’s Edda) 1 line (by Earl Gilli, in Njáls saga, about Brian Boru sem hér (‘as here’) and the Battle of Clontarf, 1014) sem Sighvatr kvað (‘as Sighvatr 4 lines (Sighvatr Þórðarson, from Bersǫglisvísur, in said’) Heimskringla) sem Einarr kvað (‘as Einarr said’) 4 lines (Einarr Skúlason, from Geisli 1) sem hér (‘as here’) 3 lines (from Gátur Gestumblinda) sem Egill kvað (‘as Egill said’) 4 lines (also in Egils saga) sem Snorri kvað (‘as Snorri said’) 8 lines (in Hákonar saga) a. In general Old Norse usage, the verb kveða means simply ‘say’. However, it is the etymological origin of several words referring to poems and poetry (kvæði, kviða, kveðskapr) and therefore has a special sense of ‘compose (a poem)’, without distinction between oral and written poetry.

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If we leave aside poems that we may suppose were known as independent entities at the oral stage (viz. Gátur Gestumblinda, Grímnismál, and Arinbjarnarkviða), it is striking that the great majority of these stanzas and fragments are found in works that already existed in written form when Óláfr wrote his Treatise, with comparatively few coming from the tradition that gave rise to the sagas of Icelanders. It is particularly interesting that the stanzas that are also found in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa and Kormaks saga are not attributed in them to the same poets as in the Treatise, which might suggest that Óláfr had learned these verses from oral tradition rather than from a book containing these sagas in their finished forms. [9] Whatever the truth in these cases, the examples allow us to draw up a list of the written works that Óláfr might have known: Table 2-3: Works containing stanzas also quoted in The Third Grammatical Treatise

Written texts Snorri’s Edda Heimskringla *Older version of Morkinskina Fagrskinna Egils saga Snorri Sturluson’s verses in Hákonar saga *Brjáns saga

Poems preserved as independent entities (written Sources uncertain and/or oral)

Arinbjarnarkviða Grímnismál Geisli Gátur Gestumblinda

Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa (one verse unascribed by Óláfr but attributed to Bjǫrn in the saga) Fóstbrœðra saga (one verse unascribed by Óláfr but attributed to Þormóðr Kolbrúnarskáld in the saga) Kormáks saga (one verse attributed by Óláfr to Bjǫrn but to Hólmgǫngu-Bersi in the saga)

We can view this list as an indication of the works that a well-educated Icelander from Borgarfjörður in western Iceland might reasonably have been familiar with around the middle of the 13th century. At the core are the works of Snorri Sturluson and the sources he had available in the writing of Heimskringla. Óláfr had therefore seemingly read ‘all the latest’ in Borgarfjörður literature, i.e. everything that we can suppose Snorri had with him at Reykjaholt, but little else in the way of Icelandic material; indeed, the only other work we can be reasonably sure Óláfr had access to is Morkinskinna, and that has been connected with Eyjafjörður in the north, where Snorri’s brother Sighvatr settled in 1215. [10] If this list is taken at face value, it ties in well with the traditional idea that Egils saga, Snorri’s Edda, and the kings’ saga compilations Morkinskinna, Fagrskinna, and Heimskringla all existed in book form in the first half of the 13th century. The only well-known poet from the sagas of Icelanders that Óláfr refers to by name is Egill Skallagrímsson. This fact might lend support to the frequently expressed view that Egils saga was the first, or one of the first, of the sagas of Icelanders to be written (see Hafstað 1990, Kristjánsson 1990, Ólason, V. 1991). Three of Óláfr’s examples are also found in other sagas of Icelanders; of these, two are unascribed in the Treatise (the verses found also in Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa and Fóstbrœðra saga), while the other is ascribed to different people by Óláfr and in Kormaks saga (by Óláfr to Bjǫrn and by the saga to Bersi, though it should be noted that these names are synonymous). The lack of attribution for the examples also found in Bjarnar saga and Fóstbrœðra saga may be explained either as a) Óláfr not having known who the authors were (which might be due to his having learned the verses from somewhere other than

98 the written sagas), or b) his considering the verses so well known that he did not need to specify the authors (as in the examples from Vellekla, Háttatal, Heimskringla, *Brjáns saga, and Gátur Gestumblinda, each of which is quoted without ascription). The second of these possibilities would imply that Óláfr knew more skalds from the sagas of Icelanders than just Egill, whether this knowledge came from books or from oral tradition. There is no way of deciding which explanation is closer to the truth, but the examples from Kormaks saga, Fóstbrœðra saga, and Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa are of potential significance for attempts to determine the ages of these sagas, e.g. to question the arguments put forward by Jónas Kristjánsson (1972:292-310) and Bjarni Guðnason (1994) that the last two are rather younger than was formerly thought. Alternatively, we might use the uncertainties surrounding these verses as reason to reconsider the view that the sagas had no existence before the time they achieved written form (see Kellogg 1994 and below, p. 242).

Examples not known from other written sources At this point it is worth considering the formulas Óláfr uses to introduce the 90 verses and fragments that are not known from other written sources: Table 2-4: Introductory formulas to verses quoted in The Third Grammatical Treatise that are not known from other sourcesa sem kvað Auðunn illskælda (‘as Auðunn illskælda said’)

4 lines. One other verse is preserved in a þáttr about the poets of King Haraldr hárfagri in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar. FJ considers Auðunn to be Norwegian, from the 9th century. 1 line. Arnórr jarlaskáld Þórðarson. Second half of 11th century. A sem Arnórr kvað (‘as large body of verse survives, mainly to earls and kings Magnús the Arnórr said’) Good and Haraldr harðráði. From Hítarnes í Hnappadalssýsla in the west of Iceland. There is a þáttr about him in Morkinskinna. 2 lines with mythological content (e.g. the kenning ‘Brynhildar sem hér (‘as here’) bróðir,’ ‘Brynhildr’s brother’). Author not specified. 4 lines. FJ attributes this fragment to Eilífr kúlnasveinn, a 12thcentury Icelander and author of Kristsdrápa. Eilífr Guðrúnarson is sem kvað Eilífr also said to be Icelandic (though this is uncertain). Known from Guðrúnarson (‘as Eilífr Snorri’s Edda. He was alive around the year 1000 and composed the Guðrúnarson said’) mythological poem Þórsdrápa; there is also one fragment of Christian verse. sem hér (‘as here’) 2 lines 2 lines (the fragment about ‘Máni’s wife’: see note 7, p. 99). Possibly Einarr Skúlason, a prolific poet, fl. mid-12th century. If sem Einarr kvað (‘as this is correct, he was from Borg in Mýrar, western Iceland. There is Einarr said’) a þáttr about him in Morkinskinna. Óláfr quotes elsewhere from his famous religious poem Geisli. sem Skraut-Oddr kvað 4 lines. Skraut-Oddr is mentioned only here (another stanza later). (‘as Skraut-Oddr said’) FJ considers him Icelandic and from the 11th century. sem Starkaðr gamli kvað (‘as Starkaðr the 4 lines. A famous prehistorical hero from the legendary sagas. Old said’)

99 sem hér (‘as here’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem Óláfr Leggsson kvað (‘as Óláfr Leggsson said’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem Einarr kvað (‘as Einarr said’) sem hér er kveðit (‘as is said here’) ok sem þetta (‘and as this’) sem hér er kveðit (‘as is said here’)

2 lines 1 line 1 line (mythological material). Icelandic poet of the 13th century, nicknamed ‘svartaskáld.’ He composed to King Hákon, Earl Skúli, and Christ. From the Lundarmenn family of Borgarfjörður, western Iceland. Involved in the killing of Jón murti, son of Snorri Sturluson, in 1231. 1 line (mythological material) 2 lines. Einarr Skúlason (see above) 2 lines 2 lines 2 lines

4 lines. Þorleifr Rauðfeldarson jarlsskáld (‘earl’s poet’). 10th sem Þorleifr jarlsskáld century, from Brekka in Svarfaðardalur, northern Iceland. There is a kvað (‘as Þorleifr þáttr about him in Flateyjarbók. The verse is about Hákon (?Earl of jarlsskáld said’) Hlaðir); Heimskringla has another verse by him about Hákon. Spent his last years at Mýrdalur, southern Iceland. sem Snorri kvað (‘as 2 lines. The only known piece of religious verse by Snorri Snorri said’) Sturluson. sem hér (‘as here’) 2 lines 3 lines. FJ considers this to be from the 12th century (1121), sem í Hafliðamálum (‘as in Hafliðamál’) possibly about Hafliði Másson (see chapter 1 above, passim). sem hér er kveðit (‘as 2 lines is said here’) 4 lines. Þjóðólfr Arnórsson. Family from Svarfaðardalur in the north. Went abroad young and worked for kings Magnús the Good sem Þjóðólfr kvað (‘as and Haraldr harðráði. Died with the latter at Stamford Bridge in Þjóðólfr said’) 1066. Much of his poetry survives. This verse was perhaps composed on the death of King Magnús in 1047. Mentioned in Heimskringla, Sneglu-Halla þáttr and Brands þáttr ǫrva. sem hér er kveðit (‘as 2 lines is said here’) sem hér (‘as here’) 5 lines sem Kolbeinn kvað (‘as 4 lines. ?Kolbeinn Tumason of the Ásbirningar clan from the north, Kolbeinn said’) died 1208. sem hér er kveðit (‘as 4 lines is said here’) sem Arnórr kvað í 2 lines. Arnórr jarlaskáld (see above). The fragment is found only Magnúsdrápu (‘as here and is perhaps from the introduction to a drápa to King Arnórr said in Magnús. Magnúsdrápa’)

100 2 lines. FJ believes this to be the Guðbrandr mentioned in Hrafns sem Guðbrandr kvað í saga (c. 1200), who composes a verse quoted there in confirmation Svǫlu (‘as Guðbrandr that Hrafn has received a certain Loftr Markússon, who says he has of Svala said’) been sent to him from Mýrar in the west by Sighvatr Sturluson. 4 lines. Sneglu-Halli, fl. mid-11th century, from the north of sem Sneglu-Halli kvað Iceland. He spent time at the court of Haraldr harðráði. There is a (‘as Sneglu-Halli said’) (comic) þáttr about him in Morkinskinna, Hulda, and Hrokkinskinna. sem hér er kveðit (‘as 4 lines is said here’) ok sem hér er kveðit 2 lines (‘and as is said here’) sem Þjóðólfr kvað (‘as 2 lines. Þjóðólfr Arnórsson (see above). Heimskringla links this Þjóðólfr said’) fragment with King Haraldr harðráði. 4 lines. We know of no poet called Guðlaugr. FJ considers him sem Guðlaugr kvað Icelandic, 12th century. Several men called Guðlaugr are mentioned (‘as Guðlaugr said’) in Sturlunga saga. sem hér er kveðit (‘as 2 lines is said here’) sem hér er kveðit (‘as 2 lines is said here’) sem Óláfr kvað (‘as 4 lines. ?Óláfr hvítaskáld himself. Óláfr said’) sem Hallar-Steinn kvað 2 lines. Hallar-Steinn Herdísarson, c. 1200. The name may refer to (‘as Hallar-Steinn Höll in Þverárhlíð in Borgarfjörður, western Iceland. Composed said’) Rekstefja, 35 stanzas about King Óláfr Tryggvason. sem Egill kvað (‘as 2 lines. Egill Skallagrímsson. The only fragment of this type by Egill said’) Egill. Meaning obscure. sem hér (‘as here’) 2 lines. ?From Íslendingadrápa. sem Bragi hinn gamli kvað (‘as Bragi the Old 2 lines. Bragi gamli Boddason. Possibly 9th century, Norwegian. said’) 2 lines. Not in Kormaks saga! Kormakr was from Melur in sem Kormakr kvað (‘as Miðfjörður in the northwest. 10th century. His saga contains a large Kormakr said’) number of occasional verses ascribed to him, and there are fragments of his Sigurðardrápa in Snorri’s Edda and Heimskringla. sem Arnórr kvað (‘as 2 lines. Arnórr jarlaskáld (see above). ?From the introduction to Arnórr said’) Magnúsdrápa. sem hér (‘as here’) 1 line (previously quoted) sem fyrr er ritat (‘as was written 1 line (previously quoted) previously’) sem fyrr er ritat (‘as was written 1 line (previously quoted) previously’)

101 sem í Bjúgum vísum (‘as in Bjúgar vísur’)

1 line. FJ assigns this to the 12th century.

2 lines. Sighvatr Þórðarson. Possibly from a memorial ode to King sem Sighvatr kvað (‘as Óláfr Haraldsson (St. Olaf). Sighvatr was from Apavatn in Sighvatr said’) Grímsnes in southern Iceland. There is a þáttr about him in Snorri’s Óláfs saga helga. í þessum orðum (‘in 1 line (previously quoted) these words’) sem hér er kveðit (‘as 4 lines. Apparent Latin influence. ?By Óláfr himself. is said here’) sem hér er kveðit (‘as 4 lines. Probable influence from the Paternoster. is said here’) sem hér (‘as here’) 4 lines. ?From a praise poem by Óláfr himself. sem hér er kveðit (‘as 1 line is said here’) 2 lines. Glúmr Geirason. Fragment from a poem on King Eiríkr Blood-axe. Icelandic poet of the 10th century. Lived at Mývatn in sem Glúmr kvað (‘as the north and Króksfjörður in the northwest. Composed a poem on Glúmr said’) the death of Eiríkr Blood-axe and Gráfeldardrápa about King Haraldr gráfeldr, cited in Heimskringla. sem hér (‘as here’) 4 lines. ?From a praise poem by Óláfr himself. sem hér (‘as here’) 4 lines sem hér (‘as here’) 2 lines (in ms. K, not W). sem hér er kveðit (‘as 2 lines is said here’) sem hér (‘as here’) 2 lines sem hér (‘as here’) 4 lines sem hér er kveðit (‘as 4 lines is said here’) sem hér er kveðit (‘as 2 lines is said here’) 8 lines. Egill Skallagrímsson. ?From Arinbjarnarkviða. The two sem Egill kvað (‘as stanzas in the Treatise thought to come from Arinbjarnarkviða (this Egill said’) one and the ‘final stanza’ below) could once have stood in the Mǫðruvallabók ms. where the text is now illegible or on a lost sheet. sem hér (‘as here’) 8 lines sem hér (‘as here’) 4 lines. Resembles Haustlǫng by Þjóðólfr of Hvinir (see below). sem hér (‘as here’) 4 lines sem Skraut-Oddr kvað 2 lines. For Skraut-Oddr, see above. (‘as Skraut-Oddr said’) sem hér (‘as here’) 1 line 4 lines. FJ ascribes this to Þjóðólfr of Hvinir (10th-century sem Þjóðólfr kvað (‘as Norwegian) from a perceived likeness to his Ynglingatal. Óláfr does Þjóðólfr said’) not distinguish this Þjóðólfr from Þjóðólfr Arnórsson, from whom

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sem Markús kvað (‘as Markús said’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem Þjóðólfr kvað (‘as Þjóðólfr said’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem hér (‘as here’) sem hér (‘as here’)

he has already quoted (see above), so it seems reasonable to assume that it is the latter Þjóðólfr that is intended here. 2 lines. Probably Markús Skeggjason, lawspeaker from 1084 to his death in 1107. From the south of Iceland. Composed a drápa in hrynhenda meter to Eiríkr the Good Sveinsson, king of Denmark, which he sent by a representative to the king and fragments of which are preserved in Knýtlinga saga. lacuna in the manuscript 4 lines. Presumably Þjóðólfr Arnórsson (see above).

2 lines 2 lines 2 lines 4 lines 2 lines 2 lines. Reminiscent of Egill’s Arinbjarnarkviða. 2 lines. The name is rare. A certain Leiðólfr is mentioned in Njáls sem Leiðólfr kvað (‘as saga. This is the only piece of verse ascribed to anyone of this Leiðólfr said’) name, and nothing is known about him. sem hér er kveðit (‘as 2 lines is said here’) sem hér er kveðit (‘as 4 lines is said here’) sem Egill kvað (‘as 8 lines. Egill Skallagrímsson. ?Final stanza of Arinbjarnarkviða. Egill said’) sem hér (‘as here’) 2 lines sem hér (‘as here’) 2 lines 4 lines. The fragment resembles a verse by Úlfr Uggason (late 10th sem Sveinn kvað (‘as century, Icelandic). FJ identifies this Sveinn with a Sveinn who Sveinn said’) composed Norðrsetudrápa, quoted in Snorri’s Edda and assigned by FJ to the 11th century. sem í Kúgadrápu (‘as 2 lines. A certain Kúgi appears in Orkneyinga saga. in Kúgadrápa’) sem Sveinn kvað (‘as 1 line. For Sveinn, see above. Sveinn said’) sem hér er kveðit (‘as 4 lines is said here’) sem Egill kvað (‘as 8 lines. Egill Skallagrímsson. This stanza has already been quoted Egill said’) and is thought to be from Arinbjarnarkviða. 8 lines. Probably the same man as Nikulás Bergsson, abbot of sem Nikulás ábóti kvað Munkaþverá, died 1159, to whom is ascribed Leiðarvísir, an (‘as Abbot Nikulás itinerary for pilgrims to Rome and the Holy Land, and who said’) composed a drápa to the Apostle John. The stanza here is thought to be about Christ.

103 sem hér er kveðit (‘as is said here’)

4 lines

a. FJ refers to the standard edition of the skaldic corpus, Finnur Jónsson Den Norsk-Islandske Skjaldedigtning (1912-5). In the introductory formulas there are references to three otherwise unknown poems, but in each case no author is given: Table 2-5: Poems named in The Third Grammatical Treatise that are not known from other sources Hafliðamál (which FJ thinks could be Bjúgar about Hafliði Másson) vísur

Kúgadrápa (A character called Kúgi appears in Orkneyinga saga.)

The poets named in the introductory formulas to the verse examples are as follows (in the order they appear in the Treatise): Table 2-6: Authors of verses quoted in The Third Grammatical Treatise but not known from other sources, listed in the order in which they appear in the Treatise

Auðunn illskælda Arnórr jarlaskáld Eilífr Guðrúnarson Einarr (Skúlason) Skraut-Oddr Starkaðr gamli Óláfr Leggsson Einarr (Skúlason) (2nd appearance) Þorleifr jarlsskáld Snorri Sturluson Þjóðólfr (Arnórsson) Kolbeinn (Tumason) Arnórr jarlaskáld (2nd appearance) Guðbrandr of Svala

Sneglu-Halli Þjóðólfr Arnórsson (2nd appearance) Guðlaugr Óláfr (?hvítaskáld) Hallar-Steinn (Herdísarson) Egill (Skallagrímsson) Bragi inn gamli Kormakr Arnórr jarlaskáld (3rd appearance) Sighvatr Þórðarson Glúmr (Geirason) Egill (Skallagrímsson) (2nd appearance)

Skraut-Oddr (2nd appearance) Þjóðólfr (Arnórsson) (3rd appearance) Markús (Skeggjason) Þjóðólfr (Arnórsson) (4th appearance) Leiðólfr Egill (Skallagrímsson) (3rd appearance) Sveinn Sveinn (2nd appearance) Egill (Skallagrímsson) (4th appearance) Abbot Nikulás

The verses Óláfr attributes to the twenty-six poets in the table above are not known from other written sources. There is thus a fair probability that he learned their poems by some way other than working his way through them on vellum. This list might therefore include poets who were sufficiently prominent in Óláfr’s mind that their works found their way into his collection of examples from oral knowledge. They would equally be poets who he might have assumed would be familiar to people with an interest in poetry in the west of Iceland at the time he was writing his Treatise (though this of course does not mean that all the actual examples would have been familiar to everyone). By trying to work out where these poets came from, we can perhaps build up a map of the literary horizons of Óláfr Þórðarson as he worked in his home at Stafaholt. As can been seen from the table of introductory formulas, it is not in all cases clear

104 which poet Óláfr is referring to when he gives only a single name; however, with the aid of Finnur Jónsson’s Skjaldedigtningen (1912-5), and with an eye to the kinds of the formulas used to introduce the verses that are known from other sources, we can in most cases make informed guesses as to the identity of the particular poets. The twenty-six poets named by Óláfr can be divided into two groups according to how much we know about them. The first group comprises nine poets whose origins are uncertain though some of them do appear elsewhere in written sources: Table 2-7: Poets of uncertain origin, cited as authors of otherwise unknown verses in The Third Grammatical Treatise Auðunn illskælda (mentioned in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar as a poet of King Haraldr hárfagri)  Eilífr Guðrúnarson (fl. around 1000; known from Snorri’s Edda)  Skraut-Oddr (mentioned only in the Treatise; two fragments)  Starkaðr the Old  Guðbrandr of Svala (possibly from the circle around Sighvatr Sturluson and Hrafn Sveinbjarnarson around 1200)  Guðlaugr (?Icelandic, 12th century)  Bragi the Old  Leiðólfr  Sveinn (possibly author of Norðrsetudrápa, cited in Snorri’s Edda, ?11th century) 

These nine skalds of unknown geographical origins fall into three groups according to where our knowledge of them (such as it is) comes from: 1. Generally known prehistorical and (semi)legendary characters: Starkaðr the Old and Bragi the Old. Both are among the best-known figures in Scandinavian prehistory and would hardly have required further explanation. 2. Poets known from Snorri’s scriptorium in the writing of Heimskringla and the Edda: Auðunn illskælda, Eilífr Guðrúnarson, and Sveinn. 3. Poets known only from Óláfr: Guðbrandr (unless he is the same man as appears in Hrafns saga), Skraut-Oddr, Guðlaugr, and Leiðólfr. About the following poets more is known (with a certain amount of guesswork in cases where a name is shared by more than one known skald): Table 2-8: Authors of verses in The Third Grammatical Treatise that are not found in other sources, about whom we have reliable historical information Arnórr jarlaskáld (‘earls’ poet’) Þórðarson from Hítarnes in Hnappadalssýsla, western Iceland. Second half of 11th century. There is a þáttr about him in Morkinskinna.  Einarr Skúlason from Borg in Mýrar, western Iceland. 12th century. There is a þáttr about him in Morkinskinna.  Óláfr Leggsson of the Lundarmenn clan from Borgarfjörður, western Iceland. Involved in the killing of Jón murti, son of Snorri Sturluson, in 1231. 

105  Þorleifr Rauðfeldarson jarlsskáld (‘earl’s poet’) from Brekka in Svarfaðardalur, northern Iceland. 10th century. Known from Heimskringla and elsewhere. Composed poem to Hákon, earl of Hlaðir.  Snorri Sturluson, from Borgarfjörður, western Icelandic. 13th century.  Þjóðólfr Arnórsson, from Svarfaðardalur in the north. Died 1066. Composed for kings Magnús the Good and Haraldr harðráði. Mentioned in Heimskringla, SnegluHalla þáttr, and Brands þáttr ǫrva.  Kolbeinn Tumason, of the Ásbirningar clan from Skagafjörður in the north. Died 1208.  Sneglu-Halli, from the north of Iceland. Spent time at the court of Haraldr harðráði in the mid-11th century. Main character of a þáttr in Morkinskinna and elsewhere.  ?Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld, author of the Treatise.  Hallar-Steinn Herdísarson, c. 1200. Possibly from Höll in Þverárhlíð, Borgarfjörður, western Iceland. Composed a poem about King Óláfr Tryggvason.  Egill Skallagrímsson from Borg in Mýrar, western Iceland. 10th century.  Kormakr Ǫgmundarson from Melur in Miðfjörður in the northwest. 10th century. Poetry preserved in Snorri’s Edda, Heimskringla, and Kormaks saga.  Sighvatr Þórðarson from Apavatn in Grímsnes in southern Iceland. 11th century. A þáttr about him is included in Snorri’s Óláfs saga helga.  Glúmr Geirason, from Mývatn in the north and Króksfjörður in the northwest. 10th century. Composed to kings Eiríkr Blood-axe and Haraldr gráfeldr. Known from Heimskringla.  Markús Skeggjason, lawspeaker 1084–1107. From the south of Iceland. Composed a drápa in hrynhenda meter to Eiríkr the Good Sveinsson, king of Denmark, known from Knýtlinga saga.  Nikulás Bergsson, abbot of Munkaþverá, died 1159. Probable author of a guide in Icelandic for pilgrims to Rome and the Holy Land.

Again we may ask: Where did Óláfr get his knowledge of the poets in the list above? To help us answer this, the poets can be divided into four groups: 1. Generally known figures from Óláfr’s immediate cultural environment: Óláfr Leggsson, Snorri Sturluson, Óláfr Þórðarson himself, and Egill Skallagrímsson (Óláfr’s examples suggest a cultivation of Egill’s poetry among members of his and Snorri’s family.) 2. Poets known to Snorri in the writing of Heimskringla and the Edda: Þorleifr jarlsskáld, Þjóðólfr Arnórsson, Hallar-Steinn, Kormakr, Sighvatr Þórðarson, and Glúmr Geirason. 3. Poets known from þættir in the postulated older version of Morkinskinna: Arnórr jarlaskáld, Einarr Skúlason, and Sneglu-Halli (An interesting attempt has recently been made to associate Sneglu-Halli with Snorri: see Pálsson, H. 1992.) 4. Nationally known figures of the 13th century: Kolbeinn Tumason, Abbot Nikulás Bergsson, and Markús Skeggjason (Markús’s Hrynhenda is quoted in Knýtlinga saga; this meter was also used by Óláfr himself and Arnórr jarlaskáld.) Óláfr could not have obtained his examples of the verses of these poets from the texts mentioned previously in the form that we know them. Most of these poets are, however, fairly well-known figures, and so it is interesting to note where in Iceland they came from. The majority are familiar as court poets from the works of Snorri Sturluson and Morkinskinna, but

106 the striking fact emerges that those who are not known from these sources all come from the west of Iceland. Table 2-9: Two main groups of identifiable poets with verses quoted in The Third Grammatical Treatise that are not found in other sources Poets from the west of Iceland, including wellknown court poets Egill Skallagrímsson (10th century) Arnórr jarlaskáld (11th century) Einarr Skúlason (12th century) Hallar-Steinn (c. 1200) Óláfr Leggsson (13th century) Snorri Sturluson (13th century) Óláfr hvítaskáld (13th century)

Older court poets and itinerant poets, chiefly from the north Kormakr (10th century) Glúmr Geirason (10th century) Þorleifr jarlsskáld (10th century) Þjóðólfr Arnórsson (11th century) Sighvatr Þórðarson (11th century) Sneglu-Halli (11th century)

Other than Sighvatr Þórðarson, all the court poets who were not from the west of Iceland came from the north: Kormakr was from Miðfjörður in the northwest, an area in close contact with the Dalir region, as evidenced by Sturla’s quick journey to Miðfjörður prior to the attack by the Vatnsfirðingar clan on Sauðafell in 1229; Glúmr Geirason came from near lake Mývatn; Þorleifr and Þjóðólfr were from Svarfaðardalur; and Sneglu-Halli is said to have been of northern extraction. Óláfr’s knowledge of the skalds from this part of the country (all of whom except Kormakr figure to a greater or lesser extent in Morkinskinna) may perhaps be explained by the older version of Morkinskinna having been written in Eyjafjörður in the mid north, a region to which the tentacles of the Sturlungar extended after Sighvatr Sturluson set up home at Grund in Eyjafjörður in 1215 (see Andersson 1993, 1994; Andersson and Gade 2000:66-83). The fact that the north fell within the sphere of influence of one of his close kinsmen may account for the considerable interest and knowledge Óláfr reveals about the poets from this part of the country. Outside these two main groups fall three prominent figures from Icelandic history and culture: lawspeaker Markús Skeggjason (who composed his verse in Iceland but sent it abroad to the king of Denmark), Abbot Nikulás, and Kolbeinn Tumason. All three, however, would have been well known throughout Iceland at the time when Óláfr was writing. One particularly interesting feature of Óláfr’s list is the names that do not appear, in particular those of a number of poets who are well known from the sagas of Icelanders. What these ‘absentees’ have in common, however, is that their reputations were largely Icelandic, rather than having been established at the courts of Scandinavia. This might indicate that the common poetic tradition in the country was centered not at the Alþingi, the annual general assembly held at Þingvellir in southwest Iceland, but at the royal courts of the neighboring countries where the skalds plied their trade, notably Norway. For instance, Óláfr makes no mention of Gísli Súrsson and other poets whose lives form the subjects of sagas and whom we would unhesitatingly include in any general history of skaldic verse. It is also notable that, unlike Snorri in the Edda, Óláfr does not cite a single verse by the Borgarfjörður poet and saga hero Gunnlaugr ormstunga (‘Snake-tongue’). The feud between Gunnlaugr and SkáldHrafn over Helga the Fair was certainly well known in the first half of the 13th century since it is twice referred to in Egils saga. According to Gunnlaugs saga, Gunnlaugr was a prominent poet of the first order, but his absence from Óláfr’s Treatise perhaps suggests that the writer of the saga late in the 13th century inflated his hero’s poetic reputation and even ‘forged’ some of the

107 verses attributed to him in the saga himself. This might explain Óláfr’s silence on this ‘wellknown’ poet from his own part of the country.

Conclusions An analysis of the verse examples in The Third Grammatical Treatise leads us to the general conclusion that, while collecting them, Óláfr made use of such written sources as were available to him at the time, in particular the works of his uncle Snorri Sturluson. Óláfr also cites a number of otherwise unknown stanzas by poets quoted in these sources, which might suggest that Snorri and Óláfr knew more verse than Snorri chose to incorporate into his writings. This in turn might point to a livelier poetic tradition than appears solely from the written works, which again argues against the claim that writers like Snorri were in the habit of composing verses themselves and attributing them to the characters in their sagas. Some of the verses by well-known poets (that is poets whose poetry is known in older books) appear to have been composed to women and deal with love, which might explain why they were not committed to writing in the works where these poets play a prominent role — whereas such verses could be cited out of context in the Treatise. Taking all the evidence together, we may conclude that Óláfr’s knowledge of verse from oral tradition was restricted to certain categories: 1. Generally known Old Norse skalds of the early period 2. Court poets and itinerant poets, chiefly from the north of Iceland, also familiar to Óláfr from the works of Snorri Sturluson and Morkinskinna 3. Poets from the west of Iceland, either men who had achieved a reputation at the courts of Scandinavia in earlier times or contemporaries of Óláfr 4. National figures from Óláfr’s own times

Figure 2-2: Categories of verses and poets referred to in The Third Grammatical Treatise In light of these well-defined categories, it is unlikely that the absence of poets from other parts of the country can be explained through none of them having composed any verses that Óláfr considered suitable for exemplifying the stylistic concepts he was trying to expound in the Treatise. The findings may rather be taken as a general indication that the knowledge among saga writers of stories and poems from regions other than their own was severely restricted; writers in one region would probably never have heard the stories and poems from another, and would have had little opportunity to meet them in books before the advent of saga compilations such as Mǫðruvallabók and Vatnshyrna in the 14th century — and even then it would have been only the select few who had access to the comparatively limited number of vellum manuscripts in circulation. The most assiduous recorders of ancient poetry in Iceland

108 were Snorri and his kinsmen in the west, and so it is hardly surprising that poets from their areas of influence predominate in the surviving sources. Even so, there were and are poems known from other parts of the country, and so it is interesting that Óláfr’s examples, which we may suppose he had acquired from oral tradition, should be so confined to his immediate area. This means, for instance, that we can say nothing for sure about what he might have known from other parts of the country. This local character of Óláfr’s poetic knowledge also gives us reason to doubt that the knowledge of stories of Icelandic events extended to all parts of the country in the preliterate period, i.e. that so far as the oral historiographical tradition went the country constituted a single cultural unit. Studies of folktales in more recent times indicate that they are often restricted to particular localities and little known outside them; this was also true in Iceland up to the time of the awakening and cultivation of national consciousness in the 19th century, when the country’s folktales were first collected as a whole and made available in a single book, Jón Árnason’s Þjóðsögur. Before the days of national identity, which goes back only to the Romantic movement, we may suppose that people’s cultural horizons did not stretch far beyond their immediate neighborhoods, where people knew the local customs and had the landscape and placenames constantly before their eyes to keep alive the memory of the main characters and events that formed the substance of their stories.

Footnotes 1. AM 242 folio. Strictly speaking, the title Málskrúðsfrœði applies only to the part of the work dealing with poetic style. The treatise is also preserved in full in AM 748 Ib, 4to and in fragmentary form in AM 757a 4to and AM 757b 4to. The main editions are in Edda Snorra Sturlusonar (1848-87), vol. II, pp. 397-427 (with translation into Latin) and Ólsen 1884, Jónsson, F. 1927, and Krömmelbein 1998. 2. The task of selecting examples — essentially the same task as that faced by Óláfr hvítaskáld — is expressed as follows in the introduction to a modern Icelandic literary handbook: ‘Helsta nýbreytni bókarinnar er því fólgin í því að bókmenntafræðileg hugtök skáldsögunnar eru skýrð á íslensku og skýringardæmi valin úr íslenskum bókmenntum. Í því sambandi vil ég taka fram að ég hef leitast við að velja dæmi úr bókum sem ætla má að séu vel kunnar flestum íslenskum áhugamönnum um bókmenntir þegar þess hefur verið kostur, en fremur forðast að seilast til sjaldgæfra bóka.’ (‘The chief innovation of this book is that the literary concepts applicable to the novel are explained in Icelandic and the illustrative examples taken from Icelandic literature. In this connection I wish to say that I have, whenever possible, sought to choose examples from books I have reason to believe are well known to most Icelanders with an interest in literature and tried to avoid delving into books that are rare or obscure.’) (Njarðvík 1975:9-10). It is not unlikely that Óláfr’s choice of examples in his handbook was guided by similar considerations. 3. Þorleifr was one of Snorri’s closest allies. His father Þórðr was the brother of Guðný Bǫðvarsdóttir, the wife of Hvamm-Sturla, mother of Snorri, and grandmother of Óláfr. 4. If Ólsen’s conjecture that Óláfr spent the summer of 1239 in Sweden is correct, and since he was certainly back in Norway in March 1240 and Valdimarr died in 1241, the only period Óláfr could have spent with Valdimarr in Denmark is the winter of 1240-1. 5. Þórðr of Hítarnes was the half brother of Aron Hjǫrleifsson’s father and was with Þorgils during the attack on Stafaholt. Óláfr composed a poem (Aronsdrápa) in honor of Aron Hjǫrleifsson; Arons saga says that Óláfr and Aron were friends and that the poem was composed on the occasion of Aron’s journey abroad in 1227.

109 6. Nordal, G. (2001), published after the Icelandic version of this book had gone to press, provides a detailed survey of the learned poetic tradition in the 12th and 13th centuries, making extensive use of Ólafr’s Treatise (see esp. pp. 83-6) and drawing on an earlier version of the present chapter (Sigurðsson, G. 2000). 7. Ofljóst, see note 11, p. 8. Óláfr’s example is: ‘Víst erumk hermð á hesti / hefir fljóð ef vill góðan’ (Ólsen 1884:66-7). Óláfr construes the first line as representing ‘legg ek á jó reiði þokka’ (‘lay I on a horse a sense of anger’). From this, he juxtaposes ‘jó’ (horse) and ‘reiði’ (anger) to produce the woman’s name ‘Jóreiðr’ (dat. Jóreiði), and then takes in the last word in the next line ‘góðan’ (good) to complete the syntax ‘legg ek a Jóreiði þokka góðan’ (‘I lay on Jóreiðr good desire’). From what remains of the second line, ‘hefir flióð ef vill’ (‘has a woman if wishes’), he constructs ‘konu má ná’ (‘can get a woman’), and then puts ‘má’ and ‘ná’ together to form the man’s name ‘Máni’ (gen. Mána), i.e. ‘konu Mána’ (‘Máni’s wife’)! In other words, the verse is a (well) concealed declaration of love to Jóreiðr, the wife of Máni. This explanation of Óláfr’s demonstrates, if nothing else, how far off the mark many modern conjectures about the meanings of skaldic stanzas must be. On this example, see Snædal, M. 1993:216-7. 8. The stanza that is generally presented as the penultimate stanza of Arinbjarnarkviða is also preserved only by Óláfr but has not received the same attention as the ‘final stanza.’ These two verses do not stand together in The Third Grammatical Treatise. 9. Bjarni Einarsson 1961:57-9 discusses the verse found in both the Treatise and Bjarnar saga Hítdœlakappa (and agrees with Konráð Gíslason that it is probably by Bjǫrn Hítdœlakappi, a matter on which nothing will be said here) and the verse that Óláfr ascribes to Kormakr but which is not in his saga: see below for the verses that are not known from other sources. Einarsson takes the view that Óláfr may have come across this verse in Kormaks saga but misremembered it, and it is thus a corrupt version of his own compilation that he presents as Kormakr’s in the Treatise. In view of the number of verses Óláfr is happy to present without named authors, it is difficult to see why he should attribute this particular verse to a named poet if there was no tradition that this was indeed who it was by. 10. See Andersson 1993, 1994; also Andersson and Gade 2000:66-83.

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3. Conclusions to Part I As described in the Introduction, the debate about oral tradition and the Icelandic sagas under the opposing labels of ‘freeprose’ and ‘bookprose’ came to a dead-end since the methods and ideas available proved unable to shed new light on the problems. All discussion of oral tradition in ancient times and the oral background to the sagas was based on a) direct information in the texts on storytelling and poetry performance and other references to orality, and b) research into the structure and style of the sagas. Both approaches were unsatisfactory, since a) the descriptions in the sources failed to answer the questions people wanted to ask, and b) the structural characteristics and formulaic phrases that people believed were restricted to works in oral preservation could, in fact, occur equally in works produced with a pen at a writing desk. Thus the methods available proved inadequate for their purposes, and here things ground to a halt. Rather than continue wrangling over their oral origins, scholars turned their attention to the importance of Latin learning in the writing of the sagas. The example was taken above of how Latin learning manifests itself in Snorri’s Edda, with the conclusion that this alone was not enough to explain the salient features of the work; for purposes of exemplification, Snorri’s treatment of his mythological material was considered in an attempt to decide whether it was more likely that a) he knew both mythological verses and myths in prose form, or b) his only sources were poems, from which he constructed his own versions of myths. From a comparison between Snorri’s prose account of the god Þórr’s fishing expedition with the giant Hymir and the verses presented by Snorri relating to this tale, it emerged that Snorri’s account was better explained as an independent ‘saga’ than as a synthesis based on the verses. This means that Snorri’s account can be treated as evidence of the existence of myths in oral tradition at the time he was writing. The widespread scholarly view that, when writing his mythology, Snorri was constructing a source book based only on ancient verses is therefore unsound. It thus seems more reasonable to proceed on the basis that oral tradition provided him with both verses and stories about the gods he talks about in his text. The next point considered was the influence of Latin culture on particular saga motifs, general ideology, and the structural techniques used in the creation of written works. It was concluded that motifs and learned concepts from abroad were capable of entering the saga tradition at the oral stage without their having any major impact on its form. However, things are different when it comes to the techniques used to construct longer texts, i.e. sagas longer than we may suppose might have been performed as single entities at an oral stage. Thus the general conclusion is that theories centered around the belief that Latin learning exerted a largescale influence on the material and ideological frameworks of the written sagas are based on an underestimation of the aesthetic potential of the art of oral storytelling; the main features of the sagas sprang from native soil, from the oral tradition that people were still thoroughly familiar with when they created and listened to the written sagas. However, in the writing of the sagas people had the benefit of the experience and knowledge that had built up within the Latin culture of the Church on how to create extended, coherent stories in written language. It was only by adopting and adapting such techniques that it became possible to present material from the oral tradition in a new artistic form — that of writing. If we are to breathe new life into the discussion of oral tradition in Iceland in the 12th and 13th centuries, it is necessary to reconsider certain basic principles in light of the findings of field studies into modern oral traditions. These studies have supplied crucial new information on a) how oral tradition shapes the administrative and social structures of oral societies; b) the effects of the introduction of writing on oral societies; c) the flexibility and adaptability of oral texts to prevailing conditions each time they are produced; d) the distribution of individual

111 stories and poems in oral tradition; e) the artistic possibilities and aesthetics of texts in oral tradition; and f) the problems of capturing oral art forms in written language. Armed with the findings of field studies of this kind it becomes possible to ask questions about oral tradition in ancient times in light of oral tradition as we know it today. The first aspect to be considered, in Chapter 1, was the role of the lawspeakers, who are universally acknowledged to have preserved the law by memory up to the time when it was written down. It was shown that our modern preconception that writing inevitably represents a cultural advance provides a deeply misleading basis on which to consider the position of the lawspeakers at the beginning of the age of writing. The generally held view that the lawspeakers welcomed writing with open arms, for instance, is entirely without foundation, let alone the equally common view that at least some of the law must have been consigned to writing prior to the compilation of Hafliðaskrá in 1117-8 (with an exception for the tithe laws). From the sources it appears possible to distinguish two types of lawspeakers in the first decades of writing: on the one hand, men of humble background with some kind of connection to the Church and, on the other, men from distinguished families related to secular chieftains. There is even reason to suppose that the Church made it its policy to remove custody over the law from the memories of the lawspeakers (who thereby lost their power to adjudicate in disputes concerning the correct letter of the law) and have it recorded in book form that then took over this right, with the bishop’s book at Skálholt taking precedence in cases of textual discrepancy. A powerful dynasty of lawspeakers, Gunnarr the Wise and his descendants, which appears not to have adopted writing in the 12th century, loses its influence and falls into oblivion among people of the 13th century, who, judging from the evidence of genealogies compiled in this period, display little interest in tracing links to this family. The position of lawspeaker fell under the control of clerics associated with the Haukdœlir family, a control that was not challenged until the secular chieftains acquired a literate representative in the person of Snorri Sturluson. Judging from the writings ascribed to him, Snorri was fully at home in the oral heritage of stories and poems, and it is not improbable that oral knowledge of the law went hand in hand with other kinds of oral learning and the rhetorical use of language implicit in oral poetry. From this point on, representatives of the Sturlungar and Haukdœlir alternated in the post of lawspeaker for the remainder of the 13th century. Thus it appears that oral tradition represented a powerful and independent force within a political struggle, opposed to the new technique of writing, which was becoming ever more prevalent as the 12th century progressed. In the nature of things, it is only the written documents that have survived and in these the part of churchmen in national affairs of the 11th and 12th centuries is probably presented as greater than it really was at a time when, however little is said of them in younger sources, orally educated lawspeakers must still have exercised considerable influence at the assemblies and courts of Iceland. Chapter 2 turned to an investigation of the breadth and scope of the oral poetic tradition in the 13th century through an examination of the verses quoted for purposes of exemplification in Óláfr hvítaskáld Þórðarson’s Third Grammatical Treatise. By considering where the poets cited by Óláfr came from and when they lived, it becomes possible to build up a picture of the literary horizons of a man of the mid-13th century possessed of a secure background in both the oral, secular culture of his kinsmen and the Latin learning of the Church. It appears that Óláfr was familiar with the court poets used in the writings of his uncle Snorri Sturluson (together with verses by these same skalds that are not preserved in books), but not with the poets of the sagas of Icelanders other than those from his own region of western Iceland (and even here with the interesting exception of Gunnlaugr ormstunga). From his own immediate neighborhood, however, Óláfr was also familiar with works by some otherwise little known poets of later times. Judging from his examples, Óláfr does not appear to have known much about poets from other parts of the country, other than the north, in the area around Eyjafjörður,

112 where his uncle had settled earlier in the century and established an impressive power base. It is also notable that the majority of Óláfr’s examples are not found in other written sources, indicating that he probably acquired much of his knowledge of poetry from oral tradition rather than books. Broadly, it seems that, out of the mixed and heterogeneous bag of poets that scholars have previously categorized merely as Norwegian or Icelandic skalds from all periods of Icelandic history, and mostly known from other sources, the particular groups of poets that Óláfr was familiar with were restricted to a) ancient poets whose reputations were established at the courts of Scandinavia, b) court poets and itinerant poets from the north of Iceland, generally those known from the works of Snorri Sturluson and Morkinskinna, c) neighbors of Óláfr from the west of Iceland, and d) nationally known figures from Óláfr’s own times. Before we can start drawing conclusions from these findings, it is right to qualify things by saying that Óláfr would hardly have used examples from all the poets he knew, whether for aesthetic reasons, or from lack of space, or because he needed particularly specialized examples to illustrate the stylistic and rhetorical concepts he was trying to exemplify. But even allowing for this, Óláfr’s examples strongly suggest that his knowledge of material from oral tradition was localized and that the country as a whole did not constitute a single cultural area as regards the distribution of stories and poems about Icelandic people and events. The choice of examples may also indicate that the focus of the Icelandic skaldic tradition lay in the courts of continental Scandinavia, which provided the skalds with a continuous platform for plying their trade at the oral stage, rather than among the chieftains of Iceland or at the Alþingi, where people met only once a year to thrash out their disputes and legal cases. However much we may suspect that a learned and literate man like Óláfr Þórðarson would indeed have possessed a good general overview of poetical practice in Iceland, the fact remains that the verse examples in his Treatise give us no grounds for thinking so. The overall conclusion from this discussion is that oral knowledge of the law was an important factor in the power politics of Iceland up to the time when the Church started to extend its influence over society. This knowledge would often have been accompanied by training in the oral arts of storytelling and poetry. A case in point would be the Sturlungar, who were sufficiently knowledgeable in the law to carry out the functions of lawspeaker (once book culture had taken over an important part in the preservation of the laws), but at the same time numbered among them some of the greatest experts in oral poetry and other forms of oral lore, notably Snorri Sturluson, Styrmir Kárason (from their intellectual circle if not directly related), and Óláfr and Sturla Þórðarson. These men had the benefit of book learning and employed it to transfer the oral heritage they had grown up with into written form. This heritage included stories and poems about the Norse gods and a variety of other poetry, either preserved at the cultural center of the Icelandic skalds at the court of Norway or that people knew from their own homes and surroundings and had learned from friends, neighbors, or close relatives. The book learning of these men and others living in the same cultural environment, and in particular the examples of structured narratives that they found in books imported from abroad, enabled them to bring order to the enormous and diverse corpus of oral lore and shape it into large-scale written sagas and works of scholarship. The Introduction and the research in the first part of this study have all revolved to a large extent around the same basic question: What means do we have available for discussing oral tradition in ancient Iceland, its nature and its part in the creation of written works, without having to employ the direct approaches that hitherto dominated such discussions? The course taken here has been to look for ideas to modern-day field studies of oral societies, not in the belief that it is possible to equate conditions from various modern societies directly with medieval society in Iceland, but in order to formulate new questions to which we can then seek answers in our own sources by the use of conventional textual analysis.

113 Part II goes on to consider what happens when questions of this sort are applied to the sagas themselves; in particular, how prevalent scholarly attitudes to oral tradition and the origins of the sagas have determined the kinds of subjects scholars have chosen to research, their interpretation of the mutual relations among the sagas, and the constructions they have put on characters, genealogies, and incidents that occur in more than one saga. As in part I, the central questions to be tackled are what difference it makes to our attitudes to features such as these if we make allowance for an oral tradition behind the texts, and whether positing such a tradition provides us with more convincing ways of explaining connections between sagas than the traditional methods of literary relations and verbal borrowing.

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Part II. The Saga World of the East of Iceland 4. The Same Characters in More Than One Saga As a literary genre, the sagas of Icelanders (‘Íslendingsögur’) are defined by their geographical setting (Iceland) and their historical setting (from the settlement of the country down to shortly after the conversion in the year 1000). These sagas show considerable internal consistency in matters such as the structure of the society depicted and the ethical values portrayed, the leading families and chieftains of this ‘Saga Age,’ and the law. Most show artistic similarities in their formulaic diction and thematic patterning, though each has stylistic characteristics of its own that mark it out from the others. Despite the obvious common features, it is easy to point to individual sagas and passages that in style and treatment show resemblances to other genres such as the legendary sagas (‘fornaldarsögur’), e.g. Bárðar saga Snæfellsáss and Þorskfirðinga saga and the incidents found in many sagas set in the barren world of trolls and spirits far from the grassy farmlands of Iceland. The common characteristics are, however, so pervasive that the sagas manage to create a seamless and internally consistent world in which one element supports the next. How we view and interpret the significance of these common characteristics is in large part determined by how we view oral tradition and its part in the creation of the sagas.

Literary Relations: Premises and Practices There are many cases of the ‘same’ characters or events being described in two or more of the sagas of Icelanders. [1] A general tendency among many scholars has been to interpret all such cases, or even generally similar circumstances shared by more than one saga, as evidence that the writer of one saga was using another written saga as a source. The keyword for this approach is the Icelandic rittengsl (‘literary relations,’ ‘intertextuality’), often without any attempt to define why a given similarity should be taken as an indication of written connections rather than of a common oral tradition lying behind the written sources as a whole (see Sveinsson 1958:76-95). The idea of literary relations has been applied to a range of instances, such as where: 1. A long passage has been copied word for word from another source, e.g. Grettis saga, ch. 6-8, which is clearly based on Landnámabók (see Jónsson, G. 1936:xvii). 2. Two or more sources describe the same incidents or characters (see below). 3. One source shows familiarity with incidents or characters that we know from another source (see below). 4. The same or similar wording and/or circumstances appear in two or more texts though applied to different characters or incidents, e.g. the killing of Þorgrímr Þorsteinsson in Gísla saga and the killing of Helgi Ásbjarnarson in Droplaugarsona saga (see Andersson1969:28-39). As a matter of principle, however, the idea of literary relations among the sagas should be treated with a degree of skepticism and individual cases accepted as proven only where there are strong supporting arguments. In a society where the only books were made of vellum and

115 prohibitively expensive, the sagas would have been much more often read aloud than in private, and it is highly unlikely that an author would ever have been in a position to accumulate manuscripts of several sagas beside him as he wrote and thus have been able to construct a new saga out of pre-existing written works in the way often envisaged by scholars of the bookprose school. [2] Nevertheless, there seems to be a continuing reluctance to question the evidence and methods on which received ideas about literary relations in the sagas are based. For instance, scholars have frequently been perfectly prepared to accept a proposed literary relationship between works on grounds that fall far short of direct verbal correspondence. Despite Theodore M. Andersson’s cogent critique of Einar Ól. Sveinsson’s ideas on the relations between Njáls saga and other sagas (see p. 39), the whole concept of literary relations has not as yet come in for serious re-examination in general reference books on the genre such as Medieval Scandinavia (Pulsiano 1993). It is often conceded, as if in passing, that orality may have played a part in the preservation of the stories, or that the writers of sagas may have made some use of oral ‘sources’ — as, for instance, in the case of Jón Jóhannesson’s ideas on the literary relations among the sagas of the east of Iceland discussed below; but, having got this out of the way, critics have then tended to go on to present as fact literary relations that are in their nature unproven and improvable. On the basis of such relations, bookprose scholars have constructed a whole overall history of the development of the genre, taking in theories of the age of individual sagas and the roles of individual ‘authors’ (see Thorsson 1990:47). All such ideas often appear to rely more on an uncritical acceptance of a particular theory of origins than the results of actual research, as will be discussed in more detail later in connection with Finnboga saga and Vatnsdœla saga (p. 309 ff.). A welcome relief from this tendency is to be found in Stephen Mitchell’s (1987) analysis of the traditions about Hjǫrleifr inn kvensami and Geirmundr heljarskinn as they appear in Hálfs saga ok Hálfsrekka, Sturlunga saga, and Landnámabók. Mitchell shows by minute comparison of these texts that the connection between them can only partly be explained through a literary relation and that the overall picture cannot be drawn without accepting the oral tradition behind the written texts as an active factor. In this context he also draws attention to the misunderstanding inherent in the assumption that an old written version of a folklore motif (using the case of Merlínusspá) must be treated as a source for younger appearances of that motif in written texts — suggesting that the oral folklore is more likely to have influenced both the old text as well as the younger manifestations of a particular motif. Work on the origins of the sagas and their interrelationships has frequently been vitiated by a failure to distinguish between the sagas and the events they purport to portray, i.e. there is a tendency to talk about what happens in the sagas as if they were reporting real events. One manifestation of this tendency has been to claim that, if this saga presents its events with conscious artistry, or if that one employs aesthetic narrative techniques, or if discrepancies can be identified between different sagas, then the events described cannot really have taken place in the way that the sagas say they did. From this it is an easy step to the conclusion that the ‘author’ either made up the incident himself or lifted it from some other written source. This unfortunate misconception has raised its head in most discussions of the origins of the sagas and resulted in a blind acceptance of the time honored, but factitious, opposition between, on one side, creative authorial input and, on the other, oral tradition and the reporting of real events from the past. [3]

*  From what we know of observable oral story traditions, there is nothing to prevent artistic treatment of material in the hands of a good storyteller. Artistically constructed narrative in a book is therefore no argument against the same characters and events having also been

116 known in oral stories, as Ernst Walter (1956) assumes in his study of Vápnfirðinga saga. One thing Walter does excellently, however, is to demonstrate how the use of antithesis in style and parallelism in subject matter is used to build up the meaning of the saga, which he interpreted as promoting a message of peace based on Christian ideology. Building on Walter’s analysis, Rolf Heller (1963) arrived at a deeper understanding of the significance of friendship in the saga, which he took to be its overriding theme. [4] Heller demonstrated how the entire construction of the saga serves to bring out this central idea, but with the criticism that some of its stylistic features are so unsophisticated that they detract from the stylistic effect of this otherwise well-constructed saga at significant moments. Heller made no attempt to associate the saga’s emphasis on friendship with Christian ideology. Neither is it right to make automatic connections between oral tales and real events — though real events can often give rise to oral tales. Thus it may well be the case that real events of the Saga Age provided the seed for stories that were then passed on from one person to another until the time when the sagas were finally fixed in written form several centuries later. But we have little way of knowing how much particular stories may have changed in transmission and, as a result, if and when it is justifiable to speak of the ‘same’ saga, in the strictest modern sense, being told from the Saga Age up until the time of writing. [5] In an oral society, each person who tells a story can set his or her own artistic stamp on it in exactly the same way as a literate author working at his desk. Though the tradition is continuous and integrated, it is also fluid and changes constantly according to who is telling the story. In this, much depends on the personal skills of the storyteller, but other factors also come into it, such as the pre-existing knowledge of the particular audience and the varying attitudes associated with particular regions, social classes, age groups, ethical beliefs, gender, and the like. Thus it is not possible to regard things written down in the 12th century and later as sources of events that took place in the 9th, 10th, and 11th centuries: stories, poems and genealogies are first and foremost sources for the ideas that storytellers or recorders entertain about the past, ideas that have been shaped by the methods of narrative art and undergone constant revision by the everchanging present and its prevailing conditions. Stories are therefore always the intellectual product of the times when they are told or written rather than of the time they tell about — even if the conservatism of the tradition means that elements of ‘ancient’ lore will always be present. This aspect lies at the center of the discussion in part III below in relation to the Vínland sagas. There is very little that can be said for sure about how, when, and whether it is permissible to trace an unbroken chain of tradition back to actual events that happened in Iceland at the time when the people of the country still believed in Þórr, Óðinn, and Freyr. It is inherently likely that the Icelanders really did quarrel over love, wealth, and power. And it may very well be the case that they sought to enhance their status through politicking, the use of force, vengeance, and travels abroad in search of glory. The problem lies in the fact that the art of narrative reshapes reality and turns it into a work of literature. Thus even contemporaneous accounts are in their very nature unreliable as ‘sources’ of what really happened. For instance, the story tradition itself to some extent decides what events are ‘tellable,’ and how they may be told — which can result in people experiencing reality as if it were a story, selecting the incidents that conform to conventional narrative patterns and thereby constructing ‘biographies’ of themselves and others. As a result of this selectivity, oral stories from a single cultural area often display common features over and above those imposed by the general laws of narrative art, and these features are quick to take over from and adapt any grain of truth that might lie hidden under the surface. The stories come to include the same kinds of motifs, prefabricated themes, and fixed formulas and expressions that are part of the storyteller’s repertoire and constitute an integral part of his technique (see p. 45). In such conditions it is only natural that similar passages and turns of phrase appear in more than one saga at an oral stage, without there being any question of direct borrowing. There is thus no need to appeal to the idea of one writer

117 copying from another when such stories finally find their way into book form; the prestructured themes and verbal formulas that scholars have often unquestioningly interpreted as signs of literary relations [6] are often simpler to explain as the outcome of a common story tradition lying behind the sagas as a whole (see Andersson 1967:309). If we come across wording that is completely identical in closely related circumstances, there is of course reason to stop and consider whether the likely explanation is a literary relationship. But even here we must always bear in mind that in traditional narratives related circumstances tend to call up related formulaic diction. The same formulas can thus turn up describing the same kinds of events in texts that have no written relationship one with another. In other words, shared diction need not be an indication of anything more than a common story tradition operating in the background. In the case of two or more accounts dealing with the same people and the same event, other considerations apply; if such accounts employ the same words in their descriptions (over and above the commonest words or words that are inherent in the material itself), the probability of literary relations increases, especially when the correspondences start to multiply.

*  In the following chapters, the view will be taken that we cannot automatically assume literary relations simply because two or more written sources describe or contain the same themes, motifs, formulas or clichés, names, genealogies, or events. All such features could have been passed on from one person to another without the aid of written books. For it to be permissible to postulate a literary relationship, at least three criteria must be satisfied, as defined by Jónas Kristjánsson (1972:225): 1) more than one shared piece of subject matter, 2) more or less the same order of events, and 3) shared wording or diction. If it turns out that the accepted theories of literary relations prove unsustainable, i.e. if it is impossible to demonstrate through identities of phraseology over and above names, family relationships, and fixed formulas and formulaic diction that saga ‘authors’ have indeed used Landnámabók or other written works, it would seem that the whole intricate edifice of ideas about the age of the sagas of Icelanders, lost older versions, the influences of one saga on another, and the connections between Landnámabók and the sagas — all the ideas that have been built upon the assumption that these relations were proven, unambiguous, and beyond dispute — will be in need of complete revision from the bottom up.

The Austfirðingasögur: Single Entity or Discrete Works? The Austfirðingasögur, the sagas set in the east of Iceland, provide an excellent example of a group of sagas of Icelanders with large numbers of internal connections. They deal widely with the same characters, families, and incidents, and thus lend themselves well to research into the common story world of the sagas of Icelanders. People and incidents from these sagas also appear in other sources, such as Landnámabók, Njáls saga, Laxdœla saga, and Vǫðu-Brands þáttr; these works can thus be used where appropriate for purposes of comparison, and from this a general picture can be built up of the connections and interplay linking the texts as a whole. There are also thematic connections, such as the account in Droplaugarsona saga of Grímr Droplaugarson’s killing of Helgi Ásbjarnarson in his bed, which has parallels with the account in Gísla saga Súrssonar of Gísli’s killing of Þorgrímr (see Andersson 1969:28-39). The obvious similarities here raise questions about the relationships between sagas when this is something other than a direct material connection. In his Íslenzk fornrit edition of the sagas of the east, Jón Jóhannesson dealt with the internal connections between these sagas as if all

118 cases where the same events, families and characters are mentioned could be explained unambiguously through literary relations; for instance, the fact that Fljótsdœla saga and Droplaugarsona saga deal largely with the same people and events automatically implied that the author of one was using the other, in this case that the former was based on the written version of the latter. However, as discussed below, it is difficult to point to any replicated passages between these two sagas that might provide conclusive proof of ‘source work’ of this kind. Despite this, so far as I am aware Jóhannesson’s ideas on the relationships among the Austfirðingasögur have never been subject to serious scholarly reassessment, either in general reference books or in academic research. If we are to identify the most likely explanations for the internal relationships within the group of Austfirðingasögur, we need to consider the following questions: 1. Do the sagas exhibit the same or different ideas about the characters they have in common? 2. Do the sagas appear to assume a degree of knowledge on the part of the audience or reader about the characters who appear in them? 3. When events are mentioned in more than one source, how are they presented in each of them and what ideas do we find in connection with them? When considering these questions, we need to bear in mind the conditions of preservation, i.e. whether the treatment of the texts in the manuscripts (for instance, what other sagas they are found with, and in what order) might indicate that the manuscripts were compiled so that one saga shed light on another — perhaps with one supplying material lacking from another. For instance, it seems possible that the copyists who put the manuscripts together might have deliberately combined sagas such as Hrafnkels saga and Fljótsdœla saga for reasons such as these. By asking questions of this sort, it is perhaps possible to reopen the discussion about the origins of the sagas of Icelanders and the parts played in their composition by oral tradition, literary relations, and authorial creativity. This discussion has for some while been bogged down in disputes about what in particular sagas is historical/oral and what can be put down to their individual authors and the learned tradition. The object here is not to weigh up the relative contributions of tradition and author in each saga in the written form in which we have it, but rather to look into the treatment of characters and events that appear in more than one source. This means assessing: 1. Whether the audience’s knowledge might have come from the reading of books or from listening to stories as oral entertainment. [7] 2. Whether there is anything to indicate that the writer of one saga used another extant written saga as a source. 3. Whether the writer and audience had merely heard stories about the characters and events that come into the written saga. If we can answer these questions, we can then go on to interpret the individual written sagas and so face the question of whether allowing for an oral tradition behind the sagas affects the way we interpret them. But this is by no means the end of the matter; some of the greatest mysteries will still remain unanswered, such as what induced people actually to write the sagas down, and where they got the idea that the sagas would be better kept in books than in memory. But if we can get a clear idea of the extent of audience knowledge built into the texts, this may help us to make some progress toward understanding what happened when the written works

119 took on a literary life of their own and came to form the literary genre we know as the sagas of Icelanders.

The Same Character in More Than One Saga As is well known, the same characters often appear in Landnámabók (‘Book of Settlements’) and one or more of the sagas of Icelanders. To shed light on the main questions in this research, we need to consider how particular characters are introduced into the sagas and how they are described in each source independently: 1. What are their salient characteristics? 2. Are their genealogies always given in the same way or do they vary between sources? 3. Do the same characters feature in the ‘same’ incidents? 4. Is there any way of deducing from the texts whether the writer is assuming a common and shared knowledge of the particular character and his or her fate? Answers to these questions should help us to assess whether behind the written works there lies widespread use of written sources or a corpus of oral stories, and so whether the characters are the imaginative creations of authors working with books and book learning mediated through their own powers of imagination, or creations of a tradition shaped by storytellers and their audiences over many years (though the final form, the form we know, is always at the responsibility of the writer of the saga — just as at each performance of a story or poem at the oral stage the material takes on the particular form given to it by the individual performer). Both these modes of explanation are entirely independent of the historical value of the sagas and allow for characters to be presented on each occasion in accordance with the overall objectives and tendencies of the particular saga.

Brodd-Helgi Þorgilsson The first character to be considered is Brodd-Helgi Þorgilsson, who is named or comes into the following works: Landnámabók, Kristni saga, Kristni þáttr in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in mesta (‘Greatest Saga of Óláfr Tryggvason’ in Flateyjarbók), Sǫrla þáttr in Ljósvetninga saga, Íslendingadrápa, Njáls saga, Ǫlkofra þáttr, Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, Droplaugarsona saga, the version of Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in Heimskringla (specifically, the ‘Landvætta-saga,’ or story of the guardian spirits of Iceland), Þorsteins saga hvíta, Vápnfirðinga saga, and the annals.

Sources other than Þorsteins saga hvíta and Vápnfirðinga saga  In Landnámabók (S 195, H 163) the first mention of Brodd-Helgi is as the father of his son Bjarni in the genealogy of Bjarni’s wife Rannveig, daughter of Þorgeirr Eiríksson and Yngvildr Þorgeirsdóttir. (N.B. in Vápnfirðinga saga, ch. 14, Rannveig is said to have been previously married to a certain Ǫgmundr.) This connects Brodd-Helgi to the chieftain Ketilbjǫrn the Old of Mosfell in Grímsnes, whose wife Helga was the sister of Eiríkr’s wife, Þuríðr; in other words, the grandmother of Brodd-Helgi’s daughter-in-law was the sister of Ketilbjǫrn’s wife.

120  In the Þórðarbók ms. of Landnámabók (using material from the lost Melabók), as an addendum at S 266, H 228 at the start of the section on the settlement of the Eastern Quarter of Iceland, a genealogy is traced from the settler Hróðgeirr the White by way of his daughter Ingibjǫrg, wife of Þorsteinn the White, who is said to have been the paternal grandmother of ‘Helgi’ (sic., rather than ‘Brodd-Helgi’), the father of Bjarni. The line is then continued through eight generations down to the head of the family who probably had a hand in compiling the Melabók around 1300, Markús Þórðarson of Melar.  Landnámabók S 270, H 232 traces the line of descent from Þorsteinn the White, ‘a wise and good man,’ who came to Iceland and had children by his wife Ingibjǫrg, including Þorgils, who married Ásvǫr Þórisdóttir; they were the parents of Brodd-Helgi, who by his first wife Halla Lýtingsdóttir was the father of Víga-Bjarni (‘Killer-Bjarni’).  Landnámabók S 272, H 234 gives genealogical details of the killers of Brodd-Helgi’s father, Þorgils. These are named as Þorkell (Þórir í S) and Heðinn (thus also in Vápnfirðinga saga, though in Þorsteins saga hvíta the brothers of Þorsteinn the Fair are named Þorkell and Einarr), two brothers of Þorsteinn the Fair, the killer of Einarr, son of Þórir Graut-Atlason.  The Landnámabók supplement in Skarðsárbók details the male line of descent to BroddHelgi, who is the fifth generation from Øxna-Þórir, the paternal grandfather of Þorsteinn the White.  There is also an addendum in the Þórðarbók (from Melabók) ms. of Landnámabók at S 257, H 221 giving additional details of the sons of Glíru-Halli (additions in italics): ‘Þeir fellu í Bǫðvarsdal ór liði Bjarna Brodd-Helgasonar, þá er hann barðisk við Þorkel Geitisson’ (‘They fell in Böðvarsdalur out of the followers of Bjarni Brodd-Helgason when he fought against Þorkell Geitisson’). A similar addendum on the sons of Glíru-Halli appears in Þórðarbók (from Melabók) at S 265, H 227. Þórðarbók contains other minor additions and emendations that tie in with Vápnfirðinga saga, making it probable that the copyist of Þórðarbók (Melabók) knew this saga. In his Íslenzk fornrit edition, Jakob Benediktsson (1968:285n9) suggests that these additions in Þórðarbók which correspond with Vápnfirðinga saga probably go back to the lost Melabók (rather than being added much later by the compiler of Þórðarbók itself).

From the information provided by Landnámabók alone, it would not be possible to construct an extended saga on the life and deeds of Brodd-Helgi Þorgilsson. Landnámabók gives only the genealogies of his mother and father and details of his connection through his daughter-in-law to Ketilbjǫrn the Old of Mosfell. Melabók additionally provides line of descent from him down to Markús of Melar. The only thing we learn about Brodd-Helgi’s circumstances and the course of his life is that his father was killed by certain named and genealogically specified individuals. Landnámabók also records that some men were killed in Böðvarsdalur, but Bjarni Brodd-Helgason’s connection to this event is mentioned only in Þórðarbók (from Melabók). Judging from the paucity of information on Brodd-Helgi in Landnámabók (other than in the addendum in Þórðarbók/Melabók), it seems unlikely that the compilers got their information on his family and descent from the sagas in which he appears. So the question arises of whether the genealogies in Landnámabók represent the whole of what learned men of the 12th and 13th centuries felt they could say for sure about this man. Landnámabók does not even mention any association between Brodd-Helgi and the well-known estate of Hof in Vopnafjörður, though the compilers would have been fully justified in supposing that it would have been part of Brodd-Helgi’s patrimony; Landnámabók says that Hof was originally acquired by Brodd-Helgi’s grandfather Þorsteinn the White (in settlement of a debt from Steinbjǫrn kǫrtr, who had got it from his uncle Eyvindr), and then that Þorsteinn’s first son was called Þorgils, and that his eldest son was Brodd-Helgi — on the basis of which it seems reasonable to suppose that it might have been common knowledge that Brodd-Helgi lived at

121 Hof too. Neither do we get any indication of when Brodd-Helgi was supposed to have lived, nor what religion the compilers of Landnámabók thought him to be, other than through a rough count of generations (third generation from Þorsteinn the White, who took over a farm from an original settler), which would suggest that he might have lived on into the second half of the 10th century. He is, in fact, little more than a name in Landnámabók. But for all this lack of circumstantial detail, the bare facts that his father was killed, and that he himself was associated with spikes (Icelandic ‘broddar’) and his son Víga-Bjarni with killings (Icelandic ‘víg’), might perhaps in themselves have been enough to provide the basis for a good saga about battles and vengeance. [8] Even so, it is doubtful if such meager source material as one killing and one nickname is of much help in explaining the origins of a rich and varied saga. Could it not just as well be that the bare details given in Landnámabók represent only a tiny fragment of the stories and information that was going around about the man called Brodd-Helga Þorgilsson in the northern part of the east of Iceland? That the very reason he is mentioned in Landnámabók at all is that people knew stories about him? There is little we can say about this with any certainty, but perhaps to bring us at least a little closer to a reasoned argument we can look at what is said about him in other written sources. In Kristni saga (‘Saga of Christianity’), in the middle of the famous account of how lawspeaker Þorgeirr covered himself with a cloak at the Alþingi to ponder the future religious policy of Iceland in the year that Christianity was adopted, 1000, it is mentioned that a certain Digr-Ketill had brought a charge of Christianity against Þorleifr of Krossavík north of Reyðarfjörður in the east, claiming that Þorleifr, together with Hallr of Síða, had made a victory offering to Christ on behalf of the Eastern Quarter. Digr-Ketill’s charge is said to have had the backing of Brodd-Helgi (‘at ráði Brodd-Helga’) but was dropped when Ketill was forced to accept shelter from Þorleifr when caught in a miraculous blizzard. It is not clear from the account when this incident is supposed to have taken place.  More information on this incident is given in Kristni þáttr (‘Þáttr of Christianity’) in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in mesta. Here we find added the words: ‘Þorleifi stefndi Digr-Ketill at ráði ok áeggjan Brodd-Helga um kristnihald sem segir í Vápnfirðinga sǫgu’ (‘Digr-Ketill brought a charge of Christian practices against Þorleifr on the advice and at the instigation of Brodd-Helgi, as is told in Vápnfirðinga saga’) (Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta, vol. 2, p. 193), followed by a more detailed account of the assistance given to Digr-Ketill by Þorleifr during the blizzard (see ÍF XI, pp. 34-5). 

These references strongly suggest that Brodd-Helgi was viewed as a committed heathen who opposed the adoption of Christianity. They also suggest that he was a well-known figure, since he is not introduced formally and Kristni þáttr simply refers its audience to Vápnfirðinga saga (whether oral or written) for further information on the dealings between Digr-Ketill and Þorleifr. In his introduction to Vápnfirðinga saga, Jón Jóhannesson (1950:xvii) follows Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (1937:120-4) in viewing the passages in both Kristni saga and Kristni þáttr as being based on an Icelandic translation of Gunnlaugr Leifsson’s Latin version of Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar. The reference to Vápnfirðinga saga he takes to be a later interpolation, though he also allows, on the basis of one verbal correspondence, that the author of Vápnfirðinga saga may also have used Gunnlaugr’s Óláfs saga as a source. Whatever the truth in this case, Gunnlaugr’s saga must have referred to Brodd-Helgi as a known character and an opponent of Christianity, information he could not have obtained from Landnámabók as we know it. It is also possible that the reference to Vápnfirðinga saga is not an interpolation as Jóhannesson believed but indicates an oral saga dealing with feuds in the Vopnafjörður region, a saga in which Brodd-Helgi played a major part and through which

122 he would thus have been well-known to saga audiences in his own part of the country. Some such common knowledge of oral tradition might explain why Brodd-Helgi is talked about with such familiarity in these texts. In Kristni þáttr it is said that a great blizzard (‘hríð’) descended on Digr-Ketill and his men after they left Þorleifr, and that their only hope of survival (‘lifs ván’) was to turn back from the place where they were stuck in the blizzard (‘hríðfastir’). In the written version of Vápnfirðinga saga, which is supposed to be the source for Kristni þáttr, the words used are rather different: firstly, there is no ‘blizzard,’ only ‘foul weather’ (‘illviðri’); secondly, there is no mention of returning to Þorleifr’s farm as Digr-Ketill’s only hope of survival — all that is said is that ‘urðu þeir aptr at hverfa’ (‘they had to turn back’) (ÍF XI:34); and thirdly, in the saga it is specified that Digr-Ketill and his men were stuck for two nights by the weather (‘tvær nætr veðrfastir’) (34-5) rather than the more general ‘while they were stuck there in the blizzard’ (‘meðan þeir váru þar hríðfastir’) in Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in mesta (vol. 2, p. 193): Table 4-1: Varying wordings of comparable events in Vápnfirðinga saga and Kristni þáttr Vápnfirðinga saga illviðri (‘foul weather’) aptr at hverfa (‘turn back’) tvær nætr veðrfastir (‘two nights stuck by the weather’)

Kristni þáttr hríð (‘blizzard’) lífs ván (‘hope of survival’) meðan þeir váru þar hríðfastir (‘while they were stuck there in the blizzard’)

If one of the accounts was copied from the other, it is difficult to see why the weather and the time should have changed in this way — from ‘foul weather’ to the more specific ‘blizzard’ on the one hand, from ‘two nights’ to an unspecified period on the other. These are the kinds of things one might expect to remain unchanged when a writer is lifting material from another written source. There is nothing in Vápnfirðinga saga to say that Digr-Ketill’s travails occurred in winter time, as is strongly implied by Kristni þáttr’s ‘blizzard’ in place of Vápnfirðinga saga’s ‘foul weather.’ What we have between these two passages, then, is not the kind of clear-cut verbal correspondence that is required to prove literary relations; on the contrary, the significant material differences make it altogether more plausible to suppose that no such relationship exists. Sǫrla þáttr, an independent episode in the C text of Ljósvetninga saga, tells the story of a son of Brodd-Helgi called Sǫrli. Sǫrli is staying with the great chieftain Guðmundr ríki, where he is held in high esteem and falls in love with his daughter Þórdís. Þórdís is sent off to Guðmundr’s brother Einarr at Þverá for safekeeping. At one point Sǫrli goes to visit her, and there is a famous description of the sunshine, southerly breeze and fine weather as he rides up to the farm. There is no mention of this Sǫrli in Vápnfirðinga saga or in Landnámabók, despite the latter giving details of Brodd-Helgi’s children and his relations with other chieftains through his daughters-in-law. The þáttr originally ended with genealogies down from Sǫrli and the people of Hof, but the passage is now largely illegible. [9]  In stanza 3 of the poem Íslendingadrápa by Haukr Valdísarson, Brodd-Helgi is introduced as ‘faðir Sǫrla’ (‘father of Sǫrli’). Whoever composed these words must also have had more information about Brodd-Helgi, since in the same stanza it says that everyone was frightened of facing this man in battle until Geitir (Lýtingsson) pierced him with his sword.  Sǫrli Brodd-Helgason also appears in chapter 134 of Njáls saga, where it describes Flosi Þórðarson’s journey around the east of Iceland canvassing support. Flosi comes to Valþjófsstaðir where Sǫrli lives and Sǫrli’s response reveals how important his marriage 

123 relations to Guðmundr ríki are to him, since he is unsure how to reply without consulting his father-in-law. The saga names Sǫrli’s sister and brother as Oddný, the wife of Hallbjǫrn the Strong, and Bjarni of Hof. Neither Oddný nor Hallbjǫrn are mentioned in other sources. When Flosi comes to Hof, Bjarni’s genealogy is given even though he is the last of his siblings to be mentioned; the genealogy here agrees with that in Landnámabók (other than that the son of Øxna-Þórir is named Eyvaldr in Njáls saga, Ósvaldr in Landnámabók (Ǫlvir in the Hauksbók redaction), and Ásvaldr in Vápnfirðinga saga: see Sveinsson 1954:352). Björn Sigfússon’s studies of the literary relations in this case (1937; 1940:l-lvii) concluded that the þættir in Ljósvetninga saga are younger than the main saga but older than Njáls saga and were used by the author of the latter. This, however, fails to explain how BroddHelgi’s daughter Oddný comes to be mentioned in Njáls saga and not in the other sources. There is no reason why the saga should have linked her with Brodd-Helgi unless there was some tradition for this — we know of no written source that could have put the idea of Oddný into the mind of the author of Njáls saga. This means that we must assume the existence of ‘sources’ beyond those we know from books. These sources might well have been oral, and if it was possible to get one piece of information from oral sources there is no reason to think that such sources could not have supplied more than just the name of Oddný Brodd-Helgadóttir. So, as pointed out by Theodore Andersson (1964:150-65), there seems good reason to think that the literary relations that Björn Sigfússon believed he had demonstrated beyond dispute may be in need of general reassessment. [10] The poem Íslendingadrápa provides a more circumstantial description of the terror inspired by Brodd-Helgi before Geitir Lýtingsson ‘réð at beita gunnungi Gunnar’ (‘used his sword’) than we find in the sources that include Sǫrli among Brodd-Helgi’s sons, i.e. Sǫrla þáttr and Njáls saga. To explain this inconsistency we must assume either that the poem used both these sources and Vápnfirðinga saga itself (as seems to have been the view of Bjarni Einarsson (1989), though he does not discuss this example specifically) or that the poem is based on oral accounts of Brodd-Helgi, his sons and his conflicts with others. The latter explanation fits in with the ideas of Jónas Kristjánsson (1975), who has no doubt that Haukr Valdísarson used oral traditions about the saga characters he included in his poem. From the written sources mentioned so far, we learn little about the life and career of Brodd-Helgi other than what appears in Íslendingadrápa and that the number of his children increases the more sagas we read. There also appears to be an allusion in Ǫlkofra þáttr to the idea found in the drápa of a killer who falls out with Geitir Lýtingsson: In Ǫlkofra þáttr (ch. 3, ÍF XI:93), Broddi Bjarnason makes a passing reference to his grandfather Brodd-Helgi (who he is named after) when disparaging Þorkell Geitisson. Broddi mentions the death of Brodd-Helgi as if it were a well-known event and reminds Þorkell that ‘faðir þinn tœki ofarliga til þeira launanna’ (‘your father paid a top price for this,’ i.e. with his head) and that ‘faðir minn markaði þik í Bǫðvarsdal’ (‘my father left his mark on you in Böðvarsdalur’). 

The writer here clearly knows more about Brodd-Helgi than he could have read in Landnámabók. He knows that Brodd-Helgi was killed and refers to Geitir having paid for it with his head, and to Helgi’s son, Víga-Bjarni, having wounded Þorkell Geitisson at Böðvarsdalur. It appears that the writer of Ǫlkofra þáttr had in his mind a similar picture of these events to the one described in Vápnfirðinga saga, where Bjarni, Broddi’s father, is said to have given Geitir a fatal blow to the head (i.e. Geitir received ‘ofarliga til þeira launanna’ — ‘paid a top price’) and probably wounded Þorkell himself on the hand. In his ÍF edition, Jón Jóhannesson (1950, sect. 4) considers Ǫlkofra þáttr to be younger than Vápnfirðinga saga,

124 among other reasons because its ‘author’ speaks so knowingly of the feuding between the people of Hof (Brodd-Helgi and his family) and the people of Krossavík (Geitir Lýtingsson and his family) that he must have known Vápnfirðinga saga — by which Jóhannesson means the saga in its written form. It is interesting to note, as Jóhannesson himself points out, that Ǫlkofra þáttr agrees with Ljósvetninga saga that Þorkell outlived Bjarni Brodd-Helgason and continued to live at Krossavík, while Vápnfirðinga saga has Þorkell moving to Hof at Bjarni’s invitation and dying there. This is curious if it is true that the author of Ǫlkofra þáttr used the written version of Vápnfirðinga saga as his source of information on the characters in his saga. However, there is nothing remarkable about discrepancies of this kind if we assume that the account in Ǫlkofra þáttr was put together entirely from oral accounts of the characters and incidents. Brodd-Helgi is also mentioned in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana. The saga tells that the merchant Þórir Englandsfari took winter quarters with Brodd-Helgi and developed a strong friendship with him. The following spring Þórir seeks the friendship of Þiðrandi Geitisson, the foster son of Ketill þrymr of Njarðvík. Þórir conducts some business with Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr, an improvident tenant of the Kórekssons (who have previously made friends with Þiðrandi through the gift of a horse). Ásbjǫrn holds on to some of Þórir’s goods without paying for them, and so finishes up in debt to him as well as to the Kórekssons. When Brodd-Helgi hears of this he declares Ásbjǫrn to be ‘óskapfelldr ok hroðavænligr’ (‘distasteful and likely to cause trouble’) (ÍF XI:197). This is the last time Brodd-Helgi is mentioned in the saga. When Ásbjǫrn’s duplicity is revealed he goes as a workman to Ketill of Njarðvík, and Þiðrandi remarks that the Kórekssons can now expect Ketill’s support in recovering their debts. A battle ensues in which Þórir kills Ketill but is himself killed. At this, one of the women of the house eggs Ketill’s guest Gunnarr to cast his spear at Þiðrandi, with tragic results. For a more detailed account of these events, see below, p. 217 ff.  Brodd-Helgi is mentioned once in Droplaugarsona saga, when Helgi Ásbjarnarson asks for the hand of his daughter, Þórdís todda, in marriage.  In the ‘Landvættasaga’ (the tale of the guardian spirits of Iceland) in Heimskringla (ÍF XXVI:271-2), Brodd-Helgi is mentioned as living in Vopnafjörður, without further comment; however, the context makes it clear that he is here regarded as the leading chieftain in the Eastern Quarter of Iceland. 

In none of the three sagas mentioned above is Brodd-Helgi introduced formally into the story. No details of his family are given except that his son Bjarni becomes involved in the search for Gunnarr Þiðrandabani (‘killer of Þiðrandi’), who is secreted at the home of his sister Þórdís todda and her husband Helgi Ásbjarnarson. Þórdís is also named as the daughter of Brodd-Helgi in Droplaugarsona saga. Jón Jóhannesson (1950, sect. 8) considers the saga of Gunnarr Þiðrandabani to be fairly old, from the early years of the 13th century, and written in the west of Iceland on the grounds of the saga’s supposed vagueness about the geography of the east. Jóhannesson’s theory is that this written text found its way east and acted as the catalyst for the writing of sagas there (Jóhannesson 1950:xci; see also below, p. 229 f.). It is worth noting that according to the chronology of Laxdœla saga the actions described in Gunnar’s saga took place after the Conversion, while according to the annals Brodd-Helgi was killed in 974. Both these datings are difficult to reconcile with King Haraldr Gormsson of Denmark’s campaign against Norway in 982, at which time Snorri says in ‘Landvættasaga’ that BroddHelgi held sway in Vopnafjörður. However, it may be said that the external chronology of Vápnfirðinga saga is generally very vague, though the writer has taken pains with its internal chronology by giving the age of the main characters at significant junctures. It thus seems that the writers of these sagas lost no sleep over matters of chronology and that the first people to

125 notice this ‘inconsistency’ were modern scholars, with the benefit of having all the texts gathered together on their desktops for ready comparison. If, on the other hand, the knowledge of these characters came from oral accounts, it is only natural that each saga should go its own way in matters of chronology. [11]

*  The information on Brodd-Helgi presented so far covers his family connections and children, his religious attitudes, the general period when he lived, and where he lived. We also know that his father was killed and that he himself met the same fate. Landnámabók and the other sources are in general agreement about the ancestors of Brodd-Helgi but tell very different stories about his children. In Landnámabók Bjarni is an only child, but in Vápnfirðinga saga he has a brother called Lýtingr and a sister called Þórdís todda, the second wife of Helgi Ásbjarnarson. Þórdís is also mentioned in Droplaugarsona saga, where she later marries the chieftain Hǫskuldr Þorgeirsson of Ljósavatn. Sǫrla þáttr, Njáls saga, and Íslendingadrápa name Sǫrli as a son of Brodd-Helgi, to which Njáls saga adds a sister, Oddný, not mentioned elsewhere. Bjarni is known to Njáls saga, but neither Lýtingr nor Þórdís is named in these three last sources. Landnámabók states that Brodd-Helgi’s father was killed and implies that Brodd-Helgi lived at Hof in pre-Christian times. Kristni þáttr and Kristni saga tell of Brodd-Helgi’s antagonism towards Christianity and in the ‘Landvættasaga’ in Heimskringla Snorri speaks of him as a leading chieftain in Vopnafjörður. The poem Íslendingadrápa implies that people lived in fear of Brodd-Helgi and that there was an armed attack on him by Geitir [Lýtingsson]. Ǫlkofra þáttr supplies the information that Brodd-Helgi was killed and that vengeance for this was exacted on Geitir. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana adds that Brodd-Helgi was hostile toward Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr. But is this information all of a kind that might go back to a single written source, allowing where appropriate for additions due to authorial creativity? Or does it rather suggest the existence of popular oral tales about Brodd-Helgi? [12] If we consider the inconsistencies in the information on Brodd-Helgi’s children and the unadorned references to his chieftainly character and feuds, we may suppose that the people who wrote in this way knew more of Brodd-Helgi than they included in their writings. This knowledge can hardly have come from written sources, while if we accept that there were oral accounts about Brodd-Helgi this would explain his fragmentary characterization and the inconsistencies in the chronology. It would be extremely difficult to piece the fragments we have together to form a single coherent story, but it is worth noting that these fragments do not conflict badly with the image of Brodd-Helgi that we get from the sources where he is treated in most detail, Þorsteins saga hvíta and Vápnfirðinga saga. Þorsteins saga hvíta and Vápnfirðinga saga. Jón Jóhannesson (1950:vi-vii) floated the idea in his introduction to Þorsteins saga hvíta that the ‘author’ had begun with the intention of expanding and revising Vápnfirðinga saga but had given up after the first chapter. It might well be the case that the creation of Þorsteins saga can be accounted for somewhere along the lines that the writer reckoned he knew more stories than had been covered in the written Vápnfirðinga saga and so decided to produce a version of his own. The two sagas are not pre-served in the same manuscripts and so it is unlikely that Þorsteins saga hvíta was intended as a kind of prequel to Vápnfirðinga saga as is sometimes maintained, especially as their plots coincide before the end of Þorsteins saga, suggesting that it was rather felt to stand alone, whether it is complete in its current form or not.

126

Figure 4-1: Jón Jóhannesson’s theories (1950:xv-xxii) on the age and relationships of the sources that mention Brodd-Helgi Þorgilsson In Þorsteins saga hvíta Helgi is first mentioned, without his epithet, as one of the two children of Þorgils, son of Þorsteinn hvíti (‘the White’), and Ásvǫr Þórisdóttir. When BroddHelgi (now named as such before the epithet has been explained, but this kind of retrospective use of names and titles is normal in traditional oral storytelling) is three years old when his father Þorgils is killed by Einarr (named as ‘Heðinn’ in Landnámabók and Vápnfirðinga saga) and Þorkell (‘Þórir’ in the Sturlubók ms. of Landnámabók), the sons of Þorfinnr. Einarr and Þorkell are the brothers of Þorsteinn fagri (‘the Fair’), who has earlier killed Brodd-Helgi’s uncle, Einarr Þórisson — not without cause, since this Einarr had mocked Þorsteinn the Fair when he was sick and incapacitated and had scornful verses composed about him, and Einar had paid some merchants to say that Þorsteinn was dead so that Einar might get to marry Þorsteinn’s betrothed, Helga Krakadóttir. Þorsteinn fagri is declared guilty of Einarr’s killing. Brodd-Helgi’s father Þorgils leads the party of vengeance and is killed by Þorsteinn fagri’s brothers. Þorsteinn himself leaves the country and is away for five winters. At the age of three, Brodd-Helgi is said to be ‘efniligr maðr at jǫfnum aldri’ (‘a promising man for one of his age’) (ÍF XI:16). When Þorsteinn fagri returns he goes to Hof with four companions. Brodd-Helgi is playing in the farmyard and invites them all in. When the old, blind Þorsteinn the White realizes that the new arrival is Þorsteinn fagri, who had caused the death of his son, he at first reacts with anger, but then they become reconciled and Þorsteinn fagri becomes as a son to him, looking after the farm and household and eventually marrying Helga Krakadóttir. After their reconciliation, the two Þorsteinns go out into the yard where Helgi (sic., not ‘Brodd-Helgi’) is playing with Þorsteinn fagri’s gold-chased spear, which Þorsteinn promptly gives to him. Eight (or ten) years later, the now aged Þorsteinn the White reassesses the situation and realizes that Helgi is sunk so deep in dark thoughts that it would be better for

127 Þorsteinn fagri to leave the country, for Helgi is ‘ofsamaðr mikill ok engi jafnaðarmaðr’ (‘very belligerent and uncompromising’) (ÍF XI:18). After Þorsteinn fagri’s departure Helgi is described in general terms, in the same words as appear in Vápnfirðinga saga — the literary relationship (rittengsl) here is indisputable: he is ‘mikill maðr ok sterkr, bráðgǫrr, vænn ok stórmannligr ok ekki málugr í barnœsku, ódæll ok óvæginn þegar á unga aldri. Hann var hugkvæmr ok margbreytinn’ (‘a big and strong man, early to mature, promising and impressive and not given to work as a child, difficult to deal with and unyielding while still young. He was resourceful and temperamental’ (ibid). This is followed by the story of how Helgi got his nickname by attaching ice crampons to the head of a stud bull that was goring another so that the spikes cause a fatal wound. This story is told in considerably greater detail here than in Vápnfirðinga saga (see the table comparing the two accounts). At the close of Þorsteins saga hvíta it is said that ‘skjótt var þat auðsét á Helga, at hann myndi verða hǫfðingi mikill ok engi jafnaðarmaðr’ (‘it was apparent from Helgi early on that he would become a great chieftain and hard and uncompromising’ (ÍF XI:19) — wording reminiscent of the 13th-century chieftains in Sturlunga saga trying to act tough. Table 4-2: The accounts in Vápnfirðinga saga and Þorsteins saga hvíta of how Brodd-Helgi got his nickname (direct verbal correspondences in italics) Vápnfirðinga saga, ch. 1 (ÍF XI:23-4) Frá því er sagt einnhvern dag at Hofi, er naut váru á stǫðli, at graðungr var á stǫðlinum, er þeir frændr áttu, en annarr graðungr kom á stǫðulinn, ok stǫnguðusk graðungarnir. (It is said that on a certain day at Hof, when the bulls were at the milking shed, that a stud bull was at the milking shed that belonged to the kinsmen, and another stud bull came to the milking shed, and the stud bulls started goring each other.)

Þorsteins saga hvíta, ch. 8 (ÍF XI:18-9) Þat var einn dag at Hofi, er naut váru at stǫðli, þar var griðungr einn kominn til nautanna, mikill ok stórr. Annarr griðungr var heima fyrir, mikill ok ógrligr, er þeir frændr áttu. (There was one day at Hof, when the bulls were at the milking shed, that a certain stud bull had come to the bulls, big and solid. Another stud bull was there from home, big and fearsome, that belonged to the kinsmen.)

Helgi var þá úti staddr ok sá, at griðungarnir gengusk at ok stǫnguðusk, ok varð En sveinninn Helgi var úti ok sér, at þeira heimagriðungrinn vanhluta fyrir graðungr dugir verr ok ferr frá. (But the boy búigriðunginum. (Helgi was then standing Helgi was outside and sees that their bull is outside and saw that the stud bulls were going coming off worse and goes away.) at each other and goring each other, and the home bull was losing out to the neighboring bull.) En er Helgi sér þat, gengr hann inn ok sœkir sér mannbrodda stóra ok bindr þá framan í Hann tekr mannbrodd einn ok bindr í enni ennit á heimagriðunginum. Síðan taka þeir til graðunginum, ok gengr þaðan frá þeira ok stangask sem áðr, allt þar til er graðungi betr. (He takes a crampon heimagriðungrinn stangar hinn til dauðs. Hǫfðu [Icelandic mannbroddr, a spiked overshoe mannbroddarnir gengit á hol. Þótti flestum for walking on ice] and binds it onto the mǫnnum þetta vera bellibragð, er Helgi hafði forehead of the stud bull, and from then gǫrt. (And when Helgi sees this, he goes inside things go better for their bull.) and fetches some big crampons and binds them on the front of the home bull’s forehead. Then

128 they start off again and gore each other as before, and carry on until the home bull gores the other to death. The crampons had pierced into his vital organs. Most people thought this a humorous prank that Helgi had done.) Fekk hann af þessu þat viðrnefni, at hann var kallaðr Brodd-Helgi, en þá þótti mǫnnum þat miklu heillavænligra at hafa tvau nǫfn. Var þat þá átrúnaðr manna, at þeir menn myndi lengr Af þessum atburði var hann kallaðr Broddlifa, sem tvau nǫfn hefði. (From this he got the Helgi. (From this incident he was called nickname, that he was called Brodd-Helgi; in Brodd-Helgi.) those days people thought it much more propitious to have two names. It was then people’s belief that people would live longer who had two names.) Skjótt var þat auðsét á Helga, at hann myndi Var hann afbrigði þeira manna allra, er þar verða hǫfðingi mikill ok engi jafnaðarmaðr. (It fœddusk upp í heraðinu, at atgørvi. (He was apparent from Helgi early on that he stood out for accomplishment among all the would become a great chieftain and hard and men who grew up there in the district.) uncompromising.) The phraseology of the parallel passages in Þorsteins saga hvíta and Vápnfirðinga saga shows a number of similarities, suggesting a literary relationship between these sagas, though the correspondences tend to be restricted to general matters such as ‘naut váru á/at stǫðli’ (‘bulls were at the milking shed’), ‘Helgi var úti’ (‘Helgi was outside’) and ‘kallaðr Brodd-Helgi’ (‘called Brodd-Helgi’), rather than more circumstantial phrases like ‘þeira graðungr dugir verr’ (‘their bull is coming off worse’) and ‘afbrigði þeira manna allra’ (‘standing out among all the men’). It is striking in fact how freely the material is treated, demonstrating that even when people were familiar with a written version of a saga (which is very probable in this case, particularly in view of the identical descriptions of Brodd-Helgi in both sagas) they did not feel bound by their ‘source’ to the extent that they were inhibited from telling the story in their own words and putting their own slant on events, or from expanding and adding to older written texts in the way generally envisaged. This liberal attitude towards the material might be an indication of the existence of a living story tradition which provided saga writers with a wider range of material than could be found in their written sources alone. Scholars were long extremely skeptical that the story of how Brodd-Helgi got his nickname could have arisen on Icelandic soil and were inclined to accept Sigurður Nordal’s suggestion (1938:liii) that it was derived from Trójumanna saga, an early adaptation of a Latin Troy book. [13] This was then seen as an indication of how far the reach of the ‘authors’ of the sagas extended in their use of ‘sources.’ The rug was rather pulled from under Nordal’s theory by Jón Helgason (1976), who showed that the supposed model is found in only one of the three Icelandic versions of Trójumanna saga (in the Hauksbók ms. from the early 14th century), and that it does not occur in any of the foreign versions of the story. Helgason’s conclusion was therefore the reverse of Nordal’s, i.e. that the copyist of Hauksbók had been familiar with the story of Brodd-Helgi and added the incident to his own version of Trójumanna saga. This conclusion adds weight to the view that the character of Brodd-Helgi was formed within Icelandic narrative tradition rather than being the ‘creation’ of an ‘author’ mediating models from other books through his own powers of imagination.

129 From the references to Brodd-Helgi in the sources other than Vápnfirðinga saga described so far, it is clear that in many places there seems to be a fund of extra knowledge, and knowledge of a different sort, lying behind the written texts and not traceable to other written texts. The people who compiled these sources knew this man, his chief characteristics, and certain events attached to him, without there being any sign of their having gotten this information from other books (except in the case of Þorsteins saga hvíta and Vápnfirðinga saga, between which there appears to be an indisputable literary relationship). And they present their written texts in a way that seems to presuppose an ability on the part of their audiences to fill out the portrayal of this character for themselves in order to make sense of what is going on. So, what about Vápnfirðinga saga itself? Is the way Brodd-Helgi is presented here suggestive of a writer who needed to read up on the sources Jón Jóhannesson says he did in order to create his saga? Vápnfirðinga saga opens with Brodd-Helgi’s genealogy (see family tree) and description, including the account of how he acquired his epithet. At the age of twelve he has a man called Svartr declared outlaw and then kills him in single combat on the moors of Smjörvatnsheiði, a deed which brings him considerable renown. He marries Halla Lýtingsdóttir of Krossanes and becomes friends with her brother Geitir. At this point the merchant Þorleifr kristni (‘the Christian’) and his steersman Hrafn the Norwegian enter the story. Hrafn takes quarters with Geitir but is found killed at the winter games and Geitir and Brodd-Helgi divide his possessions between them (the audience is intended to assume that they are behind the killing). Þorleifr comes to Krossavík while Geitir is away and recovers Hrafn’s property; Halla is present but does nothing to prevent this. Þorleifr then delivers Hrafn’s property to his heirs in Norway. [14] The two friends, Geitir and Brodd-Helgi, have been bested and accuse each other of having arrogated Hrafn’s wealth. When they hear of Þorleifr kristni’s recovery of the goods, Helgi institutes legal proceedings against him for failure to pay his temple dues and sends his friend Digr-Ketill to demand payment of Þorleifr (who lives at Krossavík at the mouth of Reyðarfjörður); this incident is also described in Kristni saga and Kristniþáttr. The case rebounds on Helgi when Ketill fails him and he proceeds to blame Geitir for this slight to his honor, and the friendship between them cools still further. Halla falls seriously ill; Helgi sends her home destitute to her father’s and takes up with a woman called Þorgerðr silfra (‘silver’), thereby scandalizing local opinion. Geitir attempts to enforce Halla’s rights but Helgi defies him, in part with the support of a great chieftain from the north, Guðmundr ríki (‘the Powerful’). Brodd-Helgi and Geitir are now in open enmity. A client of Geitir’s called Þormóðr of Sunnudalur gets into a dispute with a client of Brodd-Helgi’s called Þórðr. [15] Brodd-Helgi takes up the case and pursues it so ruthlessly that he kills Þormóðr in the farmyard at Hof when Þormóðr goes there, on Geitir’s advice, to subpoena Þórðr, accompanied by the Egilssons and a man called Tjǫrvi, Geitir and Helgi’s former hitman. Geitir devises a ruse to recover the bodies from Hof without Brodd-Helgi knowing; Helgi admits that Geitir is his superior in intelligence but realizes he can always get his own way by use of force. One day when Geitir is away, Helgi goes to Krossavík to visit Halla, who is now seriously ill, and tries to cure her, but without success, and she dies before Geitir gets home. The hatred and resentment between Brodd-Helgi and Geitir grows ever more bitter, and Guðmundr ríki withdraws his support from Helgi when he refuses to pay over the money he promised him for his support. A merchant called Þórarinn Egilsson, who is a client of Geitir’s, returns to Iceland and Brodd-Helgi offers him winter quarters; Geitir dissuades him from this and invites him to go to him instead. A year later Þórarinn returns home to Egilsstaðir and Geitir moves away to escape Brodd-Helgi’s domination, setting up home at Fagridalur, farther out at the mouth of the fjord. Geitir’s clients think this hardly a fitting residence for their chieftain and urge him to take action against Helgi. Geitir goes north to drum up support, enlisting to his cause the powerful Ófeigr Járngerðarson 

130 of Ljósvatnsskarð (rather than Skörð as in other sources), Guðmundr ríki and Ǫlvir inn spaki (‘the Wise’) of Mývatn. Geitir then moves back to Krossavík. The following summer Helgi intends to ride to the assembly but just as he is about to set off his foster mother tells him of an ominous dream she has had in which Helgi appears as a pale-colored ox, Geitir as a red-patched ox and Bjarni Brodd-Helgason as a red ox; these three fetches gore each other to death in the same order as their associated men kill each other shortly afterwards in the saga. At this point there is a lacuna in the manuscript which almost certainly contained the account of how BroddHelgi was attacked and killed by Geitir and his supporters. There is nothing about Brodd-Helgi’s genealogy as given in Vápnfirðinga saga to suggest that the writer got his information from other written works. If he had, we would, for instance, need to explain why the saga fails even to mention his mother, Ásvǫr Þórisdóttir, who is named in Landnámabók, Njáls saga, and Þorsteins saga hvíta. Also as mentioned above, Vápnfirðinga saga fails to include the names of Hallbera and Sǫrli among Brodd-Helgi’s children, though both appear in Sǫrla þáttr and Njáls saga. On the basis of other genealogical information in the saga, which is in places more detailed than in the extant versions of Landnámabók, Jón Jóhannesson (1950:xvi) concluded that the ‘saga author’ had had access to some kind of parallel genealogical material in written form. But assuming a lost text of this sort merely pushes the problem one stage back and still leaves us having to explain where this text might have gotten its information from. The only conceivable answer is oral tradition. If this is so, it is hard to see why we should not rather assume that the genealogical material in Vápnfirðinga saga came directly from the sources the writer and his informants would have known best, without any need to go looking for it in one of the few copies of Landnámabók existing at the time. If the saga is itself an original source in this sense, it is perfectly understandable that it should differ from our other written sources, including material not found elsewhere, and lacking material that is found elsewhere, and with different names for some of the characters.

Figure 4-2: Brodd-Helgi’s genealogy according to Vápnfirðinga saga Although we know from The First Grammatical Treatise that Icelanders had started writing down genealogies by the 12th century, this tells us nothing about the working methods of the people who compiled the sagas of Icelanders — whether they were in the habit of going to scraps of parchment for such information, or whether genealogical lore was still part of a

131 living oral tradition in the 13th century (as it must have been in the 12th when the first genealogies were written down). Inherently, it seems likely that the genealogical tradition continued to survive as long as people entertained themselves with stories about the characters mentioned in the genealogies. There is no way of proving, one way or the other, assertions that knowledge of events and family connections is unlikely to have survived into the 13th century, in the way assumed by Jón Jóhannesson (1950:xix) when trying to account for why Vápnfirðinga saga has a much fuller genealogy for the people of Krossavík than Landnámabók: ‘vitneskja um Ögmund, fyrra mann Rannveigar Þorgeirsdóttir, og son þeirra hefir varla geymzt í munnmælum fram á 13. öld’ (‘knowledge of Ǫgmundr, the former husband of Rannveig Þorgeirsdóttir, and of their son would hardly have survived in oral lore into the 13th century’). The possibility of such preservation cannot simply be dismissed out of hand in this way. [16] In fact, there seems no valid reason to suppose that information of this kind could not have lived on into the 13th century — seeing that it must have survived into the 12th in order to be written down at all (with all the customary caveats regarding the fluidity and unreliability of such preservation).

*  The most salient feature in the characterization of Brodd-Helgi in Vápnfirðinga saga is his reckless impulsiveness — his tendency to be motivated by his immediate desires, without consideration for the consequences. We see this both at the beginning, when he attaches the spikes to the head of the bull, and again later, when he connives with Geitir in the killing of Hrafn the Norwegian in the hope of getting his hands on his wealth. He creates his own unpopularity by his treatment of his wife and imposes his will through bullying tactics when pursuing his legal interests. But the audience is also aware of a sense of guilt in Brodd-Helgi and a more sympathetic side, as when he visits Halla on her deathbed at home at Krossavík. And when Brodd-Helgi himself looks death in the face in his foster mother’s dream, his reaction is not panic or dismay but anger as they disagree on whether his avenger will be his favorite, Lýtingr, or Bjarni, whom he does not love so well. None of these personal traits come out in the other sources that mention Brodd-Helgi. The only elements in his story that are found outside the saga are the description of how he got his name in Þorsteins saga hvíta, the story of his persecution of Þorleifr kristni in Kristni saga and Kristni þáttr (though there is no mention in these sources of the connection with Hrafn the Norwegian and there are no signs of literary relations in the diction), and vague references to a feud with the people of Krossavík in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabani. No indisputable literary relations can be demonstrated with any of these works (except Þorsteins saga hvíta), and since there seems no necessity either to assume that Landnámabók or lost written genealogical material were used to supply the information on Brodd-Helgi’s family in Vápnfirðinga saga, there is no reason not to conclude that the writer of the saga got his knowledge of Brodd-Helgi from oral tradition. The lack of material for comparison makes it impossible to say how much the writer of the saga added on his own initiative, but the elements of subject matter that the saga shares with other, unrelated sources show that we cannot ignore the possibility that there may have been a considerable body of tradition about this man outside what was to be found in books.

Víga-Bjarni, son of Brodd-Helgi Brodd-Helgi’s son Bjarni is mentioned in Landnámabók, Kristni saga, Vǫðu-Brands þáttr in Ljósvetninga saga, Njáls saga, Vápnfirðinga saga, Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs,

132 Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, the poem Íslendingadrápa, Droplaugarsona saga, and Fljótsdœla saga. Landnámabók, Kristni saga, Vǫðu-Brands þáttr, Njáls saga, Vápnfirðinga saga, and Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs. Bjarni is first named in Landnámabók (S 195, H 163) in connection with the genealogy of the family of his wife, Rannveig Þorgeirsdóttir, the granddaughter of Eiríkr Hróaldsson, the original settler at Hof in Goðdalir. (N.B. Vápnfirðinga saga, ch. 14 (ÍF XI:51) says that Rannveig had previously been married to a man called Ǫgmundr.) This relates Bjarni through marriage ties to the chieftain Ketilbjǫrn the Old of Mosfell in Grímsnes, since Ketilbjǫrn’s wife and Eiríkr’s wife were sisters. See also p. 131 regarding Brodd-Helgi.  An addendum in the Þórðarbók ms. of Landnámabók (from Melabók) at S 257, H 221 traces the line of descent from Einarr, the settler of Öxarfjörður. The line extends down to Brandr and Bergr, the sons of Glíru-Halli and the grandsons of Ljót Einarsdóttir, who ‘fellu í Bǫðvarsdal ór liði Bjarna Brodd-Helgasonar, þá er hann barðisk við Þorkel Geitisson’ (‘fell in Böðvarsdalur on the side of Bjarni Brodd-Helgason when he fought against Þorkell Geitisson’).  A similar addendum in Þórðarbók (from Melabók) at Landnámabók S 265, H 227 tracing the direct male line from the settler Finni of Finnafjörður and Miðfjörður down to GlíruHalli says: ‘hans tveir synir váru í Bǫðvarsdal með Brodd-Helgasyni Bjarna ok fellu þar’ (‘his two sons were at Böðvarsdalur with Bjarni Brodd-Helgason and fell there’). On Glíru-Halli’s name, Jakob Benediktsson (1968:288-9) notes that it appears as Glyttu- or Glettu-Halli in most of the manuscripts of Vápnfirðinga saga (cf. ÍF XI:62n3), which he considers certainly corrupt; the word glírulegur (‘sweet-talking,’ ‘fawning’) has been collected from local speech in the Vopnafjörður region.  Bjarni is mentioned again in another addendum in Þórðarbók (from Melabók) at Landnámabók S 266, H 288 as one link in a long genealogy from the settler Hróðgeirr the White, through his daughter Ingibjǫrg (wife of Þorsteinn the White), to the late-13th-century Markús Þórðarson of Melar.  At Landnámabók S 268, H 230, in an entry dealing with Steinbjǫrn kǫrtr Refsson, who was granted land in Vopnafjörður by his father’s brother Eyvindr and lived at Hof, Þórðarbók (from Melabók) gives fuller details than Sturlubók or Hauksbók of the participants in the battle in Böðvarsdalur (Þórðarbók text in italics): ‘Hans synir váru þeir Þormóðr stikublígr, er bjó í Sunnudal, annarr Refr á Refsstǫðum, þriði Egill á Egilsstǫðum; hans bǫrn váru Þórarinn ok Hallbjǫrn, Þrǫstr ok Hallfríðr, er átti Þorkell Geitisson. Brœðr Hallfríðar váru í liði með Þorkatli í Bǫðvarsdal í móti Bjarna Brodd-Helgasyni’ (‘His sons were Þormóðr stikublígr, who lived at Sunnudalur, 2) Refr of Refsstaðir, 3) Egill of Egilsstaðir; his children were Þórarinn and Hallbjǫrn, Þrǫstr and Hallfríðr, who married Þorkell Geitisson. Hallfríðr’s brothers were with Þorkell [Geitisson] at Böðvarsdalur against Bjarni Brodd-Helgason’). This family is well known from Vápnfirðinga saga, which lists more of Steinbjǫrn’s grandsons than appear here.  At Landnámabók S 270, H 232 Bjarni is named ‘Víga-Bjarni’ (‘Killer-Bjarni’) in a genealogy from Þorsteinn hvíti (‘the White’), ‘a wise man and good,’ who came to Iceland and had children by his wife Ingibjǫrg, including Þorgils, who married Ásvǫr Þórisdóttir. Þorgils and Ásvǫr were then the parents of Brodd-Helgi, who was first married to Halla Lýtingsdóttir, and their son was ‘Víga-Bjarni,’ who married Rannveig, the daughter of Eiríkr of Goðdalir. The same line is given in the sagas that tell of Bjarni. [17] 

Landnámabók is thus no great mine of information on the subject of Bjarni BroddHelgason. We are given details of his marriage, his connections by marriage to Eiríkr of Goðdalir and Ketilbjǫrn the Old, and his descent from the ‘wise and good’ settler Þorsteinn hvíti (‘the White’). The addenda in the Þórðarbók ms. (from Melabók) also make reference to

133 a battle in Böðvarsdalur as if it were a generally known event, though there is no way of telling whether this knowledge came from some written source or from oral accounts. Bjarni’s epithet ‘Víga-’ (‘Killer-’) does no more than suggest a connection with violent deeds, perhaps reflected in chapter 1 of Kristni saga, where he is included in the list of the leading chieftains in Iceland at the time of the mission of Bishop Friðrekr and Þorvaldr, when the country had been settled for 107 years. In Þórðarbók, where Bjarni is connected with the battle in Böðvarsdalur, he is called only ‘Bjarni,’ though he is said to be the son of ‘Brodd-’Helgi. The independent Vǫðu-Brands þáttr included in the C text of Ljósvetninga saga mentions Bjarni in connection with an episode where Þorkell Geitisson of Krossavík in Vopnafjörður goes to Þorsteinn Síðu-Hallsson and solicits his support in a case brought against him by Guðmundr ríki arising from injuries caused by one of his domestic staff, Vǫðu-Brandr, to a certain Þorbjǫrn at some games held at Laxamýri where Brandr was visiting his father. In the conversation between Þorkell and Þorsteinn it comes out that at the Alþingi the previous summer Guðmundr had been preening himself to Bjarni Brodd-Helgason, who is a kinsman of Þorkell’s: ‘Nú vilda ek þitt liðsinni til þiggja at sœkja til þings ok verja málit með kappi fyrir Guðmundi, ef hann skal þó eigi fébótum fyrir koma, ok reyna svá, hvárt ek sé eigi annarrar handar maðr hans, sem hann svaraði Bjarna Brodd-Helgasyni, frænda mínum, um sumarit á alþingi’ (‘Now I would like to have your support so I can go to the assembly and put up a good defense against Guðmundr if he refuses to pay any compensation, and then I’ll find out if I really am not half the man he is, which is what he was saying to my kinsman Bjarni BroddHelgason last summer at the Alþingi’) (ÍF X:132). In the next chapter the case comes up at the Alþingi; Bjarni Brodd-Helgason is there ‘ok hafði hann mikinn flokk, ok vissu menn eigi, hvar hann myndi at snúask um liðveizluna’ (‘and had a big band of supporters with him, and it was not clear which side he would come down on’) (ÍF X:135). Þorsteinn takes the initiative to resolve the dispute and proposes a marriage between Þorkell and Guðmundr’s niece, Jórunn Einarsdóttir. Guðmundr and Bjarni Brodd-Helgason meet and Bjarni says: ‘Svá sýnisk mér, Guðmundr, sem þú hafir þurft báðar hendr við Þorkel frænda minn, ok hafi þó ekki af veitt um. Ok man ek enn þat, Guðmundr, er ek bað þik, at þú skyldir sætta okkr Þorkel, ok svaraði engi ódrengiligar en þú ok sagðir hann eigi vera mundu meira en annarrar handar mann gilds manns ok kvazt hann hafa hálfþynnu eina í hendi, en mik hǫggspjót gilt á hávu skapti. En ek em nú minni hǫfðingi en þú, ok sýnisk mér sem hann muni eigi þar lengi gengit hafa skaptamuninn’ (‘It seems to me, Guðmundr, that you’ve needed both hands to deal with my kinsman Þorkell, and even so you’ve had them both full. I still remember, Guðmundr, when I asked you to try and reconcile Þorkell and me, and no one reacted less honorably than you when you said he wasn’t worth half a real man and that he had just a rickety axe in his hand while I had a stout spear on a long shaft. Maybe I am less of a chieftain than you, but it seems to me that it hasn’t taken him long to make up for the difference in the weaponry’) (ÍF X:138). Here Bjarni is reminding Guðmundr of his arrogance at the previous Alþingi, and refers to a dispute between the two kinsmen that Guðmundr has failed to resolve. (It is notable that Þorkell and Bjarni should call each other kinsmen.) At the end of the þáttr it is Jórunn who manages to bring about the reconciliation that had proved beyond Guðmundr ríki: ‘En Jórunn var inn mesti kvenskǫrungr, sem ætt hennar var til. Hon kom ok því til leiðar, sem engi hafði áðr komit, at þeir sættusk frændrnir, Þorkell Geitisson ok Bjarni Brodd-Helgason, ok heldu þá sætt vel ok drengiliga síðan’ (‘But, in the family tradition, Jórunn was a woman of great character and determination. She found a way of getting the kinsmen Þorkell Geitisson and Bjarni BroddHelgason to settle their differences, something no one else had managed, and they kept to their agreement well after this, like true men of honor’) (ÍF X:139). 

134 Vǫðu-Brands þáttr refers several times to the kinship between Bjarni and Þorkell Geitisson without ever making the details explicit. The picture presented of Bjarni is of an honorable chieftain, ready to make peace, who goes every year to the Alþingi with a large band of supporters, but who knows his place among the rich and powerful when he judges Guðmundr to be a greater man than he is. No attempt is made to explain the dispute between Bjarni and Þorkell; instead, it is referred to as if it were already well-known to the audience. The same is true of Bjarni himself; he is not specifically introduced into the saga but spoken of like some generally known character. It thus appears that the author here assumes that the audience has a wide enough knowledge of the tradition for them to able to provide the extra information needed to make sense of the story being told. Björn Sigfússon (1940:l-lv) examined the chronology of the þáttr and showed that it conflicts with various other sources [18] : Þorsteinn Síðu-Hallsson did not become a chieftain until at least 1014, while Þorkell Geitisson was already a chieftain by 987; according to Droplaugarsona saga and Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, Þorkell married Jórunn some time not long before 1008, but according to the conclusion of Vápnfirðinga saga Jórunn managed to reconcile Bjarni and Þorkell in the summer after the battle in Böðvarsdalur in 989. According to Sigfússon, this last dating cannot be correct, because of the age of Jórunn’s father and brothers and sisters (presumably based on the evidence of other sources), and thus he concludes that Vápnfirðinga saga has got things ‘wrong’ here. From this he concludes that it is also ‘wrong’ to have the action of Vǫðu-Brands þáttr take place before the reconciliation between Þorkell and Bjarni. (Sigfússon believes the þáttr to be younger than Vápnfirðinga saga and to have gotten the detail about Jórunn as peacemaker from there.) He goes on to say: Ekki er ljóst, hvernig tengslunum við Vopnf. s. er háttað, en sennilegt, að höf. styðjist við hana eftir minni. Munnleg sögn hefði krafizt þess, að skilmerkilegar væri skýrt frá deilum Þorkels og Bjarna en gert er í þættinum. Höf. forðast að gera það, áreiðanlega af því að hann veit af því skráðu í annarri sögu. Á hinn bóginn sjást nokkur afbrigði frá Vopnf. s. í þættinum eða öllu heldur ný tilbrigði frásagna þaðan. (Sigfússon 1940:lv) [19] In answer to the points raised by Sigfússon, it may be said that the simplest way to explain the inconsistencies in chronology between Vǫðu-Brands þáttr and the other sagas is that the writer of the þáttr got his story material and characters from oral sources rather than from the books we know and can use to point out his ‘errors.’ Sigfússon thinks it likely that the ‘author’ of the þáttr used Vápnfirðinga saga from memory, so perhaps it would be closer to the mark to say that he had heard the saga rather than read it. Sigfússon is quite wrong in claiming that oral narration would have required the dispute between Þorkell and Bjarni to be explained more circumstantially than we find in the þáttr. In fact, the opposite is true: oral narration is very likely to make use of and reference to an audience’s knowledge of tradition. There is thus no need to assume, as Sigfússon does, that the author failed to give fuller details of the dispute because he knew them to be available in writing elsewhere. Similarly, the ‘new’ variants in Vǫðu-Brands þáttr to the narrative in Vápnfirðinga saga are more easily explained as coming from oral tales about the people of Vopnafjörður than from the written saga as we know it. There is nothing in the texts of these two works to indicate any kind of literary relationship between them. Sigfússon’s findings therefore owe more to his book prose premises, which presuppose an author who composed his saga on the basis of pre-existing written sources, than to any particular hard evidence for the use and knowledge of the particular written sources he supposes the author had available to him.

135  In Njáls saga ch. 134 Bjarni is mentioned in connection with Flosi Þórðarson’s journey around the east of Iceland canvassing support. When Flosi comes to Valþjófsstaðir the saga says that this is the home of Sǫrli Brodd-Helgason, ‘the brother of Bjarni’ (ÍF XII:351), as if Bjarni requires no further introduction. Bjarni’s family details are only given a little later, when Flosi arrives at Hof: ‘Þar bjó Bjarni Brodd-Helgason, Þorgilssonar, Þorsteins sonar ins hvíta, Ǫlvissonar, Eyvaldssonar, Øxna-Þórissonar. [20] Móðir Bjarna var Halla Lýtingsdóttir; móðir Brodd-Helga var Ásvǫr, dóttir Þóris Graut-Atlasonar, Þóris sonar þiðranda. [21] Bjarni BroddHelgason átti Rannveigu Þorgeirsdóttur, Eiríks sonar ór Goðdǫlum, Geirmundarsonar, Hróaldssonar, Eiríks sonar ǫrðigskeggja. [22] Bjarni tók við Flosa báðum hǫndum. Flosi bauð Bjarna fé til liðveizlu. Bjarni mælti: “Aldri hefi ek selt karlmennsku mína við fémútu né svá liðveizlu. En nú er þú þarft liðs, mun ek gera þér um vinveitt ok ríða til þings ok veita þér sem ek munda bróður mínum.” “Þá snýr þú ǫllum vanda á hendr mér,’ segir Flosi, ‘en þó var mér slíks at þér ván.”’ (‘There lived Bjarni Brodd-Helgason, son of Þorgils, son of Þorsteinn the White, son of Ǫlvir, son of Eyvaldr, son of Øxna-Þórir. Bjarni’s mother was Halla Lýtingsdóttir. Brodd-Helgi’s mother var Ásvǫr, daughter of Þórir, son of Graut-Atli, son of Þórir þiðrandi. Bjarni Brodd-Helgason’s wife was Rannveig, daughter of Þorgeirr, son of Eiríkr of Goðdalir, son of Geirmundr, son of Hróaldr, son of Eiríkr ǫrðigskeggi. Bjarni received Flosi with open arms. Flosi offered Bjarni payment for his support. Bjarni said: “I have never sold my manhood for payment, nor my support. But now that you need backing I shall show you my friendship and ride to the Alþingi and assist you as I would my brother.” “You have put me forever in your debt,” says Flosi, “but I might have expected such of a man like you.”’) (ÍF XII:352). Bjarni makes good his promise, helps Flosi in his search for allies, and goes so far as to fight on his side at the Alþingi, where he finds himself hard pressed in single combat with Kári Sǫlmundarson.

As noted above, Bjarni is first mentioned in Njáls saga at the time when his brother Sǫrli is introduced as if he were already a well-known person. A little later he is given a formal introduction, with almost identical genealogical details to those found in Landnámabók. The genealogy brings out Bjarni’s connections with the families of Þorkell Geitisson and Jóreiðr, the wife of Síðu-Hallr, and through marriage with Hafr auðgi (‘the Rich’), as detailed elsewhere in the saga (see family tree).

Figure 4-3: Bjarni Brodd-Helgason’s genealogy according to Njáls saga, taking in his connections through marriage to characters detailed elsewhere in the saga

136

In Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs and in other sagas that mention Þorsteinn Síðu-Hallsson it is made clear that Yngvildr (Bjarni’s daughter according to Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs) was the wife of Þorsteinn Síðu-Hallsson, strengthening still further the marriage relations between Bjarni and Síðu-Hallr. Though never spelled out directly, it is not impossible that the audience of Njáls saga was expected to have these connections in mind; for instance, the close relationship between Bjarni and Síðu-Hallr and Hafr auðgi, who refuses to support Njáll’s ally Ásgrímr Elliða-Grímsson at the Alþingi and ridicules Skarpheðinn Njálsson, may help to explain why Bjarni reacts so favorably to Flosi’s request for support. The characterization implicit here also prepares the audience for the advice and backing Bjarni gives Flosi at the Alþingi a little later in the saga (ÍF XII:364-368). Bjarni’s unconditional sense of honor comes out most clearly in his absolute refusal to accept Flosi’s bribe, and contrasts powerfully with the venality of the lawman Eyjólfr Bǫlverksson when Flosi and Bjarni approach him for his services in the upcoming court case. Bjarni proves exceptionally shrewd and supportive of his ‘kinsman’ Þorkell Geitisson and adept at drumming up support for Flosi, either with gifts or hard bargaining. The last we see of Bjarni in Njáls saga is when Kári Sǫlmundarson, Njáls sonin-law, thrusts his spear at him at the battle at the Alþingi after Eyjólfr has succeeded in overturning Mǫrðr Valgarðsson’s prosecution of Flosi and the other burners (ÍF XII:404). Bjarni just manages to escape Kári’s spear point and disappears from the saga without further comment. According to Vǫðu-Brands þáttr, Bjarni goes to the Alþingi with a large retinue of followers but remains neutral in the disputes between the chieftains Guðmundr ríki and Þorkell Geitisson. There is also mention of a reconciliation between the kinsmen Bjarni and Þorkell, but it is not said what their dispute was about. Njáls saga provides us with a fuller picture of Bjarni and his actions: his family is described in detail, linking him with other characters in the saga, and he is portrayed as a man of admirable qualities. He values his kinsman Þorkell highly and knows how to use other people’s moral weaknesses to further the interests of his friends. When faced by overwhelming odds, he chooses to withdraw rather than to fight to the death. Bjarni Brodd-Helgason is merely a ‘bit player’ in these two sagas; it is in the sagas set in the east that he takes on a major role and his life is presented in greatest detail. Even so, there is a consistency regarding Bjarni’s qualities and personal characteristics between the eastern sources on the one hand and Njáls saga and Vǫðu-Brands þáttr on the other. In Vápnfirðinga saga he is compelled, almost reluctantly, to take action to avenge his father and kills first Tjǫrvi inn mikli (‘the Big,’ one of Geitir’s party of twelve who attacked Brodd-Helgi), and then Geitir himself, his friend at Krossavík, only when goaded by his stepmother Þorgerðr silfra. Bjarni immediately regrets his deed, like Bolli after the killing of Kjartan in Laxdœla saga. The ongoing feud between Bjarni and Þorkell Geitisson is characterized by Bjarni’s discretion and cunning and his efforts to avert trouble, until he is eventually forced into battle in Böðvarsdalur — and even then he is still speaking of the kinship between himself and Þorkell. At the end of the saga the two kinsmen are wholeheartedly reconciled, as mentioned in Vǫðu-Brands þáttr. Bjarni’s desire to avert difficulties and avoid those who go out of their way to stir up trouble is further emphasized in Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs. Here he is perfectly willing to send the hotheads to their deaths but manages himself to bring about peace in memorable fashion at the end of his long single combat with Þorsteinn of Sunnudalur. Bjarni sidesteps the blind demands of vengeance, refuses to let himself be incited to violence, and ends by laying down his weapons rather than take things through to the bitter end — and still manages to emerge with full honor and enhanced reputation. The description here is of a piece with that of the man who withdraws from battle rather than face the spear thrusts of Kári Sǫlmundarson in Njáls saga. Thus the sagas that have the most to say about Bjarni Brodd-Helgason portray him as a man who attempts consistently to avoid bloodshed, vengeance, and feuding, a

137 characterization that seems somewhat at odds with his nickname of Víga-Bjarni (‘KillerBjarni’).

*  Bjarni Brodd-Helgason appears in a rather different light in the other sources that mention him: Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, Íslendingadrápa, Droplaugarsona saga, and Fljótsdœla saga. In Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana Bjarni comes riding into the action unannounced and unintroduced with a party of a dozen men on their way to Mjóvanes, the home of his sister Þórdís (the wife of Helgi Ásbjarnarson but in other respects not introduced), with the intention of ransacking the place in search of Gunnarr Þiðrandabani (‘Killer of Þiðrandi’) ‘er drepit hefir frænda várn ok fóstbróður’ (‘who had killed our kinsman and sworn brother’) (ÍF XI:208). Gunnarr is concealed in an outhouse at the farm. Bjarni is confrontational but accepts his sister’s invitation to stay the night, while she takes the opportunity to thwart his intentions by sending for reinforcements. By the time Bjarni wakes the next morning there are thirty of Þórdís’s friends and neighbors assembled in the yard. Faced by such overwhelming odds, Bjarni withdraws without a fight and at this point disappears from the saga. 

The relationship between Bjarni and Þiðrandi is never made explicit in the saga: all that is said of Þiðrandi at the outset is that he is the son of Geitir (ÍF XI:195) and that he is being fostered at Njarðvík by Ketill þrymr. A little later the saga says that Þiðrandi went ‘norðr í Krossavík ok var um sumarit á mannamóti’ (‘north to Krossavík and was there at a gathering during the summer’) (ÍF XI:198); the audience here is probably supposed to be aware that Geitir lived at Krossavík and so able to work out for themselves that Þiðrandi is thus visiting his father. Vápnfirðinga saga (ÍF XI:27) mentions that Bjarni Brodd-Helgason was fostered at Krossavík by his mother’s brother Geitir, and this might explain the duty of vengeance Bjarni feels incumbent on him in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana when he calls Þiðrandi his ‘frænda’ (‘kinsman’) and ‘fóstbróður’ (‘sworn brother’). This might thus be another example of knowledge assumed of the audience without being stated specifically. In Íslendingadrápa the emphasis is exclusively on Bjarni’s warrior characteristics. The construction put upon his epithet, i.e. that he is ruthless and ‘trigger-happy,’ appears in the words ‘hjalmþrimu gjarn Bjarni’ (‘battle-eager Bjarni’), and the poem goes on to say that he has made the wolves rejoice over Geitir’s blood and killed ‘flesta… ollu… hans fǫður morði’ (‘most of those who brought about his father’s death’). 

The short description in the poem is in clear contrast to the picture we find in other sources of a conciliatory and peace-loving Bjarni. [23] The drápa and Vápnfirðinga saga are the only sources to describe Bjarni’s vengeance for his father (other than mere mentions of the killing of Geitir), but there is no reason to think that one of them obtained its material from the other. It seems altogether more likely that both works are based on independent accounts or else diverged consciously from their ‘sources’ — in which case the question arises of why we need to postulate the use of any ‘source’ at all. If the writer of Vápnfirðinga saga had needed to look to Íslendingadrápa for information on one of his main characters, he would surely have taken the easy course and let Bjarni kill more of Geitir’s accomplices than just Tjǫrvi. (Bjarni’s vengeance is described near the lacuna in the manuscript, but it is inconceivable that Bjarni could have killed the ten survivors in the space that is lacking.) If it was the other way around,

138 i.e. that whoever composed Íslendingadrápa followed written sources, it is difficult to see why he should have changed just Tjǫrvi into ‘most of those who caused his father’s death.’ In Droplaugarsona saga Bjarni is mentioned only once, when Grímr Droplaugarson is at Krossavík, happy and laughing after killing Helgi Ásbjarnarson in revenge for his brother Helgi. Grímr composes a verse in which he says it is now up to ‘bǫðgjǫrnum Bjarna’ (‘battleeager Bjarni,’ i.e. Víga-Bjarni) to avenge his in-law. Þorkell Geitisson is in Eyjafjörður in the north settling disputes among his clients and so the mistress of the house, his wife Jórunn, tells Grímr that she is worried about the lack of a leader at the farm: ‘en þó mundum vit til hætta, ef eigi væri násetur Bjarna, mágs Helga Ásbjarnarsonar, sem nú eru’ (‘but even so we might risk it were not that Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s brother-in-law Bjarni lived so close at hand’) (ÍF XI:173). 

Bjarni is not introduced in any other respect. The writer assumes that his relationship through marriage to Helgi Ásbjarnarson is already known to his audience and that this is sufficient to make him think of revenge — perhaps supported by his epithet, which is probably alluded to in the word ‘bǫðgjǫrnum’ (‘battle-eager’) in Grímr’s verse. Nothing is said about Bjarni and Þorkell supposedly being reconciled through Jórunn’s offices, as described in the sagas mentioned above where Bjarni is portrayed as a peaceable and conciliatory chieftain. Here, just as in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Íslendingadrápa, Bjarni seems to be associated rather with feuding and violence and is depicted as ready to accept the demands of vengeance when his honor is compromised. The failure to provide Bjarni with a formal introduction in Droplaugarsona saga and Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana may perhaps be put down to the fact that these sagas are preserved in manuscripts that also contain other sagas from the east of Iceland in which Bjarni has already been fully introduced. Droplaugarsona saga is admittedly the only eastern saga in Mǫðruvallabók (other than Ǫlkofra þáttr), but there is one sheet of it in AM 162 C fol. from the first half of the 15th century along with fragments of Vápnfirðinga saga and Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, while Gunnars saga is found in five 17th-century manuscripts along with other sagas from the east (AM 156 fol., AM 158 fol., AM 426 fol., AM 496 4to, and AM 552 e 4to). It is thus possible that the copyists omitted the passages where Bjarni was introduced because he had already been described in detail earlier in the books they were working on. By way of comparison, Bjarni is given a full introduction in Fljótsdœla saga, which is found with Hrafnkels saga in the manuscripts. In Fljótsdœla saga Bjarni is introduced like a new character when Helgi Ásbjarnarson goes north to Hof to ask for the hand of his sister Þórdís: ‘Þar bjó sá maðr, er Bjarni hét ok var Brodd-Helgason, hinn mesti skörungr ok höfðingi mikill. Hann átti sér systur, er Þórdís hét’ (‘There lived the man who was called Bjarni and was the son of Brodd-Helgi, a man of great character and a powerful chieftain. He had a sister called Þórdís’) (ÍF XI:239). Bjarni agrees to the marriage and then is not mentioned again until after the killing of Þiðrandi, who is said to be a close kinsman of his (ÍF XI:267), though without the relationship being specified more precisely. The saga then lists the people involved in the hunt for Gunnarr the Norwegian to avenge Þiðrandi as Þorkell Geitisson (Þiðrandi’s brother), Bjarni (a close kinsman), Helgi Ásbjarnarson (the husband of Bjarni’s sister Þórdís), and the brothers Grímr and Helgi (sons of Þorvaldr, son of Þiðrandi the old). Gunnarr escapes and Bjarni is not involved any further in the pursuit until chapter 20, by which time Gunnarr has come under the protection of Helgi Ásbjarnarson. Helgi goes off to the local assembly and entrusts Þórdís with protecting Gunnarr; she demurs, pointing out that family relations are bad enough already without this adding to it, and threatens to send for her brother Bjarni. Helgi reminds Þórdís of how badly she had been treated at home at Hof before he married her and says he will send her back there if she hands

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139 Gunnarr over ‘undir øxi Bjarna’ (‘to Bjarni’s axe’) (ÍF XI:283). Þórdís does not carry out her threat, but Bjarni turns up on his own initiative with nearly 80 men and asks her to surrender Gunnarr. She pleads ignorance but sends a message to Helgi during the night and the next morning Bjarni calls off the search of his sister’s home and rides back to Hof just before Helgi rides into the yard with 150 supporters. With this, Bjarni disappears from the saga. In general, it seems that most of the sources that mention Bjarni Brodd-Helgason expect their audiences to have prior knowledge of certain facts and events, specifically: 1. the battle in Böðvarsdalur 2. that Bjarni had at one time been in conflict with his kinsman Þorkell Geitisson of Krossanes 3. that Bjarni was sufficiently closely related to Þiðrandi Geitisson to feel obliged to avenge his killing, even if this involved incurring the enmity of his sister and brotherin-law From a close reading of the sources, it seems that we are justified in distinguishing two contrasting views of Bjarni: on the one hand, in the sagas set within his own locality, as a man who tries to avoid vengeance and feuding, and on the other, in sagas that take place farther from his former stamping grounds in Vopnafjörður, as a man who lives up fully to his nickname of ‘Bjarni the Killer.’ In his introduction to ÍF XI, Jón Jóhannesson notes that the name ‘VígaBjarni’ appears in Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, Landnámabók, the appendix to Skarðsárbók, and Kristni saga, as well as being implicit in the form ‘bǫðgjarn’ (‘battle-eager’) in Grímr Droplaugarson’s verse in Droplaugarsona saga. As Jóhannesson says, this conflicts with the picture of the peace-loving Bjarni found in Vápnfirðinga saga, and from this he concludes that something had become confused or garbled in Vápnfirðinga saga (1950:xxii). As ever, Jóhannesson’s ideas here are centered entirely around the truth value of the sagas, but it is by no means certain that this is the proper way to approach the problem. It is unlikely that it is a question of one source being ‘right’ and the other ‘wrong’; it is perfectly conceivable that Bjarni’s character in the saga tradition was not equally clearly delineated in the minds of all people. Perhaps this change in emphasis can be put down to Bjarni’s traditional epithet having worked on the imaginations of people outside Vopnafjörður and made more of a killer out of him than he appears in the written sagas where he figures most prominently. We have no way of knowing whether those who portray Bjarni Brodd-Helgason in their sagas thirsting for revenge for his kinsman Þiðrandi knew any more about his character than what they could deduce from his epithet, supported by the knowledge that he had been a chieftain at Hof in Vopnafjörður and had taken part in a famous battle in Böðvarsdalur against his kinsman Þorkell Geitisson. Another possibility is that the image of a peace-loving Bjarni came originally from the hand of the person who wrote Vápnfirðinga saga and was then carried over and developed further in Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs. Although the þáttr is not preserved in the same manuscripts as Vápnfirðinga saga, it speaks of Bjarni of Hof as a generally known person (ÍF XI:69), while other characters are introduced in the conventional manner. His wife Rannveig also appears in the þáttr spurring Bjarni to action (ÍF XI:73-4) without her status being explained for the benefit of those hearing stories about these people for the first time. Additionally, the audience seems to need some prior knowledge of the battle in Böðvarsdalur in order to understand the events described. Had the þáttr been preserved alongside Vápnfirðinga saga, it would perhaps not have been necessary to give Bjarni a special introduction, but this is not the case. To explain the things that the writer takes for granted about the characters and events, we must either assume knowledge of a written saga about Bjarni of

140 Hof (which the writer of the þáttr must also have expected his readers to be familiar with from the few manuscripts that might have existed, or at least heard read aloud) or an oral tradition of stories in which it was enough to mention Bjarni’s name for people to understand who was meant, his family relations, his general character, and what might be expected of him in a saga. Since there is nothing particular to support the idea of knowledge acquired from a written saga, it seems better to assume that the writer of the þáttr is making use of common knowledge attributable to oral tradition rather than to some written book. If some sort of tradition had survived about Víga-Bjarni Brodd-Helgason, it is most likely that this tradition would have been centered in Vopnafjörður, among the people who told stories in which he played a leading part. And it seems unlikely that the writer of Vápnfirðinga saga would have deviated far from the image familiar to the people of the region. [24] Presumably the farther away one gets, in time and space, from the real Bjarni Brodd-Helgason of Vopnafjörður, the less people would have known about him beyond what was implicit in the name Víga-Bjarni, and this may well have encouraged a more bellicose portrayal of this man than was familiar to the people of Vopnafjörður, or than they chose to remember.

Geitir Lýtingsson Geitir Lýtingsson of Krossavík is Brodd-Helgi Þorgilsson’s brother-in-law. In Vápnfirðinga saga he is portrayed as the chief rival of Brodd-Helgi and his son Víga-Bjarni for power and status in Vopnafjörður. Like them, Geitir appears in a range of sources: Landnámabók, Kristni saga, Þorsteins saga hvíta, Vápnfirðinga saga, Íslendingadrápa, Droplaugarsona saga, Þorsteins saga uxafóts, Fljótsdœla saga, and the annals, where he is said to have been killed in the year 987. In Landnámabók, Geitir is first mentioned in an addendum in the Þórðarbók ms. (using material from the lost Melabók) at S 50, H 38. The S and H texts here say that Þorbjǫrn of Arnarholt was the brother of Lýtingr of Vopnafjörður, to which Þ adds ‘fǫður Geitis’ (‘father of Geitir’), thereby relating Geitir to Þorbjǫrn and his family. Geitir does not figure prominently in Landnámabók, appearing only once more, viz. at Hauksbók 233 (though not in the corresponding section in Sturlubók). Both Sturlubók and Hauksbók say here that Lýtingr claimed and settled the eastern shore of Vopnafjörður and lived at Krossavík, and that from him were descended the ‘Vápnfirðingar’ (‘people of Vopnafjörður’). To this, Hauksbók adds the information: ‘Geitir var son Lýtings, faðir Þorkels’ (‘Geitir was the son of Lýtingr and the father of Þorkell’). Þórðarbók (from Melabók) goes on to trace the genealogy down to Markús of Melar (late 13th century).  Geitir is mentioned right at the end of Þorsteins saga hvíta: ‘Geitir í Krossavík átti Hallkǫtlu, dóttur Þiðranda ins gamla, Ketils sonar þryms [25] … Geitis ok Hallkǫtlu. Með þeim Geiti ok Brodd-Helga var vinátta mikil í fyrstu, en minnkaðisk svá sem á leið, ok varð ór fullr fjándskapr, sem segir í Vápnfirðinga sǫgu’ (‘Geitir in Krossavík married Hallkatla, the daughter of Þiðrandi the Old, son of Ketill þrymr … of Geitir and Hallkatla. Geitir and Brodd-Helgi were great friends to start with, but the friendship diminished as time went on and turned into open enmity, as is told in Vápnfirðinga saga’) (ÍF XI:19).  Vápnfirðinga saga introduces Geitir with a conventional genealogy (ÍF XI:26-8; see family tree) starting out from his father Lýtingr, who is the master of Krossavík at the point when the saga opens. The saga says that Geitir and his brothers were much the same age as Brodd-Helgi, whose son Bjarni was being fostered by Geitir at Krossavík. Mention is made of a close friendship between the thinker Geitir and the wealthy Brodd-Helgi. This is followed by details of the descendants of Steinbjǫrn kǫrtr Refsson, who are clients of Geitir’s. The genealogies include references to Helgi Ásbjarnarson and the Droplaugarsons as if they were 

141 generally known characters; they are not introduced especially, though it should be noted that some of the manuscripts put Vápnfirðinga saga together with Droplaugarsona saga, where these men are treated more fully.

Figure 4-4: Genealogy and marriage relations of Geitir Lýtingsson at his introduction in Vápnfirðinga saga At first sight it is curious that Vápnfirðinga saga does not mention Geitir’s son Þorkell when giving the details of Geitir’s parentage and marriage; Þorkell’s name does not appear until a few lines later, as the husband of Hallfríðr Egilsdóttir of Egilsstaðir. Jón Jóhannesson (1950:27n6) interpreted this as a mishandling of the material on the part of the ‘author’ as a result of a slavish adherence to Landnámabók at this point. In defense of the narrator, it is perhaps worth considering whether the delay in introducing Þorkell might not rather be deliberate, motivated by a wish to emphasize the ties between Geitir and his clients, the relatives of his son’s wife Hallfríðr, and intended to explain their unswerving support for Geitir later in the saga when things go wrong between him and Brodd-Helgi. There is every reason to expect tension in Vápnfirðinga saga between the descendants of Steinbjǫrn kǫrtr, Hallfríðr’s grandfather, and Brodd-Helgi: the saga opens with an account of how Hof had originally belonged to Steinbjǫrn, but that he had gone bankrupt and been forced to sell out to Þorsteinn hvíti (‘the White’), Brodd-Helgi’s grandfather. The circumstances are explained in more detail in Þorsteins saga hvíta, where it is said that Þorsteinn acquired the estate in settlement of a debt. So it is hardly farfetched to anticipate a degree of resentment among the sons and descendants of Steinbjǫrn, who had thus lost the opportunity to be the masters of Hof instead of what they now were, mere clients of Geitir’s, whose best friend Brodd-Helgi was the grandson of the man who had deprived them of their birthright. In view of the tensions we are perhaps given to understand existed below the surface here, it need not appear so strange that the narrator should first mention Þorkell Geitisson as the husband of Hallfríðr rather than as the son of his father; this serves to highlight the family ties between Geitir and his client farmers, thus explaining the support they give him when he turns against their hereditary enemy. In principle, it seems better to view the rather anomalous way Þorkell is introduced as being of positive significance, rather than simply ascribing it to some kind of incompetence on the part of the writer. After Vápnfirðinga saga has established this dramatic tension, for a time Geitir and his brother-in-law Brodd-Helgi are hand in glove (see pp. 130 f). There is a lacuna in the

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142 manuscripts which probably included an account of how Geitir attacked Brodd-Helgi and killed him, and the text picks up again in the middle of the peace negotiations with Bjarni after the killing under the auspices of Guðmundr ríki. The truce holds, except that Bjarni kills Tjǫrvi, and he becomes Geitir’s closest friend and follows his advice in all matters. However, his stepmother Þorgerðr silfra is unable to accept this situation and goads Bjarni by showing him the blooded clothes that Helgi had been wearing when he was killed. Bjarni is forced to shoulder his responsibility for vengeance, and he hacks Geitir in the head at the March gathering at Þorbrandsstaðir, killing him. Bjarni immediately regrets what he has done. Geitir comes across in Vápnfirðinga saga as a popular but rather passive chieftain. However, he reveals himself capable of a shameful act for his own personal gain when he joins with Brodd-Helgi in arranging the killing of Hrafn the Norwegian and appropriating his property. Geitir has no hesitation in manipulating his clients for his own benefit and sacrificing his supporters when it suits his interests. He suffers a temporary but humiliating fall from grace when Guðmundr ríki refuses him support and he is forced to move away to the safety of Fagridalur. Despite this, he achieves a fair degree of success through his tenacity and resourcefulness but is eventually caught off guard when least expecting it and dies in the arms of the man who has killed him, like Kjartan Óláfsson in Laxdœla saga. Geitir is also mentioned in Íslendingadrápa, where he is given the epithet ‘ǫrlyndr’ (‘impetuous,’ ‘quick-tempered’) for having put ‘fǫður Sǫrla’ (‘Sǫrli’s father,’ i.e. Brodd-Helgi) to the sword. As has already been noted, the poem also says that Bjarni Brodd-Helgason made the wolves rejoice over Geitir’s blood, ‘þess’s vá víka vagnskreyti’ (‘of him who killed the adornment of the vehicle of the inlets,’ i.e. the seafarer or man, Brodd-Helgi). In Kristni saga Geitir is named alongside Víga-Bjarni in the list of the leading chieftains of Iceland at the time of the mission of Bishop Friðrekr and Þorvaldr the Wide-Traveled.  Droplaugarsona saga mentions Geitir in passing in chapter 2 among the details of his wife’s family (ÍF XI:141); all that is said here is that his father was Lýtingr and that he lived at Krossavík in Vopnafjörður. This, however, is rather more of an introduction than the one accorded to Hallr of Síða, who was presumably regarded as so well known that no details were necessary beyond his name. Geitir is involved in the action later in the saga when Droplaug sends her sons Helgi and Grímr to him for security after they have killed Þorgrímr torðyfill (‘Dung-Beetle’) (ÍF XI:146-7), but otherwise takes no part in the events described.  In Fljótsdœla saga Geitir’s name first appears in chapter 3 among the information on the family of his wife, Hallkatla. Fljótsdœla saga offers the detail not found in Droplaugarsona saga that Geitir was a popular man ‘en forgangr Hallkötlu var einkar góðr. Þau áttu tvó sonu’ (‘but Hallkatla had particularly fine powers of leadership. They had two sons’) (ÍF XI:220). In the next chapter, Geitir receives Hróarr of Hróarstunga ‘vel ok ágætliga’ (‘well and handsomely’) (221) when Hróarr comes to offer to foster Geitir’s son Þiðrandi; Geitir replies that he ‘eigi nenna né vilja drepa hendi við svó miklum sæmdum’ (‘has no intention or desire to turn down so great a mark of respect’) (222).  The only other ancient source to mention Geitir Lýtingsson is Þorsteins saga uxafóts in the Flateyjarbók manuscript. [26] This tale has stylistic affinities with the legendary sagas and mentions people at Krossavík who are unknown from other sources, such as Þórir inn hái (‘the Tall’), who it says was the original settler and the progenitor of the men of Krossavík. In the saga, a son is born to Þorkell Geitisson’s dumb sister Oddný and Þorkell has the child exposed, in the face of opposition from Geitir, who is staying with Þorkell at the time (287). The job is entrusted to a slave named Freysteinn but a neighbor rescues the boy. Seven years later the boy has grown into an exceptional child and turns up one day at Krossavík. Geitir is sitting there on

143 the dais muttering into his cloak, and realizes at once that this must be his kinsman (288-9). Later it is said that he himself had brought the slave Freysteinn to Iceland (293).

Figure 4-5: Geitir Lýtingsson’s marriage relations according to Droplaugarsona saga This tells us precious little about Geitir Lýtingsson of Krossavík and so it might appear that he did not figure prominently in the story tradition outside Vápnfirðinga saga. In other sources the emphasis is more on his father Lýtingr, his son Þorkell and the family of his wife Hallkatla. However, it is interesting that in other sagas connected with the Vopnafjörður region and the east of Iceland, Brand-Krossa þáttr and Fljótsdœla saga, the name Geitir appears both in place names and as the name of a mountain troll (‘bergrisi’) in Norway and a giant (‘jǫtunn’) in Shetland (see p. 208 f.). There may conceivably be some kind of link here with Geitir of Krossavík; for example, people may have made some connection between Geitir’s muttering of ancient lore as described in Þorsteins saga uxafóts and the trolls and giants who bore the same name as him.

*  The sources on Geitir Lýtingsson seem unanimous in depicting him as a man held in high esteem and much sought after for support and protection. He is not high-handed and bullying and is capable of maintaining his calm under duress, but there is a touch of ruthlessness in his dealings with lesser men, as perhaps alluded to in the epithet ‘ǫrlyndr’ (‘impetuous,’ ‘quick-tempered’) in Íslendingadrápa. Geitir’s family connections are of central importance for understanding people’s actions and behavior in the sagas of eastern Iceland, and this might explain why his genealogy is given in so much detail in these sources when the various versions of Landnámabók seem largely to ignore him. Only Vápnfirðinga saga has much to say about Geitir himself, but it is clear that the Droplaugarsons regarded him and his son Þorkell, who appears in many more ancient sources than his father, as a source of great strength and support. It is particularly interesting that the men of Krossavík should be able to offer legal training and advice to Helgi Droplaugarson, since this is precisely the area in which Þorkell enjoyed his reputation on a national level. We can thus infer that Geitir was a sufficiently well-known character for the audiences of sagas other than Vápnfirðinga saga to be able to recognize in him a chieftain of some standing and a good man to have on one’s side. In addition, in Brand-Krossa þáttr and Fljótsdœla saga the name Geitir appears in connection with giants and ogres in lands outside Iceland. Since these tales were current among people who were familiar with a chieftain

144 of this name within Iceland, it is perhaps possible to see here a reflection of some kind of controversy or ridicule surrounding the erstwhile master of Krossavík.

Þorkell Geitisson Judging from the sources, the name of Þorkell Geitisson of Krossavík was quite well known outside his home region of Vopnafjörður. He is mentioned in Landnámabók and appears in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, Droplaugarsona saga, Ljósvetninga saga, Vápnfirðinga saga, Ǫlkofra þáttr, Laxdœla saga, Njáls saga, Þorsteins saga Síðu-Hallssonar, Íslendingadrápa, Þorsteins saga uxafóts, and Fljótsdœla saga. Þorkell is mentioned at various places in Landnámabók described previously. The first citation appears in the addendum in the Þórðarbók ms. (using material from the lost Melabók) at S 257, H 221, concerning Brandr and Bergr, the sons of Glíru-Halli, who fell at Böðvarsdalur ‘ór liði Bjarna Brodd-Helgasonar, þá er hann barðisk við Þorkel Geitisson’ (‘from the followers of Bjarni Brodd-Helgason when he fought against Þorkell Geitisson’).  The main text of Landnámabók at S 268, H 230 notes that Þorkell was married to Hallfríðr, daughter of Egill, son of Steinbjǫrn kǫrtr, who claimed land in Vopnafjörður and lived originally at Hof. This is the passage that Jón Jóhannesson (1950:27) believes was used, or rather misused, by the ‘author’ of Vápnfirðinga saga when introducing Þorkell into his saga (see above, p. 158). Þórðarbók (from Melabók) adds: ‘Brœðr Hallfríðar váru í liði með Þorkatli í Bǫðvarsdal í móti Bjarna Brodd-Helgasyni’ (‘Hallfríðr’s brothers were with Þorkell in Böðvarsdalur against Bjarni Brodd-Helgason’).  Landnámabók H 233 mentions Þorkell at the end of a genealogy from his grandfather Lýtingr who ‘nam Vápnafjarðarstrǫnd alla hina eystri, Bǫðvarsdal ok Fagradal, ok bjó í Krossavík ok lifði hér fá vetr; frá honum eru Vápnfirðingar komnir. Geitir var son Lýtings, faðir Þorkels’ (‘claimed the entire east coast of Vopnafjörður, including Böðvarsdalur and Fagridalur, and built his home at Krossavík and lived there for a few years; from him are descended the men of Vopnafjörður. Lýtingr’s son was Geitir, the father of Þorkell’). There is no mention of Geitir and Þorkell at the corresponding place in the Sturlubók ms. but in Þórðarbók the line is traced on down to Markús of Melar. 

The older redactions of Landnámabók, Sturlubók, and Hauksbók, thus display no more knowledge of Þorkell than they do of his peers among the chieftainly class of Vopnafjörður in the Saga Age. Þorkell first appears in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana without formal introduction after Þiðrandi Geitisson has been killed at Njarðvík along with his foster father Ketill þrymr and Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr, when the Kórekssons go to summons Ásbjǫrn for debt after Ketill has taken him on as a farm laborer. Þiðrandi is with the Kórekssons on this mission since the Kórekssons have previously won his friendship through the gift of a horse. It is nowhere specified that Þiðrandi is the son of Geitir of Krossavík, but the saga does say that he went north to Krossavík when relations between him and Ketill broke down with the arrival of Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr (ÍF XI:198); the audience is presumably supposed to realize that Þiðrandi and Þorkell are brothers from their shared patronymic. Also with Þiðrandi and the Kórekssons on the mission to Njarðvík is Þórir Englandsfari (‘England-Traveler’), a friend of Brodd-Helgi’s, to whom Ásbjǫrn also owes money. [27] Thus it appears that relations between Hof and Krossavík are good at the time when Þorkell first appears in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana seeking vengeance for his brother Þiðrandi. Despite his band of followers, Gunnarr and his companion Þormóðr manage to slip through Þorkell’s hands. During the subsequent winter 

145 Eyjólfr and Þorkell Ketilsson come under suspicion of harboring the two fugitives. Þorkell Geitisson manages to entice the brothers out of their farm and gets Eyjólfr to talk by making him think they have killed his brother and will do the same to him. But Gunnarr has been warned in a dream that Þorkell is on his way and makes his escape, although his companion Þormóðr is brought down by Þorkell’s spear. An exhaustive search now ensues at the home of the uncowed Sveinki at Bakki in Borgarfjörður. Ketill of Njarðvík had been a friend of Sveinki’s, so he hides Gunnarr from Þorkell and his search party, first under his fishing boat, then in a hayrick, lastly on an offshore island (see p. 226 below). Cheated of his quarry, Þorkell is forced to withdraw. As mentioned previously, Bjarni Brodd-Helgason is also involved in this manhunt after Sveinki sends Gunnarr on to Helgi Ásbjarnarson. Gunnarr is now declared ‘sekr á þingi, ok lét Þorkell Geitisson sœkja hann til sekða’ (‘guilty at the Alþingi, with Þorkell Geitisson bringing the charge against him’) (ÍF XI:209), and is passed on for safekeeping to Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir, the heroine of Laxdœla saga. Þorkell rides ‘ofan í Njarðvík ok ætlaði at taka upp sekðarfé Gunnars. Þeir brœðr riðu í mót honum við nǫkkura menn, Þorkell ok Eyjólfr Ketilssynir. Eyjólfr mælti til Þorkels Geitissonar, er þeir fundusk: “Þú munt ætla at taka sekðarfé Gunnars.” “Þat er í ætlan,” segir Þorkell. “Bæði er féit mikit ok gott,” segir Eyjólfr, “en þat vil ek segja þér, at féit er allt á brottu af Íslandi, ok skaltu engum penningi ná.” Þorkell skilr, at þetta mun satt vera, ok skilja þeir við svá búit’ (‘down to Njarðvík, intending to impound Gunnarr’s goods against the fine. The brothers Þorkell and Eyjólfr Ketilsson rode with some men to intercept him. When they met, Eyjólfr spoke to Þorkell Geitisson: “I suppose you’re intending to collect Gunnarr’s fine.” “That’s the plan,” says Þorkell. “There’s plenty of good stuff,” says Eyjólfr, “but I’ll tell you this, that it’s all been got out of Iceland, and you won’t get a penny of it.” Þorkell realizes that this is presumably true, and at this they part’) (ÍF XI:209-210). Nothing more is said of Þorkell Geitisson, who disappears from the action without comment just as he entered it without introduction. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana is not found in the same manuscripts as Vápnfirðinga saga or the other sagas that deal with Þorkell in greater detail, so it appears that the audience is supposed to know who Þorkell is without needing to have him specially introduced. From the narrative we can also deduce that it was common knowledge that Þorkell and Þiðrandi were brothers from Krossavík, though this is never made explicit (but, as previously mentioned, this connection can perhaps be inferred from the fact that Þiðrandi moves to Krossavík when he falls out with his foster father Ketill). There is no sign that relations are anything other than excellent between Þorkell and Brodd-Helgi’s friend, the merchant Þórir Englandsfari, and Bjarni Brodd-Helgason himself supports Þorkell’s cause when he goes to his sister Þórdís todda and demands that she hand Gunnarr over. The narrator seems therefore to be either ignorant of or oblivious to the bitter feuding that we know of from elsewhere between Bjarni and Þorkell. Þorkell conducts the case himself when Gunnarr is declared outlaw, and so we can suppose that his status within society was well known, and perhaps also his knowledge of the law. In the passage dealing with the foray against Sveinki the narrator includes the comment that ‘er þat sumra manna sǫgn, at í þessari ferð hafi verit Helgi Droplaugarson með Þorkatli, frænda sínum, en eigi vitum vér, hvárt satt er’ (‘according to some people, Helgi Droplaugarson was on this expedition with his kinsman Þorkell, but we do not know whether this is true’) (ÍF XI:204). This is interesting, since there is no mention of this in Droplaugarsona saga, and so it seems reasonable to take these words as evidence that the writer knew about Helgi and the reliance the Droplaugarsons placed on Geitir and Þorkell without having read the written version of their saga that we know today. This reference also suggests that the audience of the saga was expected to be familiar with Þorkell Geitisson’s family connections without there being any need for a detailed presentation of his genealogy.

146 All things considered, it appears that Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana was written for an audience with a fair degree of familiarity with the saga characters of the east of Iceland. This runs directly counter to the view taken by Jón Jóhannesson, on the basis of the apparently limited knowledge of local geography displayed in the saga, that it was written in the west of Iceland in the first quarter of the 13th century and then brought east, where it provided the impetus for the first saga writing in this part of the country too (1950:xci; see p. 229 f. below). It is easier to make sense of the saga’s familiar references to eastern chieftains and their relations and marriage ties if it was written for an audience that already possessed a reasonable knowledge of this particular saga world. Viewed in this way, Jóhannesson’s argument that the apparent lack of interest in the distances between places in the east is evidence of a general lack of local knowledge loses much of its force. It is certainly true that little is made of the distances people had to travel when moving between Vopnafjörður and Njarðvík, but Jóhannesson himself concedes that the saga displays a degree of familiarity with the Njarðvík and Borgarfjörður areas (1950:xci), which ought therefore to indicate a personal knowledge of the region on the part of the writer. Had the saga been written in the west of Iceland, we might expect the writer to have given rather fuller details of the main places and chieftains of the east mentioned in the text. After Gunnarr Þiðrandabani has escaped to the west, Droplaugarsona saga makes no mention of Þorkell Geitisson in the discussions between Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir and her betrothed Þorkell Eyjólfsson as to whether she should extend her protection to this man who has been sent to her. This silence is all the more interesting when viewed against the corresponding passage in Laxdœla saga, which is certainly from the west of Iceland and which names Þorkell Geitisson specifically in connection with Gunnarr and what should be done about him. Citing ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ (‘the saga of the people of Njarðvík’) as its source, Laxdœla saga says that ‘Gunnarr hafði sekr orðit um víg Þiðranda Geitissonar ór Krossavík’ (‘Gunnarr had been declared guilty of the killing of Þiðrandi Geitisson of Krossavík’) (F V:202). As in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir and Þorkell Eyólfsson argue over whether she should shelter him. During the conversation, ‘Þorkell lézk því hafa heitit nafna sínum, Þorkatli Geitissyni, at hann skyldi drepa Gunnar, ef hann kœmi vestr á sveitir, — “ok er hann inn mesti vinr minn”’ (‘Þorkell said he had promised his namesake Þorkell Geitisson that he would kill Gunnarr if he turned up in their part of the country in the west, — “and he is a very great friend of mine”’) (F V:203).



The parallels between these two accounts and scholars’ ideas about this *Saga Njarðvíkinga are discussed in greater detail below (p. 229 f). So far as Þorkell Geitisson and the people of Krossavík are concerned, what is interesting here is that Laxdœla saga should associate Þiðrandi so unequivocally with Krossavík, even though this connection is never stated directly in Gunnars saga. Þorkell Geitisson is brought into Laxdœla saga without introduction and his interest in the case is never explained. We must therefore assume that the audience of Laxdœla saga was already aware that Þorkell lived at Krossavík, or that the mere mention of his patronymic was enough to link him and Þiðrandi as brothers. It is obvious from Laxdœla saga that this Þorkell Geitisson is to be viewed as a man of considerable stature, if a friend of his from a completely different part of the country promises to kill someone for him. The two Þorkells, Geitisson and Eyjólfsson, are said to be particular friends without further explanation. But, as it turns out, this friendship counts for little when the great politician Snorri goði makes it clear to Þorkell Eyjólfsson that his obligations lie rather with his friends in the west and that he must not allow this affair to jeopardize his marriage to Guðrún. The appearance of Þorkell Geitisson’s name in Laxdœla saga makes little sense unless we assume that the audience was supposed to know who he was, or at least have some idea that

147 he was a chieftain seeking vengeance for his brother. If this is so, the friendship between the two Þorkells probably needs no further explanation than what is provided in the text. In view of the background knowledge we possess from other written sources, it is perhaps plausible that some people may have been aware of Þorkell Geitisson’s competence in the law, as described in Droplaugarsona saga, and associated the two Þorkells through this shared interest. Þorkell Eyjólfsson came from a distinguished family of lawmen, being the son of Eyjólfr the Gray and thus closely related to the lawspeakers Gellir Bǫlverksson and Steinn Þorgestsson (see above pp. 71–72). Eyjólfr is also with Þorkell Geitisson in the clique of goðar [28] in Ǫlkofra þáttr that owns the wood at Goðaskógur by Þingvellir (see pp. 174–175). It is possible that the genealogies appended to the end of Þórðar saga hreðu (in the text derived from the Vatnshyrna manuscript) and perhaps related to the information on these families found in other sagas may also have a bearing on what was known of Þorkell Geitisson’s connections in the west of Iceland. From these genealogies it appears that Þorkell Geitisson’s wife, Jórunn Einarsdóttir, was the aunt of Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir and Þorkell Eyjólfsson’s daughter-in-law. It is interesting that this reconstructed text from Vatnshyrna names certain otherwise unknown offspring of Einarr Þveræingr and traces a tripartite line from him down to Jón Hákonarson of Víðidalstunga (who ordered the compilation of Flateyjarbók in the late 14th century) and his probable wife Ingileif (see Ólafur Halldórsson 1990:200). This information, which is not found in other sources, ties in well with what is said elsewhere about people we do know about (see Jón Jónsson 1898) and could thus be an indication that knowledge of genealogies reaching all the way back to the 10th century was still alive in the 14th century — in the sense that genealogical lore that went so far back might still be considered reliable even though it was only preserved orally and not recorded in written form.

Figure 4-6: Þorkell Geitisson’s relations through marriage to Snorri goði, Þorkell Eyjólfsson, etc., according to the addendum to Þórðar saga hreðu in Vatnshyrna, with (in bold) additions from Laxdœla saga and Ljósvetninga saga.

148 N.B. According to Heiðarvíga saga, Þorgils Arason was married to a daughter of Einarr Þveræingr but it is uncertain whether this was Helga, or whether Valgerðr was Einarr’s granddaughter, as stated by Björn Sigfússon (1940:83-4; see also Jón Jónsson 1898:103-4). Both Flateyjarbók and Vatnshyrna were probably compiled on the orders of Jón Hákonarson of Víðidalstunga in the second half of the 14th century. In Droplaugarsona saga, Geitir Lýtingsson’s name first appears within the genealogical details of his wife, the sister of the Droplaugarsons’ father. No further explanation is therefore necessary to account for his readiness to shelter Helgi and Grímr Droplaugarson after they kill Þorgrímr torðyfill and Droplaug sends them off ‘til Vápnafjarðar í Krossavík til Geitis’ (‘to Geitir at Krossavík in Vopnafjörður’) (ÍF XI:146). Their visit places something of a burden on Þorkell Geitisson, who accompanies them to the assembly, arranges the settlement for the killing of Þorgrímr with Helgi Ásbjarnarson, pays off their fine, and instructs Helgi Droplaugarson in the law.  Helgi uses his newly acquired knowledge of the law to pick quarrels with the clients of Helgi Ásbjarnarson, and it is in the context of such litigation at the Alþingi that Þorkell is next mentioned: ‘ok váru þeir Helgi Droplaugarson ok Þorkell Geitisson allfjǫlmennir. Var þar með þeim Ketill ór Njarðvík. Helgi Ásbjarnarson hafði ekki lið til at ónýta mál fyrir þeim’ (‘Helgi Droplaugarson and Þorkell Geitisson were there with a large band of followers. With them was Ketill of Njarðvík. Helgi Ásbjarnarson did not have enough men to have their case overturned’) (ÍF XI:150). Helgi Droplaugarson gets his way and emerges with his reputation enhanced.  Things go rather less well the next time Þorkell lends Helgi his support in his legal adventures. Helgi has persuaded his mother Droplaug to get her slave Þorgils to kill Hallsteinn, Droplaug’s second husband, to whom her sons have taken a disliking. Helgi kills the slave immediately after he has killed Hallsteinn, but the plot is revealed and Helgi Ásbjarnarson pursues the case against his namesake: ‘Mál Helga Droplaugarsonar urðu óvinsæl, ok vildu engir honum veita nema þeir Þorkell Geitisson ok Ketill Þiðrandason’ (‘Helgi Droplaugarson’s cause became unpopular and no one wanted to help him except Þorkell Geitisson and Ketill Þiðrandason’) (ÍF XI:154). This support, however, is of little avail. Droplaug moves away to the Faeroe Islands and Helgi Droplaugarson is sentenced to three years’ outlawry and is otherwise fair game to his opponents if found anywhere ‘milli Smjǫrvatnsheiðar ok Lónsheiðar. Helgi Droplaugarson leitaði ekki við útanferð. Þá fór Grímr, bróðir hans, frá búi sínu ok til móts við bróður sinn, ok váru á vetrum með Þorkatli í Krossavík. Þeir fóru um allt herað til þinga ok mannfunda, svá sem Helgi væri ósekr’ (‘between Smjörvatnsheiði and Lónsheiði. Helgi Droplaugarson made no attempt to leave the country. His brother Grímr moved out of his home and went to be with his brother, and they spent the winters with Þorkell at Krossavík. They traveled all around the district, to assemblies and gatherings, just as if Helgi had been acquitted’) (155).  ‘Um várit eptir sendi Flosi frá Svínafelli orð Þorkatli Geitissyni, at hann skyldi fjǫlmenna norðan til hans. Vildi Flosi stefna til óhelgi Arnóri Ǫrnólfssyni, bróður Halldórs í Skógum. Þann mann hafði Flosi vega látit. Þorkell safnaði sér liði, ok váru þeir saman þrír tigir. Hann bað Helga Droplaugarson fara með sér. Helgi sagði: “Skyldr ok fúss væra ek at fara þessa ferð, en krankr em ek, ok mun ek heima vera.” Þorkell spurði Grím, ef hann vildi fara, en Grímr lézk eigi mundu ganga frá Helga sjúkum. Síðan fór Þorkell með þrjá tigu manna suðr til Svínafells. Þaðan fóru þeir Flosi vestr í Skóga með hundrað manna’ (‘The following spring Flosi of Svínafell sent word to Þorkell Geitisson that he should gather support and come south to meet him. Flosi intended to bring a case against Arnórr Ǫrnólfsson, the brother of Halldórr of Skógar, whom Flosi had had killed, and have him declared an outlaw. Þorkell mustered a band of supporters, amounting altogether to thirty men. He asked Helgi Droplaugarson to go with him. Helgi said: “I would be honor bound and eager to make this journey, but I am ill, and 

149 I will stay at home.” Þorkell asked Grímr if he would go but Grímr said he would not leave Helgi while he was sick. So Þorkell took his thirty men south to Svínafell. From there he and Flosi went west to Skógar with a hundred men’) (ÍF XI:156-7). In this episode Helgi Droplaugarson lets his kinsman down badly, the chieftain who had looked after him and supported him in every way; he feigns sickness so as to be able to pursue his own interests while Þorkell is off elsewhere. The killing of Arnórr is known from other written sources but they disagree as to who was responsible. There is much about this discrepancy that strongly suggests that the writer of Droplaugarsona saga had obtained his material from oral sources rather than from written books.  Landnámabók (S 330, H 289-90) has the following paragraph about Ǫlvir, the first settler at Höfði to the east of the river Grímsá: ‘Hans son var Þórarinn í Hǫfða, bróðir sammœðri Halldórs Ǫrnólfssonar, er Mǫrðr órœkja vá undir Hǫmrum, ok Arnórs, er þeir Flosi ok Kolbeinn, synir Þórðar Freysgoða, vágu á Skaptafellsþingi’ (‘His son was Þórarinn of Höfði, the half brother (same mother) of Halldórr Ǫrnólfsson, whom Mǫrðr órœkja killed under the rockface at Hamrar, and of Arnórr, who was killed at the Skaptafell assembly by Flosi and Kolbeinn, the sons of Þórðr Freysgoði’).

This entry in Landnámabók is probably based on unrecorded oral accounts of a chieftainly feud, since the list of the most powerful men in Iceland in Kristni saga (see p. 147) mentions the sons of Ǫrnólfr of Skógar, apparently referring to Halldórr and Arnórr. The very next names on this list are the sons of Þórðr Freysgoði, i.e. Flosi and his brothers, suggesting some kind of connection. The killing of Arnórr of Skógar is mentioned in the annals for the year 997, the same year that Þangbrandr the priest led his mission to Iceland and a year before the battle in Eyvindardalur — all of which ties in excellently with the chronology of Droplaugarsona saga. In the famous scene from Njáls saga, just before Hildigunnr lays the bloodied cloak of her husband Hǫskuldr over her kinsman Flosi and spurs him to take revenge, she reminds him of the killing of Arnórr: ‘“Minna hafði misgǫrt Arnórr Ǫrnólfsson ór Forsárskógum við Þórð Freysgoða, fǫður þinn, ok vágu brœðr þínir hann á Skaptafellsþingi, Kolbeinn ok Egill”’ (‘“Arnórr Ǫrnólfsson of Forsárskógar had done less to your father Þórðr Freysgoði, and your brothers Kolbeinn and Egill killed him at the Skaptafell assembly”’) (ÍF XII:291). More can be deduced from Njáls saga about this feud, since it names Halldórr Ǫrnólfsson as a chieftain associated with Gizurr the White (ÍF XII:142) and later says that Mǫrðr órœkja (who according to Landnámabók killed Halldórr) was a kinsman of Þráinn Sigfússon and killed ‘Odd Halldórsson austr í Gautavík í Berufirði’ (‘Oddr Halldórsson at Gautavík in Berufjörður in the east’) (ÍF XII:220). This Oddr’s patronymic has tempted scholars (Sveinsson 1954:142; Benediktsson, J. 1968:333) to read the two sources in tandem and come to the conclusion that the two men killed by Mǫrðr órœkja, Halldórr Ǫrnólfsson and Oddr Halldórsson, were in fact father and son. 

The nature of these sources would seem to indicate that there were once more detailed and widely known accounts of the killing of the Ǫrnólfssons than we now know from the extant texts. This appears from the fact that each describes the killing of Arnórr in its own way:

150 Table 4-3: The three varying versions of the killing of Arnórr Ǫrnólfsson of Skógar Droplaugarsona saga

Landnámabók

Flosi has Arnórr killed

Flosi and his brother Kolbeinn Flosi’s brothers Kolbeinn and Egill kill kill Arnórr at the Skaptafell Arnórr at the Skaptafell assembly in assembly. revenge for wrongs done to their father.

Njáls saga

Njáls saga contains clear references to the killings of Mǫrðr órœkja that we know of from Landnámabók, though without any connection being drawn between Halldórr Ǫrnólfsson and Oddr Halldórsson. However, Þorkell Geitisson and his part in the subsequent events are mentioned nowhere outside Droplaugarsona saga. These written sources perhaps allow us to form some kind of idea of the oral tradition that lies behind them, as if we can discern a muffled echo from the common fund of stories that provided the material for each of the extant sources. In Droplaugarsona saga, while Þorkell is away supporting Flosi, Helgi and Grímr Droplaugarson have their battle with Helgi Ásbjarnarson in Eyvindardalur. Helgi Droplaugarson is killed and Þorkell is not mentioned again before Grímr has been secretly nursed back to health by Ásgerðr, the medical woman from Ekkjufell: ‘Síðan fór Grímr norðr í Krossavík til Þorkels Geitissonar, ok var honum þar vel fagnat’ (‘Then Grímr went north to Krossavík to Þorkell Geitisson and was given a warm welcome there’) (ÍF XI:166). Nothing is said of the way the brothers deserted their kinsman when he needed their support on his journey south to Flosi. A few years later it is said that Þorkell made ‘fǫr til Eyjafjarðar at sætta þingmenn sína, ok reið hann heiman, en Grímr var heima ok annaðisk um bú’ (‘a journey to Eyjafjörður to settle disputes among his clients and rode away from home, but Grímr stayed behind and took charge of the household’) (167-8). 

This is the first we hear of Þorkell having clients in Eyjafjörður in the north of Iceland. The saga offers no explanation, but Jón Jóhannesson (1950:167n1) suggests that Þorkell’s political influence in Eyjafjörður may have come about as a result of his wife Jórunn’s family being from there. This conjecture is in all probability correct; however, up to this point in the saga Jórunn has not even been mentioned and the audience thus has no grounds for thinking that Þorkell might have any political interests in the north. The justification appears only later, when Þorkell has already left and Grímr sets off on his campaign to exact revenge on Helgi Ásbjarnarson. It is at this point that we first hear of Jórunn, ‘kona Þorkels — hon var dóttir Einars frá Þverá’ (‘Þorkell’s wife — she was the daughter of Einarr of Þverá’) (ÍF XI:168). The information on Jórunn’s background here is parenthetical, almost as if entered as an afterthought. It also assumes a familiarity with Einarr of Þverá, implying that the audience of the saga must have known more than is said in plain words. In this case, the audience needs to realize that Jórunn is from Eyjafjörður and from this be able to deduce that this is presumably how Þorkell acquired his clients in that part of the country. Droplaugarsona saga twice uses the device of sending Þorkell Geitisson off to some other part of the country, leaving Helgi and Grímr Droplaugarson to pursue their own schemes at home; and on each occasion we have evidence of ancillary knowledge of people and events from those parts of the country. Though this knowledge is never spelled out, the audience clearly needs to know things that are not specified in the text we have before us in order to make sense of what is going on. It may also be significant that in manuscript AM 162 C fol., from the first half of the 15th century, Droplaugarsona saga (only fragments of chapters 3 and 4 are preserved) is found together with Ljósvetninga saga (including Vǫðu-Brands þáttr, which

151 mentions the marriage of Þorkell and Jórunn) and Vápnfirðinga saga (see Helgason, J. 1975); thus the audience of this manuscript was in a position to know all that was needed of Þorkell’s connections with the people of Eyjafjörður. It may also be that the text of Droplaugarsona saga in AM 162 at one time gave a more detailed explanation of Jórunn and Þorkell’s clients in Eyjafjörður; there is, unfortunately, no way of knowing. One thing that is clear, however, is that there are considerable differences between the text in the AM 162 fragments and the Mǫðruvallabók text (see Jóhannesson 1950:lviii-lxiv). In view of the fact that Jórunn’s paternity is given in Mǫðruvallabók in a sentence that looks very much like an interpolation, it is well conceivable that the copyist realized that there was a need to introduce her in some way. This kind of introduction was perhaps not necessary in his exemplar; for instance, it may have contained more sagas from the east of Iceland, as in AM 162 C fol. While Þorkell is away in the north, Grímr kills Helgi Ásbjarnarson. When Grímr gets back to Krossavík, Jórunn remarks that they can ill afford not to have their leader there with them with Bjarni Brodd-Helgason, Helgi’s brother-in-law, living so close at hand. She hides Grímr until Þorkell returns. ‘Nú kemr Þorkell heim ok fór til fundar við Grím ok spurði tíðenda ok um atburðinn um víg Helga’ (‘Now Þorkell comes home and goes to see Grímr and asks him his news and about the events surrounding the killing of Helgi’) (ÍF XI:173). Grímr answers his kinsman with three verses in dróttkvætt meter. Nothing is said of Þorkell’s reactions. ‘Þorkell reið þá til þings, en Grímr var í tjaldi í fjalli því, er Snæfell heitir, upp frá Krossavík ok þeir félagar’ (‘Then Þorkell rode off to the Alþingi and Grímr and his companions stayed behind in a tent up on a mountain called Snæfell above Krossavík’) (175). Þorkell offers compensation on Grímr’s behalf but Helgi’s nephew Hrafnkell goði refuses it, and so Grímr is forced to stay on into the winter up on the mountain. Some Norwegian merchants who are staying with Þorkell notice the tent. Þorkell realizes he can no longer keep Grímr’s presence secret and gets him off his hands by sending him to Ingjaldr of Arneiðarstaðir, Grímr’s fatherin-law. From this point the saga follows Grímr, and Þorkell of Krossavík is not mentioned further. 

In general, Þorkell remains behind the scenes in Droplaugarsona saga, but we hear enough about him to see that his characterization here ties in with the way he is presented in other sources. He is a legally astute chieftain who attempts to settle disputes but is not personally involved in the machinations of his kinsmen. When it comes to describing Þorkell’s dealings with Flosi and the men of Svínafell in the south, and with regard to his family relations in Eyjafjörður in the north, the writer assumes a knowledge on the part of his audience of saga worlds outside their own immediate locality. In neither case are full details made explicit in the saga; things are rather alluded to in a way that suggests that the audience is expected to be able to understand what lies behind the allusions. Thus the only way of understanding the role of Þorkell Geitisson in Droplaugarsona saga seems to be to assume an interplay between the saga itself and a living body of oral tales that people once told about him.  Þorkell Geitisson is mentioned only once in the A text of Ljósvetninga saga (in chapter 6) and not at all at the corresponding place in the C text, which in other respects is much fuller at this point. The passage in question describes a dispute between Guðmundr ríki and Þórir Helgason, who is a friend of Guðmundr’s brother, Einarr Þveræingr (i.e. Einarr of Þverá): ‘En um sumarit riðu menn til þings, ok fjǫlmenntu hvárirtveggju; ok var Guðmundr fjǫlmennari. Þorkell Geitisson var þar ok leitaði um sættir með þeim. En Guðmundr vill eigi sættask’ (‘That summer people rode to the Alþingi. Each of them gathered a large band of supporters, but Guðmundr had more. Þorkell Geitisson was there and tried to arbitrate between them. But Guðmundr refuses to make peace’) (ÍF X:38).

152 The poor state of preservation of the A text of Ljósvetninga saga makes it impossible to say whether Þorkell had been introduced in it at some earlier point. However, the fact he is mentioned here gives us reason to doubt that the A text is an abridgement of the C text, or that the C text is an expanded version of the extant A text, as scholars have argued over — as opposed to Knut Liestøl’s view (1929:50-5) that where the A and C texts differ they are based largely on differing oral traditions. Hallvard Magerøy (1957:54-64) appears to make nothing of Þorkell Geitisson in his comparison of the variant texts, and the same applies to Andersson and Miller (1989:72-3), though they do put forward the idea that the A text is based on more than just the C text and that the copyist had access to other stories from Hörgárdalur, from people who knew accounts presented from the point of view of Þorgils Akrakarl. Liestøl (1929:51) pointed out that each text contains material that is not found in the other and put this down to memory failure. Cases such as this also permit us to speak of variant narratives without any need to adopt a stance on whether the storytellers had forgotten some correct ‘original version’ of their story. This is how things appear in the case of Þorkell: the audience of the A text could, apparently, be trusted to know who Þorkell Geitisson was (even if he does not appear elsewhere in the extant fragments of AM 561 4to). The writer could not have gotten his name from the corresponding passage in the C text, so the only possibility seems to be that he got it from the tradition outside the written texts and could rely on the audience to work out for themselves how Þorkell came to be involved in the affairs of Guðmundr ríki and Einarr Þveræingr. The case is very different with the C text of Ljósvetninga saga, in which Þorkell Geitisson figures prominently early on in the story, at the beginning of Vǫðu-Brands þáttr. Vǫðu-Brandr, a difficult and aggressive farmer’s son from Mýrr, has killed a man in Norway and arrives in Reyðarfjörður well on into autumn. At this point Þorkell Geitisson is introduced: ‘Hann bjó í Krossavík í Vápnafirði’ (‘He lived at Krossavík in Vopnafjörður’) (ÍF X:128). A man from Reykjadalur called Einarr, who is working for Þorkell at Krossavík, immediately takes fright when he hears about Vǫðu-Brandr and wants to get away, convinced that Þorkell will invite Brandr to come and stay with him. Þorkell asks Einarr to stay on and makes Brandr welcome. At first Vǫðu-Brandr behaves himself, but then he starts running riot among Þorkell’s client farmers and refuses to sit and drink with Þorkell as Þorkell wishes, preferring to go out womanizing. Brandr initiates a game called ‘Syrpuþingslǫg,’ a grotesque and unseemly travesty of court procedure. Þorkell objects to this and asks Brandr to lay off. Brandr takes umbrage and leaves and goes west to his father. There he injures a man at some games and, as mentioned previously (p. 147), is sent back to Krossavík to Þorkell — to Þorkell’s embarrassment, since he had previously out of pride refused to release Brandr from his terms at Krossavík when he first wanted to storm off.  Þorkell offers to compensate Guðmundr ríki for Brandr’s misdeed but Guðmundr refuses and prepares to take the case to the spring assembly at Vöðlaþing. Þorkell goes east to Álftafjörður to his friend Þorsteinn Síðu-Hallsson (who is mentioned directly without other introduction) and they plan their defense of the case — which is to have it thrown out on technicalities and by strength of numbers. Þorkell and Þorsteinn ride together though the farmlands with only three companions on their way to the assembly but send their main band of supporters over the mountains and down into Eyjafjörður. Guðmundr fails to see through this deception, though he realizes there is a flaw in his own case, i.e. that as one of Þorkell’s household Brandr cannot be prosecuted at the Vöðlaþing assembly. The case is brought to the Alþingi and Bjarni Brodd-Helgason becomes involved: see above, p. 147. Þorsteinn goes behind Þorkell’s back and tries to thrash out peace proposals with Ófeigr Járngerðarson. They agree to go to Guðmundr’s brother, Einarr of Þverá, and seek to arrange a marriage between Þorkell and his daughter Jórunn. The conversation includes an excellent description of Þorkell as an ambitious but rather poor chieftain who is willing to support his own men financially in 

153 their legal disputes and ‘sitr hann yfir virðingum allra Austfirðinga’ (‘has a monopoly of power and status throughout the eastern fjords’) (ÍF X:136).  Agreement is reached and nothing remains for Þorsteinn but to inform his friend about his prospective marriage: ‘“Eigi veit ek nú, at hverju verða vill, en konu hefi ek beðit í morgin til handa þér.” Þorkell mælti: “Mikit er um liðveizlu þína við mik, er þú gerir þat ekki síðr, er ek býð þér um eigi. Hver er sjá kona?” Þorsteinn svarar: “Sjá mær heitir Jórunn ok er dóttir Einars frá Þverá.” Þorkell mælti: “Þá mey vilda ek ok helzt eiga á Íslandi.” Þorsteinn mælti: “Þá er nú ráð at ganga til festarmálanna.”’ (‘“I don’t know how this is going to turn out, but I’ve made a marriage proposal on your behalf this morning.” Þorkell said: “There’s a lot to be said for your support for me, when you’re just as willing to do what I don’t ask of you. Who is this woman?” Þorsteinn answers: “The girl is called Jórunn and she’s the daughter of Einarr of Þverá.” Þorkell said: “That’s the girl I’d like to marry more than any other in Iceland.” Þorsteinn said: “So it’s time to get the wedding plans sorted out.”’) (ÍF X:137). Everything is arranged and the wedding is fixed for Þverá in a half a month’s time, before Guðmundr is even told of his niece’s forthcoming marriage. Þorsteinn starts off by telling him that Þorkell is betrothed and in Guðmundr’s reply we get another description of Þorkell: ‘“Sú kona er vel gefin, er honum er, því at hann er inn mesti hreystimaðr, þótt nú sé með okkr fátt. Eða hver er sú kona?’” (‘“That woman has a good husband who gets him, because he’s a man of great courage and fortitude, even if we don’t see eye to eye at present. So who is this woman?”’) (137). After this Guðmundr accepts the original offer of compensation and settles the claim for injury and Þorkell carries out his side in the case ‘svá, at báðum hugnaði vel. En þó eldi hér lengi af með þeim brœðrum. En Þorkell sat yfir sœmdinni allri’ (‘so that both were well satisfied. Even so, for some while there was some friction between the brothers. But Þorkell came out of it with all the credit’) (138). After the wedding at Þverá, Þorkell concedes the case to Guðmundr and then goes ‘heim með konu sína, ok þótti hann mjǫk vaxit hafa af þessi ferð’ (‘home with his wife, and seemed to have grown greatly out of this venture’) (139). As mentioned earlier (p. 148), Jórunn succeeds in reconciling the relatives ‘ok heldu þá sætt vel ok drengiliga síðan. Þorkell bjó í Krossavík til elli ok þótti ávallt inn mesti garpr, þar sem hann kemr við sǫgur. Vǫðu-Brandr fór austan ok bjó á fǫðurleifð sinni ok samðisk mikit ok þótti góðr bóndi ok þóttisk aldri fulllaunat geta Þorkatli Geitissyni sína liðveizlu ok góðvilja’ (‘and they kept the peace like men of honor after this. Þorkell lived at Krossavík until old age and was always considered a bold and brave man wherever people tell of him. Vǫðu-Brandr left the east and took over his inheritance from his father and calmed down a great deal and was considered a good farmer and never felt he could repay Þorkell Geitisson sufficiently for his support and goodwill’) (139).  Much later in Ljósvetninga saga there is an account of how Hrólfr, son of Þorkell, son of Tjǫrvi, son of Þorgeirr of Ljósavatn, goes to Þorkell Geitisson and asks for his support against Eyjólfr, the son of Guðmundr ríki: ‘Ok er hann fann Þorkel Geitisson, mælti hann slíkum málum við hann. Hann svarar: “Þú mælir sannara, en eigi nenni ek at ganga í móti Eyjólfi”’ (‘And when he met Þorkell Geitisson he talked these matters over with him. He answers: “You have the better grounds on your side, but I have no wish to take on Eyjólfr”’) (ÍF X:101). No more is said of Þorkell in the saga. Doubts have been expressed as to whether Þorkell of Krossavík could have still been alive at the time he is last mentioned in Ljósvetninga saga. According to Björn Sigfússon’s reckoning (1940:xxviii-xxix, 101), based on a comparison with other written sources, Þorkell would have needed to be in his nineties at this point in the saga. But, as noted previously, comparison with different sources can prove a treacherous basis on which to interpret the chronologies of individual sagas. Within the particular world of Ljósvetninga saga it makes perfect sense to name Þorkell Geitisson here as the person Hrólfr applies to for support; the world of the saga is not a ‘real’ historical world and the audience would presumably have

154 accepted the account on the basis of the information given in the opening chapters that Þorkell lived to a great age at Krossavík and remained a man of great determination and courage throughout his life. The reconstructed chronology of modern scholarship, which is able to show that such narrative devices are factually ‘incorrect’ within the overall framework of the saga tradition, is irrelevant here. A further function of this episode would have been to draw a contrast between Þorkell and Skegg-Broddi Bjarnason of Hof, who is also mentioned in the saga at this point and has previously refused to lend Eyjólfr his support. Ljósvetninga saga is silent on the subject of Þorkell’s first wife whom we know about from Vápnfirðinga saga and Landnámabók, both of which say that Þorkell was the son-in-law of Egill Steinbjarnarson from Egilsstaðir in Vopnafjörður. So it is unclear whether Ljósvetninga saga contains any notion of Þorkell’s rise to power in Vopnafjörður after the death of his father in 987, or that his marriage to Jórunn as described in Vǫðu-Brands þáttr was in fact his second marriage. In Ǫlkofra þáttr, Þorkell Geitisson is named among a group of powerful goðar (priestchieftains) that owns a wood near the site of the Alþingi at Þingvellir. The wood is destroyed in a fire which starts from Ǫlkofri’s charcoal pits ‘upp frá Hrafnabjǫrgum ok austr frá Lǫnguhlíð […] Þar brann skógr sá, er kallaðr var Goðaskógr. Hann áttu sex goðar. Einn var Snorri goði, annarr Guðmundr Eyjólfsson, þriði Skapti lǫgsǫgumaðr, fjórði Þorkell Geitisson, fimmti Eyjólfr, sonr Þórðar gellis, sétti Þorkell trefill Rauða-Bjarnarson’ (‘up from Hrafnabjörg and east from Lönguhlíð […] The wood there known as Goðaskógur burned down. It was owned by six goðar. One was Snorri goði, the second Guðmundr Eyjólfsson, the third Skapti the lawspeaker, fourth Þorkell Geitisson, fifth Eyjólfr, son of Þórðr gellir, sixth Þorkell trefill son of Bjǫrn the Red’) (ÍF XI:84-85).



On the evidence of other sources, at least three of these goðar were linked to Þorkell by bonds of either family or friendship: Snorri and Þorkell were both married to daughters of Guðmundr ríki Eyjólfsson’s brother Einarr (see above, p. 166); Þorkell, the son of Eyjólfr Þórðarson, describes Þorkell Geitisson as his friend in Laxdœla saga (see p. 164); and his son Gellir was also married into the family (see p. 166). Although it is difficult to see how, according to the conventional chronology, all these men could have been alive at the same time (see Jóhannesson 1950:xxxv-xxxvi), it is not improbable that there is some kind of tradition behind the family and other connections supposedly linking these men that would explain why they are portrayed as sharing ownership of a wood near Þingvellir ‘til nytja sér á þingi’ (‘for their personal use at the Alþingi’) (ÍF XI:85). It is also true, as Jóhannesson points out in his introduction to ÍF XI, that these were all men of considerable power, influence, and skill in the law. We may suppose that the audience must have known who these men were, since the þáttr gives no details of their genealogies. But this makes it all the more peculiar that Broddi Bjarnarson, ‘Skegg-Broddi,’ who is married into this extended family (see p. 166), should be able to call on the support of Þorsteinn Síðu-Hallsson, his sister’s father-in-law and a colleague of Þorkell Geitisson in Vǫðu-Brands þáttr, when defending Ǫlkofri against this powerful coterie of legal experts. When Broddi starts casting aspersions at the goðar and Skapti the lawspeaker threatens him with dire reprisals, Þorkell Geitisson remarks that Broddi has got his overbearing spirit from the man he was named after, viz. Brodd-Helgi. To this, Broddi retorts that there is no reason to bring up an old family misfortune, and that anyway Þorkell’s father Geitir was made to pay for the killing of Brodd-Helgi, ‘en hitt ætla ek, ef þú leitar at, er þú munir fingrum kenna þat, er faðir minn markaði þik í Bǫðvarsdal’ (‘and anyway, I reckon that if you look you’ll see from your fingers how my father left his mark on you at Böðvarsdalur’) (ÍF XI:93). This angers 

155 Þorkell, but Broddi comes to him the next day and apologizes, blaming it on his youth, gives Þorkell a sword as a peace offering, and invites him to visit him during the summer. Þorkell responds favorably and makes up with his kinsman — Broddi needs all the support he can get against Guðmundr ríki, whom he accuses of cowardice and sexual deviance; later, on the way home from the Alþingi, Broddi only manages to evade Guðmundr ríki as he rides through the pass at Ljósavatnsskarð and on into Vopnafjörður because he has Þorkell and his ‘in-law’ Einarr with him. ‘Þat sumar fór Þorkell at heimboði til Brodda, frænda síns, ok þá þar allgóðar gjafar. Hǫfðu þeir þá ina beztu frændsemi með vináttu, ok helzk þat, meðan þeir lifðu’ (‘That summer Þorkell went and stayed as a guest of his kinsman Broddi and received fine gifts from him there. From then on they enjoyed the best of friendly family relations, and this is how it stayed as long as they lived’) (ÍF XI:94). Ǫlkofra þáttr assumes a wide knowledge of various other disputes that the chieftains mentioned had previously been involved in. Some of them we know little about, but others are recorded in extant texts, like the feud between the people of Krossavík and Hof in Vopnafjörður. We also know about the relationship between Broddi and Þorkell that the þáttr alludes to without giving precise details. The same is true of the connection between Þorkell and Einarr Eyjólfsson of Þverá, who is said to be Þorkell’s ‘mágr’ (in-law) without it being specified that Þorkell is in fact married to Einarr’s daughter Jórunn. The vices Broddi accuses the chieftains of appear to provide further examples of a writer alluding to accounts that he supposed his audience would have been familiar with, though the vicissitudes of preservation have resulted in only a small fragment of them having found their way onto vellum and down to us. In the case of Ǫlkofra þáttr it is difficult to point to supplementary information that may have been available in the same manuscript, since it is found only in Mǫðruvallabók and thereafter in no source earlier than AM 426 fol. from the second half of the 17th century in a miscellany of material from the east of Iceland. The conclusion however seems inescapable that Ǫlkofra þáttr works with and refers to the audience’s pre-existing knowledge of the family relationships linking the characters and the events in which they were involved in other narrative accounts (without which the þáttr’s sarcasm misses its point), and it seems not unlikely that these accounts would have been oral. In Vápnfirðinga saga itself, Þorkell Geitisson is first mentioned as the husband of Hallfríðr Egilsdóttir (see above, p. 158). When the feud between Brodd-Helgi and Geitir is at its height, after Helgi has killed Hallfríðr’s uncle Þormóðr of Sunnudalur, the saga says: ‘Þorkell, sonr Geitis, fór útan ok jafnan landa í millum, þegar er hann hafði aldr til þess, ok varð hann lítt við riðinn mál þeira Brodd-Helga ok Geitis, fǫður síns’ (‘Once he was old enough, Geitir’s son Þorkell went abroad and spent most of his time traveling from country to country, and was little involved in the affairs of Brodd-Helgi and his father Geitir’) (ÍF XI:43). After Bjarni has killed Geitir, it says: ‘Þorkell Geitisson var eigi á Íslandi, er faðir hans var veginn, en Blængr varðveitti bú í Krossavík með umsjá Egilssona, er þá váru mágar Þorkels Geitissonar […] Nú kemr Þorkell Geitisson út, ok ferrhann þegar til bús síns til Krossavíkr ok lætr sem hann eigi ekki um at vera’ (‘Þorkell Geitisson was not in Iceland when his father was killed, but Blængr [Geitir’s brother] looked after the farm at Krossavík with the help of the Egilssons, who were Þorkell Geitisson’s brothers-in-law at the time […] Now Þorkell comes out to Iceland and goes immediately to his farm at Krossavík and acts as if he does not mean to get involved’) (53). Bjarni offers Þorkell ‘sætt ok sœmð ok sjálfdœmi’ (‘reconciliation and honor and terms of his own choosing’) (53) but Þorkell turns a deaf ear, which people interpret as him having his mind set on vengeance.  Þorkell tries to hunt Bjarni down in the mountains during the autumn roundup but Bjarni has received word of Þorkell’s intentions and no encounter ensues. Þorkell continues to look 

156 for ways of getting at Bjarni and, after a failed attack at the summer pastures on the heaths, sends for Helgi and Grímr Droplaugarson and tells them he wishes to attack Bjarni at home at Hof with fire and sword. The brothers are all for this, but when the time comes Þorkell cannot act because of ill health and refuses to send Helgi alone. Helgi accuses him of cowardice when push comes to shove and they part on bad terms. Droplaugarsona saga has nothing to say about this abortive reprisal raid on Bjarni, but it may perhaps contain a resonance of the sickness that Helgi feigns when Þorkell asks him to accompany him south in support of Flosi (see p. 167). If Þorkell’s vacillation here was known outside Vápnfirðinga saga, it is worth asking ourselves whether the audience of Droplaugarsona saga would have set it against Helgi’s sickness and interpreted the latter as Helgi getting his own back on Þorkell — as Helgi feeling he was, as it were, ‘owed’ a sickness after the fool’s errand he had once been put to when summoned up to Krossavík. If it is permissible to put such a construction on this episode, it would provide another example of supplementary information that an audience was supposed to be able to supply for itself to fill out the story being told. Things come to a head in Vápnfirðinga saga when Þorkell and Bjarni both go to the Fljótsdalshérað spring assembly. Þorkell is accompanied by Blængr, the Egilssons, Eyjólfr of Víðivellir, and nine others ‘ok fóru til Eyvindarár til Gró, ok annaðisk hon þat, er þeir þurftu’ (‘and they went to Gróa at Eyvindará and she saw to whatever they needed’) (ÍF XI:58). This Gróa is not introduced in any other way and it is clearly assumed that she is already familiar to the audience. On the way home, Þorkell’s party ride down into Böðvarsdalur and spend the night with Kári, a farmer client of Þorkell’s. Bjarni and his men try to sneak past the farm very early in the morning while Þorkell and the others are still asleep, but Þorkell wakes just afterwards and urges his men to chase after them to Eyvindarstaðir, where the kinsmen fight until the farmer Eyvindr and the women of the farm throw clothes over their weapons and stop the battle. Þorkell is wounded but Bjarni sends him a doctor who tends his wounds. With Þorkell incapacitated things go badly on the farm at Krossavík; at this point, a sentence is inserted giving the information that Þorkell’s wife is now Jórunn (see above, p. 169). One of Þorkell’s retainers goes to Hof and returns with an offer from Bjarni to feed and house all of Þorkell’s domestic staff or to send food down to Krossavík. Þorkell is bemused by this offer but Jórunn wishes to leave for Hof right away and her counsel prevails. Þorkell accepts Bjarni’s offer to appoint his own terms for the killing of Geitir and they come to a full and sincere reconciliation. The saga’s final comment on Þorkell is that he ‘var hǫfðingi mikill ok inn mesti hreystimaðr ok málafylgismaðr mikill. Fé gekk af hǫndum honum í elli hans, ok er hann brá búi sínu, bauð Bjarni honum til Hofs, ok eldisk hann þar til lykða. Þorkell var kynsæll maðr’ (‘was a great chieftain and a man of enormous prowess and a great expert in the law. His wealth dried up in his old age, and when he could no longer keep his farm going Bjarni invited him to live at Hof, and he grew old there and stayed there to the end of his life. Many fine men are descended from Þorkell’) (ÍF XI:65). The saga ends with the line of his descendants (see diagram). 

157

Figure 4-7: Þorkell Geitisson’s descendants as named at the end of Vápnfirðinga saga This generalized description of Þorkell’s nobility, prowess, and tenacity in legal matters ties in with what we find in other sagas. He is single-minded in his pursuit of his brother’s killer, Gunnarr Þiðrandabani, and his knowledge of the law and determination in pressing through with his legal disputes are features of his character in a number of sources. It is interesting that Vápnfirðinga saga says nothing about the circumstances of his marriage to Jórunn, and his brothers-in-law from his former marriage fight at his side in Böðvarsdalur, so that someone listening to the story would have no reason to think that Þorkell was not still married to Hallfríðr Egilsdóttir at this point. In fact, the only sources to mention Hallfríðr are Landnámabók and the genealogical details at the start of Vápnfirðinga saga. The primary function in the saga of the link between Þorkell and Hallfríðr seems to be to explain the connection between Geitir and the descendants of Steinbjǫrn kǫrtr and the Egilssons’ support of Þorkell at Böðvarsdalur. Beyond this, the only period of Þorkell’s life in which we can envisage him as married to Hallfríðr is the very time when he was mostly on his travels — which the saga says he began as soon as he was old enough to leave home. He was still abroad when his father was killed, and two years later when he gets back from the battle in Böðvarsdalur his wife is Jórunn. The accounts of Þorkell’s later life agree in his having lived to a great age. In Njáls saga there is a certain parallelism between Þorkell Geitisson and his kinsman Víga-Bjarni Brodd-Helgason. Þorkell is introduced early in the genealogy of Hallr of Síða, who was married to Jóreiðr Þiðrandadóttir, the sister of the mother ‘Þorkels Geitissonar ok þeira Þiðranda’ (‘of Þorkell Geitisson and Þiðrandi, etc.’) (ÍF XII:239). (Bjarni is connected with this family later on: see p. 150.) On his journey through the east of Iceland mustering support, Flosi goes from Bjarni at Hof on to Krossavík: ‘Þorkell Geitisson var vin Flosa mikill áðr […] Þorkell kvað þat skylt vera at veita honum slíkt, er hann væri til fœrr, ok skiljask eigi við hans mál. Þorkell gaf Flosa góðar gjafir at skilnaði’ (‘Þorkell Geitisson was already a great friend of Flosi’s […] Þorkell said it was his duty to support him to the best of his ability and never let him down. Þorkell gave Flosi good gifts at his departure’) (ÍF XII:352-3).



As was the case with Bjarni, it seems that the audience of Njáls saga was supposed to take Þorkell’s response as a sign of readiness on the part of a relative of Hallr of Síða to go to the aid of his friend and ally Flosi. The reference to Þorkell’s already being a friend of Flosi’s might refer to stories like the one we know from Droplaugarsona saga, when Þorkell goes south to support Flosi in his feud with the Ǫrnólfssons (a feud that is also mentioned in Njáls saga: see p. 168). However, the context does not demand any such extensive knowledge of

158 Þorkell’s previous relations with Flosi; the emphasis here is placed on the kinship connections with Flosi’s closest friend and advisor, and the audience has to take on trust the saga’s word about the friendship between the two men. Þorkell is next mentioned in Njáls saga in a conversation between Bjarni and Flosi at the Alþingi when they discuss who they can get to defend them in the litigation following the burning of Njáll. The only person Flosi can think of from the east of Iceland is Bjarni’s kinsman, Þorkell Geitisson. ‘Bjarni mælti: “Ekki munu vér hann telja; þótt hann sé lǫgvitr, þá er hann þó forsjáll mjǫk. Þarf þat engi maðr at ætla at hafa hann at skotspæni, en fylgja mun hann þér sem sá, er bezt fylgir, því at hann er ofrhugi. En segja mun ek þér, at þat verðr þess manns bani, er vǫrn fœrir fram fyrir brennumálit, en ek ann þess eigi Þorkatli, frænda mínum. Munu vit verða at leita annars staðar á”’ (‘Bjarni said: “Let’s not count him; he may be skilled at law but he is extremely cagey. He’s nobody’s fool, and he will pursue your cause as well as anyone, as he is full of ambition. But I tell you this: it will be the death of whomever pleads our defense for the burning, and I don’t wish this on my kinsman Þorkell. We’ll have to look elsewhere’) (ÍF XII:364). 

The passage underlines Bjarni’s sense of honor and his description of Þorkell ties in with what is said in other sources about his skill in law and his combative qualities. Bjarni can personally attest to Þorkell’s bravery and tenacity; if his experience from other sagas can be taken as relevant here, this may be a reference to Þorkell’s attempts to kill Bjarni himself, as related in Vápnfirðinga saga. Bjarni’s comments also serve to confirm the heartfelt reconciliation between the kinsmen — if we imagine the audience as being aware of the fact that they had once been bitter enemies. Þorkell’s knowledge of the law, however, is not on a par with that of Njáll and the lawspeaker Skapti Þóroddsson when Mǫrðr Valgarðsson digs out from Þórhallr Ásgrímsson some obscure points of legal procedure (which Þórhallr has learned from Njáll himself) and uses them in his prosecution. Flosi is represented by Eyjólfr Bǫlverksson, the brother of lawspeaker Gellir, but it is Þorkell Geitisson who is sent to ask Skapti whether Mǫrðr’s pleading is in accordance with proper legal procedure — which Skapti confirms, though he admits that he was not aware that anyone had known of this particular point of law since Njáll had died (ÍF XII:389). The purpose here is to demonstrate Njáll’s superior knowledge by contrasting it with the perplexity of two other highly regarded lawyers. There is a brief mention of Þorkell in the battle at the Alþingi when he is forced back by Þorgeirr skorargeirr, and he is named again when Sǫlvi soðkarl is describing the flight of the men of the east: ‘“Hvárt munu þessir allir ragir Austfirðingarnir, er hér flýja?” segir hann, “ok jafnvel rennr hann Þorkell Geitisson, ok er allmjǫk logit frá honum, er margir hafa þat sagt, at hann væri hugr einn, en nú rennr engi harðara en hann”’ (‘“What a load of pansies, aren’t they, these easterners running away like that?” he says. “Even Þorkell Geitisson is running, so there must be a lot of lies going around about him, when lots of people say he’s all heart and courage, and now no one’s running harder than him”). Sǫlvi is made to pay dearly for his words, for at that very moment Hallbjǫrn the Strong (an otherwise unknown in-law of Sǫrli Brodd-Helgason who was used a little earlier to force Eyjólfr Bǫlverksson into a seat between Bjarni and Flosi when he wanted to abandon their case) just happens to be passing by and picks Sǫlvi up and dunks him ‘at hǫfði í soðketilinn. Dó Sǫlvi þegar’ (‘headfirst into his cooking pot. Sǫlvi died immediately’) (ÍF XII:407).  The biform of Þorkell’s name, ‘Þorketill,’ appears in a satirical verse by Snorri goði about the battle at the Alþingi, which includes the line ‘vegr Þorketill nauðigr’ (‘Þorkell is forced to fight,’ presumably because he cannot escape) (ÍF XII:411). 

159 By the time Þorkell disappears from Njáls saga his chief qualities have been put to the test and found wanting; his legal expertise proves to be of no avail and his courage fails him in his hour of need. This provides a pretext for a bit of good-natured fun, as in Snorri goði’s epigram. So far as the audience is concerned, it is notable that the salient details of Þorkell’s character here should be the same as those we find in the other sagas that tell of him. A similar picture of Þorkell appears in Íslendingadrápa. The poem refers to his astuteness and reiterates through the conventional kennings of dróttkvætt diction that he was no coward and that he was a brave warrior, even if vengeance for his father proved beyond this ‘ættgóði skǫrungr’ (‘well-born man of character’). There is thus a consistency in Þorkell’s portrayal across the range of sources, without there being any question of literary relations, strongly suggesting that this image was already fully developed in the story tradition, viz. of a chieftain of noble birth from the eastern fjords, a courageous peacemaker and expert in the law who, like Skapti the lawspeaker himself, managed to live down his failure to avenge his own father. In Fljótsdœla saga Þorkell is fully introduced in chapter 3 at his first appearance. After providing details of his parents, the saga describes Þorkell and his younger brother Þiðrandi: ‘Þessir bræðr vóru báðir vel menntir ok þó sinn veg hvór. Þorkell var jarpr á hár, dökkr maðr, lágr ok þrekligr ok kallaðr manna minnstr, þeirra sem þá vóru, manna skjótligastr ok hvatastr, sem raun bar á, því at hann átti opt við þungt at etja ok bar sik í hvert sinn vel’ (‘These brothers were both accomplished, though each in his own way. Þorkell had auburn hair, he was a dark man, small in stature and heavily built and reckoned to be the smallest man around at the time, very quick and alert and vigorous, as came out later, since he often found himself up against it but bore himself well on every occasion) (ÍF XI:220). The saga also says that Hróarr of Hróarstunga offered Geitir to foster Þiðrandi, in return for which he would leave Þiðrandi his ‘fé ok staðfestu ok ríki. En Þorkell taki þitt mannaforráð eptir þinn dag’ (‘wealth [or livestock] and lands and power. But Þorkell can have your chieftaincy when you are dead’) (221). The brothers are six and ten years old at the time. 

The description of Þorkell’s appearance here is unique. It is interesting that Fljótsdœla saga should differ from Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana on the circumstances of Þiðrandi’s fostering, i.e. by Hróarr at Hróarstunga rather than Ketill at Njarðvík. Here too all ambiguity about the relationship between Þorkell and Þiðrandi has been removed, implying that the audience is not expected to fill in the gaps for themselves in the same way as in the other accounts. Here, therefore, the material is presented in a way better suited to the needs of people with only a limited knowledge of the characters and story world from which the saga arose. Þorkell is not mentioned again in Fljótsdœla saga until after the death of his brother Þiðrandi. The news is received by Þorkell, his kinsman Bjarni (Brodd-)Helgason of Hof, and Þórdís todda, the wife of Helgi Ásbjarnarson and Bjarni’s sister, ‘svó þeir bræðr Þorvaldssynir Þiðrandasonar, Grímr ok Helgi. Þeir vóru allir í eptirleit við Gunnar Austmann ok vildu allir Þiðranda hefna’ (‘as well as the brothers Grímr and Helgi, sons of Þorvaldr son of Þiðrandi. They were all involved in the hunt for Gunnarr the Norwegian and all wanted to avenge Þiðrandi’) (ÍF XI:267). Gunnarr gets away on this occasion and the following spring Þorkell sets off from Krossavík with nine others, picking up the Droplaugarsons at Arneiðarstaðir on the way, to go and search for Gunnarr. With them is Gunnsteinn Kóreksson, and by the time they arrived at Njarðvík Helgi Droplaugarson has become the leader of the party. He leaves Þorkell, the instigator of the expedition, behind at Njarðvík to keep a watch on Þorkell fullspakr (‘All-Wise’) Ketilsson until midday while the others continue to search for Gunnarr. Þorkell Geitisson is happy to get out of this game of hide-and-seek, saying to Helgi: ‘því at vér erum 

160 ófráir Vópnfirðingarnir. Mun hér lítils við þurfa. Þyki mér meiri hamingjuraun eptir honum at leita. Treysti ek þér betr ok þinni giptu eptir honum at leita’ (‘because we men of Vopnafjörður are slow on our feet. There is little we need to do here. It seems to be more of a game of chance to be off searching for him. I have more trust in you and your luck to do the searching’) (270). After a long manhunt, in which Gunnarr narrowly escapes with the help of a pair of brothers from Borgarfjörður with supernatural powers, Helgi turns back to Arneiðarstaðir with his followers. ‘Hitta þeir Þorkel Geitisson. Hann spyrr, hversu farit hafi, en Helgi segir alla atburði, svó sem gengit hafði. Þorkell kvað mjök vaxa ófrið, en ekki við meðalmenn at eiga, þar sem þeir vóru bræðr. Þorkell kvaðst þar hafa setit yfir nafna sínum til hádegis í Djúpahvammi’ (‘They meet Þorkell Geitisson. He asks how things have gone and Helgi tells him everything just as it happened. Þorkell said that things were now looking much worse, that they didn’t have just ordinary men to contend with in the case of these brothers. Þorkell said he had stayed there on guard over this namesake at Djúpihvammur until midday’) before eventually letting him go (281).Þorkell stays at home at Krossavík and takes no further action before he rides to the Alþingi and places ‘fé til höfuðs Gunnari ok fekk öllum höfðingjum umboð, at hann skulu höndum taka. Allir hétu góðu um þetta, en þeir þó mestu, er Þorkell átti heitast vinfengi við, ef hann kæmi því fram. Þat var Þorkell Eyjólfsson. Hann bjó vestr at Helgafelli ok átti Guðrúnu Ósvífursdóttur […] Hann hafði heitit Þorkeli Geitissyni at taka Gunnar af lífi, ef hann næði honum’ (‘money on Gunnarr’s head and gives all the chieftains a commission to have him captured. They all promised to do this, most of all the ones Þorkell had the closest friendship with, if he could manage it. That was Þorkell Eyjólfsson. He lived in the west at Helgafell and was married to Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir […] He had promised Þorkell Geitisson that he would have Gunnarr executed if he could get hold of him’) (F XI:286). This is the last we hear of orkell Geitisson in the saga.

*  Fljótsdœla saga stands out among the sources on Þorkell Geitisson in being both more diffuse and making explicit various points that appear to be left unsaid elsewhere. Thus Fljótsdœla saga is specific about Þorkell and Þiðrandi being brothers and growing up together at Krossavík before Þiðrandi is sent away for fostering, and provides a detailed account of Þorkell Geitisson at the Alþingi getting the chieftains to commit themselves to arresting Gunnarr Þiðrandabani if they get the chance (on this episode, see also p. 229 f). It is perhaps possible to explain this as the compiler of the saga having read the other sagas and deciding to provide a fuller account by filling in the gaps with reasoned guesswork. The problem here is that in many cases Fljótsdœla saga goes its own way, as in the examples presented below, and deviates from the other written sagas in all kinds of minor matters that can hardly be explained in terms of an ‘author’ recasting material from a written book. It therefore seems more profitable to imagine the saga as having been written with a different kind of audience in mind, i.e. an audience that was not familiar with the conditions and saga world of the east of Iceland and that consequently required a much more detailed presentation than would have been the case with an audience already reasonably familiar with the main family relations and personal characteristics of figures such as Þorkell Geitisson. Viewed in this light, there is much to recommend Valdimar Ásmundarson’s conjecture, taken up by Jón Jóhannesson in his introduction to the ÍF edition (1950:xcix), that the saga was written in Eyjafjörður in the north of Iceland. The basis for this conjecture lies in the description of Gunnarr’s swim across Njarðvík: ‘Því hafa þeir menn saman jafnat, er hvórt tveggja hafa komit ok kunnugt er um, at þat sé jafnlangt sund, er Gunnar hefir lagizt yfir þvera Njarðvík, ok frá Naustadæli ok yfir til Vindgjár’ (‘People who have been to both places and are familiar with them have made comparison between Gunnarr’s swim from one side of Njarðvík to the other

161 and the distance from Naustadæli across to Vindgjá, and reckon them to be about the same’) (ÍF XI:272). As Jóhannesson explains in his footnote, the idea is that this ‘Naustdæli’ lay somewhere near the modern farm of Naust just south of Akureyri on Eyjafjörður, and that ‘Vindgjá’ is a copyist’s error for ‘Varðgjá’ on the opposite side of the fjord; this sentence was thus written for an audience that was more familiar with Eyjafjörður than the east coast of Iceland. Taken on its own, of course, this point proves little, since it requires both an emendation of the text for one of the place names and the conjectured existence of the other, a conjecture that has no support from independent textual evidence. But the basic idea, that Fljótsdœla saga was written some way away from the east of Iceland, ties in well with the points presented in greater detail below (p. 184), that the saga shows signs of having been written for an intended audience with less background knowledge of the east than the other sagas set in that part of the country.

*  As regards the historicity of the sagas, it is interesting to see how far the events of Þorkell Geitisson’s life can be arranged into a reasonably plausible chronological order. As a youngster at home in Krossavík he teaches his cousin Helgi Droplaugarson the law before and during the time when he is otherwise off sailing the world. After his father is killed, and now presumably in his twenties, Þorkell returns home and becomes an assertive chieftain, bent on vengeance and litigation. Some time earlier he has married a girl from a neighboring farm, but at this point she disappears from his life and he marries a chieftain’s daughter from the north as part of his campaign to extend his political influence more widely. At home in his own quarter, Þorkell makes peace with his father’s killers and shelters his kinsmen the Droplaugarsons from the arm of the law. He rides south in support of Flosi Þórðarson and later tries, without success, to take vengeance on the killer of his brother Þiðrandi. By this point, perhaps approaching forty, Þorkell has emerged as a national figure, obtaining agreements from the leading chieftains of the country that they will arrest Gunnarr Þiðrandabani wherever they can lay their hands on him. In his forties he has acquired a reputation as an expert in the law, for instance at the Alþingi in the litigation following the burning of Njáll. Around this time too, he has formed alliances of common interest with all the most powerful men in Iceland, to whom he is now linked by bonds of kinship or friendship. But he sees fit to offer Skegg-Broddi invaluable support when Broddi thwarts the chieftains’ persecution of Ǫlkofri, and emerges with his reputation enhanced still further. In the ensuing years he is mentioned in Ljósvetninga saga as taking part in peace negotiations, but then nothing further is heard of him until he reappears in his late eighties turning down Hrólfr Þorkelsson’s request for support against the sons of Guðmundr ríki, a man whom Þorkell had himself crossed swords with when he was in his prime. The sagas state specifically that Þorkell lived to a ripe old age, so it need not surprise us that he should be depicted as still attending the Alþingi not far short of his ninetieth year. The main events in the life of Þorkell Geitisson as related in the various sources can be arranged in chronological order as follows. The dates given are based on the chronologies in the introductions to the relevant volumes of Íslenzk fornrit. Table 4-4: The *immanent saga of Þorkell Geitisson of Krossavík Fljótsdœla saga 980 Droplaugarsona saga

Þorkell grows up at Krossavík with his brother Þiðrandi. As a youth, Þorkell teaches his cousin Helgi Droplaugarson the law before and during the years he spends traveling abroad (Vápnfirðinga saga).

162 After his father is killed, Þorkell returns home and becomes an assertive 987 chieftain with his mind fixed on vengeance. However, he fails in his Vápnfirðinga saga attempts to avenge his father (Íslendingadrápa). He is actively involved in legal cases well on into his twenties. He fights a battle in Böðvarsdalur against his neighbor, Víga-Bjarni of 989 Hof. Around the same time, the love of his early years, Hallfríðr Landnámabók, Egilsdóttir from a neighboring farm, disappears from his life Vápnfirðinga (Landnámabók, Vápnfirðinga saga) and he marries Jórunn Einarsdóttir, saga, a chieftain’s daughter from the next quarter as a step in the expansion of Ǫlkofra þáttr his powerbase (Ljósvetninga saga C text). 997 Þorkell is now approaching thirty. He settles disputes in his own part of Droplaugarsona the country and protects his kinsmen the Droplaugarsons from the arm of the law. He goes south to support Flosi Þórðarson. saga He attempts without success to exact vengeance for the killing of his 1008 brother Þiðrandi. Þorkell is now around forty and is making his mark at a Laxdœla saga, national level through agreements with the leading chieftains in the Gunnars saga country to arrest Gunnarr Þiðrandabani and deny him any succor. Þiðrandabana, Around the same time he hides Grímr Droplaugarson after the killing of Fljótsdœla saga Helgi Ásbjarnarson (Droplaugarsona saga). 1012 Now in his forties, Þorkell is recognized as an accomplished lawman at the Alþingi during the litigation following the burning of Njáll. Njáls saga Þorkell has now formed alliances of common interest with the most powerful chieftains in the country, based on bonds of kinship or 1010-20 friendship. He rides his luck by supporting his kinsman Skegg-Broddi Ǫlkofra þáttr when Broddi thwarts the chieftains’ persecution of Ǫlkofri but emerges with his reputation enhanced still further. 1014 Ljósvetninga saga Þorkell is mentioned as a negotiator in peace settlements. A text Þorkell is not heard of again until approaching ninety, when he refuses to support Hrólfr Þorkelsson against the sons of Guðmundr ríki, a man 1059 Þorkell had himself clashed with in his younger days. The sources state Ljósvetninga saga specifically that Þorkell lived to a ripe old age, either at Krossavík C text (Ljósvetninga saga C text) or with Bjarni at Hof (Vápnfirðinga saga); this lends some credence to the idea that he could still have been attending the Alþingi into his eighties. Superficially, therefore, it is quite possible to draw up an apparently consistent and plausible account of the life of Þorkell Geitisson of Krossavík, with the main events from the various sources arranged in chronological order. But if we wish to be strictly historical it is easy to point to contradictions in this chronology and therefore to events that cannot be true in any literal sense. For instance, while we are prepared for Þorkell’s longevity, that he should still be active in political disputes well on into his eighties perhaps stretches credulity. Also, Vápnfirðinga saga says that Þorkell moved to Hof to be with Bjarni in his old age, while Ljósvetninga saga has him still living at Krossavík. Perhaps more damningly to any view of the sagas as unalloyed purveyors of historical truth, there is a straightforward clash in the sources regarding the possible part of the Droplaugarsons in the events following the killing of Þiðrandi Geitisson; if we go by the internal chronology of Laxdœla saga, Helgi Droplaugarson should

163 have been dead for some years by this time. If we restrict ourselves to a historical perspective, we can perhaps detect in the accounts a development and broadening of Helgi’s part in this episode that might have taken place in the story tradition: according to Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (ÍF XI:204), ‘some people say’ that Helgi was with Þorkell on the search for Gunnarr; by the time we get to Fljótsdœla saga Helgi is said to have taken over the leadership of the manhunt instigated by Þorkell. These kinds of developments, and the inconsistencies they give rise to, are precisely the kinds of things one might expect of tales in oral transmission. From the fact that it is possible to draw up a reasonably coherent and consistent overview of Þorkell’s life, it is tempting to take the view that the stories we have about him are largely historically accurate and go back to real people and events from around and before the year 1000. But it is also possible to look at this another way and say that it was the tradition that built up and passed on to us a coherent and consistent image of the life and character of Þorkell Geitisson. Audiences in the 13th century would have been familiar with this man, and the stories about him would have backed each other up, even though there is no sign of borrowing among the written sources in the presentation of his character. The simplest way of interpreting the consistencies and inconsistencies among the sources is to view them as evidence that each of the sagas assumed knowledge of certain ‘facts’ about this man and his circumstances, a knowledge that made it possible for their audiences to know broadly what to expect of him from the mere mention of his name — as in Laxdœla saga. Nobody took the trouble to write down a special saga of Þorkell Geitisson, but there is clearly sufficient material in the extant sources for such a saga, and audiences would have been able to recognize it from the amorphous body of oral tales on which it was based. To use Carol Clover’s term (1986), there was an immanent saga of Þorkell Geitisson, even if no *Þorkels saga Geitisson ever came to be written. Things are different when we come to Fljótsdœla saga; here it appears that the writer was unable to assume this kind of prior knowledge and background information on the part of his audience. This makes it tempting to think that this saga, unlike the other Austfirðingasögur, was not written in the east of Iceland itself but in the north, in Eyjafjörður, where it was not possible to rely on the audience being able to fill in the gaps to the same degree. When we add to this the widely held view that Fljótsdœla saga was written later than the other sagas (anywhere between the 14th and 17th centuries has been suggested: see below, p. 240) — i.e. when we add distance in time to the distance in space from the ‘real’ people and events — the possibilities decrease still further that the audience had any clear idea of the character of Þorkell Geitisson of Krossavík in Vopnafjörður to bring to bear on the saga.

Literary Relations between Vápnfirðinga Saga and Other Sources The methods used in the preceding chapter to assess the significance of the connections and relationships between the various sagas that mention the central characters in Vápnfirðinga saga — Brodd-Helgi Þorgilsson, his son Víga-Bjarni, Geitir Lýtingsson and his son Þorkell Geitisson — have led to the conclusion that the writers of these sagas are more likely to have obtained their information on these characters from a familiarity with a living tradition of oral storytelling than from written books. However, this conclusion is by no means universally accepted, and strongly held views have been expressed with considerable conviction concerning supposed literary relations between Vápnfirðinga saga and other sagas, as exemplified in the diagrammatic representation given earlier of Jón Jóhannesson’s ideas on the literary relations among the sources that mention Brodd-Helgi (see p. 139). This elaborate picture has since been somewhat simplified in general reference works; for instance, Jakob Benediktsson (1975), Cook (1993), and Simek and Pálsson (1987) whittle it down to the writer of Vápnfirðinga saga having used only the Styrmisbók redaction of Landnámabók and some form of Droplaugarsona

164 saga, and to the account of the killing of Geitir having influenced that of the killing of Kjartan Óláfsson in Laxdœla saga (see below). [29] The widely accepted view that the writer of the saga took material from Landnámabók is based on Jóhannesson’s assertion (1950:xv-xvi) that the use of Landnámabók in chapters 1 and 3 is patent and unambiguous. To Jóhannesson, this is seen above all in the general genealogical information in the saga, which he believes must have come from Landnámabók. However, this is more than questionable in view of the fact that the saga fails to give any family details about Brodd-Helgi’s mother (which were available in Landnámabók) and yet includes information not found in Landnámabók, as Jóhannesson himself points out. To explain these discrepancies, Jóhannesson was forced to postulate that, as well as Landnámabók, the ‘author’ of the saga had also had some parallel written genealogical source (‘eitthvert ættartölurit samhliða’; 1950:xvi). It never occurs to Jóhannesson that the writer might rather have had access to his own sources of information on the family relations of his characters, obtained from the lips of learned people in the Vopnafjörður region who may never even have seen a copy of Landnámabók in its written form, a book that can hardly have been widely available in the east of Iceland at the time. The one thing that might genuinely point to the saga writer having used the text of Landnámabók is that Þorkell Geitisson is first mentioned as the son-in-law of Egill of Egilsstaðir, in the same sequence of names as in Landnámabók, rather than as the son of his father Geitir. However, as noted above (p. 158), this introduction of Þorkell through his marriage relations may serve a purpose within the saga and thus cannot be viewed as unequivocal evidence of a slavish following of sources such as Jóhannesson envisages. There is thus still reason to doubt that Landnámabók acted as a source for Vápnfirðinga saga. The same applies to the supposedly indisputable familiarity with Sturlubók and material from Þórðarbók (from Melabók) apparent in Vápnfirðinga saga; as pointed out above, the similarities extend only to general matters of content and so cannot be interpreted as firm evidence of a direct literary relationship in a society where people could tell each other stories and recite genealogies without needing to look them up in books. Considerably more attention has been given to the connections between Vápnfirðinga saga and other sagas; for instance, Rolf Heller (1963) pointed to a wide variety of features that he considered evidence of a written literary relationship linking Droplaugarsona saga, Vápnfirðinga saga, and Laxdœla saga. Heller’s conclusion was that Droplaugarsona saga had influenced Vápnfirðinga saga, and that both these sagas had in turn been used by Laxdœla saga (in contrast to the view of Ernst Walter (1956:62-71), who felt it equally possible that Laxdœla saga acted as a source for Vápnfirðinga saga [30] ). Since Heller’s treatment of the material is considerably more detailed and specific than is often the case with proposed literary relations, it is worth spending a little time over his examples, which are in many cases the same as those noted by Jón Jóhannesson but without such detailed discussion. Heller’s conclusions center around three references in Vápnfirðinga saga that appear to show such familiarity with characters from Droplaugarsona saga that a literary relationship seems probable: 1. Geitir is introduced with the words: ‘Geitir átti Hallkǫtlu Þiðrandadóttur, fǫðursystur Droplaugarsona’ (‘Geitir was married to Hallkatla Þiðrandadóttir, the sister of the Droplaugarsons’ father’) (ÍF XI:27). Jón Jóhannesson considered this to be evidence that the ‘author’ of Vápnfirðinga saga assumed that his readers would be familiar with the Droplaugarsons from their written saga, which he considered beyond question older than Vápnfirðinga saga (1950:27). 2. The saga describes Geitir as going ‘heiman í Fljótsdalsherað til Eyvindarár á kynnisleið’ (‘from home to the Fljótsdalur lowlands on a visit to Eyvindará’) (ÍF XI:43). Jóhannesson notes that the ‘author’ is here assuming his readers will know who it was

165 that lived at Eyvindará, viz. Gróa, who is not mentioned until later in the saga (cf. point 3 below). 3. Þorkell Geitisson rides to the Fljótsdalur spring assembly and the saga says they were ‘fimmtán saman ok fóru til Eyvindarár til Gró’ (‘there were fifteen of them all told and they went to Gróa at Eyvindará’) (ÍF XI:58). Heller notes, quite properly, that these points do not necessarily mean that the writer of Vápnfirðinga saga is referring his readers to the Droplaugarsona saga we know from Mǫðruvallabók. He points out that there are other possibilities: we know, for instance, from the fragment in AM 162 C fol. of a different version of the saga; and there might even have been an earlier saga about the Droplaugarsons, perhaps the source postulated by Jóhannesson and named by him *Ævi Droplaugarsona (‘Life of the Droplaugarsons’). A text of this sort would have provided the necessary background information to explain these three references in Vápnfirðinga saga where characters from Droplaugarsona saga are treated as already being familiar. Heller does not even mention the possibility that the writer of Vápnfirðinga saga might have had oral stories to thank for his obvious confidence that the Droplaugarsons, the nephews of Gróa of Eyvindará (who was the sister-in-law of Geitir of Krossavík), would already have been reasonably well known to his audience. The knowledge of people and families required here is hardly enormous or particularly abstruse, and so it would not have been unreasonable of the writer to expect his audience in the east of Iceland to be familiar with it without his, or their, having to read up on it in books. But on the basis of these and a number of other, less cogent, points, Heller eventually feels justified in concluding that: ‘Der Vápnf.-Verfasser hat die Dropl. gekannt und als Stoffquelle benutzt’ (‘the author of Vápnfirðinga saga knew Droplaugarsona saga and used it as source material’) (1963:146). The three places in the sagas that Heller cites as evidence of literary relations are, however, probably better explained through a common saga tradition than as direct influence. Two of them rely heavily on the correspondence of single words. The first is ‘kynnisleið/kynnisleit’ (‘visit’), used in both sagas in the context of journeys to the farm of Eyvindará: in Droplaugarsona saga when Helgi and Grímr ‘sǫgðusk fara skyldu á kynnisleit til Eyvindarár til Gró’ (‘said they would go on a visit to Eyvindará to Gróa’) (ÍF XI:145), and in Vápnfirðinga saga (ÍF XI:43) when Geitir visits his sister-in-law, as quoted above. The other is ‘fullsofit’ (‘full-slept,’ ‘having slept enough’), which appears both in direct speech in Droplaugarsona saga (171) when Grímr wakes Helgi Ásbjarnarson just before he kills him, and in indirect speech in Vápnfirðinga saga (60) when Þorkell wakes his men in Böðvarsdalur. The repetition of words of this sort hardly constitutes proof of literary relations between two texts emanating from the same geographical area. [31] It is easily imaginable that pithy and memorable sayings like the one ascribed to Grímr at the climactic moment in his feud with his brother’s killer might have become part of the vocabulary of oral performance and been used to trigger associations of ideas when similar conditions occurred elsewhere — as if by using the word ‘fullsofit’ a storyteller was giving a nod towards the casual remark attributed to Grímr Droplaugarson and so implying some kind of comparability of situation. The other points raised by Heller seem more characteristic of a common saga tradition and formalized motifs and narrative structures than of literary relations between texts: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Heroes remain silent and tight-lipped when taunted but later act decisively. Men are pierced with spears. Men fall ill. Men want to take the lead in expeditions of vengeance. Women weep when saying goodbye to men who will die shortly afterwards.

166 6. Kinsmen encounter difficulties reclaiming the property of women who have separated from their husbands. 7. Chieftains are spurred to take action when their clients start to desert them. 8. People play board games. 9. People possess silver. The first thing to be said about shared elements such as these is that they are all the kinds of things that were considered worth telling stories about. As already mentioned, it is entirely to be expected that similar circumstances should turn up in different oral tales from the same cultural environment. But this is better regarded as evidence of a common story tradition than as direct literary relations, especially when the similarities in diction are as few and as insubstantial as we have here. And in fact Heller is forced to surmise that the ‘author’ of Vápnfirðinga saga had read Droplaugarsona saga (the similarities being strong enough to suggest that it was the saga rather than any postulated *Ævi Droplaugarsona) but remembered only snippets from it, which he later incorporated into the writing of his own saga. When the similarities are so weak that people are compelled to fall back on speculation of this sort, it seems altogether simpler to assume that the saga writers had only heard stories about the people and events they refer to as if common knowledge, stories that were based on the same kind of tradition and thus composed of the same kinds of motifs and narrative elements as the sagas they themselves sought to produce in writing. To some extent the same comments apply to the relationships between the eastern sagas and Laxdœla saga. Heller discusses the fact that all these sagas contain scenes in which men cradle the shoulders or head of a dying or wounded man, in two cases one who has previously been dear to them but whom they have been compelled to kill by force of circumstance: in Droplaugarsona saga (ÍF XI:163) Bjǫrn the White supports the shoulders of his friend Helgi Ásbjarnarson after he is struck down by Helgi Droplaugarson’s spear at Eyvindardalur (in this case Helgi survives his wounds); in Vápnfirðinga saga (ÍF XI:53) Víga-Bjarni holds Geitir’s head; and in Laxdœla saga (ÍF V:154) Bolli Þorleiksson cradles the shoulders of Kjartan Óláfsson (or head in the Vatnshyrna text). Heller also draws attention to various common features in the events leading up to these scenes and in the circumstances of those who are killed or wounded. All these examples, however, can be viewed as reflections of a theme of the kind central to oral transmission and performance. Nevertheless, there is a certain amount of shared diction between Vápnfirðinga saga and Laxdœla saga — ‘andaðisk í knjám’ (‘died [with his head] on [his] knees’), ‘iðraðisk’ (‘regretted,’ ‘repented’), and ‘settisk undir herðar/ hǫfuð’ (‘sat down under, i.e. cradled, his shoulders/head’) — which might indicate written literary links between these two texts. [32] This is certainly the view of the respective editors in the ÍF series (Jón Jóhannesson 1950:xviii; Einar Ól. Sveinsson 1934:xli). However, Hermann Pálsson (1964) has also pointed to similarities to the killing of Kjartan in Laxdœla saga in an Irish saint’s life. In fact, the wide distribution of this motif is a testament above all to the power of the image of a fallen man being cradled in the arms of his killer; there is no need, and in some cases no possibility, for us to posit links through literary relations and borrowings. The other arguments offered by Heller add nothing to his case for a literary relationship between the three sagas: 1. That the story of Melkorka in Laxdœla saga is derived from the story of Ketill þrymr and Arneiðr in Droplaugarsona saga (see below, p. 205 f). 2. That the friendship between Brodd-Helgi and Geitir resembles the friendship between Kjartan and Bolli in that in both cases they are said to be ‘mjǫk jafngamlir’ (‘very much the same age’).

167 3. [33]

That Jórunn in Laxdœla saga is based on her namesake in Vápnfirðinga saga.

It is difficult to see anything particular here to indicate that these episodes in Laxdœla saga had their origins in written sagas from the east of Iceland, though the direct verbal correspondences in the scenes dealing with the deaths of Kjartan and Geitir suggest a literary connection of some sort between Laxdœla saga and Vápnfirðinga saga. Below (p. 238) it is shown that there are probable literary relations between Laxdœla saga and Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana on the one hand, and Laxdœla saga and Fljótsdœla saga on the other, thus establishing a connection between Laxdœla saga and the east. The evidence in these cases seems to point to Laxdœla saga being the giver rather than the recipient. On the other hand, there seems no good reason to posit a particular literary relationship between Vápnfirðinga saga on the one side and Landnámabók and Droplaugarsona saga on the other. If this is accepted, then the picture hitherto drawn of Vápnfirðinga saga’s literary relations with other texts can be greatly simplified, and we are able to assume instead that the saga’s main source of information on characters and events lay in material attributable to a common oral tradition.

Footnotes 1. Knut Liestøl 1929:40-45 collected a large number of instances of material conflicts between sagas, most of which he put down to variation within the underlying oral tradition. This matter is also discussed by Heusler 1969 (1930). Vogt 1921a investigates the idea that the stories and short narrative episodes in Landnámabók might be evidence of older versions of sagas. 2. It should be borne in mind that it was the general practice of medieval writers and copyists to record whatever they were presented with, whether it was read to them by others or simply passed on by word of mouth. 3. For instance, this equating of oral tradition with real events lies at the heart of Walter Baetke’s (1956) arguments against oral origins in the sagas of Icelanders. In his Baetke-esque study of Vápnfirðinga saga, Ernst Walter (1956:3) expresses the key question as being ‘in welchem Maße Dichtung und Wahrheit ihren Anteil hatten bei der entstehung der Ísl. sǫg. […] die Frage nach der Tradition und historischen Glaubwürdigkeit einerseits, nach dem dichterischen Kunstwerk anderseits’ (‘how great a part fiction and truth respectively played in the origins of the Icelandic sagas […], the question of, on the one hand, tradition and historical credibility, and on the other of a literary work of art’). Walter applies similar arguments when discussing the Christian ways of thinking that he identifies in the saga (pp. 44-5): by demonstrating that the ideology of the saga is not ‘heathen’ (without actually considering the problem of defining heathen ideology) but rather in spirit closer to that of the 13th century, he feels justified in concluding that any potential connection between the saga and oral tradition has been disrupted. Walter also appears to misunderstand Jón Helgason’s comment (1934:133) that the sagas are secular literature rather than Christian in the sense of writings ‘hvor livet betragtes gennem et klostervindue med kristelig nidkærhed og moraliseren’ (‘in which life is contemplated through a monastery window with Christian zeal and moralization’). What Helgason means here is that the understanding of humanity exhibited in the sagas is fundamentally different from what we find in religious literature, thus revealing the ideological independence of the sagas. No one would deny that Christianity is presented in a positive light in many of the sagas and that the resolutions and reconciliations accomplished in them can often be traced to Christian influences on the characters of the sagas. But general attitudes of this sort are not presented in the same way as in the intrinsically Christian literature, and this is the

168 crucial point in all discussion of Christian ideology in the Icelandic sagas — as Jón Helgason makes clear in the words quoted above. The Conversion takes place during the ostensive period described in many of the sagas of Icelanders, and so it is only natural to draw parallels between the equilibrium achieved at the end of a saga and the Christian ideals of forgiveness and reconciliation. But it is often difficult to see whether conflict is viewed as a particular characteristic of heathendom and whether reconciliation should be associated specifically with Christianity — it is a general property of narratives that they begin with equilibrium, which is then disturbed, before finally being restored at the end. Whatever the truth of this matter, it remains highly dubious practice to use, as Walter does, possible influences from Christian thinking to draw inferences about the links between the written sagas and oral tradition (see also pp. 23–32 on the influence of Latin learning on the sagas). Despite the considerable improvements in recent years in our understanding of oral narrative tradition and its unreliable relationship with historical truth, similar argumentation continues to find its way into scholarly writings: see, for instance, Bjarni Guðnason’s rejection of the idea that the ‘author’ of Heiðarvíga saga made any significant use of traditional oral material (1993:265): ‘Sagan er þess vegna ekki sannsöguleg frásögn af fornum atburðum sögualdar, heldur myndasafn af ódæmum ritunartímans’ (‘The saga is thus not a true historical account of ancient events from the Saga Age, but rather a picture gallery of the evils and excesses of the time when it was written.’) 4. On friendship in Vápnfirðinga saga, see also Byock 1988. 5. Gísli Skúlason 1981 investigates stories about a famous robbery in the south of Iceland in 1827 (the ‘Kambsrán’) and shows how these stories take on an increasingly heroic aspect the greater the distance from the actual events 6. See for instance Baldur Hafstað’s (1995:35-66) treatment of the ‘head ransom’ motif in the sagas, which he ascribes to literary relations and the influence of one saga on another. The same applies to Bjarni Einarsson’s (1975) treatment of the relations between Egils saga and other sagas; Einarsson fails entirely to take account of perhaps the most salient feature of oral story traditions, i.e. the way they report traditional ‘newsworthy’ events by means of formalized structural elements and using the same kinds of formulas. 7. It seems truer to the facts to use the word ‘audience’ (rather than ‘readership’) to denote the recipients of works of literature in the Middle Ages; access to literature was generally through its being read aloud to groups rather than individually and in silence as is now the norm 8. For Jón Jóhannesson’s views on the relationships between Vápnfirðinga saga and Landnámabók and other writings, see the introduction to his Íslenzk fornrit edition of the Austfirðingasögur (1950:xv ff.). Ernst Walter 1956:4-7 collected all the references in the various versions of Landnámabók to characters, places, and incidents mentioned in Vápnfirðinga saga and used this as the basis for a discussion of Jóhannesson’s ideas on the literary relations. Walter is generally much more circumspect in his conclusions than Jóhannesson; for instance, he considers it impossible to say for sure whether or not Sturla Þórðarson was familiar with a written version of the saga when compiling his redaction of Landnámabók (Sturlubók), though he thinks this likely in view of how Sigurður Nordal envisages Sturla’s general working practices (Walter 1956:10). The argumentation here smacks of circularity; I repeat, it is simply not permissible to use general probabilities of this sort, based as they are on the particular theory of saga origins to which an individual subscribes, as grounds for postulating literary relations between individual sources. 9. Much has been written about these genealogies and the family connections in them: see ÍF X:113n1. The most important suggestion is that Guðríðr may have been said to be the daughter of Sǫrli. She was the grandmother of the historian Ari fróði and probably the wife of the lawspeaker Kolbeinn Flosason (see p. 74). According to Hungrvaka, a lawspeaker, who Barði Guðmundsson (1936:55-7) thinks may have been Kolbeinn, married both a mother and

169 her daughter and perhaps died under excommunication; Sǫrla þáttr says that his body was exhumed and reburied. 10. On the literary relations of Ljósvetninga saga, see also p. 171 11. To account for these inconsistencies, Ernst Walter (1956:14) chose to view the sagas ‘als Dichtungen’ (‘as works of fiction’), whose ‘authors’ had felt free to construct their own chronologies. The problem with this is that it is based on the premise that the ‘authors’ were in a position to know better and were thus deliberately ‘tweaking’ things that had appeared differently in their ‘sources.’ On the inconsistencies in the chronologies of Vápnfirðinga saga and related sources, see further below, p. 185 f. 12. Ernst Walter (1956:1-16) investigated Landnámabók, the annals, the accounts of Þorleifr the Christian, and the inconsistencies in chronology as compared with Vǫðu-Brands þáttr, Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, and Heimskringla with a view to assessing the truth value of Vápnfirðinga saga. His conclusion was that the source value of the saga could not be confirmed on the basis of these writings and that it was therefore possible to assess the extent of the author’s role in shaping his limited materials 13. See Jóhannesson 1950:24n1; Walter 1956:17-8. 14. On Geitir and Brodd-Helgi’s legal position with respect to Hrafn’s estate, see Berger 1981:72-5. Ernst Walter (1956:20-6) gives an excellent critical appreciation of the literary handling of this case and draws attention to parallel incidents and themes in other sagas. 15. Jesse L. Byock (1988a:203-20, 1994b) has analyzed the account of this feud, bringing out how it escalates with the increasing involvement of the chieftains. See also Walter 1956:26-8. 16. The same kind of false reasoning appears in Ernst Walter’s study of the accounts of the battle in Böðvarsdalur. Walter ably demonstrates the artistic treatment of the battle in Vápnfirðinga saga (and equates it with authorial creativity), but of the material that shows signs of being direct information he states that it ‘können unmöglich auf einer mündlichen Tradition von Ausgang des 10. Jahrhunderts her beruhen, sondern sind einzig und allein dem Dichter der Vápnf. zuzuschreiben’ (‘could not possibly be based on an oral tradition going back to the late 10th century, but should be ascribed solely to the author of Vápnfirðinga saga’) (1956:38). That is, Walter appears to assume a priori that it is out of the question that there could be any unbroken tradition behind the text. The problem is, this is simply not true: modern studies have shown beyond doubt that there is absolutely no reason not to think that information going back three hundred years could have survived in folk memory as part of an oral storytelling tradition: see Fentress and Wickham 1992:41-86; see also p. 254 f. 17. Jakob Benediktsson (1968:292n1) remarks that the text here is wrong about Rannveig being the daughter of Eiríkr, since in Landnámabók S 195 and Vápnfirðinga saga ch. 14 she is said to be the daughter of Þorgeirr Eiríksson of Goðdalir. We in fact have no way of knowing the ‘rights’ and ‘wrongs’ of the case, so it would perhaps be safer to say that Landnámabók is inconsistent on the subject of Rannveig’s paternity. 18. On the basis of his ideas on the literary relations, Sigfússon (1940:lii) puts the þáttr as younger than Ljósvetninga saga but older than Njáls saga. This goes against the view of Björn M. Ólsen that the þáttr dates from well after the end of the Icelandic commonwealth (1264). On the evidence of its authorial perspective and knowledge of local geography, Sigfússon concludes that the þáttr was written in the east of Iceland. 19. ‘The nature of the relationship to Vápnfirðinga saga is unclear, but it is likely that the author was using it from memory. An oral narration would have required the dispute between Þorkell and Bjarni to be explained more circumstantially than is done in the þáttr. The author avoids doing this, presumably because he knew it to be recorded in another saga. On the other hand, there are several deviations from Vápnfirðinga saga in the þáttr, or more correctly new variants of the narratives from it.’

170 20. In the ÍF edition of Njáls saga Einar Ól. Sveinsson (1954:353) notes (translated): ‘Þorgilssonar in mss. K, O, Gr. — On Bjarni Brodd-Helgason, see particularly Vápnfirðinga saga, but he is mentioned in many other sources. Landnámabók and Vápnfirðinga saga give his paternal line as here, except that Eyvaldr (written Ay– in R; Aul– in M; Gey-in Sv) is there named Ósvaldr (Ǫlvir in Hauksbók, Ásvaldr in Vápnfirðinga saga), and in Þorsteins saga hvíta Gǫngu-Hrólfr is added between Ósvaldr og Øxna-Þórir.’ 21. Sveinsson (ibid.): ‘The maternal lines of Bjarni and Brodd-Helgi are as in Landnámabók’ — though, as mentioned previously, they do not appear in Vápnfirðinga saga. 22. Sveinsson (ibid.): ‘ǫrðig– in Gr, O, RKχ; ǫrðum– in M, ζ; ǫrgum– in Sv; cf. 30012. — Both Landnámabók and Vápnfirðinga saga mention Bjarni’s marriage.’ 23. Both Jón Jóhannesson (1950:xxi ff.) and Ernst Walter (1956:43) discuss this inconsistency but make no attempt to explain it other than in so far as it affects the historical credibility of the sources 24. It is frequently claimed that Vápnfirðinga saga was composed in some part of the country well away from Vopnafjörður: see for instance Ólason, V. 1993:109. This view is based on the belief that there are serious flaws in the writer’s knowledge of the geography of the Vopnafjörður region: see in particular Jón Jóhannesson in the introduction to the Íslenzk fornrit edition (1950:xxv-xxvi, 54). Jóhannesson acknowledges that in many places the saga exhibits considerable familiarity with the geography of the region, so much so that the ‘author’ probably got his stories from someone with local knowledge, but claims that he reveals his lack of personal knowledge by his ignorance of the location of Síreksstaðir. This conclusion is based on the incident where Þorvarðr læknir (‘Þorvarðr the Doctor’) of Síreksstaðir runs into Kollr from Krossavík late one evening when Þorvarðr is returning from visiting a patient at the next farm to Síreksstaðir. Kollr is supposed to be on his way home from Egilsstaðir, in the center of the region, coming back from a spying mission for Þorkell Geitisson of Krossavík to find out what kind of manpower Bjarni Brodd-Helgason has with him at Hof. At first sight it might appear that Kollr has wandered badly off track from Egilsstaðir to Krossavík if he is now somewhere close to Síreksstaðir, which is in completely the opposite direction from the one we might expect. However, it is worth noting the following, describing Kollr’s departure from Egilsstaðir: ‘Nú snýr Kollr heim á leið, ok varð honum síð farit’ (‘Now Kollr turns home, and he was late on the way’) (ÍF XI:54). This strongly implies that Kollr gets delayed on the way home. When we are told a little later that he is on the move past Síreksstaðir that same evening, the explanation suggests itself that he has been doing a round of the farms, perhaps visiting the servant girls and bondwomen, rather than that whoever wrote this was unfamiliar with the lie of the land in an area about which he otherwise obviously knew so much. The other argument, that Þorvarðr could hardly have passed on his information to Bjarni since he lived well up the valley of Sunnudalur, carries little weight, since the saga states specifically that Þorvarðr was on his way around the district for medical reasons. Neither does the stated location of Fáskrúðsbakki ‘í miðju héraðinu’ (‘in the middle of the district’) (55) lend any support to Jóhannesson’s claims one way or the other, since no one has any idea where this Fáskrúðsbakki was supposed to be. There is thus no reason to say that Vápnfirðinga saga demonstrates anything other than an excellent knowledge of the local geography of the Vopnafjörður region, and it might therefore offer a genuine reflection of the stories that were current about the people of Hof and Krossavík among their successors in this area. 5. The actual words in the text are ‘Ketils sonar þrymssonar’ (‘son of Ketill, son of Þrymr’). The emendation is accepted in Jón Jóhannesson’s ÍF edition (1950:19 note) in accordance with Landnámabók and Droplaugarsona saga. Jóhannesson notes that something must have fallen out of the text here, though there is no gap in either manuscript. 26. This saga is not in the Íslenzk fornrit series but was published with a modern spelling in the complete saga edition of Grímur M. Helgason and Vésteinn Ólason in 1972.

171 27. Going by the chronology of Laxdœla saga, the events in Gunnars saga ought to have taken place some time around 1007-8 (see Jóhannesson 1950:xc-xci), but following the chronology of Vápnfirðinga saga Brodd-Helgi was killed in 974 (ibid:xxii). This inconsistency suggests that the sagas cannot be used and compared in this way, as if we were dealing with works of primarily historical intent (see Jóhannesson’s comments, ibid:xxii-xxv). The more justifiable approach is to examine the consistency and credibility of the internal timescales of each saga independently. Looked at this way, there is nothing anomalous about finding BroddHelgi’s friend Þórir Englandsfari and Þorkell Geitisson riding side by side in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana on their mission to Njarðvík. 28. goði, pl. goðar, one of the group of chieftains who constituted the Lǫgrétta, or central legislative court at the Alþingi. The number was limited to 39 (later 48). The office was known as a goðorð. The name goði probably implies that in pre-Christian times the position also carried religious functions. 29. From his general discussion of the literary relations of Vápnfirðinga saga, Ernst Walter (1956:57-81) came to the conclusion that it was impossible to prove unambiguous relations with all the works proposed by Jóhannesson. But although Walter is more guarded in his claims, all his findings tend in the same direction and are based on the same premise, that literary borrowing is probable even when two sources share no more than a generally comparable patterning of events. 30. Walter’s argument is based on the view that the author of Vápnfirðinga saga deliberately ironed out inconsistencies in the narrative in Laxdœla saga, but that the account of the killing itself is more circumstantial in the latter than the former, thus making it unclear which of the two is the older and which received from which. 31. The word ‘kynnisleit/-leið’ also occurs in Fljótsdœla saga (of Þorlaug, the wife of Helgi Ásbjarnarson, when she goes to visit her father) and in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (of Þiðrandi going to Njarðvík), as well as in Grettis saga and Sturlunga saga. The synonymous forms ‘kynnisvist,’ ‘kynnissókn,’ and ‘kynnisleitun/kynnisleitan’ also occur in similar contexts. 32. Heller (1968) draws attention to another parallel with these scenes, this time in Knýtlinga saga (the saga of the kings of Denmark), where Bishop Absolon nurses the mortally wounded King Knútr: ‘En hann mátti þá ekki mæla ok andaðisk í knjám honum’ (‘But he did not have the strength to speak and died upon his lap’) (ÍF XXXV:289). Like Geitir, Knútr first receives a fatal wound to the head and then dies ‘again’ in the arms of his friend (though it is not Absolon who has wounded Knútr — thus paralleling the case of Bjǫrn the White and Helgi Ásbjarnarson in Droplaugarsona saga). Heller goes on to examine Knýtlinga saga in light of certain stylistic affinities to Vápnfirðinga saga identified in an earlier article (1963): for instance, the adverbial use of ‘heim’ (‘home’) is very common in both sagas; the phrase ‘meðan þeir lifði/lifðu báðir’ (‘while they both lived’) occurs several times in Knýtlinga saga and once in Vápnfirðinga saga (ÍF XI:65); Knýtlinga saga says of Knútr and his ancestors ‘at þeir váru engir spekingar at viti’ (‘that they were no great thinkers in intellect’) (ÍF XXXV:127) and the same kind of litotic negation appears in Vápnfirðinga saga: ‘Ekki hafa Hofverjar verit spekingar miklir’ (‘The men of Hof were not great thinkers’) (ÍF XI:65); and finally both sagas show a marked preference for the verb ‘jarða’ over ‘grafa,’ both meaning ‘bury’ — in Knýtlinga saga by six to one, in Vápnfirðinga saga by three to none. These are certainly interesting stylistic observations but Heller refuses to draw any particular conclusions from them. Neither does Bjarni Guðnason (1982) in his ÍF edition of Knýtlinga saga, which he considers probably the work of Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld (clxxix-clxxxiv). 33. Ernst Walter (1956:68-72) discusses the two Jórunns and concludes that there was probably a literary relationship between them on the grounds of their similar functions as peacemakers in the two sagas, though he also considers the possibility of both these Jórunns being based on a historical character, the Jórunn in Þorgils saga skarða in Sturlunga saga who

172 acts as a peacemaker between Þorgils and Earl Knútr. Björn Sigfússon (1940:lv) discussed Jórunn in terms of a literary relationship with Vǫðu-Brands þáttr; Björn M. Ólsen (1939:377), on the other hand, considered it possible that the writer of the þáttr had used a traditional oral tale consonant with the account in Vápnfirðinga saga.

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5. The Same Event in More Than One Saga The previous chapter looked at how particular characters from the sagas of the east of Iceland are presented in sources that appear unlikely to be directly related to each other on a written level, i.e. through literary relations. It emerged that there is discernable variation in the personal characteristics ascribed to Víga-Bjarni in different sagas, while those of Þorkell Geitisson remain reasonably uniform, creating a rounded and consistent image of his personality in apparently unrelated sources. The conclusion drawn from this was that audiences were probably acquainted with these characters through sources outside the written sagas and were aware beforehand of their family connections and the main incidents in which they were involved at different points in their lives. In places the sagas appear to work on a direct assumption that such supplementary information would be available to their audiences, information that audiences were expected to bring to bear on the written texts to fill them out and imbue them with meaning. It is not easy to assess the scope of such knowledge, but one way of approaching the problem is to consider how corresponding family relationships and events are presented in different texts. Materially related narratives can conflict over a wide range of details while sharing the same broad outlines. In order to explain such relationships we need to ask ourselves whether it is more likely that a) the writers of the extant sources used other written sources like those we are familiar with, or b) there is reason to suppose the existence of a common story tradition in the background. If the connection is such as to suggest that the linking factor is likely to be a common story tradition, we can then go on to ask questions such as: Are the sources complementary, each adding to the information provided by the others? Is there an assumption of a more wide-ranging knowledge on the part of audiences than we find in each source individually? [1] Do the sources conflict in any way? And, if so, is it possible to find some plausible explanation of why this should be?

Parallel Genealogies As examples of differing genealogies of the same characters in materially related sources we may consider those of the Droplaugarsons and Helgi Ásbjarnarson as given in Droplaugarsona saga, Brand-Krossa þáttr, and Fljótsdœla saga, together with the little that is said about these people in Landnámabok. It will be seen that in all these sources there are differences both of emphasis and in the individual details.

Genealogies of the Droplaugarsons At the beginning of Droplaugarsona saga we are given information on the ancestors of the brothers Helgi and Grímr Droplaugarson, with the main emphasis on how their paternal great-grandfather, Ketill þrymr, came to marry an earl’s daughter in a foreign land. This story is also told in Landnámabók (S 278, H 240), but here there is no mention of either the Droplaugarsons or their maternal ancestry. In the saga itself, however, there appears to be a clear intention to demonstrate a link between Droplaug and her sons and the line of Ketill þrymr:

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Figure 5-1: The genealogy of the Droplaugarsons as given in Droplaugarsona saga, chapters 1 and 2 Some of these people appear with similar genealogies in Landnámabók, but there are so many differences that there is no way that whoever put the saga together got his genealogical information directly from Landnámabók. The altogether more plausible supposition is that Droplaugarsona saga was written using traditional knowledge in the east of Iceland. If we examine the differences between two sources, it becomes clear that Landnámabók was no great mine of information when it came to the central characters of Droplaugarsona saga: 1. According to Landnámabók (S 285, H 246), Yngvildr (Hávarsdóttir, the wife of Þiðrandi and mother of Ketill þrymr in Droplaugarsona saga) was the daughter of Ævarr the Old and Þjóðhildr, daughter of Þorkell fullspakr. 2. None of Yngvildr’s paternal relations nor the in-laws of her brother Bersi as given in Droplaugarsona saga are mentioned at all in Landnámabók, with the sole exception of Egill the Red of Nes (S 292, H 253). 3. Landnámabók mentions Egill’s son Óláfr in passing, but includes neither Yngvildr’s sister-in-law Ingibjǫrg nor Egill’s father Guttormr, both of whom are mentioned in Droplaugarsona saga. 4. Of the three brothers and sisters, Þorvaldr (father of the Droplaugarsons), Hallkatla (wife of Geitir Lýtingsson), and Gróa of Eyvindará, none is mentioned in Landnámabók. 5. The Sturlubók redaction of Landnámabók (S 388) names the wife of Earl Ásbjǫrn as Álǫf, daughter of Þórðr vaggagði, rather than Sigríðr. In Brand-Krossa þáttr there is nothing on the Droplaugarsons’ paternal relations, but in compensation we are given a considerably more detailed treatment of their mother’s side of the family, as follows:

Figure 5-2: The maternal genealogy of the Droplaugarsons as given in Brand-Krossa þáttr

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In Droplaugarsona saga, this line is taken back only as far as the Droplaugarsons’ grandfather, who is named as Þorgrímr as opposed to just Grímr in the þáttr. The genealogy in the þáttr does not appear to be based on older written sources, and so the þáttr may be regarded as good evidence of the existence of oral accounts of the maternal ancestry of the Droplaugarsons. This is supported by the þáttr’s version of the adventure in which an ancestor of the brothers acquires a wife while traveling abroad. In Landnámabók and Droplaugarsona saga this tale is told of Ketill þrymr; in Brand-Krossa þáttr the hero is Grímr, the Droplaugarsons’ great-great-grandfather on their mother’s side (for this story, see p. 205 f below). It is notable that in the þáttr, at the beginning of chapter 2, there appears to be an assumption that the audience will already have some kind of prior knowledge of the brothers’ ancestry. The text reads: ‘Þessa rœðu segja sumir menn til ættar Droplaugarsona, þeirar er ókunnari er. En þótt sumum mǫnnum þykki hon efanlig, þá er þó gaman at heyra hana’ (‘This story is ascribed by some people to the side of the Droplaugarsons’ family that is less well known. But even though some people doubt its veracity, it is still fun to hear it’) (ÍF XI:186). This comment on the brothers’ maternal relations seems to imply that the audience is expected to be rather better informed on their paternal relations. But this knowledge can hardly have been so universally accepted that it prevented a story that we know from older written sources was associated with the better known paternal ancestors from being transferred and told of the ‘less well known’ maternal side of the family. This kind of transference would have created problems if the writer’s and audience’s knowledge of these people had been set down in black and white on the written page. If, however, their information had come largely from oral tradition it is quite understandable that a story of this kind might come to be shifted from one family to another in this way and told of different people. Fljótsdœla saga gives yet another version of Droplaugarson genealogy:

Figure 5-3: The genealogy of the Droplaugarsons according to Fljótsdœla saga, chapters 3-7 The most interesting features of this genealogy are how different the mother’s side is from the one given in Brand-Krossa þáttr, and the fact that the tale of the wife won in foreign lands is here told of Helgi and Grímr’s parents. The father’s side, however, is similar to what we find in other sources, other than being somewhat reduced in size and scope. But even here the relationship of Þorkell fullspakr to the brothers is specified more precisely in Fljótsdœla saga than in Droplaugarsona saga, where he is said merely to be ‘frændi Gríms skyldr’ (‘a close relative of Grímr’s) (ÍF XI:176) when he accepts Hrafnkell goði’s bribe to join the hunt for Grímr. Þiðrandi too is placed more fully in Fljótsdœla saga than elsewhere (see p. 222). Fljótsdœla saga is also alone in ascribing such extraordinary longevity to Þiðrandi the Old.

176 Further evidence of the existence of oral genealogical lore appears in the confusion surrounding Grímr of Gil, who in Fljótsdœla saga is said to be the brother of Helgi and Grímr’s maternal grandmother. In Droplaugarsona saga, their maternal grandfather is called Þorgrímr but given the same address. In Brand-Krossa þáttr this man is named as just Grímr, but with nothing said about where he lived. It is interesting that in Landnámabók (S 388, H 342) too this story is associated with the name of Grímr, but in this case it is Grímr the eponymous settler of Grímsnes in the southwest of Iceland who marries the mother of Arneiðr, named as Álǫf. Genealogical confusion of this kind can hardly be explained other than by assuming that the people who put the texts into book form acquired their historical and genealogical information from oral sources rather than written books — unless they made the whole thing up, which seems highly improbable in view of the number of points of agreement there are between the various sources. From the genealogies of the Droplaugarsons and their paternal relations detailed above, it seems clear that none of the four sources was based on any of the others. Each contains either more or less information on this family than the others, and where they agree in general they differ on specifics. Landnámabók makes no mention of Helgi and Grímr themselves but tells a story about their father’s family, which is told differently in the other sources and even associated with their mother’s side of the family in Brand-Krossa þáttr and Fljótsdœla saga. The fullest treatment of their father’s family is found in Droplaugarsona saga; in Fljótsdœla saga the details given are generally much sketchier and the emphasis more towards their mother and her relations, even though, to judge from Brand-Krossa þáttr (which only describes the mother’s side), this was the ‘less well known’ side of the family. Despite the contradictions, the patent similarities between the various genealogies mean that it is impossible to imagine individual ‘authors’ constructing them independently out of just a few miscellaneous ‘facts.’ The recourse often taken to ‘explain’ such inconsistencies — that the ‘author’ had misremembered material he had read or heard many years before he came to put his text together — strikes one as clutching at straws, as well as being entirely unamenable to test or proof. Though each of the texts is different (and therefore of very limited value as regards historical research into ‘real’ events), they provide clear evidence of a closely integrated tradition of story material in the background, material which, we may suppose, provided a source of both learning and entertainment to storytellers and their audiences in the east of Iceland.

Genealogies of Helgi Ásbjarnarson Helgi Ásbjarnarson is the archenemy of the Droplaugarsons in the eastern sagas and thus it is hardly surprising that Droplaugarsona saga pays rather less attention to him and his relations than to the Droplaugarsons themselves in the genealogical information offered. For instance, it is striking that the saga makes no mention of the fact known from other sagas, that Hrafnkell Freysgoði, the hero of Hrafnkels saga, was Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s grandfather.

Figure 5-4: The genealogy of Helgi Ásbjarnarson as given in Droplaugarsona saga, chapter 3a

177

a. The saga does not specify whether Hrafnkell goði and Áslaug were full brother and sister, nor whether Hrafnkell’s father and Helgi were full brothers. In Brand-Krossa þáttr Hrafnkell is said to be ‘Þórisson,’ and he and Helgi are said to be the sons of two brothers, making the genealogy in the þáttr incompatible with that in Droplaugarsona saga. From the way the information on Hrafnkell is presented at the time of his introduction in Droplaugarsona saga, it is not even certain that Hrafnkell goði (Áslaug’s brother) and Hrafnkell (Helgi’s nephew) are the same man, though this becomes clear later on. Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s genealogy is traced in chapter 3 of Droplaugarsona saga. The main point of the information given appears to be to link Helgi and his brother’s son, Hrafnkell goði, through marriage to Ingibjǫrg and Spak-Bersi Ǫzurarson, thereby establishing a connection with a famous and powerful dynasty known from Landnámabók, the descendants of Brynjólfr the Old and his brothers, Ævarr the Old and Herjólfr. Brynjólfr was the paternal great-grandfather of Spak-Bersi, and an audience familiar with Brynjólfr’s family and authority would have been able to deduce from this that Helgi and Hrafnkell’s goðorð (i.e. their official status as patron chieftains over client farmers) had come to them through these marriage relations. Sigurður Nordal (1940:20) considered this connection to have had a basis in historical fact, since it tied in with his belief that Hrafnkell Freysgoði could not have built up the power base described in Hrafnkels saga at a time when Brynjólfr the Old ruled the roost in the farming lowlands of Fljótsdalur; that is, the goðorð of Helgi Ásbjarnarson and Hrafnkell goði, and what it implied, provided further evidence for his view that Hrafnkels saga was a conscious work of fiction concocted by an individual ‘author.’ It is striking that Hrafnkell Freysgoði is not mentioned at all in Droplaugarsona saga; if there had been stories in general circulation about his rise to power along the lines of those found in Hrafnkels saga, we might have expected Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s authority to have come from his connection with Hrafnkell Freysgoði rather than through marriage to a descendant of Brynjólfr the Old. This silence over Hrafnkell Freysgoði might thus be viewed as lending support to Nordal’s view that Hrafnkels saga is a work of pure authorial fiction. However, the evidence is hardly unequivocal, since BrandKrossa þáttr trumpets Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s noble ancestry by tracing his descent from Hrafnkell Hrafnsson — ‘Þat viljum vér ok segja, hversu Helgi Ásbjarnarson er kominn af landnámsmǫnnum, er gǫfgastr maðr er í þessari sǫgu at vitra mann virðingu (‘We wish to say too how Helgi Ásbjarnarson, who is the noblest man in this story in the judgment of wise men, was descended from original settlers’) (ÍF XI:183) — before setting off on the details of Hrafnkell and his descendants. The þáttr’s independence is apparent from the fact that its information differs from the corresponding genealogy in Droplaugarsona saga:

Figure 5-5: The genealogy of Helgi Ásbjarnarson as given in Brand-Krossa þáttr, chapter 1

178 According to Brand-Krossa þáttr, Helgi Ásbjarnarson is descended from the settler and chieftain Hrafnkell, who ‘fór í Hrafnkelsdal ok byggði allan dalinn sínum mǫnnum, nær tuttugu bœjum, en hann bjó sjálfr á Steinrøðarstǫðum’ (‘moved to Hrafnkelsdalur and settled the whole valley with his men, near on twenty farms, and lived himself at Steinröðarstaðir’) (ÍF XI:183). Steinröðarstaðir is not mentioned in Hrafnkels saga, where the hero is said to have been Hallfreðarson (as opposed to Hrafnsson in Brand-Krossa þáttr) and to have spent most of his life at Aðalból until he buys the little farm at Lokhilla, which later becomes Hrafnkelsstaðir. The Hrafnkell whom Helgi Ásbjarnarson shares the goðorð with is said to be Þórisson in BrandKrossa þáttr, just as his sister is said to be Þórisdóttir in Droplaugarsona saga — but then in Brand-Krossa þáttr Helgi is not Hrafnkell’s uncle, as in Droplaugarsona saga, but his cousin, their fathers having been brothers as in Landnámabók, which adds that Hrafnkell Hrafnsson lived at Steinröðarstaðir: ‘Hans son var Ásbjǫrn, faðir Helga, ok Þórir, faðir Hrafnkels goða, fǫður Sveinbjarnar’ (‘His son was [sic., sons were] Ásbjǫrn, father of Helgi, and Þórir, father of Hrafnkell goði, father of Sveinbjǫrn’) (S 283, H 244). Sveinbjǫrn Hrafnkelsson is not mentioned in any sagas. According to Hrafnkels saga itself, Hallfreðr came and settled in Iceland with his young son Hrafnkell; Hrafnkell later married Oddbjǫrg Skjǫldólfsdóttir from Laxárdalur (who is otherwise unknown), by whom he had two sons, Þórir and Ásbjǫrn. After Hrafnkell dies in Hrafnkels saga, Þórir takes over the farm at Hrafnkelsstaðir while Ásbjǫrn gets Aðalból — in contrast to what is said in Brand-Krossa þáttr, in which Þórir lives at Steinröðarstaðir and Ásbjǫrn at Lokhellur. The family relationships and farm names given in the various sources in connection with Hrafnkell goði and Helgi Ásbjarnarson are a maze of inconsistencies and contradictions. The account of Hrafnkell Hrafnsson’s dream in Brand-Krossa þáttr is so similar to the account of the same dream in Landnámabók (S 283, H 244) that in this case a relationship between written sources seems likely. [2] However, the þáttr has details not found in Landnámabók, such as the number of farms in Hrafnkelsdalur and the names of the farms occupied by Hrafnkell’s son — details that also differ from Hrafnkels saga. Sigurður Nordal’s view (1940:18) was that the þáttr was of little source value — by which he meant of little value in the historical sense as a source on real events. But in other respects the þáttr is a source of inestimable value, as proof positive of the existence of tales about a chieftain named Hrafnkell of Hrafnkelsdalur and his descendants, tales that cannot be traced to Landnámabók, Droplaugarsona saga, or Hrafnkels saga, and which must therefore be based on oral accounts that led a life of their own outside the world of written books (see Óskar Halldórsson 1976:22). Table 5-1: Main points of difference in the sources that give genealogies of Helgi Ásbjarnarson Droplaugarsona saga Landnámabók Helgi is related by marriage to the descendants of Brynjólfr the Old. Helgi is the brother of Hrafnkell goði’s father.

Brand-Krossa þáttr

Hrafnkels saga — Fljótsdœla saga

Helgi is a Helgi is a descendant Helgi is a descendant of descendant of of Hrafnkell Hrafnkell Freysgoði. Hrafnkell Freysgoði. Freysgoði. Helgi’s father and Hrafnkell goði’s father are brothers. Hrafnkell has a dream in Skriðdalur. Hrafnkell lives at Steinröðarstaðir.

Helgi’s father and Hrafnkell goði’s father are brothers. Hrafnkell has a dream in Skriðdalur. Hrafnkell lives at Steinröðarstaðir.

Helgi’s father and Hrafnkell goði’s father are brothers. Hallfreðr has a dream in Geitdalur. Hrafnkell lives at Aðalból and Lokhilla

179 (later Hrafnkelsstaðir). Þórir lives at Steinröðarstaðir; Ásbjǫrn lives at Lokhellur (modern Hrafnkelsstaðir). Nearly 20 farms in Hrafnkelsdalur.

Þórir lives at Hrafnkelsstaðir; Ásbjǫrn lives at Aðalból.

For many years most scholars went along with Sigurður Nordal’s conclusion (1940:2224) that the ‘author’ of Hrafnkels saga had taken the dream of Hrafnkell Hrafnsson in Skriðdalur from Landnámabók and adapted it point by point to create the dream of Hallfreðr in Geitdalur, and then used this as an element within a narrative of his own creation (see Jóhannesson 1950:xl-xliii), or even as a springboard for an exegesis upon the moral teachings of the medieval Church as found in learned Latin writings, as Hermann Pálsson supposed (1962a, 1971; see p. 25 f). However, in 1976 Óskar Halldórsson (1976:33) pulled the rug from under all such ideas by demonstrating that it was not possible to infer any kind of written connection between the sources, and that the arbitrary combination of both agreement and discrepancy in the dream sequences in Landnámabók and Hrafnkels saga indicated that the latter must have got at least some of its material from oral sources. Halldórsson’s research is informed by a far deeper understanding of oral tradition than we find among any of his predecessors; for instance, he takes account of all sides of the problem and displays a familiarity with the nature and fluidity of narrative in oral preservation. Nothing that has appeared since has confuted his main finding that the correspondences and differences between Landnámabók and Hrafnkels saga should be put down to the oral preservation of the story material rather than uneven use of written texts. There is no getting away from the fact mentioned previously, that the main subject of Hrafnkels saga, the rise of a chieftain in a part of the country that the lore behind Landnámabók considered to be the fiefdom of Brynjólfr the Old, runs directly counter to the saga world of Droplaugarsona saga, which appears to associate Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s authority with his relationship through marriage to Brynjólfr and which makes no mention whatsoever of any Hrafnkell Freysgoði of Hrafnkelsdalur. On the other hand, this central theme of Hrafnkels saga ties in excellently with Brand-Krossa þáttr and Fljótsdœla saga, which follows Hrafnkels saga directly in the main manuscript. Thus it appears that ideas about Hrafnkell’s chieftaincy are restricted to written sources that are younger than Landnámabók and reveal little awareness of the settlement domain of Brynjólfr the Old and his brothers in the east of Iceland. However, the sources also suggest the existence of oral tales about Hrafnkell and his sphere of influence in Hrafnkelsdalur — and ancient audiences would hardly have been surprised to hear that this man had managed to advance himself through his own efforts and attract support to the east of the great lake of Lagarfljót when he had a grandson, Helgi Ásbjarnarson, who later turned out to be a great chieftain in the same area. The confusions in the discussion have come about through a failure to maintain a clear distinction between what is historically probable and what can happen within the internal premises of a story tradition. Since Hrafnkels saga overlaps so little with other written sagas, no firm conclusions can be reached about whether its main events are the creation of an author working with pen in hand or the product of years of reshaping at an oral stage. Either is possible, although whatever the case we have to assume that ideas of some kind were alive about Hrafnkell in the tradition that is clearly perceptible behind the saga, and so the saga of Hrafnkell must be something more than straight fiction from the bottom up.

180 Fljótsdœla saga picks up the narrative directly from the point at which Hrafnkels saga leaves off. In this case, therefore, there is no question as to Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s identity and family background:

Figure 5-6: The genealogy of Helgi Ásbjarnarson as given in Fljótsdœla saga chapter 1, in direct continuation of Hrafnkels saga None of the relatives of Helgi Ásbjarnarson listed here appear in other sagas except Ásbjǫrn, Þórir, and Hrafnkell Þórisson. Hákon is mentioned in Landnámabók, but with no details of his wife. As noted previously, in Brand-Krossa þáttr Ásbjǫrn’s wife is named as Hallbera and said to be the daughter of Hrollaugr, the son of Rǫgnvaldr earl of Møre in Norway — a line of descent presumably intended to redound to Helgi’s glory. The information on these characters in Fljótsdœla saga can thus hardly have come from other books anything like those we know today. The sources for the genealogy of Helgi Ásbjarnarson appear to be full of internal contradictions. They frequently conflict and each has details not found in the others. There can hardly be any question of literary relations except perhaps between Brand-Krossa þáttr and Landnámabók in the account of Hrafnkell’s dream. However, the þáttr reveals signs that whoever wrote it knew more about his characters than he could have found in Landnámabók, and so the latter can hardly have acted as the sole source for the writer of the former. The same applies to the other texts; in each of them there are clear indications of writers turning to oral sources in search of their material.

*  The genealogical details given on Helgi Ásbjarnarson are not simply isolated and extraneous information, any more than genealogies in the sagas generally (see p. 83). They serve specific purposes in each of the sagas. In Droplaugarsona saga, Helgi and his close relation Hrafnkell are linked through ties of marriage to the descendants of Brynjólfr the Old, who according to Landnámabók was one of the leading figures in the east of Iceland in directly post-settlement times. It is not unlikely that audiences at one time would have been thoroughly familiar with Brynjólfr and fully aware of the potential significance of a family connection of this sort. In Brand-Krossa þáttr, on the other hand, the focus is on Helgi’s own noble lineage: his great-grandfather is said to have been Earl Rǫgnvaldr of Møre, and his grandfather Hrafnkell Hrafnsson, the settler and chieftain of Hrafnkelsdalur whose star appears to have been on the rise within the saga tradition of eastern Iceland. The purpose of the genealogy offered in Fljótsdœla saga is not so immediately apparent; there is perhaps what purports to be a purely informative function, or at least a pretense of comprehensiveness and verisimilitude, for here we find various names that are not known from any other source and about whom nothing further is said in the saga itself.

181

Conclusions Far from being evidence of lapses of memory or slips of the pen as is commonly claimed in such cases, the differences in information offered by the various sources on families and genealogies are generally motivated by purposes specific to each occasion, with modifications and selection dictated by the needs of the narrative rather than any aim to provide a strictly historical record of the actual family connections among Icelanders in the 10th century. This fluidity is precisely what one would expect of learning dependent for its preservation on the unreliable medium of human memory, and the opposite of what one would expect of people in the habit of turning to written books for their information. As it happens, even scholars steeped in the traditional approach to saga origins have been happy to admit the importance of oral sources in the case of Droplaugarsona saga. In an excellent article on the treatment and historical and cultural source value of individual episodes in the saga in light of how far they can be tested against other sources, Björn Karel Þórólfsson (1928:46) wrote: ‘Sagan er öll ausin af sama brunni, sagnafróðleik, sem gengið hefur í óbundnu máli frá kyni til kyns’ (‘The whole saga is the product of the same wellspring, historical lore, which was passed on in prose form from generation to generation’). However, the main argument that has been adduced to support the idea of oral origins in this saga has centered on its closing words, about a certain Þorvaldr ‘er sagði sǫgu þessa’ (‘who told this saga’) (ÍF XI:180); see also Ólsen (1939:14-8). Unfortunately, the source value of these words is limited, for a number of reasons: the text is corrupt at this point, making this Þorvaldr’s genealogy problematical (he is said to be the son of Ingjaldr, son of Þorvaldr, which does not tie in with what has previously been said about the son of Grímr Droplaugarson and his wife Helga being called Þorkell); and, as Björn M. Ólsen (1939:18) rightly pointed out, the words ‘told this saga’ might equally apply to dictation to a scribe, as in the famous reference to the poet Sturla who is said to have ‘sagt fyrir’ (‘dictated,’ ‘recited’) sagas. Various scholars have suggested that it is unlikely that the ‘author’ of Droplaugarsona saga composed the verses in the saga because they concur so poorly with the material in the prose; as a result the verses have been seen rather as one of his sources, though how genuine they are and how valuable as a historical source is open to question. In general, however, it must be doubted that uncontextualized fugitive verses can ever have been a major ‘source’ for saga writers — especially when this also requires us to suppose that the writers then proceeded to ‘misinterpret’ the verses in various ways. Richard Perkins (1989) revives another old and well-worn argument in favor of oral accounts behind the sagas, viz. that place names, buildings, and other human artifacts supported the preservation of oral tales associated with them. In a general article on Droplaugarsona saga, Perkins (1986) notes that the saga says that Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s hall ‘stendr … enn í Mjóvanesi’ (‘is still standing at Mjóvanes’) (ÍF XI:155); that Grímr’s hiding place above Krossavík ‘er nú kallat at Grímsbyggðum síðan’ (‘has since then been known as Grímsbyggðir’) (176); and that, after the description of the battle in Eyvindardalur, there is ‘nú lítill grjótvarði, er þeir bǫrðusk’ (‘now a little cairn of rocks where they fought’) (162). References of this sort might point to a story tradition that survived in connection with features of the landscape. All these points might indeed be indicative of an oral tradition, but they might equally be viewed as literary devices put in by a writer with the intention of giving his saga a patina of credibility (see p. 37). For this reason, this study has attempted to approach the problem of orality behind the sagas through different kinds of arguments and methods. As it happens, these arguments and methods also appear to come down in support of Björn Karel Þórólfsson’s main contention, that of the sources used by the writer of Droplaugarsona saga by far the most important was the fund of lore and stories passed on by word of mouth from generation to generation in the areas in which the saga is set.

182

The ‘Same’ Events in Different Sagas The foregoing comparisons of characters and genealogies in the sagas of the east of Iceland indicate that the people who put the sagas together: 1. Knew their material from oral tradition rather than from books, and 2. Could rely on their audiences possessing a comparable supplementary knowledge of the same material and using this to interpret references and allusions. So what kind of picture emerges when we look at major events that are mentioned or described in more than one saga? Here the questions are the same as ever: Do the diction and the way shared events are presented suggest written literary relations between sagas, or does it seem likelier that the saga writers got their material from oral sources? Do the writers allude to events outside the text in a way that suggests they expected their audience to be familiar with these events? And if so, is there anything to indicate whether this knowledge came from books or from oral tradition? [3]

The battle in Böðvarsdalur The battle between Þorkell Geitisson and Bjarni Brodd-Helgason in Böðvarsdalur is described in detail in Vápnfirðinga saga and mentioned in passing in Landnámabók, Ǫlkofra þáttr, and Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs. The Vápnfirðinga saga account of the battle of Böðvarsdalur and the parts of Þorkell and Bjarni in it are described above (p. 176). According to the saga, a total of fifteen men fought on Þorkell’s side, of whom the following are named: ‘Blængr ok þeir Egilssynir, Þórarinn, Hallbjǫrn ok Þrǫstr, Eyjólfr, er bjó á Víðivǫllum […] Með Bjarna váru í fǫr Þorvarðr læknir af Síreksstǫðum, Brúni af Þorbrandsstǫðum, Eilífr Torfason af Torfastǫðum, brœðr tveir af Búastǫðum, Bergr ok Brandr, Skíði, fóstri Bjarna, Haukr Loptsson, ok váru þeir átján saman’ (‘Blængr and the Egilssons, Þórarinn, Hallbjǫrn and Þrǫstr, Eyjólfr, who lived at Víðivellir […] With Bjarni there were Þorvarðr the physician from Síreksstaðir, Brúni of Þorbrandsstaðir, Eilífr Torfason of Torfastaðir, two brothers from Búastaðir, Bergr and Brandr, Skíði, Bjarni’s foster son, Haukr Loptsson, eighteen in all’) (ÍF XI:58-9). The two groups meet just outside the hay meadow at Eyvindarstaðir in Böðvarsdalur and at this point it comes out that Bjarni’s spy from earlier in the saga, Birningr, is also there, since he is the first to fall, at the hands of Blængr. Next Blængr is killed by Bjarni, Þorkell is wounded on the hand or arm and unable to fight on, and the sons ‘Glíru-Halla [4] fellu þar báðir’ (‘of Glíru-Halli fell there both of them’) (62). Vápnfirðinga saga does not say who these sons of Glíru-Halli were, but from Landnámabók we know that they must be the ‘brothers from Búastaðir,’ Brandr and Bergr, listed among Bjarni’s followers. Landnámabók (S 257, H 221) records that: ‘Synir Glíru-Halla, Brandr ok Bergr, váru dóttursynir Ljótar; þeir fellu í Bǫðvarsdal’ (‘The sons of Glíru-Halli, Brandr and Bergr, were the sons of the daughter of Ljót; they fell in Böðvarsdalur’). Here the Þórðarbók redaction of Landnámabók (using material from the lost Melabók) adds: ‘ór liði Bjarna Brodd-Helgasonar, þá er hann barðisk við Þorkel Geitisson’ (‘from Bjarni BroddHelgason’s party, when he fought against Þorkell Geitisson). [5] The saga here is thus assuming of its audience a knowledge of genealogy that is now available to us only from Landnámabók. However, it is unlikely that the saga was using Landnámabók as its source at this point, since it has extra information about Glíru-Halli and his sons, viz. that Bergr and Brandr lived at Búastaðir, that is not mentioned in Landnámabók. It is of course possible that the addenda in Þórðarbók (from Melabók) are derived from Vápnfirðinga saga in its written form, but given

183 the limited nature of the correspondences there seems no real reason not equally to assume an oral knowledge of the story material that Þórðarbók refers to. In the saga it says that Eilífr (one of Bjarni’s men) was cut down by Hallbjǫrn and then adds ‘ok lifði hann þá at kalla’ (‘but he survived so to speak’) (ÍF XI:62), apparently indicating that he was badly wounded but not killed. Later it comes out that Eilífr recovered, though only after a long convalescence. [6] After this the battle is stopped and it is said that of Bjarni’s men four had died and many were injured, while four had fallen on Þorkell’s side. All the four killed on Bjarni’s side have been named, but only one on Þorkell’s. The injured are not named, unless we include Eilífr, who ‘fell’ in the battle but was later cured, though he is otherwise numbered among the fallen. Of the fifteen who are named out of the total of thirty-three who took part in the battle in Böðvarsdalur, five are names and little more: Eyjólfr of Víðivellir on Þorkell’s side, and from Bjarni’s side Brúni of Þorbrandsstaðir, Eilífr Torfason of Torfastaðir, Skíði, Bjarni’s foster son, and Haukr Loptsson. Of these, only Eilífr achieves any note in the saga, for having ‘fallen’ in the battle (and then being cured). The names of the others appear solely as independent scraps of information among the followers of their chieftains. These men play no significant part in the plot of the saga and it is thus difficult to explain the inclusion of their names in the text other than as the result of the writer of the saga knowing stories that already included these names. It is well imaginable that these men may have been more than mere names to the original audience of the saga; background knowledge of this sort is at least probable in the case of the brothers from Búastaðir, whom the saga takes for granted that the audience will be able to identify as the sons of Glíru-Halli without needing to spell this out for them. Moving beyond the references in Landnámabók described above, the battle of Böðvarsdalur is also mentioned in Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs and Ǫlkofra þáttr, and in both texts is treated as if it were a well-known event. In Þorsteins þáttr stangarhǫggs, the first reference occurs in a scene in which the brothers Þórhallr and Þorvaldr are talking at home at Hof and one of them complains that Bjarni has failed to take action against the outlaw Þorsteinn stangarhǫgg (‘Staff-Strike’), remarking that it would have been ‘eigi verra at hafa meir vægt frændum sínum í Bǫðvarsdal ok sæti nú eigi skógarmaðrinn jafnhátt honum í Sunnudal’ (‘no worse to have shown some more mercy towards his kinsmen at Böðvarsdalur and not have the outlaw sitting there in Sunnudalur on a par with him’) (ÍF XI:72). On this reference, Jón Jóhannesson comments in a footnote that the ‘author’ is here assuming that the ‘readers’ are familiar with Vápnfirðinga saga. Jóhannesson offers no reasons to support his assumption that what is being referred to here is the saga in its written form, and in fact no such evidence exists, either here or later in the þáttr when Bjarni and Þorsteinn start to fight. During their confrontation, Bjarni takes a rest and goes to get a drink of water, and puts down his sword: ‘Þorsteinn tók upp, leit á ok mælti: “Eigi mundir þú þetta sverð hafa í Bǫðvarsdal”’ (‘Þorsteinn picked it up and looked at it and said, “You wouldn’t have had that sword in Böðvarsdalur”’) (75). Exactly what these words are supposed to imply is not clear, but a comparison with Bjarni’s performance at Böðvarsdalur also lies behind the comment of the old farmer Þórarinn when Bjarni goes to his farm and pretends he has killed his son Þorsteinn: ‘“Eigi er kynligt at því,” kvað karl, “at þungt veitti við þik í Bǫðvarsdal, er þú bart nú af syni mínum.”’ (‘“I’m not surprised,” said the old man, “that things proved tough for your opponents at Böðvarsdalur, when you’ve now gotten the better of my son”’) (77) — words evidently reflecting the high regard in which Þórarinn held his son. None of these references point to any kind of written literary relationship with Vápnfirðinga saga; it is altogether much likelier that what we have here are allusions to a generally known battle in which Bjarni of Hof fought against one of his kinsmen and came out on top. The same applies to the reference to Böðvarsdalur in Ǫlkofra þáttr. Here Broddi Bjarnason is depicted as taunting Þorkell Geitisson with the words: ‘hitt ætla ek, ef þú leitar at,

184 er þú munir fingrum kenna þat, er faðir minn markaði þik í Bǫðvarsdal’ (‘but anyway I reckon that if you look you’ll see on your fingers how my father left his mark on you at Böðvarsdalur’) (ÍF XI:93). This implies that Þorkell came out of the battle with an appreciable injury or disfigurement, and that it was Bjarni who caused it. Neither of these points is specified in Vápnfirðinga saga, which says only that Þorkell was wounded on the hand and had to retire from the battle, and that he was later tended at home at Krossavík. Þorsteins þáttr on the other hand clearly implies that Bjarni launched a vigorous attack on his kinsmen, and this may well be a reflection of the idea that it was Bjarni himself who wounded Þorkell. Vápnfirðinga saga does not mention this particularly, but it may well be alluded to in Þorkell’s remark before the battle that ‘frændrnir’ (‘the kinsmen,’ i.e. he and Bjarni) (ÍF XI:61) will face each other in combat.

*  From this it is clear that the battle in Böðvarsdalur was such a major event in the saga tradition of eastern Iceland that audiences would have been thoroughly familiar with it and known who fought in it and against whom. It was possible to name the people involved without needing to give further information on them all, perhaps because their family details were known, as in the case of the brother from Búastaðir. Later, familiarity with the parts played by Bjarni and Þorkell in the battle was used in other sagas as a spur to action or to display scorn or contempt when the leading participants are reminded of the ill-fated day in their youths when they faced each other in battle, and one of them wounded his own kinsman.

An ancestor of the Droplaugarsons wins a wife abroad As mentioned previously, there exist several versions of a story about an ancestor of the Droplaugarsons who came back from travels abroad with a newly-acquired wife. [7] This story is found in Landnámabók (in Sturlubók (S 278), Hauksbók (H 240), and Þórðarbók (incorporating material from the lost Styrmisbók)), Droplaugarsona saga, Brand-Krossa þáttr, and Fljótsdœla saga. However, there is considerable disagreement among the sources as to the identity of the man involved, where he went, and who the woman was. The only place where we find unanimity on these points is in the various Landnámabók redactions and Droplaugarsona saga — and they disagree on most other points. In both Landnámabók and Droplaugarsona saga, the hero of the episode is Ketill þrymr, who according to Droplaugarsona saga was the paternal great-grandfather of Helgi and Grímr Droplaugarson (see p. 192). Landnámabók (S 388, H 432) contains further information pertinent to this version of the story where it describes the viking activities of Hólmfastr and Grímr, the son and nephew of Véþormr of Jämtland on the borders of Norway and Sweden, whom Droplaugarsona saga also describes as a friend of Ketill’s. (This Grímr later moved to Iceland and became the eponymous settler of Grímsnes in the southern lowlands.) The entry says that Hólmfastr and Grímr ‘drápu í Suðreyjum Ásbjǫrn jarl skerjablesa ok tóku þar at herfangi Álǫfu konu hans ok Arneiði dóttur hans, ok hlaut Hólmfastr hana ok seldi hana í hendr fǫður sínum ok lét vera ambátt. Grímr fekk Álǫfar, dóttur Þórðar vaggagða, er jarl hafði átta’ (‘killed Earl Ásbjǫrn skerjablesi [‘Skerry-Blaze’] in the Hebrides and captured as spoils of war his wife Álǫf and his daughter Arneiðr; she fell to Hólmfastr’s share and he passed her on to his father, who made her a handmaid. Grímr married Álǫf, the daughter of Þórðr vaggagði, who had previously been married to the earl’) (S 388, H 432). The accounts of Ketill þrymr’s marriage in the various redactions of Landnámabók are in all major respects the same as in Droplaugarsona saga, and scholars have been quick to

185 pounce on the parallels and postulate literary relations. For instance, in a footnote in the ÍF edition of Landnámabók, Jakob Benediktsson has no hesitation in claiming that, when compiling Sturlubók, Sturla Þórðarson took the existing accounts in the (lost) Styrmisbók manuscript of Landnámabók and in Droplaugarsona saga and cobbled them together to produce a composite version: ‘In the saga Arneiðr finds the silver and reveals its existence before she marries Ketill, and Ketill offers to transport her to her kinsfolk with the money; in Sturlubók the sequence of the events is changed in order to take account of both sources’ (Benediktsson, J. 1968:295-6, translated). Table 5-2: The Landnámabók accounts of Ketill þrymr and his marriage to Arneiðr. Variant readings in Þórðarbók (deriving from the lost Melabók) are given in italics. The passage where changes were incorporated by Sturla Þórðarson is in boldface. The sentence underlined appears almost verbatim in Droplaugarsona saga, implying a direct literary relationship. Hauksbók (H 240) Ketill ok Graut-Atli, synir Þóris þiðranda, fóru ór Veradal til Íslands ok námu land í Fljótsdal, fyrr en Brynjólfr kœmi út, Lagarfljótsstrandir báðar, Ketill fyrir vestan fljót á millim Hengiforsár ok Ormsár. (Ketill and Graut-Atli, the sons of Þórir þiðrandi, moved from Veradal to Iceland and claimed land in Fljótsdalur, before Brynjólfr came out, on both shores of Lagarfljót, Ketill to the west of the lake between Hengiforsá and Ormsá. ) Ketill fór útan ok var með Véþormi, syni Vémundar hins gamla; þá keypti hann at Véþormi Arneiði, dóttur Ásbjarnar jarls skerjablesa, er [Haralds konungs hárfagra, er auknefndist skerjablesi, sem] Hólmfastr son Véþorms hafði hertekit, þá er þeir Grímr systurson Véþorms drápu Ásbjǫrn jarl í Suðreyjum [ok tóku þar Ólǫfu konu hans ok Arneiði dóttur hans]. Ketill þrymr keypti Arneiði tveimr hlutum dýrra en Véþormr mat hana í fyrstu [fyrir ǫndverðu]. (Ketill went abroad and stayed with Véþormr, the son of Vémundr the Old; while there, he bought from Véþormr Arneiðr, the daughter of Earl Ásbjǫrn skerjablesi, whom [of King Haraldr hárfagri, who was nicknamed skerjablesi, whom] Véþormr’s son Hólmfastr had taken as spoils of war when he and Grímr, Véþormr’s nephew, killed Earl Ásbjǫrn in the Hebrides [and captured his wife Ólǫf and his daughter Arneiðr there]. Ketill þrymr bought Arneiðr at twice the price

Sturlubók (S 278) Ketill ok Graut-Atli, synir Þóris þiðranda, fóru ór Veradal til Íslands ok námu land í Fljótsdal, fyrr en Brynjólfr kom út. Ketill nam Lagarfljótsstrandir báðar fyrir vestan Fljót á milli Hengiforsár ok Ormsár. (Ketill and Graut-Atli, the sons of Þórir þiðrandi, moved from Veradal to Iceland and claimed land in Fljótsdalur, before Brynjólfr came out. Ketill claimed both shores of Lagarfljót to the west of the lake between Hengiforsá and Ormsá.) Ketill fór útan ok var með Véþormi syni Vémundar ens gamla; þá keypti hann at Véþormi Arneiði, dóttur Ásbjarnar jarls skerjablesa, er Hólmfastr son Véþorms hafði hertekit, þá er þeir Grímr systurson Véþorms drápu Ásbjǫrn jarl. Ketill keypti Arneiði dóttur Ásbjarnar tveim hlutum dýrra en Véþormr mat hana í fyrstu;

(Ketill went abroad and stayed with Véþormr, the son of Vémundr the Old; while there, he bought from Véþormr Arneiðr, the daughter of Earl Ásbjǫrn skerjablesi, whom Véþormr’s son Hólmfastr had taken as spoils of war when he and Grímr, Véþormr’s nephew, killed Earl Ásbjǫrn. Ketill bought Arneiðr Ásbjǫrn’s daughter at twice the price Véþormr had set on her at first;)

186 Véþormr had set on her at first [at the outset].) en er kaupit var orðit, þá gerði Ketill En áðr þau Ketill fóru [fœri] til Íslands, brúðkaup til Arneiðar. Eptir þat fann hon fann Arneiðr silfr mikit [fólgit] undir grafsilfr mikit undir viðarrótum. Þá bauð viðarrótum ok leyndi Ketil, til þess er hann Ketill at flytja hana til frænda sinna, en hon fekk hennar [þá seldi hon honum silfrit]. kaus þá honum at fylgja. (But before Ketill and his men went [could (and when the deal was struck, Ketill took go] to Iceland, Arneiðr found a hoard of Arneiðr as his wife. After this, she found a silver [hidden] under the roots of a tree and hoard of buried silver under the roots of a tree. Ketill offered to take her to her hid it from Ketill until he married her relatives, but she chose to go with him.) [then she handed the silver over to him].) Þau fóru út ok bjǫggu á Arneiðarstǫðum. Þau fóru út ok bjǫggu á Arneiðarstǫðum; Þeira son var Þiðrandi faðir Ketils í Njarðvík. þeira son var Þiðrandi faðir Ketils í Njarðvík. (They left for Iceland and lived at (They left for Iceland and lived at Arneiðarstaðir. Their son was Þiðrandi, the Arneiðarstaðir; their son was Þiðrandi, the father of Ketill of Njarðvík.) father of Ketill of Njarðvík.) [Jóreiðr var dóttir Þiðranda, móðir Þorsteins, fǫður Guðríðar, móður Rannveigar, móður Salgerðar, móður Guðrúnar, móður Hreins ábóta, fǫður Valdísar, móður Snorra, fǫður Hallberu.] [Þiðrandi’s daughter was Jóreiðr, the mother of Þorsteinn, father of Guðríðr, mother of Rannveig, mother of Salgerðr, mother of Guðrún, mother of Abbot Hreinn, father of Valdís, mother of Snorri, father of Hallbera.] The passage where Sturla Þórðarson made his changes is indicated in bold in the comparison of the Landnámabók texts. As Benediktsson points out, there appears also to be a literary relationship with the Droplaugarsona saga text (shown in italics). In Sturlubók the text reads: ‘Þá bauð Ketill at flytja hana til frænda sinna, en hon kaus þá honum at fylgja’ (‘Ketill offered to take her to her relatives, but she chose to go with him’). This sentence appears almost word for word in the saga: ‘Þá bauð Ketill henni at flytja hana til frænda sinna með þessu fé, en hon kaus at fylgja honum’ (‘Ketill offered to take her to her relatives with this money, but she chose to go with him’) (ÍF XI:139). The similarity here is so great that some kind of connection through a written text seems indisputable. However, it is very doubtful that the text in question was Droplaugarsona saga in the form in which we know it and that this single sentence can be taken as proof that Sturla had access to the saga in its written form; if this were the case, for instance, it is hard to see why he failed to bring in the Droplaugarsons at this point by continuing the line from Ketill and Arneiðr down to them in the way done so conspicuously at the start of the saga (see p. 192). Sturla also appears not to have used Droplaugarsona saga in the matter of the name of Arneiðr’s mother. At S 388 he names her as Álǫf. (At S 278 she is not mentioned, while in the addendum in Þórðarbók in H 240 the form is Ólǫf.) In the saga, however, this woman is called Sigríðr, and had Sturla had the first two chapters of the saga in front of him he would surely have used that name at S 388 rather than Álǫf, whom he had not mentioned previously. In addition, S 388 is the only source to include the information that Grímr, the settler of Grímsnes,

187 brought Arneiðr’s mother to Iceland with him. Sturla must either have invented this himself, or had information on these people from oral tradition, or used some text other than the Droplaugarsona saga we know; for instance, Grímr’s marriage in S 388 perhaps recalls the Grímr named in the Droplaugarsons’ maternal line in other sources (see p. 193). Whatever the case, Sturla’s use of sources indicates material differences, and therefore material independence, between the saga and the text that he probably used at S 278 and S 388. In addition to being, unsurprisingly, considerably more detailed than the short résumé in Landnámabók, the Droplaugarsona saga account of Ketill þrymr’s marriage conflicts directly with Landnámabók on a number of other points: 1. Ketill þrymr’s settlement claim. According to Landnámabók, Ketill and his brother Graut-Atli claimed land in Fljótsdalur, on both sides of the lake, before Brynjólfr (the Old) arrived in Iceland; later Ketill goes abroad and when he returns sets up home at Arneiðarstaðir within his land claim. In Droplaugarsona saga, on the other hand, the brothers live at Húsastaðir in Skriðdalur before Ketill goes abroad; when he returns he buys land to the west of the lake and settles at Arneiðarstaðir, and Atli buys land to the east ‘er nú heitir í Atlavík’ (‘at the place now called Atlavík’) (ÍF XI:140). 2. Véþormr’s family. In Landnámabók, Véþormr is said to be the son of Vémundr the Old, the father of Hólmfastr, and the maternal uncle of Grímr. In Droplaugarsona saga he is the son of Rǫgnvaldr, son of Ketill raumr, and has three brothers, Grímr, Guttomr, and Ormarr. In both sources Grímr takes part in the raids on the Hebrides, but Véþormr goes with him only in the saga. Hólmfastr, who in Landnámabók is the one who captures Arneiðr, is not mentioned in the saga; on the other hand, the saga is alone in mentioning Guttormr and Ormarr. 3. Arneiðr’s price. Landnámabók says that Ketill purchased Arneiðr at twice the price Véþormr had set on her initially, without the actual price being specified. According to Droplaugarsona saga, Ketill got her at a discount because of his friendship with Véþormr, who says, ‘Þú skalt fá hana fyrir hálft hundrað silfrs sakar okkarrar vináttu’ (‘You shall have her for half a hundred of silver on account of our friendship’) (ÍF XI:138). Putting the two texts together, the common core boils down to this: Ketill goes abroad and buys from Véþormr a handmaid called Arneiðr, the daughter of Earl Ásbjǫrn skerjablesi of the Hebrides; on the way home she finds a hidden hoard of silver which they take back with them to Fljótsdalur, and thereafter they live together at Arneiðarstaðir. Both Brand-Krossa þáttr and Fljótsdœla saga also have tales to tell about an ancestor of the Droplaugarsons who wins himself a wife while abroad, though in a rather different fashion from that in Landnámabók and Droplaugarsona saga. For one, the hoard of silver is gone and no more is said of it in ancient sources. In its place we get accounts bearing the hallmarks of adventure tales, in which men rescue their future wives from the hands of trolls and giants, along with ‘gull ok silfr ok gersimar’ (‘gold and silver and jewels’) in Brand-Krossa þáttr (ÍF XI:190), or ‘stórfé’ (‘great wealth’) in Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:232). In Brand-Krossa þáttr, a farmer called Grímr from Vík in Vopnafjörður loses his precious brindled ox with cross markings on its head into the sea and becomes so depressed that his brother Þorsteinn from Öxarfjörður suggests he go abroad to recover his spirits. The brothers go to Norway with sheepskin cloaks and arrange a deal with a man called Kárhǫfði. This man lives with a farmer called Geitir, who he tells them is ‘vel auðgan ok inn bezta í skuldum’ (‘very well off and with an excellent credit rating’) (ÍF XI:188). Grímr hands over all his goods to Kárhǫfði and goes with his brother to stay with a farmer called Þórir in Trondheim. 

188 A little while later they set off to look for Geitir. No one knows anything about him, except that an old man in an isolated valley knows of some cliffs called Geitishamrar and points them off in that direction. In a cave in the rock face they find Kárhǫfði ‘kompán sinn’ (‘their business associate’) (188), who invites them into the living room. There they see the intact skin of the ox Brandkrossi and recognize their sheepskins on the men who are sitting in the room. The proprietor of the cave is Geitir, who has a wife and a daughter called Droplaug. Geitir cheers Grímr up by offering him generous compensation for his ox, which he had lured there by magic, as well as his daughter and lots of money besides. Grímr is happy to accept and they all sleep together in a single bed throughout the winter, the brothers and Droplaug, and love blossoms between Grímr and Droplaug. When spring arrives Droplaug is sent off with a rich dowry and they sail back to Iceland. The þáttr ends by tracing the line of descent from Grímr and Droplaug to Helgi and Grímr Droplaugarson (see p. 193). Geitir is not a common name in ancient texts but it would presumably have been familiar to the ears of the people of Vopnafjörður, who had once had a powerful neighbor by the name of Geitir Lýtingsson. Vápnfirðinga saga includes an account of how this Geitir and his then friend Brodd-Helgi once provided a group of merchants with winter lodgings, and so it is not beyond imagination that the events in the þáttr are supposed to call up some kind of mental associations with the ‘real’ Geitir Lýtingsson, who was related through marriage to the Droplaugarsons on their mother’s side (see p. 192). The þáttr makes no bones about being intended primarily as entertainment rather than as a reliable historical record: ‘Þessa rœðu segja sumir menn til ættar Droplaugarsona, þeirar er ókunnari er. En þótt sumum mǫnnum þykki hon efanlig, þá er þó gaman at heyra hana’ (‘This story is ascribed by some people to the side of the Droplaugarsons’ family that is less well known. But even though some people doubt its veracity, it is still fun to hear it’) (ÍF XI:186). The world of the þáttr lies a long way from the spirit of realism generally associated with the sagas of Icelanders and closer to the world of the legendary sagas, where trolls and monsters are an everyday occurrence. However, the troglodytic Geitir has his home somewhere up an isolated valley in Norway and thus offers no threat to the realistic world view of the sagas in Iceland. Once in Iceland, Geitir’s daughter lives firmly in the world of men. [8]  Fljótsdœla saga also moves outside the realistic framework of the sagas of Icelanders in its tale of how Þorvaldr, the son of Þiðrandi the Old of Njarðvík, goes abroad following a financial disagreement with his brother Ketill. Þorvaldr is shipwrecked on Shetland and spends the winter in a menial position at the hall of Earl Bjǫrgólfr. As the midwinter yule feast approaches, despondency settles over the household. No one will tell Þorvaldr why this should be, but he has a dream in which he takes his spear and goes out along the shoreline past some rocks until he comes to a cave, where he finds a woman chained, whom he releases and takes away with him; but he wakes up in terror when he realizes he is being pursued by some kind of living being. The earl is deeply affected when Þorvaldr recounts his dream to him, and tells him that his daughter Droplaug had disappeared the previous yule, carried off by a giant called Geitir who lives in a cliff called Geitishamarr in the mountain Geitissúlur and is the greatest curse in all of Shetland. Þorvaldr now seeks out the cave, finds Droplaug, and makes off with her. A little later the giant Geitir returns home and sets off in pursuit, but Þorvaldr kills him with his own swords and takes Droplaug back to her father’s house. Later, goods are recovered from the cave, including the things lost by Þorvaldr and his shipmates in the shipwreck. A year later Þorvaldr gets Droplaug as his wife, turns down an earldom in Shetland, and sails home to Iceland with great wealth and his wife, together with her mother Arneiðr and her mother’s brother Grímr. Grímr buys himself land at Gil in Jökulsdalur and Þorvaldr sets up home at

189 Vallholt to the west of the lake at Lagarfljót. His mother-in-law takes ‘við búi fyrir innan stokk’ (‘over the running of the house itself’) (233) and so the place becomes known as Arneiðarstaðir. It is interesting that, with his last breath, the giant Geitir puts a curse on the sword: ‘Verði þeim sízt gagn at, er mest liggr við’ (‘May it be of least help to them [the relatives of Þorvaldr] when the need is greatest’) (ÍF XI:229). In Droplaugarsona saga (ÍF XI:157-8, 164) it comes out that Helgi Droplaugarson does not have his usual sword with him when he is killed, having left it at Eyvindará for sharpening and borrowed another in its place. In a footnote Jón Jóhannesson comments that the writer of Fljótsdœla saga assumes that Helgi Droplaugarson’s sword is the same one that Þorvaldr got from the giant. It is not really permissible to link saga texts in the way Jóhannesson does, but it is tempting to turn the whole matter on its head and ask whether the Droplaugarsona saga account of Helgi leaving his sword behind might have provided the inspiration for stories about its being cursed. It should be noted that later in Fljótsdœla saga (235) it is made clear that Þorvaldr’s sword has magical properties, for Droplaug asks him to leave it behind at home before he sets out on his final journey — since it would be of no help to him anyway. The saga breaks off before the point at which Helgi Droplaugarson is killed and so it is not possible to say whether there was any reference to Geitir’s curse at this point in the Fljótsdœla saga account. Though different in most respects, Fljótsdœla saga and Brand-Krossa þáttr are clearly linked by the names of Droplaug and Geitir the giant. The two Droplaugs seem to have similar personalities. In the þáttr she is described as ‘væn kona ok stórmannlig, umsýslumikil ok drenglunduð ok ómálug. Hon var stórlát ok staðlynd, ef í móti henni var gǫrt, fálát ok fengsǫ m ok staðfǫst vinum sínum, en mjǫ k harðúðig óvinum sínum’ (‘a fine-looking and impressive woman, active and noble-minded and reserved. She was strong-willed and unswerving if crossed, composed and unstinting and steadfast toward her friends, but very grim toward her enemies’) (ÍF XI:190). This chimes well with her portrait in Fljótsdœla saga, where the earl warns Þorvaldr about his daughter’s strong character and she is described thus: ‘við aðra menn var hun heldr skapstór, en þess í milli fálát ok steigurlát, en þó var hun afbragð annarra kvenna, bæði at yfirlitum ok atgjörvi’ (‘toward other men [than Þorvaldr] she was rather self-willed, and at other times reserved and haughty, but for all that she stood out from other women both for appearance and attainment’) (ÍF XI:232). Later she is described as ‘ríkilát’ (‘headstrong,’ ‘assertive’) (233). Though the only word common to both descriptions is ‘fálát’ (‘reserved’), it is clear that in many respects they are describing similar personal characteristics, which the audiences were probably meant to associate with Droplaug’s supernatural parentage in the þáttr and her time spent in captivity with the giant in the saga.

*  The account in Fljótsdœla saga shares with Droplaugarsona saga the fact that the female protagonist is an earl’s daughter (from the Hebrides here, rather than from Shetland) and the appearance of the names Arneiðr and Grímr, in both cases in connection with the ancestors of the Droplaugarsons. However, there are no direct verbal correspondences to indicate that any one of the sagas with a version of this tale was written using any other as its source — with the exception of the Sturlubók redaction of Landnámabók and Droplaugarsona saga, by way of some unknown written source. It therefore seems much likelier that people knew oral stories about some ancestor of the brothers winning a wife in adventurous fashion in a foreign land, but the details had become muddled and varied according to who was telling the story, until no one could say for sure whether the woman in question was Arneiðr, an earl’s daughter taken as spoils of war in the Hebrides, or Droplaug, the daughter of the rock-dweller Geitir in Norway, or Droplaug, the daughter of the earl of Shetland and his wife Arneiðr rescued

190 from a malevolent giant called Geitir. What we have here, then, is an example of a single story appearing in various guises in the preserved texts, a story that changes and develops according to the knowledge and stylistic preferences of the individual saga writers who clothed their oral learning in written form. This kind of variation can hardly be explained other than as the result of a common oral tradition behind all the texts — which by no means excludes the possibility that written texts may have acted as the inspiration for new oral tales, as may be the case with the story in Fljótsdœla saga of the curse laid upon what was later to become Helgi Droplaugarson’s sword.

The drowning of Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s first wife Both Droplaugarsona saga and Fljótsdœla saga give accounts of how the first wife of Helgi Ásbjarnarson drowns when the ice gives way underneath her on the lake of Lagarfljót: Droplaugarsona saga (ÍF XI:142-4) Helgi Ásbjarnarson lives at Oddsstaðir with his wife Droplaug Spak-Bersadóttir. They have several children. Droplaug’s mother Ingibjǫrg is in childbed and Droplaug goes to Bersastaðir with gifts of food. With her she has a pair of slaves to drive a sledge pulled by two oxen. ‘Droplaug var eina nótt uppi þar, því at mannboð skyldi vera á O[rm]sstǫðum einni nótt síðar, en þat var litlu fyrir várþing. Þá fóru þau heim ok óku eptir ísi. Ok er þau kómu út um Hallormsstaði, þá fóru þrælarnir í sleðann, því at uxarnir kunnu þá heim. En er þau kómu á víkina fyrir sunnan Oddsstaði, þá gingu uxarnir báðir niðr í eina vǫk, ok drukknuðu þau þar ǫll, ok heitir þar síðan Þrælavík. Sauðamaðr Helga sagði honum einum saman tíðendin, en hann bað hann engum segja. Síðan fór Helgi til várþings. Þar seldi hann Oddsstaði ok keypti Mjóvanes. Fór hann þagat byggðum, ok þótti honum sér þá skjótara fyrnask líflát Droplaugar. Nǫkkuru síðar bað Helgi Ásbjarnarson Þórdísar toddu, dóttur Brodd-Helga, ok var hon honum gefin.’ (‘Droplaug spent one night up there because there was to be a gathering at O[rm]sstaðir the following night; this was a little before the time of the spring assembly. Then they went home and drove along the ice. As they were coming out past Hallormsstaðir, the slaves got into the sledge, because the oxen knew their way home from here. But when they got to the bay south of Oddsstaðir both the oxen went through a hole in the ice and they were all drowned; the

Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:236-40) The Droplaugarsons are being fostered by Bersi, and when Helgi Ásbjarnarson asks for the hand of Bersi’s daughter, Þorlaug, Helgi Droplaugarson is so upset at losing her that he does not attend the wedding. Helgi Ásbjarnarson and Þorlaug set up home at Oddsstaðir and have a daughter called Ragnheiðr. In the third winter Þorlaug weans her daughter and sets off ‘á kynnisleit upp á Bersastaði at finna föður sinn’ (‘on a visit up to Bersastaðir to see her father’) (239). After a week Helgi sends slaves with two oxen to fetch her. ‘Þeir vóru þar um nótt. Þá fell lognsnær um nóttina. Um morgininn fara þau heimleiðis. Þá var Helgi farinn ofan á drang þann, er fram gengr af Oddsstaðahöfða. Sá hann þá, at þeir óku sunnan eptir ísinum ok ofan í vök eina, ok drukknuðu þau þar öll. Þar heitir nú Þrælavík.’ (‘They spent the night there. The night was still and it snowed. In the morning they set off for home. At the time Helgi had gone down to the high rock that stands above the lake out from Oddsstaðahöfði. He saw them driving south along the ice and down into a crack, and they were all drowned. The place is now called Þrælavík [‘Slave Bay’]’) (239). Helgi announces the news publicly and Bersi offers to foster Ragnheiðr so that Helgi might ‘skjótara af hyggja, en þat varð þó ekki’ (‘the sooner forget, but that was not to be’) (239). Two winters later Helgi marries Þórdís todda and she moves to Oddsstaðir, where in the interim he has had a child by his housekeeper.

191 place has since been known as Þrælavík [‘Slave Bay’]. Helgi’s shepherd told him the news in private and he told him to tell no one. Then Helgi went to the spring assembly. There he sold Oddsstaðir and bought Mjóvanes. He moved his household there, thinking that this way he would get over Droplaug’s death the quicker. Some time later Helgi Ásbjarnarson asked for the hand of Þórdís todda, the daughter of Brodd-Helgi, and she was given to him in marriage.’)

Þórdís sends the housekeeper away but brings up the child herself. The next winter Þórdís puts in a request that they sell Oddsstaðir and buy Mjóvanes in its place.

The sagas agree that Helgi’s wife was on her way home from a visit to her parents (to her mother Ingibjǫrg in Droplaugarsona saga, to her father Bersi in Fljótsdœla saga) when she drowns in Þrælavík on the lake at Lagarfljót together with her oxen and two slaves. About the rest of the events leading up to and following on from this tragedy there are significant differences, as follows: Droplaugarsona saga 1. Helgi is married to Droplaug. 2. They have several children. 3. Droplaug visits her mother Ingibjǫrg with gifts of food while she is in childbed. 4. Two slaves go along with the sledge, which is drawn by two oxen. They stay one night. 5. A shepherd sees the accident and tells Helgi, who asks him not to tell anyone else. 6. Helgi sells Oddsstaðir to help him forget Droplaug.

Fljótsdœla saga 1. Helgi is married to Þorlaug, to the displeasure of Helgi Droplaugarson. 2. They have a single daughter, Ragnheiðr. 3. In her third winter Þorlaug weans Ragnheiðr and visits her father. 4. After a week, Helgi sends slaves and two oxen to collect his wife. 5. Helgi sees the accident himself and announces the news publicly.

6. Bersi offers to foster Ragnheiðr to help Helgi forget Þorlaug. 7. Two winters later Helgi marries Þórdís todda, 7. Some time later Helgi marries having in the meantime had a child by his Þórdís todda and she moves with him housekeeper, and the next winter they move to to Mjóvanes. Mjóvanes. From this comparison it becomes apparent just how little the two texts agree on specific details, details that ought really to remain the same if this were a case of direct use of written sources, e.g. the name of the wife, the number of children, the purpose and length of the visit, who witnessed the accident, and the means employed to help Helgi get over his grief. One thing that is clear, however, is that Fljótsdœla saga provides a large amount of additional material. Here we find an explanation for the deep personal hatred between Helgi Ásbjarnarson and Helgi Droplaugarson, viz. that the former had married the girl the latter had set his heart on (even if he was only 12 years old at the time). The saga also extends Helgi’s history at Oddsstaðir by having him stay on there and have a child by his housekeeper in between wives; this then

192 provides an opportunity for demonstrating Þórdís’s nobility of spirit when she accepts the child and sends its mother off well provided for. Both these incidents shed light on the characters’ circumstances and spell out what might have been unstated background knowledge in the less detailed account in Droplaugarsona saga: that the two Helgis fell out over a matter of the heart, and that Þórdís todda was a woman of great spirit and strength of mind who came into her own the moment she got free of her bullying brother at Hof, cf. Fljótsdœla saga’s description of her prior to her marriage to Helgi: ‘Hun var skapstór ok skörungr mikill, skafinn drengr ok líklig til góðs forgangs, en þó var hun lítils virð heima’ (‘She was a woman of determination and spirit, a woman of her word and likely to prove a good leader, though she was little valued at home’) (ÍF XI:239). This picture of Þórdís’s miserable treatment in her family home is reflected later in the saga when Helgi Ásbjarnarson urges her not to surrender Gunnarr Þiðrandabani to the mercies of her brother: ‘Máttu ok muna, hversu mikils þú vart virð, meðan þú vart heima. Vartu þá í einum sloppi ok gekkt þar fyrir búi. Sá ek þig ekki betr haldna en eina ambátt, áðr en ek tók við þér’ (‘You might also remember how little respect you were shown while you lived at home. All you had was a single shift to wear as you went about the running of the household. I saw you being kept no better than a slave girl before I took you on’) (282). The expanded narrative in Fljótsdœla saga ties in with what appears to be its general policy of providing fuller details of the characters and events than we find in the comparable texts, suggesting that the writer was unable to assume the same degree of background knowledge of his audience as the writers of these other texts (see p. 182). But all things considered, it seems likelier that the writer of Fljótsdœla saga got his information on how Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s wife drowned in Þrælavík from hearing stories about it rather than from reading about it in Droplaugarsona saga.

Helgi Droplaugarson kills Þorgrímr torðyfill Fljótsdœla saga and Droplaugarsona saga again treat comparable material in their accounts of Helgi Droplaugarson’s killing of Þorgrímr torðyfill (‘Dung-Beetle’), a resident laborer of Þórir of Mýnes, as a result of slanders spread by Þorgrímr about his mother Droplaug. But the circumstances of the killing, and the events leading up to it and following on from it, are reported very differently in the two sources: Droplaugarsona saga (ÍF XI:144-7) One autumn Þórir’s domestic workers are sitting around the fire at Mýnes discussing women. The general opinion is that Droplaug ranks higher than most women in the district but then Þorgrímr torðyfill puts in, ‘ef hon hefði bónda sinn einhlítan gǫrt’ (‘if she’d kept herself to her husband’) (144-5). No one else has ever heard anything compromising about her and Þórir, as head of the household, tells the men to watch their tongues. A certain Þorfinnr passes this chitchat on to Droplaug. She says nothing immediately, but a short time later she tells her sons about it and asks them not to seek vengeance. At the time Helgi is thirteen and Grímr twelve. A little later they go to visit their aunt Gróa at Eyvindará, saying

Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:240-56) Þorgrímr torðyfill, a freedman, domestic worker and kinsman of Þórir of Mýnes is sitting by the fire one autumn with Þórir and his workers. Þórir has long been without a wife and Þorgrímr initiates a discussion about whether any woman has run a household as handsomely after her husband died as Þórir has his. Droplaug’s name is mentioned, to which Þorgrímr responds that that might have been the case if she had not lain with the slave Svartr and had her son Helgi by him. Þórir tries to hush this up but word gets to Arneiðarstaðir where Droplaug takes offense and goads Helgi, then aged twelve, to do something about it. Helgi and Grímr, aged ten, just laugh and amuse

193 they intend to hunt ptarmigan, but they then go on to Mýnes and ask after Þórir, who is away, and his domestic staff. An unintroduced man called Ásmundr is doing the hay along with Þorgrímr, and when he sees the brothers approaching they unbridle the horse from the hay sled and Þorgrímr tries to get on and escape but Helgi shoots him with a spear. Ásmundr goes home in terror and the brothers go back to Gróa, who sends them on to Arneiðarstaðir after asking them what they have caught, to which Helgi replies: ‘Vit hǫfum veitt torðyfil einn’ (‘We’ve only caught a single torðyfill’) (146). When Þórir returns that afternoon he shows little interest and turns the matter over to Helgi Ásbjarnarson on the grounds that Þorgrímr had been his freedman. Droplaug sends the boys to Geitir Lýtingsson at Krossavík but they lose their way in a supernatural blizzard and find themselves going sunwise [east to west] around SpaBersi’s shrine to the gods. He tells them that the storm is the result of the gods’ anger at their having gone sunwise round the temple and at failing to announce the killing of Torðyfill in the legally prescribed manner. They make atonement and go on to Krossavík. The following spring Þorkell Geitisson and Helgi Ásbjarnarson agree a settlement, leaving Helgi Droplaugarson feeling that the slander remains unavenged. He gets legal training from Þorkell and uses this to pick quarrels with Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s client farmers.

themselves hunting ptarmigan. As winter draws on, the boys set out one night with their hunting tackle to Eyvindará and from there to Mýnes, where they see Þorgrímr working on a load of hay along with one of the household retainers. The boys are recognized; the retainer reckons they present no danger, but Þorgrímr is frightened of their marksmanship and rides away. Helgi hurls a spear at him that goes right through him. The brothers go on to Eyvindará but the retainer carries on with this work, leaving Þorgrímr sitting dead on his horse until the end of the day, when he finally tells Þórir what has happened. Þórir sets out immediately but by now Gróa has sent her kinsmen home to Arneiðarstaðir, where their mother welcomes them and asks about the hunting. Helgi replies: ‘Smátt er í veiðum, móðir, veidda ek tordýfil einn’ (‘Not much of a catch, mother, I only caught a single torðyfill’) (247). Þórir and Gróa reach a settlement, but at this point Þorgrímr’s brother Nollarr turns up and wants to get Helgi Ásbjarnarson involved in the case. Helgi refuses and so Nollarr tries to whip up Bersi against his foster son by telling him that he is now seducing Helga of Skeggjastaðir, for whom Bersi has had a special fondness. Nollarr’s plans come to nothing, but as a result of his intervention Helgi loses Helga and never looks at another woman as long as he lives.

These two passages share more material than was the case in the drowning of Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s wife: 1. The slander of one of Þórir of Mýnes’s domestic retainers, Þorgrímr torðyfill, that Droplaug has been unfaithful to her husband, reaches the ears of Droplaug and her sons. 2. Helgi and Grímr have a reputation as keen ptarmigan hunters. 3. Helgi kills Þorgrímr with a spear as Þorgrímr tries to make his getaway from the haymaking on horseback. 4. Helgi and Grímr visit their kinswoman Gróa at Eyvindarstaðir on their way. 5. Reparation is made for Þorgrímr by: a. in Droplaugarsona saga, Þorkell Geitisson paying money to Helgi Ásbjarnarson (Þorgrímr being his freedman); b. in Fljótsdœla saga, Gróa paying money to Þórir of Mýnes.

194 If we look beyond the correspondences of material, the only point of diction that might indicate literary relations occurs in Helgi’s reply when asked how the hunting has gone (italicized in the summaries above): ‘Vit hǫfum veitt torðyfil einn’ (‘We’ve only caught a single torðyfill’ [i.e. dung-beetle, i.e. Þorgrímr]), said by Helgi to Gróa in Droplaugarsona saga (ÍF XI:146); [9] and ‘Veidda ek tordýfil einn’ (‘I only caught a single torðyfill’), said by Helgi to his mother in Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:247). A rejoinder of this kind can, however, hardly constitute proof of a literary relationship, least of all when not uttered by, or in this case to, the same person. As is copiously attested, famous remarks of this sort can be preserved more or less intact in oral transmission even when the stories around them alter. The names of the corresponding characters in each saga are the same, only Droplaugarsona saga is more precise in that: 1. It supplies the name Þorfinnr for the man who tells Droplaug about Þorgrímr’s slander; Þorfinnr has no other function in the saga. 2. It names Ásmundr as the farmhand who is working on the hay with Þorgrímr. Ásmundr does not appear elsewhere in the saga and in fact plays a much less important role than the unnamed farmworker in Fljótsdœla saga, who we accompany throughout the day on a range of outdoor chores — ‘en Þorgrímr sat á baki einart meðan’ (‘with Þorgrímr sitting there on the horse’s back the whole while’) (ÍF XI:247) — before returning to the house and telling Þórir what has happened. Other features in Fljótsdœla saga with no parallels elsewhere are the slave Svartr mentioned in Þorgrímr’s accusations and the long, comic episode about Þorgrímr’s brother Nollarr. In this coda to the story, however, Fljótsdœla saga works in with notable skill the idea that at the heart of Helgi Droplaugarson’s problems lie unresolved disappointments in love after suffering, aged only twelve, the loss of the two girls who were dearest to him: first the daughter of his foster father Bersi, who is married off to Helgi Ásbjarnarson; and second Helga Þorbjarnardóttir of Skeggjastaðir, who refuses to accompany him to Eyvindará because she suspects that Nollarr will misrepresent her in front of Bersi. After this experience, the saga says, Helgi Droplaugarson never looked at a woman again. At first sight it might appear that the Þorgrímr torðyfill episode in Fljótsdœla saga is the work of a conscious author, created by adding to and filling in on the picture given in Droplaugarsona saga. Thus we might imagine the author improvising on the conversation around the fire at Mýnes and spicing it up by making Þorgrímr’s remarks even more unambiguous, and providing a more explicit description of Þorgrímr’s innate nastiness, which in Droplaugarsona saga comes across entirely through his actions: now he is also said to be ‘lítill maðr vexti ok kvikligr, orðmargr ok illorðr, heimskr ok illgjarn, ok ef hann heyrði nökkurn mann vel látinn, þæstist hann í móti ok mátti þat eigi heyra, ok varð hann þeim öllum nökkura flýtu at fá’ (‘small in stature and with quick movements, garrulous and disparaging, stupid and malicious, and if he heard good things being said about anyone he would puff himself up and refuse to hear, and would always have to come back with some put-down’) (ÍF XI:240). However, there are certain points that argue specifically against such an interpretation: 1. Droplaugarsona saga supplies the names of Þorfinnr and Ásmundr, while the corresponding characters in Fljótsdœla saga remain nameless. 2. The ages of the brothers are given differently: thirteen and twelve in Droplaugarsona saga; twelve and ten in Fljótsdœla saga (which, however, attributes to Helgi significant experience in affairs of the heart at the time of this episode). 3. The time scales are different: in Droplaugarsona saga the whole affair takes place within a comparatively short period; in Fljótsdœla saga the brothers allow things to drift on toward winter before they decide to act.

195 4. Following the killing of Þorgrímr, the two sagas give different details of the people involved in the settlement, and in Fljótsdœla saga there is the added burlesque episode about Þorgrímr’s otherwise unknown brother, Nollarr. Other perhaps than Helgi’s reply regarding the hunting, there are no correspondences of diction in the Droplaugarsona saga and Fljótsdœla saga accounts of the killing of Þorgrímr torðyfill that might suggest any kind of literary relationship. So the conclusion remains unaltered: that these texts are obviously related, but this relationship most probably goes back to an oral tradition in which people told stories about the two young ptarmigan hunters from Arneiðarstaðir who attacked the freedman Þorgrímr torðyfill of Mýnes and killed him in revenge for derogatory remarks he had made about their mother. Beyond this, there was nothing in any of the sources to specify how this killing fitted into the overall scheme of the lives of the Droplaugarsons as reconstructed so carefully in the saga we now know and which bears their name. It is precisely the whole — the overall saga — that does not achieve fixed form until set down on the page; up to this point we can only assume the existence of individual, unconnected, and fluid stories about the heroes people chose to tell their stories about.

Gunnarr Þiðrandabani About Gunnarr Þiðrandabani and the events leading up to and following on from the killing that kept his name alive we have a specific Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana. The same people and events are also mentioned in Fljótsdœla saga and Laxdœla saga, and Gunnarr is also named as a well-known character in Droplaugarsona saga. In broad outline, the common elements of the story begin with Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr moving from the south of Iceland to the east and taking temporary lodgings with the Kóreksson brothers. He sets up farm on his own but falls into debt and flees from his creditors, taking refuge with Ketill þrymr at Njarðvík. Þiðrandi Geitisson happens to accompany the Kórekssons when they go to summon Ásbjǫrn to court, but things go badly wrong and first Ketill is killed and then Þiðrandi, cut down by a spear thrown by a Norwegian merchant called Gunnarr to avenge his host Ketill. Þiðrandi’s powerful relatives seek vengeance and track Gunnarr down to the home of a man called Sveinki or Sveinungr in Borgarfjörður, but he manages to conceal Gunnarr’s presence by a series of tricks. Gunnarr is passed on to the chieftain Helgi Ásbjarnarson who shelters him into the summer and then sends him on to Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir in the west of Iceland, who gets him out of the country. The main points of this story are shared by all the sources, but their accounts differ so much in other respects that it is worth looking into the connections between them in greater detail. The first place to turn is the improvident builder of drystone walls, Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr himself. Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr. Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr appears in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Fljótsdœla saga: Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (ÍF XI:196-200) Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr turns up one autumn and takes lodgings with Bjǫrn Kóreksson in Skriðudalur. Ásbjǫrn is described as ‘mikill maðr ok svipligr, sterkligr, svartr á hár ok mjǫk hárr, eygðr illa ok langhálsaðr’ (‘a big man and impressive-looking, strongly built, black-haired and very tall, with unpleasant eyes and a long neck’) (196). He claims to be

Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:258-264) Ásbjǫrn, a southerner from Flói in the southwest, has traveled east by way of Rangárvellir and Síða and taken lodgings in Fljótsdalur. He is ‘mikill maðr vexti, dökkr á hárslit, ljótr í andliti ok heldr óþokkuligr’ (‘a big man in stature, dark-haired, ugly of face and rather unappealing’ (258). He is good at building walls and has been five years in

196 from the south of Iceland and to have previously been working for Ásgrímr ElliðaGrímsson. He is taken on and given lodgings by the Kórekssons, and works well for almost three years and builds up some capital. Then he wants to set up farm on his own but accumulates debts, both to the Kórekssons and to a merchant called Þórir Englandsfari who has previously made friends with Þiðrandi, the son of Geitir Lýtingsson, at a horse fight; at this same horse fight Bjǫrn Kóreksson has also made friends with Þiðrandi by giving him the horse that he had pitted against one belonging to Ketill of Njarðvík. Þórir is staying with Brodd-Helgi, who says that so far as he is concerned Ásbjǫrn is ‘óskapfelldr ok hroðavænligr’ (‘not to my taste and likely to cause trouble’) (197). Ásbjǫrn welshes on his debts and absconds to Njarðvík, promising Ketill that this time he will be ‘hagfelldr’ (‘tractable’) (197). The Kórekssons attempt to recover their debts from Ketill, who admits that they are in the right but sees no reason to part with his own money on Ásbjǫrn’s behalf. At the request of his foster son Þiðrandi, Ketill permits the Kórekssons to come in a small group to summons Ásbjǫrn. Þiðrandi is shocked that he should act like this and Ketill accuses him of taking an interest in the case only because of the horse he has been given. Þiðrandi moves away to Krossavík and the Kórekssons decide to go and issue the summons if Þiðrandi will go with them ‘á kynnisleit’ (‘to see what is happening’) (198). That same summer, three of the Kórekssons (Bjǫrn, Þorfinnr, and Halldórr), Þórir the merchant, Þiðrandi, and two other unnamed men go to Njarðvík. Ásbjǫrn sees them coming as he ‘var á mýri nǫkkurri ok gróf torf’ (‘was out in a certain bog digging turfs’) (199); he ‘kastar nú niðr verkfœrum sínum ok tekr á skeiði miklu heim til bœjarins’ (‘now throws down his tools and takes to his feet at great speed home to the farm’) (199). One of the brothers aims a javelin at him and hits him in the belly, but he makes it back into the house with the fire, where Ketill ‘bakaðisk við eldinn’ (‘was roasting himself by the fire’)

Fljótsdalur before things go wrong. He spends the first two years with Þorbjǫrn kóreki, father of Gunnsteinn and Þorkell, at Kóreksstaðir, after which he sets up farm with his pregnant wife and some children at Sauðlækur, later called Hlaupandastaðir. His wealth starts to run out and he deserts his wife and children and moves to Njarðvík, where Ketill takes him on to build walls. The people of Kóreksstaðir provide for his destitute dependants but are unable to recover the rent owed to them. No one likes Ásbjǫrn except Ketill. Þiðrandi now leaves his foster father Hróarr to visit his kinsman Ketill and arrives with six others at Þorbjǫrn’s house. Þorbjǫrn’s sons get Þiðrandi to agree to have a word with Ketill about making Ásbjǫrn available for prosecution. So they ride twenty of them to Njarðvík and see Ásbjǫrn ‘upp í hlíðinni at garðlagi’ (‘up on the hillside laying walls’) (261). Gunnsteinn throws a spear shaft at him ‘með hlátri miklum’ (‘with much laughter’) (261) and it goes through his turned-up kirtle. Ásbjǫrn jumps and ‘tekr þegar skeið heim til bæjar’ (‘takes at once to his feet home to the farm’) (261) and runs ‘í eldaskálann, þar er Ketill bakast’ (‘into the hall with the fire where Ketill is roasting himself’) (261-2), saying that Gunnsteinn’s spear has gone in under one of his arms and ‘út undir annarri’ (‘out under the other’) (262), and urges Ketill to avenge him. Ketill goes out and lays into Þiðrandi, who cuts him to the ground but is wounded himself. After the main encounter Þiðrandi tells Gunnsteinn that Ásbjǫrn has used divination to see how things will turn out and is even now among the fallen stripping ‘mannnáinn einn’ (‘one of the corpses’) (264). Gunnsteinn runs over and hacks Ásbjǫrn in two through the middle.

197 (199), and urges Ketill to avenge him. This is the last we hear of Ásbjǫrn. There are correspondences at three points in this story that might be taken as indications of a direct literary relationship between the two texts: 1. In the description of Ásbjǫrn himself, both sagas agree on his origins (‘sunnlenzkr,’ ‘from the south of Iceland’) and the main features of his character and appearance, but they do not use the same words except in the general and formulaic phrase ‘mikill maðr’ (‘a big man’). This formula — by which I mean a fixed combination of words used in similar circumstances — appears countless times in the sagas and is thus of questionable value for positing literary relations. 2. The texts also agree in the formulaic expression taka á skeiði/taka skeið (‘take to one’s feet,’ ‘run’). In Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana it says that Ásbjǫrn ‘tekr á skeiði miklu heim til bœjarins’ (‘takes to his feet at great speed home to the farm’); in Fljótsdœla saga the actual words used are ‘tekr þegar skeið heim til bæjar’ (‘takes at once to his feet home to the farm’). The expressions gera skeið and renna skeið (‘run,’ ‘put on a spurt,’ usually for a limited distance) are fairly common in the sagas, but taka skeið occurs only in Þórðar saga kakala in Sturlunga saga (317:479), in Magnússona saga in Heimskringla (27:739), and, among the sagas of Icelanders, in the D text of Hrafnkels saga (i.e. in the version found as part of a compilation with Fljótsdœla saga in Mánaskálar/Grafarkotsbók, AM 551 c 4to) in the passage describing Sámr’s attack on Hrafnkell at Aðalból at the beginning of chapter 11: ‘Nú taka þeir skeið heim at bænum’ (‘Now they set off at a run home to the farm’) (11:1408). [10] So far as this affects the probabilities of a literary relationship with Gunnars saga, it is therefore necessary to bear in mind that the expression taka skeið was part of the vocabulary of the writer of Fljótsdœla saga long before he found himself needing to find a way to describe Ásbjǫrn’s sprint back to the farm at Njarðvík. There is thus no need to assume that he got the formula from Gunnars saga at this point; the example might even be used to argue that Gunnars saga is the recipient here, though this would probably conflict too radically with all our general ideas about the ages of the sagas to be considered in any way plausible (see also p. 240). Attention should also be paid to the nuances of usage of the formula; at both places in the composite Hrafnkels saga/Fljótsdœla saga in AM 551 c 4to the form is taka skeið, while in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana it appears as taka á skeiði, a difference which might rather be taken to suggest that what we have here are independent uses of a formula in each saga. However, some kind of literary relationship cannot be ruled out entirely, especially since in both cases the formula turns up in the same context, i.e. followed by the phrase ‘heim at bœnum/til bœjar(-ins)’ (‘home to the farm’). 3. The third formula is bakask við eld (‘roast, toast [lit. ‘bake’] oneself by the fire’). In both accounts Ketill is said to have been ‘bakask við eld’ (‘roasting himself by the fire’) when Ásbjǫrn rushes in and urges him to avenge him. The expression, and the activity, is not uncommon in the sagas. However, Ketill’s sitting over the fire is fully motivated in Fljótsdœla saga, where he has previously been said to be subject to frequent fits of the shivers; this perhaps implies that Ketill is not fully in control of his actions at this point, which may explain why he lays into his well-loved kinsman Þiðrandi the moment he gets outside. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana has nothing comparable about any such instability in Ketill’s character; here his warming himself by the fire is used to prefigure his death, for he ‘kenndi ekki heitt af eldinum ok kvazk þat undarligt þykkja’ (‘felt no heat from the fire and said he found this uncanny’) (ÍF

198 XI:200). The two texts thus make very different uses of the ideas inherent in the formula ‘bakast við eld.’ There are thus an unusual number of verbal correspondences in the two accounts of Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr, even if they are largely formulaic, and so it is hardly possible to rule out some kind of literary relationship entirely. Nevertheless, the points on which the sagas disagree are far greater in number and seem more compelling in nature: Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana 1. Ásbjǫrn goes to Bjǫrn Kóreksson at Skriðudalur and stays there working for him for two winters. 2. Ásbjǫrn is in his third winter in the east. 3. Ásbjǫrn builds up debts to the Kórekssons and fails to pay Þórir Englandsfari. 4. Ásbjǫrn is given lodgings by Ketill, who refuses to part with money on his behalf and permits him to be summonsed. 5. Þiðrandi is Ketill’s foster son but, to Ketill’s displeasure, he accepts a gift from the Kórekssons. 6. During the summer Þiðrandi goes to Krossavík. 7. There are three Kórekssons, Bjǫrn, Þorfinnr, and Halldórr. 8. The party bearing the summons to Njarðvík consists of the Kórekssons, Þórir, Þiðrandi, and two unnamed — seven in total. 9. Ásbjǫrn sees the summonsing party coming and runs back to the farm from digging turfs. 10. An unnamed Kóreksson throws a javelin into Ásbjǫrn’s belly and out the other side. 11. No more is said of Ásbjǫrn after he tries to goad Ketill into action with a javelin sticking out of his guts.

Fljótsdœla saga 1. Ásbjǫrn arrives in Fljótsdalur and spends two winters working for Þorbjǫrn kórekr at Kóreksstaðir. 2. Ásbjǫrn is in his fifth winter in the east. 3. Ásbjǫrn deserts his pregnant wife and his children and fails to pay the Kórekssons his rent. 4. Ásbjǫrn is taken on to build walls by Ketill; unlike most others, Ketill gets on well with Ásbjǫrn. 5. Þiðrandi is Hróarr’s foster son and Ketill’s kinsman and is friends with the Kórekssons. 6. Þiðrandi has recently returned from abroad. 7. Þorbjǫrn kórekr has two sons, Gunnsteinn and Þorkell. 8. Þiðrandi (with six others) and the Kórekssons (20 in total) ride to Njarðvík to have Ásbjǫrn given up for prosecution. 9. Þiðrandi and his men see Ásbjǫrn, who runs back to the farm from building walls. 10. Gunnsteinn Kóreksson throws a spear shaft at Ásbjǫrn and through the folds in his kirtle. 11. Ásbjǫrn is stripping the bodies of the slain when Gunnsteinn rushes up and hacks him to death.

From the comparison above, the conclusion seems inescapable that the connection between these texts can hardly come down to the direct use of written sources — at least, not in the form in which we know them. It appears that both writers knew about this unappealing southerner called Ásbjǫrn from an oral story tradition and were familiar with the details of how he set in motion the course of events that led to the killing of one of the best loved men in the east of Iceland, Þiðrandi Geitisson. In such a tradition, it is perfectly conceivable that the formulas mikill ok sterkr, taka á skeið heim at bæ, and bakask við eld constituted handy tools in the storytellers’ repertoire.

199 There is also the possibility that Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana is an original source that served as the inspiration for other sagas in the east of Iceland (see p. 137) and that these sagas were then used by the writer of Fljótsdœla saga. Counting against this, however, is the familiarity with which the writer of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana refers to people and events. As mentioned earlier in connection with Þorkell Geitisson (p. 162), Þiðrandi is never actually introduced in the saga; instead, it is assumed that the audience realizes that he is a member of the Krossavík clan and thus Þorkell’s brother. This has been criticized as an apparent failure on the part of the writer (see Jóhannesson 1950:xci) but is in fact a typical feature of works written for an audience that is already familiar with the subject matter. In addition, in at least three places the saga makes direct reference to background knowledge of this kind: 1. ‘Nú er þat sumra manna sǫgn, at í þessari ferð hafi verit Helgi Droplaugarson með Þorkatli, frænda sínum, en eigi vitum vér, hvárt satt er’ (‘According to some people, Helgi Droplaugarson was on this expedition with his kinsman Þorkell, but we do not know whether this is true’) (ÍF XI:204; see p. 180). 2. ‘Þar bjó Helgi þá’ (‘Helgi lived there [sc. at Mjóvanes] at the time’) (ÍF XI:207). 3. ‘Ok eigi miklu síðar tókusk til skipti þeira Helga Ásbjarnarsonar ok Gríms Droplaugarsonar, at Helgi var veginn’ (‘And not much later things between Helgi Ásbjarnarson and Grímr Droplaugarson took the turn that Helgi was killed’) (ÍF XI:209). Jón Jóhannesson (1950:lxxxviii) used these passages to argue that the ‘author’ of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana knew either an original version of the saga of the Droplaugarsons or an ‘ævi’ of them (a ‘life,’ i.e. a written biographical synopsis), since, to translate his words: ‘The demands made of the readers at these points are greater than can be allowed for solely by reference to oral sources.’ This is very doubtful: the demands made can hardly be viewed as enormous and there seems no real reason not rather to assume a purely orally based background. Jóhannesson’s argumentation is particularly complex and requires the acceptance of a large number of unknowns. To start with, he has to posit an original version of Droplaugarsona saga rather different from the one we have now. Then, to explain the large number of differences between this — a saga we cannot be sure ever existed in written form — and Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, he is forced to hypothesize that the ‘author’ of the latter based his work on the former solely through memory. The appeals made to memory become even greater when we bear in mind that the text was written for a particular readership and needed to take their knowledge into account too. So, to take Jóhannesson’s premises a step further, even if the writer had read this particular (hypothetical) text, which could hardly have existed in many copies, it stretches credulity beyond breaking point to suppose that the entire intended audience for his newly written saga would also have known this same text through ‘background reading’ — a text that the ‘author’ himself had forgotten large parts of. To further complicate the matter, Droplaugarsona saga itself assumes a familiarity with Gunnarr the Norwegian on the part of its audience in a passage where it describes Grímr’s journey abroad after he is declared guilty of killing Helgi Ásbjarnarson. Grímr has found a ship and arrived at Sogn in Norway: ‘Þá mælti Þorkell stýrimaðr við Grím: “Mat spari ek eigi við þik, en traust hefi ek ekki til at halda þik fyrir Gunnari Austmanni ok engum þeim, er þik vilja feigan”’ (‘Then Þorkell the helmsman said to Grímr, “I don’t begrudge you food, but I don’t trust myself to be able to keep you safe from Gunnarr the Norwegian or any of those who want you dead”’) (ÍF XI:177-8). This is the first and last we hear of Gunnarr the Norwegian in the saga and the audience is patently supposed to know who it is that is being referred to, just as if the reference were to the king himself. It seems very likely, as Jóhannesson points out in a footnote, that this Gunnarr the Norwegian is the same man as Gunnarr Þiðrandabani. But in

200 order to understand the threat he poses to Grímr in Norway the audience needs to know the story that is told in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana. Here literary relations are out of the question: on the one hand, such an approach would require us to believe that the ‘author’ of Droplaugarsona saga is referring at this point to the written saga of Gunnarr; on the other, we have the widely accepted view, the view of Jóhannesson himself, that the ‘author’ of Gunnars saga used Droplaugarsona saga as a source. This leads us into a vicious circle from which there is no obvious way out. A more plausible explanation for the familiarity with which Droplaugarsona saga refers to Gunnarr the Norwegian, and also the allusions in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana to the subject matter of Droplaugarsona saga, is that both works are making reference to an orally based body of knowledge of this material, knowledge that was available to both the writers and their audiences. We can therefore say with some confidence that each of Droplaugarsona saga, Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, and Fljótsdœla saga probably drew on material from oral tradition, and this in turn reduces the likelihood that the oral story matter in Fljótsdœla saga comes mainly by way of written sagas — though it by no means rules out the possibility that people’s appreciation of oral narratives may have been enhanced by the knowledge that the stories they heard contained material that they also knew existed elsewhere in written form in books, even if they may never have seen or read these books themselves. The killing of Þiðrandi. Þiðrandi Geitisson is killed in the same sources as tell about Ásbjǫrn vegghamarr, that is Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Fljótsdœla saga. As already described (p. 194), he is introduced differently in these two texts, as the foster son either of Ketill of Njarðvík in Gunnars saga (which does not mention that Ketill is the brother of Þiðrandi’s mother), or of Hróarr Tungugoði in Fljótsdœla saga (which provides comprehensive details of all Þiðrandi’s genealogy and circumstances). As also noted, the events leading up to Þiðrandi’s participation in the Kórekssons’ journey to Njarðvík to serve the summons on Ásbjǫrn are also described differently in the two sources. In light of this, it is worth comparing how the sources deal with the killing of Þiðrandi itself. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (ÍF XI:200-1) Egged on by Ásbjǫrn, Ketill loses his cool and rushes outside with spear in hand. Þiðrandi asks his men to spare his foster father. Ketill runs at Bjǫrn Kóreksson and thrusts his spear into him. Þórir Englandsfari then gives Ketill a fatal wound but is himself cut down by Ketill’s own men. When two of Ketill’s men, Þjóðgeirr and Þórir bringr, have been killed, Þiðrandi and his companions, five in total, want to ride away. At this point one of Ketill’s servant women runs indoors and urges the Norwegian merchants Gunnarr and Þormóðr to avenge her master. Gunnarr goes outside and asks which man would be the greatest loss among the attackers: ‘“Þat er hann Þiðrandi,” segir hon, in auma kona’ (‘“That’s him, Þiðrandi,” she says, the wretched woman’) (200-1). Gunnarr throws a spear into Þiðrandi’s back and it pierces through him. The lady of the house, Þorgerðr, and her sons lament this deed, but Gunnarr

Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:262-5) Egged on by Ásbjǫrn, Ketill jumps up ‘við bræði mikla’ (‘in great wrath’) (262), puts on a woolen shirt and goes in silence to his sleeping closet where he gets a helmet, sword, and shield. Once outside, he slashes at Þiðrandi who is on horseback, cutting through both saddle and into the horse. His second blow splits Þiðrandi’s shield. Meanwhile the women call together Ketill’s workmen, twenty all told. Þiðrandi tells his men not to use their weapons on his kinsman Ketill and asks him his terms. Ketill makes no reply and continues to attack Þiðrandi, who gives ground until the sun has started to go down. As Þiðrandi uses his sword to vault backwards over a stream, Ketill slashes at him, dislocating his right shoulder blade and exposing his lungs. So finally Þiðrandi thrusts back at Ketill with his left hand and kills him; then he sits down with the Kórekssons, the only ones still alive among

201 ‘kvað nú svá búit vera mundu’ (‘said that what was done was done’) (201).

his men. Ketill’s men cover his body with earth and go back to the house, exhausted and wounded from the battle. During the evening a housemaid goes to Gunnarr the Norwegian as he sits in his storehouse putting flights on his arrows and urges him to avenge her master. Gunnarr takes up a bow, puts an arrow to the string and asks where Þiðrandi is. She points him out and the arrow pierces his chest and comes out between his shoulders. Gunnarr asks again who it is that the arrow has hit and is told that it is Þiðrandi. At this he says: ‘Seg allra kvenna örmust. Eigi fekk annan mann vinsælla né betr at sér. Hefi ek þeim manni bana unnit, er ek vilda sízt’ (‘You and your wretched tongue, woman! There was never a more popular and accomplished man. I have been the death of the man I would least have wanted to’) (265).

In summary, these accounts agree on the following points: 1. 2. 3.

The names of Ketill, Gunnarr, and Þiðrandi; Both Ketill and Þiðrandi are killed; An unnamed woman urges Gunnarr to kill Þiðrandi.

On everything else each account goes its own way: Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana

Fljótsdœla saga 1. Ketill goes outside with a helmet, 1. Ketill goes outside with a spear. sword, and shield. 2. Þiðrandi asks his men to spare his foster 2. Þiðrandi asks his men to spare his father. kinsman. 3. Ketill kills Bjǫrn Kóreksson. 3. Ketill only attacks Þiðrandi. 4. Ketill is killed by Þórir Englandsfari. 4. Ketill is killed by Þiðrandi. 5. Of Þiðrandi’s men only Þórir is killed, and of 5. Of Þiðrandi’s men all are killed except Ketill’s domestic staff Þjóðgeirr and Þórir bringr the Kórekssons; Ketill’s domestic staff are are killed. wounded. 6. Having been mortally wounded by 6. Þiðrandi and four others ride away. Ketill, Þiðrandi sits on a tussock with the Kórekssons. 7. A servant woman urges Gunnarr and Þormóðr 7. A housemaid urges Gunnarr to take to take action. action. 8. Gunnarr asks who would be the greatest loss 8. Gunnarr asks directly to have Þiðrandi and is told that this would be Þiðrandi. pointed out to him.

202

9. Gunnarr throws a spear into Þiðrandi’s back. 10. Gunnarr is phlegmatic about his deed.

9. Gunnarr shoots an arrow into Þiðrandi’s chest. 10. Gunnarr regrets his deed and holds the woman to blame.

Once again, the differences between the texts are so great that the most obvious explanation is that each is drawing on material from an unfixed and amorphous oral tradition in the background. The central motif of a guest who shoots the person who least warrants it from a party coming to serve a summons has similarities to the scene in Hœnsa-Þóris saga where a Norwegian fires his bow and hits the boy Helgi Arngrímsson on Hœnsa-Þórir’s illfated journey to serve a summons on Blund-Ketill in Örnólfsdalur (see p. 325 ff). Despite there being nothing in the diction to recommend such a connection (other than that the name Ketill appears in all the texts), people have even suggested this may be a case of literary relations: see, for instance, Jóhannesson 1950:lxxxviii. But the circumstances in the eastern sagas are quite different from those in the Örnólfsdalur incident; despite what Gunnarr says afterwards in Fljótsdœla saga, the killing of Þiðrandi can hardly be viewed as in any way accidental or involuntary. In both Fljótsdœla saga and Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana Gunnarr makes direct inquiries about Þiðrandi, either by having him pointed out to him or by asking whose death would constitute the greatest loss to the attackers, and in both cases the bowman is fully aware who it is that he is aiming at. On top of this, in Fljótsdœla saga Þiðrandi is already so badly injured from Ketill’s sword, with an open wound in the back that exposes his lungs, that he would hardly have lived much longer even if Gunnarr had not shot him through the chest with his arrow. It also seems highly improbable that the audience is intended to be taken in by Gunnarr’s expressions of regret addressed to the housemaid when he holds her to blame for having pointed Þiðrandi out to him — since this is precisely what he asked her to do! The underlying idea behind the killing of Þiðrandi is thus quite unlike the incident in Hœnsa-Þóris saga, where the fact that it is an innocent boy who is hit by the Norwegian’s arrow is a matter of pure chance, as in the myth of Hǫðr and Baldr: see p. 325; see also Magerøy 1991. Explanations for the parallels in these texts’ accounts of the expeditions to summons BlundKetill/ Ketill þrymr, in which the person who is most innocent ends up being killed, are thus better sought among ideas about formalized narrative themes and migratory motifs than through appeal to the direct use of written sources. A further dramatic instance of the differences between the sources, and therefore why it is unlikely that one is based on the other, concerns the Kórekssons themselves. Firstly, they are given different names in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and in Fljótsdœla saga; and secondly, the sources disagree on their fate after Þiðrandi is killed — in the former, they simply disappear from the story; in the latter we follow Þorkell and Gunnsteinn as, grievously wounded, they struggle home from Njarðvík. In this account, they get as far as Kiðjahvammur but can go no farther; Þorkell takes off his clothes, whereupon his guts pour out ‘ok lét Þorkell þar líf sitt’ (‘and there Þorkell died’) (ÍF XI:266). Gunnsteinn has become so stiff that he cannot move on but is saved by his father having an ominous dream at home at Kóreksstaðir and sending out a shepherd to look for his sons; the shepherd finds Gunnsteinn, gets him into the saddle and leads him home, where Kórekr tends his wounds. The search for Gunnarr at the home of Sveinki/Sveinungr. As may be imagined, the Norwegian merchant Gunnarr does not get away scot-free after killing the man who Fljótsdœla saga calls ‘hinn fjórði maðr … bezt menntr á öllu Íslandi’ (‘one of the four most accomplished men in all of Iceland’) (ÍF XI:220) — the other three being Kjartan Óláfsson (from Laxdœla saga), Hǫskuldr Þorgeirsson Ljósvetningagoði (Ljósvetninga saga), and Ingólfr the Handsome Þorsteinsson (Vatnsdœla saga), ‘ok er svó mikit af sagt ásjónu þessara manna, at margar konur fengu eigi haldit skapi sínu, ef litu fegrð þeirra’ (‘and this much is said of the looks of these

203 men, that many women were unable to control themselves if they looked upon their beauty’) (221). The first person to take up the case is Þorkell Geitisson, but his part in it varies greatly according to which of the sources one looks at. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (ÍF XI:201-7) Everybody mourns the death of Þiðrandi. Þorkell Geitisson searches for the two Norwegians at Njarðvík but Þorgerðr, the mistress of the house, says that they have been thrown out. Later that winter Þorkell forces Ketill’s sons, Þorkell and Eyjólfr, to admit they are harboring the Norwegians in their goatsheds (by means of killing a calf and using its blood to make Eyjólfr think that his brother has been killeda). With the brothers tied up, Þorkell Geitisson and his men go after the Norwegians; Þorkell kills Þormóðr with a the spear but Gunnarr escapes and flees to Sveinki at farm of Bakki in Borgarfjörður. Sveinki thanks Gunnarr for having avenged his friend Ketill of Njarðvík and hides him under a pile of fuel turfs in an outhouse. Þorkell Geitisson arrives (according to the saga, some say accompanied by Helgi Droplaugarson) and searches Sveinki’s farm. Meanwhile, Sveinki bars the door and spirits Gunnarr away. They go down to the shore, where Sveinki has Gunnarr hide himself under his newly caulked fishing boat and drives a flock of lambs over their tracks to hide them. Þorkell is angry at having been locked in and wants to search under the boat. Sveinki himself goes under the boat and Þorkell’s men jab their spears under it and wound Gunnarr. Somewhat improbably, Sveinki inflicts a cut upon himself and comes out from under the boat with blood pouring from him. Þorkell departs and Sveinki now takes Gunnarr to his barn and hides him in the hay. Þorkell returns swiftly but neglects to search in the barn. Once he is finally gone, Sveinki takes Gunnarr down to the sea and tells him to swim out to a small island offshore and hide himself in the seaweed. There he remains until Sveinki feels confident that Þorkell is not coming back and rows out to fetch him. Sveinki then advises Gunnarr to go to Helgi Ásbjarnarson at Mjóvanes and seek

Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:267-82) Hróarr Tungugoði dies of grief for his foster son. Þorkell Ketilsson builds a funeral mound for his kinsman and those who have died, while others from the family turn their minds to vengeance: Þorkell Geitisson, Bjarni of Hof, Þórdís todda (wife of Helgi Ásbjarnarson), and the Droplaugarsons. As winter approaches, Þorkell Geitisson sets off, accompanied by the Droplaugarsons. In all, eighteen men go on to Njarðvík, picking up Gunnsteinn at Kóreksstaðir on the way. By the time they arrive at Njarðvík, Helgi Droplaugarson has assumed command of the expedition. They get news of Þorkell Ketilsson and his men, capture them and threaten to kill them unless they tell on Gunnarr, who turns out to have been staying through the winter under cover in a tent on the rocky wastes. Þorkell Geitisson is given the task of guarding Þorkell Ketilsson while Helgi goes after Gunnarr, who happens to have gone outside in his linen breeches to relieve himself and sees the trouble on its way. He runs off in bare feet, is wounded by a spear, but swims across the bay and crosses the screes to Borgarfjörður with Helgi and his men coming after him by boat and on foot. Gunnarr meets Sveinungr of Bakki, who hides him in a pile of turfs but expresses no thanks to him for killing Þiðrandi. To put the search party off the scent, Sveinungr sends out his son dressed in white to round up sheep and directs Helgi towards him when he inquires about Gunnarr. While Helgi goes after the boy, Sveinungr hides Gunnarr in the hay in the barn. When Helgi realizes who the shepherd is, he turns back and goes into the barn with Sveinungr while his men open the hatch. Gunnarr remains undiscovered and Helgi sets off home. Gunnarr is put under a boat and his tracks are hidden by driving sheep across them. Helgi suspects he has been deceived and turns back. They search under the boat with their spears but notice nothing, even

204 assistance; to do this, he must arrive in the dark and knock at the north door in a certain way, because then Helgi will come to the door himself. This works and Helgi allows Gunnarr to lie low in one of his outhouses when he hears of how Sveinki has helped him.

though they wound Gunnarr in the thigh. By now Sveinungr has a very ugly look on his face and they make off. Gunnarr is brought indoors and his wounds tended. Helgi’s men call on Sveinungr’s brother Gunnsteinn in Borgarfjörður, who makes them thoroughly unwelcome when he hears about the trouble they have been causing at Bakki. The next day they are already up on the moors when Helgi notices there is blood on his spear and realizes that Gunnarr must have been under the boat after all. But he thinks that getting Gunnarr out of Sveinungr’s hands will be beyond him and decides to continue home. A little later Sveinungr takes Gunnarr to Helgi Ásbjarnarson at Mjóvanes, who accepts him and keeps him safe in a storehouse through the winter.

a. This motif also appears in Víga-Glúms saga: see also Jóhannesson 1950:xc and Cederschiöld 1890, who considers the story of the killing of the calf related to a fable in Disciplina clericalis by the early 12th-century Spanish Jewish writer Petrus Alfonsi. The texts thus agree on several points concerning Gunnarr Þiðrandabani’s flight, notably Sveinki/Sveinungr’s three choices of hiding place at Borgarfjörður — a) in a pile of turf, b) in the hay, c) under a boat — though the order differs. A curious feature of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana is that Sveinki has Gunnarr swim out to the island to hide despite being seriously wounded. This swim is apparently unnecessary, since by this time the chase has been called off. But similar accounts of manhunts occur in several of the sagas, [11] and we can thus assume that this may be a case of a formulaic narrative theme rather than direct borrowing between sagas. The texts also agree that Gunnarr spent time in an ‘útibúr’ (‘outhouse,’ ‘storehouse’) [12] at Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s and was not received formally at the farm — presumably because Helgi’s wife Þórdís todda was closely related to Þiðrandi. Despite these similarities, however, once we consider the points on which they differ it becomes unlikely that there is any very close relationship between the two texts. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana

Fljótsdœla saga 1. Þorkell Geitisson enlists the Droplaugarsons. 1. Þorkell Geitisson searches for the Helgi Droplaugarson forces Þorkell Ketilsson to Norwegians and forces Eyjólfr Ketilsson divulge Gunnarr’s whereabouts. Þorkell Geitisson to divulge their whereabouts. remains behind. 2. There are two Norwegians in the 2. Gunnarr is on his own in a tent and is wounded goatsheds; one is killed while escaping. while trying to escape. 3. The saga gives details of Gunnarr’s swim 3. The route of Gunnarr’s flight down across the bay and his route on foot across the into Borgarfjörður is not described. frozen screes down into Borgarfjörður. 4. Sveinki thanks Gunnarr for having 4. Sveinungr condemns the killing of Þiðrandi. avenged Ketill.

205 5. ‘Some say’ that Helgi Droplaugarson was with Þorkell on the expedition.

5. Helgi is the leader of the expedition.

6. Sveinungr sends Helgi on a wild goose chase 6. Sveinki locks Þorkell indoors while he after his son while he hides Gunnarr under the hides Gunnarr under his boat. boat. 7. Sveinki goes under the boat and inflicts a wound on himself in order to 7. Sveinungr stands by in anger during the search deceive the man who has stabbed under the boat. Gunnarr with his spear. 8. Þorkell never searches Sveinki’s barn. 8. Helgi goes with Sveinungr into the barn. 9. Sveinki gets Gunnarr to swim out to an 9. Sveinungr takes Gunnarr back inside after he island once Þorkell is far enough away. has been wounded under the boat. 10. On his way home, Helgi stays with 10. Nothing is said about Þorkell’s Sveinungr’s brother and sees Gunnarr’s blood on journey home. his spear the next day. 11. Sveinki sends Gunnarr on alone to 11. Sveinungr takes Gunnarr to Helgi Helgi Ásbjarnarson. Ásbjarnarson himself. What stands out above all else here is that the two sagas name different people as the leader of the manhunt, Þorkell Geitisson and Helgi Droplaugarson respectively. Also, the writer of Fljótsdœla saga makes no use of the device found in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana to explain Sveinki’s readiness to help Gunnarr when it has him thank Gunnarr for avenging his friend Ketill; instead, in Fljótsdœla saga Sveinungr is portrayed as lamenting Þiðrandi’s death [13] before finally taking pity on Gunnarr’s desperate plea: ‘Er þat öllum boðit at bjarga sér, meðan hann má’ (‘Everyone has the right to save himself while he can’) (ÍF XI:273) — words reminiscent of those of Hrafnkell in Hrafnkels saga after Sámr’s sequestration of his farm, when he chooses life ‘ef kostr er’ (‘while there’s a chance’) (ÍF XI:121), however unheroic this seems to be. If the writer of Fljótsdœla saga had known Droplaugarsona saga he would also have known that Helgi Droplaugarson spent much time with his friend Sveinungr Þórisson at Bakki in Borgarfjörður in the winter after he succeeded in gaining judgment on his own terms in his case against Helgi Ásbjarnarson (ÍF XI:151-3). For instance, together the two of them killed Bjǫrn of Snotrunes, who had been having an illicit affair with a woman of the district; this Bjǫrn had fostered one of Helgi Ásbjarnarson’s children and so Helgi took on the case against his killers but got nowhere with it, in part as a result of Sveinungr’s sworn testimony. [14] Anyone who had read this episode in Droplaugarsona saga would hardly then have created the character of Sveinungr of Bakki and had him a) conceal a fugitive from his own friend Helgi Droplaugarson, and b) take the fugitive for protection to Helgi Ásbjarnarson. Also, if the writer of Fljótsdœla saga had read Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, it seems singularly clumsy of him not to have availed himself of the motivation provided there for Sveinungr’s willingness to help Gunnarr, i.e. that Gunnarr had been a friend of his friend Ketill of Njarðvík and avenged his killing. In other words, assuming the use of written sources here leads us only into a mare’s nest of contradictions. It is worth noting that Sveinungr is in any case not entirely the creation of the writer of Fljótsdœla saga and that some kind of knowledge of him must have been passed on by tradition, since Landnámabók (S 287, H 248) records that a man called Þórir lína settled and lived in Breiðavík, the next bay to the south of Borgarfjörður, and had two sons, Sveinungr and Gunnsteinn. These are presumably the brothers that the writer of Fljótsdœla saga places in

206 Borgarfjörður and clearly has more information about than he could have got from Landnámabók. There also seems to have been some common conception of the character of the farmer of Bakki, judging from the way he is described in the various sources: Gunnars saga Droplaugarsona saga (ÍF XI:151) Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:273) Þiðrandabana (ÍF XI:203) ‘Sunnan undir hálsinum stendr bær, er heitir á Bakka […] Þar bjó sá maðr, er Sveinungr hét. Hann var kraptamaðr mikill ok átti góða peninga, kvóngaðr maðr ok átti einn son, níu vetra gamlan, þá er þetta varð tíðinda […] Sveinungr var einrænn maðr, ok var ‘Gunnarr kom at bœ þeim, ‘Sveinungr hét maðr, er bjó á mál manna, at hann væri er á Bakka hét, í Bakka í Borgarfirði. Hann var eigi allr þar, er hann var Borgarfirði. Þar bjó sá Þórisson. Hann var mikill maðr ok sénn. En þó var hann góðr maðr, er Sveinki hét, garpr sterkr ok vitr. Hann var vinr Helga þar, er hann vildi, en gjörði mikill ok inn ódælasti Droplaugarsonar.’ (‘There was a við fá eiga.’ (‘South under viðreignar.’ (‘Gunnarr man called Sveinungr who lived at the ridge there stands a farm came to the farm of Bakki Bakki in Borgarfjörður. He was called Bakki […] There in Borgarfjörður. A man the son of Þórir. He was a big man lived a man called lived there called Sveinki, a and strong and wise. He was a Sveinungr. He was a man of sturdy warrior and not a friend of Helgi Droplaugarson.’) great strength and well-toman to be trifled with.’) do, a married man with one son nine years old when this happened […] Sveinungr kept himself to himself and the word was that there was more to him than met the eye. But he treated well those that he chose to, though he kept his nose out of other people’s business.’) There is nothing in these descriptions that invites explanation through a literary relationship between the written texts as we have them. On the other hand, the material allows us to suppose that there were stories going around about a big, strong, and independently minded man who had once lived at Bakki in Borgarfjörður. Some people might have told stories about the time when he bested the big shots of the district by concealing the fugitive Gunnarr Þiðrandabani, either from Þorkell Geitisson or Helgi Droplaugarson, before sending him on to Helgi Ásbjarnarson for protection. Others might have known other stories about this man helping Helgi Droplaugarson against Helgi Ásbjarnarson. Certainly, these two incidents would go together badly within a single written saga but might easily have coexisted in an oral storytelling tradition where the common factor was that this Sveinki/Sveinungr of Bakki was enough his own man to stand up against all the most important chieftains in the east of Iceland

207 — in a way not necessarily consistent with their own stories as they eventually came to be written in books. Helgi Ásbjarnarson shelters Gunnarr and sends him on to Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir — and the question of ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’. Bjarni Brodd-Helgason’s unsuccessful mission to his sister at Mjóvanes to seek out Gunnarr Þiðrandabani is described in detail in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Fljótsdœla saga. The two accounts were compared earlier (pp. 152 f) and found to exhibit no more signs of direct literary relations than the passages analyzed in this chapter. But at this point in the story of Gunnarr’s tribulations the picture is complicated by the addition of a further source, Laxdœla saga (ÍF V:202-4). Here, just as the wedding celebrations of Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir and Þorkell Eyjólfsson are getting under way, it is said that Gunnarr Þiðrandabani had ‘verit sendr Guðrúnu til trausts ok halds; hon hafði ok við honum tekit, ok var leynt nafni hans. Gunnarr hafði sekr orðit um víg Þiðranda Geitissonar ór Krossavík, sem segir í sǫgu Njarðvíkinga’ (‘been sent to Guðrún for security and safekeeping and she had accepted him, and his name was kept secret. Gunnarr had been declared guilty of the killing of Þiðrandi Geitisson of Krossavík, as related in “saga Njarðvíkinga”’) (202). Much scholarly ink has been spilt over this passing mention of an otherwise unknown ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ (‘saga of the house of Njarðvík’). Many have taken the view that this is simply a reference to Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and that therefore the ‘author’ of Laxdœla saga used Gunnars saga as a source. This idea was first put forward in an edition of Laxdœla saga published in Copenhagen in 1826 (xviii, with ‘Þáttur af Gunnari Þiðranda-bana,’ i.e. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, printed in an appendix) and repeated in the introduction to Kålund’s Copenhagen edition (1889-91:lx). Andreas Heusler (1930:215 [1969:326-7]) regarded the connection in the same light, arguing that, since the account in Laxdœla saga was twice the length of the corresponding passage in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, Gunnars saga was the source and the Laxdœla saga account represented an artistic reworking of the material found there. The main dissenting voice was that of Finnur Jónsson. Jónsson (1923:440) saw no reason to view Gunnar saga as the source of the account in Laxdœla saga simply because the latter was longer, the more so since the Laxdœla account contained at least one significant point of substance not found in Gunnars saga. To Jónsson, the account in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana read rather like a synopsis of the material from Laxdœla saga. In a chapter dedicated to Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana — which, despite its Norwegian hero, he classified as an Íslendingaþáttr on the grounds that it is set in Iceland and deals with Icelandic chieftains and their families — Jónsson (1923:544) made the point that the ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ mentioned in Laxdœla saga cannot well be Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana since this would be a singularly inappropriate title for a short saga (or þáttr as he would have it) with a Norwegian as its central character. He did not, however, reject the idea that the story of Gunnarr might have formed a part of such a saga. In his book on the origins of the sagas, Knut Liestøl (1929:41-2) analyzed several examples of parallel accounts of the same incidents in different sagas, including the example from Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Laxdœla saga. Liestøl paid particular attention to the difference in length between the two accounts and to what he felt was a striking difference in the incidence of direct speech — virtually absent in the Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana account but comprising between a quarter and a third of the corresponding passage in Laxdœla saga (nine instances). This he compared with what he viewed as equally striking correspondences in subject matter: both accounts of the scene where Þorkell Eyjólfsson recognizes Gunnarr take place in the evening as people are getting washed, and Gunnarr is wearing a hat and gives a false name. The difference, as Liestøl saw it, lay in the use of literary devices on the one hand and the simpler narrative techniques of oral performance on the other. A little later in his study, Liestøl (1929:47-8) points out that the features that Laxdœla saga has over and above the other sagas have the effect of elevating Guðrún’s part, both in word and deed, in accordance with the

208 general tendency throughout the saga. However, there were so many differences between the texts, e.g. in the use of direct speech and in the part played by Snorri goði, that they could hardly have been grounded in the same tradition, nor was it possible to view Laxdœla saga as an expansion or amplification of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana. Thus, so far as Liestøl was concerned, there was no question of a literary relationship between the two works. These views were vigorously contested by Johannes van Ham (1932:129-32), who felt that the verbal correspondences in the scene where Gunnarr first appears carrying the water for washing were so great that there could be no doubt about the literary dependence between the two accounts. The changes made by the author of Laxdœla saga he considered to be completely natural and thus concluded that there was no reason not to think that ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ and Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana were one and the same thing (1932:132). In his introduction to the Íslenzk fornrit edition, Einar Ól. Sveinsson (1934) discussed the sources of Laxdœla saga, including ‘saga Njarðvíkinga.’ Sveinsson (xxxviii-xxxix) was also in no doubt that this referred to Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (which he calls Gunnars þáttr Þiðrandabana), countering the objection that a ‘þáttr’ should be termed a ‘saga’ in Laxdœla saga on the grounds that this kind of variation in nomenclature was perfectly normal and of no significance. He considered the diction of the two accounts to be so similar and the differences in subject matter so slight that the changes could be put down to ‘authorial taste’ aimed at the greater glory of the heroine (xxxix); for example, in Laxdœla saga it is Guðrún herself who supplies Gunnarr with a ship, as opposed to him having to rely on the help of Snorri goði to get him out of the country as in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana. According to Sveinsson, the most conspicuous differences lay in the actual presentation, the episode in Laxdœla saga being twice as long and more dramatic and impressive than the one in the ‘þáttr,’ which he characterized as little more than a ‘well worded summary’ (1934:xxxix). The fullest discussion of the literary relations of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana is to be found in Jón Jóhannesson’s introduction to Íslenzk fornrit XI (1950:lxxxvi-xcii). [15] To all intents and purposes, Jóhannesson’s conclusions on the relations of the saga to other written works and oral tradition, its chronology and knowledge of local geography, literary values, age, and provenance have been accepted unanimously by others who have written on the saga in general reference books since. Jóhannesson considered the literary relationship with Laxdœla saga to be incontrovertible and that ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ was therefore the extant Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana. He answered what he called the ‘aðalmótbára’ (main counterargument), i.e. the incongruity of the name ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ itself, as if this were merely a matter of length: ‘the counterargument falls down of its own accord, since the þáttr is actually termed a saga in both manuscripts (see p. 211), doubtless going back to the vellum manuscript’ (1950:lxxxvii, translated). (This, of course, sidesteps the main thrust of Finnur Jónsson’s ‘counterargument,’ i.e. that the title ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ accords ill with the subject matter of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana.) As a source, Jóhannesson considered the ‘þáttr’ to be more original and reliable than Laxdœla saga and put the differences down to a desire on the part of the ‘author’ of Laxdœla saga to play up the part of Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir as much as possible. Since it must have been available to the ‘author’ of Laxdœla saga, he believed that the ‘þáttr’ was probably known in Breiðafjörður in western Iceland around or before the middle of the 13th century. The familiarity displayed in the ‘þáttr’ with ‘westerners’ like Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir, Þorkell Eyjólfsson, and Snorri goði Jóhannesson explained as its ‘author’ having known older written sources about these people, such as the extant synoptic biography of Snorri goði, Ævi Snorri goða, and a parallel, postulated *Ævi Þorkels Eyjólfssonar. The name Þórir Englandsfari also appears in the second Halldórs þáttr Snorrasonar, which is generally reckoned to be older than Heimskringla. Jóhannesson takes this as evidence of a further literary relationship, with Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana again as the giver, despite the fact that Halldórs þáttr is set in the middle years of the 11th century, some while later than

209 the events described in Gunnars saga. Jóhannesson (1950:lxxxvii) put this anomaly down to the author of the þáttr overlooking the fact that Þórir had died in the encounter at Njarðvík. On the basis of this supposed connection, Jóhannesson moved the date of Gunnars saga back as early as the first quarter of the 13th century. Jóhannesson sees oral influences in the saga in Þorkell’s threefold search for Gunnarr at Sveinki’s farm and in the killing of the calf when Þorkell forces Eyjólfr Ketilsson to divulge the whereabouts of Gunnarr’s hiding place, an incident which he took to be a mark of clumsiness on the part of the author and probably a legendary motif of foreign provenance (1950:lxxxix). Jóhannesson’s idea that the supposedly poor knowledge of local place names and topography indicated that the saga was written in the west of Iceland has not been subject to thorough reassessment, nor his view that the ‘author’ based his work on stories from the east and that the finished saga was later taken east and acted as the catalyst for the development of saga writing there (1950:xci). But despite this apparent broad scholarly consensus on the literary relations among these sources, it now seems apposite to take the case up afresh and re-examine the three extant accounts of how Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir held a protecting hand over Þorkell Geitisson’s convicted enemy and got him out of the country. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (ÍF XI:209-11) Þorkell Geitisson has Gunnarr declared guilty at the Alþingi. Grímr Droplaugarson kills Helgi Ásbjarnarson and Þórdís todda says ‘at hon vill senda Gunnar vestr til Helgafells til Guðrúnar Ósvífrsdóttur til halds ok trausts, ok skilði hon vel við hann. Ok kom hann vestr þangat í þat mund, er Guðrún var fǫstnuð Þorkatli Eyjólfssyni’ (‘that she wishes to send Gunnarr west to Helgafell to Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir for safekeeping and security, and she parted with him on good terms. He arrived there in the west just at the time that the marriage was being arranged between Guðrún and Þorkell Eyjólfsson’) (209). By this time all of Gunnarr’s property has come into the hands of Þorkell Geitisson. Þorkell Eyjólfsson rides to his wedding at Helgafell: ‘Ok um kveldit, er menn taka handlaugar, þá heldr Gunnarr

Laxdœla saga (ÍF V:202-4)

Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:285-8)

The autumn set for the marriage between Guðrún and Þorkell Eyjólfsson, ‘hafði Gunnarr Þiðrandabani verit sendr Guðrúnu til trausts ok halds; hon hafði ok við honum tekit, ok var leynt nafni hans […] fór hann mjǫk hulðu hǫfði, því at margir stórir menn veittu þar eptirsjár. It fyrsta kveld veizlunnar, er menn gengu til vatns, stóð þar maðr mikill hjá vatninu; sá var herðimikill ok bringubreiðr; sá maðr hafði hatt á hǫfði. Þorkell spurði, hverr hann væri; sá nefndisk svá, sem honum sýndisk. Þorkell segir: “Þú munt segja eigi satt; værir þú líkari at frásǫgn Gunnari Þiðrandabana”’ (‘Gunnarr Þiðrandabani had been sent to Guðrún for security and safekeeping and she had accepted him, and his name was kept secret […] He kept a very low profile because many powerful men were after him. The first evening of the feast,

The Droplaugarsons have Gunnarr’s property guarded and Þorkell Geitisson puts a price on his head and gives ‘höfðingjum umboð, at hann skulu höndum taka. Allir hétu góðu um þetta’ (‘the chieftains a commission to have him arrested. Everyone promised to do as he asked’) (286). This includes Þorkell Eyjólfsson, who lives at Helgafell and is married to Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir. There have been warm feelings between her and Helgi Ásbjarnarson and they have exchanged gifts. Helgi has Gunnarr escorted to Guðrún ‘því at hann var sendr þangat til umsjár ok halds með gnógum jarteiknum’ (‘since he was sent there for care and safe-keeping with ample marks of accreditation’) (286). Guðrún reacts favorably but Þorkell is not at home. ‘Hann hafði heitit Þorkeli Geitissyni at taka Gunnar af lífi, ef hann næði honum’ (‘He had promised

210 Þiðrandabani vatni fyrir boðsmǫnnum ok Þorkatli Eyjólfssyni ok hefir hatt síðan á hǫfði. Þorkell þykkisk kenna manninn ok spyrr hann at nafni. Hann nefndisk því nafni, sem honum líkaði, en eigi því, er hann hét’ (‘And in the evening, when people take bowls to wash their hands, Gunnarr Þiðrandabani holds water for the guests and Þorkell Eyjólfsson and has a hat that hangs down over his head. Þorkell thinks he recognizes the man and asks him his name. He named himself with a name as he saw fit, and not what he was really called’) (210). Þorkell now sends for Guðrún with a message that he wants Gunnarr out of there; if not, he will leave himself. ‘Henni þykkir jafnvel, þótt hon eigi ekki hann Þorkel Eyjólfsson at bónda ok fari hann á brott, sem hann kom. “En ekki vinn ek þat til hans at selja þá menn undir vápn, er ek vil halda”’ (‘[Guðrún says] it is all the same to her if she doesn’t go through with marrying this Þorkell Eyjólfsson and if he goes away just as he came. “And I’m not doing that for him, handing people over to their deaths whom I choose to protect”’ (210). Snorri goði is introduced as a friend of Guðrún’s and it is said that they have altogether a hundred men with them. Þorkell backs down and the marriage goes ahead. Guðrún ‘kom Gunnari Þiðrandabana útan með fulltingi Snorra goða ok leysti hann vel af

when people were going to the water [to wash], there was a big man standing by the water; he was broadshouldered and broad-chested; this man had a hat on his head. Þorkell asked who he was. He named himself, as he saw fit. Þorkell says: “I don’t think you’re telling the truth; from what I’ve heard tell you are more like Gunnarr Þiðrandabani”’) (202). Þorkell presses him to reveal his true identity. Gunnarr does so and asks what he has in mind. ‘Þorkell kvazk þat vilja mundu, at hann vissi þat brátt’ (‘Þorkell said he would let him know soon enough’) (202), and orders his men to arrest him. Guðrún sees what is going on and orders her men to come to Gunnarr’s aid. She has ‘lið miklu meira’ (‘a much bigger band of followers’) (202) and a battle looks imminent. But Snorri goði intervenes and points out to Þorkell that Guðrún has more courage and character than the both of them. ‘Þorkell lézk því hafa heitit nafna sínum, Þorkatli Geitissyni, at hann skyldi drepa Gunnar, ef hann kœmi vestr á sveitir’ (‘Þorkell said he had promised his namesake Þorkell Geitisson that he would kill Gunnarr if he turned up there in the west’) (203). Snorri persuades him there is more to be had from going along with him and Guðrún, as he will not find another wife like her. Þorkell is placated, Gunnarr is taken away, and the feast proceeds. The newlyweds establish a good relationship and in the spring Guðrún asks

Þorkell Geitisson to execute Gunnarr if he could lay his hands on him’) (286). When Þorkell returns ‘síð um aptan’ (‘late in the afternoon’) (286) people are helped out of their outdoor clothes and the fires are lit. He then sees an unfamiliar man, very powerfully built, in a gray hooded cape, and ‘spyrr, hverr sá maðr væri hinn drengiligi. Hann segir til sín ok kveðst Gestr heita’ (‘asks who this noble-looking man might be. He speaks up and says his name is Gestr’ [a common enough name, but also meaning ‘guest’]) (2867). Þorkell says: ‘“Furðu líkr ertu þeim manni at frásögn, er heitir Gunnar ok er kallaðr Þiðrandabani”’ (‘“From what I’ve heard tell, you’re amazingly like the man called Gunnarr, known also as Þiðrandabani”’) (287). Asked how he can be expected to react, he says: ‘Þat skaltu vita brátt’ (‘You’ll know soon enough’) (287) and takes a swipe at Gunnarr with his sword. Guðrún is told what is going on and orders Þorkell to leave the man alone, threatening to divorce him otherwise. She delivers a speech about Gunnarr having been sent to her ‘til halds ok trausts’ (‘for safe-keeping and security’) (287) and that she will protect him like a son until the ships leave Iceland in the summer. Þorkell replies: ‘“Verðr optast engin hæfa á, ef þú ræðr eigi því, sem þú vilt. Verðum vér jafnan lítilmenni af, ef þú hlutast til”’ (‘“Things generally don’t work out unless you get your

211 hendi. Fór Gunnarr útan ok kom aldri til Íslands síðan’ (‘With Snorri goði’s help, Guðrún got Gunnarr Þiðrandabani out of the country and sent him off in style. Gunnarr left the country and came never again to Iceland’) (210). He sends Guðrún fine gifts and invites Sveinki to come to him in Norway, where he is well provided for ‘til elli ævi sinnar’ (‘until the old age of his life’) (211).

Þorkell what he ‘vili sjá fyrir Gunnari’ (‘wants to do about Gunnarr’) (203), but he leaves this up to her. Guðrún requests ‘at þú gefir honum skipit’ (‘that you give him the ship’) (203). Þorkell answers: ‘“Eigi er þér lítit í hug um mart, Guðrún […] ok er þér eigi hent at eiga vesalmenni; er þat ok ekki við þitt œði; skal þetta gera eptir þínum vilja”’ (‘“You don’t believe in half measures, Guðrún […] and it wouldn’t do for you to be married to some miserable wretch; that wouldn’t suit your spirit; we’ll do things the way you want”’) (203-204). ‘Fór Gunnarr útan ok kom við Nóreg’ (‘Gunnarr left the country and came to Norway’) (204), where he ‘var stórauðigr ok it mesta mikilmenni ok góðr drengr’ (‘was very rich and a man of great substance and of noble mind’) (204).

own way. We always seem to come out of it looking pathetic once you get involved”’) (287). In the spring Guðrún wants Gunnarr to be given a ship belonging to their son Gellir, who is staying at home for the summer. Þorkell lets her have her own way. ‘Siglir Gunnar í haf, þegar honum gaf byri’ (‘Gunnarr sails out to sea once he got a favorable breeze’) (288) and lands in Hálogaland in the north of Norway, where it transpires he is the son of a nobleman. The following summer he sends the ship back to Iceland with generous payment and lives the rest of his life in Hálogaland ‘ok kemr lítt við þessa sögu’ (‘and has little [further] part in this saga’) (288).

Bold text indicates verbal correspondences in all three texts; italics indicate correspondences between Gunnars saga and Laxdœla saga; and underline between Laxdœla saga and Fljótsdœla saga. Certain central points are common to all three texts: 1.

The names of the main characters are the same in all cases.

2. 3. 4. 5.

Gunnarr Þiðrandabani comes to Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir. Þorkell Eyjólfsson opposes Guðrún’s protecting Gunnarr. There is a threat of a breakdown in relations between Þorkell and Guðrún. Guðrún gets Gunnarr out of the country.

But there are also several clear differences in how the sagas present the events and the texts are related in a number of different ways. In the comparisons above and below, italics indicate points where there are verbal similarities shared by two texts but not by all three. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana 1. Þórdís sends Gunnarr to Guðrún.

Laxdœla saga 1. The person who sends Gunnarr to Guðrún is not specified.

Fljótsdœla saga 1. Helgi Ásbjarnarson has Gunnarr escorted to Guðrún.

212

2. Gunnarr arrives before the 2. Gunnarr arrives during the wedding of Guðrún and wedding of Guðrún and Þorkell. Þorkell. 3. Gunnarr and Þorkell speak while the guests are washing their hands; Gunnarr holds vatni (‘water’). 4. Gunnarr gives an unspecified false name. 5. Þorkell threatens to leave the feast if Gunnarr is not sent away.

2. Guðrún and Þorkell are living at Helgafell and have a grown-up son, Gellir.

3. Gunnarr and Þorkell speak while the guests are washing their hands, i.e. go to vatns (‘water’). 4. Gunnarr gives an unspecified false name.

4. Gunnarr gives his name as Gestr.

5. Þorkell gives an order for Gunnarr to be arrested.

5. Þorkell aims a blow at Gunnarr.

3. Gunnarr and Þorkell speak by the fire.

6. Þorkell has promised (heitit) 6. Þorkell has promised 6. — Þorkell Geitisson that he will (heitit) Þorkell Geitisson kill Gunnarr. that he will kill Gunnarr. 7. Guðrún tells Þorkell to 7. Guðrún is indifferent to 7. Guðrún gets her own men to leave Gunnarr in peace whether Þorkell leaves or not. protect Gunnarr. and threatens to divorce him. 8. The combined forces of 8. Snorri goði intervenes and Guðrún and Snorri goði are tells Þorkell to put more value 8. — enough to stop Þorkell from on the trust of him and Guðrún carrying out this threat. than of Þorkell Geitisson. 9. Gunnarr is led away from the 9. — 9. — feast. 10. Guðrún provides 10. With the support of Snorri 10. Guðrún gets Þorkell to Gunnarr with the ship goði, Guðrún gets Gunnarr out provide Gunnarr with a ship to belonging to her and of the country. get abroad. Þorkell’s son, Gellir. 11. Gunnarr sends Guðrún fine 11. Gunnarr lives on his riches 11. Gunnarr is the son of a gifts and invites Sveinki to in Norway and is out of the nobleman and returns the come to him. saga. ship with fine gifts. If we compare the texts, it comes out that the statements of Einar Ól. Sveinsson and Jón Jóhannesson about the episode in Laxdœla saga being twice the length of the corresponding passage in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and adding to it and dramatizing it with the intention of emphasizing the role of Guðrún do not tell the whole story. Much of the extra length in Laxdœla saga can be put down to the account of Gunnarr’s fate being interspersed with details of Guðrún and Þorkell’s life together after their wedding. If only the lines pertinent to the story of Gunnarr are taken, the ratio comes down to around three to five. Also, most of the extra material in Laxdœla saga does not serve to enhance the role of Guðrún so much as to explain the part of Snorri goði in the proceedings and to motivate the conversation between Guðrún and Þorkell in which she asks him to provide Gunnarr with a ship. If the intention of the ‘author’ of Laxdœla saga had really been to write up Guðrún’s part, it seems very unlikely — if he had read Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana — that he would have dropped the words directly attributed to Guðrún there, when she ‘þykkir jafnvel, þótt hon eigi ekki hann Þorkel Eyjólfsson at bónda

213 ok fari hann á brott, sem hann kom. “En ekki vinn ek þat til hans at selja þá menn undir vápn, er ek vil halda”’ (‘reckons it is all the same to her if she doesn’t go through with marrying this Þorkell Eyjólfsson and if he goes away just as he came. “And I’m not doing that for him, handing over people to their deaths whom I choose to protect.”’) (ÍF XI:210). [16] In place of Guðrún’s uncompromising stance here, Laxdœla saga presents Snorri goði as a conciliator, persuading Þorkell Eyjólfsson to abandon his promise to Þorkell Geitisson and throw in his lot with them, ‘því at þú fær aldri slíkrar konu, sem Guðrún er’ (‘because you will never get another wife the like of Guðrún’) (ÍF V:203). The relative space given to the constituent parts of the episode is roughly as follows (based on line count in the Íslenzk fornrit editions): Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (ÍF XI:210-1)

Introduction – 4 lines Dialogue between Þorkell and Gunnarr – 7 lines Guðrún’s reactions – 8 lines Snorri goði lends his support to Guðrún – 2 lines Þorkell’s reaction and relations with Guðrún – 2 lines Gunnarr got out of Iceland – 3 lines Gunnarr in Norway – 5 lines

Laxdœla saga (ÍF V:202-4) [Material said to be from ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ – 3 lines] Introduction – 3 lines Dialogue between Þorkell and Gunnarr – 13 lines Guðrún’s reactions – 6 lines Dialogue between Snorri goði and Þorkell – 13 lines [Guðrún and Þorkell’s married life – 11 lines] Dialogue between Guðrún and Þorkell about Gunnarr – 11 lines Gunnarr got out of Iceland – 4 lines Gunnarr in Norway – 2 lines

This hardly constitutes a dramatic and deliberate enhancement of Guðrún’s role by the writer of Laxdœla saga. On the contrary, Laxdœla saga devotes considerably more space to Gunnarr on his first appearance and describes him in different words from his saga, viz. he is ‘herðimikill ok bringubreiðr’ (‘broad-shouldered and broad-chested’) (ÍF V:202). By way of comparison, the description of Gunnarr at the beginning of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana: ‘Gunnarr var manna vaskligastr, mikill ok sterkr ok manna vænstr at sjá’ (‘Gunnarr was the most valiant of men, big and strong and as handsome as they come’) (ÍF XI:198). While it is quite possible to infer from this that such a man would have been big and broad in the shoulders and chest, Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana does not actually say as much. In other words, the sagas are in material agreement as to Gunnarr’s powerful appearance but there is no question of any verbal correspondence. In other respects, the greater length of the episode in Laxdœla saga comes down to the description of Snorri goði’s part in solving the dispute — all that is said in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana is that this was brought about ‘með fulltingi Snorra goða’ (‘with the support of Snorri goði’) — and to the details of the general relations between Guðrún and Þorkell and their discussions about what to do with Gunnarr. Taken overall, Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana can be seen as limiting itself to matters that affect Gunnarr directly, while in Laxdœla saga the center of interest is on the characters that feature largest elsewhere in the saga, both before and after the Gunnarr Þiðrandabani affair. The fact remains that the direct verbal correspondences point to a connection linking all three of these texts rather than just the two compared so far. All the verbal correspondences

214 between Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Fljótsdœla saga (indicated in the summaries in bold) are also found in Laxdœla saga. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (ÍF XI:209-10) ‘at hon vill senda Gunnar vestr til Helgafells til Guðrúnar Ósvífrsdóttur til halds ok trausts’ (‘that she wishes to send Gunnarr west to Helgafell to Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir for safekeeping and security’) (209).

Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:2867) ‘hafði Gunnarr ‘því at hann var sendr þangat Þiðrandabani verit sendr til umsjár ok halds með Guðrúnu til trausts ok gnógum jarteiknum’ (‘since halds’ (Gunnarr he was sent there for care Þiðrandabani had been sent and safekeeping with ample to Guðrún for security marks of accreditation’) and safe-keeping’) (202). (286). ‘sendr … til halds ok trausts’ (‘sent … for safekeeping and security’ (287). ‘Þorkell spyrr, hverr sá maðr ‘Þorkell þykkisk kenna manninn ‘Þorkell spurði, hverr hann væri hinn drengiligi’ ok spyrr hann at nafni’ (‘Þorkell væri’ (Þorkell asked who (‘Þorkell asks who this thinks he recognizes the man and he was’) (202). noble-looking man might asks him his name’) (210). be’) (286). Laxdœla saga (ÍF V:202)

There are also specific verbal correspondences linking both, on the one hand, Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Laxdœla saga (in italics), and on the other Laxdœla saga and Fljótsdœla saga (underlined): Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (ÍF XI:210-1) ‘Ok um kveldit, er menn taka handlaugar, þá heldr Gunnarr Þiðrandabani vatni fyrir boðsmǫnnum ok Þorkatli Eyjólfssyni ok hefir hatt síðan á hǫfði’ (‘And in the evening, when people take bowls to wash their hands, Gunnarr Þiðrandabani holds water for the guests and Þorkell Eyjólfsson and has a hat that hangs down over his head’) (210). ‘Þorkell þykkisk kenna manninn ok spyrr hann at nafni. Hann nefndisk því nafni, sem honum líkaði, en eigi því, er hann hét’ (‘Þorkell thinks he recognizes the man and asks him his name. He named himself with a name as he saw

Laxdœla saga (ÍF V:202-4)

Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:286-7)

‘It fyrsta kveld veizlunnar, er menn gengu til vatns, stóð þar maðr mikill hjá vatninu; sá var herðimikill ok bringubreiðr; sá maðr hafði hatt á hǫfði’ (‘The first evening of the feast, when people were going to the water [to wash], there was a big man standing by the water; he was broad-shouldered and broadchested; this man had a hat on his head’) (202). ‘Þorkell spyrr, hverr sá maðr væri hinn drengiligi. ‘Þorkell spurði, hverr hann væri; sá nefndisk svá, sem Hann segir til sín ok honum sýndisk’ (‘Þorkell asked kveðst Gestr heita’ who he was. He named himself, (‘Þorkell asks who this as he saw fit’) (202). noble-looking man might be. He speaks up and says

215 fit, and not what he was really called’) (210). ‘Þorkell segir: “Þú munt segja eigi satt; værir þú líkari at frásǫgn Gunnari Þiðrandabana”’ (‘Þorkell says: “I don’t think you’re telling the truth; from what I’ve heard tell you are more like Gunnarr Þiðrandabani”’) (202). ‘Þorkell kvazk þat vilja mundu, at hann vissi þat brátt’ (‘Þorkell said he would let him know soon enough’) (202). ‘Þorkell lézk því hafa heitit nafna sínum, Þorkatli Geitissyni, at hann skyldi drepa Gunnar, ef hann kœmi vestr á sveitir’ (‘Þorkell said he had promised his namesake Þorkell Geitisson that he would kill Gunnarr if he turned up there in the west’) (203). ‘Fór Gunnarr útan ok kom aldri til Íslands síðan’ (‘Gunnarr left the country and came never again to Iceland’) (210).

his name is Gestr’) (2867). ‘Þorkell segir: “Furðu líkr ertu þeim manni at frásögn, er heitir Gunnar ok er kallaðr Þiðrandabani”’ (‘Þorkell says: “From what I’ve heard tell, you’re amazingly like the man called Gunnarr, known also as Þiðrandabani”’) (287). ‘Þorkell svarar: “Þat skaltu vita brátt”’ (‘Þorkell answers: “You’ll know soon enough”’) (287). ‘Allir hétu góðu um þetta’ (‘Everyone promised to do as he asked’) (286). ‘Hann hafði heitit Þorkeli Geitissyni at taka Gunnar af lífi, ef hann næði honum’ (‘He had promised Þorkell Geitisson to execute Gunnarr if he could lay his hands on him’) (286).

‘Fór Gunnarr útan ok kom við Nóreg’ (‘Gunnarr left the country and came to Norway’) (204).

If what we have here are direct literary relations, i.e. loans from one written text to another, there are at least four possible ways of accounting for them: 1. Laxdœla saga was written with conscious knowledge of both the other sagas. 2. Laxdœla saga supplied material to both the other sagas in their accounts of the reception given to Gunnarr by Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir. 3. The writer of Laxdœla saga used Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, and then some time later the writer of Fljótsdœla saga used Laxdœla saga in his account of Gunnarr’s fortunes in the west. 4. The writer of Laxdœla saga used Fljótsdœla saga, and then some time later the writer of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana used Laxdœla saga in his account of Gunnarr’s fortunes in the west. If we have any faith at all in the generally accepted ideas about the ages of these three sagas, Laxdœla saga can at least be taken as older than Fljótsdœla saga, which rules out

216 possibilities 1) and 4). This leaves 2) and 3). As regards the manuscripts, Laxdœla saga is the only one of the three sagas preserved on skin. The other two exist only in paper copies, the oldest being from the 17th century; for example, several copies of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana are found along with other sagas from the east of Iceland, but it is also found with Laxdœla saga in the compilation AM 158 fol. from around 1650. So, are there any genuine grounds for thinking that Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana is old enough to have been able to influence the writing of Laxdœla saga in the middle years of the 13th century? In fact, the main reason adduced by scholars for thinking that Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana is older than Laxdœla saga rests on the assumption that it is the same work as the ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ mentioned in Laxdœla saga. But this equation is not the only way of accounting for the verbal correspondences between Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Laxdœla saga; we should also consider the possibility that the writer of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana constructed his account of the adventures of Gunnarr Þiðrandabani on the basis of material drawn from both *saga Njarðvíkinga and Laxdœla saga. The argument advanced by Finnur Jónsson (see p. 230) against identifying *saga Njarðvíkinga with Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana is still fully valid, i.e. that ‘the saga of the house of Njarðvík’ is a singularly inappropriate title for a saga that centers around the Norwegian merchant Gunnarr Þiðrandabani and his fortunes in Iceland — a saga that describes itself perfectly naturally in its final sentence as ‘sǫgu Gunnars Þiðrandabana’ (‘the saga of Gunnarr Þiðrandabani’) (ÍF XI:211). In support of Jónsson’s argument there is also the fact that Laxdœla saga includes story material from the east of Iceland that does not come from Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, viz. Laxdœla saga states specifically that Þiðrandi Geitisson was from Krossavík, while all that Gunnars saga has to tell us about his origins and family background is that he was fostered by Ketill of Njarðvík. We can therefore infer that the writer of Laxdœla saga had more information on this character than appears in the version of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana that we know. The word ‘Njarðvíkingar’ itself is also peculiar to Laxdœla saga: it does not occur in Landnámabók or in any of the eastern sagas except Fljótsdœla saga, which by general consensus is late in its written form, where it is used four times in connection with the paternal line of the Droplaugarsons: Hallsteinn […] í Jórvík […] var ungr maðr ok var þá nýkvóngaðr. Hann var skyldr þeim mjök Njarðvíkingum. Við þenna mann var Þorvaldr ástúðugastr, áðr hann fór utan. (‘Hallsteinn […] of Jórvík […] was a young man and newly married at the time. He was closely related to the Njarðvíkingar. He was the dearest friend of Þorvaldr [sc. Þiðrandason, father of the Droplaugarsons] before he went abroad.’) (ÍF XI:233) Gunnar hét maðr. Hann var skyldr mjök Njarðvíkingum. (‘There was a man called Gunnarr. He was closely related to the Njarðvíkingar.’) (ÍF XI:235) Droplaug svarar: ‘Má ok vera við þessa iðn, er þú hefir, at Þorgrími tordýfli þyki þú meir segjast í ætt Svarts þræls heldr en í ætt Þorvalds Þiðrandasonar eða annarra Njarðvíkinga eða enn annarra þeirra, er mér þykja flestir íslenzkir lítils virðir hjá þeim.’ (‘Droplaug replies [in response to Þorgrímr torðyfill’s insinuations about her and directing her words to her son Helgi]: “What with this way you have of spending your time [sc. hunting ptarmigan] maybeÞórgrímr torðyfill reckons you’re conforming more to the family of Svartr the slave than the family of Þorvaldr Þiðrandason or others of the Njarðvíkingar or anyone else of those I’d reckon make most people in Iceland seem of little account.”’) (ÍF XI:243) Þorbjǫrn átti sér konu. Hun var skyld þeim Njarðvíkingum. (‘Þorbjǫrn [kórekr] had a wife. She was related to the Njarðvíkingar.’) (ÍF XI:259) From these references it is clear that in Fljótsdœla saga it is a matter of some moment to be related to the Njarðvíkingar, the family at the center of the events described in the saga.

217 This is reflected too in the superscription ‘Historia Niardvijkingorum,’ i.e. ‘saga Njarðvíkinga,’ used in a Latin summary of the saga at the beginning of manuscript Kall 616 4to. [17] On the basis of how much Fljótsdœla saga has to say about the people of Njarðvík, it is the material in this saga that would seem to have the better claim to the title ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ than the tale of the tribulations of Gunnarr the Norwegian. This was also the view of Stefán Karlsson (1994:757), who argued that there was no real reason why Fljótsdœla saga should not be dated to the 14th century (as opposed to the currently dominant view that it is from the first half of the 16th century). [18] Karlsson goes on to say that this means we need to reassess the objections raised by Dean Jón Jónsson of Bjarnanes (1884) to Kålund’s widely accepted theories on the literary relations between Fljótsdœla saga and the other sagas of the east of Iceland; [19] Jónsson believed that the ‘author’ of Fljótsdœla saga had known his material from oral sources and that the only written saga he had had immediate access to was Hrafnkels saga, which he appended almost unchanged to the beginning of his own saga. [20] None of the arguments presented here call into question the literary relationship between Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Laxdœla saga. The main advantage of distinguishing *saga Njarðvíkinga from Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana is that it allows us to take the testimony of Laxdœla saga at face value, without the need to suppose it means anything other than what it actually says — a obvious plus point when it comes to formulating theories about the use of sources among the ancient saga writers. The writer of Laxdœla saga could have known an account from the east of Iceland about how ‘Gunnarr hafði sekr orðit um víg Þiðranda Geitissonar ór Krossavík’ (‘Gunnarr had been declared guilty of the killing of Þiðrandi Geitisson of Krossavík’), and named this account ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ (ÍF V:202). He could then have told his own version of how Guðrún received this wealthy Norwegian and got him out of the country with the help of Snorri goði, and in the defiance of her husband’s wishes. This episode in Laxdœla saga could then have come to the attention of someone familiar with *saga Njarðvíkinga and inspired him to construct a saga specifically about Gunnarr Þiðrandabani using what was said about him in Laxdœla saga in combination with what was already common knowledge in the east. As shown above, there are few if any direct verbal correspondences between Fljótsdœla saga and parallel passages in other sagas from the east of Iceland, and there is thus a good probability that whoever wrote this saga acquired his material from oral sources in the east. Things are different when it comes to Fljótsdœla saga and Laxdœla saga, between which the correspondences in diction appear to indicate a literary relationship rather than some kind of background connection through oral sources. In addition to the description of Gunnarr’s reception at Helgafell, scholars have suggested further influences from Laxdœla saga in Fljótsdœla saga’s account of the drowning of Þorvaldr Þiðrandason, which bears certain similarities to the drowning of Þorkell Eyjólfsson in Laxdœla saga, even to the extent of apparent verbal correspondences: Laxdœla saga (ÍF V:221-3) Þorkell has the sword Skǫfnungr with him when he drowns. (222) ‘Þváttdaginn fyrir páska spurðusk tíðendin ok þóttu vera mikil, því at Þorkell hafði verit mikill hǫfðingi.’ (‘The news got out on the Saturday before Easter and aroused much interest, for Þorkell had been a great chieftain.’) (223)

Fljótsdœla saga (ÍF XI:235-6) Þorvaldr leaves the sword acquired from Geitir with Droplaug. (235) ‘En þessi tíðindi spurðust brátt um heraðit ok þótti mörgum mikil.’ (‘But this news got out quickly around the district and aroused much interest among many people.’) (235)

218 ‘Droplaug kunni illa fráfalli Þorvalds.’ ‘Guðrúnu þótti mikit fráfall Þorkels.’ (‘Guðrún was (‘Droplaug was upset by the decease of deeply affected by the decease of Þorkell.’) (223) Þorvaldr.’) (236) The correspondences here may not be very great, and perhaps not in as significant words as in the accounts of Gunnarr at Helgafell — cf. ‘senda/sendr til trausts ok halds,’ ‘nefndisk sem honum líkaði/sýndisk,’ ‘líkr/líkari at frásǫgn,’ ‘vita/vissi brátt’ — but they at least point in the same direction. They certainly do nothing to reduce the possibility of a literary relationship between these two works. For instance, although the word ‘fráfall’ (‘decease’) appears eleven times in the sagas and þættir of Icelanders, only three of these occurrences are in the context of a wife’s feelings at the death of her husband: these two examples, and in Gunnars saga Keldnugúpsfífls. In which case, what is it that Laxdœla saga is referring to when it speaks of *saga Njarðvíkinga? All scholars who have discussed this matter have worked on the assumption that this is a reference to a written work: see, for instance, Stefán Karlsson’s suggestion quoted above (see footnote 20, p. 240) that Fljótsdœla saga drew on material from an older saga, now lost. But it is worth asking whether a story needs to be written to qualify for the name of ‘saga.’ Robert Kellogg (1994) investigated the meaning of the word ‘saga’ in ancient sources and came to the conclusion that it does not automatically indicate a written work. If, for example, *saga Njarðvíkinga had been a written saga, it is unlikely that it would have been used as a source in Laxdœla saga and nowhere else. It was shown above that in the passages where Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and Fljótsdœla saga treat the same material they are so different in their presentation and diction (except in the one place where they are both also related to Laxdœla saga) that the likeliest explanation of the connection between them appears to be that both were based on oral accounts dealing with the main characters and events of the saga world of eastern Iceland (a world that could itself have been influenced by written sagas once they had come into existence); this at least seems more probable than positing lost written sources along the lines of *saga Njarðvíkinga, something which exists only as a passing reference in a third source, Laxdœla saga, which on the other hand appears to have other indisputable links with both the eastern sagas.

Figure 5-7: Possible relationships among the sources, accounting for a) the reference in Laxdœla saga to *saga Njarðvíkinga, and b) the verbal correspondences linking Laxdœla saga, Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, and Fljótsdœla saga It seems reasonable to suppose that the story knowledge of the saga writers of the east of Iceland was restricted largely to their own particular region, just like the poetical knowledge of Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld (see p. 113). So it is likely that saga writers needed to turn to other informants or books when they wanted to move the settings of their works to some part of the country about which they knew little beyond the names of the leading chieftains. As noted previously (p. 232), Jón Jóhannesson took the view that Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana

219 was probably written in the west of Iceland on the grounds that it appeared to display an imperfect knowledge of place and topography in the east. If this were so, the case for an oral *saga Njarðvíkinga (as opposed to the written Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana in the west of Iceland) that was used by the writer of Laxdœla saga would be considerably weakened. Jóhannesson’s arguments are set out in the table below. Table 5-3: Jón Jóhannesson’s arguments and conclusions concerning the age and literary relations of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana (see Jóhannesson 1950:lxxxvi-xcii)

Leaving aside Jóhannesson’s conviction that Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana and *saga Njarðvíkinga are one and the same thing, his argumentation is built entirely around the paucity of geographical and topographical information about the east in Gunnars saga (the argument that influence from the saga is first apparent in the west being circular, depending as it does entirely on the supposition that, under the name of *saga Njarðvíkinga, it was used by the author of Laxdœla saga). On the geography of the saga, Jóhannesson has this to say: Lítil rækt er lögð við staðfræði í þættinum, og er því eigi að vænta þar mikilla leiðbeininga um, hvar hann sé ritaður. Nokkurs kunnugleika í Njarðvík og Borgarfirði gætir, en þó eigi svo mikils, að víst megi telja, að höfundurinn hafi komið þar, enda mæla önnur rök gegn því. Fjarlægðir þar eystra virðast hafa verið í þoku fyrir honum. Björn Kóreksson er talinn búa í Skriðudal, en þó virðist gert ráð fyrir, að hann hafi búið miklu nær Njarðvík en svo, enda er líklegast, að hann hafi í rauninni búið á Kóreksstöðum. Enn fremur bendir frásögnin af sendiför Þórðar í Krossavík (201.–202. bls.) til þess, að höfundurinn hafi ímyndað sér, að miklu skemmra væri mill[i] Vopnafjarðar og Njarðvíkur en er. Sennilegast er því, að höfundurinn hafi stuðzt við sagnir af Austurlandi, en hann hafi eigi verið kunnugur þar sjálfur, og má þá helzt gizka á, að þátturinn sé ritaður á Helgafelli á Snæfellsnesi eða þar í grennd, enda verður hans fyrst vart á þeim slóðum, eins og fyrr greinir. (Jóhannesson 1950:xci) [21]

220 This is first and foremost a matter of ‘feel’: Jóhannesson is unable to cite out-and-out errors in the geographical information but has a feeling that the distances and journeys between places are not specified in the kind of detail that would be expected by a modern readership. It is however acknowledged that the saga displays a special familiarity with the isolated settlements of Njarðvík and Borgarfjörður, places that have probably never in their histories seen large numbers of visitors. This presentation of the material does not, however, necessarily imply that the ‘author’ of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana was unfamiliar with the east of Iceland; on the contrary, it is absolutely of a piece with a general narrative technique that assumes of its audience a large degree of prior knowledge of the events and characters mentioned in the narrative (see above, p. 184). It therefore comes as no surprise that well-known routes and distances should be treated in the same way, i.e. not explained or described expressly. The audience is assumed to be aware that it was no quick jaunt over to Njarðvík for Þorkell Geitisson setting out from Vopnafjörður, or for Bjǫrn Kóreksson setting out from Skriðudalur — and, indeed, the saga suggests that these journeys were not undertaken without some preparation. There is thus no genuine sign of any particular lack of local knowledge on the part of the writer of Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, and therefore no reason to think anything other than that it could have been written in the east of the country. And so it is likely that whoever wrote this saga had gotten his material from oral sources in that part of the country and, alongside this, took for granted that his audience shared a reasonable knowledge of the local geography and the leading chieftains whom he presented to them without feeling any need to introduce them formally. [22]

*  A detailed examination of the connections between Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, Laxdœla saga, and Fljótsdœla saga reveals that there is no evidence for a direct literary relationship between Gunnars saga and Fljótsdœla saga. There is, however, reason to believe that both works do have literary relations with Laxdœla saga. But the saga that Laxdœla saga refers to as ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ can hardly be Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana as has often been claimed — principally because ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ is too inappropriate a name to describe a work that deals with the misfortunes of a Norwegian merchant in Iceland, a point made by Finnur Jónsson many years ago but sidestepped in the discussions of all more recent critics. Fljótsdœla saga, on the other hand, several times describes important characters as ‘Njarðvíkingar,’ and one 18th-century manuscript actually titles the work ‘Historia Niardvijkingorum.’ It is therefore more likely that the *saga Njarðvíkinga of Laxdœla saga refers to a story treating material similar to that found in Fljótsdœla saga (and Droplaugarsona saga), but one which is more likely to have been oral than written, in part because the links between the sagas of the east of Iceland suggest that it was their general practice to go to oral sources for their material rather than to pre-existing written ones. Fljótsdœla saga in the written form in which we know it could then (like Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana) have used Laxdœla saga as its source for the fortunes of Gunnarr in the west of the country where the action of Laxdœla saga takes place. For Gunnarr’s activities in the more familiar east, however, Fljótsdœla saga could tell the story as it was known within the local oral tradition in that part of the country.

Footnotes 1. It is reasonable to speak of this kind of prior knowledge on the part of the audiences of written sagas only as long as comparable stories and genealogical material remained alive

221 within an uninterrupted oral tradition. With the passing of time, writers would no longer feel themselves able to add anything new about the characters, genealogies, and incidents that featured in their sagas; at this point we can regard them rather as copyists and assume that their audiences knew little more about the subjects described than appeared in the texts. 2. For a comparison between this dream in Landnámabók and the dream of Hallfreðr in Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða, see above p. 27. 3. As part of courses that I ran at the Ethnology Department of the University of Iceland in the springs of 1994 and 1997, I got the students to do projects comparing accounts of the same events in different sagas from the east of Iceland applying the methods outlined in this work. Their conclusions were in many respects similar to my own, and I received considerable benefit from their comments and the discussions occasioned by their projects. 4. Glíru-Halli in Landnámabók; Glyttu/Glýttu- or Glettu/Glittu-Halli in most manuscripts of the saga. 5. A similar addendum in Þórðarbók to the genealogy of the Egilssons (S 268, H 230) adds that they were ‘í liði með Þorkatli í Bǫðvarsdal í móti Bjarna Brodd-Helgasyni’ (‘on Þorkell’s side at Böðvarsdalur against Bjarni Brodd-Helgason’). See also the addendum in Þórðarbók at S 265, H 227. 6. Jón Jóhannesson (1950:58, 62) thinks that there may be some confusion here and that this Eilífr may be the same man as the Eyjólfr mentioned among Þorkell’s party. 7. W. G. Collingwood (1908) suggested that this story as it appears in Fljótsdœla saga had its origins in Shetland. Collingwood took the general view that these kinds of tales of trolls and giants were typically signs of Celtic influence, but also drew attention to the use of the word lámr — ‘jötunninn breiðir frá sér lámana’ (‘the giant opened out his great clumsy paws’) (ÍF XI:228) — which is a loan from the Gaelic lamh. He also suggested that the weapon that Þorvaldr took from the giant Geitir was most probably a bronze sword of a type similar to one found in Shetland in the 19th century; such swords would have been familiar to Norse vikings from raiding graves on the islands, and this would have provided the background for descriptions like that of Geitir’s sword: ‘Járnhjölt vóru at. Ekki var þat búit meir. Hann brá sverðinu, ok var þat grænt at lit, en brúnt með eggjunum. Hvergi var ryðflekkr á sverðinu’ (‘The hilt was of iron. There was no more decoration on it. He drew the sword, and it was green in color, but brown along the edges. There was no speck of rust anywhere on the sword’) (227). In a footnote, Jón Jóhannesson explains the green color as steel taking on a green tinge on tempering and the ‘brown’ (which Collingwood took as a reference to bronze) as meaning that the sword was burnished, cf. brýna (whet, sharpen); similar descriptions of finely crafted swords occur in other sources. It may also be mentioned here that Kahle (1909) considered the Landnámabók and Droplaugarsona saga versions of the story to be independent of each other, each being a reflection of the ‘found sister’ adventure motif. See Hallgrímsson (1998) for an excellent general survey of this story in the various sources. 8. See Tulinius 1990 on differences in narrative technique according to where events in the sagas are supposed to take place. 9. In the fragment of Droplaugarsona saga preserved in AM 162 C fol., on sheet 5 recto, it is Grímr that replies that not much has happened but that they, or he, have ‘veiddan torðyfil einn’ (‘caught a single torðyfill’) (see Helgason, J. 1975:80-1). On this disparity with the Mǫðruvallabók text, Jón Jóhannesson (1950:xciii) comments that this and other minor correspondences of diction (which he does not go on to specify) show that the author of Fljótsdœla saga knew the M text of Droplaugarsona saga rather than the AM 162 text. For a comparison of the texts of Droplaugarsona saga, see Kristjánsson 1991. 10. Information on the lexis of the sagas is obtained from a digital database of the sagas of Icelanders, Sturlunga saga, Heimskringla, Grágás, and Landnámabók, accessible through

222 Málvísindastofnun Háskóla Íslands (Linguistics Institute of the University of Iceland). Page references are to the modern spelling editions that the database used (see bibliography). 11. For instance, hunts alternating between buildings and ships are found in Eyrbyggja saga, Njáls saga, Odds þáttr Ófeigssonar, and Vatnsdœla saga: see Jóhannesson 1950:lxxxix and Liestøl 1929:78. 12. The word ‘útibúr’ is found in around half of the sagas of Icelanders and can thus hardly be cited as evidence of a literary relationship between these two particular texts. 13. In fact, Þiðrandi is not as close to Sveinungr in Fljótsdœla saga as he is to Sveinki in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana, in which Þiðrandi was fostered at Njarðvík. So on the face of it one might rather have expected Sveinki in Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana to lament his former neighbor and the foster son of his friend more than Sveinungr in Fljótsdœla saga, who would have known Þiðrandi only by hearsay. 14. This discrepancy seems to have been noticed by the copyist who added the later parts of Droplaugarsona saga to the end of the unfinished version of Fljótsdœla saga in the manuscript Kall 616 4to. His first addition is the account of this lawsuit between the two Helgis, but omitting all mention of Sveinungr (see Kålund 1883:111). 15. In line with Einar Ól. Sveinsson before him in Íslenzk fornrit V, and because of the text’s brevity, Jóhannesson (1950:lxxxvii) preferred to use the title Gunnars þáttr Þiðrandabana. 16. This was pointed out to me by Rósa Þorsteinsdóttir as part of her contribution to the course mentioned above, p. 202 note 3. 17. This manuscript is a compendium of sagas of Icelanders from the middle of the 18th century, once in the ownership of Þorbergur Einarsson, the minister of Eyri on Skutulsfjörður (the modern town of Ísafjörður). Kålund (1883:x) suggested that the summary was written by Árni Magnússon’s assistant and copyist, Jón Ólafsson of Grunnavík. 18. In the Íslenzk fornrit edition, Jón Jóhannesson (1950:xciii-xcix) echoed Kålund’s ideas regarding the age of Fljótsdœla saga, i.e. that it is from shortly before the Reformation (1541-51 in Iceland), though with the qualification that it might be older, i.e. from the second half of the 15th century. For differing 19th-century views on the age of Fljótsdœla saga, see Kålund 1883:i-iii. 19. Kålund’s ideas, repeated almost unqualified in Jón Jóhannesson’s introduction to the saga in ÍF XI, are not supported by any examples of verbal correspondences. Kålund merely identifies the passages that share material with other sagas and assumes, without further argumentation, that all these sagas served as sources for Fljótsdœla saga. 20. Jón Jóhannesson does not discuss Jón Jónsson’s objections specifically but rejects them en bloc with the sweeping and unsupported claim that they are ‘not convincing’ (‘eigi sannfærandi,’ 1950:xciii). In light of the evidence presented here, it is Jóhannesson’s claim that now appears unconvincing. To translate Karlsson’s comments (1994:757): ‘Something else that requires looking into when reassessing of the sagas of the east of Iceland is what the probabilities are that Fljótsdœla saga is to some extent based on a much older, lost saga, which might perhaps be the “Njarðvíkinga saga” referred to in Laxdœla saga in connection with Gunnarr Þiðrandabani.’ 21. ‘Geography is not a major consideration of the þáttr [i.e. Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana] and we can thus expect few internal clues as to where it was written. It displays some familiarity with the Njarðvík and Borgarfjörður regions, but not such as to allow us any certainty that the author had ever been there, and there are other points that speak against this. He appears to have been very vague about distances in the east. Bjǫrn Kóreksson is said to live in Skriðudalur, but it also seems to be assumed that he lived much closer to Njarðvík than this, which is consistent with the strong probability that he actually lived at Kóreksstaðir. Moreover, the account of the mission of Þórðor Krossavík (pp. 201-2) suggests that the author imagined

223 the distance between Vopnafjörður and Njarðvík to be much less than it is in fact. The most likely explanation is thus that the author based his work on stories from the east of Iceland but was not personally familiar with the region; the best guess, then, is that the þáttr was written at or somewhere near to Helgafell on Snæfellsnes [in the extreme west], a conclusion consistent with the fact that it is first mentioned in that area, as explained above.’ 22. On this, see also Baldur Hafstað 1999. Hafstað takes the opposite view from the one argued here, i.e. he accepts the identification of ‘saga Njarðvíkinga’ with Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana.

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6. Conclusions to Part II The sagas of the east of Iceland contain a large number of passages with parallels of subject matter or theme with other sagas within the group or with written works from other parts of the country. Of the examples considered in the previous two chapters, the only cases where it seems, on the grounds of shared diction, that the relationship can be traced to a literary connection (rittengsl), i.e. the use of one text in the composition of another, are as follows: 1. Vápnfirðinga saga and Þorsteins saga hvíta: the description of Brodd-Helgi and the story of how he got his nickname. 2. Landnámabók and Brand-Krossa þáttr: the dream of Hrafnkell Hrafnsson in Skriðudalur. However, Brand-Krossa þáttr has material not found in Hrafnkels saga, which reduces the likelihood that the þáttr got its material directly from any of the known redactions of Landnámabók. 3. The Sturlubók redaction of Landnámabók and Droplaugarsona saga: the episode about Ketill þrymr and Arneiðr, the daughter of the earl of the Hebrides. However, Sturla Þórðarson can hardly have been using the written saga as we know it but rather some other written source related to both these texts. 4. Laxdœla saga and Gunnars saga Þiðrandabana: Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir’s reception of Gunnarr Þiðrandabani at Helgafell. 5. Laxdœla saga and Fljótsdœla saga: Guðrún Ósvífrsdóttir’s reception of Gunnarr Þiðrandabani at Helgafell. 6. Laxdœla saga and Vápnfirðinga saga: the deaths of Kjartan Óláfsson and Geitir Lýtingsson. This is a considerably simpler picture than the intricate web of literary relationships that previous scholars have claimed to detect among the Austfirðingasögur. Previous analyses have tended, for instance, to involve lost written works for whose existence there is no independent evidence, posited solely to account for passages where two or more sagas tell of the same characters or events. When accounting for correspondences for which there is no tangible evidence of literary relations in the form of shared diction, we ought rather to assume that the writers of the sagas derived their material from an oral narrative tradition. At many places in the extant texts characters are referred to in ways that suggest that the writer took for granted that his audience was already familiar with them and thus able to interpret correctly the events that were being described: for instance, Brodd-Helgi Þorgilsson is known as a heathen chieftain living at Hof in Vopnafjörður far beyond the confines of the main source that tells of his life, Vápnfirðinga saga; his son Bjarni is consistently portrayed as a peaceable and conciliatory chieftain in the sagas that we may suppose owe most to local stories from the Vopnafjörður region, but as we move further away from his immediate environment he develops into a more aggressive figure, perhaps prompted by his celebrated nickname — ‘Víga-Bjarni,’ ‘KillerBjarni’ — which may have colored how he was pictured by writers in places where he was less well known; Geitir Lýtingsson is little mentioned outside Vápnfirðinga saga but his name has curious echoes in tales of giants and trolls set in Norway and Shetland; and finally there is his son Þorkell Geitisson, who judging from the extant sources was a much better known man than his father, particularly outside his own local region. Though several sagas mention Þorkell, in none of them is he the main character. However, his various appearances present a consistent image of the man and can be arranged into a plausible chronological order, making it possible to construct a coherent and continuous biography of his life. We can suppose that this broad outline constituted a reality in the minds of participants in the saga tradition of eastern Iceland. In the existing sagas we therefore get a

225 clear reflection of a fully rounded characterization going back to fragmentary oral accounts, even though these fragments were never integrated into a single written saga. A similar ‘oral saga’ might lie behind the textual appearances of Sveinungr/Sveinki of Borgarfjörður, an independently minded farmer from a remote and rugged fjord who stood up against more powerful men and refused to be cowed in the face of their high-handedness and overbearing manner. The evidence suggests that the saga writers in the east of Iceland in general made little use of Landnámabók as a source. [1] Similarly, there is little evidence that the compilers of Landnámabók used the sagas that have come down to us in books (leaving aside the connection between Brand-Krossa þáttr and Droplaugarsona saga by way of some unknown written source). The written sagas contain several instances where characters, often nobly born chieftains whom we know about from other sources, are introduced into the action without formal details of their identity or background, or where events are referred to in passing on the apparent assumption that the audience will possess sufficient prior knowledge to interpret the reference. Examples of this include the battle in Böðvarsdalur; the ‘brothers from Búastaðir,’ whom the writer of Vápnfirðinga saga seems to assume will be familiar to his audience as the sons of Glíru-Halli; and the background to Skegg-Broddi’s insinuations against the chieftains in Ǫlkofra þáttr. Thus, meaning in the sagas is often dependent on the audience’s familiarity with the narrative tradition, i.e. there is an assumption that audiences will be able to fill in gaps in the written texts through their own orally derived knowledge of characters and events. In this respect Fljótsdœla saga stands out from the other sagas considered here. Here, on almost all occasions, we find spelled out in full matters that often seem to be taken for granted in the other texts and are consistently provided with all relevant details of family connections and external circumstances. This narrative technique differentiates Fljótsdœla saga starkly from most other sagas of Icelanders and brings it much closer to modern forms of literature in which, to a much greater extent than in the sagas, meaning exists and is constructed within the written text alone. A possible explanation for this special status of Fljótsdœla saga is that it was written for an audience that was not as familiar with the story material as the original audiences of the other sagas; see, for instance, its explanatory note on the distance swum by Gunnarr Þiðrandabani across the bay at Njarðvík, whether this is in terms of places around Eyjafjörður in the north or not. However, the text also provides clear evidence that the story material it covers was still fully current in the minds of informed people at the time when it was written. The writer of Fljótsdœla saga can hardly have been alone in his knowledge and interpretation of the events he describes, but he seems to have recognized that he was writing for people whose knowledge might not have been as good as his own, possibly people in some other part of the country. But there is no particular reason to believe, as has often been argued, that he ‘authored’ his saga, working it up from pre-existing written sources, since although most of the events he describes are paralleled in other sagas there is no evidence in the diction that any of his material comes from any writings that we still know today. The picture presented here of the internal relationships among the written texts, and between them and the oral story tradition that we can suppose they arose from, differs strikingly from the ideas on the ages and relationships of the sagas that still form the background to most recent publications in this area. The results suggest that it is time to carry out a root-and-branch re-examination of all our ideas on both the development of the literary genre as a whole and the interpretative methodologies applicable to individual texts — methodologies that have all too often been based on modern theoretical approaches to literature and failed to take into account how much the meaning of the sagas was built up within oral tradition by the creative interplay of all participants, storytellers, audiences, and the material itself. In recent decades an increasing number of scholars have turned away from a slavish adherence to theories centered on literary relationships and looked to other ways of coming to an overall understanding of the sagas and

226 interpreting them for a modern readership. Among the leading names in this new direction in saga studies have been Dietrich Hofman, Theodore M. Andersson, Robert Kellogg, Óskar Halldórsson, Lars Lönnroth, Preben Meulengracht-Sørensen, Jesse Byock, Margaret Clunies Ross, Joseph Harris, Carol Clover, Stephen A. Mitchell, and Vésteinn Ólason. But there is still a long way to go. The traditional approaches, which the present study argues simply do not stand up to scrutiny, still hold general sway and much work remains to be done before they can finally be put to rest and superseded by something newer and likelier to be of lasting value.

Footnotes 1. This finding runs directly counter to the picture of the relationship between Landnámabók and the saga texts given by Friðriksson and Vésteinsson (2003:144-5): ‘All other sagas [sc. than Kjalnesinga saga, Hrafnkels saga, and Svarfdœla saga] seem to base their settlement accounts on Landnámabók (in Flóamanna saga there is even a direct quotation), although some of them then add additional details (e.g. Þorskfirðinga saga). […] They simply paraphrase and rework the same material, further spinning the same yarn. This is an important conclusion. It suggests a remarkable consistency in the information available to the saga authors regarding the origins of their communities. In fact it suggests that there was little or no variability in thirteenth-century traditions regarding the settlement of Iceland. If this had been a society obsessed with a remembered past one would expect a variety of contradictory traditions or at least different emphases on events. Instead, we are presented with a coherent picture from a single work, Landnámabók, which was then taken up by subsequent writers.’ As has been detailed in this study at some length, Friðriksson and Vésteinsson’s ‘conclusion’ simply does not stand up to scrutiny, despite its being presented in a scholarly publication for archaeologists as a general description of the sagas and their relations to Landnámabók — providing yet another example of how much there is to be gained from a more interdisciplinary exchange of knowledge and understanding across the spectrum of medieval studies.

227

Part III. The Sagas and Truth 7. The Saga Map of Vínland As has become clear in the preceding chapters, the relationship between the written sagas and oral tradition is not simple and uniform. There are no clear-cut answers to the questions facing us. And, as if the part of orality in the composition of the written sagas were not in itself fraught with uncertainties, the position we take on this affects how we view another complex question: How much truth is there in the sagas, and how can we sift what is true from what is not? [1] How much of what the sagas say really happened? Once we allow that the written texts contain material derived from an oral tradition, we need to face up to the possibility that within this tradition were preserved memories of real events — with all the proper caveats regarding the relationships between on the one hand the texts and truth, and on the other between the texts and the parts played by imagination, the laws of narrative art, and the interests of storytellers and audiences during the long period of oral preservation.

Floating Memories For all the dominant attitude found in the introductions to the Íslenzk fornrit series and elsewhere of placing the overriding emphasis on the part of individual authors in the creation of the sagas, there has always been a strong tendency to link the events described with some kind of external historical reality, for instance in the matter of chronology. Where sources differ there has often been much scholarly speculation about which is likely to be closer to the truth and saga writers have frequently been accused of interpreting their sources incorrectly, as exemplified several times in the previous chapters. In such cases we have no reliable or agreed ways of determining which account should be taken in preference to any other. The aesthetics of presentation, and the sheer length of time that elapsed between the events and the texts that describe them, mean that it is perfectly natural to harbor considerable reservations about the relationship between the sagas and truth. When we add to this the fact that stories and other information preserved orally is subject to constant change according to the demands of the present — as we see, for example, with Landnámabók (see Rafnsson 1974:125-214) — we are duty-bound to be extremely tentative about using the Icelandic sagas as sources for anything other than literary history. These kinds of doubts over the source value of the sagas, which revolve largely around the nature of the texts and academic theorization on the relationship between history and truth, have been music to the ears of the archaeological community. Many archaeologists have argued that the patent unreliability of the sagas makes them worthless as historical sources and that they should therefore be rejected en masse; that the times they describe should be treated to all intents and purposes as prehistory and, if we are interested in truth, amenable only to the verifiable methods of archaeology (see for instance Vésteinsson 1998:1-2). It is easy enough to point to much in the sagas of Icelanders that cannot possibly have happened in anything like the way the sagas say it did — at any rate, not when viewed against our modern understanding of the real world and what is possible in it. Grettir, for example, can hardly have lived among trolls in Þórisdalur as we read in Grettis saga; Gunnarr of Hlíðarendi can hardly have jumped more than his own height wearing full battle gear as it says in Njáls saga; and we have every reason to be more than a little skeptical about the account in Bárðar

228 saga of Helga Bárðardóttir drifting on an ice floe all the way across to Greenland. But this does not mean that we should throw the baby out with the bath water and reject all the texts out of hand as potential sources for what happened in the past. Rather than approaching Landnámabók and the sagas with an eye to picking out matters that appear dubious or cannot be true, and then using these as grounds to reject the texts as sources entirely, it is possible to turn the matter on its head and ask instead: What might be correct, or at least somewhere along the right lines, in the sagas and records from the 13th century so far as events of the 9th, 10th, and 11th centuries are concerned?

Viking sagas and archaeological remains Great events only become great events when someone tells about them or puts them into a story. Mainly in the 12th and 13th centuries, the oral poetry and storytelling tradition of the Icelanders became the basis for a literature that preserved memories reaching back to the Viking Age (800-1050), when the peoples of Scandinavia used their superb ships to sail east across the Baltic and into Russia and expand their power and influence all the way south to the Caspian Sea and Constantinople. Others turned their attention to Western Europe and crossed the North Sea to the British Isles, raiding and establishing colonies in York, Dublin, the Scottish islands, and elsewhere. In stages these men ventured farther out into the Atlantic and discovered the Faeroe Islands and Iceland, places that hitherto had been visited only sporadically by Irish hermits. About a hundred years after the settlement of Iceland, people whom we can now call Icelanders continued on to Greenland and eventually all the way to the mainland of North America, to places to which they gave the names Helluland, Markland, and Vínland. The voyages to Vínland took place some two hundred years after the raid on the monastery of Lindisfarne off the northeast coast of England in 793, the event that marks the beginning of the Viking Age. These vikings were a fearsome race, combining trade, pillage, and warfare with a search for new lands to explore, settle, and govern. For most of the period that bears their name they were successful wherever they went, but little by little their resources and lines of communication became stretched and eventually overstretched when they came into contact with the indigenous peoples of North America some thousand years ago. After a few years of attempted settlement these adventurers were forced to concede and withdrew back across the ocean, thereby postponing the Iron Age in North America by some 500 years. The sagas that were written in medieval Iceland extend across the entire world known to the peoples of Scandinavia at the time, from the Caspian and Constantinople in the east to Vínland in the west. People in Iceland were happy to record stories set in parts of the world they knew of only by hearsay. Tempting as it may be to use these sagas as sources of Viking Age history, the whole area is beset with enormous problems. Historians have, with every justification, shown that the sagas contain considerable elements of fantasy and exaggeration and much that is patently untrue — as, for example, when the hero Ǫrvar-Oddr is said to have lived for 300 years. It is clear that their creators often had recourse to legendary and adventure motifs to fill in gaps where their knowledge failed. For instance, the account in Heimskringla described below of Haraldr harðráði’s travels in the south and service in the Varangian Guard is packed with fantasy and improbable adventures that might easily be dismissed as pure fiction, typical Märchen material. The problem is that to do so would be wrong — the core of the story, as can be shown from contemporary and independent sources, is based on hard fact. There are many accounts in the sagas telling of Icelanders and other Scandinavians who traveled south to Constantinople and served in the Varangian Guard at the court of the Byzantine emperor. By far the most detailed is found in Snorri Sturluson’s Heimskringla and tells of Haraldr Sigurðsson, the man who later became King Haraldr harðráði and was eventually killed leading an attack on England in 1066. According to Þorsteins þáttr sǫgufróða

229 the account goes back to an Icelander called Halldórr, the son of Snorri goði, who was with Haraldr in the south and later taught the story to Þorsteinn sǫgufróði (‘the Story-Wise’: see p. 35). Snorri’s purpose in relating these adventures is clearly to present Haraldr as a bold and resourceful military campaigner, and he is unsparing in his praise of Haraldr’s exploits. But for all the exaggeration, much of what Snorri says can be verified from contemporary sources from Constantinople and elsewhere, which put it beyond doubt that Haraldr did serve as a commander in the army of the Byzantine emperor in the years 1034-43 and fought widely in the Aegean area, Asia Minor, Jerusalem, Africa, and Sicily. The most important of these sources, The Emperor’s Counsel, written some time during the reign of the emperor Michael VII (1071-8) or Alexios I (1081-1118), describes Haraldr and his deeds among the Varangians as follows: Araltes [i.e. Haraldr] was the son of the King of Varangia [here, Norway] and had a brother called Julavos [i.e. Óláfr] who had inherited the kingdom on the death of his father and placed Araltes as his deputy within the kingdom. But Araltes, who was young and admired the majesty of the Romans [i.e. of the emperor of the Greeks], left his own land and wished to take up service with us and show allegiance to the blessed Lord Emperor Michael the Paphlagonian, and see with his own eyes the Roman customs and system of government. He brought with him a company of 500 brave men, and entered the service of the emperor, who received him with the honor that was his due and sent him to Sicily because the Roman army was there at the time, engaged in a war on the island. Araltes went there and performed many deeds of valor. And when the war was over he returned to the Emperor, who awarded him the title of manglavites. But some time later it happened that Delianos started a revolt in Bulgaria; Araltes then went on an expedition with the emperor, taking his men with him, and performed great deeds of valor against the enemy, as befitted one of his noble lineage and courage. When the Emperor had subjugated the Bulgarians he returned home [to Constantinople]; I was there myself in the war and fought for the Emperor to the best of my ability. So when we came to Mosynupolis the emperor rewarded him for his valor and honored him with the title of spatharokandidatos. After the death of the Emperor Michael and the emperor after him, his sister’s son, in the days of the Emperor Constantine Monomachos, Araltes desired to return to his ancestral land and asked for permission to leave, but this was refused and he found his way barred. Nonetheless he managed to escape in secret and became king in his own native land in the place of his brother Julavos. Nor was he angry at being made only a manglavites or spatharokandidatos, but rather, even after he became king, kept his faith with the Romans and remained on friendly terms with them. [2] So far as the external framework of the story goes, this source brings us very close to Snorri’s account in Heimskringla, though of course it lacks the legendary motifs that we find interwoven into the saga. The example proves that, for all its fantasy and adventure, Haralds saga can also serve as some kind of source for past events even if it does not present us with the truth whole and unvarnished. It is all very well to doubt the source value of the sagas, but we should not do so at the cost of recognizing that they can, despite everything, have an extraordinarily close relationship to reality; that is, to the reality we reckon we can approach through alternative means, whether contemporary sources from elsewhere or archaeological discoveries. Haraldr harðráði’s time in Constantinople thus supplies evidence of travels and service in the east that can be verified from external sources. The same is to some extent true of the journey of Yngvarr víðfǫrli (‘the Wide-Traveled’) (see Snædal, Þ. 1997). Yngvars saga is preserved in manuscripts from around 1400 and later and is reckoned to date from the 14th century. The saga is highly fantastic in character, although at the end the writer makes great

230 play of his sources and informants, claiming that everything he has said derives ultimately from the king of Sweden (see Hofmann 1981). The saga tells of a journey made by a Swede called Yngvarr Eymundsson with thirty ships through Garðaríki (i.e. Russia) and lands to the east during the years 1036-41. Only the most credulous would be inclined to place much faith in the story as it is related were it not for the existence of some thirty runestones in the area around Lake Mälaren in central Sweden dedicated to people who lost their lives on an expedition into Asia with Yngvarr, mostly from a disease which the saga links to heathen women they slept with on the way (see Jansson 1987:63-69, Wessén 1960:30-46). So, fantastic and legendary though the account may be, there can be no doubt that this voyage actually took place. Omeljan Pritsak (1981:423-460) has even established that many of the ethnographic and historical details in the saga make sense in view of sources from Asia. Much the same can be said about the work of the Swedish scholar Mats Larsson (1983, 1990, 1996), who has managed to correlate the descriptions in the saga with the facts of the geography of western Asia. The expedition seems to have set off along the customary route south by boat down the river Dnieper to the Black Sea, and then moved east up the river Rion to the city of Kutaisi, through the inhospitable terrain of the high Caucasus to the river Kura and the city of Tbilisi, and then down to the Caspian Sea and on as far as Khorezm on the Oxus. By good fortune we have historical sources from the Kingdom of Georgia that are not incompatible with the saga account, describing a power struggle between a pair of brothers around the year 1040 in which Varangians were involved. As well as constituting an interface between legend and historical truth, it is worth bearing in mind that the saga was written primarily as a travel book and as such is in some ways comparable with the sagas that tell of the Norse journeys west across the Atlantic to Vínland (see Andersson 2000:26-8). Other evidence suggestive of very ancient historical elements in the sagas comes from the conclusions that have been drawn from the most impressive archaeological finds of VikingAge Norway, the Gokstad and Oseberg ship-burials, in the light of the details given in Heimskringla about the Norwegian royal family of the 9th century. In 1880 a Viking longship dating from the second half of the 9th century was uncovered from a burial mound at Gokstad in Vestfold on the Oslo Fjord. The skeleton in the mound showed signs of a crippling condition of the leg, and some have seen in this a connection with the figure of King Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr who, according to Snorri, was described in an early poem by Þjóðólfr úr Hvíni as suffering from severe leg pains. Óláfr was the stepson of Queen Ása, the daughter of King Haraldr inn granrauði (‘the Red-Moustached’) mentioned in Heimskringla and the grandmother of Haraldr hárfagri (see Jones 1984:84-5). This Queen Ása has often been identified with the occupant of the Oseberg ship discovered in 1903 in a mound at Oseberg, also by the Oslo Fjord in Vestfold. The ship in question was twenty-two meters (seventy-two feet) long and built around 800, and formed the centerpiece of the lavishly furnished burial of a woman clearly of chieftainly class, together with a slave woman, some time in the middle years of the 9th century. These connections are of course extremely tentative. No modern-day Norwegian archaeologist would lay his neck on the line and state categorically that the skeletons found in the ship-burials are those of the characters mentioned in the sagas; there is simply too much inconsistency in the saga accounts and too much confusion about the family relationships for such identifications to hold water in the hard world of archaeology. By their very nature, the written sources cannot provide information on individual chieftains who lived in 9th-century Norway that is accurate down to the year or decade. It is remarkable enough that 13th-century Icelanders should have retained any memory at all of the names of people who had lived 400 years earlier and recorded these memories in organized fashion in their books. Even if the stories told of Óláfr Geirstaðaálfr and his crippled leg and Queen Ása cannot stand up to conventional source criticism, it is astonishing in itself that any kind of connection can be made

231 between them and the remarkable graves from the very time and place where these people were said to have lived their real lives on earth.

The settlement of Iceland in the sagas and other sources Allowing for a degree of simplification, it may be said that the accounts given in the Icelandic sagas of the main events of the Viking Age, in so far as they affect Iceland, are in all main respects correct. The written sources describe a comparatively rapid settlement of the country from about 870 onwards under the leadership of chieftains who came both direct from Norway and from the Norwegian colonies in the British Isles and established a few hundred large estates and around 3,000 farms. All this is confirmed by modern-day archaeology. The dating is secure in the light of the so-called ‘settlement layer’ of volcanic ash which extends over a large part of the country. This layer was the result of an eruption in 871 (± 1 year), as confirmed by ice-core samples from the Greenland icecap, and immediately above it are found the remains of the oldest habitation in Iceland (see Vésteinsson 1998). The writers of the sources were also fully aware that Greenland had been settled by people from Iceland in the last years of the 10th century. Likewise, people knew stories about sailings to the North American continent around the year 1000, voyages confirmed by remains left by people from Greenland and Iceland and uncovered since the 1960s at L’Anse aux Meadows at the northernmost tip of Newfoundland (see p. 000). The saga writers were also, rightly, aware that at the time of the settlement the dominant religion was the Norse heathendom but that around the year 1000 this had changed with the adoption by law of Christianity. All this was known because people preserved stories about these events in their memories; these stories were told from man to man and particular events were associated with the names and lineages of certain individuals. As a natural result of the inherent properties of narrative art and oral tradition, various details must inevitably have strayed from the strait and narrow path of truth over the course of time. This, however, does nothing to invalidate the general picture, a picture fully consistent with the evidence gleaned by archaeologists. None of this could have been made up by the saga writers on the basis of literary models and sources brought in from continental Europe or the lands of the Mediterranean. So there is no avoiding the fact that the sagas constitute independent sources for these times, a fact that is in no way compromised by the presence in the sagas of material that a modern scientific outlook would reject as farfetched or impossible. Vegetation and climate. Various incidental details mentioned in the ancient sources regarding vegetation and climate have also been verified through modern methods of research. For instance, Ari fróði’s statement in Íslendingabók that at the time of the settlement Iceland was ‘viði vaxit á miðli fjalls ok fjǫru’ (‘wooded between mountain and shoreline’) has been shown on the evidence of paleobotanical research to have been in all probability true, the woods in question having consisted chiefly of birch trees and scrub (see Einarsson, E. and Gíslason, E. 2000). Ice-core sampling on the Greenland icecap has provided us with a range of valuable information about climatic conditions and temperature fluctuations in former times. Research in this area has made it possible to go through the past year by year and extract details of temperature, precipitation, volcanic eruptions, and other factors as if we had access to some kind of natural diary. For instance, from such sources we now know that only shortly before the start of the settlements around 870 the climate of Iceland was much colder than in subsequent periods, much as it was in the late 17th century when the country was surrounded by ice floes reaching all the way to the Faeroes. This mini ice age coincides well with the story in Landnámabók about Hrafna-Flóki and how Iceland got its name. Previously, doubts had been expressed about this story on the grounds that Flóki was unlikely to have seen large amounts of sea ice from the mountains above Flókalundur on Breiðafjörður in the west where he spent his first winter in Iceland. However, these new findings have dispelled all such doubts, showing

232 that such a scene was altogether plausible in the middle years of the 9th century. After around 860 temperatures began to rise and during the 10th century the climate was rather warmer than it is nowadays. Glaciological research also tends to support the saga accounts of the settlement of Greenland; in 985, the probable year of Eiríkr rauði’s emigration, seasonal conditions had been good for an entire century and vegetation was then at its historical high point, with wide expanses of birch scrub in low-lying areas providing favorable farming conditions for settlers from Iceland. By the middle of the 14th century the climate had become much colder, and this may in part account for the abandonment of the Western Settlement around the year 1350 (see Sveinbjörnsdóttir 1993:106). Heathens and Christians. When we turn to the religious background to the settlement period, however, there appears to be a degree of contradiction among the sources. The general impression given is of a land that was entirely heathen up to the year 1000, when the Icelanders as a body accepted Christianity. However, the sources do say that many of those who came to Iceland from the colonies in the British Isles were Christian, although Scandinavian culture and heathendom were dominant in Iceland from the earliest days. According to Landnámabók, these Christians settled particularly in the west and south, which accords well with the inferences that can be drawn from the distribution of the place name Breiðabólstaður, which is found only in the Norse colonies in the British Isles and in the parts of Iceland where people from these areas are reported to have settled (see Gammeltoft 1998:226-7). It is hardly surprising that there are few signs of these people exerting any influence at the upper layers of society, since it was men of Scandinavian descent who controlled administration and public affairs in Iceland, whether they came directly from Norway or by way of a generation or two in the colonies in Britain. It was these heathen Scandinavians who directed the work and organized the farming, who decided how things would be done and how chattels and livestock were to be distributed. Slaves of Irish and Scottish origin were given Norse names and compelled to accept the language and customs of their masters. As a result, their culture never became a dominant force in Iceland (see Sigurðsson, G. 1988), even though the latest genetic research indicates that over half the female population of Iceland in the earliest period had had Gaelic foremothers and around a fifth of the men had been of Gaelic origin (Helgason A. et al. 2000, 2000a). Although it is impossible now to assess the geographical distribution of different religions in the 9th and 10th centuries, the evidence of archaeology makes it clear that Norsemen in Shetland and Orkney had adopted Christianity long before the final years of the 10th century, the ‘official’ date given in the written sources for their Christianization through the offices of King Óláfr Tryggvason (Morris 1996). Also, the people who left the Breiðafjörður region in the west of Iceland with Erik the Red in 985 or 986 and settled in Greenland did not leave any signs of heathen burial customs in their new country. The oldest graves in the cemetery at Þjóðhildr’s church at Brattahlíð are all Christian and probably date from the last years of the 10th century (976 ± 41 years; see Arneborg et al. 1999:161), indicating that Christianity was the active faith of these people from the outset and in spite of what the sources say about Óláfr Tryggvason sending Leifr heppni to convert the Greenlanders around the year 1000. According to Landnámabók, many of the settlers around Breiðafjörður originally came from the British Isles and are thus likely to have brought Christianity with them to their new home. It was the descendants of these people who were responsible for the settlement of Greenland (see the genealogical table on p. 262) and it is thus perfectly understandable that Christianity should have been well established in Greenland from the beginning of the Norse settlements there. A further pointer to the existence of links between the people who journeyed to Greenland and Vínland and the Christian cultural world of the British Isles is provided by a ringed pin of a design specifically associated with Viking Dublin, found at the Norse site at L’Anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland; no brooches of this type have been found in Norway,

233 but they are common in the lands around the Irish Sea, in Denmark, and in Iceland (Fanning 1994:35; see also p. 271). All in all, it is clear that the picture given in the sources of a land that was entirely heathen up until the adoption of Christianity at the Alþingi in the year 1000 is an oversimplification. There is clear evidence of Christianity among the original settlers, and good reason to believe that it survived intact in some form throughout the ‘pre-Christian’ period, at least in the west of Iceland. However, on closer examination a number of hints emerge from the sources that bring them more into line with what archaeology has to tell us about the religious background of Iceland in the earliest days of its history.

Leifr Eiríksson, magical lands in the western ocean, and the Gaelic connection A further possible connection between Britain and the Norse journeys to America can be found in the central figure of Leifr Eiríksson (Leifr heppni, ‘Leif the Lucky’), who was himself, at least according to some, said to have been of good Christian stock. Icelandic sources give two accounts of the origins of his father, Eiríkr rauði (‘Erik the Red’). In the oldest source, Ari fróði’s Íslendingabók (‘Book of the Icelanders’), written some time in the years 1122-33, Eiríkr is said merely to have been ‘breiðfirzkr,’ i.e. from the Breiðafjörður region of western Iceland. However, younger sources — Landnámabók and the sagas that tell of Eiríkr’s life — say that he was originally from Jæren in western Norway and moved to Iceland with his father and lived initially at Drangar on Hornstrandir in the extreme northwest (see also Ólafur Halldórsson 1980). From there Eiríkr later moved south to the Dalir region at the head of Breiðafjörður and married a woman called Þjóðhildr. This Þjóðhildr was the daughter of Jǫrundr, son of Bjǫrg, who was the sister of Helgi magri (‘Helgi the Lean’) and the daughter of Eyvindr, who had been married to Rafarta, the daughter of Kjarval, king of the Irish. Thus, on his mother’s side, Leifr had Irish Christian blood in his veins, like so many other people in Dalir. The written sources contain no record of where or when Leifr was born, but on the basis that his family moved to Greenland in 985 or 986 after Eiríkr rauði had spent three years exploring the new country it is assumed that Leifr was born in Iceland to have been old enough by the year 999-1000 to command a ship to the Hebrides (where he might have visited his relatives and where he acquired a son named Þorgils by a woman named Þórgunna, as related in Eiríks saga rauða), and then gone on to Norway and then back home to Greenland, touching in on Vínland on the way. It thus seems likely that Leifr was born where his parents lived first after they were married, i.e. at Eiríksstaðir in Haukadalur — if, of course, he is to be considered a historical figure at all. Perhaps some confirmation of an element of historical truth in the sources has been provided by excavations led by the archaeologist Guðmundur Ólafsson (1998) at some ruins in Haukadalur known as Eiríksstaðir, which have uncovered a 50 square-meter (540 square-feet) hall that was occupied for a short period in the latter part of the 10th century. Two stages have been identified in the construction, but the hall was abandoned shortly after completion. It stood on the eastern boundary of the estate of Vatnshorn, on a limited space between two existing farms, so that whoever lived there stood every chance of landing up in disputes with his neighbors over land use and grazing rights. The information provided by the archaeologists, and the inferences that can reasonably be drawn from it, thus tie in excellently with the written sources of the life of Eiríkr rauði. The world of the Icelandic sagas, in Greenland, Iceland, Scandinavia, the British Isles, and mainland Europe, all the way south and east to Russia and Constantinople, was a world that

234 was known to the writers of the sagas through the journeys of their contemporaries as well as from books — a world that people had living contact with up to the time when the sagas were written. The impulse to tell stories about and set them within this world may thus be related to the fact that this was a known world and a known setting. Things change when we move out past the limits of the world known to medieval man and find ourselves on the shores of North America in the Vínland sagas, Grœnlendinga saga, and Eiríks saga rauða. There were no books in 13th-century Iceland to provide writers with information about the lands to the south and west of Greenland, let alone first-hand contemporary accounts of journeys in those regions — though this has recently been mooted as an idea by Helgi Þorláksson (2001). Even so, people wrote sagas about voyages to these places in which the geography and inhabitants are described in some detail. So where did the saga writers get their information from?

Figure 7-1: Origins and family relations of the main Vínland explorers As mentioned previously, many of the settlers around Breiðafjörður were of British descent, and so there would undoubtedly have been people in this region that would have been familiar with Irish tales of legendary, magical lands in the western ocean, lands of plenty where the tellers envisaged beautiful women, inexhaustible wine, rivers full of enormous salmon, and everlasting bliss. These highly fanciful tales have features reminiscent of the mythical Ódáinsvellir (‘Fields of the Undying’) described in Norse sources, in so far as those who managed to get to these wonderful lands had no way back to this earthly life. Tales preserved in Landnámabók and younger sources of a voyage by Ari Másson and other men from Breiðafjörður to a place called ‘Hvítramannaland’ (‘Land of the White Men’) may perhaps owe something to such legends and it is not improbable that stories of this type may have encouraged people to sail west in search of lands beyond the sea (see Pálsson, H. 2000, 2001). For instance,

235 Landnámabók records that in the first party to move to Greenland with Eiríkr rauði there was a Christian man from the Hebrides, while according to Eiríks saga rauða Leifr heppni’s crew that landed in America included a man and woman from Scotland called Haki and Hekja (see Breeze 1998). Once people from Iceland and Greenland had reached the continent of North America, where the flora and climate bore distinct similarities to the descriptions in these legends, it is well conceivable that fact and fiction became merged in the telling, leading people to believe that they had reached the lands they had heard about in these accounts. However, the Irish legends are hardly on their own enough to explain the many realistic features of the Vínland sagas. However much these sagas may owe in their form to the literary genre of the travel sagas like Yngvars saga víðfǫrla (Andersson 2000), there is a vast difference between the descriptions of the lands to the west of the Atlantic and the stories of travels in the east where men capture cities and fight against kings. Such exotica in relation to faraway lands is entirely absent from the Vínland sagas — and it is tempting to see in this absence of exaggeration reality and hard fact and say that, if such wonders do not appear in the Vínland sagas, it is because such wonders did not appear in Vínland around the year 1000 either.

The Sagas and Other Records of Vínland The Vínland sagas, Grœnlendinga saga, and Eiríks saga rauða, are in all probability the oldest writings to contain memories going back directly to people who witnessed the mainland of North America with their own eyes. They tell the story of a number of voyages from Iceland and Greenland around the year 1000, the earliest fully authenticated journeys across the Atlantic of which we know. These voyages led to the first encounters between Europeans and the indigenous peoples of North America. References in earlier sources also make it clear that the Vínland voyages were known of both in Iceland and mainland Europe before the two sagas were written early in the 13th century. The Vínland sagas have been the subject of much learned study and research (see Bergersen 1997) and numerous theories have been advanced about the voyages based solely on the testimony of the sagas. The various and apparently incompatible views expressed on the source value of the sagas and the location of Vínland itself (see the table on p. 277) can, however, to a large extent be put down to the different scholarly methodologies employed and the changes in attitudes towards the origins of the sagas that have prevailed among scholars and interested amateurs over the years. If we take the trouble to understand the fundamental problems that lie behind the different findings and take into account the advances that, despite obstacles, have been made in Vínland studies in recent decades — in archaeology, in philological analysis of the saga texts, and in our improved understanding of how stories survive and change in oral preservation from generation to generation — then we will be in position to take up the search for Vínland again against the background of the ideas on oral tradition presented in the previous chapters.

*  The earliest written reference to Vínland occurs in Adam of Bremen’s Gesta hammaburgensis ecclesiae pontificum (‘History of the Archbishops of Hamburg’), written around 1075. Adam cites information that he received in 1068 or 1069 from the Danish king Sveinn Úlfsson about an island in the west named Vínland where there were both grapes and self-propagating wheat. Were it not for the existence of the more circumstantial saga accounts from Iceland telling of this same Vínland, one would be tempted to suppose that Adam’s description was of the same stock as the stories from Ireland and elsewhere mentioned earlier

236 concerning marvelous legendary islands far out in the western ocean. There is even a curious reference in Grœnlendinga saga that suggests how news of Vínland might have reached Bremen in Saxony: toward the end of the saga we read about a valuable item from Vínland called a húsasnotra (a term of uncertain meaning) made of mǫsurr (burlwood found in Vínland) which Þorfinnr karlsefni is said to have sold on a Norwegian quayside to a man from Bremen. Given the way that oral stories circulate, it is not hard to imagine, if there is anything in this story at all, that this húsasnotra might have been accompanied by some kind of narrative or other details of its origins and that this information may have then been passed on by the Bremen merchant when he displayed his exotic acquisition back in his home port (see Perkins 1989 on the connections between stories and memories and physical artifacts). We may also note that the hero of the short Icelandic tale Auðunar þáttr vestfirzka (‘Tale of Auðunn of the West Fjords’) is said to have traveled with a polar bear from Greenland to the court of King Sveinn in Denmark, which seems to confirm that to a medieval Icelander the idea of information and stories being transmitted between Greenland and Denmark did not present insuperable problems. A much briefer reference to Vínland occurs in Ari fróði’s Íslendingabók, the oldest extant history of Iceland, compiled some time between 1122 and 1133. Ari tells us that in Greenland Erik the Red found evidence of ‘manna vistir’ (‘human habitation’), which indicated that the people who had lived there were of a similar kind to those who lived in Vínland and whom the Greenlanders called Skrælingar. Ari’s information on Greenland has every chance of being reliable since he cites an unimpeachable source, viz. his paternal uncle Þorkell Gellison, who had himself been to Greenland and met there a man who ‘fylgði Eiríki enum rauða út’ (‘went there with Erik the Red at the time of the settlement’). Moreover, the wording of Ari’s reference suggests that he assumed the existence of Vínland to be a generally known fact; indeed, one of the two bishops to whom he submitted his work for approval, Þorlákr Runólfsson, bishop of Skálholt (1085-1133), was himself the grandson of Snorri, the son of the Vínland voyagers Þorfinnr karlsefni and Guðríðr, and a man as likely as anyone to have known what there was to be known about the Vínland voyages. This all fits in well with an entry in the Icelandic annals for the year 1121, which records that Eiríkr upsi Gnúpsson, bishop of Greenland, set out to look for Vínland himself; nothing more was ever heard of him, but his journey in itself provides a further indication of a general awareness of Vínland and the earlier voyages across the Atlantic around the time that Ari was writing. The Vínland sagas per se consist of two independent works: Eiríks saga rauða (‘Saga of Erik the Red’) and Grœnlendinga saga (‘Saga of the Greenlanders’). Eiríks saga is preserved in two Icelandic manuscripts, Hauksbók from the first half of the 14th century and Skálholtsbók from the first half of the 15th century, both based on an original written some time after 1263, which in turn was probably based on an older text from the first half of the 13th century (see Ólafur Halldórsson 1985:367-9). The saga in fact has little to say about Eiríkr himself and appears to have been written to elevate the memory of the first Europeans to have a child in North America, Guðríðr Þorbjarnardóttir from Laugarbrekka on Snæfellsnes in western Iceland and Þorfinnr karlsefni, whose son Snorri was born during their three-year expedition to Straumsfjörður, east and south of Leifr’s Vínland. Karlsefni was from one of the best families in Iceland, a descendant of Kjarval, king of the Irish, and of the great matriarch Auðr djúpúðga (‘Auðr the Deep-Minded’), who had been the wife of a viking king of Dublin before moving to Iceland and settling in the Dalir region. Guðríðr, on the other hand, was the granddaughter of a former Gaelic slave called Vífill brought to Iceland and freed by Auðr; this rather obscure background perhaps explains the somewhat frosty reception given to Guðríðr by her motherin-law when Karlsefni returned home to Skagafjörður in the north of Iceland after his journey to Vínland. According to Eiríks saga rauða, King Óláfr Tryggvason of Norway entrusted Leifr Eiríksson, the son of Eiríkr rauði, with a mission to convert the Greenlanders to Christianity.

237 Grœnlendinga saga is preserved only in Flateyjarbók from around 1387 and forms part of one version of the compilation known as Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar hin mesta (‘Greatest Saga of Óláfr Tryggvason’). It therefore lacks its original beginning, this being replaced by a general introduction in the previous chapter about Eiríkr rauði and Greenland based on material from the Sturlubók redaction of Landnámabók. There is no doubt, however, that the saga was written much earlier, possibly at the very beginning of the 13th century, though there is little in the way of hard evidence to prove this (see Ólafur Halldórsson 1985:390-5, Ólason, V. 2001). The saga focuses on the role of Leifr Eiríksson. It describes his first voyage of exploration to Vínland in some detail and includes the tale, also found in Eiríks saga rauða, of how he got his nickname — Leifr heppni (‘Leif the Lucky’) — by rescuing some stranded sailors from a rock on his journey home (rescuing others is still considered a sign of luck among Icelandic seafarers). Grœnlendinga saga also includes further information on Guðríðr, the wife of Þorfinnr karlsefni, that in her later years she made a pilgrimage to Rome, as a result of which she later acquired the nickname ‘víðfǫrla’ (‘the Wide-Traveled’), before ending her days as a nun in Skagafjörður. Both the Vínland sagas were written in the first half of the 13th century, independently of each other. They reflect a saga tradition among the descendants of Guðríðr and Þorfinnr karlsefni and both mention with pride that among their descendants were three bishops of the 12th and 13th centuries. In many respects their narratives tell the same story, but they also differ on a large number of points, making them particularly interesting for any discussion of the interconnections linking the sagas, oral tradition, and the external historical reality. Table 7-1: The Vínland sagas. Material common to both sagas is shown in bold. Eiríks saga rauða GUÐRÍÐR COMES TO GREENLAND Guðríðr comes to Greenland from Iceland with her father in a group of thirty people. Half of them fall ill and die on the way. A seeress tells Guðríðr’s future and she goes to Eiríkr rauði. Leifr accepts King Óláfr Tryggvason’s commission to promote Christianity in Greenland. LEIFR FINDS NEW LANDS Leifr is blown off course and finds previously unknown lands to the west of Greenland where self-propagating wheat, grapevines, and mǫsurr trees grow. He rescues a group of people shipwrecked on a rock, converts them to Christianity, and is given the nickname ‘heppni’ (‘lucky’).

Grœnlendinga saga

BJARNI FINDS NEW LANDS Bjarni Herjólfsson is blown off course and sees previously unknown forested lands to the west of Greenland.

LEIFR EXPLORES NEW LANDS Leifr buys Bjarni’s ship and asks his father Eiríkr to come with him. Eiríkr says he is too old for such a journey but in the end agrees to go. On their way to ship, Eiríkr falls from his horse and returns home. Leifr discovers Helluland, Markland, and Vínland and on the way home rescues Þórir and his crew, fifteen all told, from a

238 rock where they have been shipwrecked. They all fall ill during the winter and Þórir and some of the others die. Guðríðr is Þórir’s wife. Leifr gets the nickname ‘heppni’ (‘lucky’) from saving these people. ÞORVALDR GOES EXPLORING AND IS KILLED AT KROSSANES Leifr’s brother Þorvaldr explores lands to the west and east of Leifr’s camp at Leifsbúðir. He wrecks his ship on a headland, which from this becomes known as Kjalarnes (‘Keel Point’). Þorvaldr says he wishes to settle thereabouts, but then they see nine men under three skin-covered boats and kill them all except one, who escapes. They are attacked by a large force of natives. Þorvaldr is killed by an arrow and buried on Krossanes. ÞORSTEINN AND GUÐRÍÐR MARRY AND LOSE THEIR WAY IN THE ÞORSTEINN ADRIFT IN THE ATLANTIC ATLANTIC Eiríkr rauði’s son Þorsteinn buys Guðríðr’s Þorsteinn Eiríksson marries Guðríðr, Þórir’s widow. They set sail for Vínland but father’s ship and persuades Eiríkr to come with him on the voyage. Eiríkr hides his lose their way and finish up in Lýsufjörður in Greenland. Þorsteinn dies gold before setting off, but on the way to ship he falls from his horse and refuses to go but rises up from his deathbed and any further. The others lose their bearings foretells Guðríðr’s future. His remains and sail around lost for the whole summer. are moved to consecrated ground at Brattahlíð. Guðríðr also moves to Brattahlíð. ÞORSTEINN AND GUÐRÍÐR MARRY Þorsteinn marries Guðríðr and they move to Lýsufjörður in the Western Settlement of Greenland. Þorsteinn falls ill and dies, but rises up from his deathbed and foretells Guðríðr’s future. His remains are moved to consecrated ground at Brattahlíð. Guðríðr’s father dies and she moves to Brattahlíð. THE JOURNEY OF KARLSEFNI AND THE JOURNEY OF KARLSEFNI AND GUÐRÍÐR GUÐRÍÐR Þorfinnr karlsefni comes to Greenland and Þorfinnr karlsefni comes to Greenland marries Guðríðr. There is much talk about and marries Guðríðr. There is much talk voyages to Vínland, and Karlsefni and about voyages to Vínland, and Karlsefni Guðríðr decide to go. With them go Eiríkr’s and Guðríðr decide to go. They intend to daughter Freydís, her husband Þorvarðr, settle, so they take livestock with them. and Eiríkr’s son Þorvaldr. They find

239 Helluland, Markland, and Bjarney, as well as the keel of a ship on Kjalarnes. THE STAY AT STRAUMSFJÖRÐUR They sail past Furðustrandir and stop at Straumsfjörður, where they find a beached whale. One ship intends to sail north around Kjalarnes in search of Vínland but is blown off course. Karlsefni continues south to Hóp, taking the livestock with him. ENCOUNTERS WITH NATIVES AT HÓP At Hóp they meet native Skrælingar. Karlsefni and his men trade with them, giving them red cloths in return for skins. Karlsefni forbids his men from trading their weapons. The Skrælingar are frightened away by a bull. But they return and attack Karlsefni and his men, who flee. Freydís, who is pregnant, puts the Skrælingar to flight by baring her breasts and beating on them with a sword. The Skrælingar find one of their number dead with an iron axe in his head. They take the axe and try it out on a tree, but it breaks on a stone and they throw it away. On the way home, Karlsefni kills five Skrælingar sleeping in their bags/boats made of hides. These Skrælingar feed on blood and bone marrow. ÞORVALDR IS KILLED IN THE LAND OF THE ONE-LEGGED Karlsefni sails north around Kjalarnes and comes to a river flowing eastwards. A onelegged man appears and shoots an arrow at Þorvaldr. He pulls it out and is impressed to see the fat hanging from it, a sign of prosperity in the new land. They realize they are looking at the same mountains as they had seen from Hóp, but from the other side. They estimate the distance from here to Straumsfjörður to be about the same as that from Straumsfjörður south to Hóp. SNORRI AT STRAUMSFJÖRÐUR At Straumsfjörður there is a quarrel over women. Snorri, the son of Guðríðr and Karlsefni, is now three years old. They take hostages on their way home and lose yet another ship.

THE STAY AT LEIFSBÚÐIR They arrive at Leifsbúðir, where they find a beached whale that provides them with plenty to eat. They also live off the land, hunting, fishing, and collecting grapes.

ENCOUNTERS WITH NATIVES After one winter they become aware of natives, who become frightened by Karlsefni’s bull. They trade with the natives, who offer furs and want weapons in return, but Karlsefni forbids this. Guðríðr gives birth to a son, Snorri, and sees a phantom. Karlsefni plans to use the bull to frighten off the natives. The natives attack and many are killed. One of them tries out an iron axe by striking one of his companions and killing him. Their leader picks up the axe and throws it into the sea. The following spring Karlsefni decides to return to Greenland, taking with him timber, berries, and skins.

240 FREYDÍS LEADS AN EXPEDITION TO VÍNLAND Freydís Eiríksdóttir leads an expedition to Vínland with her husband, Þorvarðr of Garðar. Egged on by Freydís, the members of the expedition fall out and start fighting at Leifsbúðir. She kills the women herself and the survivors return to Greenland. Leifr condemns Freydís’s behavior. KARLSEFNI AND GUÐRÍÐR IN SKAGAFJÖRÐUR Karlsefni and Guðríðr move to Iceland and settle at Reynines in Skagafjörður. Karlsefni’s mother takes against Guðríðr, considering her to be too low-born to marry into their family, but eventually comes to accept her. Three bishops are named as being descended from Karlsefni and Guðríðr.

KARLSEFNI AND GUÐRÍÐR IN SKAGAFJÖRÐUR Karlsefni goes to Norway and sells his goods. He returns to Iceland and makes his home with Guðríðr and their son Snorri at Glaumbær in Skagafjörður. Three bishops are named as being descended from Karlsefni and Guðríðr.

 

The place of the Vínland sagas among the sagas of Icelanders As works of literature, the Vínland sagas are generally included among the sagas of Icelanders, though as regards subject matter their main interest is in journeys rather than some kind of feuding. Greenland is mentioned many times in the sagas of Icelanders, including Flóamanna saga, Fóstbrœðra saga, Bárðar saga, Eyrbyggja saga, Gísla saga, Hallfreðar saga, Jǫkuls þáttr Búasonar, Króka-Refs saga, Auðunar þáttr vestfirzka, and Grœnlendinga þáttr (which is set later than the other sagas), and there is a general awareness and familiarity with Greenland throughout the world of the sagas. However, as a result of the distance it is possible to have adventures happening there that would be unthinkable in an Icelandic setting. If the Vínland sagas contain any genuine information about past events, the only possible place that the writers who put them together could have gotten this information from is oral tradition, i.e. traditional tales and the memories of living people. These sagas purport to describe some extremely unusual sea journeys, undertaken more than two centuries before the texts were written. The stories about these journeys must therefore have altered in their handling over time and undergone modifications in line with the laws of oral narrative. They would without doubt have been kept alive by the descendants of those who undertook the original voyages, but they would equally have been taken up by mariners, who at this time, as at all times, would have exchanged stories and information about distant places, how to get to them, and how unfamiliar lands might be recognized from the descriptions of routes and places included in such stories; as mentioned earlier (p. 57), one of the prime functions of oral poetry and storytelling is to act as a reservoir for the fund of information on which oral societies depend in order to operate. Even though the Vínland sagas are literary products, cast in the mold of the dominant form of the time when they were written and colored by the prevailing beliefs and assumptions, they are equally clearly based on memories of former times passed down orally from generation to generation by the people of Iceland. They are not spun out of thin air like creative fiction, and they are most certainly not to be viewed as myths or legends. There can thus be little doubt that they contain genuine memories about actual people and events that took place around the year 1000. But it is equally certain that the saga accounts of these characters and events do not mirror historical reality in every respect; they disagree on many minor points and contain much

241 that would now be considered fanciful or supernatural, such as the account in Eiríks saga rauða of the one-legged man (for all that such things were an integral part of the ‘real world’ to the medieval mind). All in all, the sagas represent the best evidence we have that people from Greenland and Iceland undertook a number of voyages to the North American continent at about the time the sagas indicate; we do not need archaeological finds, rune stones, or the so-called Vínland Map to prove this basic fact. The Vínland sagas thus present an object exercise in any attempt to winnow out any grain of truth that might lie behind the ancient Icelandic sources. For many years these sagas were victims of a philological methodology that sought to explain all vaguely similar occurrences in medieval texts as examples of literary relations, i.e. as borrowings between written works (rittengsl). Strict application of these methods led Jón Jóhannesson (1956) to conclude that Grœnlendinga saga was older and more reliable than Eiríks saga rauða and that the latter had used the former as a source. Prior to this, scholars had adopted a variety of differing views, some giving precedence to one or other of the sagas, and some treating each as being of equal value. However, more recent research by Ólafur Halldórsson based on a detailed analysis of the texts has largely overturned the picture presented by Jóhannesson. Halldórsson (1978:293-400, 1985:341-99) came to the conclusion that the correspondences between the texts do not permit interpretation in terms of a literary relationship in which one saga was written based on the other; this being the case, the similarities and differences between the two sagas are, in his view, best explained by viewing them as having been written independently of each other, each drawing on traditional material that was circulating in oral form at the time of their writing. Halldórsson’s conclusions have not as yet been seriously challenged. Thus we can say that the traditional philological methodology, supported by mistaken assumptions about the nature of oral tradition, led scholars to mistaken conclusions about the textual relations between the two Vínland sagas, very much as in the case of the sagas from the east of Iceland discussed in Chapters 4 and 5.

L’Anse aux Meadows: viking remains in Newfoundland Early in the 1960s the archaeologists Helge and Anne Stine Ingstad started excavations at L’Anse aux Meadows at the northwestern tip of Newfoundland. It immediately became apparent that the site contained remains from the Viking Age, including dwellings of a type common in Greenland and Iceland, and thus provided the first concrete proof of Scandinavian visitors to North America and hard evidence of at least one place they had visited. In his report, Helge Ingstad (1985) somewhat speculatively identified the site with Leifr Eiríksson’s Vínland as described in the sagas. However, Ingstad’s identification was based on Jóhannesson’s view that Eiríks saga rauða was a reworking of Grœnlendinga saga, a view that is no longer sustainable. This allowed him to reject some of the material found in Eiríks saga in favor of the accounts in Grœnlendinga saga, in which all the voyages after Leifr’s call at the so-called ‘Leifsbúðir’ (‘Leifr’s Camp’), as a result of which his identification could be made to fit in with everything in the sagas that he considered to be of independent value. Ingstad thus felt confident that he had discovered the one true Vínland — or *Vinland as he believed the word should be: see below, p. 276. However, from archaeological work carried out since the early findings, it is now clear that L’Anse aux Meadows was in fact used as a staging post at an easily located point on the sea route from Greenland to lands farther south. A further advantage of the site was that it offered the explorers immunity from incursions by indigenous peoples: northern Newfoundland had previously been occupied by native Americans and was to be so again, but it appears that at the time in question, i.e. around the year 1000, the area was temporarily deserted (Wallace 2000).

242 The site contained three dwelling halls and a number of smaller buildings that were used for only a few years around the year 1000 and would have housed sixty to ninety occupants. By the largest hall, probably the chieftain’s, was a boathouse where ships’ nails and pins were replaced. The smallest hall was used for carpentry work, while the third contained a forge for working iron extracted from bog iron in a furnace situated on the other side of the stream that runs past the site; altogether, the iron produced at the furnace and forge would have sufficed to make around 150 nails. A number of smaller buildings were also found, some of which would probably have been lodgings for workmen or even slaves. Both the largest and smallest halls contained large amounts of storage space. We can thus conclude that L’Anse aux Meadows was used as a wintering site, where ships were pulled up on land for repairs before and after the hard sea crossing from Greenland and goods could be stockpiled before transportation back to Greenland or Iceland. Recent research by Kevin Smith (2000) has revealed interesting information about nine pieces of jasper found among the viking remains — such stones were in common use for lighting fires by striking sparks against steel. Chemical analysis of these stones has shown that four probably came from the Qaarusuk region near to the Norse Western Settlement in Greenland, while the other five are closest to jasper found in Borgarfjörður and Hvalfjörður in western Iceland. [3] The two smaller halls contained stones only of the Icelandic type, while all the Greenlandic jasper was found in the largest hall, where there were also Icelandic stones. This might point to the main hall having been shared by people from both Iceland and Greenland, while the other two were used solely by Icelanders. Such an arrangement might possibly be reflected in the saga accounts of expeditions setting off from Greenland manned both by Greenlanders and traders from Iceland. A further pointer to the origins and cultural contacts of the people from Iceland and Greenland at L’Anse aux Meadows a thousand years ago is a ringed pin of a type associated with Viking Dublin in Ireland. Fastenings of this particular type are unknown from Norway but are common in Viking Age finds from Ireland, Britain, and Denmark and fifteen have been found in Iceland (see p. 260). The discovery of this artifact reinforces the picture we receive of the Vínland voyages from the sagas, viz. that they included people from Iceland with strong connections with the British Isles. Other finds include ships’ rivets, evidence of ship repair work carried out at L’Anse aux Meadows, and a bone needle and a soapstone spindle whorl, indicating that there were women among the residents of the camp. All these finds are in line with the general picture of the voyages that we find in the written sources. The people who used the camp at L’Anse aux Meadows would in all probability have continued their journeys south into the Gulf of St. Lawrence rather than go north around the northmost tip of Newfoundland (which would be perilous in itself because of currents on the western side) and then south down the dangerous and confusing east coast, which is notorious for its drifting icebergs and persistent fog (Birgitta Wallace, personal communication). The southern side of the Gulf of St. Lawrence was also the habitat of the sought-after plant species of which traces have been found at the camp: three butternuts (Juglans cineria) and a lump of burlwood [4] from the butternut tree, with marks caused by an iron implement. Burlwood is particularly well suited to carving and the use of iron is clear evidence that the marks were not made by native Americans. The evidence also strongly suggests that the butternuts were brought to L’Anse aux Meadows by the people from Iceland and Greenland who used the place. They are not native to Newfoundland, their northernmost limit being on the southern side of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, coinciding closely with the northernmost limit of wild grapes (Wallace 2000a:216). They are too heavy to have been carried by birds and do not float and so cannot have been carried by ocean currents, and were found in a pile of wood shavings from the Norse occupation. The northern tip of Newfoundland is hardly the sort of place to give rise to memories like those preserved in the sagas about Leifr Eiríksson’s Vínland, the land of wine and grapes,

243 and the archaeological evidence removes all doubt that the people who used L’Anse aux Meadows were also familiar with regions further south. There is thus absolutely no reason to identify the site with Vínland, as Ingstad attempted to do. However, it is highly unlikely that such a large staging post would have disappeared entirely from people’s memories — memories that clearly go back to some extent to real events — and it may well be that L’Anse aux Meadows is the place described in the Grœnlendinga saga accounts of the voyages of Þorvaldr and Freydís, as described below.

Two independent sagas — a re-examination Ólafur Halldórsson’s recent finding of the textual independence of the two sagas opens the way for a thorough re-examination of the whereabouts of Vínland. Now that we can read the two sagas as independent accounts deriving from an oral tradition, we can look at them from a broader perspective, taking into account the fluid nature of all orally derived texts as well as the specific knowledge obtained from L’Anse aux Meadows. We can now look at the sagas as sources of information on their own terms, bearing in mind that without the explicit testimony of the sagas no one would ever have dreamed of going off to North America in search of remains left by Viking Age travelers and explorers from Greenland and Iceland. However, there is no question of the sagas giving us the whole truth about these voyages; they are a compilation of memories from a distant past, assembled, organized coherently, and written down for the first time in the thirteenth century, and thus a patent combination of fact and fiction, a body of disparate information that was kept alive on people’s lips over several generations before finally finding its way onto parchment. There are thus strict limits to how far we can go in treating these sagas as sources, but if we are clear about their general nature there may also be certain advantages.

The scholarly search for Vínland We cannot hope to find accurate locations for the places where people of Icelandic or Greenlandic origin landed on the east coast of North America using the evidence of the sagas alone; the descriptions are too general in nature to allow us to pinpoint the individual places mentioned with any accuracy. Much in the sagas, however, fits in well with the general descriptions of the vegetation and inhabitants of the east coast given by explorers in later times (see Ólafur Halldórsson 1978:371-3; Gathorne-Hardy 1921:173-95). This has led to innumerable attempts to identify the places mentioned in the ancient accounts with various sites along the east coast, but the very nature of the sources allows for endless differences of opinion, so that perhaps the most striking feature of the attempts to locate Vínland is that each and every person to have made one has disagreed with everyone else. In these attempts, some have chosen to accept the word of Grœnlendinga saga over that of Eiríks saga rauða, and some the reverse; some have taken both as equally valid sources; and others have set about emending the texts to make them fit in with the topography of wherever their favored locations lie for the landings of the Vínland voyagers. Thus people’s attitudes to the sources and the emendations they have seen fit to introduce have inevitably influenced the ways in which they have interpreted the texts.

244

Figure 7-2: The World of Vίnland Studies The search for Vínland began in earnest with the publication of Carl Christian Rafn’s excellent diplomatic edition of the Vínland sagas in 1837. From this point on, the northeastern states of the United States, in New England, became the favored hunting ground of Vínland-

245 seekers, working out from Rafn’s idea that Rhode Island and southeastern Massachusetts provided the best candidates; for instance, Rafn himself identified the Straum(s)ey of the texts with the island of Martha’s Vineyard. Rafn regarded both the sagas as of equal value and his views dominated thinking for most of the 19th century, giving rise to a certain civic pride among the residents of the Boston area and Cape Cod that their homes had once been the haunt of ancient vikings. The first major challenge to these ideas came with Gustav Storm’s edition of the texts in 1887, including the results of his own research, in which he argued that all the events said in the sagas to have taken place south of Markland should be located on Cape Breton Island and in Nova Scotia. Storm was much more critical than Rafn in his treatment and evaluation of the texts and, even though his theory about Vínland being in Nova Scotia was given a lukewarm reception, his main conclusion, that Eiríks saga rauða was a more reliable source than Grœnlendinga saga, was generally accepted. In 1910 the botanist M. L. Fernald (1910, 1915) turned his attention much farther north, identifying the ‘vínber’ (‘grapes’) of the sagas with cranberries, which grow in more northerly regions, the ‘self-propagating wheat’ with strand wheat, and the mǫsurr-wood with canoe birch. By so doing he was able to shift the Vínland of the sagas all the way to Labrador. Fernald’s ideas based on the plants mentioned found little favor until they were picked up on by Samuel Eliot Morison (1971:52) in the light of the findings at L’Anse aux Meadows. Morison also suggested that the ‘Straum(s)fjörður’ of Guðríðr and Karlsefni was the Strait of Belle Island, between Newfoundland and Labrador, and that their three-year expedition had taken them not far beyond L’Anse aux Meadows, viz. a single day’s sailing south along the shores of Newfoundland, first down the east coast (where Morison located ‘Hóp’) and then down the west coast (where he took ‘Einfœtingaland’ to be): see Morison 1971:53-6. In 1911 Vínland studies took a novel turn with the publication of the ideas of the Norwegian polar explorer Fridtjof Nansen. Nansen claimed that the Vínland sagas had gotten most of their material from hagiographical legends about blessed islands in the western ocean, though he did not go so far as to maintain that people from Greenland had never set foot on the mainland of North America. This hypothesis received a very muted reception at the time of its publication but literary scholars have subsequently echoed various of Nansen’s views and drawn attention to parallels between the sagas and the ideological world of medieval works written in the Christian learned and religious tradition (see Tómasson 2000). William H. Babcock (1913) followed Storm in setting greater store by Eiríks saga than Grœnlendinga saga. He located Markland on Newfoundland, Kjalarnes at the northwest of Cape Breton Island, Furðustrandir in Nova Scotia, Straum(s)fjörður and Straum(s)ey as the Bay of Fundy and Grand Manan Island, and Hóp as Mount Hope Bay, the same as Rafn had suggested almost a century before. W. A. Munn’s suggestion in 1914 that Vínland had lain somewhere toward the north of Newfoundland, close to L’Anse aux Meadows, remained unnoticed by the scholarly world for several decades. Hans P. Steensby (1918) interpreted Karlsefni and Guðríðr’s voyage in Eiríks saga rauða as following a route westward along the south coast of Labrador, where he located Furðustrandir, and into the estuary of the St. Lawrence, where he placed his Straum(s)fjörður, with Hóp further inland. Despite Steenby’s failure to find a place for the story of Þórhallr the Hunter and Karlsefni’s search for him within this picture, his suggestions gained wide acceptance. G. M. Gathorne-Hardy’s (1921) translation of the sagas made a number of valuable contributions to Vínland studies. Perhaps the most important lay in his comparisons between the saga accounts and the descriptions given by later travelers in the region of its geography and the ethnology of its native inhabitants. Gathorne-Hardy is also interesting in that he took the modern view of treating both sagas as representatives of differing narrative traditions and treating them with equal credence. He suggested the following locations: Helluland, Labrador or Newfoundland; Markland, Nova

246 Scotia; Furðustrandir, Cape Cod and Barnstable; Straum(s)ey, Fisher’s Island; Straum(s)fjörður, Long Island Sound; and Hóp, the mouth of the Hudson River. Halldór Hermannsson (1936) produced a considerably more conservative interpretation of the sagas, rejecting most of the material and taking the view that the only parts that were of genuine value were the two voyages described in Eiríks saga rauða, Leifr Eiríksson’s chance discovery of Vínland in the west and the subsequent expedition led by Karlsefni. Leifr, he believed, had sighted land in New England, to the south of the Passamaquoddy Bay, and then sailed north and been carried by the currents into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, before finally making his way back along the northern shore of the Gulf. Karlsefni had then retraced Leifr’s route south and into the Gulf of St. Lawrence; Furðustrandir was on the southern shore of Labrador around Blanc Sablon (as Steensby also believed); Kjalarnes was on Anticosti Island; Straum(s)fjörður was Chaleur Bay on the Gulf of St. Lawrence; and Hóp lay farther to the south on the coast of New England. An interesting and original study of the problems appeared in Finland in a book by V. Tanner (1941). Tanner had himself sailed along the coast of Labrador and come to the conclusion that this was the area of the sagas, extending south to Newfoundland (where he placed Leifsbúðir, very close to L’Anse aux Meadows). Tanner considered Straum(s)fjörður to be the Strait of Belle Isle. In line with the general view at the time, Matthías Þórðarson (1929) considered Eiríks saga to be the more reliable account and limited his ideas on Leifr’s route to this source alone, reaching the conclusion that Leifr’s journey had taken him south beyond Nova Scotia. Þórðarson went into much greater detail on the subject of Karlsefni’s voyage, which he envisaged as going west along the south coast of Labrador and north of Anticosti Island, returning to land a little to the west of Prince Edward Island (Straum(s)fjörður), and finally reaching Hóp somewhere on the coast of New England. A recurrent feature of much of this research is the strong partiality shown for New England and the northeastern states of the USA as the final destination for the Vínland voyages. But little by little it began to dawn on people that to the north of the USA lies an enormous land called Canada, which anyone sailing southwest from Greenland in days of old could not have failed to notice. As a result, the focus began to shift to Nova Scotia, the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Newfoundland, and Labrador as probable landing places for the mariners of yore. After around 1950, historians became ever more skeptical about the status of the sagas as sources and fewer and fewer academically trained scholars showed themselves willing to come forward and put their reputations on the line with ideas that were likely to be treated as unsubstantiated hypotheses. As a result there was a sharp decline in the number of serious attempts to solve the riddle of Vínland. By the time the Ingstads made their discoveries at L’Anse aux Meadows, there was a growing body of opinion that behind the sagas there were in fact no genuine memories of genuine voyages. The initial response to the archaeological proof provided by the Ingstads — in so far as it was acknowledged at all — was therefore to believe that everything had now been found that was to be found; this was the Vínland of the sagas and there was no point in looking any further; if the descriptions in the sagas failed to match up with this place, then these descriptions were the creations and exaggerations of generations of storytellers. So literary scholars went about reading the sagas from a purely literary perspective, without reference to any source value they might have; among historians they became something of a no-go-area; and the archaeologists felt they had enough to keep themselves busy with the material from L’Anse aux Meadows without needing to keep turning back to the sagas in search of inspiration. Given the northerly location of his Vínland, Ingstad resurrected an idea put forward many years previously by Sven Söderberg (1910), that — despite the unanimity of all the sources — ‘Vínland’ had nothing whatsoever to do with wine but was a misunderstanding or textual corruption for an original *Vinland, the first element being vin, denoting a patch of grass, rather than vín, wine, vine; the original meaning of the word was thus ‘grassland,’ an apt

247 description for the area around L’Anse aux Meadows — and problem solved! This hypothesis has been accepted by a number of other scholars, for example Erik Lönnroth (1996) and Magnús Stefánsson (1997), fitting in as it does so neatly with the view that the saga descriptions of ‘Vínland’ as a land of wine and plenty are unsupported fictions inspired by other medieval writings. However, others, the great majority, rejected this idea entirely, both on linguistic grounds and because of the agreement of all the various sources on the presence of vines in Vínland, a feature supported by the reports of 16th-century explorers of the landscape and flora of the lands around the Gulf of St. Lawrence: see Haugen (1981), Davíðsson (1965), Wahlgren (1974), Holm (1997), and Crozier (1998). More recently, the archaeologist Birgitta Wallace (2000), who took over the excavations at L’Anse aux Meadows on the retirement of the Ingstads, has adopted a rather more imaginative approach in her interpretation of the finds. Her view is that the ‘Hóp’ described in Eiríks saga rauða could well lie some way south of L’Anse aux Meadows, her favored location being somewhere on the southern shores of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, in particular the tidal pool at the mouth of the Miramichi River; in support of this, it seems eminently probable that this is the kind of area that travelers from Greenland would have headed to in search of better land once they had gotten as far as L’Anse aux Meadows. However, another fairly recent theory, that of T. E. Lee (1971) puts the location of the Vínland journeys considerably farther to the north; Lee argues that Scandinavian artifacts found in longhouses on Pamiok Island in Ungava Bay, towards the north of the Labrador coast, go back to 11th-century visits by Norse explorers. This may be possible, but it is also possible that these artifacts were acquired by Inuits through trade elsewhere and brought by them to this site. Table 7-2: Suggested locations of places mentioned in the Vínland sagas. GS = Grœnlendinga saga. ES = Eiríks saga rauða.

Four other attempts at overall interpretations of the Vínland sagas warrant special mention, those of Farley Mowatt (1965), Erik Wahlgren (1986), Páll Bergþórsson (2000), and

248 Mats Larsson (1992, 1999). Mowatt went into the saga accounts in great detail, concentrating on the east coast of Newfoundland in his attempt to explain the voyages of Leifr Eiríksson, while those of Þorvaldr and Karlsefni he considered most likely to have been confined to the area immediately around L’Anse aux Meadows. Wahlgren sent Leifr all the way south to the Bay of Fundy but had Karlsefni settling at L’Anse aux Meadows and giving it the name Straum(s)fjörður. Bergþórsson, on the other hand, has the Vínland explorers make their way step by step down the east coast of North America: Leifr sails west along the north coast of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, then south from Anticosti Island and into the mouth of the St. Lawrence; Þorvaldr explores the southern shores of the Gulf, while Karlsefni sails down along the coast of Nova Scotia and into the Bay of Fundy, and finally all the way south to the mouth of the Hudson River, to the site of modern New York. Larsson’s search for the location of Vínland focuses mainly on southern Nova Scotia. Although the views outlined above appear to offer highly contradictory conclusions derived from readings of the same sources, it should be borne in mind that this is not essentially a matter of different understandings of what the texts actually say but of different ideas about the nature of the texts, their textual interrelations, and their reliability. Scholars’ views have differed on these matters and these views have in turn influenced their interpretations of the texts. Where the information given in the texts on climate and vegetation appears to conflict with the information they give on routes, many scholars have been inclined to place more faith in what they say about the land conditions, such as the mildness of the Vínland winter experienced by Leifr in Grœnlendinga saga, than in the navigational directions. Thus the task remains unchanged: the sagas have very concrete stories to tell, contradictory in some respects but also supplementary; and, most importantly, they need to be analyzed in their own right and on their own terms. Hoaxes, forgeries, and hard evidence. Ever since the Vínland bug took off in earnest in the first half of the 19th century there have been numerous claims of discoveries of runic inscriptions and archaeological finds supposedly supporting particular theories of the location of Vínland and other places mentioned in the sagas. One early example was a statue found at Bradford, Massachusetts, and claimed to be of Scandinavian origin (Whittier 1841) but subsequently shown to be from the British colonial period. Runes carved on the so-called Dighton Stone convinced even the eminent antiquarian and philologist C. C. Rafn that this was an artifact from Karlsefni’s voyage — mistakenly as it was later shown (Delabarre 1917, 1918, 1919). A stone tower at Newport, Rhode Island, was at one time believed to date from the Viking Age but was later identified as a mill referred to in his will by Benedict Arnold (161577), an early governor of Rhode Island (Godfrey 1949, 1950, 1951). On the island of No Man’s Land, just off Martha’s Vineyard, a ‘runic’ inscription turned up in around 1920 with the name Leifr Eiríksson and the date MI in Roman numerals, i.e. 1001 (Delabarre and Brown 1935); the inscription was in fact a hoax and the lettering recently carved, but before this came to light the ‘find’ had made its way into a number of authoritative reference books and become part of popular learning, manifested most recently when First Lady Hillary Clinton, in a speech announcing the staging of a major viking exhibition at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington in the year 2000, referred blithely to viking runes having been found in the area. Any number of other finds have been reported, such as the mooring holes in Maine and elsewhere where vikings are supposed to have tied up their ships (Pohl 1952), often backed up with alleged runic inscriptions, sparking off enthusiastic debate in certain circles, though in all cases they can be shown with absolute certainty to be either hoaxes or to have no connections whatsoever with Viking Age Norsemen (see Wallace and Fitzhugh 2000). The most famous and persistent of these runic forgeries is without doubt the so-called Kensington Stone, dug up on his land by a Swedish immigrant farmer near Kensington, Minnesota, far away at the head of the Great Lakes, in 1898. The inscription tells of a group of

249 Swedes who made it to this area in the year 1362. The inscription is patently 19th-century work: for instance, it includes runic symbols that are only known from post-Reformation times in the Dalarna region of central Sweden; and the language and morphology betray evidence of modern Swedish with influence from English (Wahlgren 1958, Knirk 1997). Minnesota was largely settled by people of Scandinavian, particularly Swedish, origin, many of whom — including the farmer who found the stone — had antiquarian interests and some knowledge of runes. For all that, the Kensington Stone was much discussed for many years and even put on display at the Smithsonian Institution in 1947 before scholars finally demonstrated its inauthenticity beyond dispute. It now stands in a ‘Viking Museum’ in Minnesota, near the place where it was found. There have been other alleged indications of vikings in and around the later Scandinavian settlements in the Dakotas and Minnesota, but none have been accepted by any reputable scholar in the fields of archaeology, history, or philology. All these ‘finds’ say more about what people want to believe than the realities of Viking history. A recent, much publicized case in point is a stone found in 1997 on the beach in the Bellevue Barachoies near the head of Trinity Bay in southeastern Newfoundland. The finder, a Danish adventurer called Niels Vinding (1998), inspired by the ideas of Farley Mowatt, believed the stone to be from Greenland or Newfoundland and to have been used as ballast in an ocean-going knarr on its way from Greenland to Vínland. However, there is no particular reason to date this stone to the Viking Age nor to link it in any way with ships from that period. A much better candidate for a relic from the Viking Age in North America is a coin found in 1957 at a native American archaeological site in Maine and shown to have been issued during the reign of Óláfr kyrri (‘the Peaceful’), king of Norway 1067-93. Many have been taken by the idea that this coin perhaps came from the purse of Eiríkr upsi Gnúpsson, bishop of Greenland, who went off in search of Vínland in the year 1121 and was never heard of again; perhaps he did make it to land, leaving this coin behind as the sole relic of his ill-fated journey. Another possibility, perhaps more likely, is that the coin was acquired farther north by indigenous peoples in contact with Icelandic Greenlanders and brought south to Maine by trade or barter (Cox 2000). In spite of all these fakes and forgeries, and the misconceptions and false hopes they have raised, it is a salutary lesson that the search for remains left by people from Greenland and Iceland in the Viking Age eventually did bear fruit on the northernmost tip of Newfoundland in the early 1960s, and that this has given us at least one fixed point from which to operate. It is perfectly admissible to entertain the thought that the finds at L’Anse aux Meadows are reflected in some (though not necessarily all) of the camps described in sagas that were set down on parchment in Iceland over 200 years later. Calculations of latitude. Many scholars have looked beyond the direct descriptions of the sailing routes in their attempts to reconcile the accounts in the sagas with the realities of the east coast of North America. In particular, there is a reference in Grœnlendinga saga to a measurement taken by Leifr Eiríksson’s party of the length of day at the winter solstice in Vínland, which, if reliable, ought to provide a fairly accurate indication of where they were at the time: ‘Meira var þar jafndœgri en á Grœnlandi eða Íslandi; sól hafði þar eyktar stað ok dagmála stað um skammdegi’ (‘Day and night were more equal there than in Greenland or Iceland; in the depths of winter the sun was in the sky [presumably, set and rose] at around 3 p.m. and 9 a.m.’) (ÍF IV:251). However, scholars have interpreted this passage in remarkably conflicting ways and calculated the latitude referred to as anything between 31°N and 50°N. Apart from the fact that the text refers to ‘the depths of winter’ (‘skammdegi’) rather than what would have been the more precise ‘solstice’ (‘sólstaða,’ ‘sólhvarf’), there is a problem in precisely how the words ‘eyktarstaðr’ and ‘dagmálastaðr’ should be interpreted; the general sense of these words is the position in the sky where the sun is at eykt (around 3-3:30 p.m.) and dagmál (around 9 a.m.) respectively, but the question arises as to whether the reference is to

250 time or to the position on the horizon where the sun sets and rises. Gustav Storm (1886), with the help of the astronomer Hans Geelmuyden, made a thorough and determined attempt to solve this problem late in the 19th century and came to a conclusion that Leifr’s reading had been made a little to the south of about 50°N, the latitude of northern Newfoundland; this was reckoned to be too far north at the time, when the dominant view was that Vínland lay somewhere in New England, and Storm’s work was largely ignored. Recently the matter has been taken up again by Páll Bergþórsson (2000:161-5). Bergþórsson’s study is marked by attention to detail and an expert knowledge of Icelandic chronological terminology and comes to the conclusion that the observation refers to the direction and position of the sun on the horizon at sunrise and sunset and thus corresponds fairly accurately to the latitude of L’Anse aux Meadows. Flora and fauna. The descriptions of the qualities of the land, the vegetation and the types of fish encountered by the saga characters have also been used to narrow down the search for Vínland. If we assume that the grapes mentioned in the sagas are true wild grapes (Vitis riparia) and not just some kind of berry (see Kristjánsson 2001), the northern limit for Vínland can be set somewhere along the southern shores of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, which almost forms an inland sea enclosed by the island of Newfoundland. Wild grapes were such a conspicuous part of the local flora here when the first post-Viking Europeans arrived in the 16th century that the French explorer Jacques Cartier (1491-1557) gave the name Île de Bacchus to a site near the modern city of Quebec at the mouth of the St. Lawrence. On the south side of Miramichi Bay in New Brunswick is a smaller bay called Baie de Vin (Wine Bay), a name which goes back to the early settlers. It is hardly possible to imagine anything closer in spirit to the way Leifr regarded the land he visited 500 years earlier when he chose to call it Vínland. The self-propagating wheat mentioned in the sagas may refer to wild rye (Elymus virginicus), which grows in the same area and looks much like wheat (Larsson 1992:314). The northern limits of both wild rye and wild grapes coincide fairly closely with the northern limit of the butternut (Juglans cinerea), as found at L’Anse aux Meadows, proving beyond doubt that the explorers who brought these nuts to L’Anse aux Meadows would also have come across true wild grapes in profusion on their travels. According to Grœnlendinga saga, in the place they named Vínland Leifr’s men encountered salmon both larger and more numerous than any they had seen before. The Canadian archaeologist Catherine Carlson (1996) has shown that in the 11th century there were no salmon in the rivers of Maine or further south as a result of the warmer climate then prevailing. The rivers flowing into the southern shores of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, however, would have been, then as now, teaming with salmon. Moreover, according to the marine biologist David Cairns of the University of Prince Edward Island in Charlottetown and the Canadian Department of Fisheries and Oceans, salmon enter the rivers of Prince Edward Island, northern Nova Scotia, and southeastern New Brunswick for breeding after two or more years at sea (that is two or multi-sea-winter salmon) as opposed to just one year in Newfoundland (those are called grilse, and dominate the rivers in Newfoundland), making them appreciably larger than those in Newfoundland. Putting all this together, we can narrow down the likely location of Leifr’s Vínland to the area between Maine in the USA and the southern shores of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Other natural resources would also seem to point in this general direction: for instance, the mǫsurrwood mentioned, i.e. burlwood, which grows on several types of tree in the area, and the beached whale. Slightly more problematic, but in no way contradicting the overall conclusion, are the ‘helgir fiskar’ (‘holy fish’) caught by Karlsefni at Hóp. This certainly refers to some kind of flatfish: the term is often translated ‘halibut,’ though in fact the species is unclear. The latest and most exhaustive attempt to identify this fish is that of Páll Bergþórsson (2000:83), who believes it to have been the winter flounder (Pseudopleuronectes americanus), which is

251 common in these waters. Karlsefni’s Hóp lay well to the south of Leifr’s Vínland and the sources mention good catches of fish, but perhaps significantly not of salmon, which might point to Hóp having been beyond the southern limit of salmon distribution.

Using the Textual Evidence When interpreting the saga texts we do not need to assume that every detail has to be reconciled with what is now known from L’Anse aux Meadows. Nor should we pay undue attention to what is likely, given the resources and techniques of Viking Age seamanship, to have developed into the regular sailing route between Greenland and mainland North America once the area had been explored and the best routes identified. Such knowledge was not available to the first explorers. The evidence of the sagas, which speak of voyages lasting several years, supports the obvious supposition that the pioneers must have taken some time and ranged fairly widely before identifying the most convenient routes and the places they could get to safely in search of the goods and land conditions they were interested in without running the risk of encountering dangerous waters and too many hostile natives. Moreover, people with the whole summer before them to sail south from the northern tip of Newfoundland in search of new lands are unlikely to have had their curiosity slaked after just one day’s sailing down the coasts of Newfoundland or west along the south coast of Labrador, as Samuel Morison (1971:56) would have us believe (see also Kristjánsson 2001). It is more likely that these voyages took them far further afield, especially in the light of what we know of the early exploration of both Iceland and Greenland. The records tell us that Eiríkr rauði spent three years exploring Greenland from south to north, combing the coastal regions so thoroughly that he was able to locate the very best land in this vast country for the kind of farming he was familiar with. A similar picture emerges from the accounts of the early exploration of Iceland recorded in Landnámabók. The first explorers sailed all around the country, testing the conditions at various places to both north and south — Iceland is about 500 kilometers (310 miles) from east to west, comparable in size to Newfoundland from north to south or Nova Scotia from northeast to southwest. It was not until after several such voyages that the first settler arrived. Ingólfr Arnarson is said to have spent first one and then three years exploring some 400 kilometers (250 miles) of the south coast before eventually settling in Reykjavík — again the ideal location from his perspective when set against all the other regions he had passed through. This suggests that explorers and prospective settlers in the Viking Age thought little of setting up temporary winter quarters, particularly where there were plenty of building materials to hand, as was the case in North America, and of spending several years exploring new territories before finally deciding where best to raise their farms.

Advances in Vínland studies: oral lore, L’Anse aux Meadows, and the independence of the saga accounts Once we are clear in our minds about the nature of the problems that bedevil Vínland studies, it becomes possible to make reasoned suggestions about the actual course of events that can be inferred from the saga accounts and the routes that the Viking Age mariners are most likely to have taken. In making such suggestions we have the benefit of advances made over the past fifty years or so that offer entirely new perspectives on the field of Vínland studies: 1.

Our knowledge and understanding of oral tradition has increased enormously.

252 2. One site has been found in North America where it has been shown beyond doubt that people from Greenland and Iceland once lived, albeit temporarily, around the time when the events in the sagas are supposed to have taken place. 3. We now know that the two sagas were written independently of each other. Each of them is thus based on differing oral traditions that can reasonably be traced back to the same events and/or accounts. So, to extract any source value from the sagas, they need to be taken together, warts and all; they are both equally reliable and equally unreliable. There is no justification for accepting what one of them says and rejecting the other — that is, if we think that they have anything to say to us at all. One thing that is quite clear is that the two Vínland sagas draw on similar or comparable memories about the same voyages but differ greatly in the amount of detail they accord to each. In this respect each compliments the other. Grœnlendinga saga has more to say about the voyages of Leifr and Þorvaldr Eiríksson, while in Eiríks saga rauða the center of interest lies in the expedition of Þorfinnr karlsefni and Guðríðr, about which Grœnlendinga saga says comparatively little. Given this difference in perspective, it need hardly surprise us that Grœnlendinga saga should tell us little more about Karlsefni and Guðríðr than that they went to the same place as Þorvaldr had visited previously, with some grapes and battles with the natives thrown in for good measure, and leave it more or less at that. If we take account of the differing interests and purposes of the two texts in this way, there is no absolute reason to go along with Jón Jóhannesson’s contention that the account of the journey of Karlsefni and Guðríðr in Eiríks saga is the product of an amalgamation of all three of the journeys described in Grœnlendinga saga — as if the writer of the saga knew better than his source what had actually happened. However, there are clear signs that the writer of Eiríks saga was working on the assumption that his audience already knew something about the previous journeys; for example, the saga takes for granted an awareness of the location of Leifr’s Vínland without ever describing it in any detail in the text. Eiríks saga is perfectly clear about Karlsefni and Guðríðr going to places other than those explored by Leifr, both farther east and farther south. Again, when dealing with Kjalarnes and the stories surrounding it, Eiríks saga clearly assumes that its audience has some kind of prior knowledge of the events in question, a knowledge that must come from elsewhere since it is not in the saga as we know it. Features of this sort are, of course, a general property of oral narrative: see pp. 45 and 184.

The main voyages in popular memory It is fair to assume that the people who told stories about the voyages to Vínland were skilled and experienced seafarers and that it was thus a matter of considerable importance to them to be able to give, receive, and pass on to others information about the best ways of sailing from one place to another — the directions to take, how long they might expect to be at sea, and what landmarks to look out for in the places they were heading to. Details such as these were a matter of life and death to such people and were in all probability integrated into narratives about sea journeys, as is general practice among traditional oral societies that use stories and poems as a way of preserving knowledge (see p. 269). If we read the two Vínland sagas with this in mind and take them seriously as sources, analyzing carefully what they have to say about landfalls, bearings, and sailing routes, and, where they differ, favoring the fuller account over the shorter one, it becomes possible to build up a reasonably coherent mental or ‘immanent’ map of the voyages undertaken. The fundamental methodological difference inherent in viewing these texts as the product of an oral tradition — rather than as historical documents of uneven reliability, or as works of literature to be analyzed first and foremost in the light of the literary tradition and

253 world view of the European Middle Ages — is that it allows us to put the two sagas together and consider the overall picture they present of the lands and sea routes to the south and west of Greenland, i.e. the whole and inclusive picture preserved within the tradition. We can suppose that this picture bears some resemblance to the picture that 13th-century Icelanders might have been able to build up in their own minds as they listened to and digested the tales about the ancient voyages to Vínland: they had never been to these places themselves and they had no maps to put beside the descriptions of the routes taken, but these lands existed and they could visualize them in their mind’s eye. This is the picture we need to try to recreate before it is even worth considering whether and how well it corresponds with modern maps of the coastline of eastern North America. There is, of course, no point in approaching the descriptions in the texts as if they were entries in a ship’s logbook, with precise details recorded from day to day of whatever met the eye. The stories were in the first instance told by people who were already familiar with the regions sailed through and were attempting to pass on an image of this to audiences that did not have the same experience and knowledge. These stories were then repeated by others who had never visited the places mentioned but could even so construct a mental image of their own of the configuration of the lands, an image good enough to provide a meaningful context for their descriptions of the routes and to allow their own listeners to build up the same image for themselves. Bjarni Herjólfsson. The first description, found in Grœnlendinga saga, concerns the voyage of Bjarni Herjólfsson. Bjarni sights three new lands to the west of Greenland when he is blown off course on his way to Greenland from Drepstokkur, near Eyrarbakki on the south coast of Iceland: En þó halda þeir nú í haf, þegar þeir váru búnir, ok sigldu þrjá daga, þar til er landit var vatnat, en þá tók af byrina, ok lagði á norrœnur ok þokur, ok vissu þeir eigi, hvert at þeir fóru, ok skipti þat mǫrgum dœgrum. Eftir þat sá þeir sól ok máttu þá deila ættir. Vinda nú segl ok sigla þetta dœgr, áðr þeir sá land, ok rœddu um með sér, hvat landi þetta mun vera, en Bjarni kvezk hyggja, at þat mundi eigi Grœnland. Þeir spyrja, hvárt hann vill sigla at þessu landi eða eigi. ‘Þat er mitt ráð, at sigla í nánd við landit.’ Ok svá gera þeir ok sá þat brátt, at landit var ófjǫllótt ok skógi vaxit, ok smár hæðir á landinu, ok létu landit á bakborða ok létu skaut horfa á land. Síðan sigla þeir tvau dœgr, áðr þeir sá land annat. Þeir spyrja, hvárt Bjarni ætlaði þat enn Grœnland.

But despite this they put out to sea when they were ready, and sailed for three days until they were out of sight of land, and then the wind dropped, and there came breezes from the north and fogs, and they had no idea where they were going, and this continued for many days. After this they saw the sun and were able to get their bearings. They hoist sail and sail for that day until they saw land, and discussed among themselves what land this might be, but Bjarni says he doesn’t think this could be Greenland. They ask whether he wants to sail up to this land or not. ‘It’s my advice that we sail close in to the land.’ This they do, and saw quickly that the land was low-lying and wooded, with small hills on shore, and they turned to keep the land to port and the sail-end facing toward the shore. Then they sail for two days before they saw another land. They ask whether Bjarni supposes it is Greenland yet.

254 Hann kvazk eigi heldr ætla þetta Grœnland en it fyrra, ‘því at jǫklar eru mjǫk miklir sagðir á Grœnlandi.’ Þeir nálguðusk brátt þetta land ok sá þat vera slétt land ok viði vaxið. Þá tók af byr fyrir þeim. Þá rœddu hásetar þat, at þeim þótti þat ráð, at taka þat land, en Bjarni vill þat eigi. Þeir þóttusk bæði þurfa við ok vatn. ‘At engu eruð þér því óbirgir,’ segir Bjarni, en þó fékk hann af því nǫkkut ámæli af hásetum sínum. Hann bað þá vinda segl, ok svá var gǫrt, ok settu framstafn frá landi ok sigla í haf útsynnings byr þrjú dœgr ok sá þá land it þriðja. En þat land var hátt ok fjǫllótt ok jǫkull á. Þeir spyrja þá, ef Bjarni vildi at landi láta þar, en hann kvazk eigi þat vilja, ‘því at mér lízk þetta land ógagnvænligt.’

He said he didn’t think this was Greenland any more than the previous time, ‘because there are said to be very big glaciers in Greenland.’ They quickly came in closer to this land and saw it to be flat and even land and wooded. Then the wind dropped on them. The crew declared that they thought it would be a good idea to land there, but Bjarni doesn’t want to. They claimed they needed both timber and water. ‘You’re not in short supply of any of that,’ says Bjarni, and for this he got a fair amount of complaints from his crew. He told them to raise the sail, and this was done, and they turned the prow away from land and sailed out to sea on a southwesterly wind for three days and then saw a third land. This land was high and mountainous, with a glacier on it. They then ask if Bjarni wanted to make for land here but he said he didn’t want to, ‘because this land doesn’t look to me likely to be of any use.’ This time they did not take down the sail and Nú lǫgðu þeir eigi segl sitt, halda með keep along the coast and saw that this was an landinu fram ok sá, at þat var eyland; settu island. They turned the stern back to land and enn stafn við því landi ok heldu í haf inn held out to sea on the same breeze. Shortly sama byr. En veðr óx í hǫnd, ok bað afterwards the wind got up, and Bjarni told them Bjarni þá svipta ok eigi sigla meira en to lower the sail and not sail harder than their bæði dygði vel skipi þeira ok reiða. Sigldu ship and tackle could easily take. Now they nú fjǫgur dœgr. sailed for four days. Þá sá þeir land it fjórða. Þá spurðu þeir Then they saw a fourth land. Then they asked Bjarna, hvárt hann ætlaði þetta vera Bjarni whether he reckoned this was Greenland Grœnland eða eigi. or not. Bjarni svarar: ‘Þetta er líkast því, er mér Bjarni answers: ‘This is much more like what er sagt frá Grœnlandi, ok hér munu vér at I’ve been told of Greenland, and we’ll make for landi halda.’ land here.’ (ÍF IV:246-7) The main points in the narrative are that there are three lands from south to north. The first, most southerly, is described as being ‘ófjǫllótt ok skógi vaxit, ok smár hæðir á landinu’ (‘lowlying and wooded, with small hills on the land’) (ÍF IV:246); the next is ‘slétt land ok viði vaxit’ (‘flat and even and wooded’) (246); and the third and most northerly is ‘hátt ok fjǫllótt ok jǫkull á’ (‘high and mountainous, with a glacier on it’) (247). At this point the men realize they need to sail east to get to Greenland. Between these sightings, Bjarni and his men are said to have been out on the open sea. The picture that emerges from this voyage might therefore look something like this:

255

Leifr Eiríksson. From the account in Eiríks saga we get little clue as to where Leifr Eiríksson’s Vínland might have been. Grœnlendinga saga, however, provides a fairly detailed account of Leifr’s route against the background already laid down in Bjarni’s journey: Now they fitted out their ship and sailed out to sea when they were ready, and came first Nú bjuggu þeir skip sitt ok sigldu í haf, þá er to the land that Bjarni and his men had þeir váru búnir, ok fundu þá þat land fyrst, er found last. There they sail up to the land þeir Bjarni fundu síðast. Þar sigla þeir at landi and drop the anchors and lowered a boat ok kǫstuðu akkerum ok skutu báti ok fóru á and went ashore and saw no grass there. land ok sá þar eigi gras. Jǫklar miklir váru allt it Higher up it was all great glaciers, and as if efra, en sem ein hella væri allt til jǫklanna frá it were all a single slab of flat rock right the sjónum, ok sýndisk þeim þat land vera way to the glaciers from the sea, and the gœðalaust. land seemed to them devoid of any qualities. Þá mælti Leifr: ‘Eigi er oss nú þat orðit um Then Leifr said: ‘Things have turned out þetta land sem Bjarna, at vér hafim eigi komit á differently with this land for us than for landit. Nú mun ek gefa nafn landinu ok kalla Bjarni, not setting foot on it. Now I will Helluland.’ give the land a name and call it Helluland.’ Then they returned to ship. After this they Síðan fóru þeir til skips. Eftir þetta sigla þeir í put out to sea and found a second land. haf ok fundu land annat; sigla enn at landi ok Again they sail to the shore and drop kasta akkerum, skjóta síðan báti ok ganga á anchor, then launch a boat and go ashore. landit. Þat land var slétt ok skógi vaxið, ok This land was flat and even and wooded, sandar hvítir víða, þar sem þeir fóru, ok with wide expanses of white sands where ósæbratt. they found themselves, and shelving gently down to the sea. Then Leifr said: ‘I shall give this land a Þá mælti Leifr: ‘Af kostum skal þessu landi name according to its qualities and call it nafn gefa ok kalla Markland.’ Markland.’

256

Fóru síðan ofan aptr til skips sem fljótast.

Nú sigla þeir þaðan í haf landnyrðingsveðr ok váru úti tvau dœgr, áðr þeir sá land, ok sigldu at landi ok kómu at ey einni, er lá norðr af landinu, ok gengu þar upp ok sásk um í góðu veðri ok fundu þat, at dǫgg var á grasinu, ok varð þeim þat fyrir, at þeir tóku hǫndum sínum í dǫggina ok brugðu í munn sér ok þóttusk ekki jafnsœtt kennt hafa, sem þat var.

Síðan fóru þeir til skips síns ok sigldu í sund þat, er lá milli eyjarinnar ok ness þess, er norðr gekk af landinu; stefndu í vestrætt fyrir nesit. Þar var grunnsævi mikit at fjǫru sjávar, ok stóð þá uppi skip þeira; ok var þá langt til sjávar at sjá frá skipinu.

En þeim var svá mikil forvitni á at fara til landsins, at þeir nenntu eigi þess at bíða, at sjór felli undir skip þeira, ok runnu til lands, þar er á ein fell ór vatni einu. En þegar sjór fell undir skip þeira, þá tóku þeir bátinn ok reru til skipsins ok fluttu þat upp í ána, síðan í vatnit, ok kǫstuðu þar akkerum ok báru af skipi húðfǫt sín ok gerðu þar búðir; tóku þat ráð síðan, at búask þar um þann vetr, ok gerðu þar hús mikil.

Hvárki skorti þar lax í ánni né í vatninu, ok stœrra lax en þeir hefði fyrr sét.

Þar var svá góðr landskostr, at því er þeim sýndisk, at þar myndi engi fénaðr fóðr þurfa á vetrum. Þar kómu engi frost á vetrum, ok lítt rénuðu þar grǫs. Meira var þar jafndœgri en á Grœnlandi eða Íslandi. Sól hafði þar eyktarstað ok dagmálastað um skammdegi.

(ÍF IV:249-51)

Then they went back down to the ship with all speed. Now they sail out into the ocean on a northeasterly wind, and were at sea for two days before they saw land, and sailed toward the shore and came to an island that lay north of the land, and landed there and had a look about them in good weather and found that there was dew on the grass, and by chance they put their hands in the dew and put it to their mouths and it seemed to them that they had never tasted anything as sweet as that was. Then they went to their ship and sailed into the channel that lay between the island and a headland that extended north from the land. They headed in a westerly direction around the headland. At low tide there were extensive shallows and then their ship became beached, and from the ship the sea looked a long way off. But their curiosity was so great to go ashore that they could not be bothered to wait for the sea to rise under their ship, and they ran to land where a river flowed out from a certain lake. But when the sea lifted their ship again, they took the boat and rowed to the ship and moved it up into the river and so into the lake, and dropped anchor there and carried their sleeping bags from the ship and made camp there. Then they took the decision to arrange themselves at this place for the winter and put up some large buildings. There was no shortage of salmon either in the river or in the lake, and bigger salmon than they had ever seen before. The land there was of such good quality, so far as they could see, that livestock would not need any fodder in winter. There were no frosts there in winter and the grass hardly withered at all. Day and night were more equal there than in Greenland or Iceland; in the depths of winter there the sun was in the sky at around 3 p.m. and 9 a.m.

257

Here Leifr sets out deliberately to explore the lands seen earlier by Bjarni, giving the two most northerly the names Helluland (‘Land of the Stone Slab,’ ‘Flat Rock Land’) and Markland (‘Forest Land’). Having sailed along the mainland coast of Markland for an unspecified time — in general, sailing times are given only when on open waters — he heads out to sea on a northeasterly wind (the natural interpretation of ‘landnyrðingsveðr’ in Norwegian directional usage) and sails on for two days. Viking ships could, of course, sail in most directions in a northeasterly wind, but it is a convention in the sagas to assume that ships are sailing before a specified wind, i.e. in the same direction; so in this case the ship is heading southwest. [5] This brings Leifr to a beautiful island lying north of the mainland. Between the coast and the island is a channel where the tides are said to be so great that broad expanses of coast are exposed at low tide. Here Leifr and his men find a river that empties from a tidal pool or lagoon. They move their ship into it on the high tide and agree to make their winter quarters there. The winter turns out to be mild; the river is full of large salmon; and there are vines aplenty as well as valuable resources in the way of trees that they take back with them to Greenland. On their departure, Leifr names the land Vínland (i.e. ‘Vine Land,’ ‘Wine Land,’ though see p. 276). The audience now gets a rather fuller picture of the lands being described. It is possible to sail southwest from Markland (the second land from the north), and after two days (dœgr) on the open sea you reach an island lying just north off the mainland. In the channel between the island and the mainland there is a salmon river and a lake or lagoon where Leifr and his men make their camp. Leifr apparently has little interest in the first land seen by Bjarni and holds a more westerly course.

Þorvaldr Eiríksson. The second expedition (following Grœnlendinga saga) is led by Leifr’s brother Þorvaldr and spends the winter at what is now called Leifsbúðir (‘Leifr’s Camp’). During the first summer Þorvaldr explores the land to the west and finds many islands and areas of shallows. The next summer he moves north and east, finally breaking his ship on a promontory at Kjalarnes (‘Keel Point’), which also comes into the account of Karlsefni and Guðríðr’s expedition in Eiríks saga rauða. It is not entirely clear from the text how the name Leifsbúðir — not previously so named in the saga — should be understood; the most natural explanation is that Þorvaldr is thought of as having found and occupied the buildings that Leifr

258 had put up in Vínland on his earlier visit, but it is also conceivable that the place the saga supposes him to have stayed was only later given the name Leifsbúðir. The text in Grœnlendinga saga is as follows: Nú bjósk Þorvaldr til þeirar ferðar með þrjá tigu manna með umráði Leifs, bróður síns. Síðan bjuggu þeir skip sitt ok heldu í haf, ok er engi frásǫgn um ferð þeira, fyrr en þeir koma til Vínlands, til Leifsbúða, ok bjuggu þar um skip sitt ok sátu um kyrrt þann vetr ok veiddu fiska til matar sér. En um várið mælti Þorvaldr, at þeir skyldi búa skip sitt ok skyldi eftirbátr skipsins ok nǫkkurir menn með fara fyrir vestan landit ok kanna þar um sumarit. Þeim sýndisk landit fagrt ok skógótt, ok skammt milli skógar ok sjávar, ok hvítir sandar. Þar var eyjótt mjǫk ok grunnsævi mikið. Þeir fundu hvergi manna vistir né dýra; en í eyju einni vestarliga fundu þeir kornhjálm af tré. Eigi fundu þeir fleiri mannaverk ok fóru aptr ok kómu til Leifsbúða at hausti. En at sumri ǫðru fór Þorvaldr fyrir austan með kaupskipit ok it nyrðra fyrir landit. Þá gerði at þeim veðr hvasst fyrir andnesi einu, ok rak þá þar upp, ok brutu kjǫlinn undan skipinu ok hǫfðu þar langa dvǫl ok bœttu skip sitt. Þá mælti Þorvaldr við fǫrunauta sína: ‘Nú vil ek, at vér reisim hér upp kjǫlinn á nesinu ok kallim Kjalarnes.’ Ok svá gerðu þeir. Síðan sigla þeir þaðan í braut ok austr fyrir landit ok inn í fjarðarkjapta þá, er þar váru næstir, ok at hǫfða þeim, er þar gekk fram. Hann var allr skógi vaxinn. Þá leggja þeir fram skip sitt í lægi ok skjóta bryggjum á land, ok gengr Þorvaldr þar á land upp með alla fǫrunauta sína. Hann mælti þá: ‘Hér er fagrt, ok hér vilda ek bœ minn reisa.’ Ganga síðan til skips ok sjá á sandinum inn frá hǫfðanum þrjár hæðir ok fóru til þangat

Now Þorvaldr made ready for this voyage with thirty men with the advice of his brother Leifr. Then they fitted out their ship and put to sea, and there is no account of their journey until they get to Vínland, to Leifsbúðir, and saw to their ship and remained there through that winter and caught fish to feed themselves. But in the spring Þorvaldr said that they should see to their ship, and the ship’s boat and some of the men with it should go west along the coast and explore there through the summer. The land seemed beautiful to them and well wooded, with woods coming down close to the shore, and white sands. There were many islands there and wide shallows. They found no signs of human habitation or animals anywhere, but on one island toward the west they found a corn rick made of wood. They found nothing else made by humans and turned back and arrived at Leifsbúðir in the autumn. The second summer Þorvaldr went east with the ship and further north around the coast. Then they ran into sharp weather off a certain headland and were blown onto the shore there, and broke the keel from under the ship and they had a long stay there while they repaired their ship. Then Þorvaldr said to his companions: ‘Now I want us to put up the keel here on the headland and we’ll call it Kjalarnes.’ And this they did. Then they sail away from there and east along the coast and into the mouths of the bays that were closest at hand and to a cape that jutted out there. It was all covered with woods. Then they berth their ship in the roads and put out a gangplank and Þorvaldr goes up onto the shore with all his companions. He said: ‘It’s beautiful here, and this is where I would like to raise my farm.’ They go back to the ship and see on the sand in from the cape three hills, and went toward

259 ok sjá þar húðkeipa þrjá ok þrjá menn undir hverjum. Þá skiptu þeir liði sínu ok hǫfðu hendr á þeim ǫllum, nema einn komsk í burt með keip sinn. Þeir drepa hina átta ok ganga síðan aptr á hǫfðann ok sjásk þar um ok sjá inn í fjǫrðinn hæðir nǫkkurar, ok ætluðu þeir þat vera byggðir. Eptir þat sló á þá hǫfga svá miklum, at þeir máttu eigi vǫku halda, ok sofna þeir allir. Þá kom kall yfir þá, svá at þeir vǫknuðu allir. Svá segir kallit: ‘Vaki þú, Þorvaldr, ok allt fǫruneyti þitt, ef þú vill líf þitt hafa, ok far þú á skip þitt ok allir menn þínir, ok farið frá landi sem skjótast.’ Þá fór innan eptir firðinum ótal húðkeipa, ok lǫgðu at þeim. Þorvaldr mælti þá: ‘Vér skulum fœra út á borð vígfleka ok verjask sem bezt, en vega lítt í mót.’ Svá gera þeir, en Skrælingar skutu á þá um stund, en flýja síðan í burt sem ákafast, hverr sem mátti. Þá spurði Þorvaldr menn sína, ef þeir væri nǫkkut sárir. Þeir kváðusk eigi sárir vera. ‘Ek hefi fengit sár undir hendi,’ segir hann, ‘ok fló ǫr milli skipborðsins ok skjaldarins undir hǫnd mér, ok er hér ǫrin, en mun mik þetta til bana leiða. Nú ræð ek, at þér búið ferð yðra sem fljótast aptr á leið, en þér skuluð fœra mik á hǫfða þann, er mér þótti byggiligast vera. Má þat vera, at mér hafi satt á munn komit, at ek muni þar búa á um stund. Þar skuluð þér mik grafa ok setja krossa at hǫfði mér ok at fótum, ok kallið þat Krossanes jafnan síðan.’

them and see there three skin boats with three men under each of them. They split up and laid hands on them all, except that one got away in his boat. They kill the other eight and then walk back to the cape and look around the place and see some mounds further up the bay, which they took to be signs of settlement. After this a heaviness came upon them so great that they could not keep themselves awake and they all fell asleep. Then a shout sounded over them, so that they all woke up. This is what the shout says: ‘Wake up, Þorvaldr, and all your companions, if you want to keep your life, and go to your ship and all your men, and get away from land as quick as you can.’ A countless number of skin boats were coming up the bay and making toward them. Then Þorvaldr said: ‘We shall put up protective boards on the sides of the ship and defend ourselves as best we can, but do little about fighting back.’ This they do, and the Skrælingar shoot at them for some time, but then flee away with all alacrity, any of them that could. Then Þorvaldr asked his men if they were wounded in any way. They said they were not wounded. ‘I have a wound under my arm,’ he says, ‘and an arrow flew between the gunwale of the ship and the shield and in under my arm, and here is the arrow, and it will lead to my death. Now I advise you to make ready your journey back from here as quickly as you can, but you shall carry me onto that cape, the one I thought would be best to settle. It may be that my words have turned out true, that I would stay there for some time. There you shall bury me and put crosses at my head and feet, and call the place Krossanes for ever hereafter.’

(ÍF IV:254-6) From this, the audience might have been able to visualize a map something as follows:

260

East of Leifsbúðir the seas become more dangerous and the ship runs aground on Kjalarnes. They sail on to Krossanes (located by reference to Karlsefni’s voyage). Both sagas mention that Þorsteinn, a third son of Eiríkr rauði, also set out to find Vínland but failed. At the end of the summer he arrived back at Lýsufjörður in the Western Settlement of Greenland, married Guðríðr Þorbjarnardóttir, and died. The accounts of this journey add little to attempts to reconstruct the geography of Viking North America. Þorfinnr karlsefni and Guðríðr Þorbjarnardóttir. The next journey, the major expedition and attempted settlement led by Þorfinnr karlsefni and Guðríðr Þorbjarnardóttir, is dealt with in considerably greater detail. The fullest account is given in Eiríks saga rauða, which speaks of two ships from Iceland and one from Greenland, carrying 160 people all told. The account in Grœnlendinga saga is less detailed and makes no mention of Karlsefni and Guðríðr going anywhere other than ‘Leifsbúðir.’ However, this is a rather different Leifsbúðir from the one we find elsewhere; most notably, both sources agree that Karlsefni and Guðríðr encounter Skrælingar on this journey, whereas neither Þorvaldr before them nor Freydís later in Grœnlendinga saga see anything of native inhabitants while at Leifsbúðir. This might indicate, in line with the narrative of Eiríks saga rauða, that Karlsefni and Guðríðr’s base was in fact somewhere further to the south, in an area where natives were more to be expected. This is a matter of considerable importance when it comes to trying to place their camp on a real map. Around the year 1000 there were neither Inuits nor American Indians in the region around L’Anse aux Meadows, making it a safe base for Norse travelers at the time. This was not the case farther south, where the whole area north to the St. Lawrence valley was comparatively

261 densely populated (McGhee 1991:49-50), and there was thus no way that three boatloads of prospective settlers might ensconce themselves through the winter anywhere south of Newfoundland and the Gulf of St. Lawrence without running into native tribes. This incongruity in the Grœnlendinga saga account of the Leifsbúðir that Karlsefni and Guðríðr stayed at might thus indicate that behind this account lie memories of a time spent actually in some other place some distance further to the south. Eiríks saga provides a very detailed description of the journey of Karlsefni and Guðríðr and the routes they took. There is no mention of them using any pre-existing houses or huts, nor do they make straight for Leifr’s Vínland. Here they start by sailing, via a couple of stopovers, to a promontory where they find a broken ship’s keel and name the place Kjalarnes (‘Keel Point’). This seems to imply some kind of background knowledge of the story of Þorvaldr at Kjalarnes recorded in Grœnlendinga saga. This Kjalarnes is south of Leifsbúðir, the place where Þorvaldr actually stayed, and is clearly represented as lying north of Straum(s)fjörður (‘Stream Firth,’ ‘Bay of Currents’), where Karlsefni and Guðríðr eventually set up camp. On the journey south from Kjalarnes to Straum(s)fjörður, Karlsefni and Guðríðr have land to starboard (i.e. to the west) and sail past Furðstrandir (‘Wonder Beaches’) and coasts cut by many bays and inlets where vines and self-propagating wheat grow. At Straum(s)fjörður there is an island in the mouth of the firth where they hope (possibly because of the strong currents suggested by the name of the firth) to be able to continue fishing throughout the winter when the bay freezes over further in. After a very severe winter the party splits up. The Greenlander Þórhallr veiðimaðr (‘the Hunter’) sails north, intending to around Kjalarnes in the hope of finding Leifr’s Vínland somewhere to the west. Karlsefni however wants to continue south and comes to a river emptying from a tidal pool with shallows at its mouth; he names this place Hóp (‘Lagoon,’ ‘Tidal Pool’). The qualities of the land and its natural resources are described: there is selfpropagating wheat in low-lying areas and vines on the hills, an abundance of fish in the streams and flatfish of some kind in the sea — but no mention of any salmon. The winter at Hóp is very mild and Karlsefni trades with and eventually fights against the native inhabitants, who appear to be American Indians rather than Inuits. He returns to Straum(s)fjörður, on the way passing a promontory teeming with animals, and then continues on northward around Kjalarnes in search of Þórhallr. Having rounded the headland, he sails west with land to his port side until he reaches a place where he thinks he recognizes the same mountains as they had seen from the other side from Hóp; at this point he reckons the distance from here to Straum(s)fjörður is about the same as that from Straum(s)fjörður to Hóp. On the way home Karlsefni loses another of his ships, so that, of the three that set out, only one eventually makes it back to Greenland after the threeyear expedition. There is a fair degree of difference between the two manuscripts of Eiríks saga and so both texts are given below following the diplomatic edition of Sven B. F. Jansson (1944). According to both Jansson (1944:260) and Ólafr Halldórsson (1985:333-8), the text in Skálholtsbók stands closer to the common original of both manuscripts but is more prone to errors than the Hauksbók text. The passages of most importance as regards the route directions are as follows: Skálholtsbók a. skipvm þeira var fiorvtiggi manna annars hundrads. sigldv þeir vnndan sidan til uestri bygdar ok til biarmeyia. (On their ships there were 160 people. Then they sailed on to the Western Settlement [of Greenland] and to the Bjarney Islands.)

Hauksbók þeir hofþv allz .xl. manna ok .c. er þeir sigldv til vestri bygðar ok þaðan til bianeyiar (They had altogether 160 people when they sailed to the Western Settlement and from there to Bjarney Island.)

262 sigldu þeir þadan unndan biarneyium nordan uedr . uorv þeir uti tuau dægr (From there they sailed by the Bjarney Islands on a northerly wind. They were at sea for two days (dgr).) þa funndv þeir lannd ok rero firir . a baatvm ok kavnnavdu lanndit ok funndv þar hellr margar ok svo storar at tveir menn mattu vel spyrnazt i iliar. (Then they found land and rowed along it in boats and explored the land and found many flat rocks there so big that two men might well lie end to end [on one].)

þaðan siglðv þeir .íj. dœgr i svðr (From there they sailed south for two days (dgr).)

þa sa þeir land ok skvtv bati ok konvðv landit ok fvnnv þar hellvr storar ok margar . xij. allna viðar (Then they saw land and launched a boat and explored the land and found many big flat rocks there, twelve ells wide [about six meters].) fiollði var þar melracka melrackar voru þar margir (There were a great number of foxes (There were many foxes there.) there.) þeir gafv naf lanndinv ok kavllvdv hellv. lannd. þeir gafv þar nafn ok kollvðv hellvland (They gave the land a name and called it (They gave the place a name and called Helluland.) it Helluland.) Ðaþan sigldv þeir .ij. dœgr ok bra til þa sigldu þeir nordan uedr tvav dægr ok var þa landsvðrs or svðri ok fvndv land lannd firir þeim ok var . aa skogr mikill ok dyr skogvaxit ok morg dýr a mavrg. (From there they sailed for two days (Then they sailed on a northerly wind for two days and the wind shifted from south to and then there was a land before them on which southeast and they found a wooded land there was a great forest and many animals.) with many animals on it.) ey la i lannd svdr vnndan lanndinv ok funndv þeir ey la þar vndan i landsvðr þar drapv þar biarn dyr ok kaullvdv biarn ey. Enn lanndit þeir ein biorn ok kollvðv þar siðan kavllvdv þeir marklannd þar er skogurinn. bianey en landit Markland (An island lay off the land to the southeast and (An island lay offshore to the southeast. there they found a bear and called [the place] There they killed a bear and from this Bjarney (‘Bear Island’). But the land they called called the place Bjarney and the land Markland (‘Forest Land’) where the forest is.) Markland.) þa er lidin uorv tvau dægr sia þeir . lannd . ok þeir sigldu unndir lanndit . þar . var nes er þeir kvomu þaþan sigldv þeir svðr með landinv at þeir. beittu med lanndinu ok letv lanndit aa langa stvnd ok komv at nesi einv la stiorn borda. landit a stiorn (When two days had passed they sighted land and (From there they sailed south along the they sailed along the coast. There was a coast for a long time and came to a promontory. When they got there they tacked along promontory. The land lay to starboard.) the coast, keeping the land to starboard.) þar var avræfi ok strandir lanngar ok sanndar. voro þar strandir langar ok sandar (There were wastes there and long, sandy beaches.) (There were long, sandy beaches there.) þeir rerv til lanz ok fvndv þar a nesinv fara þeir a . batum til lanndz ok fengu skiol af skipi kiol af skipi ok kollvðv þar kialarnes ok kaulludu þar. kialar nes (They rowed to land and found there on (They go on boats to land and got shelter from a the headland a ship’s keel and called the ship and called the place Kjalarnes (‘Keel Point’).) place Kjalarnes.)

263 þeir gafv ok nafn straunndunum ok kavlludu furdu stranndir . þviat langt var med at sigla. (They also gave the coasts a name and called them Furustrandir (‘Wonder Beaches’) because it was a long way to sail down them.) þa giordiztt vog skorid lanndit ok helldu ok helldu þeir skipvnvm at vogvnvm (Then the land became cut by bays and inlets and they steered [and they steered] the ships into the bays.)

Tokv þeir þav a. skip sitt ok forv leidar sinnar þar til er vard . fiardskorid (They took them [sc. Haki and Hekja, the pair of Scottish scouts] up onto their ship and went on their way until [the coast] became cut by a firth.) þeir lavgdv skipvnvm in a . fiordinn (They steered the ships into the firth.) þar var ey ein vvt firir ok uoru þar stravmar mikli ok vm eyna. (There was an island outside the mouth and there were strong currents there and around the island.) þeir kaullvdu hana stravmsey. (They called it Straumsey (‘Stream Island’).) fvgl var þar svo margr at travtt matti fæti nidr koma i milli eggianna. (There were so many birds there that you could hardly put your foot down between the eggs.) þeir helldv inn med firdinvm ok kavllvdv hann straums. fiavrd . ok barv farminn af skipvnvm. ok biuggvzt þar vm (They continued in along the firth and called it Straumsfjrörður (‘Stream Firth’) and unloaded the cargo from the ships and struck camp.) þeir haufdv med ser allz konar fe ok leitudv ser þar lanndz nyttia. (They had with them all kinds of livestock and made a survey of the land’s resources.) fiaull voru þar ok fagurt var þar um at litazt (There were mountains there and it was beautiful to look around them.)

þeir kollvðv ok strandirnar fvrðv strandir þvi at langt var með at sigla (They also called the coasts Furðustrandir because it was a long way to sail down them.) þa gerðiz landit vágskorið þeir helldv skipvnvm i ein vág (Then the land became cut by bays and inlets. They steered the ships into a bay.) (Jansson 1944:61-63)

gengv þav a skip vt ok siglðv þeir siþan leiðar sinnar (They went out onto a ship, and then they sailed on their way.) þeir siglðv in a fiorð eín (They sailed into a certain firth.) þar la ein ey fyri vtan þar vm voro stravmar miklir (There lay an island outside the mouth; around it there were strong currents.) þvi kollvðv þeir hana stravmey (So they called it Straumey (‘Stream Island’).) sva var morg æðr i eyni at varla matti ganga fyri egivm (There were so many eider ducks on the island that it was hardly possible to walk for eggs.) þeir kollvðv þar stravmfiorð þeir baru þar farm af skipvm sinvm ok bioggvz þar vm (They called the place Straumfjörðrur (‘Stream Firth’). They there unloaded cargo from their ships and struck camp.) þeir hofþv með ser allzkonar fenað (They had with them all kinds of livestock.) þar var fagrt lanzleg (There was beautiful country there.)

264 þeir gaadv einskis nema at kanna lanndit . þar voru gravs mikil (They paid heed to nothing except exploring the land. There were extensive grasslands.)

þeir gaðv enkis vtan at kanna landit (They paid heed to nothing except exploring the land.) (Jansson 1944:64)

Vill . þorhallr veidi madr fara nordr um furdu stranndir ok firir kialar nes ok leita svo uindlanndz. enn . karl uill fara sudr firir . lannd ok firir austan ok . þickir lannd þui mera . sem svdr er meir ok þickir havnum þat raadligra at kanna hvartvegia. (rhallr veiimar (‘the Hunter’) wants to go north by way of Furðustrandir and around Kjalarnes and look for Vín[d]land again. Karl[sefni] wants to go south along the land on the eastern side, thinking that there will be more (fairer?) land the farther south it is; it makes more sense to him to explore both.)

Sva er sagt at þorhallr vill fara norðr fyri fvrðvstrandir at leita vínlandz en karlsefni vill fara svðr fyri landit (It is said that rhallr wants to go north by way of Furðustrandir and search for Vnland, but Karlsefni wants to go south along the land.) (Jansson 1944:67)

Sidan skildu þeir ok sigldv nordr firer furdu stranndir ok kialar nes ok uilldu beita þar firir vestan (Then they parted and [sc. Þórhallr and his men] sailed north past Furðustrandir and Kjalarnes and wanted to tack there westward.) kom þa uedr. a moti þeim ok rak þa upp uid. irlannd ok vorv. þar miok þiadir ok bardir. þa let. þorhallr lif sitt. (Then a wind came up against them and they were cast ashore in Ireland and were tortured badly and beaten there. Þórhallr lost his life.) karls efni for sudr firir lannd ok Snorri ok biarni ok annat lid þeira (Karlsefni went south along the land with Snorri and Bjarni and the rest of their party.) þeir foru leingi ok til þess er þeir kuomu at aa þeiri er fell af lanndi ofan ok i vatn ok svo til siofar. (They traveled a long time, until they came to a river that flowed down from

Siþan siglðv þeir norðr fyri fvrðv strandir ok kialar nes ok villdv beita vestr fyri (Then they sailed north past Fuðrustrandir and Kjalarnes and wanted to tack on westward.) þa kom mote þeim vestan veðr ok rak þa vpp a irlandi ok voro þeir þar barðir ok þiaðir ok let þorhallr þar lif sitt eftirþvi sem kavpmenn hafa sagt (Then a wind came up against them from the west and they were cast ashore in Ireland and they were beaten and tortured there and Þórhallr lost his life, according to what traders have reported.) Nv er segia af karlsefni at hann for svðr fyri landit ok snorri ok biarnni með sinv folki (It is now said of Karlsefni that he went south along the land and Snorri and Bjarni with their people.) þeir forv lengi ok allt þar til er þeir komv at a einni er fell af landi ofan ok i vatn eitt til siofar (They traveled a long time, all the way until they came to a river that flowed down from the land and into a certain lake to the sea.)

265 the land and into a lake and so to the sea.) eyiar uorv þar miklar firir aarosinvm ok matti eigi komazt inn. i ana nema at ha flædvm (There were big islands outside the mouth of the river and you could not get into the river except at high tide.) sigldu þeir. karl þa til aar osins ok kaullvdv i hopi lanndit (Then Karl[sefni] and his men sailed to the mouth of the river and named the place Hóp (‘Lagoon,’ ‘Tidal Pool’).)

eyrar voro þar miklar ok matti eigi komaz i ana vtan at haflœðvm (There were big islands there and you could not get into the river except at high tide.)

þeir karlsefni sigldv í ósin ok kollvðv i hópi (Karlsefni and his men sailed into the estuary and named it Hóp.) (Jansson 1944:68)

karl for aa einv skipi at leita. þorhallz. enn lidit uar eptir ok foru þeir nordr firir kialar nes ok ber þa firer vestan fram ok var lanndit a bak borda þeim (Karl[sefni] went on one ship to search for Þórhallr but the group stayed behind and they went north around Kjalarnes and are borne forward along the western side, with the land on their port side.)

karlsefni for þa einu skípí at leita þorhalls veidimanz en annat lidit uar eptir. ok foru þeir nordr fyri kialarnes ok berr þa fyri uestan fram. ok uar landit a bakborda þeim. (Then Karlsefni went with one ship to search for Þórhallr veiðimaðr, leaving the rest of the group behind. They went north around Kjalarnes and are borne forward along the western side, with the land on their port side.) þar uoro þa eydimerkr einar allt at sea fyri þeim þar vorv eydi merkr einar ok er þeir haufdu ok npr huergi riodr .i. ok er þeir hafdu lengi farit leingi farit fellr af lanndi ofan vr austri ok i fellr a af landi ofan or austri ok .i. uestr. vestr (Then there was nothing but forested wastes (There was nothing but forested wastes there as far as they could see in front of them, there, and when they had traveled a long with hardly a clearing anywhere, and when they time [a river] flows down off the land from had traveled a long while a river flows down the east toward the west.) from the land from the east toward the west.) þeir lagu inn i arosinvm ok lagu vit hinn þeir logdu inn i arosinn. ok lagu uid hinn sydra sydra backann. bakkann (They stayed in the estuary and tied up on (They steered into the estuary and tied up on the the south bank.) south bank.) (Jansson 1944:75)

þeir foru þa i brutt ok nordr aptr ok þottuzt sia ein fætinga. lannd villdu þeir þa eigi leingr hætta lidi sinu (They then went away back north and thought they saw Einfætingaland (‘Land

Þeir foru þa i brott ok nordr aptr ok þottust sia Einfætingaland. uilldu þeir þa eige hætta lidi sinu lengr. (Then they went away back north and thought they

266 of the One-Legged’). They were reluctant to put their people at risk any longer.)

saw Einfætingaland. They were reluctant to put their people at risk any longer.)

þeir etladu oll ein fioll þau er i hopi uoro ok þessi er nu funnu þeir. ok þat stedist miog sua a. ok væri þeir ætlvdu at kanna aull fiaull þav er i iam langt or straumfirdi beggia uegna. hopi vorv ok er þeir fvnndv. (They reckoned they were all the same mountains, (They intended to explore all the the ones that were at Hóp and these that they mountains that were at Hóp and that they found now, and that would have made good sense, found.) [for] it was equidistant from Straumfjórður in both directions.) (Jansson 1944:76) The account of Karlsefni and Guðríðr’s journey draws up a clear picture of the lands traveled through in the minds of the audience (despite the evident textual corruption at the very end: the Hauksbók text at least makes reasonable sense but something has clearly gone awry in the hands of the Skálholtsbók copyist). This image is fully consistent with the earlier journeys of Leifr and Þorvaldr; in fact, if we work on the basis that all the route details given in both sagas should be taken into the picture and nothing omitted, what we come up with can hardly look very different from the following:

267 The final journey (according to Grœnlendinga saga) involved two ships and was led by Freydís, the daughter of Erik the Red. They go to Leifsbúðir, but there a dispute flares up between the crews and everything ends in disaster. No route details are given about this voyage that add anything to what we know already. The only possibly significant piece of information to emerge from the account of Freydís’s expedition is negative, viz. there is no mention of any contact with native inhabitants during their time at Leifsbúðir. Eventually Karlsefni and Guðríðr move back to his home region of Skagafjörður in the north of Iceland and settle there with their son Snorri. According to Grœnlendinga saga, after Karlsefni’s death Guðríðr made a pilgrimage to Rome and devoted the remainder of her life to God. Both sagas close with the information that among her descendants were three Icelandic bishops of the 12th and 13th centuries.

Leifr’s Vínland: southwest of ‘Markland’ in the south of the Gulf of St. Lawrence: Prince Edward Island and the Miramichi Bay The information from the sagas presented above is, of course, very general, but in spite of this appears to correlate excellently with the geographical facts. Bjarni may be supposed to have sighted Newfoundland, Labrador, and Baffin Island, and the information given on Leifr’s voyage seems to suggest that we should concentrate our search for his Vínland somewhere in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Two days’ sailing southwest from Labrador brings one to the southern shores of the Gulf, with Prince Edward Island lying in the sea north of the mainland and cut off from it by a shallow channel — now bridged in impressive fashion, despite the objections of many of the islanders. There seems good reason to identify the Leifsbúðir visited by Þorvaldr (and later by Freydís in Grœnlendinga saga) with L’Anse aux Meadows at the northern tip of Newfoundland. Þorvaldr explored the coastal regions to the west of this place in his first summer and to the east the following one, and this fits in well with Newfoundland. The route taken by Karlsefni and Guðríðr (in Eiríks saga) is also reasonably consistent with a journey southwest along the southeast coast of Nova Scotia, conceivably all the way to the Bay of Fundy and perhaps beyond. Straum(s)fjörður (‘Stream Firth,’ ‘Bay of Currents’) describes the Bay of Fundy excellently, since the tidal range here is the greatest of any place on earth (on average fifteen to sixteen meters), with powerful and highly conspicuous tidal streams. There is an island in the mouth of the bay and the seas around it do not ice over in winter. Such an interpretation brings out the way in which the description of each expedition adds something to the ones before it, allowing us to build up an increasingly detailed map of major features of the regions visited. The description in Grœnlendinga saga of the qualities and natural features of Vínland, and of the island and the channel Leifr sails through between it and the mainland, cannot possibly be made to tie in with the reality of L’Anse aux Meadows without assuming considerable confusion in the text — which should preferably be avoided, in the first instance anyway. This means that the ‘Leifsbúðir’ mentioned on subsequent expeditions cannot be identified with both Leifr’s Vínland as we know it from Grœnlendinga saga and L’Anse aux Meadows. It is, however, conceivable that Leifr stayed at more than just the one place that the saga describes in detail, or that Leifsbúðir was indeed named after Leifr, but only later — he may, for instance, have inherited the camp from his brother Þorvaldr after Þorvaldr was killed in Vínland by an arrow from a native bow; it is a common feature of oral art to use names and nicknames in stories before, or even without, explaining where they come from (Foley 1991:2229). A careful reading of the Grœnlendinga saga account of Leifr’s journey, therefore, provides a series of instructions and directions that would prove eminently practicable to

268 anyone wishing to navigate a Viking-Age ship from Newfoundland or Labrador directly across the Gulf of St. Lawrence or the Cabot Strait to Prince Edward Island and on into the Northumberland Strait between the island and the mainland. One would first sight land at the northeast of the island, just as Leifr did. After Leifr enters the strait it is not clear from the saga whether the writer thinks of him as making his landfall on the island itself or on the mainland. At both sides of the strait there are shallow waters, large tides, and tidal pools, leaving open the possibility that Leifr sailed all the way through the strait from east to west before landing at Miramichi Bay in New Brunswick, which opens up to port shortly after one emerges from the strait. Miramichi Bay offers all the natural qualities the saga attributes to Vínland: wild vines and salmon in one of the best-known salmon rivers around the Gulf, with the majority of the fish being grilse but a substantial minority being multi-sea-winter salmon. The only discordant note in this comparatively precise account is the winters, which are generally rather severer than the one described in the saga.

Straum(s)fjörður and Hóp: south and east of Leifr’s Vínland: the Bay of Fundy and the coast of New England Once we accept the identification of Leifr’s Vínland as described in Grœnlendinga saga with the southern shores of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, it becomes possible to square all the directions given for the journeys of Karlsefni and Guðríðr in Eiríks saga rauða with the saga’s notions of Leifr’s Vínland. It is said that Karlsefni sailed north from Straum(s)fjörður in search of Þórhallr veiðimaðr, who reckoned he would find Leifr’s Vínland by sailing north around Kjalarnes. Karlsefni himself sails north past Kjalarnes and then turns west, with land to port — which the saga believes sets him on a course for Leifr’s Vínland. These bearings make sense if Straum(s)fjörður is situated toward the south of Nova Scotia, with Kjalarnes at the extreme north of Nova Scotia on Cape Breton. They also work with regard to Hóp, which is said to be some distance further to the south and where there is no mention of salmon: as mentioned previously, in the Middle Ages salmon did not spawn in rivers anywhere south of Nova Scotia. How far south of Straum(s)fjörður Karlsefni may have gone is impossible to say: various rivers and marine pools on the coast of New England have been suggested (see the table on p. 277), including the site of modern New York City, as argued most recently by Páll Bergþórsson (2000:80-90). However, according to experienced yachtsmen in these waters, to get this far south these northern mariners would have needed to use completely different navigational techniques to the ones they were familiar with (William Fitzhugh, personal communication). On the other hand, it is worth bearing in mind that this journey was made only once, and proved to be very dangerous, since only one of the three ships that set out made it home to Greenland. The reference to the mountains that Karlsefni’s men saw once from Hóp, and then again from the other side after sailing north around Kjalarnes and then some distance west following the coast (into the Gulf of St. Lawrence?), is an indication that they were aware of the mountain system reaching from the Hudson valley to the Gaspé peninsula, that is between the northeast coast of the USA and the St. Lawrence valley. We do not need to assume that their knowledge of these mountains was restricted to just what they could see from the coast, for, judging from the record of the vikings in Europe, these seamen were in the habit of going up any river they could manage in a ship, and there is no reason to think they would have acted any differently once they reached the other side of the Atlantic.

269 Table 7-3: Relative positions of the chief places named in the Vínland sagas On or near an island that lies north of a shallow strait Leifr’s Vínland (‘Vineland,’ separating it from the mainland; two days’ (dœgr) sailing ‘Wineland’) southwest of Markland; west of Kjalarnes On land with islands and shallows to the west; dangerous Leifsbúðir (‘Leifr’s Camp’) waters when sailing north around the coast and then south on the eastern side On a headland projecting north, south of Leifsbúðir, east of Kjalarnes (‘Keel Point’) Leifr’s Vínland and north of Straum(s)fjörður Furðustrandir (‘Wonder On the way from Kjalarnes to Straum(s)fjörður Beaches’) Straum(s)fjörður (‘Stream South of Kjalarnes and north of Hóp Firth,’ ‘Bay of Currents’) Hóp (‘Lagoon,’ ‘Tidal South of Straum(s)fjörður Pool’) Einfœtingaland (‘Land of Some distance west and south of Kjalarnes; to the west of the the One-Legged’) mountains that lie between here and Hóp The only thing that remains to be added to the ‘immanent map’ derivable from the saga accounts is the white sands mentioned in the account of Þorvaldr. By placing them north of the islands explored by him, this produces something like a fjord to the west of where Þorvaldr’s Leifsbúðir was situated. The configuration of the lands that emerges is not dissimilar to the one we find on ordinary modern-day maps:

270 If, as a matter of principle, we adopt the attitude that all the material given in both the sagas should be incorporated into the picture, but without assuming a priori that Þorvaldr’s Leifsbúðir should be equated with Leifr’s Vínland (thereby leaving ourselves in a position to take full account of both the archaeological finds at L’Anse aux Meadows and the Grœnlendinga saga report of the superior natural resources to be found at Vínland), the cumulative map that emerges from the saga accounts of the Vínland voyages shown above bears a striking likeness to maps we might find in any modern-day atlas. The main problems faced by previous scholars in their search for Vínland lay in the matter of the scale to be applied and the best place to begin their interpretations. There was a powerful tendency to overlook the sheer size of Canada, even to move ‘Markland’ all the way south to Nova Scotia and start from there when attempting to find locations for the events recorded in the sagas. Also, prior to the discovery of L’Anse aux Meadows, with a few notable exceptions (see p. 275), there had been a marked reluctance to imagine ‘Leifsbúðir’ anywhere so far north as northern Newfoundland. Of particular importance here is the interpretation of Kjalarnes, and in this we now have the advantage of a) being able to read the two sagas as manifestations of a single narrative tradition of the Vínland voyages, and b) being able to use L’Anse aux Meadows as a reference point, specifically the location of Þorvaldr’s ‘Leifsbúðir.’ Without these recent advances in Vínland studies, Kjalarnes might have been almost anywhere on the east coast of North America where one can sail north around a headland and then in a westerly direction. This could, for instance, take us as far south as Cape Cod, as Rafn believed. Moving north from here, the next candidate would be the northern tip of Cape Breton Island, then the north of the Newfoundland peninsula (see Morison 1971:56), and then even farther north on Labrador at the entrance to the Hudson Strait. These would appear to be the only places where it is possible to approach from the south, then sail north around a headland, before finally heading west. However, if we allow for a) L’Anse aux Meadows being the probable base used by Þorvaldr Eiríksson (with Kjalarnes to the south of this according to Grœnlendinga saga), and b) the fact that, by sailing west from Kjalarnes, Karlsefni (in Eiríks saga) hoped to reach Leifr’s Vínland (as described in Grœnlendinga saga), the only cape that comes into consideration is at the north of Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia. Attempts to situate Kjalarnes at the northern tip of Newfoundland founder on the description of Þorvaldr’s expedition in Grœnlendinga saga and the fact that Leifr’s Vínland (which lies west of Kjalarnes) is said to lie near a place where there is an island off the north coast of the mainland, two days’ sailing southwest from Markland. The only such island that fits the bill is Prince Edward Island in the south of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Siting Kjalarnes at the northern tip of Labrador would mean moving Leifr’s Vínland and Einfœtingaland into the Hudson Bay and south to James Bay. This might work if we considered only the Eiríks saga account of Karlsefni’s voyage but falls down when we turn to Grœnlendinga saga, where the descriptions of the routes and lands preclude any possibility of letting Leifr sail into the Hudson Bay. It is, of course, theoretically possible to point to some or other smaller islands and try to correlate everything the two sagas say with the geography of Newfoundland. Such a diminution of scale, however, is extremely improbable since the sagas speak of voyages of exploration lasting several years. It is, for instance, unlikely that in three years Karlsefni would have sailed no farther than around the immediate neighborhood of northern Newfoundland, which is the only solution if the saga narrative is to be made to fit in with the lie of the land in those regions. Such a reading requires us to assume that the tellers of these tales viewed a single day’s sailing as something long and arduous for people who had come all the way from Iceland and Greenland to explore and occupy distant lands; it also conflicts strongly with the combined evidence that emerges if we read all the texts together and with the overall picture that can be built up from their descriptions.

271 It is hardly fanciful to imagine that in the course of three major expeditions covering several years Viking mariners were able to build up a reasonably accurate picture of the coastal regions stretching from northern Labrador south to the Hudson River and the site of modernday New York. This length of coastline covers a range of latitude approximately equivalent to a journey from Oslo to Portugal. People used their narrative accounts of these voyages to keep alive the knowledge that had been gained and pass on an overall picture of the new lands for others to reconstruct in their own minds. Even if it does not allow us to identify individual bays and inlets with any certainty, or to say, for instance, whether Hóp was New York or somewhere else along the coast of New England, this picture turns out to be extraordinarily close to the ‘real thing.’ For all the problems, the overall picture that emerges is consistent and credible, demonstrating a genuine knowledge of otherwise unknown lands that lie well outside the realms of medieval religious writings and vague notions of earthly paradises or legendary islands lying somewhere in the mists of the western ocean. It seems altogether more sensible to take the view that oral tradition was capable of preserving for two or three hundred years real information that had been acquired in the course of demanding voyages of exploration in the seas to the southwest of Greenland. This information was then incorporated into the dominant narrative and literary form of its time and colored by popular ideas about distant lands and strange peoples, in exactly the way we might expect of stories and information preserved by memory and passed on by word of mouth.

The Limitations of Oral Evidence The long oral background to the sagas means, of course, that conclusive proof can never be achieved. Because the sagas were written down on the basis of oral accounts many generations after the events they describe, there is no way that they can be used to pinpoint the exact location of the particular places mentioned — places which, unlike the saga locations in Iceland, the writers had no first-hand knowledge of themselves. There are thus generally several possibilities when it comes to attempting precise interpretations of the texts. In spite of this, the overall picture is reasonably clear: around the year 1000, people from Greenland and Iceland made a number of sea voyages south along the east coast of North America, into the Gulf of St. Lawrence and beyond. They built winter camps in more than one place and stayed in them for anything between one winter and several years. They came into contact with indigenous peoples from these lands, who were sometimes peaceful in order to trade with them and sometimes violent. After a number of attempts at founding settlements, they returned home to Greenland and Iceland, as a result of both attacks from the native inhabitants and internal conflicts among themselves. After these early voyages, there is nothing to indicate that the ancient Greenlanders continued to sail as far south as the places mentioned in the sagas, though it remains possible that they continued to go to Labrador or ‘Markland’ for supplies of timber. This is perhaps supported by a casual entry in an Icelandic annal for the year 1347, reporting a Greenlandic ship on a run to Markland being driven into Outer Straumfjörður in Hnappadalssýsla in the west of Iceland. We know that hunting expeditions continued up to the north of Greenland throughout the Middle Ages, both to supply personal needs and for trade with foreign merchants, notably in walrus and narwhal tusks (see Roesdahl 1995), and this may explain the ever-increasing number of finds of materials traceable to Norse visitors that has been building up from archaeological sites in the polar regions of Canada in recent years (see Sutherland 2000, Schledermann 2000). There were plenty of people who got back home to tell of their adventures in the previously unknown lands to the west of Greenland. Several generations later in Iceland the surviving stories were collected in books and these books are now our main source for the first

272 journeys by Europeans to the mainland of North America. We have already found physical remains from their time there at L’Anse aux Meadows at the northern tip of Newfoundland, remains that prove beyond doubt that the people who built the camp came from Iceland and Greenland and that they subsequently journeyed farther south to places where butternuts and wild grapes grew. And where do you go if you are a Viking-Age traveler at L’Anse aux Meadows around the year 1000, and you have a good ship ready in slip and the whole summer before you to explore new lands and gather valuable goods to take back home with you to Greenland or Iceland, or to sell in Norway? The obvious answer is to keep going south, into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. It was there that you could find the fruits and plants that Greenland lacked, and some might have taken the notion to stay there and settle down and spend the rest of their lives in this land of plenty. But there was a snag, of which they quickly became aware: these bountiful lands were already densely populated with indigenous peoples who had no intention of handing them over to newcomers from the sea. So all that was left was to get back into your ship and turn back home, and spend the rest of your life boasting of heroic voyages upon the seven seas exploring unknown lands where wonder, adventure, and danger dogged your every step — exactly as we are told in the Vínland sagas.

Footnotes 1. I use the word ‘truth’ here in its popular, everyday sense; that is, whether the events described actually happened and whether the people who appear in the sagas really existed and did what the sagas say they did in the way the sagas say. It is not my intention to indulge in epistemological speculations along the lines of Pilate’s ‘What is truth?’, though of course these kinds of questions on the nature of truth and reality have provided fertile ground for scholarly discussion in our time, all the way from the realization among natural scientists of the effect of measurement on the thing being measured to the preoccupations of philosophers investigating the basis of knowledge and the role of language in the formulation of our conceptions of reality and existence as they appear, for example, in the sagas. 2. The Greek text is attributed to Cecaumenos and dates from the last quarter of the 11th century. The manuscript was discovered in Moscow in 1881 and edited and published by Vasilevskii, V. G. and Jernstedt, P. as Cecaumeni Strategicon, St Petersburg 1896. The relevant passages are to be found, with a discussion, in Blöndal 1954, esp. pp. 57-8. 3. Smith reckoned that one of the stones may have come from eastern Newfoundland; this matter is as yet unresolved. 4. That is, the mǫsurviður mentioned in the sagas: see Bergþórsson 2000:204-6. 5. Cf. Karlsefni’s route from Helluland to Markland as described in the Skálholtsbók text of Eiríks saga rauða: ‘Þá sigldu þeir norðan veðr tvau dœgr’ (‘Then they sailed for two days on a northerly wind’) (corresponding to ÍF IV:222). ON dœgr sometimes has the sense ‘half day,’ but in the route descriptions under discussion here the natural interpretation seems to be ‘day.’

273

Part IV. New Perspectives 8. Implications for Saga Research The overall conclusion to emerge from this study is that, by assuming the existence of a living oral tradition in Icelandic society in the 12th and 13th centuries, the perspective of our research shifts fundamentally. This change applies equally to how we interpret both the historical facts and the individual texts themselves. For instance, in Part I reasons were given for thinking that the lawspeakers of the ancient Icelandic Commonwealth did not necessarily view the written codification of the law as ‘a step in the right direction’: this introduction of writing into what had previously been an oral preserve served primarily the interests of the Church and might well have been viewed by the lawspeakers themselves as a threat to their position of authority within society. Similarly, the analysis of the verse examples in Óláfr Þórðarson hvítaskáld’s Third Grammatical Treatise led to new insights regarding the extent and nature of the oral poetic tradition, specifically that the poetic knowledge of a man brought up in the oral tradition of poetry and storytelling in the 13th century appears to have been confined principally to the parts of the country in which his and his family’s influence was felt most strongly, while his citations from the common poetic heritage of previous centuries suggest that this heritage was restricted largely to court poetry produced by Icelandic skalds on their travels abroad. The domestic tradition of oral poetry therefore appears to have been much more highly localized than was previously thought. Part II turned to the implications of assuming a living oral tradition of storytelling and historiography behind the written prose literature of medieval Iceland. This approach enables us to identify features of the style and meaning of the sagas that can be traced to an interplay between the texts and the audience’s prior knowledge of the characters and events described, a knowledge that can only have come from oral tradition. Hitherto, these features have generally passed unnoticed among scholars, or been condemned as structural flaws and put down to incompetence on the part of the authors. By applying the findings of research into modern oral traditions and using them to cast light on the culture of medieval Iceland and frame new questions of our limited sources, it becomes possible to construct an image of how these ancient writings might have worked upon their original audiences — which should always be the first task of the literary scholar, before it is permissible to venture out onto the thin ice of textual interpretation through the methods of contemporary psychological and critical theories. This section looked in some detail at a number of examples from the sagas set in the east of Iceland in which the same event is described in more than one source. The examination of these parallel passages suggested that scholars have been overly ready to postulate literary relations between texts (rittengsl) and have claimed to detect such relations far more widely than the material justifies; if we adopt as a working principle that such connections can only be accepted as valid where there are concrete verbal correspondences between texts, the number of places where it seems at all probable that there are direct literary relations among the sagas of the east becomes very small indeed. On the other hand, it was possible to show that in many places the writers clearly assumed that their audiences were already familiar with material that was critical to an understanding of the texts, such as the general ‘biographies’ of men like Þorkell Geitisson. In the case of Gunnarr Þiðrandabani, assuming orally based connections enabled us to cut through the insoluble tangle of textual relationships proposed and disputed by previous scholars.

274 Once it has been shown that there are strong possibilities that the written sagas tapped into a rich fund of living accounts preserved in oral tradition, it becomes tempting to try to assess the age of this tradition: How far back is it possible to trace the thread connecting the texts to the events they purport to describe? This question provided the center of interest in Part III, using the Vínland sagas, Eiríks saga rauða and Grœnlendinga saga, as an example. These sagas preserve memories of voyages made from Iceland and Greenland to the mainland of North America at a time when archaeology tells us that men and women from these lands but with connections to the British Isles built three huts at the northern tip of Newfoundland and traveled on south from there to gather items of the local vegetation. Since it has been demonstrated that previous theories of a written literary relationship between these two sagas no longer hold water and that both must have been written down independently of each other based on oral accounts (see Ólafur Halldórsson 1978:293-400), these sagas provide an excellent testing ground for the methodology advocated in this study. By using the sagas as a source for the oral tradition from which they arose, it proved possible to reconstruct a visual image that we can suppose constituted a living part of the tradition relating to these distant lands. This is rather different from the way that these texts have been treated hitherto, viz. by superimposing them onto a real landscape in the manner of a ship’s logbook, and, if they fail in this, rejecting them in part or in whole as admissible sources. What emerged was that the overall picture of the lands of the Vínland voyages provided by the tradition bore a perfectly recognizable resemblance to a rough sketch map of the east coast of North America, from New England north. This mental or ‘immanent’ map corresponds well to the regions we can suppose Viking travelers passed through and built up a reasonable knowledge of in the course of a number of several-year voyages of exploration south from Newfoundland, with their eyes open for the resources of the new lands they came to and their potential for settlement. As noted, the Icelandic sources — particularly the sagas of Icelanders and Landnámabók — contain several examples of variant accounts of the same events. Very often one account is more circumstantial and detailed than another, but it is generally fairly easy to detect when there has been direct use of sources, i.e. when one written source is based on another, be it another saga or Landnámabók. A clear example of this kind of use of written sources occurs in chapter 26 of Reykdœla saga ok Víga-Skútu (‘Saga of the Men of Reykjadalur and Killer-Skúta’) and chapter 16 of Víga-Glúms saga (‘Saga of Killer-Glúmr’). The correspondences point unequivocally to a written literary relationship, though not to which saga is using which. Jónas Kristjánsson (1978:299), for instance, works on the assumption that the ‘Skúta episode’ in VígaGlúms saga was the source for Reykdœla saga, while Hofmann (1972) inverts the relationship and considers the episode to be original to Reykdœla saga on the grounds that it is better integrated into the narrative there. Whatever the case, the literary relationship is incontrovertible. A short example from the conversation between Skúta and the accomplice he sends to lure Glúmr into the open will suffice: Reykdœla saga ok Víga-Skútu, chapter 26 (ÍF X:231) ‘Þú skalt fara á hans fund ok mæla þessum orðum, at þú þykkisk þurfandi, at hann gerisk forsjámaðr ráðs þíns, ok seg at þitt vandræði er mikit, er þú hefir beðit af vígaferlinu. Ok get ek, at þann veg beri til um fund ykkarn, at Glúmr sé í þingreið. En hans skaplyndi er þat, at hann er maðr

Víga-Glúms saga, chapter 16 (ÍF IX:50) ‘Þú skalt fara sendifǫr mína til Víga-Glúms ok mæla þessum orðum við hann, at þú þykkisk þurftugr, at hann sé forstjórnarmaðr þíns ráðs. Ek get, at nú beri svá til um fund ykkarn, at hann sé í þingreið. Hann er þrautgóðr ef menn þurfu hans, ok má vera at hann mæli at þú farir til Þverár ok bíðir hans þar.’

275 þrautgóðr, ef menn þurfu hans, ok enn mætti svá verða, ef þú gerir þitt mál líkligt, enda viti hann at þú ert hjálplauss, at hann mæli, at þú farir til Þverár ok bíðir hans þar, til þess er hann kemr heim af þinginu.’ (‘You shall go and meet him and say these words, that you feel you’re in need of him making himself the man responsible for your interests, and say that the difficulties are great that you have suffered as a result of the feud. And I predict that your encounter will come about this way, that Glúmr will be riding to the thing. And his nature is so, that he is a man of great resource, when people need him, and might turn out so to be still if you make your case sound plausible, especially as he knows you are vulnerable, so that he tells you to go to Þverá and wait for him there, until he comes home from the assembly.’)

(‘You shall go on my errand to Víga-Glúmr and say these words to him, that you feel you’re needful of him to be the man in charge of your interests. I predict that your encounter will now come about in this way, that he will be riding to the thing. He is of great resource when people need him, and it may be that he tells you to go to Þverá and wait for him there.’

Equally uncontroversial are the literary relations between the Sturlubók version of Landnámabók and the early chapters of Grettis saga, as detailed by Guðni Jónsson (1936:xvii) in his introduction to Íslenzk fornrit VII. Jónsson’s view is that the saga must be the recipient. As an example, we may take a passage from the account of Bjǫrn Hrólfsson and Eyvindr the Easterner, in which there are repeated verbal correspondences and full consistency in the names in both sources, a sure sign of textual relations. This should be compared with the very different nature of the relationship between the parallel passages in Hrafnkels saga and Landnámabók discussed earlier (see pp. 26 f, 197 f). Landnámabók (S 217) Bjǫrn hét maðr ágætr á Gautlandi; hann var son Hrólfs frá Ám; hann átti Hlíf, dóttur Hrólfs Ingjaldssonar, Fróðasonar konungs. Eyvindr hét son þeira. Bjǫrn varð ósáttr um jǫrð við Sigfast, mág Sǫlvars Gautakonungs, ok brenndi Bjǫrn hann inni með þremr tigum manna. Síðan fór Bjǫrn til Nóregs með tólfta mann, ok tók við honum Grímr hersir son Kolbjarnar sneypis, ok var með honum einn vetr. Þá vildi Grímr drepa Bjǫrn til fjár; því fór Bjǫrn til Ǫndótts kráku, er bjó í Hvínisfirði á Ǫgðum, ok tók hann við honum. Bjǫrn var á sumrum í vestrvíking, en á vetrum með Ǫndótti, þar til er Hlíf kona hans andaðisk á Gautlandi. Þá kom Eyvindr son hans austan ok tók við herskipum fǫður síns, en Bjǫrn fekk Helgu, systur Ǫndótts kráku, ok var þeira son Þrándr. Eyvindr fór þá í vestrvíking ok hafði

Grettis saga, chapter 3 (ÍF VIII:8) Bjǫrn var faðir Þrándar ok Eyvindar, sonr Hrólfs frá Ám. Hann stǫkk ór Gautlandi fyrir þat, at hann brenndi inni Sigfast, mág Sǫlva konungs. Síðan hafði hann farit til Noregs um sumarit ok var með Grími hersi um vetrinn, syni Kolbjarnar sneypis. Hann vildi myrða Bjǫrn til fjár. Þaðan fór Bjǫrn til Ǫndótts kráku, er bjó í Hvinisfirði á Ǫgðum. Hann tók vel við Birni, ok var hann með honum á vetrum, en herjaði á sumrum, þar til er Hlíf kona hans lézk. Eptir þat gifti Ǫndóttr Helgu dóttur sína Birni, ok lét Bjǫrn þá enn af herfǫrum. Eyvindr hafði þá tekit við herskipum fǫður síns ok var nú orðinn hǫfðingi mikill fyrir vestan haf. Hann átti Rafǫrtu, dóttur Kjarvals Írakonungs. (Bjǫrn was the father of Þrándr and Eyvindr, and the son of Hrólfr of Ár. He fled from

276 útgerðir fyrir Írlandi. Hann fekk Rafǫrtu, dóttur Kjarvals Írakonungs, ok staðfestisk þar; því var hann kallaðr Eyvindr austmaðr. (There was a man of noble birth from Götaland [in modern southern Sweden] called Bjǫrn; he was the son of Hrólfr of Ár; he was married to Hlíf, the daughter of Hrólfr, son of Ingjaldr, son of King Fróði. Their son was called Eyvindr. Bjǫrn had a land dispute with Sigfastr, the brother-in-law of Sǫlvarr, king of the Gauts, and Bjǫrn burned him alive in his home with thirty men. Then Bjǫrn went to Norway with eleven others, and was received by Lord Grímr, son of Kolbjǫrn sneypir, and was with him for one winter. Then Grímr wanted to kill Bjǫrn for his wealth, so Bjǫrn went to Ǫndóttr kráka, who lived in Hvínisfjǫrðr in Agðir, and he welcomed him. Bjǫrn spent the summers raiding in the British Isles and the winters with Ǫndóttr, until his wife Hlíf died in Götaland. Then his son Eyvindr came west and took over his father’s warships, and Bjǫrn married Helga, the sister of Ǫndóttr kráka, and they had a son called Þrándr. Eyvindr then went raiding in the British Isles and kept a force of ships off the coast of Ireland. He married Rafarta, the daughter of Kjarval, king of the Irish, and settled there; for this reason he was called Eyvindr the Easterner.)

Götaland because he had burned Sigfastr, the brother-in-law of King Sǫlvi, alive in his home. Then he had gone to Norway in the summer and stayed with Lord Grímr, son of Kolbjǫrn sneypir during the winter. He wanted to murder Bjǫrn for his wealth. From there Bjǫrn went to Ǫndóttr kráka, who lived in Hvinisfjǫrðr in Agðir. He welcomed Bjǫrn well, and he stayed with him in the winters and went raiding in the summers, until his wife Hlíf died. After this Ǫndóttr married his daughter Helga to Bjǫrn, and then Bjǫrn left off raiding. Eyvindr had then taken over his father’s warships and had by now become a great chieftain in the west over the sea. He married Rafarta, the daughter of Kjarval, king of the Irish.)

The two examples above demonstrate excellently how manifest literary relations can be in clear cases of borrowing between written sources. The most salient feature of such passages is their patent and repeated verbal correspondences. Things are rather different when we turn to more complex textual relations such as those we find in the similar circumstances surrounding the killings of Helgi Ásbjarnarson in Droplaugarsona saga and Þorgrímr Þorsteinsson in Gísla saga Súrssonar. These passages, and earlier discussions of their relationship, were analyzed in depth by Theodore M. Andersson (1969:28-39), who came to the conclusion that the thematic treatment of the incidents in the two sagas pointed to Droplaugarsona saga being influenced by Gísla saga rather than the opposite way around. However, despite the obvious general similarities in diction in the two passages, it is impossible to demonstrate a specifically literary relationship through tangible verbal correspondences. The relationship might thus be explained in other ways, such as through oral tradition rather than the direct use of written sources. In many cases, scholars’ interpretations of parallels between individual passages in different sagas have been based less on objective criteria than on their initial working hypotheses of saga origins. Thus, advocates of the bookprose theory have been particularly inclined to identify literary relations on all conceivable occasions, since this fits in with their general conception of an individual author behind each saga constructing his work out of a collection of assorted written sources. On the other hand, freeprose men, and more recently

277 those influenced by the ideas of formalist-traditionalism, have frequently chosen to interpret as evidence of oral preservation things that bookprose men have taken to be irrefutable proof of literary borrowing. One clear advantage of assuming an oral tradition in the background is that it frees us from the need to assume the existence of hypothetical lost written sources; instead, we can treat general similarities between the written sagas as being a consequence of the fluid nature of the oral tradition out of which they arose. Further justification for an interpretative approach to the sagas through oral tradition comes from our certain knowledge that people in the Middle Ages were quite capable of telling stories and performing poems without always having to turn to written sources. There is thus no need to prove the existence of an oral tradition. With the exception of Walter Baetke (1956) and his followers, the vast majority of scholars accept the existence of some kind of oral tradition behind the sagas; it is its degree, nature, and effects that are under dispute.

The Feud between Finnbogi the Strong and the Men of Hof A particularly instructive example of how scholars’ initial working hypotheses can affect the findings of their research concerns the ways in which they have interpreted the differing perspectives toward the same events in two accounts of the feud between Finnbogi rammi (‘the Strong’) Ásbjarnarson of Borg in Víðidalur in the Húnavatn region of northern Iceland and the sons of Ingimundr inn gamli (‘the Old’) Þorsteinsson of Hof in the neighboring valley of Vatnsdalur. This feud is described in Vatnsdœla saga (ÍF VIII) and Finnboga saga ramma (ÍF XIV), and in both cases the events themselves are largely the same. In other respects, however, the two accounts are so different that it is by no means obvious whether the connection between them is best explained through oral tradition or some kind of written literary relationship. Though most discussions of the two sagas and the connections between them allow for some kind of oral tradition to account for their differences, the received opinion among recent commentators appears to be that one of them must have used the other in some way in written form. These sagas therefore provide a good litmus test of how general theories of saga origins have shaped scholars’ findings and their interpretations of individual sagas. Simultaneously, they provide an opportunity to assess the validity of the arguments adduced in favor of literary relationships and to ask whether there are perhaps other factors that point rather in the opposite direction, i.e. that suggest a specifically oral connection behind these two particular sagas. [1] The value of this example is greatly increased by the fact that the dealings between Finnbogi the Strong and the men of Hof are also described in the Melabók version of Landnámabók (96). Three points relating to the locations of events are specified in greater detail in Landnámabók than in Vatnsdœla saga, though without this giving rise to serious doubts about the literary relationship (see Halldórsson, J. 1959:lix-lx). More generally, other material from Vatnsdœla saga appears to have been incorporated into various versions of Landnámabók; this matter was investigated by Einar Ól. Sveinnson (1939:xxxiii-xli), who came to the conclusion that the Landnámabók texts had drawn on a lost written version of Vatnsdœla saga rather than simply on oral tales about the people of Vatnsdalur. [2] As was pointed out in the Introduction (p. 38 f.), our ideas about the artistic capabilities of oral narrative have undergone considerable change in recent years, and this has been reflected to some extent in research into old Icelandic literature. One thing that has become absolutely clear is that there is no necessary contradiction between stories being well made and showing signs of conceptual unity and their having been passed on through oral transmission — a preconception that, however, appears to color most recent general treatments of the sagas here under discussion. If the written sagas drew a significant amount of their material from an oral

278 narrative tradition anything like the living oral traditions of more modern times, it becomes difficult to apply the same methods of analysis to them as have been developed in the criticism of modern novels by named authors. The laws applying to artistic presentation are different in oral narrative, for instance in matters such as shared background knowledge of the story material, prestructured diction, and the structuring of individual themes and narrative units. These rules call for critical methods designed specifically for works rooted in such a tradition. Oral tales in a tradition of this type cannot be regarded as reliable sources for events of the 10th and 11th centuries, whether they turn up in Landnámabók or the sagas of Icelanders. Even though written genealogies may have existed in some form from an early period, most of the narrative content of Landnámabók is based on oral accounts by people who were not firsthand witnesses of the events they described. The compilers of Landnámabók could not confirm the narratives of their informants other than by comparing them with the equally unreliable accounts of other informants. Thus both the sagas of Icelanders and Landnámabók are based on traditional tales that would have been highly unreliable as historical sources for events of the 9th, 10th, and 11th centuries by the time they came to be used in written texts in the 12th, 13th, and 14th centuries. These considerations need to be kept constantly in mind in any attempt to assess the nature of the relationship between the accounts of the same events in Vatnsdœla saga and Finnboga saga ramma. Vatnsdœla saga, chapters 31-35 In Vatnsdœla saga the arrogance of a relative of Finnbogi, Bergr inn rakki, leads to ill feeling with Þorsteinn and Jǫkull, the sons of Ingimundr of Hof. Finnbogi and Bergr wade across the Vatnsdalur river in the height of winter on their way to a wedding. At the wedding they clash with the brothers from Hof, as a result of which Finnbogi and Bergr challenge Þorsteinn and Jǫkull to a duel. Bergr’s concubine, Helga, does not like the look of things and on the day of the duel there is a fierce blizzard with freezing conditions and snowdrifts, and Finnbogi and Bergr are unable to make it to the dueling ground. Helga is suspected of being behind this sudden onset of bad weather. However, Þorsteinn and Jǫkull do get there, together with their brother Þórir and a local farmer called Faxa-Brandr, who assists Jǫkull in raising a níð-pole against Finnbogi, a deeply denigrating construction symbolizing cowardice and sexual deviance. Finnbogi attempts to take revenge but Þorsteinn manages to muster enough men to hold him at bay without a fight. The dealings between the two sides come to an end with Finnbogi moving away to Trékyllisvík in the northwest and Bergr disappearing from the saga.

Finnboga saga ramma, chapters 33-35 In Finnboga saga ramma the feud begins when Finnbogi gets a relative of his wife called Þorkell to propose to a woman who is generally known to be the mistress of Jǫkull Ingimundarson. Jǫkull resents this deeply but is unable to prevent the marriage from going ahead or to take revenge. His brothers react positively to Finnbogi’s invitation to the wedding but are reluctant to go against their brother’s wishes. A little later, Bergr, a relative of Finnbogi’s, arrives in Iceland together with his Hebridean wife, Dalla. When winter comes, Finnbogi and Bergr are invited to a wedding at Hof. On the way there they have to wade across the Vatnsdalur river. At the feast, Jǫkull shoves Bergr aside but Jǫkull’s brothers, Þorsteinn and Þórir, manage to restore peace for the time being. The following summer Jǫkull challenges Finnbogi to a duel, and Þorsteinn challenges Bergr. On the day set, Dalla conjures up a storm so fierce that Finnbogi and Bergr fail to get to the agreed place, and later it comes out that Jǫkull has raised a scathing níð-pole. The following summer, as Finnbogi and Þorkell are accompanying Bergr to his ship, they walk into Jǫkull’s ambush and Bergr and Þorkell are killed before Jǫkull’s brothers arrive and stop the fight. After some further inconclusive

279 skirmishes with the men of Hof, Finnbogi is forced to leave Borg and move to Trékyllisvík in the northwest, but his feud with Jǫkull simmers on. Judging from recent reference books, there seems to be a general consensus on the ages of these two sagas and the literary relations between them. Of Vatnsdœla saga, Rudolf Simek and Hermann Pálsson (1987) say that it was written before 1280, on the grounds that it was used by Sturla Þórðarson (d. 1284) in his redaction of Landnámabók, and after 1260, since the ‘author’ appears to have used Hallfreðar saga, Ǫrvar-Odds saga, and Laxdœla saga, all believed to have been written before, but not necessarily long before, 1260. In his entry on Vatnsdœla saga in Dictionary of the Middle Ages, Paul Schach (1989) says that the saga was probably written around 1270 in the monastery at Þingeyri (not far from Vatnsdalur) and that there is ‘evidence to suggest’ that the text we have is a rewriting of an older version that was used by Sturla Þórðarson when compiling his version of Landnámabók. [3] Regarding Finnboga saga ramma, Simek and Pálsson (1987) say that it first appeared in the 14th century and that its main hero has historical roots as he is also known from Landnámabók, Íslendingadrápa, [4] and Vatnsdœla saga. Schach (1985:64-5) gives a date of around 1310 for the saga and says that although Finnbogi was a historical character (as proved by his name appearing in Landnámabók and Íslendingadrápa) ‘the first part of his story is a fantasy made up of popular saga and fairy tale (Märchen) motifs.’ Schach also discusses the saga’s relations with other sources, particularly Vatnsdœla saga, and points out that there are very few verbal correspondences that might suggest direct borrowing between the texts. On the obvious similarities and differences between the two sagas, Schach remarks: ‘Some scholars have felt that this contrast reflects preliterate differences in local traditions that developed in the districts of Vatnsdalr and Víðidalr, Finnbogi’s original home.’ However, Schach rejects this view on the typical bookprose grounds that ‘good’ equates with written and ‘bad’ or ‘clumsy’ with oral: ‘The consistent enhancement of Finnbogi in his saga and the corresponding denigration of Jökull, however, suggest authorial intent,’ i.e. consistency of characterization and authorial intent make it unlikely that the saga derives from oral tales. Toward the end of the entry, Schach repeats a frequently expressed view concerning the writing of Finnboga saga: ‘The author’s major purposes in composing this story seem to have been entertainment and the literary rehabilitation of Finnbogi of Víðidalr, who comes off rather badly in the saga of the Vatnsdalr chieftains [i.e. Vatnsdœla saga].’ [5] These rather bald comments are based on a number of presuppositions: a) that we can only assume that the contents of a saga became known once it existed in written form, i.e. that the age of the written text is crucial; b) that Landnámabók is an (unimpeachable) historical source and the sagas of Icelanders are not; c) that authorial intent in a saga reduces the likelihood of oral origins; and d) that, where there are discrepancies between Landnámabók and a saga, the most probable explanation is that there was once an older version of the saga, now lost, which was slightly different from the one that has been preserved. In the case of the connections between Landnámabók, Vatnsdœla saga, and Finnboga saga ramma, all these assumptions are open to question, since the verbal correspondences between these three works are never such as might allow us to state with any certainty that the correspondences of subject matter go back to the use of written sources (see below). This is also the conclusion of Margét Eggertsdóttir in a recent general article on Finnboga saga: after discussing the conventional view of the relationship between Finnboga saga and Vatnsdœla saga through literary borrowing, she concludes, ‘but it is equally plausible that the two versions represent oral variants of the same story’ (1993:194).

280 In his introduction to the Íslenzk fornrit edition of Finnboga saga, Jóhannes Halldórsson (1959) compares the two sagas at some length, appearing to take for granted the existence of a real historical Finnbogi in the 10th century on the grounds that he is mentioned in Landnámabók and Íslendingadrápa. However, the fact that a person by the name of Finnbogi is mentioned outside just a single saga proves nothing about the existence of a real person in 10th-century Iceland; all it shows, in fact, is that in 12th- and 13th-century Iceland there were various stories in circulation about a man of this name and his origins and deeds, stories that did not necessarily agree in matters of chronology, genealogy, names, or individual details, and which most certainly are not to be regarded as historically reliable sources. [6] Halldórsson thinks it unlikely that Finnboga saga was written using Vatnsdœla saga and therefore proposes a common source used by both. At this point he comes very close to accepting the idea of an oral tradition behind the saga which might even have had some basis in actual events several centuries earlier: ‘Tvenns konar munnmæli af gömlum rótum geta hins vegar skýrt ósamræmi nafna í sögunum, hvort sem um er að ræða aflögun upphaflegrar sagnar eða fyllingu í eyður’ (‘On the other hand, two groups of oral tales with old roots might explain the discrepancies in names in the sagas, whether it be by distortion of an original tale or by filling in the gaps’) (ÍF XIV:lxiv). But having got this far, he immediately retreats from this idea by adding: ‘Gera má ráð fyrir, að munnlegar sagnir Víðdæla hafi verið heldur fáskrúðugar eins og sagnirnar í Vatnsdal og höfundur Finnboga sögu hafi lagt margt til frá eigin brjósti’ (‘We can suppose that the oral tales of the people of Víðidalur were rather meager and sketchy, as with the tales in Vatnsdalur, and that the author of Finnboga saga supplied much of his material out of his own head’ ) (ibid). In spite of the several similarities between the two sagas, the differences are greater in number and even more compelling in nature. Apart from the fact that each saga takes the side of its own hero in order to elevate him at the expense of his rivals, they reveal striking differences in their artistic approach and handling of the material. With some justification, Vatnsdœla saga may be said to be the more polished piece of literature. Here we find mythological undertones and anything that does not serve the unimpeded unwinding of the narrative is suppressed, while Finnboga saga happily finds room to accommodate various extraneous pieces of information that appear to add little to the saga as a whole. The sagas thus represent two very different treatments of what is clearly a common core of material. Central to the thematic interests of Vatnsdœla saga are its descriptions of Finnbogi’s kinsman Bergr and the men of Hof’s struggle through the elements to get to the dueling ground, both incidents which are entirely absent from Finnboga saga. In Finnboga saga the main emphasis is on Jǫkull’s love life and his battles with Finnbogi and Þorkell.

Conflicting openings to the feud The events that trigger the feud are different in the two sagas. In Vatnsdœla saga, the equilibrium is disrupted with the appearance of Finnbogi’s kinsman, Bergr, who is introduced and described with a conscious artistry that leaves no doubt as to the saga’s assessment of his character, and therefore as to the justice of its judgment on the ensuing events. Bergr’s arrival is preceded by a description of Þorsteinn goði Ingimundarson as a noble-minded and hospitable chieftain who demonstrates his authority through largesse and enjoys the respect and recognition of all who pass through the district. Against this background, we first see Bergr from a distance among a group of ten unnamed but elegantly turned out men who graze their horses on Þorsteinn’s meadows without going up to the farm to pay their respects to the local titular chief. Bergr draws special attention to himself by cutting off and casting away a piece from the bottom of his colored clothing that has been muddied in the dirt. From this action one of Þorsteinn’s housemaids remarks that this man must be ‘inn mesti ofláti’ (‘an enormous showoff’) if he throws away his valuables — contrasting with what we have already been told

281 of Þorsteinn as a man who is ‘stórlátr’ (‘generous,’ ‘big-minded’) and gives things away. [7] News of this group reaches Þorsteinn, who concludes that this must be Bergr inn rakki, the nephew of Finnbogi, and describes him as ‘rammr at afli ok inn mesti ofrkappsmaðr’ (‘great in strength and extremely assertive and ambitious’) (ÍF VIII:85). When Bergr and Finnbogi meet at the end of the chapter, Finnbogi confirms the judgment already passed by the saga that Bergr would have done better to call in and pay his respects to Þorsteinn, to which Bergr retorts that he ‘eigi vilja lægja sik svá að finna hann, “því at ørendi mitt var eigi til hans”’ (‘had no intention of demeaning himself by visiting him, “since it wasn’t him I was coming to see”’) (85). The image given of Bergr is thus of a well-off man with a high opinion of his own importance and thoroughly deserving to be taken down a peg or two. This image is presented obliquely, by means of first acclaiming Þorsteinn and thus building up trust in him and his judgment. By the time Bergr gets to speak for himself and defend himself against his uncle’s criticisms, the saga has already passed what appears to be an unbiased judgment on him, first by presenting him in action, then by giving us the assessment of a disinterested observer, and finally by direct reference to his reputation through the medium of Þorsteinn, a man of unimpeachable character. In Finnboga saga, prior to Bergr’s arrival on the scene Finnbogi has been establishing himself as a local chieftain and has provoked the wrath of the men of Hof by getting his unprepossessing relative Þorkell to propose marriage to Jǫkull Ingimundarson’s mistress, Þóra Þorgrímsdóttir. Finnbogi takes it upon himself to hold a protecting hand over Þorkell, thereby demonstrating the strength of his local power base. Hardly unexpectedly, Jǫkull takes grave offense and wishes to respond with violence but is restrained by his brothers Þórir and Þorsteinn. Finnbogi attempts to break the brothers’ solidarity with gifts and by inviting Þórir and Þorsteinn to the wedding. They accept the gifts but, in deference to their brother, decide not to attend the wedding. Finnbogi keeps the newlyweds in his own home, and the audience is given to suspect that that there may be something going on between Finnbogi and Þóra, for she is particularly anxious to stay at Borg and at one point Finnbogi refers to her as his ‘vinkona,’ a word with precisely the same ambiguity as the direct translation ‘lady friend’ (ÍF XIV:306). This kind of talk and behavior humiliates Jǫkull still further and so it is hardly without provocation that he seeks revenge when he hears that the couple are visiting Þóra’s parents at Bólstaðarhlíð. The mission of vengeance, however, turns out ignominiously for Jǫkull, since Svartr, Þóra’s father’s cowherd and, to judge by his name, a slave, breaks Jǫkull’s spear in half with a dung shovel; wounded in the foot by Þorkell’s spear, and having discovered that his sword is blunt, Jǫkull finishes up with Svartr standing over him with shovel raised, ready to smash it down on his head — leaving him little option but to ride away with his tail between his legs. The feud is thus already simmering nicely by the time Bergr makes his appearance in the saga. Here he is presented as a handsome and prepossessing man, and his wife Dalla is described as ‘kvenna vænst og kynstór og kvenna högust á alla hluti’ (‘the fairest of women, of noble birth, and the most able of women in all ways’) (ÍF XIV:308). This couple thus provides a marked contrast to the Bergr and his concubine that we meet in Vatnsdœla saga.

The winter wedding in Vatnsdalur Both sagas describe a wedding in Vatnsdalur in high winter at which there is a clash between the opposing parties. However, the events leading up to and at the feast and the start of the conflict are described rather differently. In Vatnsdœla saga, the wedding takes place at the farm of a man called Skíði in Vatnsdalur. The groom is from Víðidalur and it is he who has invited Finnbogi and Bergr, without any reason being specified for the invitation, while the Ingimundarsons of Hof are invited because the wedding would seem, in Skíði’s words, ‘eigi

282 með fullum sóma, nema þér komið’ (‘not with full dignity unless you come’) (ÍF VIII:86). On the day of the wedding, ‘veðrátta var eigi algóð ok illt yfir Vatnsdalsá’ (‘the weather was pretty awful and it was difficult to get across the river in Vatnsdalur’) (ibid). Bergr shows his strength and competitiveness by carrying people across the river despite the freezing conditions and thus arrives at Skíði’s well-kindled hall with his clothes all frozen around him. The oppositions between frost and fire, outside and inside, are reflected in Bergr himself, whose temper becomes inflamed despite his frozen garments. In contrast to his boorish appearance and demeanor we have Þorsteinn’s unassuming humility as he goes around the feast waiting on others, despite his status as most honored guest with due place in the seat of honor opposite Finnbogi. To get to the fire, Bergr shoves Þorsteinn aside so that he almost falls. Jǫkull’s reaction is swift and violent, taking it upon himself to deal with the insult in a way that would be unseemly in his brother, the popular goði: he strikes Bergr with the flat of the family sword, Ættartangi. This gives Þorsteinn the opportunity to again display his honorable nature, by offering compensation for Jǫkull’s impetuousness. Þorsteinn is thus fulfilling the role of the just and impartial judge and goði (local titular chieftain), big-hearted and generous with his possessions, while Jǫkull performs the other side of the role on his behalf, the human response to a slight to his honor. Emphasizing the way that the brothers in tandem combine the proper functions of a chieftain, it is Jǫkull who is carrying their ancestral sword and who claims to be defending the ‘goði’ of the house of Vatnsdalur, i.e. his brother’s public role, while Þorsteinn speaks of his ‘brother’ Jǫkull’s impetuousness, i.e. his personal role. To make amends for the blow Jǫkull has given Bergr, Þorsteinn offers to humble himself by going under a jarðarmen at the local Húnavatn assembly. But on the appointed day he refuses to go through with the ritual when Bergr insults him still further by saying: ‘Svínbeygða ek nú þann, sem œztr var af Vatnsdœlum’ (‘I’ve now swine-bowed the one who was highest of the house of Vatnsdalur’ (ÍF VIII:88). [8] These words echo the taunt made by the legendary Danish king Hrólfr kraki when he gets his archenemy, King Aðils of Sweden, to bend down for the ring Svíagrís (‘piglet of the Swedes’) in the Hrólfs saga kraka: ‘Svínbeygða ek nú þann sem Svíanna er ríkastr’ (‘I’ve now swine-bowed the one who is most powerful of the Swedes’) (79). The incident, and the quotation, are also reported in chapter 54 of Skáldskaparmál in Snorri Sturluson’s Edda: ‘Svínbeygt hef ek nú þann er ríkastr er með Svíum!’ (‘I’ve now swine-bowed the one who is most powerful among the Swedes!’). Direct connections between Vatnsdœla saga and Hrólfs saga kraka are uncertain, but in all probability this is a case of a well-known quotation attached to a well-known incident going back to the common oral saga tradition. Whatever the case, this insult is enough to make Þorsteinn refuse to go through with the ritual and leads to open enmity. Finnbogi challenges Þorsteinn to a duel and Bergr challenges Jǫkull. It is noteworthy that hitherto Þorsteinn has refrained from condemnation even though Bergr has first failed to acknowledge his local authority and then pushed him at the wedding feast where Þorsteinn was himself the guest of honor. It is only when he is humiliated with words that he reacts; this, as demonstrated by Helga Kress (1991), is in keeping with a general tendency among characters in the sagas, who as a rule react more strongly to verbal insults than to deeds. However, it goes against the accepted role of the goði to fight duels, and thus it is his belligerent brother that takes on this role and vows, amid deeply disparaging words about Bergr, to fight for the both of them. While the main events remain very similar in Finnboga saga, there are considerable differences in the details. Here the wedding takes place at Hof itself, and it is the Ingimundarson brothers who are the hosts and their niece who is being married to a well-connected and promising young man called Grímr from Torfustaðir. Both Grímr himself and the brothers Þorsteinn and Þórir invite Finnbogi to the reception. Finnbogi and Bergr make their way through a blizzard and have to struggle across the river: ‘Var hon allólíklig til yfirferðar; var krapaför á mikil, en lögð frá löndum’ (‘It looked a very doubtful crossing; there was a lot of

283 slush being carried down by the stream, with ice along the banks’) (ÍF XIV:309-10). In this case Bergr is not the tower of strength he is in Vatnsdœla saga but has to hang on to Finnbogi’s belt as he swims with both of them across the river. The image here seems to have echoes of the myth of Þórr’s journey to Geirrøðargarðar as told by Snorri in chapter 27 of Skáldskaparmál of the Edda and in the 10th-century skaldic poem Þórsdrápa, in which Loki/Þjálfi has to hang on to Þórr’s belt to get across a river. At the wedding feast itself, it is Jǫkull who pushes Bergr towards the fire, without apparent cause, with the result that Bergr crashes into a ill-tempered workman from Hof called Kolr, who pushes him back. Finnbogi, by a great feat of strength and agility, rescues Bergr from further humiliation and accepts gifts from Þorsteinn and Þórir as peace offerings. However, the ill will between Bergr and Kolr simmers on and a fight flares up. As a result, a duel is arranged, though in this case it is Jǫkull who is to take on Finnbogi while Þorsteinn the goði challenges Bergr.

The duel from conflicting perspectives Vatnsdœla saga describes the events leading up to the duel in some detail. The writer here employs mythological overlays (see below, p. 324), wherein the characters’ names are used to make allusions to the ancient gods and (his conception of) pre-Christian beliefs. As the appointed day approaches, Þorsteinn gathers his friends around him. Bergr’s mistress unsettles Bergr and Finnbogi by referring to the powerful hamingja of the Ingimundarsons, i.e. their ‘fetch’ or familial spirit representing the family’s fortunes, as manifested in Þorsteinn’s vit (‘wit, wisdom’) and gæfa (‘luck’) and Jǫkull’s berserk nature, i.e. his ability to take on the spirit and courage of a bear when roused. Bergr does not protest when she says he has little hope against the Ingimundarsons, but he cannot just stand by and let Jǫkull get away with taunting and ridiculing him: ‘Mikit hefir Jǫkull um mælt, svá at mér er þat eigi þolanda’ (‘I have heard more from Jǫkull than I can take’) (ÍF VIII:89). In other words, he is no longer trying to avenge the blow he received at the wedding feast but the things Jǫkull has said about him since in public at the assembly. In spite of the appalling weather on the day of the duel, the Ingimundarsons make it to the dueling ground, having taken measures to harness the power of the gods on their behalf. For instance, Þorsteinn goes along with Jǫkull, even though Jǫkull is going to do the fighting for both of them. As at the feast, they appear as a single entity encompassing both sides of the goði or titular chieftain — Þorsteinn holding the authority, Jǫkull ensuring that it is put into force. In some respects they can be viewed as reflecting the dual aspect of Óðinn, the god for whom the goði acts as earthly representative. This divine mirroring is enhanced by their two companions — the third brother Þórir, the first element of whose name is the thunder god Þórr, and the farmer Faxa-Brandr, owner of the horse Freysfaxi dedicated to the fertility god Freyr. Thus the holders of the authority of the goði, Þorsteinn and Jǫkull, are also supported by the divine sanction of the two gods that stand closest to Óðinn, Þórr and Freyr. Faced with such overwhelming odds, Finnbogi and Bergr can hardly hope to prevail; they are only saved, the saga suggests, by the sorcery of Bergr’s mistress when she conjures up a storm so fierce that they are unable to get to the duel. Meanwhile, Jǫkull raises the deeply insulting níð-pole by the wall of the hay meadow at Finnbogi’s own farm. In Finnboga saga, the narrative perspective is limited to Finnbogi himself. We therefore hear nothing of the preparations and journey of the Ingimundarsons, or of the níð, since the magical storm conjured up by Bergr’s wife Dalla prevents Finnbogi and Bergr from leaving the house. Once the storm has died down, though, the word gets out (i.e. at second hand) that ‘Hofssveinar höfðu komit á mótit, ok þat með, at Jökull hafði reist Finnboga níð allhæðiligt, þar sem þeir skyldu fundizt hafa’ (‘the men of Hof had come to the assignation, and with it that

284 Jǫkull had raised a deeply derogatory níð against Finnbogi at the place where they were supposed to have met’) (ÍF XIV:311). As in Vatnsdœla saga, it is the harm to his reputation and what is said about people and their actions that matters, and Finnbogi takes this so ill that he proceeds to treat Dalla with coldness and hostility.

The end of the affair In Vatnsdœla saga, Finnbogi attempts to take revenge for the shame suffered by the house of Borg, but as before Þorsteinn’s standing and good luck ensure that everything goes against them and in favor of the men of Vatnsdalur. Finnbogi and Bergr are declared outlaw within the district and Finnbogi is forced to move away. Finnboga saga provides a more detailed postscript to the episode. Finnbogi and Þorkell are accompanying Bergr to a ship to take him out of the country. As they come over the moors leading to Hrútafjörður, Jǫkull is lying in wait with eleven others. A battle ensues, and Jǫkull’s spear is cut in two, just as happened in his attack at Bólstaðarhlíð. But on this occasion his followers manage to bring down Þorkell, and then Bergr is also killed, after thanking Finnbogi for looking after him so well through the winter. At this point Jǫkull’s brothers ride up and separate the combatants. But the feud between Finnbogi and Jǫkull simmers on (something entirely absent from the Vatnsdœla saga account). Matters finally come to a head. The House of Hof proves too strong for Finnbogi, and with the death of his kinsman Þorgeirr Ljósvetningagoði (‘goði of the men of Ljósavatn’) he has lost his most powerful ally, and he is forced to move away to Trékyllisvík in the northwest.

Independent chronologies As the comparison makes clear, the selection and treatment of the material differs considerably in the two sagas. Their chronologies also make it highly unlikely that whoever put Finnboga saga ramma into written form based his account on the written version of Vatnsdœla saga. In Vatnsdœla saga the assumption appears to be that Ingimundr the Old was killed some time around 930 and that his son Þorsteinn died in around 972 (see Sveinsson 1939:li). However, if we go by Finnboga saga, Finnbogi was in his youth some time around 950, and the conversion in the year 1000 takes place only a few years after his feud with the men of Hof was at its height, and he survives on well into the Christian era. This incompatibility has been used to argue in favor of some kind of incompetence on the part of the writer of Finnboga saga (see, for example, Halldórsson, J. 1959:lxv), but this ignores the fact that the internal chronology of the saga is seamless. It is beside the point that the chronology of Finnboga saga conflicts with what we can nowadays infer from other written sources, when there is absolutely no proof that its writer ever set eyes on those other sources; the crucial point is that it is simpler to account for the different versions of the saga and the discrepancies in their chronologies by assuming that the information was transmitted orally from person to person. Within an oral tradition of this kind matters such as chronology are generally fluid, and this would have carried over into the written sagas (though each is consistent within itself). In addition, if we accept that both sagas made use of comparable, though disparate, oral accounts of the same events, we are freed from the need to postulate the existence of written versions of sagas now lost, or of written versions being available at particular times to act as sources for other texts that have come down to us.

285

Conclusions The evidence does not provide any conclusive proof that Finnboga saga ramma was based on traditional oral tales, but equally there is nothing to suggest that its writer got his material from written sources. At this point, the argumentation reaches a dead end. Earlier studies of the relationship between Vatnsdœla saga and Finnboga saga have devoted much space to arguments for and against literary relations between the two sagas and/or an oral tradition behind one or both of them. These fairly uncomplicated passages have provided scholars with ammunition for both points of view, and in most cases the conclusions they have come to have followed the theory of origins they adhere to for the sagas of Icelanders in general rather than concentrating specifically on the relationship between these two particular sagas: bookprose scholars appear incapable of viewing parallels between sagas in any way other than through literary relations, whereas formalist-traditionalists find nothing problematic in the idea of an active storytelling tradition among the Icelanders of the 13th and 14th centuries and take the view that similarities between sagas generally arise from a common oral tradition on which the sagas were based, except in cases where it is possible to cite clear-cut verbal correspondences. If the latter view is accepted, it is very unlikely that sagas that differ in almost all respects other than the main lines of their plots are connected through one of them having been written based on the other. An additional factor here is that, once the writing of the sagas got under way, oral stories are likely to have sprung up based on written books, creating a more complex interaction between the written and oral traditions. This, however, does not alter the main point — that vellum books were rare, expensive, and produced entirely by hand, and that for the great majority of the people of Iceland the norm was presumably to hear stories told ‘off the cuff’ rather than to have them read to them from books or to read them themselves. The disparities in the accounts of the ‘same’ events in Finnboga saga ramma and Vatnsdœla saga might in fact be taken as a strong indication that the oral tales behind the two sagas were anything but ‘meager and sketchy,’ as Jóhannes Halldórsson puts it in his introduction to ÍF XIV. It seems more than likely that Finnbogi led a healthy life outside written books and that stories of his dealings with the brothers of Hof passed orally from man to man, both in Vatnsdalur and Víðidalur. In both valleys people would have told the stories in their own fashion, with their own slant, putting the parts played by their local heroes in the best possible light, without any need to alter the general course of events. Even though the passages considered here have been shaped by the overall conceptions of their respective sagas and thus contribute to their wider structures and meanings, there is no reason not to think that each of the written sagas took the main elements of its material from a varied body of oral tales that was in circulation at the time when it was written, and it therefore seems fair to ‘assume’ that relatively little of the material comes directly from the writers themselves, made up entirely out of their own heads. For all this, we are still no closer to the conditions under which storytelling took place on the farms of Vatnsdalur and Víðidalur in the 13th and 14th centuries, when storytellers entertained their audiences with well-made tales of the feud between Finnbogi the Strong and the men of Hof. The exact nature of the art of storytelling is bound to remain unknown and open to speculation. But we can interpret the texts we have in light of the comparative methods developed in recent decades in the field of oral studies, and we can read the sagas against the hypothesis that the written texts were constructed out of stories from a living oral tradition of this kind. The comparative approach must, of course, be used with great caution, so as not to equate traditions that are inherently incomparable (see Introduction, p. 42), but even so it allows us to state with confidence that many of the almost universally held assumptions and preconceptions about orality within the classical philological tradition surrounding the sagas of

286 Icelanders are simply incorrect — oral tales can be works of art and ‘good’ literature, for example, and stories can survive for matters of centuries in oral preservation. Once we have accepted this, we can proceed step by step to examine the ramifications of the main hypothesis, that the main incidents and characters of the sagas of Icelanders are likely to have been shaped within an oral tradition in which the storytellers changed and adapted their material at each telling according to their own tastes and abilities and the reactions and expectations of their audiences, and that it was only at the end of a long period of such fluidity that the sagas reached their final form in written works designed to be read rather than told.

Mythological Overlays in Hœnsa-Þóris saga Hœnsa-Þóris saga (‘Saga of Hen-Þórir’) is one of the most intensively studied of all the sagas and has been investigated from just about all points of view that have enjoyed any favor within the field of saga research since scholars in the 19th century first started to take a serious interest in the source value of the ancient Icelandic texts. The particular interest in Hœnsa-Þóris saga stems from the fact that a part of its subject matter also appears in our oldest and most trustworthy source for the history of early Iceland, Ari fróði Þorgilsson’s Íslendingabók. According to Ari, the information he gives on the matter in question was told to him by Úlfheðinn Gunnarsson, the lawspeaker in the years 1108-16.

‘Discrepancies’ between Ari’s Íslendingabók and Hœnsa-Þóris saga In chapter 5 of Íslendingabók, Ari tells of a feud between two chieftains from the west of Iceland, Þórðr gellir of the Dalir region and Tungu-Oddr of Borgarfjörður, which arose out of an incident in which Hœnsa-Þórir barricaded Þorkell Blund-Ketilsson in his home and burned him to death. The involvement of the chieftains stemmed from one of Tungu-Oddr’s sons having taken part in the burning and from Hersteinn, the son of Þorkell Blund-Ketilsson, being married to a niece of Þórðr gellir’s. Two battles ensued between Þórðr and Tungu-Oddr, first at the local assembly at Þingnes in Borgarfjörður, where a follower of Þórðr’s called Þórólfr refr was killed, and then at the Alþingi, where Tungu-Oddr lost some of his men. Hœnsa-Þórir was declared outlaw ‘ok drepinn síðan ok fleiri þeir at brennunni váru’ (‘and later killed, together with more of those who were at the burning’) (ÍF I.1:12). This feud brought to light a flaw in the country’s judicial system and, as a result, in 965 the country was divided into quarters and quarter assemblies introduced, with three local assemblies in each quarter (except in the Northern Quarter, where it proved necessary to have four local assemblies because the men of the north demanded separate assemblies for, east to west, Húnavatn, Skagafjörður, Eyjafjörður, and Þingeyjarsýsla). It is this constitutional change that accounts for Ari’s interest in the affair. Ari’s account and Hœnsa-Þóris saga disagree on three points: 1. In Íslendingabók it is Þorkell Blund-Ketilsson who is burned to death; in the saga it is his father Blund-Ketill. 2. In Íslendingabók, so far as can be seen, Hersteinn Þorkellson was already married to Þórðr gellir’s niece at the time of the burning; in the saga, Hersteinn BlundKetilsson contrives to win the support of the powerful Þórðr gellir by marrying his niece directly after and as a result of the burning. Hersteinn’s schemes are directed by his foster father, Þorbjǫrn stígandi, of whom it is said that he ‘væri eigi allr jafnan, þar sem hann var sénn’ (‘there was more to him than met the eye,’ i.e. he had control of supernatural forces) (ÍF III:24).

287 3. The sources disagree on the numbers of those killed in the battles between the chieftains. The saga speaks of four of Þórðr’s men in the first encounter (including Þórólfr refr) and one of Oddr’s, and of six of Oddr’s men later in the battle at the Alþingi.

Source value, literary relations, the part of the ‘author,’ and social comment The superiority of Íslendingabók over Hœnsa-Þóris saga so far as historical source value is concerned was established as long ago as 1871 by the German legal expert, Icelandicist, and folklorist Konrad Maurer. Since then, the dominant view among scholars of the Icelandic school, notably Sigurður Nordal (1938) and Jónas Kristjánsson (1973; 1978:325-6), has been that the ‘author’ of the saga created his work based on a meager selection of pre-existing sources, especially Íslendingabók but also lost versions of Landnámabók and perhaps some written genealogies. Scholarly interest then focused on, first, why the author of the saga had deviated from Íslendingabók, and subsequently the nature of the relationship between the saga and Landnámabók, especially the Sturlubók and Hauksbók texts. This research is based on a number of presuppositions, chiefly that the only way that information and verbal correspondences could have been passed on was through written texts, and that no knowledge was available until it was first written down on parchment, after which it would have been swiftly disseminated throughout the whole country. As has been demonstrated above, there is good reason to believe that these presuppositions are simply not true and highly misleading so far as research into ancient writings is concerned. It is only in a minority of cases that similarities between sagas are best explained through literary relations and appeal to the image of an individual author creating his saga on the basis of material taken from other written texts. It is generally more profitable to assume that just about any kind of information could have existed and circulated within an oral tradition of historical narrative, and that its form within this tradition would in large part have determined its eventual written form. Very much in the spirit of the Icelandic school, Björn Sigfússon (1960–63) maintained that Hœnsa-Þóris saga could in part be read as a justification for a new legal provision included in Jónsbók, the lawbook imposed on Iceland by the king of Norway and ratified at the Alþingi in 1281, that chieftains had the right to sequester and distribute other people’s hay in times of need. This is precisely what the noble chieftain Blund-Ketill does in the saga, following which the devious Hœnsa-Þórir uses legal chicanery to have him declared a thief, with tragic consequences. According to Árni saga biskups (‘Saga of Bishop Árni,’ pp. 812-3) this provision was hotly disputed at the time and was among the items that the Icelanders asked in a petition to the king to have revoked. The new measure was not, however, something made up purely by the king himself but rather a reflection of an international movement in 13th-century theology concerning public duties of mutual assistance. It is not known whether learned men in Iceland were aware of these ideas earlier in the century, but there is no doubt that they are strongly represented in Jónsbók, and on this basis Sigfússon concluded that the saga was written shortly before 1281, when the preparations for and discussions around this change in the law were in full swing. A similar interpretation appears in Pálsson (1975). In Pálsson’s view, Hœnsa-Þóris saga should be read as the product of a conscious author working upon limited written sources to create a Christian parable on the proverb ‘opt hlýtr illt af illum’ (‘evil springs from evil deeds’), words ascribed in the saga to the chieftain Arngrímr goði after the death of his son Helgi (ÍF III:23). From what we now know of oral tradition, however, there is absolutely no compelling reason why the saga should necessarily be viewed as something created didactically by piecing

288 together fragmentary pre-existing written materials. This, on the other hand, does not in any way mean that the ethical ideas of the 13th century could have had no part in shaping the way that the writer dealt with his particular subject matter. [9] In a radical departure from the methods and preoccupations of the Icelandic school, Theodore M. Andersson (1964:104-11; 1967:111-21; 1978:152-8; see also p. 39 above) has provided a powerful critique of the scholarly premises behind the idea that all similarities between sagas are to be explained as the result of textual borrowing. In this particular case, Andersson presented a number of reasons to doubt the claim of Jónas Kristjánsson (1978:325) that the story related in the saga was unlikely to have existed in the form of oral tales. For example, we may consider the differences between the saga and Íslendingabók noted above: these consist in large measure of confusion between names and discrepancies in the numerical details and order of events, all matters that are very likely to undergo modification in oral preservation but which are generally transmitted accurately by authors who get their information from written sources: see p. 27.

Hœnsa-Þóris saga in interaction with oral tradition Andersson’s interest in Hœnsa-Þóris saga as the product of an oral tradition arises from his attempt to build up a picture of the overall structure of the prototypical oral saga. But there are also thematic and structural elements within the saga that are instructive on the ways in which material from an oral tradition was shaped and reworked in the creation of the written sagas. Of particular interest here are the comments of Carol Clover (1982:123-4) on the literary techniques that characterize Hœnsa-Þóris saga when compared to Ari’s more historiographical account in Íslendingabók. As an example, we may consider the contrasting presentations in the two texts of how Hœnsa-Þórir eventually gets his just deserts. In Ari, the killing of Hœnsa-Þórir follows his sentencing at the Alþingi and is the simple and logical outcome of his earlier actions. The denouement in the saga is rather more complex. At this point in the saga the action unfolds on two levels, with two lines of narrative running concurrently to create a tension and at times thwart or delay the expectations of the reader in a way Clover considers characteristic of written as opposed to oral literature: while the chieftains wrangle at the Alþingi, Hersteinn BlundKetilsson takes the law into his own hands and kills Hœnsa-Þórir back at home in his own district, justifiably, to be sure, but without the formal sanction of the law. As will be shown below, this narrative technique forms part of a more general tendency found throughout the saga. By assuming that Hœnsa-Þóris saga arose from a living oral tradition, new ways of investigating and interpreting it open up to us. Within this tradition a whole range of material coexisted side by side and in no particular order — stories, poems, traditional lore, and, by no means least, myths. The connections between the myths and the written sagas have been widely investigated; notable contributions include those of Magnus Olsen (1928), Anne Heinrichs (1970), John Lindow (1977), Joseph Harris (1976), Preben Meulengracht Sørensen (1986), and Haraldur Bessason (1977). Bessason, for instance, demonstrates how patterns and motifs from the myths are used in the sagas of Icelanders and kings’ sagas to add emphasis to the events described and broaden their perspective; thus, a saga dealing with ordinary people but containing mythological elements and allusions gains added significance from the mythological parallels and invites interpretation through the eyes of the myth. Bessason calls such features in the sagas ‘mythological overlays.’ More recently, this idea has been extended by Margaret Clunies Ross, who in two books (1994, 1998) investigated particularly how the mythological tradition resonates in the narrative techniques of the sagas and imbues ‘mundane’ works with special significations.

289 If Hœnsa-Þóris saga is read in this light, a number of interesting parallels to myths emerge and we find ourselves better able to focus on the main issues in the saga without being sidetracked by matters that have hitherto tended to obscure them, such as the preoccupation with its historicity vis-à-vis Íslendingabók, its dating with regard to the legislative background, and the rights and wrongs of the individual characters in light of the strict letter of the law. For instance, within the context of the saga it is quite clear that, however much right Hœnsa-Þórir may technically have to refuse to sell his hay, this right rests on extremely dubious moral grounds. Hœnsa-Þórir’s actions explain why it was necessary to introduce an amendment like the one in Jónsbók to allow chieftains to organize the allocation of hay in bad years, while the saga also provides a graphic illustration of the background to the amendment to the constitution designed to bring about greater equity in legal cases through the division of the country into juridical quarters. Thus, one theme of the saga is a belief in the law as an instrument for settling the kinds of problems that will always arise in an imperfect world that includes petty crooks like Hœnsa-Þórir and bullies like Tungu-Oddr. However, the saga also illustrates a further attitude to the law, and one of no less importance, concerning its inextricable relationship with power and status: only chieftains are in the position to go to law to settle their disputes; lesser men generally need the support of greater men to get satisfaction, as when the farmers turn to Blund-Ketill in their hour of need, and when Hersteinn enlists the support of Gunnarr Hlífarsson and Þórðr gellir. For ordinary people, the only solution is often to turn to direct means, as when Hersteinn kills Hœnsa-Þórir while the chieftains are still arguing the case in more civilized fashion at the Alþingi. By rejecting the working premises of the Icelandic School, we also free ourselves from the need to account for the knowledge of local geography displayed in individual sagas and what this says about their supposed ‘authors.’ The writer of Hœnsa-Þóris saga has generally been given rather poor marks in this respect, since the morning after the burning in Örnólfsdalur he portrays Hersteinn and Þorbjǫrn stígandi as setting out to Breiðabólstaður to elicit Oddr’s support, then back to Örnólfsdalur, and then on to Svignaskarð driving all Blund-Ketill’s livestock before them — a combined distance of over 40 km (25 miles) as the crow flies. By the evening, Hersteinn and Þorbjǫrn have made it all the way to Gunnarsstaðir in Hvammsfjörður. To people familiar with the area, this journey seems highly improbable, and as a result the author has been accused of ignorance or inaccuracy in his treatment of the material. But such remarks ignore the simple device employed by the writer, of giving Þorbjǫrn supernatural powers, especially in respect to travel, as his nickname ‘stígandi’ (‘Strider’) suggests. Such a man can be sent around the district at whatever speed is necessary; all that matters for the plot of the saga is that he and Hersteinn should be able to arrive at places before the news of Blund-Ketill’s burning.

The killing of Helgi and the death of Baldr A particularly clear example of the use of mythological overlays in the saga occurs at the death of Helgi Arngrímsson. Helgi is a young lad who is only present by chance when Hœnsa-Þórir leads his party to Örnólfsdalur to summons Blund-Ketill for the theft of his hay. In the confrontation, Helgi happens to be struck down by an arrow shot into the air without intent to kill. This incident directly parallels the death of Óðinn’s son Baldr, ‘inn góði áss’ (‘the good god’), killed unintentionally by an arrow made of mistletoe shot by the blind god Hǫðr at the instigation of Loki. Pointing the parallel to the myth still further, Hœnsa-Þórir kneels over the boy’s body and claims to catch his dying words, heard by no one else, urging them to burn Blund-Ketill in his farm; visually, this is strikingly similar to the way Óðinn leans over Baldr’s body as it lies on the funeral pyre and whispers secret words into his ear of which he alone is witness.

290 Helgi is an innocent and noble-hearted young man, the mouthpiece of truth, conciliation, and nonviolence in the saga, a role echoed in his name, i.e. ‘holy.’ The parallels with the death of Baldr make it natural to interpret the significance of Helgi’s death to the saga as a whole in a similar light. With Helgi’s death, the good in the world is destroyed and cannot be recovered without atonement through great slaughter, just as happens in the world of the gods at Ragnarǫk (i.e. the apocalyptic battle at the end of the world). This motif of the unintended killing of an innocent man occurs widely in the sagas, even through an unpremeditated shot as here (cf. the death of Þiðrandi, p. 224 above, and Mageröy 1991), demonstrating the power that this image exerted over the minds of saga audiences and their awareness of its mythological overlays, without there being any reason to assume deliberate borrowing from a particular myth.

The root of evil and dual structure: Hœnsa-Þóris saga and Vǫluspá There are striking parallels between Hœnsa-Þórir himself and the malevolent trickster god Loki. Loki is not part of the family of the gods, though he lives among them and seems to have considerable influence over them; Hœnsa-Þórir has no family connections and thus no status within society, but he is rich enough to have acquired considerable influence in human society. Loki, through his actions, is the instigator of evil; he is responsible for most of the difficulties and disasters that disrupt the world of the gods and provokes the gods into committing evil deeds themselves, generally through working on their avarice and lust for gold. Gold — wealth — is also at the root of evil in the saga, as, for instance, in the methods used by Hœnsa-Þórir to bribe his way to what he wants and destroy the unity of the chieftains of nobler background. Hœnsa-Þórir’s wealth arouses the envy and cupidity of Arngrímr, which leads to the loss of his son. Similarly, later in the saga it is Þorvaldr Tungu-Oddsson’s willingness to be bought by Hœnsa-Þórir’s money that leads him to his banishment and death. With the killing of Helgi and the burning of Blund-Ketill, the powers of good are extinguished and the problem faced by those that remain is how to contain the evil that has been released and restore equilibrium and justice. After the burning, the feud ceases to center on Hœnsa-Þórir and his or others’ right to the hay, and thus specifically on the vengeance for Blund-Ketill. Matters start to escalate, bringing in people from outside who are not directly concerned. Two local chieftains, Þórðr gellir and Tungu-Oddr, compete for power and the issue now becomes one of the methods that are allowable in order to achieve justice when the law itself is imperfect. Here a parallel can be drawn from the structure of the edda poem Vǫluspá as analysed by Haraldur Bessason (1984, 1999). The poem, like the saga, presents its themes through two related levels. The entire action occurs on the level of the gods where the great events take place, but there are repeated glimpses into the world of man that show humans behaving in exactly the same way as the gods, only in rougher and coarser form; what is only suggested of the gods is said directly of mankind. Thus it is that while, in the saga, the chieftains and their supporters come face to face at the Alþingi and battle seems imminent, the instigators of the feud are elsewhere and settle matters among themselves in their home region through simple recourse to bloodletting. On the saga’s higher level, this is a conflict between great men and regions; on the lower level, it is a dispute between private individuals. However, there is an essential difference between the mythic world of Vǫluspá and the human world of the saga: in the myth, everything is destroyed in the fires of Ragnarǫk, from which only the innocent emerge unscathed; in the world of man, however, there is governance through law to act as a mediator and thus avert catastrophe. Another aspect of the saga’s judicial message is that just laws do not work on their own when their enforcement is dependent on the whims of chieftains who cannot be relied on to act with wisdom and impartiality. The saga makes it quite clear that rules and laws are meaningless unless they are followed up and enforced by those who have the power to do so. Jesse L. Byock

291 (1982) has put forward the view that the sagas of Icelanders can be read as a kind of didactic manual on the handling of disputes: see also the ideas of Eric Havelock (1963) discussed earlier, p. 57. Byock shows how disputes originate when ordinary people attempt to assert their rights and then escalate to a point where chieftains take over, just as in Hœnsa-Þóris saga. In the saga, characters are repeatedly forced to look to chieftains for support in their troubles and to ensure that their rights are safeguarded: 1. The Norwegian merchant Ǫrn is intimidated by Tungu-Oddr regarding the pricing of his goods, in blatant contravention of the legal provisions covering such matters, and so turns to Blund-Ketill for support. 2. Hœnsa-Þórir attempts to raise his social status to reflect his newly acquired wealth and to this end buys his way into the favor first of Arngrímr goði and later of Þorvaldr Tungu-Oddsson. But money leads only to evil — a fact copiously exemplified in the ancient myths and heroic legends. 3. Blund-Ketill’s tenant farmers are motivated by need and a sense of their rightful dues when they turn to him when their hay runs out. 4. Hersteinn is forced to use cunning and his foster father’s magical powers to elicit the support of chieftains in his own quest of justice, because the chieftain whose actual responsibility it is to ensure local justice, Tungu-Oddr, is ruled only by his personal interests and sentiments, having fallen out with Blund-Ketill in the matter of the Norwegian merchant and because his own son is implicated as one of the arsonists. By focusing on the mythological overlays in the construction of Hœnsa-Þóris saga, we obtain a clearer appreciation of the conscious and deliberate way in which the structure of the saga operates as a whole, right from the prelude about the merchant Ǫrn to the marriage arrangements at the end. Thus the ground is carefully prepared for Hersteinn’s need to look beyond his local chieftains for support, and thus for the introduction of a chieftain from outside, Þórðr gellir, by creating an enmity between Blund-Ketill and Tungu-Oddr arising out of the case of the Norwegian merchant Ǫrn. This enmity also calls for a particular solution once the case against the arsonists has been brought to completion. The resolution is reached through negotiations among the great chieftains at the Alþingi, who arrange for the marriage of TunguOddr’s son Þóroddr to Jófríðr, the daughter of Gunnarr Hlífarsson, who lived in Örnólfsdalur where he had built with timber originally brought to Iceland by Ǫrn. Thus both the beginning and the end can be seen as fully integrated into the overall structure of the saga and play essential parts in the train of events described, creating a tension between the characters that raises the saga to the political level, i.e. the level of great chieftains, and demonstrating how the warring parties can eventually be reconciled.

Conclusions By identifying links in this way between Hœnsa-Þóris saga and the common tradition of learning passed on orally, it is not necessary to adopt a position on matters such as authorial use of sources and the relations between the text and the various versions of Landnámabók — except perhaps to reject the reliability of conclusions which have been arrived at through the scholarly means available. Similarly, this approach does not seek to justify oral origins for the saga by attempting to draw parallels between its structure and that of the prototypical oral saga or by identifying other aspects considered to be typical of the narrative techniques of oral storytelling. There would be no point in this, since the sagas of Icelanders are written literature and not oral tales set down in writing. The only presuppositions taken here have been that the subject matter of the saga was well known in oral tradition and that the saga was intended for

292 an audience that was familiar with the full range of Norse myths and traditional tales, and that it must thus be read in the context of this tradition if we are to obtain a coherent grasp of its full meaning. Hœnsa-Þóris saga employs parallels with and allusions to myths in order to highlight and bring out the significance of major events. By such means it passes stern judgment on the bullying and overbearing of chieftains and the imperfections of the law and a judicial system governed not by justice but by political influence and the machinations of individuals. It is perfectly reasonable to see connections here with conditions in the 13th century, when the saga was written. Faced with the anarchy of the Sturlung Age it would have been only natural for people to harbor dreams of a strong and centralized government, able to enforce justice and maintain peace free from the personal failings and interests of individual chieftains, under which, in order to assert their rights, people did not find themselves thrown on the mercy of fallible and self-interested powerbrokers. And since rules and laws are never enough to put curbs on human nature, in the end, the saga concludes, it is down to love to act as a final check on man’s injustice.

New Growths on Ancient Roots The sagas of Icelanders are written literature, mostly preserved in manuscripts from the 14th and 15th centuries and telling of events that are supposed to have taken place in the 9th, 10th, and 11th centuries. Beyond this there is no certainty. But this is not the whole story, since the written sagas that we have show signs of drawing on an older oral tradition of stories and historical lore, though without anyone having any idea what part this tradition played in the actual writing of the sagas. By an oral tradition I mean a tradition of stories that has had no contact with writing such as would make it possible to speak of one recorded version of a story being more ‘correct’ than any other. It has proved difficult to isolate any universally accepted method to demonstrate beyond doubt that sagas of Icelanders were based on an oral tradition. The sagas could, theoretically, be entirely the creation of imaginative clerics of the 13th century with a thorough background in Latin proverbs and theology, who wanted to direct the minds of their contemporaries to the blessings of Christianity and the determinism implicit in the heroic ideal. This is of course highly improbable, but imaginable nonetheless, just as it is also theoretically possible that men with fertile imaginations and an easy disregard for the truth got together in the 12th and 13th centuries to promote their own personal interests by concocting Landnámabók (‘Book of Settlements’) on the basis of existing place names, and that the characters they invented there were later used as the starting point for the sagas of Icelanders. Because of this uncertainty surrounding the origins of the sagas and their links with oral tradition, many scholars have preferred to look no further than what has come down to us, the written literature, and confine their discussions to the texts and manuscripts themselves rather than indulge in unverifiable flights of fancy on the subject of origins and oral tales. But, as argued at length, this attitude provides a false sense of security and gives a misleading picture of the old Icelandic sagas. As with all types of ancient literature, it is necessary to adopt a conscious position on the question of the origins of the sagas and their connections with oral tradition before it is possible to say anything at all about the texts themselves. Once we have dealt with the ‘hard facts’ — the paleographic and linguistic forms of the manuscripts and the internal connections among related manuscripts — everything else that we say on the texts, such as regarding original forms, lost variants, and their relationship and preservation, is contingent on the

293 position we take, whether consciously or unconsciously, on the insoluble ‘big’ question of the role of orality in the writing of the sagas as we know them. There are two final points that need to be stressed. Firstly, the sagas of Icelanders are not direct records of oral tales. Oral tales are fluid and reshaped on each occasion by the particular performer and the particular audience. A very large part of their artistry is ‘performance art,’ something which is lost in recording (to say nothing of the physical impossibility of setting down on parchment or paper the words and sounds, let alone the gestures, of storytellers in the actual flow of performance). In order to record an oral story, the storyteller must dictate his story to a scribe word by word; but this is an unnatural method of delivery and would fail utterly to reproduce the way a story would be delivered in actual performance, at natural speed, in front of an audience. Accurate, verbatim records of stories from oral traditions were thus not possible before the advent of modern sound recording techniques. The second point is that oral tales are not necessarily ‘truer,’ more factually correct, than any other creative work of literature — though they can have roots in historical reality, as has, I hope, been adequately demonstrated in the preceding chapters. Perhaps the main problem we face when discussing the links between the sagas of Icelanders and oral tradition is that we have no agreed methods on which we can rely to point the way forward. It is, for example, irrelevant that some sagas repeatedly make reference to oral tales, or say that one man said this but others say something different; references of this type could easily all be a stylistic device of the scribes, aimed at convincing their readers that their work was based on genuine sources and their accounts reliable. Neither does it tell us much that the sagas frequently make use of fixed formulas, stylistic techniques, and prestructured themes of kinds that we generally associate with oral narrative; such oral features can equally occur in purely written works, put in by authors who are making up their stories for themselves without any material basis in oral tradition. Since the available methods cannot provide us with unequivocal answers, it is right to repeat just how little we really know, and how little we can know. But even so, we have to take on certain assumptions about how the sagas came into being if we are going to investigate them at all. We need to nail our colors to the mast on questions to which there are no black-and-white answers. It is not possible simply to ignore these questions, to leave them unresolved and imagine that by doing so they do not exist. Simply by asking particular questions of the manuscripts and texts we are adopting a position on the origins of the sagas, and there is thus no completely objective, scientific way of investigating them. All research depends on how we answer the question of origins, and the answers we give will always be based on personal opinions and theoretical attitudes. But even if the theory we adopt is widely accepted and enjoys broad scholarly support, it remains a theory, not a fact.

Repercussions The role of the medievalist in literary research differs from that of the specialist in modern literature. Ancient texts demand to be studied within their proper cultural context. We therefore need to try to find out as much as we can about their backgrounds in order to understand how they may have been affected by their contemporary cultures and how they were viewed by their original audiences or readers. Where our knowledge ends, we need to make educated guesses, since the fact that we do not know something does not allow us to suppose that there is nothing there to be known. Even though the sagas of Icelanders have stood the test of time and remain the most widely read literature in the language, they arose out of a particular cultural environment and are bound to a particular time and particular conditions. They work

294 on certain principles and assumptions and were written for people with certain types of knowledge and ways of thinking. The answers we give on the questions of origins will, for example, determine how we go about interpreting a character in one saga who also appears in other sources; see, for instance, the discussion of the characters in the sagas of the east of Iceland in part II above. If we take the view that the sagas were grounded in an oral tradition, we have to assume that their audiences already possessed a certain amount of knowledge about the people who turn up in them. Each saga then becomes a link in the unrecorded, ‘immanent’ tradition as a whole, something we can now approach only at several removes by reading the sagas, Landnámabók, the myths, and other ancient writings whose material was plundered from the tradition as it existed at the time when these works were written. If, on the other hand, we imagine the sagas to be creative fictions produced by individual authors, we have to assume that all the material that is of any relevance to a saga and its characterization is available from the text itself; such an approach also brings with it the need to arrange the sagas into chronological order and entails the supposition that no knowledge was available until it had been written down and then came little by little into wider circulation. In other words, whichever way we choose to view the sagas, we have to take account of a background of some sort. Studies like Óskar Halldórsson’s on Hrafnkels saga (1976) have demonstrated how much there is to be gained from applying the working hypothesis that the background to the sagas lies in an inheritance of oral tales. To understand the interaction between traditional tales and written literature we again need a working hypothesis, and here there is much to recommend the revised version of the ‘þáttr theory’ proposed by Carol Clover (1986), which appears to be broad enough and to rest on solid enough foundations to bring scholarship some way forward toward a valid reassessment of our attitudes toward the sagas. Once we have decided to allow for the effects of a living oral tradition, it becomes possible to examine the learned influences in the sagas in light of what they may have added to this tradition and what their role was in the creation of the finished works of written literature. Viewed this way, the story tradition mainly provides the material and the learned influences the form. But the two are inextricably linked, making it necessary to interpret the sagas as a whole as the works of single individuals created against an assumption that their audiences would know other stories about the characters and settings mentioned in them. However, if we assume oral origins, we can no longer think of an author in the modern mold, creating something out of nothing, or improvising around a brief grain of historicity culled from Landnámabók, or perhaps sitting down to construct a literary roman à clef in which contemporary events are shifted back in time and archaizing elements consciously introduced — though whatever view we take of saga origins we can readily admit that, even though stories may be set in the past, they will always bear the marks of the times in which they were created. Similarly, if we accept oral origins we have to discard the image of the saga writer so dear to the editors of Íslenzk fornrit, as the performer of a kind of literary ‘cut and paste’ job, collecting snippets of information from miscellaneous written sources and patching them together into a single work. How we interpret the frequent references in the sagas to oral tales and performance will also depend on the theory of origins we ascribe to. Bookprose scholars, for obvious reasons, are inclined to view such references as adventitious insertions put in by authors with the aim of making their sagas seem more credible. But what is there to say that this was indeed the intention, or that the authors of the sagas in general thought in this way at all? If these writers were genuinely drawing their material from an oral tradition, it is only natural that they should present events as if there were always someone standing by to act as a witness; and if they say that accounts differ on what happened in their saga, they would only have been reflecting what their audiences knew to be true.

295 One of the most striking implications of a theory of oral origins for our overall view of the sagas and how they should be studied concerns their dating: if they were written against a living background of oral tales, the age of the written sagas becomes considerably less significant. These implications also extend to the methodology used in dating the sagas. The received methods are based largely on comparing supposedly literary relations (rittengsl) — correspondences of diction or material taken as evidence of borrowing between written sources. But such relations are seldom verifiable, and so, if information can also be transmitted through an oral tradition, it is only in rare instances that we will be able to say with any confidence that one written work took its material from another, and thus must have been written after it. The writing of a saga did not suddenly produce something new for people to use and refer to, since the stories it contained existed before the time of writing and continued to exist after it. This is of great importance to manuscript research, which at present generally ignores the possibility that the oral tradition persisted alongside and influenced the written tradition. Copyists could have had access to oral tales as well as the texts they were copying, and used them in the versions they produced, and thus the interaction between the two traditions would have continued for some time after the original writing of the saga. During this period the saga would not have been the preserve of the manuscripts and their copyists but would have had a dual aspect and led a double life. [10] Assuming the existence of an oral tradition behind a saga changes our whole attitude toward the significance of the details it gives on the genealogies and family connections of characters that are also mentioned in other sources, especially Landnámabók. What one saga says can no longer be viewed in isolation; we also need to take into account that people might have possessed a whole range of information on genealogy and events from other sources and used this to make sense of the alliances and enmities between the various characters. The fact that the preserved genealogies do not always concur is another matter, but not one that need create problems once we have freed ourselves from the perceived duty to search for historical veracity in works of creative literature. Perhaps one way to come to grips with the concept of an oral tradition and what it entails is to consider the ancient mythology, in which each ‘episode,’ i.e. individual myth or incident, assumes of its audience a knowledge of the tradition as a whole — an understanding of why characters are as they are and what went before and what will come after. In all the stories we hear of Loki, for instance, we are aware of how he came to be among the gods, of how he was captured and bound for his misdeeds, and of how he will eventually escape and fight on the side of the forces of chaos at the end of time. The myths must have formed a part of the same oral tradition as the sagas of Icelanders and we can assume that they were no less well known than the genealogies and tales of human feuding. We thus need to keep our eyes open as we read the sagas for allusions to and themes from the myths, as in the discussion of the mythological overlays in Hœnsa-Þóris saga earlier in this chapter. Allusions of this sort would hardly have been comprehensible if the myths had not already been well known to audiences from a common oral tradition; the myths did not need to rely on the vicissitudes of distribution of a small number of manuscripts to achieve general public currency. Even though, by its very nature, an oral tradition is fluid and ever-changing, constantly adapting itself to the prevailing conditions, it is also a unity, continuous, unbroken, and integrated. Where such an unbroken tradition exists in a comparatively stable society, we can suppose that it contains real memories of past events and is able to give us a general picture of the past that can, to some extent at least, stand up to historical scrutiny. By assuming a tradition of this kind behind the written sagas it becomes possible to make reasoned comments on any historical truth that may have inspired the stories in the first place — though only on the

296 principles of the tradition itself rather than with historical source criticism as our methodological tool. Finally, it is extremely difficult to account for the special position of Iceland in the literature of the Middle Ages without appeal to a strong and flourishing tradition of oral storytelling. Specifically Icelandic conditions in the 12th and 13th centuries, and the powerful currents of Latin learning and continental European culture that were felt in Iceland at this time, do little to explain the literary outpouring through which the sagas of Icelanders came into being. In all main respects, the sagas are a perplexing and inexplicable phenomenon unless there was a domestic tradition of oral tales lying somewhere behind them. To explain why the art of oral recitation attained a completely different and more sophisticated level in Iceland than in Norway, it is worth considering the Gaelic cultural influences which were brought to Iceland at the time of the settlements and which may have laid the grounds for a much more powerful culture of storytelling and oral poetry than developed elsewhere in Scandinavia (see Sigurðsson, G. 1988). Thus our attitude toward Gaelic influences on old Icelandic literature is determined by the position we take on orality behind the sagas — providing yet another example of the way in which the premises we start out with affect the questions we can ask and so the conclusions we can reach. By allowing for an oral tradition, the Gaelic contribution becomes a workable means for explaining what was special about Iceland. If, however, all we are interested in is hunting down verbal loans and literary relations there is no place for Gaelic influences in the Icelandic saga tradition — and as a result scholars of the stature of Jón Helgason and Sigurður Nordal saw no reason to interest themselves in them in any way; there was simply no place available for them within the framework they set themselves when conducting their research.

*  There is no avoiding the question of where the Icelandic sagas come from, since the way we answer this question shapes all our other research into them. But, however much significance we ascribe to a strong tradition of oral storytelling in the background, it is right always to remember just how remarkable a task it was to bring the diverse range of stories and other information together in an organized fashion and turn it into written works of literature. This is where the saga writer comes in, armed with the pan-European tradition of learning he could find reflected in Latin writings of the 12th and 13th centuries and carried forward by the domestic written tradition that began to develop in the first decades of the 12th. In other words, oral origins in no way detract from the importance of the learned and written traditions; the sagas of Icelanders are written literature, produced under the influence of the Latin schools and the common literate culture of medieval Europe, an influence which did not preclude but rather reinforced and augmented the domestic tradition. The learning acquired from abroad provided the technical tools that were needed for this domestic cultural heritage to find expression in written form. And although throughout this study we have concentrated our attention on the sagas as the outcome of a common oral tradition, it should never be forgotten that each saga is also an independent work of art, produced by a single writer who chose to treat precisely this material and present it in precisely this way in all probability because he wanted to tell his contemporaries a story of his own and interpret the world he saw around him for an audience of his own age, exactly as his predecessors had done for centuries before him when they told stories about the same people and the same events, each in their own way — and perhaps not always with the happy disregard for truth of which we are sometimes inclined to accuse them.

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Footnotes 1. On the relations between the two sagas, both internal and with other sources, see Gering 1879:xxxiii-xxxix; Björn M. Ólsen 1939:243-9, 336-48; Vogt 1921:xxxii-xxxiii; van Hamel 1934; and Halldórsson, J. 1959:lix-lxvii. A review of the literature, including a detailed comparison of the various factors involved, can be found in an unpublished BA thesis by Ásdís Haraldsdóttir 1980. Ásdís herself comes down in favor of the view that oral accounts played a significant part in the composition of the two texts. 2. For an excellent discussion of similar approaches to saga research, with particular reference to Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, see Thorsson 1990:38f. 3. Einar Ól. Sveinsson puts the differences between Landnámabók and Vatnsdœla saga down not to a rewriting of the saga but to adaptation on the part of the copyist: ‘sá maður sem skrifaði þá skinnbók, sem núverandi handrit eru komin frá, hafi lagað textann í hendi sér heldur í meira lagi, en án þess þó að mér þyki brýn ástæða að ætla, að hann hafi skapað með því nýja gerð sögunnar’ (‘the writer of the vellum from which the surviving manuscripts derive adapted the text he had before him with considerable freedom, though without there being, in my view, any compelling reason to suppose that he thereby created a new version of the saga’) (Sveinsson 1939:lv). 4. Íslendingadrápa is often believed to be from the 12th century and refers to several characters who are also known from the sagas. For opposing views on the age and source value of this poem, see Kristjánsson 1975:76-91 and Einarsson, B. 1989:127-31. 5. This view of the purpose behind the writing of Finnboga saga ramma echoes those of perhaps the three most important names of the ‘Icelandic school’ of saga studies, Björn M. Ólsen, Sigurður Nordal, and Einar Ól. Sveinsson. Ólsen (1937-9:340) writes: ‘missagnir þær, sem eru, sjeu að minsta kosti sumar hverjar sprottnar af því, að höfundur Finnboga sögu hafi af ásettu ráði vikið frá sögu Vatnsdælu, þar sem honum þótti hún bera Ingimundarsonum of vel eða Finnboga og fjelaga hans Bergi rakka of illa söguna, og breitt frásögninni sínum söguköppum í vil’ (‘at least some of the differences that exist arise from the author of Finnboga saga having deliberately deviated from the account in Vatnsdœla saga because he thought the latter presented the Ingimundarsons in too favorable a light or Finnbogi and his companion Bergr rakki too unfavorably and so altered his narrative to the advantage of his own heroes’); Nordal (1953:268): ‘En sammenligning med Vatnsdœla viser, at de to forfattere tager ivrigt parti for hovedpersonerne i hver sin saga, men Finnboga s. er øjensynlig den yngste og kan betragtes som en slags modskrift mod den anden. Finnboga s. er antagelig skrevet í Víðidalr i Húnavatnsþing og giver udtryk for jalousi mellem to bygder’ (‘A comparison with Vatnsdœla saga indicates that the two authors enthusiastically take the parts of the main characters in their respective sagas, but Finnboga saga is plainly the younger and can be viewed as a kind of refutation of the other. Finnboga saga ramma was presumably written in Víðidalr in Húnavatnsþing and gives expression to a rivalry between the two districts’), see also Nordal, S. (1920:129); and Sveinsson (1939:xiv), that Finnboga saga was written ‘til að rétta þann krók, sem Víðdælum var beygður í Vatnsdæla sögu’ (‘to put right the slights on the character of the people of Víðidalur inherent in Vatnsdœla saga’). 6. In later centuries rímur (late medieval rhymed narrative poems) were composed about Finnbogi including material that cannot be traced directly to the written version of the saga. This led Ólafur Halldórsson (1975) to suggest that there had once been an older version of Finnbogarímur, now lost. Some of this material was also known in the Faeroe Islands, where the story was relocated and adapted to fit local conditions: see Poulsen 1963. Both these facts seem to support the idea that Finnbogi was a well-known character in oral tradition and that stories about him enjoyed wide currency, though whether this goes back to oral narratives or written sources is impossible to determine.

298 7. There is probably a deliberate contrast here between the related words ofláti, n. literally, someone who behaves too big, and stórlátr, adj. behaving in a big, i.e. generous, manner. 8. Going under a jarðarmen (lit. ‘necklace,’ ‘halter of earth’) is mentioned in several sagas as a ritual means of solemn confirmation. In this case it clearly denotes submission or abasement (cf. ‘going under the yoke’), though it also appears in other ceremonial contexts, e.g. the formalization of blood-brothership in Gísla saga and Fóstbrœðra saga. The jarðarmen appears to have been a strip of turf cut from the ground but with both ends still attached that the participant had to walk under, in this case needing to stoop to do so. Exactly what ‘swine-bow’ (Icel. svínbeygja) means is unclear, but it patently implies gross humiliation, with either sodomistic or bestial connotations. 9. Another marked tendency among recent commentators has been to examine the saga for signs of some kind of extenuation for the villain Hœnsa-Þórir, particularly through close reading of the text and investigation of the legal complications. Examples include Mundt (1973) and Berger (1976), who study the legal position of the characters as presented in the saga; Miller (1986), who assesses Blund-Ketill’s impounding of Hœnsa-Þórir’s hay in light of ideas about reciprocal gifts and the rights and obligations thereby bestowed (see also Durrenberger et al. 1988; Miller 1990:93-101; Þorláksson 1992); and Baumgartner (1987), whose detailed critique of the saga centers on the social standing of the characters and Hœnsa-Þórir’s aspirations to acquire status in keeping with his acquired wealth. Baumgartner’s reading is based solely on the written text, but his highly exacting approach adds much to our understanding of HœnsaÞórir’s situation and motivation. 10. See Slotkin 1979 on similar considerations with regard to the ancient Irish sagas.

299

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322

Pronunciation Guide The information given here should help non-Icelandic speakers to make a recognizable attempt at pronouncing the words and names that occur in this book. It does not aim to give comprehensive details of Icelandic pronunciation. It gives only the main rules and ignores the numerous refinements to these rules. In addition, though very good, our knowledge of the pronunciation of Old Icelandic is by no means perfect: for fuller details, see particularly Hreinn Benediktsson, ed. The First Grammatical Treatise, University of Iceland Publications in Linguistics 1, Reykjavík: Institute of Nordic Linguistics, 1972. Examples are as in General American English unless otherwise stated. OI is Old Icelandic; MI is Modern Icelandic. Stress. Stress is regularly on the first syllable, e.g. MI Guðmundur Ólafsson has the same stress pattern as Jonathan Robinson. Consonants. Consonants written double are long (geminate). In MI at least, consonants that are normally voiced are devoiced in certain voiceless environments, e.g. ‘n’ is [n] in vani but [n] in vanta; and consonants that are normally voiceless are voiced in certain voiced environments, e.g. ‘f’ is [f] in haft but [v] in hafa. Consonants can be pronounced as in English except as follows: character IPA ð as in with, father; called eth ð/Ð g variants include [x], e.g. in sagt; [γ], e.g. in saga g h

h

‘h’ usually produces voiceless fricative variants of following consonants, e.g. ‘hl-’ [l ̥]; ‘hr-’ [r ̥ ]; ‘hn-’ [n ̥]; ‘hv’ OI [xw], MI [kv]

j

j

yap, m[y]usic

l

l

in MI, ‘ll’ is [dl]

ng r

ng as in finger rather than singer r trilled at the tip of the tongue. In MI, ‘rl’ is [dl], ‘rn’ is [dn]

s

s

always voiceless as in cease, never voiced as in rose

θ

merged with ‘s’ in MI. OI pronunciation is unclear, but perhaps [ts] as in German Witz, Zeit as in think, both; called thorn

z þ/Þ

Vowels. Phonologically, the vowel systems in OI and MI are very similar; phonetically, i.e. in actual pronunciation, they are very different, especially as regards the OI long vowels. The main systemic difference concerns length: in OI, vowel length is phonemic and marked by an acute accent (or in some cases by a different letter form); in MI, vowel length is phonotactically conditioned, all vowels being long before one or no consonant in a syllable, short before two or more. In early OI, nasality is phonemic in long vowels, e.g. fá- [fa:] (‘few’) but fá [fā:] (‘get’), but appears to have been lost by the 13th century. The table gives approximate pronunciations of vowels in OI and their commonest reflexes in MI.

323 Old Icelandic IPA character a

a

á

aː

closest equivalents German Mann father

Modern Icelandic character

IPA

→a

a/ɑː German Mann; father

→á

aʊ

e

e

é i í

eː German Reh → é i/ɪ(?) bit →i iː need →í

o

o

French pot

ó

oː

German Sohn → ó

u

u/ʊ(?) put

ú

uː

food

y

y

German hütte → y

ý

yː

æ

ɛː

German fühlen yeah

ǫ

ɔ

ǫ́

bet

→e

→o

→u →ú

closest equivalents

cow

e/ɛː bet; yeah

ɪ/ɪː bit; bid i/iː neat; need

→æ

aɪ

British dog

→ö

ø

ɔː

British law

→á

aʊ

ø

ø

German götter; (British work)

→ö

ø

œ

øː

German böse → æ

aɪ

write; ride

ei

eɪ

day → ei prob. as day eʏ(?) but with lip- → ey rounding aʊ cow → au

eɪ

day

eɪ

day

øʏ

French feuille

au

OI ‘e’ is short equivalent of both ‘é’ and ‘æ’

je yellow ɪ/ɪː bit; bid i/iː neat; need British dog; British ɔ/ɔː law oʊ note; go with tongue position as in bid but with ʏ/ʏː light lip-rounding as in put u/uː shoot; food

→ý

ey

Notes

merged with ‘i’ in MI merged with ‘í’ in MI

write; ride German götter; böse (British word) cow; merged with ‘á’ in MI, and not distinguished from ‘á’ in OI verse or standardized texts Generally merged with OI ‘ǫ’ but sometimes with OI ‘e’ merged with ‘æ’ in MI merged with ‘ei’ in MI

324 Other changes between OI and MI. Other very prevalent phonological changes between OI and MI include: The OI inflectional ending ‘-r’, found for example in the nominative singular of most strong masculine nouns and in the 2nd and 3rd person singular present tense of strong verbs, becomes syllabic ‘-ur’ in MI, e.g. OI Hallr (man’s name), MI Hallur.  OI ‘vá-’ becomes MI ‘vo-’, e.g. OI Vápnfirðinga saga, MI Vopnfirðinga saga.  In words that are typically unstressed, OI voiceless stops in final position become homorganic voiced fricatives in MI, e.g. OI þat, MI það (‘it’); OI ek, MI ég [jeγ] (‘I’). 