Viking 2: Sworn Brother Read online

  Matters did not improve. I quickly learned that my in-laws’ wedding gift of the farmstead was self-serving in the extreme. The farm lay just too distant from their own home for them to work it themselves. My father-in-law had been too parsimonious to hire a steward to live there and run it, and too jealous of his neighbours to rent them the lands and pasture. By installing a compliant son-in-law he thought he had found his ideal solution. I was expected to bring the farm into good order, then hand on to him a significant portion of the hay, meat or cheese it produced. In short, I was his lackey.

  Nor did Gunnhildr intend to spend much time there with me. Once she had acquired a husband or, rather, once she had got her hands on the fire ruby, she reverted to her previous way of life. To her credit she was a competent housekeeper, and she was quick to clean up the farmhouse, which had been left unoccupied for several years and make the place habitable in a basic way. But then she began to spend more and more time back at her parent’s house, staying the nights there on the excuse that it was too far to return to her marital home. Or she went off on visits to her gang of women friends. They were an intimidating group. All were recent and ardent converts to Christianity, so they spent a good deal of their time congratulating one another on the superior merits of their new faith and complaining of the coarseness of the one they now spurned.

  I must admit that Gunnhildr would have found me a thoroughly unsatisfactory helpmeet had she stayed at home. I was completely unsuited to farm work. I found it depressing to get up every morning and pick up the same tools, walk the same paths, round up the same cattle, cut hay from the same patch, repair the same rickety outhouse and return to the same lumpy mattress, which, thankfully, I had to myself. To put it bluntly, I preferred Gunnhildr in her absence because I found her company to be shallow, tedious and ignorant. When I compared her to Aelfgifu I almost wept with frustration. Gunnhildr had an uncanny ability to interrupt my thoughts with observations of breathtaking banality, and her sole interest in her fellow humans appeared to be based on their financial worth, an attitude she doubtless learned from her money-grubbing father. To spite him, I did as little work on the farm as possible.

  Naturally the other farmers in the area, who were hardworking men, thought me a good-for-nothing and shunned my company. So rather than stay and mind the cattle and cut hay for the winter, I went on excursions to visit my mentor Thrand, who had instructed me in the Old Ways when I was in my teens. Thrand lived only half a day’s travel away and, compared with white-haired Snorri, I found him remarkably little changed. He was still the gaunt, soldierly figure whom I remembered, plainly dressed and living simply in his small cabin with its array of foreign trophies hung on the wall. He greeted me with genuine affection, telling me that he had heard that I was back in the district. He had not attended my wedding, he added, because he found it difficult to support the prating of so many Christians.

  We slipped back easily into the old routine of tutor and pupil. When I told Thrand that I had become a devotee of Odinn in his role as traveller and enquirer, he suggested I memorise the Havamal, the song of Odinn, ‘Let the Havamal be your guide for the future,’ he suggested. ‘In cleaving to Odinn’s words you will find wisdom and solace. Your friend Grettir, for example: he wants to be remembered for what he was, for his good repute, and Odinn has something to say on that very subject,’ and here Thrand quoted:

  ‘Cattle die, kinsmen die,

  you yourself die,

  But words of glory never die

  for the man who achieves good name.

  ‘Cattle die, kinsmen die,

  you yourself die.

  I know one thing that never dies,

  the fame of each man dead.’

  On another day, when I made some wry comment about Gunnhildr and her disappointing behaviour, Thrand promptly recited another of Odinn’s verses:

  ‘The love of women whose hearts are false is like driving an unshod steed over slippery ice, a two-year-old, frolicsome, badly broken, or like being in a rudderless boat in a storm.’

  This led me to ask, ‘Have you ever been married yourself?’

  Thrand shook his head. ‘No. The idea of marriage never appealed to me, and at an age when I might have married, it was not allowed.’

  ‘What do you mean “not allowed”?’

  ‘The felag, the fellowship, forbade it and I took my vows seriously.’

  ‘What fellowship was that?’ I asked, hoping to learn something of Thrand’s enigmatic past, which the old soldier had never talked about.

  But Thrand said only, ‘It was the greatest of all the felags, at that time at least. It was at the height of its glory. Now, though, it is much reduced. Few would believe how much it was once admired throughout the northern lands.’

  On occasions like this I had the feeling that Thrand sensed that the beliefs he held, and had taught me, were in final retreat, that an era was drawing to a close.

  ‘Do you think that Ragnarok, the great day of reckoning, is soon?’ I asked him.

  ‘We haven’t yet heard Heimdall the watchman of the Gods blow the Gjallahorn to announce the approach of the massed forces of havoc,’ he answered, ‘but I fear that even with his wariness Heimdall may overlook the closer danger. His hearing may be so acute that he can hear the grass growing, and his sight so keen that he can see a hundred leagues in every direction by day or night, but he does not realise that true destruction often creeps in disguise. The agents of the White Christ could prove to be the harbingers of a blight just as damaging as all the giants and trolls and forces of destruction that have been foretold for so long.’

  ‘Can nothing be done about it?’ I asked.

  ‘It is not possible to bend fate, nor can one stand against nature,’ he replied. ‘At first I thought that the Christians and the Old Believers had enough in common to be able to coexist. We all believe that mankind is descended from just one man and one woman. For the Christians it is Adam and Eve, for us it is Ask and Embla, whom Odinn brought to life. So we agree on our origins, but when it comes to the afterlife we are too far apart. The Christians call us pagans and dirty heathens because we eat horse-flesh and make animal sacrifice. But, for me, a greater filthiness is to dig a pit for the corpse of a warrior and put him in the ground to be eaten by worms and turned to slime. How can they do that? A warrior deserves his funeral pyre, which will send his spirit to Valholl to feast there until he joins the defenders on the day of Ragnarok. I fear that if more and more warriors take the White Christ faith, there will be a sadly depleted army to follow Odin, Frey and Thor at the great conflict.’

  THROUGHOUT THAT SUMMER and autumn I heard reports of my sworn brother Grettir. His exploits were the main topic of conversation among the farmers of the region. Whenever I called on my father-in-law, Audun, to discuss my progress with the out-farm, I was regaled with the latest episode in Grettir’s deeds. Audun’s gossip made my visits bearable because I was missing my sworn brother, though I was very careful not to reveal that I knew that ‘cursed outlaw’, as Audun called him. I learned that Grettir had succeeded in visiting his mother without alerting anyone else in the household. He had called at her house after dark, approaching the farmhouse along a narrow ravine that led to the side door, from where he found his way along the unlit passage to the room where his mother slept. With a mother’s intuition she had identified the intruder in the darkness, and after greeting him had told him the dismal details of how Atli his older brother had been murdered by Thorbjorn Oxenmight and his faction. Grettir had then hidden in his mother’s house until he was able to confirm that Thorbjorn Oxenmight was on his own farm and accompanied by only his farm workers.

  ‘And do you know what that scoundrel Grettir did then?’ said Audun, snorting with indignation. ‘He rode right over to the Oxenmight’s place, in broad daylight, a helmet on his head, a long spear in one hand and that fancy sword of his at his belt. He came on Oxenmight and his son working in the hayfields, gathering up the early hay and stacking it. They re
cognised Grettir at once and knew why he had come. Fortunately they had brought their weapons with them to the meadow, and so Thorbjorn and his lad devised what they thought was an effective defence. Oxenmight would confront Grettir to distract him, while his son armed with an axe worked his way round behind the outlaw and struck him in the back.’

  ‘And did the plan work?’

  My father-in-law let out the self-satisfied grunt of a storyteller who knows he has his audience on tenterhooks. ‘It nearly did,’ he said. ‘A servant woman saw the whole affair. She saw Grettir stop, then sit down on the ground and start fiddling with the head of the spear. Apparently he was removing the pin which holds the spear head to the shaft. If he missed his throw, he didn’t want Oxenmight pulling the spear out of the ground and using it against him. But when Grettir threw the spear at Oxenmight the head came off too early and the spear went harmlessly astray. That left Grettir armed with his sword and a small shield against the grown man and the youth. Oxenmight did not get his name for nothing, so it seemed that the odds were now against Grettir.’

  ‘I’ve heard that Grettir is not the sort of man to back off from a fight,’ I said.

  ‘He didn’t. Grettir went up to Oxenmight and the two men started to circle one another, holding their swords. Oxenmight’s lad saw his chance to slip around behind Grettir and bury the axe in his spine. He was just about to make his stroke when Grettir lifted up his sword to hack at Oxenmight and saw the lad out of the corner of his eye. Instead of bringing the sword forwards, he kept swinging it up and over and brought it down back-handed on the boy’s head. The blow split the lad’s skull like a turnip. Meanwhile his father had seen his opening and rushed forward, but Grettir deflected his sword blow with his shield, and then took a cut at his opponent. That Grettir is so strong that his sword smashed right through Oxenmight’s shield as if it was made of straw, and struck his opponent in the neck. Killed him on the spot. Grettir returned immediately to his mother’s house and announced to her that he had avenged the death of her oldest son Atli. She was delighted and told Grettir that he was a worthy member of her family, but that he had better be careful as Oxenmight’s people would be sure to seek retribution.’

  ‘Where’s Grettir now?’ I asked, trying not to seem too interested.

  ‘Can’t be sure,’ Audun answered. ‘He went over to see Snorri Godi and asked if he could stay there, but Snorri turned him down. There’s a rumour that Grettir is hiding out with one of the farmers over in Westfiords.’

  Later my obnoxious father-in-law informed me that Grettir had surfaced on the moors, living rough and keeping himself fed by making raids on the local farmsteads or sheepstealing. He was moving from place to place, usually alone but sometimes in the company of one or two other outlaws.

  It was not until the spring that I met Grettir again and then completely unexpectedly. I was on my way to visit Thrand when I encountered a large group of farmers, about twenty of them. From their manner I saw at once that they were very excited, and to my surprise I saw Grettir among them. He was in the middle of the group, being led along on a rope with his hands tied behind his back.

  ‘Can you tell me what’s going on?’ I asked the farmer at the head of the group.

  ‘It’s Grettir the Strong. We finally caught him,’ said one of the farmers, a big, red-faced man dressed in homespun clothes. He was looking very pleased with himself. ‘One of our shepherds reported seeing him on the moors, and we got together and stalked him. We had been suffering from his raids and he had got over-confident. He was asleep when we found him, and we managed to get close enough to overpower him, though a couple of us got badly bruised in the scuffle.’

  ‘So where are you taking him?’ I asked.

  ‘We can’t decide,’ said the farmer. ‘No one wants to take charge of him until we can bring him before our local chieftain for judgement. He’s too strong and violent, and he would be a menace if kept captive.’

  I glanced over at Grettir. He was standing, with his hands still bound behind his back and looking stone-faced. He did not acknowledge that he knew me. The rest of the farmers had halted and were continuing with what was obviously a long-running argument, whether to hand Grettir over to Thorir of Gard for the reward or to the local chieftain for a trial.

  ‘Let’s hang him here and now,’ said one of the captors. Judging by the bruise on his face, he was one of the men whom Grettir had hit during the capture. ‘That way, we can take the corpse to Thorir of Gard and claim the reward.’ There was a murmur of agreement from some of his companions, though the rest were looking doubtful. In a few moments they would reach a decision and there would be no chance to influence them.

  ‘I want to speak up for Grettir,’ I called out. ‘I sailed with him last year, and if he hadn’t been on board our ship would have foundered. He saved my life and the lives of the rest of the crew. He’s not a common criminal and he was convicted at the Althing without a chance to defend himself. If any of you have suffered from his robberies, I promise I will make good the loss.’ Then I had an inspiration. ‘It will be to your credit if you are generous enough to spare his life. People will talk about how magnanimous you were and remember the deed. I suggest that you make Grettir swear that he will move away from this district, and not prey on you any more. And that he’ll not take his revenge on any one of you. He’s a man of honour and will keep his word.’

  It was the mention of honour and fame that swayed them. In every farmer, however humble, there lurked a shred of that same sense of honour and thirst for fame that Grettir had expressed to me. There was a general muttering as they discussed my proposal. It became clear that they were relieved that they would not have the dirty work of taking the outlaw’s life. Finally – after a long and awkward pause – their spokesman accepted my suggestion.

  ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘If Grettir clears off and agrees never to trouble us again, we’ll let him go.’ Looking at Grettir, he asked, ‘Do you give us your word?’

  Grettir nodded.

  Someone untied Grettir’s bonds, loosening the knots cautiously and then stood back.

  Grettir rubbed his wrists and then walked across to embrace me. ‘Thank you, sworn brother,’ he said. Then he stepped aside from the path and struck out across the moor.

  Grettir kept his word to the farmers. He never came back into the district, but stayed away and made his home in a cave on the far side of the moor. For my part, the revelation that I was Grettir’s sworn brother put an end to my quiet life. Some of my neighbours now looked at me with curiosity, others gave me a wide berth, and Gunnhildr flew into a rage. When she heard what had happened, she confronted me. Not only was I an unbeliever, she shrilled, I was consorting with the worst sort of criminals. Grettir was the spawn of the devil, a creature of Satan. He was twisted and evil. She had heard that he was a warlock, in touch with demons and ghouls.

  Accustomed to my wife’s ready grievances, I said nothing, and was vaguely relieved when she announced that she would in future live with her parents, and that if I continued my friendship with Grettir she would seriously consider a divorce.

  My promise to pay compensation to the farmers Grettir had robbed contributed significantly to Gunnhildr’s anger. The truth was that I could not afford the reparations. I was penniless and little more than a tenant for my father-in-law. Gunnhildr was very much her father’s daughter, so prising money out of her grasp in order to pay the farmers was nigh impossible. It was useless to ask if she would let me use any of our joint property to settle the farmers’ claims, and the only item of value which I had ever owned – the fire ruby – was now Gunnhildr’s mundur, and no longer mine, even as surety for a loan. For a few days after my encounter with Grettir I was hopeful that his victims would not hold me to my promise, and I would see nothing more of them. But though the farmers had an appetite for honour and renown, they were still peasants at heart and they valued hard cash. A succession of men showed up at my door, claiming that they had been robbed by m
y sworn brother and asking for recompense. One said he had been held up on the roadway and his horse stolen from him; another that valuable clothing had been stripped from him at knife point; several claimed that Grettir had rustled their sheep and cattle. Of course there was no way of knowing whether their claims were genuine. The sheep and cattle might have wandered off on their own, and I was fairly sure that the values the owners put on their losses were often exaggerated. But I had appealed to their sense of honour when obtaining Grettir’s freedom and, after taking such a high-minded stance, I was hardly in a position to quibble over the precise cost of their claims. I found myself faced with a sum that I had no hope of paying off.

  Thrand, of course, had heard what had happened. On my next visit to his house, he noticed that I looked distracted and asked the reason. When I told him that I was worried about my debts, he merely asked, ‘How much is it that you owe?’

  ‘A little less than marks in all,’ I said.

  He walked across to his bed where it stood against the wall, reached underneath and pulled out a small, locked chest. Placing it on the table between us, he produced a key. When he threw back the lid, I found myself looking at a sight I had last seen when I had worked for Brithmaer the moneyer. The strong box was two-thirds full of silver. Very little was in coin. I saw bits and fragments of jewellery, segments of silver torcs, broken pieces of silver plate, half a silver brooch, several flattened finger rings. They were jumbled together where Thrand had tossed them casually into his hoard chest. From my days as a novice monk I recognised part of a silver altar cross, and – with a little lurch of my heart – I saw a piece of jewellery inscribed with the same sinuous writing that had been on the silver coins of Aelfgifu’s favourite necklace.

  ‘You know how to use this, I imagine,’ Thrand asked, picking something out from the clutter. At first sight I thought it was one of the metal styluses that I had used in my writing lessons in the monastery. But Thrand was searching for two more items. When he put them together I recognised a weighing scale, similar to the ones that Brithmaer had used, but smaller and constructed so that it could be dismantled, suitable for a traveller.