Arnas Arnæus filled the man’s tankard and let him drink.
“I mean you no harm, Jón Hreggviðsson,” he said. “I might be better inclined toward your old mother, who preserved six pages from the Skálda, but because of that, I’d like you to benefit as well, if only in a small way. The treasure lying there before you once graced the hand of a noblewoman from the south. And I had the good fortune, one summer’s night in Breiðafjörður, to be able to place it upon the hand of another queen. Now she has sent it back to me. I give it to you. This thing, which the queens called their good gold, the dragon that bites its own tail, I give now to you, Jón Hreggviðsson—use it to buy yourself a tankard of beer.”
“What does this soldier want here—or maybe I hadn’t already ordered him away from this house?!”
The hunchbacked witch stood before them, her face outstretched, her hair rising in pillars above it and her long chin like a cliff-ledge hanging downward and outward, set in such a way that her mouth looked like it was in the middle of her belly. Her shrill voice tore through the library’s calm.
“My delight!” said Arnas, and he went over to her and stroked her long cheeks tenderly. “I’m so glad that she has come!”
“Why has the soldier taken off his boot inside my house?” said the woman.
“Perhaps his shoes were chafing him, my darling,” said her husband as he continued to stroke her tenderly. “This is an Icelander who has come to speak with me.”
“It’s obvious that this is an Icelander, because he’s stinking up the whole house!” said the woman. “And naturally he’s begging for alms like all Icelanders do whether they’re at home or abroad, whether they’re wearing sweaters, overcoats, or soldiers’ jackets! Wasn’t it enough, dearest, that you dragged back here that insane Johan Grindevigen and that evil devil Martinsen, who stole two fine hens from me yesterday and who was lurking about here in the garden this very morning?—and you said you wouldn’t be scraping together any more of this disgusting race. This entire half-year since I became your wife I’ve been forced to buy more perfume than I ever had to do in my previous long and blessed marriage!”
“Oh, darling, these are simply my impoverished people,” said the Erudite Archive-Secretary, Assessor Consistorii and Professor Antiquitatum Danicarum, and he continued to fondle his dejected wife.
18
Jón Hreggviðsson strolled down the street without knowing for sure what he ought to do next, though he’d been granted leave for the entire day. He wanted to go to a tavern and cool himself down with a drink, but he had only a few coins. He stood irresolutely on the street corner as others passed by. He became so lost in thought that he didn’t notice it when someone started speaking to him.
“Huh?” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“I told you it wouldn’t do much good,” said the man cheerlessly.
Jón Hreggviðsson said nothing.
“Ah, I do pity the boy.”
“Who?” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“Ah, who else but poor Árni,” said the man.
“You stole the woman’s hens,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“Who cares? She inherited a large farmstead in Sjaelland from her previous husband,” said Jón Marteinsson. “Besides the gardens, the ships, and the barrels of gold. Listen, pal, what sense is there in standing here? Don’t you think we ought to go to Doctor Kirsten’s and buy ourselves a mug of beer?”
“I was thinking of that,” said Jón Hreggviðsson, “but I don’t know if I have enough to pay for it.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Jón Marteinsson. “At Doctor Kirsten’s beer is always brought to the table, as long as men are wearing decent boots.”
They walked down to Doctor Kirsten’s Tavern and ordered Lübeck beer.
It turned out that the Icelanders in Copenhagen were very familiar with Jón Hreggviðsson’s case and his escape from Þingvellir at Öxará during the past spring. Concerning his fate, on the other hand, they had heard nothing, until he appeared here as a soldier registered in the king’s book, newly transferred to Copenhagen from Glückstadt. Now the adventurer himself got the chance to tell the story of his journeys between toasts. He took care not to reveal how he’d actually gotten out of his fetters so as not to betray anyone, but said only that a woman of distinguished lineage had given him the good gold to bring to the man who was now considered the best of Icelanders, with the request that he be granted reprieve and pardon. Jón Hreggviðsson then told this new friend of his, much too willingly, how his business with this renowned man had ended. He let Jón Marteinsson see the ring and Marteinsson weighed it in his hand.
“Aw, Hell, I’ve known women of distinguished lineage, even bishops’ daughters,” he said. “Every girl’s the same as the next. Now let’s have some brennivín.”
When they finished their brennivín Jón Marteinsson said:
“Now let’s have some cognac and—soup. Iceland is sunk, no matter what.”
They ordered cognac and soup.
“I think it might be sunk many times over because of me,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“It’s sunk,” said Jón Marteinsson.
They sang in harmony, “O Jón, O Jón, drunk today, drunk yesterday, drunk the day before that.” Someone in the tavern said that it was easy to hear that the Icelanders had arrived. “And easy to smell,” added another.
“It’d be something to celebrate if it were sunk,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“It’s sunk,” said Jón Marteinsson. “I didn’t say it might be sunk.”
They drank more cognac. “O Jón, O Jón, drunk today, drunk yesterday, drunk the day before that—drunk indeed!”
After a short time Jón Hreggviðsson asked Jón Marteinsson to act as his intercessor before the king and the counts.
“Then we have to have some roast venison and French red wine.”
Jón Hreggviðsson ate for a while, then drove his knife into the table and said:
“There, I finally got something good to eat. Now the land is slowly starting to rise again.”
Jón Marteinsson crouched greedily over the food.
“It’s sunk,” he said. “It started sinking when they put the period at the end of Brennu-Njál’s saga. Never has any land sunk so deeply. Never can such a land rise again.”
Jón Hreggviðsson said:
“Once a man from Rein was flogged. And Snæfríður Iceland’s sun comes and leans up against the most noble knight in the land, against the one who knows the stories of the ancient kings, but behind him in the shadows stand countless leprous faces and all the faces are mine. Once there was a man condemned to death at Þingvellir by Öxará. In the morning you’ll be beheaded. I open my eyes and she stands over me, white, dressed in gold, not more than a span’s length around her waist, with those blue eyes—and I, all black. She rules over the night and sets you free. She is and will be the true queen of the entire northern world and the fair maiden with the body of an elf even if she is betrayed; and I, black.”
“Aw, is there no end to vanity?” said Jón Marteinsson. “Leave me in peace while I eat this beast and drink this wine.”
They continued eating. When they finished the beast and the wine the old woman brought them punch in mugs and Jón Marteinsson said:
“Now I’ll tell you how to lay a bishop’s daughter.”
He moved right up to Jón Hreggviðsson, hung over him, and openly described all the details of this work to the farmer, then straightened up again in his seat, struck the palms of his hands together, and said:
“That’s the long and short of it.”
Jón Hreggviðsson seemed unimpressed.
“Before, when he gave me back the ring, I said to myself, which one of us is poorer, him, or Jón Hreggviðsson from Rein? I wouldn’t be surprised if a great misfortune has yet to visit such a man.”
Jón Marteinsson sprang up in his seat as if he’d been poked with a needle, then he clenched his thin fists and thrust his head threateningly f
orward toward Jón Hreggviðsson; suddenly he wasn’t of the same mind.
“What’re you cursing now, you bastard?!” he said. “If you dare to pronounce the name that you have in mind you’ll fall down dead with that name upon your lips.”
Jón Hreggviðsson gaped:
“I seem to remember you yourself calling him a boy and a wretch just a short time ago, and his house a miserable one.”
“Try saying his name!” hissed Jón Marteinsson.
“Get your face away from me so I can spit,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
But since he said nothing else, Jón Marteinsson leaned away from him again.
“Never pay any attention to a sober Icelander,” he said. “God in his mercy sent the Icelanders only one truth, and its name is brennivín.”
They sang “O Jón, O Jón,” and the other guests stared at them in horror and disgust.
Jón Marteinsson leaned up against Jón Hreggviðsson again and whispered: “I’m going to let you in on a secret.”
“Aw, I’m tired of hearing about this goddamn bishop’s daughter,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“No more bishop’s daughter,” said Jón Marteinsson. “Upon my honor.”
He leaned toward Jón Hreggviðsson’s ear and whispered:
“We have only one man.”
“We have a man—who?” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“This one man. Besides him, no one. Nothing more.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
“He’s gotten them all,” said Jón Marteinsson, “all the ones that matter. The ones that he didn’t get in church lofts and in kitchen-nooks or in moldy bedsteads he bought from great aristocrats and wealthy landowners for farms or chattel until all of his folk ended up penniless—and his family was well-off to start with. And the ones that’d been shipped out of the country he pursued from kingdom to kingdom until he found them, one in Sweden, another in Norway, now in Saxony, then in Bohemia, Holland, England, Scotland, and France, yes, all the way south to Rome. He bought gold off of usurers to pay for them. Bags of gold, casks of gold, and never once did anyone hear him haggle over the price. He bought some from bishops and abbots, others from counts, dukes, princes, and emperors, several from the pope himself—it even looked likely that he’d lose whatever he had left and be thrown into prison. And never throughout eternity will there be any Iceland except for the Iceland that Arnas Arnæus has bought with his life.”
The tears streamed down Jón Marteinsson’s cheeks.
And the day wore on.
“Now I’m going to show you Copenhagen, the city that the Danes got from the Icelanders,” said the farmer’s new guardian and guide late in the evening, after they’d paid their bill with the good gold in Doctor Kirsten’s Tavern—they even had enough left over to visit a whorehouse. “This city was not only built with Icelanders’ money, it’s also lit with Icelandic whale oil.”
Jón Hreggviðsson sang from the Elder Ballad of Pontus:
“Whenever you’re able to buy a cask
Throw all you’ve got into it,
Stave off sleep till you’ve done your task
Stave off sleep till you’ve done your task—
Till you and the boys drink through it.”
“And there’s the King’s Pleasure-Garden,” said Jón Marteinsson, “where noblemen in sables rendezvous with aristocratic girls wearing low-cut dresses and gold on their shoes while other folk plead tearfully for pig iron and rope.”
“Alright already, don’t you think I know there’s a shortage of hooks and line?” said Jón Hreggviðsson. “Now I want to go to a whorehouse.”
Their path led from the harbor through the center of town. The sky had lightened considerably with the calm frost and the moon added to the glow of Icelandic whale oil illuminating the place. The households of the noblemen towered over each other, each one more splendid than the next, with the cold and unimpressive appearance that is a true witness to the world of wealth. In the doorways of these massive houses were heavy doors made of choice wood, locked tightly. Jón Marteinsson continued to brief the out-of-towner:
“In this house sits my blessed Maria von Hambs, who at this moment owns the single largest financial share in the Iceland trade. A short time ago she donated a large sum of money to be used to buy soup for the poor once a day, so that she wouldn’t go to Hell. So you can see it’s not only the one-third of the townspeople who are worth anything that makes its living off the Iceland trade; now it’s also the earth-lice, the sons of Grímur Kögur,* who get their meals from it— the ones who were previously roaming the streets with empty paunches and rolling those who starved to death into the canals. The Treasurer Hinrik Müller, who controls the harbors in the Eastfjörds, owns that brightly lit house there encircled by fruit trees—do you hear those sounds of music and dancing?—it’s not just you and I who’re feasting tonight, pal. And the house with the angel at the gate is owned by the most handsome cavalier in town, Peder Pedersen, who controls the harbors at Básendar and Keflavík—he supposedly doesn’t have to do anything more than pull out his handkerchief for the king during their next drinking party in order to be made a true nobleman, with his name ending in ‘von’ and some other long German word.”
Finally they came to a great orchard surrounded by high stone walls. They peered in through chinks in the wall. Glazed frost coated the trees and the lawn was covered with rime. Moonlight reflected scatteredly off the glaze and gleamed golden upon the orchard’s quiet ponds. Two shimmering swans glided over the water and stretched their necks majestically in the tranquillity of the night.
A lofty palace dominated the center of the orchard, shining under the shelter of the expansive crowns of oak trees. It was newly raised, with steep roofs and florid gables, oriels of red sandstone, and niches containing statues perched on columns. The palace had four towers with stacks of balconies, each tower topped with a tapering spire; the finishing touches were being put on the final spire. The moon shone on the burnished copper of the roofs and towers.
Jón Marteinsson continued:
“This palace has been built as splendidly as possible in order to overawe foreign ambassadors and dignitaries; they searched for the materials far and wide before it was raised and nothing was spared in its expense. A Dutch master built it; an Italian sculptor did the exterior ornamentation; the chambers within were decorated by French painters and engravers.”
Jón Hreggviðsson felt like he would never be able to tear his eyes away from this vision: the forest of white porcelain, the polished copper roofs of the palace in the moonlight, the lake and the swans that continued to glide over the water and stretch their necks as if in a dream.
“This palace,” rattled off Jón Marteinsson, with a cosmopolitan’s straightforwardness—“this palace is owned by Christian Gyldenløve, the king’s kinsman, Lord of the County Palatine of Samsøe, Baron of the City of Marselisborg, Knight, General-Admiral, Lieutenant-General and Postmaster-General for Norway, Governor and Chief Tax-Collector for Iceland—an exceptionally honest and excellent lord.”*
Jón Hreggviðsson awoke suddenly from his reverie, stopped peering in through the openings in the wall, gripped handfuls of the shaggy hair hanging out below his hat, and scratched himself.
“Huh?” he said distractedly: “Did I kill him? Or didn’t I kill him?”
“You’re drunk,” said Jón Marteinsson.
“By my Creator, I hope I killed him,” said Jón Hreggviðsson.
19
Occupying the territory on the opposite side of the Øresund were the Swedes, a race that had waged a continual war against the Danes for more than a hundred years.* They repeatedly sent armies to Denmark, besieged the Danes with occupational troops, bribed the farmers, blackmailed the king, raped the womenfolk, and shot cannonballs over Copenhagen; they had even bullied the Danes into relinquishing the excellent territory of Skåne. The former frequently enlisted the help of a wide variety of foreign nations in their
struggle against the latter, though the latter were occasionally able, with God’s help, to convince distant heads of state, such as the Great Czar in Moscow, to send troops to fight against the former.
Now conflict was raging once again and both combatants had sought assistance in distant lands. Jón Hreggviðsson arrived back at his barracks late after having drunk away the golden ring with Jón Marteinsson, and he was in a suitable mood for telling off the scoundrels who never got tired of harassing a lice-ridden Icelander. Unfortunately no appropriate opportunity for fighting presented itself. Extra guards had been posted and everyone was under strict orders to maintain discipline, since the Swedish infantry was thought to be right around the corner. Jón Hreggviðsson gave one or two men an earful but they didn’t pay any attention; no one even wanted to kick him. Everyone was thinking about the war. One man said that the Swedes certainly wouldn’t stop at Skåne—Sjaelland would be next, then it would be Fyn and Jylland.
Someone asked, “Where’s the navy—isn’t the navy going to defend the channel?”
Another said, “The English and Dutch have brought their warships into the channel and have supposedly sent legates to Moscow to talk with the Czar. And our Admiral Gyldenløve’s come ashore and he’s holed up in his palace squeezing Amalie Rose.”
Jón Hreggviðsson sang an introductory verse from the Elder Ballad of Pontus:
“Dawnlight is breaking. Now we shall raise
Battle-cries once again.
Fare you well, maiden, whose beauty I praise.
Blood pours from murdered men.”
On the next day the men repaired their boots and reinforced the straps on their parkas. Early in the morning on the day after, drums were beaten and pipes, bugles, and krumhorns were blown as the army set off to fight the enemy. Each man had to carry close to fifty pounds upon his back. The weather was damp. The road was an unbroken stretch of mud and many had difficulty keeping the pace, amongst them Jón Hreggviðsson. Inebriated German officers rode alongside the company, bellowing and brandishing whips and pistols in the air. The marching music soon stopped because the pipers’ hands were numb with cold, though it was replaced by the sound of someone whining.
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