by Tim Severin
All the time, as we struggled to save the ship, Grettir lay on deck like a dead man, his face turned to the bulwark, soaked to the skin and ignoring us. It was difficult to credit his behaviour. At first I thought he was one of those unfortunates who are so seasick that all feeling leaves them and they become like the living dead, unable to stir whatever the emergency. But not Grettir. From time to time I saw him turn over to ease his bones on the hard deck. I found his attitude inexplicable and wondered if he was so fatalistic that he had decided to meet calmly whatever death the Norns had decreed him.
But I had mistaken my friend. On the fourth morning of our voyage, after we had passed an awful night, bailing constantly until we were so exhausted that we could scarcely stand, Grettir suddenly sat up and stretched his arms. He glanced over to where we were standing, our eyes red-rimmed with tiredness, muscles aching. There was no mistaking our expressions of dislike as we saw him finally take an interest in our plight. He did not say a word, but got up and walked over to the edge of the open hatch leading to the hold and jumped down. Silently Grettir held out his hand to the man who was standing there, crotch deep in the water. He took the bailing bucket from him, waved him away, then scooped up a bucket full of water and passed it up to the sailor who had been emptying the bucket over the rail. Grettir made the lift look effortless even though he had to reach above his head. When the bucket was empty, it was handed back and Grettir repeated his action so smoothly and quickly that the full bucket was back on deck level before the startled sailor was ready to receive it. He staggered across the pitching deck and emptied its contents over the side, while my friend stood in the bilge and waited his return. Now Grettir caught my eye and gestured towards a second bucket lashed with its lanyard to the mast step. I saw immediately what he meant, so fetched the bucket and passed it down to him. He filled that bucket, too, and handed it back up to me so I could dump the water over the rail. Back and forth we went, the sailor and I, emptying our buckets as fast as the two of us could cross the deck while Grettir stayed below and went on scooping and filling our loads. When I was too tired to continue, I handed my bucket to a second sailor, as did my workmate. Grettir did not break his rhythm. Nor did he falter when the second pair of helpers had to rest, but kept on filling bucket after bucket with water from the bilge.
He kept up his amazing feat for eight hours, with only a short break after every five hundredth bucket. None of us would have believed such stamina was possible. He was tireless and kept pace with the crew as they worked in relays. The men who had glared and complained about his indolence, now looked at him in awe. Inspired, they found an endurance of their own and worked, turn and turn about, to win the race against the water level in the bilge. Without Grettir, they and their ship would be lost and they knew it. For my part, I knew that Grettir was saving my life for a second time and that I owed him my unswerving friendship.
‘The Clog’ nearly overshot Iceland altogether as she ran before that tyrannical east wind. When the gale finally eased, our shaken skipper managed to edge his ship into the lee of the land off the Hvit River and we found that, by ‘The Clog’s’ lumbering standards, we had made a record passage. Our sailors went ashore boasting about their prowess, though their greatest applause was reserved for Grettir. He was the hero of the hour. The skipper went so far as to hand him back half our passage money and announced that Grettir was welcome to stay on board as long as he wished. After such a shockingly desperate voyage the skipper vowed that he would keep ‘The Clog’ safely at anchor until the proper sailing season.
‘Why don’t you take up his offer, at least for a day or two?’ I suggested to Grettir. ‘You stay on board. It will give me a chance to go ashore and find out what sort of a reception you may get when people learn that you have returned before completing your three-year exile.’
‘Thorgils, you know very well that I don’t care what people will do and say. I’m planning to go to see my mother, Gerdis, to bring her news about Thorstein, and find out how the rest of my family is getting on. I left two brothers here in Iceland when I went away, and I fear that I abandoned them just when they needed me most. We were in the middle of a feud with neighbours and there was talk of bloodshed and reprisals. I want to know how that quarrel turned out. If it is unresolved, then perhaps there’s something I can do. So I’ll find a good, swift horse to carry me across country to our family home.’
‘Look, Grettir,’ I told him. ‘I spent some time in this district when I was a lad and I know the leading chieftain – Snorri Godi. Let me get his opinion about whether there is any way you can get the final part of your sentence waived.’
‘It will be a wonder if Snorri Godi is still alive. He must be an old man now,’ said Grettir. ‘I know his reputation as a shrewd lawgiver. So he’s not likely to approve of someone flouting the rules of outlawry.’
‘Snorri always treated me fairly,’ I answered. ‘Maybe he’ll agree to act as an intermediary if you offer to pay compensation to the family of the man killed in the quarrel over the bag of food. It wouldn’t cost very much because you’ve already served most of the sentence.’
But when I put that suggestion to Snorri Godi two days later, his response came as a body blow. He said quietly, ‘So you haven’t heard the Althing’s decision?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
I had travelled a day’s journey to Snorri’s substantial farmhouse, and the farm looked even more prosperous than I remembered it. Snorri himself now had a head of snow-white hair, but his eyes were as I remembered them – grey and watchful.
‘At the last meeting of the Althing, Thorir of Gard, the father of those lads who died in the fire in Norway, brought forward a new complaint against Grettir. He accused him of murdering his sons in a deliberate act. He was very persuasive and provided complete details of the outrage. He contended that the deed was so foul that Grettir should be declared skogarmadur.’
The word skogarmadur dismayed me. In Iceland it is never used in jest. It means ‘a forest man’, and describes someone found guilty of a crime so repugnant that the offender is condemned to live outside civilised society for ever. It means full outlawry and banishment for life. If the annual lawgiving assembly of the Icelanders, the Althing, passes such a sentence, there can be neither an appeal nor a pardon.
‘No one at the Althing wanted to convict Grettir of such a heinous crime without hearing his side of the affair,’ Snorri went on, ‘but there was no one to speak up for him, and Thorir was so vehement that in the end Grettir was made a full outlaw. Now there is nothing that can be done to reverse the verdict. You’d better go back and warn your friend Grettir that every man’s hand is against him. He will be hunted down like vermin. Anyone who meets him is entitled to kill him, casually or deliberately. In addition, Thorir is offering a handsome reward to anyone who executes him.’
‘But what about Grettir’s family?’ I asked ‘Weren’t they represented at the Althing? Why didn’t they speak up for him?’
‘Grettir’s father died while his son was abroad. And the most competent of his brothers, Atli, whom everyone liked and would have listened to, was killed in that deadly feud which the Asmundarsons are pursuing with the faction led by Thorbjorn Oxenmight. And, Thorgils, you’d better be careful too. Don’t let yourself get drawn into that feud because of your relationship with Grettir. Remember that the law states that anyone who helps or harbours a forest man is an accessory to his crime and therefore forfeits his own goods. My advice to you is to have as little as possible to do with Grettir in the future. Once you have delivered your message to him, put as much space as possible between yourself and your murderous friend. Go and build yourself a normal life. Why don’t you settle down, get married, raise a family, find your place in a community?’
I was aghast. Grettir had come home believing that he was entitled to live a normal life. Instead he stood condemned in his absence of a crime which I was convinced he did not commit. The effect of such injustice on his alre
ady brooding character would be calamitous. He would find himself even further isolated from normal society.
I knew that his chances of survival were negligible. No forest man had ever lived to old age unless he fled abroad and never returned to Iceland. In effect I had lost my friend. It was as if he was already dead.
To my surprise Grettir was not in the least perturbed to hear that he been declared a skogarmadur. ‘Cheer up, Thorgils,’ he said. ‘Don’t look so glum. If they are going to hunt down and kill their outlaw, they’ll have to catch me first. I have no intention of running away and I’ve friends and allies in Iceland who’ll ignore the Althing’s decision and give me food and a roof over my head when I need it. I’ll just have to be careful when I call on my mother. I’ll have to do that in secret. Then I’ll see how matters turn out once people hear that Grettir the Strong is back.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ I said.
‘No you won’t, my friend,’ he replied. ‘Snorri was wise in that regard. You really ought to try settling down. You are at the right age for marriage, and you should look around for a wife and perhaps start a family. If I need your help, then I’ll call on you for it. In the meantime I can look after myself very adequately.’
The two of us were standing on the brow of a low hill overlooking the anchorage where ‘The Clog’ was riding at anchor. In contrast to the foul weather of our voyage from Norway, it was a warm and sunny day, almost spring-like. I had suggested to Grettir that we walk up there as I had important news to tell him in private. Grettir reached down to pluck a wisp of grass, and tossed it nonchalantly into the air as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The breeze caught the blades of grass and carried them away. ‘I like this country,’ he said. ‘It’s my home, and no man will chase me away from it. I believe I can live off this land and it will take care of me.’
‘You’ll need more than just the ability to live off the land,’ I said.
‘There’s a saying that goes “Bare is the back of the brotherless,” ’ Grettir answered. He was carrying the sword we had plundered from the barrow grave, and now he pulled it from its scabbard and used the point to carve out a long strip of turf. He did not cut the ends but left them attached to the ground. Then he picked up his spear – since the attack at the tavern he never went anywhere unless fully armed – and used it to prop up the strip of turf so that it formed an arch. ‘Here, hold out your right hand,’ he said to me. When I did so, he delicately drew the blade of his sword across the palm of my hand. It felt like the touch of a feather, yet the blood began to flow. He shifted the sword to his left hand, to make a similar cut on his right palm. He held out his hand, and our palms met and the blood mingled. Then we ducked under the arch of turf, straightening up as we emerged on the other side. ‘Now we are fostbraedralag,’ said Grettir. ‘We are sworn brothers. It is a loyalty that cannot be sundered as long as either of us is alive.’
Looking back on that ceremony under the arch of turf, I realise that it was another of the defining moments of my adult life. I, who had never really known my mother and whose father had been aloof and distant, had found true kindred at last. Had my life been otherwise, perhaps I would have natural brothers and sisters or, in the manner of many Norse families, I would have been fostered out and gained an alternative family of foster-brothers and -sisters with whom I could have been close and intimate. But that never happened. Instead I had gained a sworn brother by a decision made between two adults and that made our bond even stronger.
‘Well, sworn brother,’ said Grettir with a mischievous glint in his eye, ‘I’ve got my first request of you.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘I want you to help me steal a horse.’
So before the next daybreak Grettir and I dressed in dark clothes and crept to a meadow where he had seen a handsome black mare. Under cover of darkness, we managed to coax the mare away from the herd, far enough for Grettir to put a bridle on her, jump on her back and begin his journey home. Thus a friendship which began with grave robbery celebrated its formal recognition with a horse theft.
NINE
WRITING THIS MEMOIR of my life I now come to one of its less happy episodes, namely my first marriage. Brief and cheerless, that marriage now seems so distant that I have to strain to recall the details. Yet it was to have important consequences and that is why I must include it in my tale.
Her name was Gunnhildr. She was four years older than myself, taller by half a head and tending to overweight, with milky pale skin, blonde hair of remarkable fineness and pale blue eyes which bulged when she was angry. Her father was a moderately well-to-do farmer up in the north-west district, and while he was far from pleased with the match, he knew it was the best that could be managed. His daughter, the third of five, had recently been divorced for reasons which I never fully discovered. Perhaps I should have taken this as a warning and been more cautious, for – as I was to find out – it is far easier for a woman to divorce a man in Norse society than the other way around and divorce can be a costly affair – for the man.
Before a marriage is agreed in Iceland, two financial settlements are made. One comes from the bride’s family and is a contribution to the couple to help them get started. That investment remains the bride’s property. If the marriage fails, she keeps it. By contrast the price put into the marriage by her husband’s side, the mundur, is held as common property, and in the event of divorce may be claimed by the bride if she can show that her husband was in any way at fault. Understandably, the haggling between the families of groom and bride over the size of the mundur can take up a considerable time before a marriage, but should the marriage collapse, the rancour over which partner was at fault takes even longer.
Why did I get married? I suppose it was because Grettir had recommended it and Snorri Godi, who was regarded as a very astute man, had done the same. That, at least, would have been my superficial reason, but deeper down I suppose that Grettir’s departure to seek his own family had left me feeling insecure. Also Snorri, after making the initial suggestion, then proceeded actively to find me a wife, which left me little option. Like many men who are approaching the loss of their prestige and power, he could not resist meddling in the affairs of others, however insignificant they might be.
And I was certainly insignificant. Born illegitimate and sent away by my mother at the age of two to a father who had remarried and largely ignored me, I could offer neither support nor prospects to a wife. Nor would it have been wise to tell her that I was sworn brother to the most notorious outlaw in the land. So, instead, I kept quiet and let Snorri do the negotiating for me. I suppose his reputation as the foremost chieftain of the district was in my favour, or perhaps he had some hidden understanding with Gunnhildr’s father, Audun. Whatever the background, Snorri invited me to stay at his home while he arranged the details, and all went smoothly until the matter of mundur came up. Old Audun, a grasping and pompous man if there ever was one, asked what bride price I was prepared to pay for what he called his ‘exquisite daughter’. If Odinn had been kinder to me at that moment, I would have said that I was penniless and the negotiations would have collapsed. As it was, I foolishly offered to contribute a single jewel, but one so rare that nothing like it had been seen in Iceland. Audun was sceptical at first, then curious, and when I melted down the clumsy lead bird of my amulet and produced the fire ruby he looked amazed.
The greater impact was made on his daughter. The moment Gunnhildr saw that gem she had to have it. She was determined to flaunt it before her sisters. It was her way of paying them back for years of spiteful remarks about her frumpiness. And once Gunnhildr decided that she wanted something nothing would stop her, as her father well knew. So the last of old Audun’s objections to our marriage disappeared and he agreed to the match. My future in-laws agreed to provide Gunnhildr and myself with a small outlying farmstead as her dowry, while the gem was my mundur. At the last moment, either because the thought of parting with my talisman and its associ
ation with my life in England was so painful, or because of a premonition, I made Gunnhildr and Audun agree that if the marriage failed I would be allowed to redeem the jewel on payment of a sum which was the equivalent value of the farmstead. The price of the gem was set at thirty marks of silver, a sum that was to cloud my next few years.
Our wedding was such a subdued affair that it was barely noticed in the neighbourhood. Even Snorri was absent, having taken to his bed with an attack of fever and Gunnhildr dressed up only in order to display the fire ruby. I was taken aback to discover that the ceremony was to be conducted by an itinerant priest. He was one of those Christian holy men who had begun to appear in increasing numbers in the countryside, travelling from farm to farm to persuade the women to accept their faith and baptise their children, and railing all the while against what they described as the barbaric and heathen Old Ways. During the wedding ceremony I realised that my bride was a rabid Christian. She stood beside me, sweating slightly in her wedding finery, and calling out the responses in her unmelodious voice so devoutly and harshly that I knew she believed the priest’s every incantation. Now and again, I noticed, she fondled the fire ruby possessively as it dangled between her ample breasts.
The wedding feast was as skimpy as my father-in-law could get away with, and then my wife and I were conducted to our farmstead by a small group of her relatives, then left alone. Later that evening Gunnhildr made it clear that physical relations between us were out of the question. She had given herself to the White Christ, she informed me loftily, and close contact with a non-believer like myself was repugnant to her. It was a reaction which I did not care to challenge. On the walk to our new home I had been pondering on the fact that my marriage was probably the worst mistake I had yet made in my life.