The squire rode up through the field, but the farmer was surly and told the recreant to clear off his unmown grass.
“Do you have any brennivín?” asked the squire.
“Yes I do,” said Jón from Vatn. “What’s it to you?”
The squire asked the farmer to sell him some brennivín, saying that he would absolutely pay him, but that he had no silver handy at the moment.
“Even if all the lakes in the land were to turn into one great sea of brennivín under my name,” said Jón from Vatn, “and all the dry land were to turn to silver marked Magnús Sigurðsson from Bræðratunga, I’d more than likely be lying out dead somewhere before I’d see as much as half an ounce of your silver for a glass of my brennivín.”
The squire said that even if he hadn’t ever ridden a fat horse away from one of their business meetings, his most recent memory was of drinking himself into beggardom on the brennivín of the farmer from Vatn, and that his wife was most certainly being evicted from the cottages at Bræðratunga at that very moment.
Then the reason why the farmer from Vatn was so sullen toward the squire was revealed: two days ago the farmer’s father-in-law Vigfús Þórarinsson had sent word for him to come to the Alþingi, where Magistrate Eydalín had pressured father- and son-in-law, under threat, to resell Bræðratunga to him for a disgraceful price, and had then awarded the land to his daughter Snæfríður by special decree. It made no difference even when the squire held up the title deed for the plot of land in Selvogur—the farmer from Vatn would not place his reputation in any further jeopardy by doing business with the magistrate’s son-in-law. The squire sat down in the new-mown hay and wept. Jón from Vatn continued to mow. When he came near to where the squire was sitting he ordered him once again to clear off, but the squire pleaded: “In Jesus’ name, take your scythe to my neck.”
The brennivín-dealer took pity on the man and out of the goodness of his heart invited him to a storehouse, where he poured him a measure of brennivín and cut a slice of brown shark meat for him with his clasp knife. The squire began to revive slowly. After he’d slopped a sip from the measure and gulped down the shark meat he remembered that his father had been a notary, legislator, cloister steward, and much more, and his great-grandfathers on both sides of the family grandees, some of them ennobled; he said he wasn’t accustomed to pulling off fistfuls of shark meat in an outhouse like a rustic, and that he’d feel much better being escorted to the sitting room in the farmhouse, where he could be served at table and in bed by the housewife or the farmer’s daughters, as befitted his social class. The farmer from Vatn said that it hadn’t been that long since the squire was sitting weeping in the field, begging to have his head cut off. The opinions of guest and host now began to diverge sharply, and the former looked as if he were likely at any moment to lay hands upon the latter due to what he considered the latter’s inadequate hospitality. The host was a weak man and knew nothing about brawling, so he yelled for his farmhands and told them to tie up his guest and put him in a sack. They put the squire into a hairsack and bound it tightly, then took him out onto the field with them. The squire spent the rest of the day in the bag, either screaming or kicking, but in the end he fell asleep. At day’s end they untied the ropes and dumped out the bag, put the man upon a horse, and sicked four horrendously ferocious dogs after it.
By evening he was back in Eyrarbakki. He knocked at the merchant’s and the clerk’s, then tried to get himself rowed out to the merchantman to meet with the captain, but the Danes refused to have anything more to do with him. Even the boothkeeper wouldn’t answer him. He was very hungry, but famine had hit Eyrarbakki and the neighboring farmlands. A poor widow, however, gave him a bowlful of whipped milk and a handful of dulse, along with a hardened codhead, which she had to tear into pieces for him because he suddenly recalled that he was too great an aristocrat to tear up hardened codhead.
The trading booth was still closed, and the men who had traveled in packtrains from distant places, some from Skaftafell in the east, had found it necessary to pile their wool and other wares in stacks along the wall, while the merchant sat alone inside eating steak and wine, having given orders that he was not to be disturbed. Peculiar countryfolk stood outside the warehouse doors, examining the king’s seal. Others started in on making a ruckus, especially boys and casual workers. Still others were in tears as they talked about writing up a petition, several were capping verses or trying their strength at picking up huge stones on the seashore. Some farmers from Öræfi in the east, a journey of thirteen days away, decided to try their luck at pressing their packtrains southward over the heaths before nightfall, hoping they’d still be able to trade in Básendar. Eyrarbakki was dry; not a drop trickled out of the storehouse, but a single prosperous man who had brennivín left over from the previous year’s stores gave the squire a sip, which only made him mad with hunger for more. By midnight the place was deserted; they’d all dragged themselves off somewhere to their own grief, some beneath the walls along with their starving dogs. The squire was the only one who remained, besides the white and crescent moon over the sea, and there was no more brennivín.
Suddenly Þórður Narfason—otherwise known as Túre Narvesen— arrives; his movements are jerky, his face tarred. He has white teeth, red eyes, a lopsided nose, and large fists. When he saw the squire he took off his tattered and ugly knitted cap and fell to his knees before him. In his youth he’d been an attendant to the bishop in Skálholt, but was expelled from the post due to certain affairs he’d had with the girls. Even so, he could recall several Latin words ever afterward. He’d murdered his best beloved—some said two—though it was apparently through no fault of his own. One thing was certain, he hadn’t been executed, but rather sentenced to hard labor—he was well acquainted with Bremerholm. He was a great artist, a poet and a writer, a good drinker, and an excellent ladies’ man, and he spoke Danish so well that he got along with the Danes as if he were one of them. He was a knave and worked as an errand-boy for the trading company and was allowed to sleep in the pigsty; since he was an artist he often assisted the cooper during the autumn, and he called himself a cooper when he was in the company of Icelanders, though he was considered only a half-cooper by the Danes. Around this time Túre Narvesen was some sort of Royal Majesty’s Master of the Watch over the place, it being his duty to stand guard at night to hinder the work of anyone who showed any desire to set fire to the buildings or to violate the king’s seal.
The squire drove his foot into this courtly man’s chest as he knelt there on the ground, the grimiest of the charmers whom a girl in Iceland has at some point called her angel before the very same man put her to death.
“Give me brennivín, you devil,” said the squire.
“My honored lord. Brennivín—at this pernicious hour?” said Narvesen, shrilly.
“Do you want me to kill you?” said the squire.
“Aye, your grace, it makes no difference: the world is perishing, no matter what.”
“I’ll give you a horse,” said the squire.
“My dear squire would give a horse,” said Túre Narvesen, and he stood up and embraced the squire. “Salutem.* Long live my lord.”
He started to walk away.
“You’ll own land in Selvogur,” said the squire, and he grabbed a handful of Túre Narvesen’s rags and held on to him with a convulsive, locking grip. When the man realized that there was little possibility for escape he embraced the squire again and kissed him.
“Haven’t I always said a gentle heart wins the world?” said Narvesen. “And since such great things are happening I don’t think we could do any better than to go to meet the swineherd.”
The squire followed Túre Narvesen to the pigsty. Housed there were the animals that alone of all creatures lived in comfort and decency in Iceland, not least since the king’s specially appointed representative had tyrannically banned two-footed creatures from eating maggots and grubs. Farmers were sometimes graciously allowed t
o take a look at these wondrous creatures through the grating, and they would generally become nauseated at the sight, particularly since the beasts were the color of naked folk, the folds of their flesh the same as in rich men, looking out over these folds with the wise eyes of poor men; many a man spewed gall at such a vision.
The sty was made of wood and tarred like the houserooms of noblemen, and at one end lay the man who tended the animals, Jes Ló by name, an occasional warehouseman, Túre Narvesen’s friend and companion from Bremerholm. The general public distrusted the man who raised such animals in the land where humans and their children gave up and died of emaciation by the hundreds and thousands in the spring. Túre Narvesen knocked on the door using a special code his friend recognized and was let in, but the squire had to wait outside. They chatted together in the sty for a considerable amount of time and the squire started to get restless, but the shutters were well-drawn, so he had no choice but to start shouting and cursing again, and to threaten them with murder and fire. Túre Narvesen finally came out. He was incredibly downcast and said that the deputy clerk Jes Ló had turned a deaf ear to his case; everything here was shut and sealed according to the king’s command and there was no brennivín to be had for gold—Jes Ló’s message to him was that it would be best for the Icelanders to go to their countryman Arnesen and get from him whatever brennivín they felt they needed. The squire asked Túre to tell the swineherd he would receive land in Selvogur. Túre said that the swineherd could care less about owning land. The squire said that the swineherd should name his price. Túre Narvesen reluctantly agreed to try to pit himself once more against the swineherd, and the squire seized his opportunity and pushed his way into the pigsty after him.
The condition of Jes Ló’s flesh was not unlike that of the animals he tended and he smelled about the same as they did. He lay on a bunk in a corner of a platform, the creatures behind a grate close by: the boar in one corner, the sow in another with twelve piglets, several young swine in the third. The thriving livestock were awake and grunting. No Icelander could stand their stench, but since the squire could smell nothing he grabbed the swineherd and kissed him. The door stood open; outside were sea and moon. The swineherd said that even the most cunning thief couldn’t get into the warehouse, since that devil’s Iceland-dog Arnesen had put the king’s seal, doubtless falsified, on all the doors except for the secret door from the booth-cellar, and no one had the key to that except for the merchant, and he slept with it. Squire Magnús Sigurðsson continued to offer property and privileges, but this had no effect: no one put any stock in his possessions and no one knew exactly who owned his property, he himself, or brennivín-dealers in various parts of the land, or maybe even the magistrate his father-in-law. The squire said it would be most appropriate if he were to kill them both. Túre Narvesen gave Jes Ló a collusive look and said shrilly, with false, fricative humility:
“My brother has heard that his benevolent lord has one possession that is still said to be in his custody, unsold and unpledged, and that this would be, namely, his praiseworthy and virtue-bedecked wedded wife—”
At the mention of this woman things changed—without any further discussion, the squire jammed his fist into Túre Narvesen’s nose. Túre Narvesen abandoned courtesy and struck back. Then they started to fight. Magnús Sigurðsson took no precautions and tried his best to mutilate the man. Jes Ló crawled out of his bunk, hitched up his breeches, and joined in punching the squire. They flew at it for quite some time, and in the end they managed to bring down the squire, but he was so enraged that it was out of the question to try to talk sense into him without tying him down. They uncoiled a rope and after some effort were able to bind the man’s hands and feet, then they pushed him through the grating to join the pigs. The cavalier shouted and rolled over several times in the dung-trough, but couldn’t get himself loose. The swineherd handed the murderer Túre Narvesen a butcher’s knife and ordered him to guard the ruffian while he stepped out. Túre stood at the railing and engaged in pulling hair from the scoundrel, drawing the hair along the edge of the blade, or whetting the knife blade carefully on the palm of his hand. Once again he became his old courteous self, singing the praises of the squire and his wife for their probity and virtue and excellent lineage, but the captive squire continued shouting in the dung-trough; the pigs were stricken with terror and flocked together and entangled themselves one on top of the other in the corner of the sty. Finally the swinekeeper returned. He had returned with an eight-pot cask of brennivín, along with a flask. He set the cask down on the platform next to the grating, and he and Túre took turns drinking from the flask. The squire received nothing.
When the two companions had finished amusing themselves to their hearts’ content, Túre said to the squire:
“Our friend Jes Ló is eager to sell his venerable lord this cask, but regarding this matter papers must first be written, for brennivín is at the present time dearer than gold and whoever trades in it does so under the threat of losing his skin or being sentenced to prison at Bremerholm.”
“Give me a drink,” said the squire softly, when he finished shouting—“and after that you can cut off my head.”
“Oh, we would never stoop to such a trade, even if the times were tough. And we would certainly never venture to cut a nobleman’s head from him, unless we were forced. What a stroke!” said Túre Narvesen. “On the other hand, I shall here scratch out a little contract upon paper which we shall afterward validate with our signatures.”
Jes Ló brought forth the writing implements that he had fetched along with the brennivín, and Túre Narvesen sat writing for a long time with a plank upon his knees for a desk. Jes Ló sat by in the meantime and sipped on brennivín. After prolonged exertion the document was completed and Túre Narvesen stood up and started to read, while behind him the incredibly fat swineherd stood grinning sarcastically.
The letter began with the words “In nomine domini amen salutem et officia,”* witnessing to the fact that its writer had at one time served the bishop, and continued afterward in the solemn, refined, and devout style characteristic of this particular murderer. It stated, as follows, after having specified the exact number of years that had passed since the birth of God, that there had, out in the country named Iceland, in the merchant’s pigsty at the trading station Ørebakke, come together three worthies, the honorable Monsieur Magnes Sívertsen, cavalier and squire at Brødretunge, the august and cultivated gentlemen Jens Loy, tradesman, clerk, and supervisor of the station’s especial Danish stock, and the widely traveled artisan and erudite poet Túre Narvesen, former subdeacon to Schalholt, now royal cooper and polity-master for the Handel company, who had arranged to execute the following authoritative and authorized missive and charter, which they, postulating the grace of the Holy Spirit as guarantor, have sworn to adhere to in all points and articles and which by no man shall be violated excepting His Most Gracious Sire the King, with the full consent of his kingdom, and containing the matter given as follows: The cask of brennivín that stands on the platform between the parties shall be the lawful and inviolate possession of the aforementioned cavalier and squire M. Sívertsen, in exchange for which the same respectfully mentioned shall immediately upon the signing of this deed fulfill for the aforementioned gentlemen the following articulated proviso, being as such: that he readily and graciously lend and relinquish to the repeatedly and respectfully mentioned upright and cultivated gentlemen Jens Loy and Túre Narvesen, for complete and matrimonial coition for three nights item* three days his, Squire Sívertsen’s, in virtue of her beauty, artistry, and pedigree, and renowned as the finest match throughout the land, most dearly beloved, his own probity-loving and virtue-bedecked wedded wife, spouse, and housemistress, Snæfríður Björnsdóttir Eydalín, and shall the cavalier Monsieur M. Sívertsen simultaneous to this deed issue therewith his own missive and attestation styled according to this his own afore- and respectfully mentioned etcetera—
When the recitation reached
this point the cavalier was heard to say:
“In those eyes heaven itself has descended. I know I lie bound in filth.”
—maintaining the understanding, the missive continued, that just as the brennivín in the heretofore named cask is hereby proclaimed to be a singularly genuine and pure brennivín, at precisely the correct degree of strength though not watered down in the least, so also shall Squire M. Sívertsen’s wife exhibit to the missive’s deliverers, perfectly and completely, a generous and Christian reception, refraining from riot and unquiet, extending to them absolute tractability, benevolence, and determined optimism, and therewith granting to them all that belongs to the household, especially soured tripe, ram’s testicles, and butter from the churns, no less than if they were each in his own right, and both at once, her probity-loving honor’s true and affectionate wedded husbands—
“The stars shine wreathlike about her brow,” said the cavalier. “I know that I am leprous, lice-ridden Iceland.”
The two gentlemen paid no heed to the squire’s interjection, and Túre continued reading until the missive stated, in conclusion, that this contract should be as confidential as it was clear according to the agreements of great men, so that neither the common mob nor begging-creatures could get hold of the three partners between their teeth, and on the other hand so that none of them would find himself molested or demoralized by having his reputation come under the attack of indefensible prosecutors, and that this single copy of the missive should by its writer be housed, stored, and protected. Affixing here below our signatures as testimonial and thorough attestation to all the aforewritten—
The captive was no longer crying, shouting, or tossing about. Instead he lay calmly and silently on the floor of the sty, the cask no more than an arm’s length away beyond the bars. Finally he rose halfway, still bound, and looked straight up at the ceiling of the sty. His face was twisted in a grimace and the nape of his neck arched over onto his back as he addressed the one who dwells above:
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