PREFACE 
Because other nations are in the habit of vaunting the fame of their achievements, and joy in recollecting their ancestors, Absalon, archbishop of Denmark, had always been fired with a passionate zeal to glorify our fatherland; he would not allow it to go without some noble document of this kind and, since everyone else refused the task, the work of compiling a history of the Danes was thrown upon me, the least of his entourage; his powerful insistence forced my weak intellect to embark on a project too huge for my abilities. What man could have committed Denmark’s history to writing? Only lately had it entered the Christian community, and still lay listlessly averse to religion as much as to the Latin tongue. Even when church worship brought Latinity, the Danes’ sluggishness matched their former ignorance and they were as wretchedly slothful now as they were ill-educated before. So it came about that my small talent, though aware of its inadequacy for this massive assignment, preferred to strive beyond its powers rather than refuse the bidding; if our neighbours exulted in the records of their past exploits, the reputation of our people should not lie forgotten under ancient mould, but be blest with a literary memorial. Nervous therefore of shirking the command, I had to submit my clumsy shoulders to a burden untried by all writers of bygone ages; I obeyed with more presumption than efficiency, borrowing from the encouragement of my great patron the confidence which my own poor wits would not supply. But since his death outstripped my attempt before it reached its goal, I ask you especially, Anders, you whom a beneficial consensus voted to become successor to his rank, the head of our Church, to be the guide and inspiration of my theme; I can disappoint the spleen of critics, who jeer at whatever is most remarkable, with your strong protection and advocacy; for men must consider your mind a shrine of heavenly treasures, prolific as it is in knowledge, furnished with a wealth of sacred scholarship. Having combed France, Italy, and Britain in pursuit of erudition and gathered a store of learning, after long travels you obtained the notable direction of a foreign school and supported it so firmly that you appear rather to have shed glory on your office than received it. From there, because of your high capacity and outstanding deserts you were appointed royal secretary, a post of limited significance which you embellished with the results of your immense energy; later you left it as a sought-after privilege to men of abundant worth, when you had been translated to your present distinction. After borrowing a high priest from her neighbours rather than electing him from her own people, Scania may be seen dancing with joy; and she has deserved the satisfaction of her praiseworthy choice. Shining as you do by birth, learning, and intellect, ruling your people with a most generous outlay of teaching, you have won the deep love of your flock and, by exercising your official role with such wonderful assurance, brought it to a pinnacle of renown. Not wishing to give the impression of appropriating everything into your own control, by a pious legacy you magnanimously bequeathed to the holy Church a rich inheritance, and fitly preferred to give away wealth rusted with cares rather than be encumbered by such a miser’s heap. Again, you have undertaken an amazing work on holy doctrine; keen to subordinate your private concerns to the claims of our common religion, you have, by wholesome instruction, made those refusing to pay tithes render their dues to the Church and compensated for ancient damage to ecclesiastical buildings by a pious gift of treasure. Moreover, men prone to a loose life who gave way to uncontrolled dissipation were recalled, by your persistent, sound persuasions and exemplary self-denial, from weak susceptibility to a manlier frame of mind, taught, whichever it was, by your words or your behaviour. So you obtained by wise advice alone something granted to none of your predecessors. I should like it to be known that Danes of an older age, filled with a desire to echo the glory when notable braveries had been performed, alluded in the Roman manner to the splendour of their nobly wrought achievements with choice compositions of a poetical nature; not only that, but they saw that the letters of their own language were engraved on rocks and stones to retell those feats of their ancestors which had been made popular in the songs of their mother tongue. Adhering to the tracks of these verses, as if to some ancient volumes, and following the sense with the true steps of a translator, I have assiduously rendered one poem by another; my chronicle, relying on these aids, should be recognized not as something freshly compiled but as the utterance of antiquity; this book is thereby guaranteed to give a faithful understanding of the past, not a frivolous glitter of style. Moreover, how much historical writing might we suppose men of such genius would have published if they had slaked their thirst for composition knowing Latin? Even when they had no acquaintance with the Roman tongue, they were taken by such an urge to transmit their record to posterity that in the absence of books they resorted to massive boulders and granite for their pages. The diligence of the men of Iceland must not be shrouded in silence; since the barrenness of their native soil offers no support for self-indulgence, they practise 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 just as elevating to discourse on the prowess of others as to display their own. Thus I have scrutinized their packed 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. Equally I have followed the statements of Absalon concerning his own exploits and those which he learnt about from others, and with dutiful mind and pen taken pains to include them, respectfully seizing upon his instructive account as if it were some tuition from heaven. So, my gracious lord and father of us all, brilliant light of our country, Valdemar, whose illustrious descent from early times I shall be describing, I beg you to look kindly on the wavering course of this labour; for I fear that I shall be shackled by the weight of my subject and, far from properly depicting your lineage, I shall sooner reveal my lack of aptitude and meagre talents. By remarkably enlarging the wide realm inherited from your father through subjugation of your neighbours, by encompassing in the toil of extensive conquest the ebbing and flowing waters of the Elbe, you have added no mean element of glory to the distinguished register of your fame. Thus, by the scale of your achievements you overleapt the reputation of your predecessors even to the extent of making armed warfare on parts of the Holy Roman Empire. Everyone knows your well-practised courage and philanthropy, so that one cannot measure which is greater, the terror struck into your foes on the battlefield or the gratification felt by our citizens at your mildness. Your resplendent grandfather too, the sanctified object of public devotion, who achieved immortal glory through an undeserved death, now awes with his radiant holiness the people over whom he was once victorious. More valour than blood flowed from his venerable wounds. Now, following the ancient right of hereditary service, I am resolved, with the forces of my mind at least, to soldier for you like those loyal, energetic fighters, my father and grandfather, who were recognized frequenters of your renowned sire’s war camp. Looking to your leadership and esteem, I have decided to begin, in order to accomplish the rest more smoothly, with the position and description of our fatherland; my details will be more lucid if, when I progress through this narrative, I have started by traversing the places to which the events belong, and stated their location. The edges of this region, then, are partly bounded by another land frontier, partly enclosed by the waves of the adjacent sea. The interior is washed and encircled by the Ocean, which sometimes through winding interspaces runs into the straits of a narrow fjord, in other places flows into a wider expanse to form a large number of islands within a spreading bay. This is why Denmark, cut through and through by the surrounding sea waters, has few unbroken stretches of solid ground; so much do the waves intervene to mark off different shapes, according to the angles made by the turning channels. of these regions Jutland holds first place because of its greater size and superior position, for it begins the Danish kingdom and stretches farthest, right to the boundaries of Germany. From the River Eider, whose stream separates these two countries, it runs north, extending somewhat in width to the shore of the Norwegian Channel. Up here there is Limfjorden, teeming with so many fish that it seems to yield as much food to the natives as their whole soil. Next, tapering in below the Jutland peninsula, lies North Friesland, forming a curve of low-lying plains, which slope down towards the centre, and here the overflowing Ocean assists in the production of bumper crops. But it is questionable whether the inhabitants experience more profit or danger from the violence of these floods. For when a mighty tempest breaks down the dykes erected to intercept the sea’s tides, such a weight of waters invades the fields that not only agricultural land but occasionally even men and their homes are engulfed. East of Jutland you find the island of Funen, cleft from the mainland by a fairly narrow strip of water. Eastward again lies Zealand, worthy of praise for its exceptional richness in the resources of life. This island is the most lovely of all our provinces and is considered to be the centre of Denmark, since the farthest limits of the region’s circumference are equidistant from it. An arm of the sea pushes through to part its eastern side from the west coast of Scania, and this brings a magnificent catch into the fishermen’s nets every year; the whole sound contains such plentiful shoals that sometimes boats striking them have difficulty in rowing clear and no fishing gear but the bare hands is needed to take them. 
Now Halland and Blekinge jut out from the land mass of Scania like twin branches of a single tree trunk and are linked to Gotaland and Norway only by long, circuitous routes avoiding the various gaps made by fjords. Travellers can see a rock in Blekinge chequered with strange symbols. There stretches from the sea in the south into the wastes of Várend a lane of rock bounded by two lines a little way apart and extending a great distance; carved everywhere in the flat space between them appear figures, meant to be read. Although its level is so uneven that sometimes it cuts through the mountain tops, sometimes follows the valley bottoms, the continuity of the letter marks is discernible. King Valdemar, prosperous son of the venerable Cnut, fascinated by this and curious as to its meaning, sent men to pace the rock, make a closer investigation of the rows of characters there, and then copy the twiggy outlines of the letters. Yet they could make out no significance, because the cavities of the inscription were partly smeared with mud, partly rubbed away by the feet of travellers, so that the line of writing on the worn path was blurred to the gaze. It is obvious that even the crevices of solid rocks will choke up when exposed to the continued wash of silt and rainfall. I shall record, besides the areas and climate of Denmark, those of Sweden and Norway, since the same geographic area embraces them, and because of their kindred languages. This region, lying beneath the northern heavens, faces Bootes and the Great and Lesser Bear; beyond its highest latitude, where it touches the Arctic zone, the extraordinary brutality of the temperature allows no human beings to settle. Of these countries Nature decided to give Norway an unpleasant, craggy terrain; it reveals nothing but a grim, barren, rock-strewn desert. In its farthest part the sun never withdraws its presence; not even at night; scorning alternate periods of day and night it apportions equal light to each. To the west is Iceland, an island surrounded by vast Ocean, a land of meanish dwellings yet deserving proclamation for mysterious happenings beyond credibility. There is a spring here which by the virulence of its gaseous waters destroys the original nature of any object. Certainly anything tinged by the vapour it emits is petrified. This phenomenon might well be more dangerous than wonderful, for such hardening properties are inherent in the gentle fluidity of the water that anything brought to steep in its fumes instantly assumes the qualities of stone, merely retaining its shape. There are reports of a great many other springs in the same locality, whose water at times swells to enormous volume, overflows the basins, and frequently spouts jets high into the air; at other times their flow subsides till it is sucked into pits deep down in the earth, scarcely penetrable to the eye. Thus in full activity they splash everything near with bright spray, but when they drain away the sharpest sight cannot perceive them. Again there is a mountain in this island which, acting like the rock in Sicily with ever-blazing fires, ceaselessly belches forth its perpetual flames. This is no whit inferior to the previous marvels I have described, in that a land enduring the bitterest cold can produce abundant fuel for such heat, to feed its undying fires with secret supplies, from which it stokes its blaze to eternity. At certain definite times, too, an immense mass of ice drifts upon the island; immediately on its arrival, when it dashes into the rough coast, the cliffs can be heard re-echoing, as though a din of voices were roaring in weird cacophony from the deep. Hence a belief that wicked souls condemned to a torture of intense cold are paying their penalty there. If a piece is severed from this mass and fastened with the most bulging knots, it slips its ties as soon as the main body of ice breaks away from the land. It is dumbfounding to think that, whether they load it with the tightest shackles or bind it round intricately, it still pursues the floe of which it formed a part, inevitably escaping the most thorough restraint. Another kind of ice is well known there, interspersed among rocky mountain ridges; this periodically turns upside down, with its surface sinking below and the under parts moving to the top. There is a story, to prove this statement, of certain men who happened to be running across an ice field when they pitched into the depths of gaping crevasses which appeared before them; shortly afterwards they were discovered lifeless and not the merest chink remained in the ice.
For this reason many believe that they were swallowed into a slingshaped ice pocket and when this reversed later it delivered up their bodies. Rumour also has it that whoever sips at a certain unwholesome fountain which gushes there falls dead as if he had drunk poison. The bubbling water of other springs is said to have the quality of ale. There are kinds of fire too which, though unable to harm wood, consume a fluid such as water. There is also a rock which flies over the mountain steeps by its own natural movement rather than through any external propulsion. Now to describe Norway rather more thoroughly I must tell you that it shares its eastern frontier with Sweden and Götaland and is bounded on each side by the neighbouring Ocean. To the north it faces an undefined and nameless territory, lacking civilization and swarming with strange unhuman races, but a vast stretch of sea has separated this from the opposite shores of Norway. Since navigation there is hazardous, very few have set foot on it and enjoyed a safe return. The inner bend of the Ocean pierces Denmark and passes on to border the southern quarter of Götaland in a broad curve; the outer sweep increases in breadth as it streams eastwards along the coastline of northern Norway till it is walled by an unbroken arc of land. It terminates in a sea which our ancestors called Gandvik. Between Gandvik and the waters to the south there is a thin strip of mainland situated between the lapping seas; if this natural barrier had not been created against the almost meeting waves, the tides, surging together in a channel, would have made an island of Sweden and Norway. Within the eastern area of these countries live the Skritfinns. In their passion for hunting, these people habitually transport themselves in an unusual manner, having to trace slippery roundabout routes to reach the desired haunts in remote parts of the mountains. No cliff stands too high for them to surmount by some skilfully twisting run. For first they glide out of the deep valleys by the feet of precipices, circling this way and that, frequently swerving in their course from a direct line until by these tortuous paths they achieve the destined summit. They normally use certain animal skins instead of money to trade with their neighbours. Western Sweden looks towards Denmark and Norway, but to the south and along much of its eastern side the Ocean adjoins it. Beyond, to the east, can be found a motley conglomeration of savage tribes. That the Danish area was once cultivated by a civilization of giants is testified by the immense stones planted upon ancestral barrows and caves. If anyone is doubtful whether or not this was executed by superhuman force, let him gaze at the heights of certain mounds and then say, if he has the wit, who carried such enormous boulders to their summits. A person assessing this marvel must find it inconceivable that ordinary human effort or strength could raise such a bulk to that point of altitude; even on level ground it would be difficult, possibly beyond anyone’s power, to budge it. There is too little evidence to decide whether those who contrived these works were giants who lived after the irruption of the Flood or men of preternatural energies. Such creatures, so our countrymen maintain, are today supposed to inhabit the rugged, inaccessible wastes which I mentioned above and be endowed with transmutable bodies, so that they have the incredible power of appearing and disappearing in turn, of being present and suddenly somewhere else. But entry to that land is beset with perils so horrific that a safe homecoming is seldom granted to those who adventure it. Now I shall address my pen to the task in hand. 
BOOK ONE
The Danes trace their beginnings from Dan and Angel, sons of Humli, who were not merely the founders of our race but its leaders also. Dudo however, who wrote a history of France, tells us that the Danes sprang from the Danaans and were named after them. Although these two men gained rule over the territory by the willing consent of their countrymen, who voted them to the chief position through an appreciation of their outstanding courage and virtues, they yet lived without the name of king; for in that age no custom sanctioned its common use among our people. Old reports maintain that the English race arose from this Angel, who had his name given to the region he governed, resolving to pass on an undying recognition of himself by an easy kind of memorial. His descendants later conquered Britain and substituted the new title of their own land for the island’s original name. This action was highly thought of in past ages. One witness to this is Bede, a major contributor to Christian literature, who, as an Englishman, took pains to bring his country’s history into the sacred treasury of his books, considering it an equal piety both to pen the deeds of his motherland and to write about religion. Tradition has it, however, that it was from Dan that our royal pedigree flowed in a glorious line of succession, like channels drawn from a spring. His sons were Humli and Lother, their mother Gritha, a lady whom the Teutons accorded the highest honour. i . When they were to choose a king it was our forebears’ custom to proclaim their votes while standing on stones fixed in the ground, as though to augur the durability of their action through the firmness of the rocks beneath them. On the death of his father, Humli was elected sovereign by this new method as a gift from his compatriots, but under the malice of his later fortune he passed from king to private citizen. After being captured in war by Lother he bartered for his life by resigning the throne, since this was the sole condition of immunity granted him in his defeat. Compelled thus to abdicate power by his brother’s violence, he furnished testimony to mankind that palaces may contain more magnificence, but in cottages there is more safety. Yet so patient was he under injustice that people believed he rejoiced at being stripped of honour as if it were a kindness; to my mind he had pondered wisely on the state of royalty. Løther, on the other hand, played the king as intolerably as the soldier, immediately inaugurating his reign with arrogance and crime; he reckoned it a measure of virtue to deprive all his most distinguished subjects of life and wealth and to clear his country of fine citizens, imagining that his equals in birth must be rivals to his throne. Nor did he remain long unpunished for his enormities; he perished in a rebellion of the nation, which snatched away his life as it had formerly bestowed the realm. His son, Skiold, inheriting Løther’s natural bent but not his habits, by the utmost perseverance during his youth made an instinctive detour, so that he bypassed all the traces of his father’s pollution. As he wisely renounced his parent’s vices, so he happily corresponded to his grandfather in excellence, welcoming the endowment of those superior characteristics which were inherited from an earlier generation. As a youth he won repute among his father’s huntsmen by overcoming a huge beast, a remarkable incident which foretold the quality of his bravery in the future. He had happened to ask his guardians, who were bringing him up very conscientiously, for permission to go and see the hunting, when he encountered a bear of unusual size; although weaponless he managed to bind it with the belt he used to wear and then gave it to his companions to kill. During the same period he is reputed to have vanquished individually many champions of tested courage, among whom Atal and Skati had wide renown. Already at he had grown to such an unusual stature that he presented a perfect specimen of human physique, and so forceful were the proofs of his talent that succeeding Danish kings assumed from him the common title of Skioldungs. Where men had abandoned themselves to an emasculated existence, undermining their sobriety by debauch, he would energetically rouse them to pursue merit in an active career. Skiold’s maturity of spirit, in fact, outstripped the full development of his strength and he fought contests which someone of his tender years would scarcely have been allowed to watch.
So, as his age and virtue increased, in view of her superlative beauty he requested the hand of Alvild; for this reason he challenged Skat, governor of the Alemanni and rival for this girl, to combat before the eyes of the German and Danish armies; in killing him he overthrew all the people of the Alemanni, as good as reduced by the death of their leader, and made them pay tribute under his jurisdiction. Not only was he notable for feats of arms but also in affection for his fatherland. He annulled unjust laws and introduced beneficial ones, earnestly performing anything which could ameliorate his country’s condition. By his sterling qualities he reclaimed the realm which had been lost through his father’s viciousness. He was the first to publish a statute abolishing manumission, for a slave to whom he had granted freedom plotted a secret attempt on his life; Skiold exacted this harsh penalty as though it were right to let this individual’s crime spill over into a general punishment on all freedmen. All men’s debts were settled from his own treasury, as if he vied with other kings’ courage through his own bounty and generosity. He used to attend the sick with remedies and bring kindly comforts to persons in deep distress, bearing witness that he had undertaken his people’s welfare rather than his own. Also he looked after his chieftains, giving them incomes when they were at home as well as the booty won from the enemy, for he would maintain that soldiers should have their fill of money and the glory go to their commander. Freed from his keenest competitor for this marriage, he took as his battle prize and wedded the maiden for whom love had made him fight. After a short while she bore him a son, Gram. The boy’s amazing genius was so reminiscent of his father’s that he was immediately believed to be treading in the same worthy footsteps. Endowed with outstanding gifts of body and mind, as a young man he advanced himself to such a pitch of fame that his descendants acknowledged his greatness by making his name in the most ancient Danish poems synonymous with royal nobility. Whatever contributed towards hardening and sharpening his strength he practised keenly and assiduously. From swordsmen he conscientiously copied methods of parrying and thrusting. To show a fuller gratitude for his fostering he took to wife his teacher Roar’s daughter, who was of the same age and had been nourished at the same breast; later he married her, as a reward, to a certain Bess, who had many times taken vigorous pains to help him. It is hard to gather whether Gram reaped more renown through his own heroism or that of his comrade-in-arms. When he chanced to learn that Gro, the daughter of Sigtrygg, king of the Swedes, was betrothed to one of the giants, he cursed such an unwarranted connection of royal blood and launched upon a Swedish war, intending to oppose the exertions of monsters with a truly Herculean bravery. On entering Götaland he strode forward clad in goatskins to intimidate anyone who appeared in his path; accoutred thus in an assortment of animal hides and with a terrifying club in his right hand, he impersonated a giant; Gro met him as she happened to be riding to the forest pools to bathe, a small group of handmaids attending her on foot. Thinking it was her betrothed, but at the same time experiencing a feminine consternation at his strange dress, she flung up her reins and, with her whole body trembling, began, in the words of our native poetry, like this: ‘Can it be the giant, loathsome to the king, shadowing with his steps the middle of the road? Yet bold warriors have frequently concealed themselves beneath the pelts of beasts.’ Bess began with these words to her: ‘You, maiden, who ride upon the steed’s back, exchanging words with me, tell us your name, and from what lineage you take your birth.’ She replied: ‘Gro is my name, my father of royal blood, resplendent, dazzling in arms. But you too disclose what man you are, or whence you are sprung.’
The other answered: ‘Bess I am, valiant in warfare, ferocious and terrible to enemy peoples, often wetting this right hand with foreigners’ blood.’ Then said Gro: ‘Tell me, what leader draws up your battle line? For whom do you carry the standards of war? What chieftain governs your fighting? Under whose eye do you wage your strife?’. Bess responded: Blessed by the god of war, Gro answered him: never deflected by force or fear, Gram guides our troops. No blazing fire, ruthless sword or heaving billows ever dismayed him. Under his generalship, lady, we raise our golden standards.’ ‘Retrace your steps, reverse your direction. Otherwise Sigtrygg will crush you all with his militia. On a terrible stake he would clamp your throats in a clasping noose, consign your bodies to the stiffening knot, savagely staring would thrust your corpses to the greedy raven.’ Again Bess spoke: ‘First, Gram will put him in hell, add him to the shades, before Death closes his own eyelids, will send him whirling to the dread inferno. We are not worried by Swedish encampments. Why then, mistress, do you threaten us with gloomy funerals?’. Gro replied: ‘Back I shall ride to visit the familiar halls of my father, lest I should rashly view your brother’s advancing columns. Pray, let your final fate detain you, if you remain.’ To which Bess answered: ‘Return joyfully, daughter, to your father; do not pray for our swift decease, nor let the choler pound through your heart. A stubborn woman, harshly refusing her wooer at first, often yields when the plea is repeated.’ Then Gram, brooking silence no longer, rounded on the girl, and by giving a harsher timbre to his words imitated the hair-raising voice of a giant: ‘Let not the maiden fear a savage ogre’s brother. When I draw near, let her not grow pale. Sent here by Grip, I shall never lie in the embrace of any female, except with her consent.’ To which Gro replied: ‘What woman in her senses wants to be a giant’s whore? What girl could enjoy his gargantuan couch? Who could be a demon’s wife, knowing the monster-breeding seed? And what woman would desire to share her nuptial bed with giants? Who would stroke her fingers on thorns? Who would give warm kisses to mud? Who would join her smooth body, quite mismatched, to bristly limbs?
When Nature wholly cries out against it, you cannot enjoy true love’s repose. Ill-framed to accord with mammoth bulk is the love that women are wont to feel.’ Gram retorted: ‘Many times this conquering arm has tamed the necks of mighty monarchs; this overpowering right hand has beaten down their swelling pride. Take this red-glowing gold from me, that by this gift a lasting pact of firm faith may be struck between us, and help to consolidate our marriage.’ At these words he threw off his disguise and revealed the natural grace of his countenance; his true appearance brought almost as much pleasure to the girl as his false trappings had instilled her with alarm. He did not forget to ply her with love gifts and encourage the urge to mate which his handsome figure had provoked in her. Travelling farther he learnt from those he encountered that the road ahead was beset by a pair of brigands. When they rushed greedily forward to rob him, he rendered them lifeless with a single blow. Afterwards, not wishing to have apparently conferred a benefit on enemy territory, he tied their dead bodies to planks and stretched them upright in such a way that they seemed to be standing; those they had preyed on whilst they were alive would still be menaced in appearance by their corpses; even after death they should be fearsome and obstruct the way no less in semblance than they did in deed. Men agree that by this remarkable action of slaying the robbers he showed that he had been concerned to work in his own interest, not that of the Swedes, whom he hated so much. Because he had heard from soothsayers that he could not overcome Sigtrygg except with gold, he immediately fastened a stud of gold to his wooden mace; armed with this he initiated war against the king and became master of his wishes. Bess gave this feat a lavish eulogy by singing thus: ‘Fierce Gram, wielding his splendid club, steelless, with only a tree trunk, shattered the king’s protecting sword and repelled his lances. Pursuing Fate and the will of the gods, he crushed the honour of the powerless Swedes till he put their ruler to death, smashed by the inflexible gold. Pondering on his martial trade, he bore in his clasp the flashing oak; triumphant he flung with his glittering scourge their leader sprawling. Him whom the Fates forbade to be slaughtered by steel, he cleverly beat with hard gold, handling no blade; for Gram battled with metal more potent. Henceforth the fame of this precious object will spread in ever-widening orbit, for which its inventor may claim the glory, the peak of distinction.’ After destroying the Swedish king, Sigtrygg, Gram desired to strengthen his possession of this empire won in war; when Svarin, governor of Götaland, was suspected of aspiring to the throne, he challenged him to armed combat and subdued him; then Svarin’s brothers, seven born in wedlock and nine from a concubine, sought to revenge his death in an unequal contest, but they were annihilated. For his eminent achievements his father, now extremely old, allowed him to participate in rule, thinking that, rather than exercise supreme power alone in the decline of his life, it was more useful and sensible to share it with his own blood. Now Ring, a nobly born Zealander, decided that one of them was unripe for honour and the other had by this time outrun the course of his strength; he pleaded the untrustworthy years of both and incited the majority of the Danes to revolt, maintaining that the silliness of a boyish and a senile mind were equally unfit for royal power. By fighting him and obliterating him, they proved to people that no one’s age should be thought a disqualification for manliness.
King Gram achieved many other exploits. Although he had declared war against Sumbli, king of the Finns, after setting eyes on his daughter Signe he laid down arms and turned from enemy to suitor; he became engaged to her, having promised that he would divorce his wife. However, while he was very busy with the hostilities he had undertaken against the Norwegian king, Svipdag, for debauching his sister and daughter, a messenger informed him that Sumbli had treacherously betrothed Signe to Henry, king of Saxony; since the girl was closer to his heart than his soldiers were, he abandoned his troops and hurried secretly to Finland where he came upon the wedding already begun; he clothed himself in the most wretched rags and took a mean place at the table. Being asked what present he brought, he professed skill in healing. Finally, when all were soaked with carousal and the revelries were at their rowdiest, fixing his gaze on the girl, he disclosed the depth of his displeasure in this song, vehemently cursing woman’s fickleness and vaunting to the full his own bravery: ‘Alone against eight I launched the darts of death, another nine I dispatched swinging my sword back, after I had taken life from Svarin for claiming unjust honour, fame he had never merited; often I dipped my gory blade in foreign blood, wet from the slaughter, nor ever cowered at the clash of rapiers or bright glint of a helmet. But wickedly casting me off, she cherishes another’s vows, wild Signe, daughter of Sumbli, detesting the old pact, conceives an irregular passion, a striking indication of female frailty; she entices princes in order to trap them, dishonours them, most of all repudiating the upright; she remains steadfast with none, but ever-wavering gives birth to divided, ambiguous emotions.’. Bounding as he spoke from his place at the table, he butchered Henry amid the festal banqueting and the embraces of his friends. Seizing the prospective wife from among her bridesmaids, he laid low a large number of the guests before he carried her off aboard ship. So the wedding was turned to a funeral and the Finns had the chance of learning not to lay hands on others’ loved ones.
After this escapade, however, Gram met his death at the hands of Svipdag, king of Norway, when he was trying to exact vengeance for the latter’s rape of his sister and the attack on his daughter’s chastity. The battle was distinguished by the presence of Saxon troops, who had been roused to assist Svipdag not so much out of affection for him as desire to avenge Henry. While Svipdag held Denmark, Gram’s sons, Guththorm and Hadding, whose mothers were Gro and Signe respectively, were shipped off by their guardian, Bragi, to Sweden, where they were handed over to the giants Vagnhofth and Hafli, not merely to be brought up but also protected by them. I intend to touch briefly on their activities, but, in case I should seem like a brash inventor of fantastic tales which strain men’s credulity, it is worth telling you that at one time there were three amazing species of wizard, each practising their own miraculous illusions. The first of these were fellows of monstrous size, whom the ancients called giants, far surpassing human beings in their extraordinary bodily stature. In second place were those who obtained the leading expertise in haruspicy and were masters of the Delphic art. Although they yielded precedence to the former in their frame, they nevertheless excelled them just as much in their brisk acuteness of intellect. Between these and the giants there were interminable battles for supremacy, until the soothsayers won an armed victory over the monster race and appropriated not only the right to rule but even the reputation of being gods. Both these types, being superlatively dexterous in deceiving the eye, were clever at counterfeiting different shapes for themselves and others, and concealing their true appearance under false guises. The third class, bred from an intermingling of the other two, reflected neither the physical size nor the magic arts of their parents. Nevertheless minds deluded by their legerdemain believed in their deity. 
It is not surprising that barbarians were drawn to their weird hocus-pocus and gave themselves up to the rites of a debased religion, since even the intelligent Romans were seduced into worshipping similar mortals with divine honours. I mention these matters so that when I write at length of portents and marvels the incredulous reader may not contest them. After this digression I shall take up my narrative. When Gram had been killed, Svipdag was now enriched with the kingdoms of Denmark and Sweden; at the repeated instigation of his wife he recalled her brother Guththorm from exile, who, having been promised tribute, was set in authority over the Danes; but Hadding preferred revenge for his father to a favour from his enemy. The latter brother, with a most auspicious natural growth, achieved the full perfection of manhood even in his first youth; he avoided the pursuit of pleasure and ardently devoted himself to the constant handling of weapons, remembering that as the son of a warrior father it was his duty to spend his whole life in feats of military excellence. Harthgrepa, the child of Vagnhofth, tried to soften his stout spirit by her allurements to love, with repeated assertions that he must pay her the first gift of his nuptial bed by marrying her, since she had nurtured him in his infancy with particular devotion and given him his first rattle. She was not satisfied with straightforward persuasion but began also to sing: ‘Why does your life flow by unsettled? Why wear away your years a bachelor, chasing the battle, thirsting for throats? Does not beauty attract your desires? You are seized by an uncontrollable frenzy, but never such as slides into tenderness. Dripping with slaughter, reeking with blood, you prefer the battlefield to the bedroom, nor do amorous incitements refresh your mind. The ferocious man never makes room for leisure; there is no time for play in all his savagery; his hand is never free from impiety, while it is irked by the cult of love’s goddess. Let this hateful stiffness yield, let a proper warmth infuse you, tie with me the bond of passion; for I first gave you the milk of my breast, tended you as a baby boy, performing all a mother’s duties, serving all your infant needs.’ When he pointed out that the size of her body was unwieldy for human embraces and the way she was built undoubtedly suggested that she came of giant stock, she replied: ‘Don’t let the sight of my strange largeness affect you. I can make the substance of my body smaller or greater, now thin, now capacious; sometimes I shrivel at will, sometimes expand; at one moment my stature reaches the skies, at another I can gather myself into the narrower proportions of men.’ While he was still faltering and hesitating to believe her words, she added this song: ‘Young man, do not fear the fellowship of my bed. I change my corporeal shape in twofold manner, a double law I enjoin upon my sinews. Moulding myself in alternating fashion, I shift my shape at will; my neck touches the stars and soars high near to the Thunderer, again rushes down and bends to human capacities, my head pulled back to earth from the vertex of heaven. Nimbly I transmute my body by variation, veering in aspect; now a changeful tightness cramps my limbs, now a freedom of height unfolds them and lets them touch the topmost clouds; now squeezed to pygmy size, now my pliant thighs are stretched, while my features change like wax. Wonder not, but recall the Old Man of the Sea. of indeterminate nature my twi-formed shape draws in its vast expanse, only to thrust out its unlocked parts, then roll them in a ball.
Distend, contract, swell out, shrink, grow apace; immediate transformation gives me twin conditions, separate lives; I become huge to fright the fierce, but small to lie with men.’ With these declarations she won over Hadding to sleep with her and burned so strongly with love for the young man that, when she discovered that he yearned to revisit his own country, she lost no time in accompanying him, dressed like a man, counting it a pleasure to be a party to his toils and perils. They set off together on the journey and, wishing to put up for the night, came, as it happened, to a house where they were conducting in melancholy manner the funeral of the master, who had just died. Desiring to probe the will of the gods by her clairvoyant magic, she inscribed most gruesome spells on wood and made Hadding insert them under the corpse’s tongue, which then, in a voice terrible to the ear, was forced to utter these verses: ‘Let the one who summoned me, a spirit from the underworld, dragged me from the infernal depths, be cursed and perish miserably. Whoever called me from the lower regions, one discharged from life by destiny, whoever forced me again to the upper air, may she die and be sent to suffer beneath the leaden lake of hell, among the gloomy shades. Hear: beyond intention, beyond prescription, I am forced to disclose bitter information. As your footsteps bear you from this dwelling you will enter the confines of a narrow wood, where from all sides demons will pursue you. She who has brought a dead man from the darkness, made him look once more upon this light, marvellously fastening ties between soul and body, luring, importuning a departed ghost, for her rash endeavours shall weep bitterly. Let the one who summoned me, a spirit from the underworld, dragged me from the infernal depths, be cursed and perish miserably. For a black, pestilent whirlwind, monster-created, will thrust its pressure hard upon your vitals, and a hand will sweep up the living, snatching your bodies, tearing and cutting your limbs with cruel talon; only you, Hadding, will survive with your life; the lower realms will not snatch your ghost away, nor your heavy spirit travel to the nether waters. But the woman, weighted down by her own offence, will placate my ashes, soon become ashes herself, for causing this back return of my wretched shade. Let the one who summoned me, a spirit from the underworld, dragged me from the infernal depths, be cursed and perish miserably.’ Consequently, when they had built a shelter of brushwood and were spending the night in the copse which was mentioned, they saw a hand of enormous magnitude creeping right inside their small hut. Hadding was distraught at this apparition and cried for his nurse’s help. Harthgrepa, unfolding her limbs and swelling to giant dimensions, gripped the hand fast and held it out for her foster-son to lop off. More pus than blood dripped from its hideous wounds. But later she paid for this deed, for she was lacerated by companions of her own race, and neither her special nature nor her bodily size helped her to escape the savage nails of her assailants. An aged man with only one eye happened to take pity on the lonely Hadding, robbed of his nurse, and brought him into friendship with a pirate, Liser, by establishing a covenant between them. Now our ancestors, when they meant to strike a pact, would sprinkle their combined blood in their footprints and mingle it, so as to strengthen the pledge of their fellowship. When this was effected and Liser and Hadding were bonded together in closest association, they declared war on Loker, lord of the Kurlanders. However, they were defeated and Hadding in his flight was taken on horseback by the old man to his home. There, after he had refreshed him with the aid of a soothing potion, he told him that his body would become reinvigorated and strong. He demonstrated his prophetic advice by singing: ‘As you go hence, your enemy, thinking you are fleeing, will pounce, to hold you in chains or expose you to be mangled and devoured by wild brutes’ fangs. But you must fill the ears of your warders with varied tales, till, finished with feasting, they are captured by deep slumber; then strike off the shackles which bind you, the harsh fetters. Returning, after a brief while has elapsed, you must rise with all your strength against a hurtling beast, which loves to toss its captives’ bodies. Against its grim forequarters test your biceps and probe its heart strings with your naked sword. Straight away bring your throat to its steaming blood and devour the feast of its body with ravenous jaws. Then new force will enter your frame, an unlooked-for vigour will come to your muscles, accumulation of solid strength soak deep through every sinew. I shall pave the way to your wishes, weakening the attendants with sleep, to snore away through the lingering dark.’ With these words he set the young man on his horse and brought him back to the place where he had found him. Hadding hid trembling beneath his cloak, but in intense amazement kept casting keen glances through the slits and saw that the sea lay stretched out under the horse’s hoofs; being forbidden to gaze, he turned his wondering eyes away from the terrible view of his journey. After being captured by Loker and finding the whole course of events happen to him exactly as prophesied, he conducted a military attack on Handvan, king of the Hellespont, in the stronghold of Diinaburg. Handvan was entrenched behind impregnable defence works and used the fortifications rather than a battle line for resistance. Since they could not surmount the parapet by assault, Hadding caused various species of birds whose habitat was there to be taken by skilled fowlers, and had burning fungi attached beneath their wings; when they sought the refuge of their nests again they set the city completely alight. The townsfolk in rushing about to extinguish the blaze left the gates undefended. He took Handvan in the attack, but gave him the opportunity of ransom by paying his own weight in gold and, although he was entitled to do away with his enemy, preferred to grant him life; thus he tempered his ferocity with mercy. Later, as soon as a great force from eastern lands had been vanquished, he returned to Sweden, where he assailed and crushed Svipdag, who had met him with a large fleet off Gotland; thus, by not merely winning foreign plunder, but at the same time avenging his father and brother, he advanced to a high rung of fame and exchanged exile for a kingdom, for he had the fortune to rule his land immediately he returned to it. At that time there was a man called Odin who was believed throughout Europe, though falsely, to be a god; he had the habit of staying more frequently than anywhere at Uppsala, particularly liking to live there either because of the inhabitants’ torpor or the beauty of the countryside. The kings of the North, eager to honour his divinity with more enthusiastic worship, executed a representation of him in gold, the arms thickly encircled with heavy bracelets, and as an expression of their devotion sent it with the utmost show of piety to Byzantium. Delighting in his high celebrity, Odin avidly greeted the donors’ affection. His wife, Frigg, desiring to walk abroad more bedizened, brought in smiths to strip the statue of its gold. Odin had them hanged and then, setting the image on a plinth, by a marvellous feat of workmanship even made it respond with a voice to human touch. Nevertheless, subordinating her husband’s divine honours to the splendour of her own apparel, Frigg submitted herself to the lust of one of her servants; by his cunning she had the effigy demolished and the gold which had been devoted to public idolatry she switched to her personal extravagance. This woman, unworthy of a deified consort, felt no scruples about pursuing unchastity, provided she could more speedily enjoy what she coveted! Need I add anything but to say that such a god deserved such a wife? Men’s intelligence was once made ridiculous by extreme gullibility of this kind. Consequently Odin, wounded by both his wife’s offences, grieved as heavily over the damage to his likeness as the trespass on his bed. Stung by this double embarrassment, he took to exile replete with an honest shame, thinking he would thereby obliterate the stain of his disgrace. A certain Mithodin, a famous illusionist, was animated at his departure as if by a kindness from heaven and snatched the chance to pretend divinity himself; his reputation for magicianship clouded the barbarians’ minds with the murk of a new superstition and led them to perform holy rites to his name. He asserted that the gods’ wrath and the profanation of their divine authority could not be expiated by confused and mingled sacrifices; so he arranged that they must not be prayed to as a group, but separate offerings be made to each deity. When Odin returned, the other no longer resorted to his conjuring but went off to hide in Funen, where he was rushed upon and killed by the inhabitants. His wickedness even appeared after his decease; anyone nearing his tomb was quickly exterminated, and his corpse emitted such foul plagues that he almost seemed to have left more loathsome reminders of himself dead than when alive, as though he would wreak punishment on those guilty of his murderer. The citizens, overwhelmed by this evil, disinterred the body, decapitated it and impaled it through the breast with a sharp stake; that was the way the people cured the problem. When the subsequent death of his wife had enabled him to recover his former celebrity and he had repaired, so to speak, his godhead’s bad name, Odin returned from exile and forced all those who had worn the marks of divine rank in his absence to resign them, as though they had been borrowed, and he dispersed the covens of sorcerers which had sprung up, like shadows before the oncoming of his sacred brightness. He checked them with the command not only to abandon their pretended holiness, but also to leave the country, considering that those who had so profanely obtruded themselves into heaven deserved to be thrust from that earth. In the meantime Asmund, Svipdag’s son, engaged in battle with Hadding to avenge his father; when he realized that his own son Henrik, whom he loved even more than his own life, had fallen fighting courageously, his soul yearned for death and he hated the sunlight; this was the lament he composed: ‘What hero dared put on my armour? A shining helmet is useless to one reeling, unfit a hauberk for one prostrate. Am I to exult in war with a son slain? M y boundless love for him compels me to die; my flesh should not outlast my child. I joy to grip steel in each hand; come, let us fight with flashing sword points, but no shields to cover bared breasts. May the fame of our savagery flare; we must boldly break the enemy’s column, no long struggle should wear us down nor the onslaught shatter in flight and fade.’
He spoke, put both his hands to his hilt, slung his shield, regardless of danger, behind his back, and then drove many to their deaths. Hadding had no sooner cried on friendly powers for help than Vagnhofth came suddenly riding up to champion his side. Gazing at his curved sword Asmund broke out in loud song: ‘Why do you fight with crooked blade? A short sword shall bring your doom or death will come with the hurled javelin. You believe that spells will mutilate a foe who can only be vanquished hand to hand; with words you grapple, not force, putting your strength in magical aids. Why do you repel me with your shield, threaten me with your impetuous lance, when you are sullied and stained all over with woeful crimes? Look how a branded mark of infamy has flecked your soul, you thick blubber-lips, stinking with sin.’ As he shouted these insults, Hadding launched his spear by the thong and transfixed him. Death, however, had its compensations for Asmund. In his last tiny flicker of life he wounded his killer’s foot, punishing him by causing an incurable limp, so that men remembered his overthrow by this brief moment of revenge. Thus one received a crippled limb, the other ended his days. Asmund’s body was attended in solemn state at a royal funeral in Uppsala. His wife, Gunhild, did not wish to survive him but snatched away her breath with a sword, choosing rather to follow her husband in death than desert him by living. Their friends, in committing her body to interment, added her remains to those of her husband, for they believed her worthy of his burial-mound when she had preferred to set her love for him above life. So Gunhild lies embracing her spouse in the companionship of the tomb, rather more nobly than in the marriage bed. After this the victorious Hadding went ravaging Sweden, but Asmund’s son Uffi, because he lacked the confidence to join in combat, crossed with his army into Denmark. It suited him better to retaliate against the household gods of the enemy than watch over his own, for
he considered it a fair method of averting injustice, to inflict on his foes what he was suffering from them. In this way the Danes were compelled to return and defend their property, since they set their country’s safety above foreign dominion, and Uffi, now it was freed from hostilities, once more sought his native soil. When Hadding came home from his Swedish campaign, he found that the treasury in which he usually stowed the rich proceeds of his warfare and plundering had been broken into and rifled; he immediately hanged his guard, Glum, and devised a cunning deception: a proclamation went out that any of the culprits who took the trouble to return the stolen goods should inherit the position of honour which Glum had occupied. This promise made one of the thieves keener to grasp at the concession than conceal his felony and he saw that his portion of the money was returned to the king. His confederates, fancying that he had been taken into the monarch’s close friendship and understanding that his reward was as genuine as it was lavish, revealed their guilt and restored the treasure in the hope of similar recompense. Their confession was at first received with preferments and kindness, but, shortly punished by torture, it left no small warning for folk to avoid over-trustfulness. In my opinion they deserved the gallows for breaking their silence; when holding their tongues sensibly could have ensured safety, their stupid blabbing dragged them to ruin. This accomplished, Hadding measured out the winter months in busiest preparation for renewed war; as soon as the spring sunshine melted the frosts, he made again for Sweden and spent five years there in the field. His soldiers consumed their provisions during the long-drawn campaign and, after they had been reduced to almost complete emaciation, began to assuage their hunger on mushrooms from the forest. At length, under dire pressure, they ate their horses, and finally spared their bodies with the carcasses of dogs. Even feeding on human limbs was not regarded as shocking. While the Danes were being driven to straits of utter desperation, an anonymous voice rang through the camp with this song at the time of first sleep: ‘You left your homes under evil omen, thinking to harry these fields with war. What false belief deludes your minds? What blind trust has snatched your senses to make you think you could capture this ground?
The might of Sweden cannot yield nor be shaken with warfare brought by strangers. The pick of your host will flow away as soon as it tries to molest our people. When flight dissolves your fierce power and part of your troops straggle off and vanish, your superiors in battle will be given a freer prerogative to kill those who turn their backs. There is broader scope for swordplay when fate chases our adversary headlong; he scorns our weapons no more, when fear hales him off.’ This forecast was fulfilled with the coming of daylight when a multitude of Danes were slaughtered. The next night a similar untraceable voice fell on the ears of the Swedish manhood: ‘Why does Uffi, about to pay the final satisfaction, painfully strive to challenge me? Many spear points shall press down and gouge into him; he shall fall lifeless, suffering for his audacious attempt. His crime of wanton vindictiveness will not go unpunished; I prophesy that when he first joins battle, grappling at close quarters, darts shall seek and enter every limb of his body, no bandage stem the gaping of his bloody wounds, nor succour close up the many places gashed by blows.’ That same night when the armies clashed, two old men, more hideous than any human being and with hairless heads dismal to behold, appeared amid the glittering stars; they favoured the prayers
of the opponents by dividing their monstrous exertions. One of them strove for the Danes’ side, the other championed the Swedes. Hadding, defeated, fled to Hålsingland; while, hot from the scorching sun, he was bathing his body beneath the cool sea water, he swam after a peculiar monster, dispatched it with numerous strokes and had its carcass conveyed to his camp. As he was triumphing over this feat he was accosted by a woman, who addressed him in these words: ‘Whether you tread the fields or set your canvas to the ocean, to you the gods will be hostile, and throughout the whole earth you shall find the elements of Nature thwarting your designs. Dashed down on land, tossed at sea, you shall be the perpetual companion of the whirlwind in your wandering; an inflexible stiffness will never desert your sails, any roof over your head will fall, struck by a tempest, and your herd will perish with baleful cold. Everything shall be tainted and mourn the fate of your presence. Shunned like a noxious itch, no plague will ever have been more vile than you. Such punishment the powers of heaven dispense. For your sacrilegious hands have dispatched a sky-dweller wrapped in another body: there you stand, the slayer of a benign deity. When you take to the waves you will feel the frenzy of the winds upon you, let loose from their keeper’s dungeon. The West and the rushing North and the South shall crush you down, conspire together and vie to shoot forth hurricane blasts, until with more winning prayers you appease divine severity, and, having suffered your earned punishment, offer placation. On his return Hadding endured unvarying disaster, putting all peaceful places into a turmoil by his arrival. When he set sail, a potent thundercloud arose and engulfed his fleet in a gigantic storm. When he sought shelter after shipwreck, the house suddenly collapsed in ruins. There was no alleviation for his calamities till he had been able to atone for his wickedness by religious offerings and return to heavenly favour. In order to mollify the divinities he did indeed make a holy sacrifice of dark-coloured victims to the god Frø. He repeated this mode of propitiation at an annual festival and left it to be imitated by his descendants. The Swedes call it Frøblot. When he chanced to learn that a giant had contracted an engagement with Regnhild, daughter of Håkon, king of the Nitherians, detesting the unseemly compact which promised such a profoundly loathsome union, he forestalled the marriage by an act of noble enterprise; journeying to Norway, he fought the royal maiden’s obnoxious suitor and overthrew him. So much did he set prowess above comfort that, although he was entitled to bask in kingly luxuries, he considered no pleasure sweeter than to fend off harm from himself and others. Though she did not know who her benefactor was, because he was covered with gashes the girl carefully tended and healed him. So that she should still be able to recognize him after a lapse of time, she left her signature by inserting her ring within a leg-wound. Later on, when her father had granted her the freedom to choose her own husband, she reviewed the young men who had assembled at the banquet and handled their limbs in an attentive fashion, searching for the token she had once laid away. Detecting the clue of the concealed ring, she scorned the rest and embraced Hadding, consequently giving herself as a bride to the man who had not allowed a giant to possess her as his wife. While Hadding was staying there as a guest, a remarkable portent occurred. As he was dining, a woman beside a brazier, bearing stalks of hemlock, was seen to raise her head from the ground and, extending the lap of her garment, seemed to be asking in what part of the world such fresh plants might have sprung up during the winter season. The king was eager to find out the answer and after she had muffled him in her cloak she vanished away with him beneath the earth; it was, I believe, by the design of the underworld gods that she took a living man to those parts which he must visit when he died. First they penetrated a smoky veil of darkness, then walked along a path worn away by long ages of travellers, and glimpsed persons in rich robes and nobles dressed in purple; passing these by, they eventually came upon a sunny region, which produced the vegetation the woman had brought away. Having advanced farther, they stumbled on a river of blue-black water, swirling in headlong descent and spinning in its swift eddies weapons of various kinds; they were able to cross it by a bridge. On the other side they saw two strongly matched armies encountering one another, whereupon Hadding asked the woman their identity. ‘Th ey are men who met their death by the sword,’ she said, ‘and who present an everlasting display of their destruction; in the exhibition before you they are trying to equal the activity of their past lives.’ M oving on, they found barring their way a wall, difficult to approach and surmount; the woman tried to leap over it, but to no avail, for even her slender, wrinkled body was not an advantage; she thereupon wrung off the head of a cock which she happened to be carrying and threw it over the enclosing barrier; immediately the bird, resurrected, gave proof by a loud crow that it had truly recovered its breathing. On his return Hadding, accompanied by his wife, set off again for his homeland, and foiled a threatened ambush by pirates through the speed of his passage. Although they put on as much sail and were helped by much the same breezes, they could not catch him as he clove the waters ahead of them. Meanwhile Uffi, who had an amazingly beautiful daughter, issued a proclamation that he would bestow her on whoever took Hadding’s life. This bargain greatly excited one Thuning, who rallied together a band of Biarmians and applied himself to achieve the coveted felicity. While coasting Norway with his navy in an effort to intercept him, Hadding noticed an old man on the shore waving his mantle to and fro to indicate that he wished him to put in to land. Though his fellow-sailors grumbled that this deviation from their course would be disastrous, he took him aboard and found in him the man to supervise the disposition of his troops; he had this careful system for the arrangement of his columns: in the first row he would put two men, four in the second, then increase the third to eight, and step up each succeeding rank by doubling the numbers of the one in front. It was he who ordered the contingents of slingers at the sides to drop back into the rear and attached them to the lines of archers. After he had distributed his companies into this wedge formation, he took up his stance behind the warriors’ backs and, drawing out from a small bag hung round his neck a crossbow, which first appeared little, but soon jutted forward in an extensive arc, he fitted ten shafts to its cord and, briskly shooting them off all at once, gave the enemy as many wounds. The Biarmians then changed their weapons for magic arts and with spells dissolved the heavens into rain, destroying the pleasant aspect of the sky with miserable showers. The old man for his part met and dispelled the mass of storm that had arisen with a cloud of his own, and by this obstruction curbed its drenching downpour. At his departure following Hadding’s victory the old man predicted that he would not be destroyed through foemen’s violence but by a self-chosen kind of death, and at the same time told him he must venture upon glorious campaigns, not petty fighting, and seek action in remote parts rather than on his borders. After leaving him, Hadding was called by Uffi to a sham conference in Uppsala. His escort was lost through treachery and he only escaped under cover of night. When the Danes sought the exit of the hall where they had supposedly gathered for a feast, there was someone ready to shear off each head with a blade as it was poked out of doors. Retaliating for this outrage in battle, he quelled Uffi and, laying aside his hatred, consigned his body to a mausoleum of outstanding workmanship, admitting his enemy’s greatness by a magnificent, finely wrought tomb. Thus, though he used to hound the living man furiously, he glorified him at his decease with expensive honours. To make the defeated nation friendly towards him he gave the crown to Hunding, Uffi’s brother, so that in appearance the rule should continue in Asmund’s family instead of being transferred to strangers. When his rival had been removed all was quiet and he discontinued his warfaring completely for many years; finally, pleading that he had spent ages cultivating the land when he should have been indulging in naval exploits (as though he believed belligerence pleasanter than peace) he began to criticize himself for his sloth in this strain: ‘Why do I linger in the shadows, enfolded by rugged hills, not following the waves as before? The challenging howl of the wolf-pack, cries of dangerous brutes, ever raised to heaven, the ungovernable ferocity of beasts, snatch all rest from my eyes.
The desolate ridges are cheerless to hearts bent on sterner schemes. The unbending cliffs and harsh terrain oppress those whose hearts delight in the high seas. To sound out the straits with our oars, revel in plundered wealth, pursue for our coffers another’s fortune and gloat over sea loot would be a far finer business than haunting the winding forest tracks and barren ravines.’ His wife loved the life of the countryside and therefore, sick of the morning choir of sea birds, revealed in these words how much contentment lay for her in roving the expanses of woodland: ‘The chant of the birds torments me lagging here on the shore, disturbing me with their jabber whenever I try to sleep. I hear the ceaseless roar and fury of the tide as it takes away the gentle repose from my slumbering eyes; there is no relaxation at night for the shrill chatter of the sea mew, dinning its stupid screech into my tender ears, for it will not allow me to rest in my bed or be refreshed, but ominously caws away in dismal modulations. For me there’s a safer and sweeter thing— to sport in the woods. How could you crop a more meagre share of peace in light or darkness than by tossing on the shifting deep?’. In the same period, risen from humble estate in Jutland, a certain Tosti emerged, notorious for his savagery. He made a variety of wanton attacks on ordinary people, spreading far and wide such a reputation for cruelty and sadism that he earned the nickname of The Villain. He did not stop at this ugly persecution of his own countrymen but carried his evil-doing across the frontiers and even molested the population of Saxony. Their leader Siegfried, seeing his associates hard put to it in battle, asked for an amnesty; the other declared that his request would be granted, but only on the provision that he guaranteed to form a military alliance against Hadding. Although Siegfried was afraid to accede to these terms and opposed them, Tosti brought him round to the desired promise by violent threats. It regularly happens that something which cannot be arranged persuasively may be obtained by menace. Hadding was defeated by him in a land engagement, but when, on the run, he lighted on the victor’s ships, he drilled holes in the sides and rendered them unseaworthy, after which he embarked in a skiff for the open sea. Tosti, who had searched long among the mingled corpses without managing to discover him, assumed that Hadding had been killed; on returning to his fleet he noticed in the distance a light craft riding the waves. Determined to pursue it he launched his ships, but soon, in danger of foundering, he had to turn round and only just scrambled back to shore. Commandeering sound vessels he then resumed the course he had begun. Once Hadding realized that Tosti was at his heels, he asked his companion whether he was an expert swimmer; since the other replied that he was not, they abandoned the idea of flight, deliberately capsized their boat and clung inside the hollow cavity to make their pursuers believe they were dead. Then Hadding attacked Tosti unexpectedly, as soon as he was unconcerned and brooding avariciously over the rest of his plunder; his soldiers were wiped out, he was made to relinquish his booty and his flight revenged Hadding’s. But Tosti did not lack the spirit for vengeance either. Because the blow he had received was immense and he had no reservoir to recoup his forces within his own country, he went off to Britain, calling himself an ambassador. On the voyage, for fun, he collected the crew together for a game of dice and when a brawl started over the throws he showed them how to finish it with a bloodbath. What began as a peaceful pastime brought the whole ship at loggerheads, and their wrangling turned play into a gory battle. Ready to profit from others’ misfortune, he pocketed the cash belonging to the slain and went into league with a fellow named Kolle, at that time infamous for his deeds of piracy. In this man’s company he soon afterwards returned to his country and when Hadding, who chose to hazard his own fortune rather than his warriors’, challenged him to single combat, Tosti met him and was cut down. The valiant commanders of old avoided executing their missions at everyone’s risk where the issue could be settled by the fate of one or two. After these accomplishments Hadding saw the apparition of his dead wife hovering over him while he slept; she sang: ‘An animal born to you will tame the wild beasts’ fury, savaging the swift wolves with its grim jaws.’ But shortly afterwards she added: ‘Beware: from you and harmful to you has sprung a bird, a malevolent owl, a swan of melodious voice.’ In the morning the king shook off his drowsiness and revealed his dream to a skilled soothsayer. This man interpreted the wolf as his son, destined to be fierce, while the swan signified his daughter; he foretold that the one would destroy his foes, the other plot against her father. The outcome answered the prediction. Ulfhild, Hadding’s daughter, was married beneath her to a commoner, Guththorm; whether she was motivated by the degradation of the match or aspired to high renown, she acted without any filial regard and incited her husband to murder her father, declaring that she preferred to be looked upon as a queen, not a mere princess. I have decided to set out the form of her inducement in her own words, as near as I can; it went something like this: ‘I am wretched because my dignity is obscured by an ill-fitting bond! I am distressed that my lineage is yoked to base peasantry! Unblest is the child of royalty whom the law of wedlock levels with the masses! Pitiful the king’s daughter whose father has idly transferred her elegance to mean and contemptible embraces! Ill-starred the mother’s offspring whose happiness is diminished by her wedded partner, whose purity is handled by an impure yokel, whose nobility is demeaned to ignoble vulgarity, whose worth dwindles in the married state! If you have any pluck, if your heart retains any courage, if you are a real son-in-law to a king, seize his crown, set value on your rank by sterling behaviour, redeem your deficient birth by valour, balance lack of blood by your spirit! It is nobler to seek distinction boldly than to inherit it. It is finer to ascend the peak by prowess than succession. It is fitter to acquire honours by desert than situation. Remember too that it is no crime to undermine senility, which sags and sinks to ruin under its own weight. Your father-in-law should be content to have borne office as long as he has. Only a dotard’s power would come your way, and, if you missed it, it would fall to someone else. Every attribute of the elderly is next door to decay. Let his past reign satisfy him; assume authority at your convenience. I had rather my husband, not my parent,were monarch. I had rather be rated a ruler’s wife, not his daughter. It is better to enjoy the close caresses of the sovereign than pay homage to him at a distance, more glorious to be the bride of majesty than its parasite. You should prefer your hand to hold the sceptre rather than his. Nature has made each man his own best friend. Your bid will not lack opportunity if the will to do it is there. All things give way to sharp wits. We must hold a celebration, provide a banquet, make the necessary preparations and invite my father. Fake intimacy will pave the way to deception. The name of kinsman is the very best cover for a trap. Again, his drunkenness will offer an easy opening for murder. When the king’s attention is on his grooming, his mind on stories, his hand to his beard, and he is parting his tangled locks with a hairpin or comb, then let him feel the thrust of steel in his vitals. A busy man takes less precaution. Your right hand must strike in reprisal for those crimes. It is an act of piety for your hand to lash out and avenge the distressed.’ Her husband yielded to Ulfhild’s importunate suggestions and promised to set an ambush. In the meantime Hadding was warned in a dream to be on the lookout for a plot by his son-in-law; he left for the banquet his daughter had prepared for him under a show of affection, but not before he had stationed an armed bodyguard nearby, to be employed when the situation demanded, should he be ensnared. As he ate his food, a minion brought in to accomplish the treachery waited quietly for the right moment with a knife hidden beneath his cloak. The king observed him and had a trumpet give a signal to the soldiers posted in the vicinity. In a second they were bringing help and the stratagem recoiled on its author. Meanwhile Hunding, king of Sweden, had received a false report of Hadding’s end and, thinking to honour the dead, gathered together his nobles; filling an enormous jar to the brim with beer, he ordered it to be placed amid the guests for their pleasure and, to give a sense of occasion, did not hesitate to adopt a servant’s role and play the butler. As he was traversing the palace hall in fulfilment of these duties, he missed his footing, toppled into the jar and, choked by the liquid, gave up his ghost; perhaps he was paying retribution to the underworld for appeasing it with spurious obsequies, or to Hadding for falsely assuming his departure. When he learnt of this, Hadding sought to return his veneration with a similar courtesy, for, being unwilling to survive the dead man, he hanged himself before the eyes of the populace.
BOOK TWO.
Hadding was succeeded by his son Frothi, who encountered diverse and remarkable fortunes; after the years of adolescence his virtues ripened and were displayed in early manhood. Not wishing to have these tarnished by inactivity, he withdrew his thoughts from amusements and bent his purposes to the studious practice of arms. He found that war operations had drained his father’s treasury and he was unable to pay for the maintenance of his soldiery, but, as he was looking about carefully for the supplies he needed, he was excited by the song of an approaching countryman: i. ‘Near here, rising in gentle slopes, is an island whose hills conceal a rich hoard of treasure. The guardian of the mount keeps the choice pile, a dragon intricately twined and curled in multiple spirals, dragging the sinuous folds of its tail, lashing its manifold coils and vomiting poison. To overcome it, stretch the skins of bulls over your shield and cover your body with oxhides, so that you do not expose your naked flesh to the biting venom and be burnt by the slaver it spews. Though its flickering triple tongue leaps from its gaping mouth and its hideous fangs threaten grim wounds, be fearless, nor let the spikes of its teeth, nor its leatheriness, nor the virulence shot from its darting jaws dismay you. Its tough scales scoff at man’s weapons, but know there’s a place far beneath its belly to plunge in your blade; seek this with your sword point and probe its snaky guts. Go then safely to the mountain and with a mattock rake out the hollows; soon you will drench your purse in treasure, and sail your laden ship back to shore.’ Frothi believed him and crossed over alone to the island, meaning to attack the monster with no more company than when champions used to fight a duel. The dragon was returning to its cave after quenching its thirst as Frothi’s weapon struck, but its hard prickly exterior made light of it. His next attempt was foiled when he launched javelins, which only rebounded idly. When its back proved impenetrably tough, he found on closer inspection that the softness of its stomach gave access to his sword. It tried to bite him in retaliation, but its sharp-pointed teeth only fastened on his shield. With many quick little jabs of its tongue it gasped away its life and poison at the same time. i . Enriched by his treasure-trove the king was able to equip himself with a fleet and sail into the territories of the Kurlanders. Their king Dorn, fearing a catastrophic war, is reported to have addressed this speech to his troops: ‘Chieftains, as we are faced by a foreign enemy furnished with the arms and wealth of almost the whole western world, we must strive for a sensible delay before fighting and keep him under the powerful grip of starvation. Such a malady is internal. It will be extremely difficult for him to vanquish this peril within his own people. Starving men are easily resisted. More effectively than with weapons we shall test our foes by making them fast, and drive home no sharper lance than famine. Having little to eat will supply a canker to gnaw at their strength. A plentiful armoury is undermined by a lack of food. This can hurl our missiles for us as we sit here, can undertake the duties and functions of battle for us. In this way we may cause danger without danger to ourselves. We shall be able to let their blood without shedding ours. One ought to conquer an adversary at one’s ease. Who would prefer a struggle with unnecessary casualties? Who would aim to undergo punishment when he could fight scot-free? The outcome of an engagement will be more fortunate if Hunger wages war first. With him as our general let us take the earliest opportunity to strike. Let him decide the issue in our stead while our lines remain tranquil; only if he is overcome must our peace be disturbed. A man battered by fatigue is easily crushed by the unimpaired. The right hand which is weak and shrivelled will enter the fray less vigorously. Whoever has already been drained by hardship will reach more slowly for his sword. Victory comes with a rush when able bodies grapple with gaunt. So we can be responsible for damage to others with none to ourselves.’ Acting accordingly, Dorn destroyed everything that he was uncertain of being able to defend, and so far anticipated the enemy’s wrath in devastating his land that he left nothing intact for the invaders to seize. Then, taking the majority of his forces inside a town of tested strength, he allowed himself to be blockaded. Frothi was not sure whether he could storm it and therefore gave orders for several ditches of unusual depth to be dug within his camp, the earth to be secretly carted in baskets and dumped in the river near the city walls. He took care to keep Dorn ignorant of his device by covering the pits with a mass of turf, intending that the ground should cave in before the unsuspecting enemy and as a result they should plunge forward abruptly and be destroyed. After this he simulated a panic and withdrew his men from the lines for a short while. The people from the town bore hard on the camp, could gain no footing anywhere, and pitched headlong into the trenches, where Frothi’s men rained down their spears and massacred them. Journeying from there he came upon Trann, prince of the Russians; preparatory to spying out his naval forces Frothi made a large number of spikes out of sticks and loaded them into a coracle. After rowing up to the enemy fleet at night, he bored the bottoms of their ships with an auger. Then, to prevent a sudden inrush of the sea he plugged the gaping holes with the pins he had provided, temporarily repairing the damage he had caused. When, however, he believed there were enough perforations to sink the fleet, the bungs were removed to give quick access to the waters, upon which he speedily crowded his own vessels round the enemy’s. Harassed by a double danger, the Russians were not sure whether to combat weapons or water. Their ships were foundering even as they battled to defend them against their foes. Yet the crisis from within was more desperate, for while they were actually unsheathing their blades in the gangways, they were having to retreat before the waves. The wretches were assailed on two fronts at once. So, they were doubtful whether swifter salvation lay in swimming or fighting. This new and fateful emergency interrupted them in the midst of the conflict. The single attack carried twin deaths, two related ways of destruction. It was impossible to tell whether sword or sea offered greater hazard. The waves lapped up quietly and overtook them as they beat off the weapons, and, conversely, they were enfolded by the oncoming blades as they withstood the waters. The ocean wash was polluted with the spraying of blood . After this victory over the Russians Frothi once more sought his own country. But when he learnt that the envoys he had dispatched to Russia to demand tributes had been savagely murdered by the treacherous inhabitants, in anger he followed up this twofold wrong by putting the city of Rotala under very tight siege. Lest its capture be retarded by the intervening river, he channelled the total volume of water into a number of fresh courses, and where there had been a bed of
unmeasured depth made passable fords; he only stopped when its rapid flood had been diminished through drawing it off into the various runnels so that it propelled its streams in a gentler flow, hemming it into winding conduits which gradually thinned into shallows. When the river had thus been brought under control, the town, deprived of its natural defence, fell before the unobstructed incursion of his troops. This task accomplished, he conveyed his army to the city of Paltisca. Since he believed it was invincible by force, he exchanged warfare for deception. Letting only a very few individuals into the secret, he found a dark, hidden retreat and, to assuage the enemy’s apprehension, had it publicly proclaimed that he was dead. In order to gain verisimilitude they celebrated his funeral and erected a barrow. His soldiers, who were now made party to the ruse, mourned as they attended their leader’s supposed last rites. Hearing the report, the city’s ruler, Vespasius, thought the war as good as won; consequently he kept such slack, negligent guard that his adversaries were given the chance to break in and he was slaughtered amid his games and relaxations. Once the city was taken, Frothi’s mind aspired to an Eastern empire and he advanced against the bastions of Handvan. Alerted by the memory of how Hadding had sent his city up in flames, he rid every house of its resident birds so that there should be no risk of similar damage being inflicted. Frothi, however, had a new trick up his sleeve. Exchanging clothes with the maidservants, he disguised himself as a young female warrior and went to the town as a deserter, shedding his masculine appearance and impersonating a woman. After conducting a complete and careful reconnaissance he sent an attendant the next day to order his army to station themselves by the walls; he would personally ensure that the gates were opened. That was how the sentinels were tricked; buried in sleep the city was torn apart, paying for its complacency with annihilation and finding its own indolence more grievous than the enemy’s valour. In military affairs you may observe nothing more ruinous than men dozing in comfort, carefree, relaxed, unobservant, unwarrantably self-confident. When Handvan saw his country’s fortunes utterly overturned, he loaded his regal wealth into ships and sank them in the open sea, wanting to enrich the waves before his foes, though it would have been more satisfactory to capture his adversaries’ goodwill by gifts of money than grudge mankind the advantage of its use. Later, on Frothi’s sending emissaries to request the hand of his daughter, he replied that a victor should take care not to be corrupted by his triumphal success and so become haughty; rather he should remember to spare the vanquished, respect their former splendour, now overthrown, and learn to value the earlier prosperity of those whose fortunes had suffered. He should be cautious not to seize empire where he sought kinship and, if he desired to honour someone through marriage, should not at the same time sully him with mean degradation, for in his fervent greed he was liable to taint the dignity of the union. By the good breeding of his words he simultaneously made the conqueror his son-in-law and preserved the freedom of his realm. Meanwhile Thorhild, wife of the Swedish king Hunding, possessed by a boundless hatred for her stepsons Regner and Thorald, had eventually appointed them royal herdsmen, so that she might involve them in a variety of dangers. Hadding’s daughter Svanhvita journeyed to Sweden, taking her sisters as retinue, in an attempt to forestall the deaths of such noble characters by her woman’s wits. When she perceived these young men surrounded by all kinds of monsters as they guarded their beasts at night, she stopped her sisters from dismounting and spoke these lines: ‘Yes, I can see the monsters racing and leaping, flinging their bodies through the night spaces. Evil spirits make war, an unholy mob, given to wicked strife, battles in the open. These horrors come with visages ghastly to look on and allow these fields to lie free to no mortal. These bands galloping headlong through the empty air tell us that here we must halt, warn us to turn our reins and leave this dread ground, proceed no farther through this countryside. A savage choir of spectres hurtle along the wind, raising their deafening howl to the stars. Satyrs and fauns, horned and hoofed, with wrathful gaze fight alongside the ghosts; with the trolls flock bird-headed fiends pressing their way, deadly ghouls and witches together, furies bound forward, with them devil-gods thronging, jostled by the hell-hag and baboon-faced demons. Terror surges about the path underfoot; we are safer sitting on the backs of tall horses.’ At this Regner admitted that he was a royal slave and gave the reason for his being such a long way from home; he had been removed to the country to watch the cattle, but because he had lost those he had charge over and had no hope of their recovery, he had preferred to stay away rather than incur punishment. Wishing to mention his brother’s situation too, he added these verses: ‘Do not imagine us supernatural beings, but slaves who have driven our herds to graze here. While we passed our time in youthful games our animals strayed to distant fields. And as, with long quest, our hope of discovering them failed, we wretched culprits were gripped with anxiety. A gloomy fear possessed our guilty hearts when clear prints of the oxen showed nowhere. So, we thought it bitter to retire to our rightful homes, dreading the wounding lash. We believed it more prudent to shun the accustomed hearth than feel the blows and suffer the pain. It helps to postpone the torment; hating return, we lurk here to evade our master. To escape reprisal for neglecting the drove, only this way of flight is safe.’ Then Svanhvita scanned his radiant features with a closer regard and greatly admired them: ‘The shimmering flicker of your eyes’, she said, ‘pronounces you the progeny of kings, not of slaves. Your form reveals your race, just as in your glittering look Nature’s beauty shines out. Your sharp sight displays the splendour of your birth and there is no indication of humble origin when the handsomeness which graces you is a manifest token of your nobility. The outward keenness of your glances betrays a bright quality within. Your visage testifies your true family, for in your gleaming countenance may be observed the magnificence of your ancestors. No unworthy begetter could have shed on you such a gracious, aristocratic appearance. The glory of your blood bathes your brow with a kindred glory, and the mirror of your face reflects your innate rank. It was no unknown artist who accomplished such a piece of excellent carving. Now you must turn swiftly, depart frequently from the road to avoid the coven of monsters; your graceful bodies must not become a prey and feast to these foul squadrons.’ Regner blushed deeply at his squalid garb and judged that the only antidote for his shame was to conceal his noble descent. He therefore went on to say that servitude is not always found devoid of manliness; shabby and grimy clothes often envelop and conceal a stout arm, and poor circumstances are redeemed by bravery, deficiency in birth recompensed by freedom of spirit. Consequently he was afraid of no supernatural power save that of the god Thor, to whose vast strength nothing human or divine could reasonably be compared. The hearts of true men should not quake at bogies, fearsome only through their foul, livid aspects, apparitions marked by a false pallor whose temporary corporeal substance was normally borrowed from insubstantial air. She was mistaken to try to sap their firm, tough virility in this womanish way and instil effeminate qualms into stamina which had never known defeat. Svanhvita wondered at the young man’s determination and, banishing from herself the misty clouds of darkness, scattered the shadows obscuring her face to give her surroundings a clear transparency; then, having promised to present him with a sword to meet all kinds of conflict, she revealed her wondrous maiden beauty and the fresh radiance of her limbs. Regner grew so warm towards her that she agreed to marry him and, proffering the sharp blade, she began: ‘Prince, take the first gift from your betrothed, this sword, to whose strokes the monsters will be exposed. Prove yourself duly worthy of it, and make your hand rival the steel and adorn its weapon. Let its iron strength sharpen the point of your soul, and your thoughts be companion to your right arm. Let the bearer match the burden, the sword its performance, an equal severity attend on both. What use is a sabre when the breast is faint and languid and the blade falls from your trembling grip? Let the metal be welded to your spirit and your body be armed by each, fist and hilt in harmony.
Your battles will become famous, for combined these will harden your power, but parted, weaken it. If your pleasure is to win the glorious palm of war, valiantly follow what you hold in your grasp.’ After she had sung much in the same rhythms, she dismissed her companions and spent the night fighting the repulsive hordes of monsters; light returned to reveal the various shapes of phantoms and weirdly fashioned hobgoblins fallen all over the fields, among which might be observed the form of Thorhild herself, covered with gashes. These were heaped into a huge pyre and set alight, so that the sickening stench of their hideous carcasses should not spread a pestilential vapour and afflict anyone approaching with its contamination. When this was over Svanhvita won the Swedish kingdom for Regner, and Regner for her own bed. Although he felt it wrong to inaugurate his royal apprenticeship with a wedding, he discharged his promise kindly, prompted by gratitude because she had saved his life. Meanwhile a man called Ubbi who had long been married to Ulfhild, Frothi’s sister, after administering Denmark as a deputy, traded on his wife’s noble rank and took the kingdom into his own possession. For this reason Frothi was forced to abandon his Eastern campaigns and fought a hard battle in Sweden against Svanhvita, his other sister. In this he was beaten, but having boarded a skiff at night he steered secretly through twisting channels to try to find an approach to the enemy’s fleet so that he could bore holes in it. But he was intercepted by his sister, who demanded to know why he was rowing silently and pursuing such a circuitous route; however, he brought her interrogation to a halt by a similar mode of questioning. She too had embarked at the same hour of night on a lone excursion, coming and going on a gently winding course. She reminded her brother that he had once bestowed on her the freedom to marry and requested that, as he had given her this right of matrimonial independence on the eve of his expedition against the Russians, he should now allow her to enjoy the husband she had taken and after the event validate the match he had sanctioned. Swayed by such reasonable entreaties, Frothi made peace with Regner and at her petition forgave the insult which he felt he had received through his sister’s skittish behaviour. They also presented him with the same number of men they had caused him to lose, delighting him with this handsome gift, which compensated for his humiliating setback.
On Frothi’s entry into Denmark Ubbi was captured, brought before him, and pardoned; rather than subject him to torments he requited the other’s ill-service by forgiveness, because he understood that Ubbi’s attempt at his crown had been prompted more by a pushing wife than his own ambition; he had not been so much an instigator as an imitator of wrongdoing. Ulfhild was removed from him and compelled to wed Frothi’s friend Skott, the eponymous founder of the Scottish race, on the assumption that a change of bedfellow would serve as a penalty. The king even accompanied her departure with a royal cortege, again rewarding an injury by a favour. He had regard for his sister’s birth, not her nature, and an eye to his own reputation rather than her wickedness. Her brother’s kindness brought no lull to her obdurate hatred, and she worked away at the mind of her new husband with plans to assassinate Frothi and seize the Danish sovereignty. The heart is slow to surrender any scheme it has embraced fervently, nor does a defect which has become ingrained as the years have slipped by immediately disappear. The disposition of later life follows on from one’s childhood mind; the imprint of vices which have been stamped on the character at an impressionable age does not fade away quickly. But when she found her husband’s ears deaf, she turned her machinations from her brother to him, and hired ruffians to slit his throat as he slept. A waiting woman disclosed the plot, so that on the night when Skott had heard the murderous work was to be executed he went to bed in his cuirass. Ulfhild enquired why he had put on this steel clothing instead of sleeping in his usual manner, to which he answered that it was just a whim of the moment. As soon as he was thought to be lying in deep slumber, the tools of her knavery burst in, whereupon he slid from the bed and cut them to pieces. The result was that he diverted Ulfhild from weaving stratagems against her brother and by his example warned other men to beware their wives’ treachery. While this was going on, the idea occurred to Frothi of making an attack on Friesland, since he was anxious to display to onlookers in the West the glory he had won in his conquest of the East. His first clash as he marched for the Ocean was with a Frisian pirate, Vitte; Frothi ordered his comrades to take the initial brunt of their enemy’s attacks passively, merely by making a barrier of their shields, and told them not to launch their own missiles till they perceived that the rain of hostile javelins had died out completely. The more keenly the Frisians flung these, the more patiently were they borne by the Danes, making Vitte believe that Frothi’s submissiveness rose from a desire for a truce. Then the battle trumpet brayed loudly and shafts flew off, hissing fiercely. Once the unwary Frisians had run out of weapons, the Danes poured down their spears and overcame them. They fled, hugging the coast, and were slaughtered among the serpentine twists of the canals. Afterwards Frothi’s fleet penetrated the Rhine, where he laid hands on the outlying districts of Germany. Making again for the Ocean, he assailed the Frisian fleet, which had run on to the tortuous shoals, and added carnage to shipwreck. Not satisfied with grinding down so large an army of foes, he next tackled Britain. Having vanquished its ruler, he went on to assault the governor of the Scottish region, Melbrik. Just as Frothi was about to commence hostilities, a scout brought word that the British king was almost upon him; not having the means to handle front and rearguard actions simultaneously, he summoned his troops to a meeting and informed them that they must abandon their chariots, fling away their personal property and scatter the gold they had on them everywhere across the fields, for he maintained that their only good lay in shedding their goods, and there was nothing for it but to entice the encircling enemy from arms to avarice. They should be glad to devote booty won among foreigners to such desperate straits; since it would prove more weighty than profitable, the enemy would eventually be as eager to drop their pickings as they had been to grab them. Then Thorkil, as prominent in greed as he outstripped the rest in eloquence, removed his helmet and leaning on his shield said, ‘This rigorous advice, your majesty, disturbs all those of us who value highly what they have acquired with their blood. Men are loath to cast away what has undoubtedly been won with maximum peril, unwilling to forsake things bought at the risk of their lives. It is the height of insanity to spurn, in this unmanly way, prizes gained by virile hands and hearts, only to bring unlooked for riches to our enemy. What can be worse than to prejudge the luck of war by disdaining the spoils we carry, and to relinquish a ready and assured good through fear of an evil that may never happen? Shall we strew the ground with gold before we have even set eyes on the Scots? When the very thought of war unnerves men as they set out, how are they going to prove in actual battle? Are we, who struck terror into the enemy, to become clowns and exchange our fame for derision? How amazed the Britons will be to observe their conquerors conquered solely by fear. Shall they make us panic-stricken, into whom we previously injected panic? And make us tremble in their absence where we scorned them face to face? When are our virtues likely to raise a fortune if we avoid one through cowardice? Shall we spurn the wealth we fought for, avoiding conflict? Enrich those we should render destitute? We won this plunder by our bravery; shall we feebly throw it away? What act can be more despicable than to pay out gold to men we should be thrashing with the sword? Dread can never remove what was achieved by courage. What we gained in war must only be renounced in war. Let the booty be sold at the price it was bought for, a price to be reckoned in steel. It is finer to die a flamboyant death than moulder away craving the sunlight. We are severed from life in a split second; shame pursues us even beyond the grave. Apart from that, the more the enemy believe us harassed by fear because we are jettisoning the gold, the more hotly they will chase us. Besides, whichever turn of fate is in store for us, neither is an argument for being averse to gold. Victorious we shall exult in the coins we possess, vanquished we shall leave them as payment for our burial.’ So spoke the elder. The soldiers, however, paid more attention to the king’s advice than that of his companion, choosing the former precepts rather than the latter, and competed with each other in emptying all the riches from their chests. They relieved the ponies of the various goods they carried and by clearing their money bags equipped themselves for nimbler action. After they had moved on, the Britons in their wake leapt upon the loot spread everywhere before them. When their king observed them scrambling all too greedily after the money, he warned them not to tire those hands intended for battle with a load of pelf, but realize they must seize a triumph, not possessions. They should accordingly despise the gold and pursue its owners, admire the glitter of victory, not of coinage, and remember that it was better to set their minds on a conqueror’s trophy than material gains. If they properly measured the nature of both, courage was more potent than metal. For the latter only gave outside ornament, the former conferred the reward of internal and external grace. This was why they must divert their gaze from money, tear their inclinations from avarice, and direct them enthusiastically towards warfare. They should also be well aware that this plunder was pitched away by the enemy for a purpose: the gold was sown to trap them, not profit them. The innocently shining silver was a bait concealing a treacherous hook. This must not be judged a straightforward flight, for these were troops who had themselves earlier forced brave British folk to flee. Nothing was more intolerable than lucre, which brought into captivity the snatcher who thought he was being enriched. The Danes, while pretending to offer them treasure, really believed they should be put to the sword. So, if the Britons caught up this jetsam, they should feel they were lining up the enemy. Once affected by the sight of this money laid out in the open they would lose not only that but all their present assets too. What was the use of amassing something they would be compelled to disgorge immediately? If, on the other hand, they refused to let the treasure lay them flat, they would certainly flatten the enemy. They should be elevated by intrepidity, not grovel in greed, their souls not sinking into avarice but straining aloft towards honour; the contest must be fought with weapons, not wealth. As their ruler finished, a British knight, displaying to everyone a lapful of gold, replied: ‘I can distinguish two emotions in your speech, king, one evincing your fear, the other your malice; you forbid us to enjoy these riches because of the enemy, and think it more satisfactory for us to serve you in poverty than amply endowed. What wish could be meaner? What instigation more stupid? Shall we hesitate to lift up treasure we recognize, treasure taken from our own homes? Shall we shun what we are striving to regain with our weapons, what we are bent on retrieving by our blood, when it is restored gratis? Shall we be slow to appropriate what is ours anyway? Which is the greater coward, the man who casts away his winnings or the one who is frightened of picking them up when someone has dropped them? See, chance has restored what compulsion wrenched from us. These are our spoils not the enemy’s; the Dane did not come to present gold to the British but robbed them of it. After we lost it under pressure and unwillingly, shall we flee it when it returns by itself? It’s a sin to be ungrateful for such huge favour granted by Fortune. What bigger madness could there be than to reject opulence displayed publicly like this, and seek to obtain the same when it is under lock and key? Shall we turn up our noses at what is ranged before us, so that we can grasp at it when it vanishes? Be abstemious about something set in our midst, yet aim at what is far away from our reach? When are we likely to make a haul from foreigners when we resist our own effects? The gods will never be so hostile as to force me to empty away the rightful inheritance from my father and grandfather which fills my lap with its weight. I know all about Danish self-indulgence; they would never have abandoned vessels brimming with wine if terror had not forced them to run. They would sooner have sacrificed their lives than their liquor. This is one mutual disposition where there is a clear resemblance between us. Well then, suppose their flight was a pretence; in that case they will find themselves encountering the Scots before they can turn back. This gold shall never be trampled on by pigs or other beasts, and rust away on the ground instead of being put to better use by men. Besides, if we snatch plunder from the army which defeated us we shall be transferring the victor’s luck to ourselves. And what surer forecast of victory could we have than pillage before battle and capturing our foe’s deserted camp even before the fray? Fear is a better vanquisher than the sword.’ The knight had scarcely ended before you could see every hand on every side grabbing at the loot, clutching at the gleaming coins. You would have gazed stupefied at the loathsome nature of their greed, could you have believed this extravagant exhibition of rapacity. You might have observed grass and gold being torn up together, internal disagreements arising and sword-fights between fellowcountrymen without thought of their adversaries, with no respect for the ties of intimacy and brotherhood, everyone grasping, no one friendly. Meanwhile Frothi, having marched the whole length of the forest which separates Scotland and Britain, ordered his soldiers to take up their arms. As soon as the Scots glimpsed their battle array and saw only light javelins in their own hands while the Danes were equipped in a far superior fashion, they turned tail before the encounter. Fearing a sally from the Britons, Frothi only pursued them a little way, till he met Skott, Ulfhild’s husband, with a large army, for a desire to lend support to the Danes had drawn him from the farthest borders of Scotland. Skott suggested he give up harassing the natives and turn his steps again to Britain, but first Frothi briskly recovered the booty he had artfully abandoned. He regained it as easily and calmly as he had discarded it. Only when their avarice was paid for in blood did the Britons regret their encumbrance. They were vexed at having stretched out their arms for the sake of their unquenchable greed. And they were ashamed to have heeded their own appetites before the king’s exhortation.
Next he made for London, the most highly populated township in the island. After its strong walls had denied any possibility of taking it by storm, however, he found resource in subtlety and feigned death. When the governor, Daleman, heard the false news of his decease he accepted the Danes’ surrender and offered them a leader from among the inhabitants. Then he allowed them into the city to select one of a large company of candidates. The Danes acted out the election seriously, but laid a snare at night, surrounded Daleman, and took his life. Once these operations were over Frothi returned to his kingdom and was received with a banquet by a certain Skati, who meant to sweeten his king’s martial toils with some pleasurable relaxation. In his hall Frothi, lying regally on a couch upholstered in cloth of gold, was challenged to combat by one Hunding, and though his mind was bent on the joys of conviviality, exhilarated by the scent of battle more than the feast before him, he wound up the dinner with a duel, and the duel with victory. Although he had received a possibly dangerous wound in this combat, he was again stung to action by the champion Håkon and exacted vengeance for his disturbed leisure by slaying his contender. He had two valets, who were clearly convicted of lése-majesté, drowned in the sea with great boulders attached to their bodies, a punishment to match a crime of weighty intent. Some say that at that time Ulfhild had given him as a present a coat impenetrable to steel, so that when he donned it the point of no weapon could injure him. I should not forget to mention that Frothi regularly used to sprinkle his food with grains of crushed and pounded bits of gold as a prophylactic against the usual plots of poisoners. While he was attacking the Swedish monarch Regner, who had been falsely charged with betraying him, he perished, not by force of weapons, but suffocated under the load of his own armour and the heat of his body; he left behind three sons, Halfdan, Roi, and Skati. As these princes were of equal prowess, so the same thirst for rule seized all of them. Each fixed his concern on his own sovereignty and none felt restrained by any fraternal regard. No man consumed by self-interest and engrossed in his own ambitions is altruistic. The eldest of them, Halfdan, contaminated his birth with brutality; he snatched the realm by murdering his two brothers, Roi and Skati, and, to complete this display of cruelty, arrested their adherents, bound them in chains, and shortly sent them to the gallows. From that time onwards his good fortune was quite amazing; though he devoted every minute of his time to committing atrocities he died of old age without being stabbed. His sons were Roi and Helgi. The former is remembered for his foundation of Roskilde, whose population was enlarged and size increased later by Sven, well known for his epithet of Forkbeard. Roi was short and lean, Helgi taller. In dividing the kingdom with his brother, Helgi obtained sway over the sea and with his navy attacked and subjugated Skalk, king of the Wends. When he had reduced it to the status of a province, he sailed up and down surveying the various coastal inlets. Although his disposition was savage he matched ferocity with lechery. He threw himself so readily into sensual delights that you could hardly judge whether he was fired more by despotism or lust. On the island of Thurø he raped a virgin, Thora, who afterwards gave birth to a daughter she named Yrsa. He defeated the Saxon king Hunding, son of Sirik, in a battle at the town of Stade and, challenging him to single combat, laid him low. For this feat he was called Slayer of Hunding and took the glory of his victory from this title. Wresting the mastery of Jutland from the Saxons, he appointed his generals, Eske, Eir, and Ler, to superintend it. He determined that the killing of a noble and of a freedman in Saxony should be atoned for with equivalent sums of money, as though he wanted to establish plainly that all the Teuton households were bound in similar slavery and everyone, now his freedom was extinguished, savoured an equally shameful status. After he had turned back to the island of Thurø to practise piracy, Thora, who had not yet stopped grieving over her lost maidenhead, invented a wicked deception to take hideous revenge for her violation. She deliberately sent her daughter, now of marriageable age, down to the shore, instructing her to defile her father in fornication. Though Helgi had devoted his body to the dangerous allurements of the flesh, you must not imagine that he had shed all his spiritual integrity, since in this case he had the benefit of ignorance, which gave ready pardon to his sin. Senseless mother, to allow her daughter to throw away her chastity merely to avenge herself and to care nothing for the purity of her own kin as long as she could make him guilty of incest for having formerly cost her her virginity! What a depraved mind this woman had, to grant what might be called a second defilement of herself in order to punish her ravisher, when by her very action she was not diminishing the wrong, but the reverse! In the belief that she was gaining vengeance she accumulated guilt; in the desire to efface her injury she added a crime and played the stepmother to her child, whom she did not spare from disgrace provided she could make amends for her own degradation. There is no doubt that her soul was completely shameless when she could depart so far from decency as to seek comfort for the outrage in her girl’s dishonour, without so much as a blush. The impiety was great, but redeemed in one way: offensive as the union was, it was cleansed by a blessed offspring, a happy consequence to a miserable, disreputable affair. For Yrsa’s son Rolf rescued his birth from discredit by striking and meritorious deeds; their remarkable splendour was proclaimed and trumpeted by all succeeding ages. Gloom occasionally ends in joy and inauspicious beginnings give place to brilliant conclusions. So his father’s blunder was favourable as it was infamous, and subsequently atoned for by his marvellous son in a blaze of glory. In the meantime Regner of Sweden died and his wife, Svanhvita, herself very soon contracted a disease through her sorrow and passed away, following in death her husband, from whom she had never been able to bear separation during his life. It often happens that people who have lavished outstanding affection on the living struggle to accompany them when they depart from this world. They were succeeded by their son Hothbrod, who, zealous to extend his empire, launched a campaign in the East and wreaked extensive slaughter among those peoples; later he had two sons, Athisl and Hother. For these he engaged a tutor, Gevar, a man closely linked with the king by the great services he had rendered. Not satisfied with his Eastern victory, Hothbrod went for Denmark and, after challenging King Roi in three engagements, killed him. When he learnt of this, Helgi confined his son Rolf in the fortress of Lejre, anxious for the safety of his heir regardless of what Fortune did with his own. Then, wanting to free his country from alien rule, he sent his henchmen through the towns to massacre the governors Hothbrod had installed there. Hothbrod too, with all his forces, he eradicated in a conflict at sea and thereby repaid the outrage to his brother and to his homeland with fully armed vengeance. So it transpired that as he had recently taken a nickname from slaying Hunding, he now won another through Hothbrod’s overthrow. On top of this, as if he had not shattered them enough in battle, he punished the Swedes with a most humiliating ordinance, forbidding redress, according to principles of legal compensation, to anyone who had been wronged. When this had been effected, loathing his country and home because of the shameful thing he had once done, Helgi journeyed to eastern lands and died there. Some believe that, being distressed when he was taunted for his villainy, he chose to perish by his own hand and therefore fell on his drawn sword. He was succeeded by his son Rolf, a man endowed with grace in body and mind, one who enhanced his mighty physique with bravery to match. During his reign, when Sweden lay under the arm of Denmark, Hothbrod’s son Athisl, seeking a clever means of freeing his country, contrived to take Yrsa, Rolf’s mother, as his wife, reckoning that the close ties of marriage would intervene and he could advise his stepson more effectively about relieving their Swedish taxes. Fate fell in with his wishes. Now Athisl had hated generosity from his childhood, and was so grasping over money that he believed it was a disgrace to be thought charitable. When Yrsa realized his ingrained meanness and greed she was keen to dispense with him and, deciding she must set a trap, skilfully kept up appearances to hide her method of deceit. She pretended disloyalty to her son, and with exhortations to rebellion prompted her husband to seize his freedom; at the same time she ensured that her son was bidden to Sweden with promises of enormous benefits. She believed her satisfaction would be complete if Rolf laid hands on his stepfather’s gold and it were possible to snatch it and escape; thus she would have been able to cheat her husband of his riches as well as his bedfellow. In her opinion there was no better way of getting even with a miser than removing his treasure.
As she cloaked her desire for a change of partner beneath seeming aspirations to liberty, the depth of her guile, issuing from inward habits of cunning, could not easily be detected. Blind husband, to imagine that a mother was inflamed against the person of her own son and not understand that she was arranging his own destruction instead! What a doltish husband, not to notice his wife’s headstrong perseverance in saying she detested her son, when she was only striving to find a chance for a different mate! No one should place any confidence in the female mind, yet he was idiot enough to trust a woman to the extent of believing she could more unhesitatingly be faithful to him than treacherous to her son. Rolf was roused by her large promises, but it so happened that when he entered the palace of Athisl his mother did not recognize him through his long absence and their discontinued intimacy, and he therefore jokingly asked for some relief towards staying his hunger. When she told him to beg his breakfast from the king, he extended a torn section of his coat and asked if she would mend it. Since her ears were still deaf to his voice he added: ‘It’s difficult to discover a friendship that’s true and unswerving when a mother won’t serve her son with a meal and a sister won’t consent to sew her brother’s clothes.’ Thus he reprimanded her mistake and made her feel deeply abashed at denying him her kindness. When amid the feasting Athisl caught sight of him sharing his mother’s couch, he charged them both with wanton behaviour, maintaining that it was indelicate for a brother and sister to recline side by side. Rolf answered that their embraces were honourable, those of a mother affectionate to her son, and defended his innocence against these aspersions by reference to their close natural ties. Being asked by the guests what kind of bravery he set above all others, he named endurance. When the same people demanded of Athisl to which virtue he found himself committed most by his ideals, he put forward his claim to munificence. Then demonstrations of courage from one and generosity from the other were required, and Rolf was told to furnish his proof of valour first. They took him extremely close to the fire, where he presented a small shield to shelter the part which was being rather fiercely scorched; although the other side remained unprotected he bore it with unique and unflinching patience. What a quick brain the man had, making him borrow assistance from the shield, which at other times he had used amid the whistling spears, to mitigate the heat and guard his body from exposure to the flames. The blaze stung harder than weapons and attacked the undefended quarter, though it could not conquer his shielded flank. But a serving-wench who chanced to be standing near the hearth saw that he was being roasted by the unbearable heat on his ribs; she removed the stopper from a jar and spilt some of the liquid to quench the flames and check the fire torture before it was too late. After it was all over Rolf was congratulated on his capacity for endurance. Then Athisl was asked to supply presents. They say that he showered wealth on his stepson, and lastly, to crown his gifts, gave him a collar of huge weight. Yrsa, who was watching for a chance to put her trickery into operation, on the third day of banqueting, without the least suspicion on her husband’s part, heaped the royal treasure on to wagons and withdrew stealthily from her home, taking flight with her son on a dimly lit night. Later, terrified at the thought of Athisl at their heels and in total despair of fleeing farther, she persistently urged her companions to throw away the money, since, she stated, it was a matter of losing life or wealth; the only short cut to safety lay in rejecting the treasure, and running away would only help them if they discarded their possessions. They must therefore repeat the precedent which, according to report, Frothi had devised for himself in Britain. She added that it would not cost them much if they deposited the Swedes’ property for them to pick up, provided they could thereby gain a start and retard their pursuers at the same time; they should feel they were restoring others’ goods rather than losing their own. Without any waste of time the queen’s orders were fulfilled, to make sure they got away more speedily. The gold was unloaded from their bags and valuables left for their enemies to seize on. Some claim that Yrsa kept the real money and strewed in her wake ordinary coins coated with gold. It is quite credible that a woman who could have contrived so much should also have embellished the base metal she intended for dispersal with a meaningless lustre, and pretended that the gleam of counterfeit gold represented currency of true worth. Athisl, seeing abandoned among the other golden regalia the collar which was his present to Rolf, gazed fixedly at the dearest token of his avarice; to catch up this spoil he pressed his knees to the earth and thought fit to stoop his royalty for greed. When Rolf spied him bending face down to pick up the treasure, grovelling for his own gifts, he chortled at the idea of someone desperately retrieving what he had craftily given away. The Swedes were satisfied with their booty and Rolf’s party swiftly boarded ships to make their getaway by hard rowing. Men say that Rolf with instant generosity used to grant any petition at first hearing and never postponed it till the second request. He preferred to forestall a repeated supplication by speedy liberality rather than blemish his kindness with delay. This brought a great crowd of champions to his court. Prowess at most times is nourished with prizes and spurred on through men’s praise. In the same period a man named Agner, son of Ingiald, who was to marry Rolf’s sister Ruta, provided an enormous feast for the wedding. During this celebration the champions fell into wild, reckless revelry and were pitching knobbly bones from all sides of the room at a certain Hialti when the man by his side, Biarki by name, received a violent blow on the head as the thrower missed his aim. Smarting under the pain and their mockery, he flung the bone back at the sender, twisting the front of the fellow’s head towards the back and vice versa, so that he punished his crooked nature by giving him distorted features. This incident subdued their arrogant horseplay and forced the champions to quit the palace. The bridegroom, exasperated at this outrage during his banquet, decided that he would fight a sword duel with Biarki to take revenge for the disruption of his merrymaking. At the outset there was argument for a while as to which of them should deal the first stroke. In days of old when contests were arranged they did not try to exchange a hail of blows but hit at one another in definite sequence with a gap between each turn; the thrusts during such contests were infrequent but savage, with the result that it was their force rather than number which won acclaim. Precedence was given to Agner because of his higher rank, and the account has it that he gave a cut of such might that he clove the front of Biarki’s helmet, tore the skin on his scalp and had to let go of the sword which was stuck in the vizor holes. When Biarki’s turn came to strike, he braced his foot against a log to get a better swing to his sword and drove the knife-edged blade straight through Agner’s midriff. Some maintain that his dying mouth relaxed into a smile, a supreme disguise of his agony as he gave up the ghost. As the champions eagerly sought his revenge they were dealt a similar fate by Biarki. He wielded an unusually long and sharp sword which he called Løv. While he was still rejoicing in his triumphs, a wild creature from the woods provided him with a further victory. When a gigantic bear met him among the thickets he dispatched it with his javelin and then told Hialti, his comrade, to apply his mouth and suck out the beast’s blood so that he might achieve greater strength. It was believed that this type of drink afforded an increased bodily vigour. By such deeds of courage he made distinguished friendships among the nobility and even became a firm favourite of the king, who gave him his sister Ruta for a wife, the betrothed of his late victim as a prize of victory. When Athisl again provoked Rolf, Biarki took up arms to exact vengeance on him, overcoming and crushing him in the war. A very shrewd young man, Hiarthvar, was married by Rolf to his other sister Skuld, and on the condition of paying an annual tribute was made governor of Sweden, in the hope that this generous alliance with the royal family would be a palliative for his loss of freedom. At this point in my work I should like to insert a pleasant anecdote. A youth called Viggi, examining Rolf’s huge frame with concentrated attention, was consumed with admiration and jokingly began to enquire who this Krake was that lavish Nature had endowed with such a towering summit, adding more witty banter on account of his extraordinary stature. ‘Krake’ in Danish means a tree trunk where you can climb to the top on the half-lopped branches; using the stumps of the boughs like a ladder men gain footholds and, ascending gradually higher, find the shortest way to the height they want. This casual utterance Rolf took as a glorious surname for himself and rewarded the happy expression with a large bracelet. Viggi, raising his ornamented right wrist and twisting his left behind his back in affected embarrassment, strutted along grotesquely and declared that one whom Fortune had long kept in penury was overjoyed with this tiny present. Asked why he behaved like that, he replied that the hand which boasted no token of adornment, when it beheld the other, coloured with a shamefaced blush at its poverty. For the wit of his repartee he received another gift to complement the first. Rolf made sure that the hidden hand was summoned into the open to follow the other’s example. Viggi was not slow to pay back the kindness, firmly announcing his promise that if ever Rolf should fall by the sword he would surely execute retribution on the murderers. I ought to mention also that at one time nobles who were about to enter the court used to pledge their first term of service to their rulers by vowing to perform some great exploit and initiate their apprenticeship with a show of courage. Meanwhile Skuld, who was deeply disturbed at the indignity of paying tribute, bent her mind to evil contrivances; by denouncing the humiliating terms she egged on her husband to throw off his servitude, induced him to weave snares for Rolf, and filled him with barbarous schemes for revolt, demonstrating that every individual is bound more to freedom than to kinship. She then gave orders for a large consignment of weapons to be concealed under various coverings and transported like tribute to Denmark under the eye of Hiarthvar, to afford means to kill the king during the night. Ships were loaded with a cargo of this spurious revenue and sailed to Lejre; this was a town built by Rolf and beautified with the kingdom’s finest treasures, so that it excelled all the other cities of adjoining provinces by its importance as a royal foundation and residence. The king had marked Hiarthvar’s arrival with the luxury of a sumptuous feast at which he caroused freely, while his guests, contrary to their habit, were wary of excessive drinking. While the others therefore were enjoying a profound sleep, the Swedes, who had foregone the normal rest in their eagerness to prosecute the crime, began to steal furtively from their bedrooms. They directly opened up the cache of arms from which each quietly fitted himself with his own fighting-gear. Then they made for the palace, broke into the inner chambers, and drew their swords on the sleepers. Many were dazed with drowsiness as they woke to meet the horror of the unexpected coup and offered only a faltering resistance, since the deceptive darkness made it uncertain whether they were running up against friend or enemy. As it chanced, during the silence of that night Hialti, who surpassed all the other nobles of the court in his proven worth, had gone off to the country to enjoy the embraces of a wanton. When the crashes that arose from the distant fighting fell on his amazed ears, he set bravery before lust and preferred to seek the deadly test of war rather than wallow in the smooth enticements of love. Can we guess what affection for his monarch burned in this soldier, who reckoned it better to risk his safety in obvious danger rather than save himself for pleasure, even though he could have pretended ignorance and put forward the excuse of his absence? At his departure his mistress started to ask how old a man she should marry, if she were to lose him. Hialti told her to come close as if he wished to whisper something confidentially but, resenting that she needed a successor to his love, made her ugly by cutting off the end of her nose; a disfiguring wound was left as punishment for her lustful question, for he reckoned that the loss of her good looks should restrain her lecherous disposition. Afterwards he informed her that she was quite free to make up her own mind on the subject. Then he quickly regained the town, plunged into the thickest of the fray and mowed down the opposition by inflicting as good wounds as they dealt. Passing the bedchamber of Biarki, who was still asleep, he commanded him to wake with these exhortations: ‘Rise swiftly, whoever through his deserts is proud to be the king’s friend, or is such from loyalty alone. Princes, shake off your sleep, away with vile stupor; heat your minds to alertness, for each right arm shall bring fame or steep your lassitude in disgrace; this night shall see vengeance or stop our ills forever. I do not ask you to learn to sport with young girls and stroke their tender cheeks, or give a bride sweet kisses and squeeze her delicate breasts, drinking the flowing wine as you rub her smooth thigh and cast your glance at her snow-white shoulders. No, I rouse you to the bitter contests of war. We need to fight, not frolic in love; no action here for nerveless languor; this moment calls us to conflict. Seize arms every man who loves his king. The scales of battle are ready to weigh our souls. So, let the brave cast out their tremors or mildness; pleasure must forsake our minds and yield to weapons. Our wages now are glory. Each can control his own reputation, illustrious by his right hand. No room here for sensual promptings; all must learn sternly to undo the present mischief. A man who covets the title of fame or the prizes mustn’t grow faint with lethargic fear, but should tackle bold men, nor grow pale at the icy steel.’ Biarki was woken by his words; he promptly roused his groom, Skalk, and spoke to him thus: 'Arise, lad, and fan the flames up hard; rake the hearth with a stick and clear the thin ashes. Strike up the sparks, rekindle the dying embers, entice the cinders to yield their smothered blaze. Force the languid fire to bring forth its light, and make the coals glow red with dry tinder. It will help to stretch one’s fingers towards the warmth. In aiding a friend your hands must unfreeze, fully dispel the unhealthy pallor induced by cold.’ Once more Hialti cried: 'Sweet it is to repay the gifts from our master, to grip the sword and devote our weapons to glory. See how courage prompts each to follow his deserving king and guard his leader with proper commitment. Remember the Teuton blades, the shining helmets and armbands, mail coats down to the ankle, which Rolf once gave to his men, and sharpen your hearts for battle. The occasion justly demands that whatever we gained in deep, peaceful leisure we earn by mastery in war, now setting harsh affairs before joyful courses, not always preferring easy to grim fortunes.
With matching mind, my lords, let us seize either destiny; chance shall not rule our ways; we should suffer equally delights or difficulties, and with like countenance lead bitter lives as when we drank our honeyed years. The boasts, which our swigging mouths uttered over their goblets, let us perform with mettlesome minds, and pursue our oaths to the highest god and the powers above. Let each man’s excellence come to the aid of my master, the first of Danes; away, away you absconders! We need the brave and unwavering, not the tail-turner in uncertainty, who shuns the fierce apparatus of war. A captain’s greatest valour often hangs on his soldiers, for a prince enters the fighting more untroubled, the stronger the band of nobles who hem him round. Now let each thane’s warlike fingers snatch up arms, grabbing the sword hilt, clutching the shield, to rush on the enemy, nor blanch before his strokes. Let none allow himself to be struck from behind, provide his back for the sword thrust; martial breasts ever expose themselves to wounds. Eagles fight face-foremost with swift, gaping beaks swooping to the front; see that you match those birds and dread no stroke as it rushes to meet your body. See the enemy raging, too self-confident, his limbs protected in steel, his face by a gilded helm, penetrating our wedge formations, seemingly sure of victory, fearless of rout, unconquerable. Alas, these Swedes are assured, contemptuous of Danes. Wild-eyed and grim-looking, Götar press upon us with crested helmets and clattering spears; to accomplish heavy destruction in our blood they brandish their swords and axes ground on the whetstone. Why should I mention you, Hiarthvar, whom Skuld filled with ill counsel, brutalized with crime? Why should I sing of you, villain, cause of our peril, our glorious king’s betrayer, whom fell desire of ruling prompted to mischief, spurred on by frenzy, screening yourself with the immortal guilt of your wife?
What misguidance hurled you to this blind wickedness, a plague to the Danes and your lord? Whence arose such sacrilege constructed on frames of deceit? . Why do I linger? Our last meal is already tasted. The king is perishing, this poor town caught in its doom. Our final day has dawned, unless perhaps there is one here so soft that he fears to confront the blows, so unwarlike that he dare not avenge his master and outlaws all honours due to a valiant soul. Arise too, Ruta, and show your snow-pale head, come forth from hiding and issue into battle. The outdoor carnage beckons you; fighting now shakes the palace, harsh strife batters the gates. Iron shivers the breast armour, the woven mail is rent, and heart strings succumb to a rain of weapons. Now great hatchets have hacked away the king’s shield, now the long blades clash, and the double-edged axe crunches down through shoulder-blades, cleaving the breast. Why do our hearts flutter? Dull swords grow blunt? Our men desert the gate filled with foreigners’ roar.’. After Hialti, dealing immense slaughter, had painted the battleground with blood, he lighted a third time on Biarki’s quarters and, since he imagined him afraid and wanting to be left in peace, tried to censure his cowardice thus: ‘Why aren’t you out, Biarki? You’re not still deep asleep? What’s the delay? Come out or be burnt alive. Hey! Choose the braver course! Charge at my side! . Bears may be warded off with fire; let us strew the interior with flames, starting at the outer doorposts. Torch the bedchamber, let the falling roof provide fuel to nourish the conflagration. It is right to spread a blaze to a doomed gateway. We who revere our ruler with keener devotion must join in firm wedges, measure out the phalanx in sure ranks, and march as bidden by our king, who once felled Rørik, son of Bøgi the miser, wrapped in death the man who lacked all prowess. For he was outstandingly wealthy, yet poor in the way of enjoying it, rich from usury, but not in worth, thinking gold stronger than armies, subordinated all to gain, and, missing fame, heaped up treasure while he spurned the service of noble friends. Challenged by Rolf’s fleet he ordered servants to unpack the gold from his chests, haul it out of the city, and scatter it before the gates, providing gifts before warfare, since, without soldiery, he thought his enemies ought to be tested by bribes not arms, as though he would fight with his funds alone, and conduct his campaign by employing money instead of men. He unlocked his heavy coffers, unbarred his strongroom, producing rounded armlets and laden caskets, a mound of opulence, but the touchwood of his ruin; hopeless in war, he left his foes to seize those prizes which he had kept from his fellow-countrymen. He who once grudged to give rings, poured out the weight of his treasure unwillingly, despoiled his ancient pile. Our wise king spurned his offered presents, deprived him both of life and property; nor did the useless fortune, hoarded over long years, profit this foe. Noble Rolf attacked and slew him, confiscated his greatest riches, and shared with deserving comrades all that that covetous hand had heaped through the years; breaking into a camp more rich than fortified, he provided his allies, bloodlessly, with choice booty. Nothing for him was too beautiful to expend, too precious to give his fellows; money he equated with ashes, and measured his years with lustre, not lucre. From this it is clear that our king, who now has met an illustrious fate, has passed his days in distinction, and a brilliant and manly death has crowned his years. Afire with courage while he lived, allotted the strength to suit his magnificent build, he overcame all. Headlong he shot to the fray, like a rushing river which sweeps to the sea, quick to clutch at battle, as the cloven-hoofed stag speeds on its fleet course. See how amid the pools of human gore the dislodged teeth of the slain are swept in the rapid flow of blood and polished by abrasive sand. Dashed in the mud they glint, while the red torrent carries splintered bones and swills over lopped-off limbs. A rising river of blood is squeezed, hotly frothing, from Danish veins to form broad lakes, an inundation which rolls the scattered corpses. The tireless Hiarthvar falls on the Danes, loving the skirmish, with out-thrust spear taunting them to fight. Yet here I see amid the dangers and dooms of battle, happy and smiling, the descendant of Frothi, who once sowed gold in the fields of Fyrisvallar. Let us too be exalted with joy, following in honourable death the fate of our noble father. Let our voices be cheerful, bold, and vigorous. It is right to despise panic with spirited words and embrace death with deeds worthy of record. Hearts and mouths, quit your fear; each must display resolute striving, and no one level a reproach that at any point we showed a sign of wavering. Let the drawn sword balance the weight of gifts. Glory follows the dead, fame shall survive crumbling remains, and what perfect courage has accomplished now, shall never fade in succeeding ages. What are you doing behind closed doors? Why do these locks and bolts secure them? For the third time I command you to emerge from your enclosure, Biarki.’ Biarki replied: ‘Warlike Hialti, why do you summon me, Rolf’s brother-in-law, so loudly? Whoever professes feats of might and calls others to arms with magniloquent words is bound to match his boasts with deeds as bold, and testify speeches by works. But wait until Pm armed with the fearsome garb of war. Now I’m girding the sword to my side, now just donning my cuirass and helmet, as my temples receive the headgear and my chest is hidden by the inflexible metal. None is less anxious than I to burn within barred chambers, a living pyre in his own home. Although I was born on an island, a narrow piece of earth, I feel bound to repay to the king the dozen vassals he gave for my honour. Heed me, brave soldiers! No one destined to perish shall clothe his body in a corselet; the last thing should be to fasten on linked mail; turn the shields to your backs; let us struggle with bared breasts; all thicken your biceps with gold, put bracelets on your right arms to make you hurl more powerful blows and plant grievous wounds. Keep your feet pointing forward! Each man vie eagerly to approach the enemy swords, the menacing spears, and avenge our dear lord. Happy he above all who could deal revenge for this great wickedness, punish this crime of treachery with his righteous blade. But listen! I fully believe I once pierced the untamed Stag with my Teuton sword, Snirtir, from which I received my name of Warrior when I vanquished Agner, son of Ingiald, and brought back home the trophy. As it struck my head, his sword, Høking, shivered, dashed to pieces as it bit; the blade would have rent more deeply had it been forged with a tougher edge. In return I cut his left hand away, part of that flank, and the right foot; my sword slid down his body and plunged deep through the middle of his ribs. I never saw, by heaven, a braver man; he collapsed half-conscious and leaning on his elbow welcomed his fate with a smile, laughed death to scorn, as he passed on to the other world exultant. High courage he had, clever to conceal his moment of death with a grin, to suppress the utmost anguish of body and mind with a cheerful expression. With this same steel, too, I probed the living entrails of one who was born of renowned pedigree, plunged the weapon deep into his vitals. A royal son, he glowed with the blood of his grandsires, eminent in talents, bright with the tenderness of youth. No chain of metal could prove useful to him, no blade, no smooth shield-boss, no kind of defence could ever impede the exuberant force of my sword. Where are Götaland’s leaders, the soldiers of Hiarthvar? Let them advance and reward their strength with blood! Who whirl the shafts in flight but the scions of kings? The aristocracy initiates war; celebrated progeny execute battle, a business which peasants never achieve, but only their leaders will hazard. Glorious princes die here. See, mighty Rolf, your courtiers have fallen, your dutiful nobles founder. The death god is seizing for doom no lowly, obscure race, no cheap rabble souls, but enmeshes the rulers and fills his river below with figures of fame. I don’t remember a contest when the swords were crossed as swiftly, more strokes dealt for strokes. For each blow of mine I take three; thus the Go tar exchange wounds with us, but with stronger arm these foes wrest compensation with compound interest. Yet still alone I’ve handed over in battle a multitude of lusty bodies to Death, so that a hill would rise high if the severed limbs were heaped, and the piled corpses assume the look of a burial-mound. But what is he doing who told me just now to come forth, extolling himself with high praise, but bruising others with arrogant words and sowing bitter taunts, as if he encompassed twelve lives in one body?’. Hialti answered him: ‘Though I enjoy small support, I’m not far away; here too, where we stand, help is needed; as never before we require the might of a picked band of men, redoubtable in battle. The hard sword edges and arrows have cut my shield to splinters, now the ravenous steel has torn off pieces and devoured them bit by bit in the mélée. This scene is its own chief witness and testimony; report gives way to sight, and the eye is more credible than the ear; for the straps and pierced boss hewn around in a circle are all that now remain of my shattered shield. Are you strong now, Biarki, even though you hesitated more than was right; will you redeem your delay by forthrightness?’. But Biarki retorted: ‘Haven’t you finished pestering and irritating me with reproaches? There is more than one cause for delay. I was lingering because I encountered a Swedish sword which the vigorous thrust of a foe launched into my breast. Whoever guided the hilt did not drive it frugally; though I was armoured, it travelled as far as it would through a bare and defenceless body, pierced the covering of hard metal as if it were yielding water, for the rough bulk of my breastplate afforded no help. But now, where is the one whom the people call Odin, powerful in arms, content with a single eye? Tell me, Ruta, is there anywhere you can spy him?’. Ruta replied: ‘Bring your gaze nearer and look through my arms akimbo; you must first hallow your eyes with the sign of victory to recognize the war god safely face to face.’ Then Biarki: ‘If I should set eyes on the fearsome husband of Frigg, though he is protected by his white shield, and manoeuvres his tall horse, he shall not go unhurt from Lejre; it is right to lay low the warrior god in battle.
Let a radiant doom overtake those who fall before the face of their king. While life lasts may we strive to perish with honour and our hands reap a fine end. Struck down I shall die at the head of my slain leader, while you will drop face-foremost at his feet, so that one who views body on body may see how we made return for the gold received from our master. We shall be the carrion of ravens and nourish gluttonous eagles, our bodies a banquet for birds of prey. It is proper that jarls, though fearless in war, should fall, and embrace their illustrious king in a common death.’ I have particularly composed this set of admonitory speeches in metre because the same thoughts and arguments, arranged within the compass of a Danish poem, are frequently recited from memory by many who are conversant with ancient deeds. So it came about that the Götar won victory and every one of Rolf’s troop of young fighters met his fate, with the exception of Viggi. In that affray so much homage was thought due by his soldiers to the king’s outstanding merits that his murder roused in all a desire to encounter oblivion, and they judged it sweeter to be united with him in death than in life. Hiarthvar, overjoyed, gave orders for dinner tables to be set up, so that feasting might ensue after battle and attend his victory. After he had gorged himself to capacity, he proclaimed himself quite astonished that he had not discovered one of Rolf’s large force who took thought for his own safety through flight or surrender. Hence it was clear with what loyal devotion they worshipped their ruler, since none could bear to survive him. He accounted it his own bad fortune that had not allowed a single remaining follower to direct such allegiance to himself; how very glad he would have been, he asserted, to employ such fellows in his bodyguard. He was as delighted as if he had been handed a gift when Viggi presented himself, and he enquired whether he was willing to serve him. Viggi nodded and was offered a drawn sword. He refused the point and demanded the hilt, declaring that this was Rolf’s custom as he proffered a sword to his warriors. For in those days when they were about to become the king’s dependants they would promise fealty by touching the handle. His stipulation was met, but as soon as Viggi grasped the hilt he drove the point straight through Hiarthvar, gaining the revenge he had once guaranteed to Rolf that he would accomplish. Triumphant at the act, he offered his body all the more readily to Hiarthvar’s soldiery as they dashed at him, shouting that he felt more pleasure in dispatching a tyrant than sorrow at his own death. That was how a banquet turned into a funeral and victorious glee was followed by mourning exequies. Illustrious man, ever to be remembered, fulfilling his vow bravely, voluntarily courting death when his hand stained the tables with a despot’s blood. His energetic and courageous heart was nothing daunted by his slayers, once he had seen the murderer’s blood sprinkled on the places Rolf had known. That one day marked the end and the beginning of Hiarthvar’s reign. Whatever is obtained deceitfully melts away under the same conditions as men seek it by; no success is long-lived which has been won through crime and dishonesty. Thus the Swedes, who shortly before had had the mastery of Denmark, could not even control their own preservation. They paid a just recompense to Rolf’s injured ghost, for they were immediately destroyed by the Zealanders. In general, Fortune takes revenge savagely like this for cunning, underhand achievements.
BOOK THREE
After Hiarthvar the rule of both kingdoms was assumed by Høther; have already observed how he and his brother, Athisl, were fostered by King Gevar. If I begin from his infancy I shall be able to set out a more satisfying description of his life. A more proper and fuller account of his later career can only be traced provided his childhood is not passed over in silence.
When his father Hothbrod had been killed by Helgi, Høther spent his boyhood years under King Gevar’s guardianship. As a stripling he surpassed his foster-brothers and contemporaries in his immensely sturdy physique. Besides that, his talents lay in a variety of skills. He was as knowledgeable and deft in swimming, archery, and boxing as any youth could be, for training and strength together made him a champion. His richly endowed mind made him outstrip his unripe years. No one was a more expert harpist or lute-player. As well as this he was dexterous in the whole art of playing the psaltery, lyre, and fiddle. By performing in different modes he knew how to excite in men’s breasts whatever emotions he wished, joy, sorrow, pity, or hatred. So, by delighting or dismaying their ears he could enmesh their minds. Gevar’s daughter, Nanna, was much taken by the youth’s many accomplishments and began to seek his embraces. Girls warm to young men’s prowess and accept merit in lieu of good looks. Love has a thousand and one entrances: for some, handsome features open the gate to pleasure, for others a brave heart, while certain ones owe it to their proficiency in the arts; for a few courtesy provides the opportunity for love, a great many are made eligible by the splendour of their reputation, and courage can wound female hearts as deeply as comeliness. Now it happened that Balder, the son of Odin, was stirred at the sight of Nanna’s body as she was bathing and then gripped by an unbounded passion. The sheen of her graceful form inflamed him and her manifest charms seared his soul. There is no stronger incitement to lust than beauty. As he was afraid that Høther would constitute the most obvious block to his wishes, he decided to dispose of him with his sword, so that there should be no delay or impediment to the swift satisfaction of his desires. About that time Høther happened to be hunting when he wandered from his path in a mist and came upon a place where forest maidens took their rest; as they saluted him by his own name he asked who they were. They replied that their special function was to control the fortune of wars by their guidance and blessings. Often they were invisibly present on the battlefield and by their secret help afforded the desired outcome to their favourites. They informed him that they were able to award success or defeat at pleasure, and also let him know how Balder was on fire after seeing his foster-sister bathing, but urged Hother not to challenge him to combat, even if he deserved the bitterest hate, because he had been clandestinely begotten of divine seed and was a demi-god. No sooner had he heard these words than he found that the dwelling had vanished and that he was suddenly standing alone and quite unsheltered in the centre of a plain beneath the open sky. He was especially amazed at the rapid disappearance of the maidens, the false illusion of their home, and the change of scenery. For he was unaware that what had occurred to him was only a mockery, a meaningless deception contrived by magic. On his return he recounted to Gevar the whole story of how he had lost his way and then been tricked; he went on immediately to ask for his daughter’s hand. Gevar replied that he would most readily have favoured him, if it were not that he feared to incur Balder’s wrath by brushing him aside; Hother must understand that the latter had already submitted similar entreaties. His body, Gevar asserted, possessed a holy strength impermeable even to steel. Yet, he added, there existed, to his knowledge, shut away behind the tightest barriers, a sword which could deal him his fate. It belonged to Miming, a woodtroll. This creature also possessed a bracelet with the miraculous hidden power of increasing its owner’s wealth. The approach to those regions was pathless, beset with obstacles, and hard of access to any human being. The greater length of the route, in fact, was perpetually invested by devastating cold. He therefore gave Hother instructions to yoke a team of reindeer to his sledge so that he could cross over the hard-frozen mountain ridges at tremendous speed. When he reached his destination he must erect his tent away from the sun so that it caught the shade of the cave where Miming lived; but the tent’s shadow should not touch the cave in return, otherwise the unusual patch of darkness it cast might drive the troll back from the entrance. In this way the bracelet and sword would be within his grasp, the one accompanied by material prosperity, the other by success in fighting; both spelt a great boon to their possessor. That was Gevar’s advice. Hother followed his prescriptions to the letter and, when he had pitched his tent as dictated, he devoted the nights to his anxieties, the days to hunting. He passed the revolutions of the sun watchful and unsleeping, and only marked the divisions between light and darkness by spending the one in meditation and the other in gathering bodily sustenance. During one night’s vigil, as he was drooping, his mind numbed by worries, the shadow of the troll chanced to fall across his tent; Høther went for him with his spear, felled him with a lunge and bound him while he was still powerless to get away. Then, threatening the worst with utmost savagery, he demanded the sword and the bracelet. The troll was not slow to buy his safety with the required ransom. Life is so much more valuable than any kind of property, for nothing is dearer than breath to mortal creatures. The happy Høther returned to his own country in possession of the treasures, rejoicing in his small but invaluable spoils. When Gelder, king of Saxony, learnt of the acquisition, he frequently incited his soldiers to seize these outstanding prizes. The young warriors in obedience to their sovereign quickly fitted out a fleet. Gevar foresaw this, since he was extremely learned in divination, a past-master of prescience, and called Høther to him; he commanded that on meeting Gelder he should bear the brunt of his missiles with patience and only reply with his own once he perceived that the enemy’s were spent; Høther’s men, on the other hand, should bring billhooks with which they could damage their adversaries’ ships and pluck away the soldiers’ helmets and shields. Høther adopted this scheme and found the outcome satisfactory. At Gelder’s initial onslaught he bade his men remain where they were and use their shields for protection, declaring that if they were to snatch victory in this battle it must be through perseverance. The enemy showed no restraint anywhere but flung their missiles with hot, pugnacious zeal; when they discovered Høther’s calm behaviour under fire they hurled their spears and javelins all the more excitedly. Only scanty wounds were inflicted as some weapons pricked their shields, others the ships’ sides, so that the majority were seen being shaken off after causing no serious harm. Høther’s soldiery followed their king’s orders and thwarted the impetus of these projectiles by interlocking their shields to form a tortoise-shell, with the result that all but one or two struck their bosses feebly and dropped into the waves. When Gelder had exhausted his whole supply and viewed his foes seizing the same missiles and casting them vigorously back, he opted for safety and surrender by hanging a crimson shield at the top of a mast as a signal for truce. Høther received him with a most amiable countenance and cordial speech; he thus tamed him by his humanity as well as by his tactics.
Kuse, prince of the Finns and Biarmians, had a daughter, Thora, who was being wooed at this time by Helgi, king of Hålogaland, through a series of emissaries. Weakness is generally recognized by the way it needs others’ help. Although in those days young men used regularly to set about a request for marriage in their own persons, Helgi was hampered by such disability of speech that he was ashamed when strangers and even members of his own household heard him. People always avoid advertising their failings. Natural defects are a greater curse the more they are made public. Kuse scoffed at his delegations and replied that a man who relied so little on his own capacities and used diplomatic appeals to gain his end did not deserve a wife. On hearing this Helgi begged Høther, who he was aware was a more accomplished advocate, to further his suit, promising that he would readily fulfil any demand he cared to make. The other was overcome by the young man’s persistent solicitation and sailed to Norway with a naval force, determined to achieve by strength what he failed to effect with speech. After he had delivered a most persuasive piece of oratory on Helgi’s behalf, Kuse answered that he must consult his daughter’s inclination, for he didn’t want to be seen as the heavy-handed father encroaching on her wishes. He summoned her and enquired whether she found pleasure in her suitor; when she said yes, he promised to marry her to Helgi. Thus Høther unstopped Kuse’s ears and by the well-turned, fluent mellifluousness of his eloquence made him listen to his petition. While this was happening in Hålogaland, Balder armed himself and entered Gevar’s territory in order to claim Nanna. The king told him to ascertain the feelings of Nanna herself and he therefore addressed himself to the girl with carefully considered inducements; when, however, he made no progress with her, he pressed to learn her reasons for rejecting him. She answered that a god could not possibly wed a mortal, as the huge discrepancy in their natures would preclude any congruous union between them. Sometimes, too, deities were in the habit of revoking their contracts and suddenly fracturing the ties which they had made with inferiors. A bond between disparate partners did not last because the status of subordinates always grew mean beside that of exalted persons. Furthermore, plenty and indigence lived in different tents; there were no strong obligations of fellowship between spectacular wealth and ignoble poverty. Finally there was no link between mundane and divine, since a quite different origin and nature put a deep chasm between them; a vast distance lay between the shining majesty of the gods and the human condition. By countering him with such sophistries the clever girl wove arguments for declining Balder’s proposal and so evaded his appeals. When Hother learnt this from Gevar he complained a great deal to Helgi about Balder’s impudence. Both were unsure what should be done and racked their brains over various plans. In time of trouble friendly discussion does not remove hazards, but it lessens the worry. Among other options their enthusiasm for deeds of daring weighed most heavily and they joined in a sea battle with Balder. There you could believe that men were contending with gods. On Balder’s side fought Odin, Thor, and battalions of deities. There you might have observed the spectacle of divine and human forces pitted together in the struggle. Hother, however, clad in his sword-proof tunic, broke through the densest formations of the gods and offered as much violence as an earthling could to heaven-dwellers. But Thor shattered all their shield defences with the terrific swings of his club, calling on his enemies to attack him as much as his comrades to support him. There was no armour which could stand up to his strokes, no one who could survive them. Everything he fended off with his blows he crushed. Neither shields nor helmets could withstand the impact of his oak cudgel. Nor were bodily size or huge muscles any protection. Consequently victory would have gone to the gods, had not Hother, whose line of men had bent inwards, flown forward nimbly and rendered the club useless by lopping off the haft. Immediately they were denied this weapon the deities fled. That the gods were overcome by men might strain belief, but ancient report testifies it. We say ‘gods’ more from supposition than truth, and give them the title o f‘deities’ by popular custom, not through their nature. But Balder took to his heels and escaped. Although the victors had hacked the enemy ships to pieces with their blades or sunk them in the waves, they were not satisfied with defeating the gods, but laid ferociously into the wreckage of the fleet, as if to sate their deadly battle lust by demolishing it. In most cases success provokes immoderation. The port which recalls Balder’s flight in its name bears witness to the war. Gelder, king of the Saxons, who had been killed in the same conflict, was set by Hother upon the corpses of his oarsmen, placed on a pyre built from his vessels, and attended with handsome funeral rites. Not only did Hother consign his ashes to a fine burial-mound as befitted royal remains, but, beyond this, respectfully honoured him with abundant ritual. Afterwards, in case any further inconveniences postponed his hope of marriage, he again put his request to Gevar and won Nanna’s coveted embraces. Then, after rendering Helgi and Thora all the services generosity could bestow, he brought his new bride to Sweden, where everyone revered him for his victory as much as they joked at Balder’s flight. It was at this point, when the Swedish lords had gone to Denmark to pay their tribute and Hother, now in the position of ruler, was worshipped by the common people because of his father’s exceptional virtues, that he found what a cheating bawd Fortune was; Balder, who had only just been vanquished, defeated him in battle, so that he was forced to take refuge with Gevar and lost during his kingship the success he had won as a private individual. The victorious Balder, wishing to provide a refreshing draught of any available water for his parched soldiers, bored deep into the earth and discovered new underground springs. From every direction the thirsty troops made for the gushing rills with parted lips. The site is confirmed by a permanent name, and although the original streams have stopped welling freely they are believed not to have dried up completely. Balder was incessantly tormented at night by phantoms which mimicked the shape of Nanna and caused him to fall into such an unhealthy condition that he could not even walk properly. For this reason he took to travelling in a chariot or carriage. The violent passion that soaked his heart brought him almost to the verge of collapse. He judged that victory had yielded nothing if it had not given him Nanna as a prize. There was also a viceroy of the gods, Frø, who took up residence not far from Uppsala and altered the ancient system of sacrifice practised for centuries among many peoples to a morbid and unspeakable form of expiation. He began to deliver abominable offerings to the powers above by instituting the slaughter of human victims. Meanwhile Høther had discovered that Denmark suffered from a dearth of leaders and that punishment had been promptly visited on Hiarthvar for Rolf’s death; he used to declare that what he could scarcely have hoped to grasp, chance had thrown into his lap. Whereas he had had a duty to take Rolf’s life because the latter’s father had killed his own, someone else had made him pay the penalty and by this unlooked-for favour had opened the way for Hother to secure Denmark. He was qualified to rule it by ancestral right, if one traced back his family tree correctly. Therefore he occupied Isøre, a harbour in Zealand, with a large fleet, bent on taking advantage of Fortune’s pressing kindness. The Danish people came out to meet him and appointed him their king; when a short time afterwards he heard of the death of his brother Athisl, whom he had asked to govern Sweden, he made Denmark and Sweden a joint dominion. Athisl met a shameful end. While he had been sending his respects to Rolf’s ghost, feasting in the most jubilant spirits, he paid for his over-hearty imbibing by a sudden despicable death due to excessive intoxication. As he was toasting another man’s fate with unrestrained hilarity, he forced on the intrusion of his own. Balder too sailed with his fleet to Zealand while Hother was in Sweden, and with his reputation in warfare and celebrated grandeur gained the speedy acquiescence of the Danes to all his demands for royal eminence. Such was the uncertain judgement and wavering determination of our forbears. Hother returned from Sweden and launched a grim war against him. Each hungry for sovereignty, they engaged in a sharp struggle for supreme power. However, this terminated when Hother fled. He retreated to Jutland and gave his name to the village where he commonly stayed. When the winter months had passed, he made his way back to Sweden without a single escort. There he called for his lords and told them that the unhappy progress of events in which Balder had twice inflicted a crushing defeat on him had made him loathe life and sunlight. After bidding everybody farewell he went away along a remote path to almost inaccessible country where he wandered through tracts cut off from civilization. When inconsolable grief falls on people they often make for strange and unknown retreats as though these might provide some antidote to their sadness; swamped by misery they are unable to cope with the society of men. Solitude is generally a friend to the heart-sick. Those who are shaken by illness of the soul find it particularly agreeable to go dirty and unkempt. It had been his custom to utter decrees from the top of a high hill when the people came to consult him. His visitors therefore upbraided the king for sloth in hiding himself away and everyone railed at his absence with the bitterest complaints.
Now Høther had strayed through the most faraway regions and crossed an uninhabited forest when he lighted upon a cave where there dwelt mysterious maidens. These proved to be the same who had once given him the impenetrable coat. When they asked what had brought him there, he declared that it was the cheerless outcome of war. He cursed their unreliability and began to weep over his unhappy adventures and miserable fortunes, complaining that events had turned out quite differently from their promise. The nymphs pointed out that though he had seldom emerged triumphant, he had inflicted equal disasters on his opponents and had dealt no less bloodshed than he had experienced. Yet a pleasing victory was within reach if he could manage to carry off an unusually delicious food which had been devised to increase Balder’s vigour. He could accomplish anything, provided he gained possession of this viand intended to raise his foe’s strength. From their words Høther’s mind instantly drew the confidence to renew hostilities against Balder, though to assault gods with earthly weapons might seem a laborious effort. Some of his followers actually said it was impossible to engage celestial beings in battle and come away unscathed. But his unbounded impetuosity removed any regard he might have for their exaltedness. Among heroes reason does not always undermine a dashing spirit nor daring give way to calculation. Or perhaps Høther had recollected that the power of the most illustrious men is unstable, and a small tussock can overturn large wagons. On the other side Balder mustered the Danes and met Høther on the battlefield. The vast carnage and loss of life that resulted before night put an end to the fighting was almost equal for each side. No one else was aware that at about the third watch Høther stole forth to spy on the enemy. Anxiety over the forthcoming dangers had shaken him out of sleep. Heavy turbulence of mind usually inhibits physical equilibrium and inward disquiet will not allow the body to relax. He reached the enemy camp only to learn that the three maidens had departed with Balder’s secret nourishment. Hurriedly tracing the footprints in the dew which betrayed their route, he eventually came to their usual habitation. When they demanded to know who he was he replied that he was a minstrel, and was able to substantiate his claim. Being handed a lyre, he tuned the strings, set his plectrum to it, and played with the most fluent expressiveness a ravishing cascade of melody. They also had three snakes there, whose poison normally provided a potent preparation to be mixed with Balder’s food. Even now the venom was dripping in large quantities from their open jaws on to his meal. Two of the nymphs, unbending towards Høther, would have offered him a share of this banquet, had not the eldest interposed and protested that Balder would be cheated if they enriched his adversary with additional strength. Their caller claimed that he was not Høther, only one of his friends. Therefore, with gracious liberality the same nymphs presented to him an elegantly prepared feast and a belt which would guarantee victory. As he was retracing his steps the way he had come, he came face to face with Balder, plunged his sword into his side and flung him half-dead to the ground. When Høther’s soldiers heard the news the whole camp rang to their glad shouts, while the Danes held public mourning for Balder’s misfortune. The latter realized that death loomed inevitably over him and, incensed by the suffering from his wound, renewed fighting the next day. As the struggle raged he gave orders for his litter to be carried to the battle front, in case it should be thought he was dying unseen inside his tent. The following night the goddess of death appeared to him in a dream standing at his side, and declared that in three days’ time she would clasp him in her arms. It was no idle vision, for, after three days had gone by, the acute pain of his injury brought his end. The army gave him a royal funeral and buried his body in a mound erected for the purpose. Because the fame of this ancient tomb still survived, certain men in our own time, whose leader was Harald, raided it by night in the hope of discovering treasure, but abandoned their scheme in sudden terror. For the summit of the tumulus split and there apparently burst forth with a stupendous roar an unexpected flood of torrential waters, a rushing mountain which poured with lightning speed over the plain beneath and engulfed everything in its path. The excavators were routed by its onslaught and throwing away their mattocks sprinted in every direction, believing they must be caught up in the whirling force of the tide if they persisted longer in their attempt. This abrupt panic which the guardian spirits of that place instilled into the young men directed their thoughts from cupidity to their own salvation and made them abandon their avaricious design to save their own skins. There is no doubt that this cataract was phantasmagoric, conjured up by some magical agency rather than generated within the bowels of the earth, since Nature does not permit springs to gush in arid countryside. All later generations who heard the story of the attempted break-in left the mound well alone. As no one since Harald, through dread of calamity, has taken it on himself to broach this dark, lofty enclosure, there is too little evidence to say whether it contains any riches. Now although Odin was regarded as chief among the gods, he would approach seers, soothsayers, and others whom he had discovered strong in the finest arts of prediction, with a view to prosecuting vengeance for his son. Divinity is not always so perfect that it can dispense with human aid. Rosthiof the Finn foretold that Rinda, daughter of the Russian king, must bear him another son, who was destined to take reprisal for his brother’s killing; the gods had ordained that their colleague should be avenged by his future brother’s hand. Acting on this intelligence, Odin muffled his face beneath a hat so that he would not be betrayed by his appearance and went to this king to offer his services as a soldier. By him Odin was made general, took over his master’s army, and achieved a glorious victory over his enemies. On account of his adroit conduct of this battle the monarch admitted him to the highest rank of friendship, honouring him no less generously with gifts than decorations. After a brief lapse of time Odin beat the enemy’s line into flight singlehanded and, after contriving this amazing defeat, also returned to announce it. Everybody was astounded that one man’s strength could have heaped massacre on such countless numbers. Relying on these achievements Odin whispered to the king the secret of his love. Uplifted by the other’s very friendly encouragement, he tried to kiss the girl and was rewarded with a slap across the face. Neither the indignity of her contempt nor distress at the affront deflected him from his purpose. The following year, to avoid feebly dropping the attempt which he had begun so enthusiastically, he put on foreigner’s clothing and once more sought to attend his patron. It was difficult for anyone meeting him to discern his true countenance because he had effaced his wonted looks under deceptive splashes of fresh mud. He made out that his name was Roster and that he was a practised metalworker. By undertaking the construction of a diversity of bronze shapes with the most beautiful outlines he so recommended his skill in workmanship that the king awarded him a large nugget of gold and commissioned him to fashion personal adornments for his womenfolk. So he hammered out many trinkets for female embellishment, and at length presented the girl with a bracelet more painstakingly finished than the rest and several rings executed with equal care. But none of his services could bend her disdain. Whenever he wished to offer her a kiss she boxed his ears. Presents from someone antipathetic to us are unacceptable, while those of friends give much greater pleasure. So it is that at times we rate the value of a gift by its giver. The obstinate girl was quite certain that the sly old fellow was searching for an opening to exercise his lust by a pretence of generosity. Moreover, her nature was sharp and indomitable. She recognized that some trickery was afoot beneath his deference and that his plying her with offerings meant that secretly he was up to no good. Her father made severe attempts to browbeat her for refusing the match. However, as she found the idea of sexual union with an elderly man loathsome, she refused his embraces, which were unseasonable for a girl of tender years, and by pleading immaturity lent support to her rejection of his hand. Nevertheless Odin had found by experience that nothing served eager lovers more than a tough persistence, and although he had been humiliated by two rebuffs he altered his looks a third time and approached the king, claiming unparalleled competence in military arts. It was not merely desire which had led him to take such trouble, but a longing to eliminate his discredit. At one time gifted sorcerers had the ability to change their aspect instantaneously and present different images of themselves. They were expert at reproducing the qualities as well as the normal appearance of any age group. Consequently the old veteran would often give an admirable display of his professional skills while riding proudly to combat in the thick of the most courageous warriors. Despite this tribute the young woman remained inflexible. The mind cannot easily move back to a genuine regard for someone whom it has once heartily disliked. When on one occasion, just before departing, he wanted to snatch a kiss from her, she gave him such a shove that he was sent flying and banged his chin on the floor. Immediately he touched her with a piece of bark inscribed with spells and made her like one demented, a moderate sort of punishment for the continual insults he had received. Still he did not shrink from pursuing his plans (for confidence in his greatness had puffed up his hopes) and so this indefatigable wayfarer journeyed to the king a fourth time, after putting on girl’s clothing. Once more received at court, he proved himself not only solicitous but even rather pushing. Because he was dressed more or less like a woman, the majority imagined him to be one. He called himself Vekka and swore he was a female physician, giving warrant to his claim by his great readiness to help in such matters. At length he was enlisted in the queen’s entourage and acted as her daughter’s attendant. He used to wash the dirt from her feet in the evenings and, as he rinsed them, was allowed to touch her calves and upper thighs. Yet since Fortune walks with varying pace, what he had been unable to manage through ingenuity was brought to him by chance. The princess happened to fall sick; looking round for suitable treatments, she called upon the hands she had once cursed to save her life, and employed a person she had always disdained to preserve her. He closely examined all her symptoms and then declared that she must take a certain medicine to counteract the disease as swiftly as possible; unfortunately this prescription would taste so bitter that unless the girl allowed herself to be tied down she would not be able to bear the potency of the cure. The elements of her distemper must be expelled from her inmost fibres. The moment her father had heard this she was bound, laid on a bed, and ordered to submit passively to everything her doctor applied. The king was quite deceived by the female garments which old Odin wore to disguise his pertinacious scheming, and it was this which enabled a seeming remedy to turn into a licence for his pleasures. Her physician stopped attending on her and seized the opportunity to make love, rushing to wreak his lust before he dispelled her fever, and finding that where in sound health she had been antagonistic he could now take advantage of her indisposition. I am not unwilling to add an alternative version of the story; some say the king realized that the doctor was groaning with passion yet achieving nothing, at great cost to body and soul, and rather than deprive him of a due reward for his good services allowed him to gain intercourse secretly with his daughter. Sometimes a father can behave viciously towards his offspring if he lacks all sense of duty and an impetuous disposition destroys his natural humanity. When his daughter gave birth to a child, his mistake resulted in utter shame and remorse. Now the gods, whose principal residence was held at Byzantium, perceived that Odin had tarnished the honour of his divinity by these various lapses from dignity and reckoned he should quit their fraternity. They ensured that he was ousted from his pre-eminence, stripped of his personal titles and worship, and outlawed, believing it better for a scandalous president to be thrown from power than desecrate the character of public religion; nor did they wish to become involved in another’s wickedness and suffer innocently for his guilt. Now that the ludicrous behaviour of a high deity had become common knowledge, they were aware that those who had been seduced into paying them holy adoration were exchanging reverence for contempt and growing ashamed of their piety; sacred rites were considered profane, established ritual childish nonsense. They saw doom ahead, fear was in their hearts, and you would have imagined that the misdemeanours of a single member were recoiling on all their heads. So that he would not force them to banish public devotion, they banished him and in his stead invested a certain Oiler with the trappings of royalty and godhead, as if the creation of gods and of kings were comparable. Although they had elected him their pontiff as a substitute, they bestowed on him full honours, so that he should be regarded as no mere deputy in office but a lawful inheritor of authority. As he must lack no particle of dignity they called him Odin too, intending to dispel the stigma attaching to a parvenu by the prestige of this name. For almost ten years he held the leadership of the divine parliament till the gods finally took pity on Odin’s harsh exile; considering that he had completed a heavy enough sentence they restored him from filthy rags to his former splendour. By now the intervening passage of time had rubbed away the brand of his past disgrace. There were some, however, who believed he did not deserve permission to be reinstated in his rank because, through adopting actors’ tricks and women’s duties, he had brought the foulest of slurs on their hallowed reputation. Some people assert that by flattering a few of the gods and buttering others with bribes he purchased his lost royal status and bought back at a costly sum the glories he had long since forfeited. If you ask me how much he paid, consult those who have found out the price of a godhead; I confess to having no reliable information myself. After Oiler had been expelled from Byzantium by Odin, he retired to Sweden where, as if in a new world, he strove to restore recognition of his fame, but the Danes killed him. According to one tale he was such a cunning magician that instead of sailing in a ship he was able to cross the seas on a bone which he had engraved with fearful charms, and skimmed the waves that rose before him as swiftly as with oars. Odin, on the other hand, once he had recovered his divine regalia, shone throughout the earth with such lustrous renown that all peoples welcomed him like a light returned to the universe; there was nowhere in the entire world which did not pay homage to his sacred power. When he saw that his son Bo, Rinda’s child, loved the hardships of war, he summoned the lad and told him to keep in mind the destruction of his brother; better to take vengeance on Balder’s assassins than overpower guiltless men with his weapons, for a battle was more suitable and beneficial when a proper excuse for revenge made warring a duty. Meanwhile a report came that Gevar had been overwhelmed by his treacherous jarl Gunni. Høther put his fiercest energies into avenging the murder; he waylaid Gunni and threw him to be consumed on a blazing pyre, since the villain had seized Gevar in an ambush and burnt him alive at night. In this way he appeased his foster-father’s ghost and at length set Gevar’s sons, Herlek and Gerik, on the Norwegian throne. Later, after he had called his chieftains to a meeting, Høther announced that he was bound to take on Bo and would perish in the fight, a fact he had discovered not by doubtful surmises but from the trustworthy prophecies of seers. He therefore begged them to make his son Rørik ruler of the kingdom and not let the votes of wicked men transfer this privilege to unknown foreign houses, declaring that he would experience more delight in the assurance of his son’s succession than bitterness at his own approaching death. When they had readily acceded to his request he met Bo in battle and was slain. But Bo had little joy in his victory; he was so badly stricken himself that he withdrew from the skirmish, was carried home on his shield in turns by his foot-soldiers and expired next day from the agony of his wounds. At a splendidly prepared funeral the Russian army buried his body in a magnificent barrow erected to his name, so that the record of this noble young man should not soon fade from the memory of later generations. The Kurlanders and Swedes, who used to show their allegiance to Denmark each year with the payment of taxes, felt as though the death of Høther had liberated them from their oppressive tributary status and had the idea of making an armed attack on the Danes. This gave the Wends also the temerity to rebel and turned many of the other vassal states into enemies. To check their violence Rørik recruited his countrymen and incited them to courageous deeds by reviewing the achievements of their forefathers in a spirited harangue. The barbarians saw that they needed a leader themselves, for they were reluctant to enter the fray without a general, and therefore they elected a king; then, putting the rest of their military strength on display, they hid two companies of soldiers in a dark spot. Rørik saw the trap. When he perceived that his vessels were wedged in the shallows of a narrow creek, he dragged them off the sandbanks where they had grounded and steered them out into deep water, fearing that if they struck into marshy pools the enemy would attack them from a different quarter. He also decided that his comrades should find a site where they could lurk during the day and spring unexpectedly on anyone invading their ships; this way, he said, it was quite possible that the enemy’s deception would rebound on their own heads. The barbarians had been assigned to their place of ambush, unaware that the Danes were on the watch, and as soon as they rashly made an assault, every man was struck down. Because the remaining band of Wends were ignorant of their companions’ slaughter, they hung suspended in great amazement and uncertainty over Rørik’s lateness. While they kept waiting for him, their minds wavering anxiously, the delay became more and more intolerable each day, and they finally determined to hunt him down with their fleet. Among them was a man of outstanding physical appearance, a wizard by vocation. Looking out over the Danish squadrons he cried: 'As the majority may be bought out of danger at the cost of one or two lives, we could forestall a general catastrophe by hazarding single persons. I won’t flinch from these terms of combat if any of you dare attempt to decide the issue along with me. But my chief demand is that we employ a fixed rule for which I have devised the phrasing: “ If I win, grant us immunity from taxes; if I am beaten, the tribute shall be paid to you as of old.” This day I shall either be victorious and relieve my homeland of its slavish yoke, or be conquered and secure it more firmly. Accept me as pledge and security for either outcome.’ When one of the Danes, who had a stouter heart than body, heard this, he ventured to ask Rørik what remuneration the man who took on the challenger would receive. Rørik happened to be wearing a bracelet of six rings inextricably interlocked with a chain of knots and he promised this as a reward for whoever dared to enter the contest. But the young man, not so sure of Fate, replied: ‘If things go well for me, Rørik, your generosity must judge what the winner’s prize should be and award a suitable palm. But if this proposal turns out very much against my wishes, what compensation shall be due from you to the defeated, who will be enveloped in cruel death or severe dishonour? These are the usual associates of weakness, the recompense of the vanquished; what is left for such persons but utter disgrace? What payment can a man earn, what thanks can he receive, when his bravery has achieved nothing? Who has ever garlanded the weakling with the ivy crown of war or hung the tokens of victory on him? Decorations go to the hero not to the coward. His mischances carry no glory. Praise and exultation attend the former, a useless death or an odious life the latter. I am not sure which way the fortune of this duel will turn, so that I have no rash aspirations to any reward, having no idea whether it should rightly be my due. Anyone unexpectant of victory cannot be allowed to take the victor’s expected fee. Without assurance of obtaining the trophy I am not going to lay any firm claim to a triumphal wreath. A presentation which could equally signify the wages of death or life, I refuse. Only a fool wants to lay his hands on unripe fruit and pluck something before he knows if he has earned it properly. This arm will secure me laurels or the grave.’ With these words he smote the barbarian with his sword, with a more forward disposition than his fortunes warranted. In return the other delivered such a mighty stroke that he took his life at the first blow. This was a woeful spectacle for the Danes, whereas the Wends staged a great procession accompanied by splendid scenes of jubilation for their triumphant comrade. The following day, either carried away by his recent success or fired by greed to achieve a second one, he marched close up to his enemies and began to provoke them with the same challenge as before. Since he believed he had felled the most valiant Dane, he thought no one was left with the fighting spirit to respond to another summons. He trusted that with the eclipse of one champion the whole army’s strength had wilted, and estimated that anything to which he bent his further efforts he would have no trouble at all in dealing with. Nothing feeds arrogance as much as good fortune nor stimulates pride more effectively than success. Rørik grieved that their general bravery could be shaken by one man’s impudence, and that the Danes, despite their fine record of conquests, could be received with insolence and even shamefully despised by races they had once beaten; he was sad too that among such a host of warriors no one could be found with so ready a heart and vigorous an arm that he was capable of wanting to lay down his life for his country. The first noble spirit to remove the damaging illrepute which the Danes’ hesitancy had cast on them was Ubbi. He had a mighty frame and was powerful in the arts of enchantment. When he deliberately enquired what the prize for this match was to be, the king pledged his bracelet again. Ubbi answered: ‘How can I put any faith in your promise, when you carry the stake in your hands and will not trust such a reward to anyone else’s keeping? Deposit it with someone standing by, so that you can’t possibly go back on your word. Champions’ souls are only aroused when they can depend on the gift not being withdrawn.’ Without any doubt he spoke with his tongue in his cheek, since it was sheer valour that had armed him to beat off this insult to his fatherland. Rørik thought that he coveted the gold; as he wanted to prevent any appearance of withholding the reward in an unkingly fashion or revoking his promise, he decided to shake off the bracelet and hurl it hard to his petitioner from his station aboard ship. However, the wide intervening gap thwarted his attempt. It needed a brisker and more forceful fling and the bracelet consequently fell short of its destination and was snatched by the waves; afterwards the nickname ‘Slyngebond’ always stuck to Rørik. This incident gave strong testimony to Ubbi’s courage. The loss of his sunken fee in no way deterred him from his bold intention, for he did not wish his valour to be thought a mere lackey to payment. He therefore made his way to the contest eagerly to show that his mind was set on honour, not gain, and that he put manly resolution before avarice; he would advertise that his confidence was grounded rather in a high heart than in wages. No time was lost before they made an arena, the soldiers milled round, the combatants rushed together, and a din rose as the crowd of onlookers roared support for one or the other competitor. The champions’ spirits blazed and they flew to deal one another injuries, but simultaneously found an end to the duel and their lives, I believe because Fortune contrived that the one should not gain praise and joy through the other’s fate. This affair won over the rebels and restored Rorik’s tribute. At the same time Ørvendil and Fengi, sons of the Jutland governor Gervendil, were both put in his place by Rørik to rule that region. Now Ørvendil, after controlling the province for three years, had devoted himself to piracy and reaped such superlative renown that Roller, the king of Norway, wishing to rival his eminent deeds and widespread reputation, judged it would suit him very well if he could transcend him in warfare and cast a shadow over the brilliance of this world-famed sea-rover. He cruised about, combing various parts of the seas, until he lit upon Ørvendil’s fleet. Each of the pirates had gained an island in the midst of the ocean and they had moored their ships on different sides. The leaders were attracted by the delightful prospect of the beaches; the beautiful vista from offshore encouraged them to view the woods of the interior in spring and wander among the glades and remote expanses of forest. Their chance steps led Roller and Ørvendil to an unwitnessed meeting. Ørvendil took the initiative and asked his opponent how he wanted to fight, stressing that the most superior method was one which exercised the sinews of the fewest men. He thought that single combat was more effective than any other type of contest for securing the honours of bravery, since a person must rely on his own valour and refuse any other man’s aid. Roller, admiring such courageous judgement in a young fellow, replied: ‘As you allow me a choice, I vote wholeheartedly for an encounter that only needs the work of two, free from the usual pandemonium. Certainly this is judged to require more fortitude and leads to a speedier victory. On this our verdicts concur spontaneously. As the conclusion remains in doubt, we must each of us make a concession to human decency; rather than give rein to our natural tempers we should observe our obligations to the dead. Hatred is in our hearts; none the less, make room in them for compassion, which in the end is the proper successor to harshness. Though discrepancy of opinion divides us, we share the same universal laws. These join us together, however much rancour now sunders our spirits. Let our sense of duty then make this stipulation, that the victor should conduct the last rites of the vanquished. All men agree that these embody the final humane courtesy, for no pious individual has ever shirked them. Each side must relax his rigour and amicably carry out this service. Malice must depart after the one has met his fate, death lull the feud. Although animosity came between us alive, there is no demand for one to continue persecuting the other’s remains, no call for such a mark of severe cruelty. It will be a glorious token for the conqueror to celebrate a rich funeral for his victim. Whoever pays the last rites to his dead enemy enlists the goodwill of his successor, overcomes his foe’s survivor by a kindness in exerting his philanthropy towards the departed. Another no less lamentable disaster sometimes affects the living, when part of their bodies has become maimed. I believe in being just as ready to help a man in this case as when he has breathed his last. Fighters often suffer loss of limbs where life is still intact and this ill-luck is commonly reckoned unhappier than any fatal casualty; death takes away the recollection of everything, whereas the living man cannot overlook the devastation of his own body. One must therefore give support to such a mutilated individual. A suitable reparation then for the injured ought to be io marks of gold. If it is a kind duty to sympathize with others’ misfortunes, how much more is it to pity one’s own? Everyone takes thought for his own condition, and if anyone is negligent in this he is a self-murderer.’ Both gave and accepted their word of honour on this point and fell to battle. They were not deterred from assailing each other with their blades by the novelty of their meeting or the springtime charm of that spot, for they took no heed of these things. Ørvendil’s emotional fervour made him more eager to set upon his foe than to defend himself; consequently he disregarded the protection of his shield and laid both hands to his sword. This daring had its results. His rain of blows deprived Koller of his shield by cutting it to pieces; finally he carved off the other’s foot and made him fall lifeless. He honoured their agreement by giving him a majestic funeral, constructing an ornate tomb, and providing a ceremony of great magnificence. After this he hounded down and slew Koller’s sister Sæla, a warring amazon and accomplished pirate herself and skilled in the trade of fighting. Three years were passed in gallant military enterprises, in which he marked the richest and choicest of the plunder for Rørik, to bring himself into closer intimacy with the king. On the strength of their friendship Ørvendil wooed and obtained Rørik’s daughter Gerutha for his bride, who bore him a son, Amleth. Fengi was inflamed with jealousy at his grand successes and determined to set a trap for his brother. A man of true worth is not even safe from his near relatives. Once given an opportunity to dispatch his kinsman, Fengi dyed his hand in blood to satisfy his black desires. Besides butchering his brother he added incest to fratricide by taking possession of his wife. Whoever has commi ted himself to one crime soon finds himself sliding downhill towards the next; the first speeds on the second. Fengi covered up this foul deed with such presumptuous cunning that he manufactured an excuse of kindheartedness for his crime, and gave the murder a colouring of scrupulous conduct. He made out that Gerutha, though she was too mild to do anyone even slight harm, suffered such violent loathing from her husband that he had removed him only to preserve her; it seemed a disgrace that such a gentle female, containing no bitterness, should endure the overbearing arrogance of this man. His persuasive argument did not fail. If buffoons are sometimes favoured and slanderers honoured, people will certainly believe the lies of princes. The villain showed no hesitation in turning his death-dealing hands to unlawful embraces, pursuing both these criminal sacrileges with the same viciousness. Amleth observed this and, to avoid stirring his uncle’s suspicions by behaving intelligently, pretended to be an imbecile, acting as if his wits had gone quite astray; this piece of artfulness, besides concealing his true wisdom, safeguarded his life. Every day he would stay near his mother’s hearth, completely listless and unwashed, and would roll on the ground to give his person a repulsive coating of filth. His grimy complexion and the refuse smeared over his face grotesquely illustrated his lunacy. Everything he said was like the raving of an idiot, everything he did smacked of a deep lethargy. Need I go on? You would not have called him a man so much as a ridiculous freak created by Fate in a madcap mood. He often sat by the fire scraping the embers with his fingers and making wooden hooks which he would harden in the flames; he turned back the ends to form prongs, so that they would hold with a tighter grip. When they asked why he did it, he replied that he was getting these stings sharp to avenge his father. The answer brought delighted guffaws; everyone sneered at his pointless labours, though later these were to assist his scheme. However, it was that very skill which aroused in spectators of the wiser sort the first suspicions of his cleverness. His diligence in this humble technique suggested the craftsman’s hidden ingenuity; anyone with the brains to execute articles of such finished workmanship could hardly be thought witless. Lastly he would keep a most careful watch over his pile of charred stakes. Some men averred that his intelligence was lively enough and thought he was concealing deep designs under a cloak of feeble-mindedness, so that he could deceptively camouflage his subtlety; the best way to reveal his trickery was to bring him to some shady nook where a very attractive woman could lure his heart into sexual entanglement. Men’s characters are so naturally inclined towards love that no subtlety may keep its existence secret; his cunning could not obstruct so violent an emotion and therefore, even if he simulated indifference, once the opportunity presented itself he would succumb to the powers of pleasure there and then. Consequently fellows were found who would conduct the young man on horseback to a distant part of the forest and expose him to a temptation of this sort. Among these there chanced to be a foster-brother of Amleth, who still cherished a regard for him due to their mutual upbringing. Setting the memory of their past association before his present orders, he accompanied Amleth and his allotted companions with no intention of bringing him into a trap, but rather to bring him warning; he had no doubt that if Amleth gave even a half indication of his true sanity he would come to grief, but above all if he were openly to perform the act of love. Amleth too was well aware of this. When he was told to mount his horse he sat on purpose with his back
to the creature’s mane facing the tail. This he began to encircle with the bridle, just as though he could restrain his steed at that end while it was in full career. By such a thoughtful move he foiled the device and overcame his uncle’s stratagem. It was quite ludicrous to see a rider without reins gallop forward guiding the horse by its tail. Farther on, Amleth came across a wolf in the undergrowth and, when his companions told him that he had encountered a young colt, he added that there were very few of that breed serving in Fengi’s stable, a moderate but witty reproach which hit at his uncle’s affluence. When they observed that he had given a clever reply, he admitted that his speech was considered; nowhere in his words did he wish to yield himself to lying. Amleth wanted to be held a stranger to falsehood and mingled artfulness with plain speaking, so that he adhered to the truth without letting it show through to betray his acute mind. They were going along the shore when his attendants discovered the rudder of a wrecked ship and said to Amleth that they had found an uncommonly large knife. ‘All the better to cut an outsize ham with’, he answered, obviously referring to the sea, since its vastness suited the dimensions of the rudder. As they passed the sand dunes they told him to look at this flour, to which he remarked that it had been ground by the foaming billows when it was stormy. The company congratulated him on this response, which he again agreed was a wise pronouncement. They intentionally left him behind as a greater incentive for him to satisfy his lust; after he had met the woman in a sheltered spot, apparently by chance but really because she had been sent by his uncle, he would have had his pleasure with her if his foster-brother had not, by a silent warning, given him an inkling of the plot. This friend was debating with himself how he could suitably convey a secret hint and stop the young man in time from dangerously indulging his sensuality, when he picked up a straw he had noticed on the ground, inserted it beneath the tail of a horsefly that was flying past. He drove it towards the particular locality where he knew Amleth was and thereby did him a special service when he was off-guard. The signal was recognized as astutely as it was delivered. Amleth, spying the horsefly and at the same time the straw stuck beneath its tail, examined it closely and concluded that it was a secret caution against some treachery he must avoid. Alarmed at the scent of an ambush, he caught the woman in his arms and, in order to secure his wishes in comparative safety, brought her to a remote and trackless fen. After having intercourse with her he earnestly begged her not to disclose the incident to anyone. Her silence was promised as readily as it was sought; because they had once grown up together and shared the same guardians in childhood, Amleth enjoyed the girl’s deep affection. When he returned home they all asked him by way of a joke whether he had had his fill of lovemaking, and he admitted that he had slept with the girl. Then they asked where he had performed the act and on what sort of pillow; he answered that he had rested on a colt’s foot, a cock’s comb, and a piece of roofing. Indeed when he set out on his test he had gathered specimens of all these to avoid having to lie. His reply was received with loud hoots from the bystanders, though he had not departed a jot from the truth in his jest. The girl, questioned on this matter, retorted that he had done no such thing. Her denial certainly gained easier credence when it was ascertained that her retinue had not witnessed the event. Then the one who had fixed the notice to the horsefly, to show that Amleth’s escape had depended on his ruse, told the prince he had recently been exceptionally devoted to him. His youthful friend answered pertinently; to indicate that he was grateful for the loyal prompting, he reported that he had seen something suddenly gliding towards him, wearing a straw mattress in its buttocks. While everyone else rocked with laughter at this quip, it delighted his supporter by its sagacity. Amleth, then, outdid them all, with the result that none could draw back the bolt to disclose the young man’s secret purposes; then one of Fengi’s friends who had a greater store of self-assurance than cunning said it was impossible to reveal the intricate nature of his intelligence by the usual old tricks. He felt Amleth was too obstinate for them to make headway with trifling attempts. They should not therefore test his many-sided vigilance straightforwardly. By his own deeper perspicacity he claimed to have hit on a more subtle method, practical to put into operation and highly expedient for the intended investigation. Fengi, on the plea of important business, would purposely proclaim his departure and then Amleth must be shut up alone with his mother in her bedroom after a person had been planted, without either of them knowing, somewhere in a dark corner to listen carefully to their conversation. If her son were in his right mind he would not be afraid to trust his mother and would be ready to speak openly in her hearing. The courtier eagerly offered his services for this detective work, no less anxious to be the executant than the inventor of the plot. Fengi was delighted with the scheme and giving out that he had to go on a long journey, left the palace. The one who had concocted the plan went silently to the room where Amleth was in private conference with his mother and crawled under some straw for concealment. But Amleth turned the tables on this spy: as he was apprehensive in case any hidden ears should be eavesdropping, he first ran through his regular tomfoolery, crowing like a noisy cock and clapping his arms together like beating wings; after this he climbed on to the straw and began to jump up and down to find out if anything was lurking there. When he felt a lump beneath his feet, he prodded the place with his sword, transfixed the man underneath, dragged him from his hiding-place and butchered him. Afterwards he sliced the body into chunks, cooked it in boiling water, and threw the sorry limbs into the mouth of an open sewer where, smirched with putrid filth, they could be gobbled up by the pigs. Now he had dodged the snare he returned to the bedroom. When his mother’s violent shrieks had sunk to weeping over his fuddled wits, the son confronted her with these words: ‘You lowest of women, why do you try to gloss over your gross infamy with false laments? Like a lewd harlot you fly to a damnable, loathsome bed, clasp your husband’s murderer to your incestuous bosom, and fawn with the most disgusting endearments and caresses on the man who destroyed the father of your son. Surely this is the way mares copulate with the stallions which have overmastered their mates; only brute beasts rush promiscuously into a variety of marriages; your conduct makes it clear that your late husband’s memory has grown stale. I wear this zany appearance for my own benefit, as I’ve no doubt whatever that the ruffian who could kill his brother is also likely to savage his other kinsmen with equal ferocity. That’s why I prefer to put on the behaviour of an imbecile instead of a purposeful sanity, and borrow a safe cover by looking like an out-and-out maniac. Yet in my heart there is this persistent yearning to avenge my father and I’m on the watch for opportunities, always waiting for the right moment. There are different times for different undertakings. Against a secretive and pitiless mind deeper machinations have to be employed. Consider how needless it is for you to mourn over my foolishness, when you ought really to be weeping for your own dishonour. You shouldn’t be shedding tears over another’s imperfections, but your own. As to the rest, be silent.’ His mother, rent by this reproof, was recalled to the practice of virtue, and he showed her how to set the flame of her previous love before her present bewitchment. Fengi returned to discover that his crafty spy was nowhere to be found, not even by unremitting investigation, nor did anyone claim to have caught a glimpse of him anywhere. For the sake of a joke Amleth too was asked whether he had detected any trace of him; he replied that the man had gone into the drain, tumbled down to the bottom and, buried under a great heap of sewage, had been devoured by the pigs which frequented the place. This story, though it revealed the truth, seemed crazy to his audience and caused merriment. Although Fengi wanted to do away with his stepson, of whose counterfeiting he had no doubts, he did not dare put this into execution owing to the disfavour he would incur from his wife and her father, Rørik; he therefore determined that the king of Britain should do him the favour of killing Amleth, so that, procuring it by proxy, he would preserve an air of innocence. In the desire to keep his barbarity hidden he preferred to contaminate a friend than assign ill-repute to himself. On his departure Amleth secretly asked his mother to adorn the palace with tapestries and to conduct a pretended funeral for him after a year had elapsed, at which time, he promised, he would return. Two of Fengi’s parasites set out with him bearing a letter engraved on wood (at one time this was a familiar kind of writing material), in which the British king was enjoined to slay the young man sent over to him. Amleth combed through their baggage while they were sleeping and purloined the letter. Having read over the commission, he scratched away all that was inscribed there and substituted new characters to alter the gist of the command and turn his sentence on the heads of his companions. Not satisfied with removing his death warrant and transferring the peril to others, he added a fabricated request from Fengi that the British king should bequeath his daughter in matrimony to this highly intelligent young ambassador. When they arrived in Britain the two envoys came to the king and presented him with the letter giving instructions for their own death, believing it made provision for another man’s doom. The king kept the contents to himself and entertained them kindly and hospitably. But Amleth spurned the state banquet in its entirety as though it were coarse fare, drew back from the lavish feast with a peculiar restraint, and touched neither food nor drink. Everyone was amazed that this youthful foreigner turned his nose up before the exquisite delicacies and luxurious dishes on the royal table as if at some peasant’s fodder. Once the entertainment was over and his friends sent to their rest, the king secretly dispatched a servant to their bedroom to overhear his guests’ conversation that night. Amleth, asked by his fellows why during the evening he had shunned the feast as if it were poison, replied that the bread was tainted with blood, the drink had the flavour of iron, and the banquet meat was smothered in the odour of a corpse, as though it had been polluted by proximity to the stench of death. He added that the king had the eyes of a slave and that his queen had displayed three mannerisms of a maidservant, aiming the real brunt of his criticism not so much at the dinner as its providers. It was not long before his companions began to reprove that old weakness in his brains and to mock him with various impudent taunts because he found fault with things perfectly acceptable. This was aggressive and disrespectful talk about a famous king and a queen of impeccable decorum, quite disgraceful aspersions on a pair who deserved nothing but praise. When the king learnt this from his henchman, he declared the author of these pronouncements must be possessed with superhuman genius or stupidity, gauging the full depth of Amleth’s activities in this short phrase. He then summoned his steward and enquired where he had obtained the bread. The man swore that it had been prepared by the king’s own baker and was then asked in what place the corn which supplied the flour had been grown, and whether there was any sign of its being the scene of human slaughter. The other answered that there was a field close by which still bore evident traces of a massacre long ago, strewn as it was with the ancient bones of men slain; in spring he had sown it with grain himself, thinking it promised high fertility and a more abundant crop than the rest. Could the bread possibly have picked up a suspicious taste from the gore? On hearing this the king guessed that Amleth had spoken the truth and was anxious to know too where the pork had come from. The steward revealed that through negligence his pigs had escaped from their sty and fed on the decaying carcass of a robber; thus, quite by chance, their meat had gathered a tang similar to that of rotting flesh. As the monarch discovered that this statement of Amleth also was accurate, he demanded to know with what liquid the drink had been mixed. When he discovered that it had been diluted with honey and water, he proceeded to dig to the base of the spring that had been pointed out to him and found several swords eaten away by rust, whose reek it was believed must have infected the water. Others relate that Amleth disparaged the drink because in sipping he had detected an unpleasant edge to it; this had previously been passed through to the honeycomb by bees which had bred in the belly of a corpse. The king saw that the reasons for Amleth’s disapproval of the flavours were convincing and, since he realized that the same man’s accusation of an ignoble look about his eyes pointed to some strain of impurity, he met the queen mother in private and questioned her about his paternity. She denied having submitted herself to anyone besides her royal husband, but when he threatened to check the matter by torture, the mystery of his birth, which Amleth had stigmatized, was cleared up; he wrung from her the confession that he was the son of a slave. Impressed by the young man’s penetration as much as he was mortified with shame at his own pedigree, the king asked Amleth why he had sullied the queen by charging her with servile habits. But even while he deplored the scepticism about his wife’s courtliness which the visitor had shown in his late-night talk, he was told that she was indeed the daughter of a female slave. Amleth said he had observed three shortcomings in her, denoting a serf’s demeanour; first, she covered her head with her mantle like a maidservant, secondly, she tucked up her robe when she walked, and thirdly, she picked out with a spill the morsels of food sticking between the crevices of her teeth and then chewed them. He reminded the king that her mother had been captured and reduced to slavery, since he wished to ascribe this behaviour to her servile birth rather than her manners.
The king worshipped his powers like some god-sent talent and gave him his daughter in marriage, taking to heart his declarations as though they were heavenly oracles. But the two companions he hanged the next day in order to meet his friend Fengi’s instructions. Following this service Amleth pretended to be disgruntled as if an affront had been given, and as wergild accepted gold from the king, which he afterwards secretly melted down and had poured into hollow rods. After staying in Britain for a year he begged leave to depart and returned to his homeland, though he took nothing of the panoply of regal wealth with him save the rods containing gold. When he reached J utland he altered his present way of life to the old one, and the habits he had cultivated to his credit were intentionally changed back to a show of clownishness. Daubed with muck, he entered the banqueting hall where his obsequies were being conducted and gave them all a tremendous shock, seeing that a false report of his death had been widely current. Eventually fright gave way to laughter with the guests lightheartedly chiding each other for having held a funeral for a supposedly dead man, who was there with them in person. Asked about his fellow-travellers, he pointed to the staffs he was holding: ‘Here’s one and that’s the other’, he answered. You could not tell whether it was uttered seriously or for a joke. Though most people took it as moonshine, his statement kept to the truth, for it referred to the price of compensation instead of the executed pair. Next, to afford the banqueters greater amusement, he joined the cupbearers and scrupulously carried out the duty of pouring refreshment. So that the looser uniform should not impede his step, he bound a sword to his side, which he would often deliberately unsheathe and prick his fingers with the point. The bystanders therefore had the sword and scabbard riveted through with an iron pin. To make safer preparation for his ambush, Amleth circulated with goblets among the nobles, plying them with drink after drink; he so deluged them all with wine that they became too intoxicated to stand up and went to sleep there in the palace, making the scene of the feast their bedchamber. As soon as he saw them in fit condition for his plot and felt the time ripe for his intentions, he took from his bosom the sticks prepared long ago and entered the hall in which the courtiers, their bodies splayed everywhere over the floor, were belching away in alcoholic slumber; there, spread over the interior walls, he found the tapestry which his mother had woven, cut it away from its fastenings and tore it down. Then he threw it over the snorers and, using the crooked sticks, tied it with such Gordian knots that none of those lying beneath, however vigorously they strained, could manage to get to their feet. After this he tossed fire on to the roof, where the flames grew to a widespread conflagration and enveloped the entire building; the palace was destroyed and every one of its inhabitants cremated, whether they were enjoying deep sleep or vainly struggling to rise. Amleth next sought Fengi’s chamber in the pavilion to which the king’s friends had conducted him and, snatching up a sword which happened to be hanging next to the bed, substituted his own for it. He then woke his uncle and informed him that his noblemen were burnt to death, and that through the aid of his old bent hooks he, Amleth, was at his side, eager to inflict the punishment now due for his father’s murder. At these words Fengi leapt from the bed but, deprived of his own sword and unable with all his efforts to draw the other, was struck down. What a brave man this Amleth was, worthy of everlasting fame! He wisely prepared himself by an incredible performance of stupidity, submerging under it a brilliant reason transcending mortal faculties; thus his wits provided him with a safe-conduct and kept him alive until he reached the moment for revenging his father. Considering the skill with which he preserved himself and the energy with which he exacted atonement for his parent, one can hardly decide which to esteem more, his courage or his wisdom.
BOOK FOUR 
After he had destroyed his stepfather, Amleth was afraid to expose the deed to the unpredictable judgement of his countrymen and decided to go into hiding till he had found out which way the mass of common people leaned. The whole neighbourhood, who during the night had viewed the holocaust, next morning inspected the ashes of the wrecked palace, eager to discern the cause of the blaze they had seen; though they examined the still-warm ruins, they were unable to discover anything but the shapeless remains of charred bodies. The hungry flames had so completely devoured everything that there was not a single clue to point to the origin of this vast devastation. The body of Fengi, run through with a sword, could also be made out in the midst of his bloodstained clothing. Some were gripped with open anger, others with grief, yet others by secret joy. The onlookers received the king’s death with divided feelings. One section mourned the passing away of its leader and another gave lhanks that this fratricide’s despotic rule had been laid to rest. As the populace continued calm, however, Amleth gathered confidence to come out of his retreat and called to the assembly those men in whose minds he knew a more vivid recollection of his father was still rooted; there he addressed them with this speech: 'Do not be stirred, my lords, by the sight of the disaster here, if the death of poor Orvendil still moves you; I repeat, do not be stirred if you still retain within you loyalty to a king and duty towards a parent. You should see it as the end of a murderer, not a monarch. That was a sorrier spectacle when you saw our king woefully mauled by a vile cut-throat (I cannot call him his brother). You yourselves looked with eyes full of compassion on the mangled limbs of Ørvendil, his body consumed with many a gash. Who would doubt that that barbarous slaughterer stole his life so that he could strip your fatherland of its liberty? The same hand dealt his fate and your slavery. Is anyone so insane that he could prefer Fengi’s sadism to Ørvendil’s affection? Remember with what kindness the latter fostered you, with what equity he tended you, with what humanity he loved you. Remember too how this gentle ruler and just father of his people was snatched away to be replaced by a tyrant and kin-slayer; you were robbed of your rights, everything was polluted, your country stained with crimes, a yoke planted on your necks, and any power of freedom removed. All this is now ended, for you can discern how the miscreant has been overwhelmed by his own evil deeds, the assassin taken to account for his felonies. What moderately sensible observer will question that he has been benefited, not wronged? What sane person would grieve because the villainy has recoiled on its perpetrator? Who would weep for the overthrow of this bloody executioner or bewail the just downfall of this cruel autocrat? Here stands before you the man responsible for the event you are witnesses to. Certainly confess that I set out to avenge my father and my country. It was I who carried out the task, but that task was equally your duty. Though you and I had an obligation to accomplish it together, I carried it out alone. Let me emphasize that nobody was my associate in this noble deed, no comrade lent his hand to the act. Even so, I am quite aware you would have devoted your energies to this business if I had asked, for undoubtedly you have retained your allegiance and love towards your true sovereign. Nevertheless it seemed better for me to punish the scoundrels without endangering you. For I thought other men’s shoulders should not be made to prop a burden I believed could be adequately sustained by my own. I have burnt the others and left your hands to incinerate only Fengi’s corpse; on him at least you can sate your longing for a proper revenge. Run quickly, build a pyre, commit the ungodly carcass to the flames, roast his wicked limbs, scatter the guilty dust, cast away his pitiless ashes; no urn, no burial-mound shall enclose the accursed relics of his bones. No trace must survive to remind us of that brother’s murder. Let there be no sanctuary in our land for these corrupt members, no nearby region catch the plague from his presence; neither sea nor earth shall be contaminated by harbouring his execrable body. I have done the rest; this pious duty alone remains for you: to celebrate such last rites as these for a tyrant and fratricide. When a man has divested his country of liberty, it is not fitting for his country to cover his remains. Apart from this, why should I repeat my sorrows, number my misfortunes, weave my miseries anew? You know them better than I. My stepfather aimed at my death, my mother despised me, my friends spat on me, and I passed my years in weeping, my days in unhappiness, all the time unsettled by constant perils and fear. In fine, I have spent every part of my life depressed by utmost adversity. You often groaned quietly to each other over my bereaved wits; he could be no avenger, you said, on his father’s slayer. This brought me unspoken proof of your affection, since I perceived that the memory of that royal murder had not as yet faded from your minds. Who could have so hard a heart, such craggy inflexibility that he would not soften with compassion at my afflictions, bend with pity at my wretchedness? Commiserate with your young prince, be moved by my hardships, you whose hands are innocent of ØrvendiPs death. Commiserate too with my distressed mother and, as she was once your queen, rejoice that her disgrace is expunged; embracing as she did the brother-in-law who killed her husband, she was forced to submit her woman’s body to a double weight of shame. Therefore, to hide my motives of revenge, to keep my real qualities in the shade, I put on a representation of lassitude rather than its actuality, and pretending imbecility, I contrived to mislead people about my intelligence. But whether that was effective and achieved its full purpose lies under your consideration; I am happy lor you to make this important judgement. Stamp now on those murderous ashes, spurn the remnants of one who butchered his brother, corrupted and shamefully defiled his brother’s queen, struck down his lord, treasonably attacked royalty, inflicted galling tyranny on you, abolished your freedom, and crowned homicide with incest. r. Since I was an agent of righteous revenge striving to fulfil my responsibility for reprisal, support me with your noble spirits, give me The respect that is due, revive me with your warm regard. I myself have wiped out our country’s infamy, obliterated my mother’s dishonour, thrust off the sway of a tyrant, crushed an assassin, countered the moves and baffled the treacherous hand of my uncle, whose crimes, if he had lived, would have redoubled daily. Grieving at the violence to my father and fatherland, I exterminated the wretch who fiercely lorded it over you in a way men should not have to bear. Acknowledge a service, do honour to my abilities, and grant me the kingdom if I have earned it; you see here the dispenser of this great favour, no killer nor degenerate heir to his father’s power, but the lawful inheritor of the realm and dutiful avenger of fratricide. To me you owe the beneficent restoration of liberty, the abolition of the tormentor’s rule, the removal of the oppressor’s yoke, the murderer’s authority shaken off, the lyrant’s sceptre trampled underfoot. It is I who have stripped you of slavery and dressed you in freedom, set you back on the heights, repaired your renown, evicted the despot, triumphed over a hangman. The prize is in your hands; since you are the ones who know my merits, I ask you, out of your goodness, to bestow the reward.’ The young man’s speech had swayed every heart; some were moved to pity, some even reduced to tears. But as soon as their sadness had abated, he was appointed ruler by prompt and general acclamation. Everyone put maximum trust in his abilities, for he had contrived the sum total of his feats with deepest cunning and worked everything to an astounding conclusion. Many, you could tell, were staggered that he could have constructed this precise plan over such a long stretch of time. After these accomplishments in Denmark, Amleth fitted out three ships at great expense and paid another visit to Britain to see his wife and father-in-law. Under his patronage he had also enrolled youths outstanding in arms and clad in great splendour; and whereas he had long performed all his actions in contemptible garments, he now had all his accoutrements lavishly prepared, and everything that had once borne the marks of poverty was converted to a costly luxury. He had ordered a shield to be designed for him, representing in finely executed pictures the entire series of his exploits from early manhood onwards. In carrying this spokesman, as it were, of his prowess, he ensured the spread of his fame. i . On it you might have seen Fengi cutting Ørvendil’s throat and then his incest, the criminal uncle and his nephew’s antics, the hooked sticks, the stepfather’s suspicions and the covering up by his stepson, Amleth’s dealing with different tests, the woman brought to entrap him, the open-jawed wolf, the discovery of the rudder, passing the sand dunes, entering the wood, the straw inserted in the horsefly and Amleth’s recognition of the signal, how he foiled the companions and in seclusion had his way with the girl. You could have observed the palace portrayed, the queen and her son together, the spy cut to pieces, then cooked, then thrown into the sewer for the pigs, his limbs plastered with filth and then left for the animals to devour. You would have seen also how Amleth detected the secret of his sleeping comrades, how he effaced the shape of the letters and substituted other characters, how he spurned the food and drink at the feast, how he criticized the king’s looks and how he censured ignoble traits in the queen. You might have remarked the hanging of the emissaries, the depiction of Amleth’s marriage, the return voyage to Denmark, his funeral celebrated by a banquet, the rods shown to the enquirers in lieu of his companions, the young man carrying out a butler’s duties and hacking his fingers intentionally with the drawn sword which was afterwards riveted, the increasing hubbub among the guests and their wilder and wilder dancing, the tapestry thrown over the sleepers, held fast by the clasping hooks and wrapped firmly round them in their slumber, the brand flung on to the roof and the revellers burnt alive, the palace consumed by the fire and collapsing in ruins, the visit to Fengi’s chamber, the stolen sword and the useless one set in its place, and the king slain by his stepson’s hand with the point of his own blade. The assiduous artist had painted all these events on Amleth’s war shield with consummate skill, creating lifelike shapes to catch an exact image of his deeds. His retinue, to parade themselves more handsomely, covered their shields in a layer of pure gold. i. The British king received them graciously and entertained them with royal, lavish dispensation. In the midst of their feasting he asked eagerly whether Fengi was alive and prospering, but learnt from his son-in-law that any enquiry about his welfare was vain, for he had perished by the sword. The king pressed to ascertain the murderer’s identity with repeated questioning till he found that the announcer of Fengi’s death was also its cause. At this discovery he was inwardly aghast, aware that he was implicated by an old promise of revenge. On one occasion Fengi and he had decided by mutual agreement that one of them should avenge the other’s killing. Devotion to his daughter and affection for his son-in-law pulled him one way, but he was tugged in the other direction by loyalty to his friend and, beyond that, by his binding oath, a two-way contract which it was heinous to desecrate. In the end, despising family ties, he allowed his sworn word to weigh more and, subordinating kinship to plighted faith, bent his thoughts to vengeance. However, since he believed it was a sin to violate the sacred laws of hospitality, he chose to execute the role of avenger by another’s hand, and cloak his villainy with pretended innocence. He therefore devised his plot amid kindnesses and hid his malignant purpose under busy, deceptive courtesies. As his wife had recently succumbed to an illness, he asked Amleth if he would act as delegate in arranging his second marriage, stressing how absolutely delighted he was by the Dane’s remarkable capabilities. He claimed that there was a Scottish queen whose hand he passionately desired. In fact he knew that she was not merely a spinster through her chasteness but also cruelly arrogant and always inflicted the ultimate punishment on her suitors with unremitting hatred; of her many wooers not one had yet escaped with his head. Amleth, then, did not shirk compliance with his instructions and set out, whatever the dangers of the imposed mission, relying partly on his own, partly on the king’s servants. He entered Scotland and not far from the queen’s palace came to a meadow adjoining the roadside where he could refresh his horses; the pleasant babbling of a stream induced drowsiness so that, charmed by the attractiveness of the scenery, he thought he would take a rest there after stationing sentinels a little way off. When the queen received report of this she sent out ten young men to investigate the newly arrived strangers and their equipment. One of the livelier-witted of these dodged the guards, crept determinedly up to Amleth and removed the shield, on which, as it happened, he had pillowed his head, with such stealth that he disturbed the sleep neither of its owner nor any of his numerous company, for the man wished to inform his mistress not just by word of mouth but with an actual exhibit. The letter entrusted to Amleth he filched with equal dexterity from the wallet where it was being kept. i . These were conveyed to the queen, who, by gazing attentively at the shield, teased out the whole story from the explanatory inscriptions; she gathered that the man nearby had followed the most precise, clever calculations to punish his uncle for his father’s murder. After scanning also the letter which contained the request for her hand, she erased all the writing, since she was quite repelled by the idea of wedlock with elderly men and aimed at being linked with someone younger. She went on to pen a commission, supposedly dispatched to her by the British king and subscribed like the other with his name and title; in it she forged a request for her consent to marry the messenger. Further, she made sure that the adventures she had learned about from his shield were referred to in the script, in such a way that you would have imagined the shield and the letter confirmed each other. She then ordered the same scouts as before to return the shield and letter to their rightful places in a bid to imitate Amleth’s method of deception when he made dupes of his two companions. Meanwhile Amleth realized his shield had been guilefully withdrawn from beneath his head and kept his eyes shut on purpose, so that by astute pretence of unconsciousness he might regain what he had lost when he was actually asleep. He thought that if a single attempt had gone smoothly the trickster would more readily try to repeat his game. Nor was he mistaken. When the spy stole up, wishing to restore the shield and paper to their former places, Amleth jumped forward, grabbed the fellow and clamped him in fetters. Then, rousing his attendants, he proceeded to the queen’s abode. Here he tendered his father-in-law’s salutations and offered her the letter signed in the king’s handwriting. As soon as Hermuthrud (that was the queen’s name) had taken it and read it through, she warmly commended his skilful labours and pronounced that Fengi had been punished legitimately; Amleth himself with his unfathomable intelligence had achieved wonders surpassing human estimation; through his deep perspicacity he had devised recompense for Fengi’s extinction of his father and bedding of his mother, and his remarkable principles had led him to seize the country from the man who had frequently tried to ensnare him. For this reason, she said, she was puzzled that such an accomplished individual could have stumbled once into a misguided marriage; almost outstripping mortal capacities in his splendour, he appeared nevertheless to have slipped into a dim, undignified union. His wife’s parents were slaves, even though good luck had tricked them out with royal preferment. In seeking a partner a wise man should make his evaluation not by the radiance of her looks but by that of her family. I f he therefore desired a proper alliance he must consider her lineage and not be captivated by beauty, a provocative enticement which, with a cheap smear of rouge, had stripped many a man of his integrity. However, there was a lady he could take, of equal rank with himself. Possessed of adequate means and noble blood, she herself would be ideal for his embraces, since he did not surpass her in regal wealth nor did his brilliant ancestry excel hers. She was a queen, indeed could be counted a king if her sex were disregarded; more to the point, whichever man she honoured with her bed was actually king, and received a realm and her caresses together. Her sceptre and her hand were complementary. It was no paltry kindness to be offering her personal favours like this, seeing that she was wont to signal her refusal of others by execution. She urged him to turn his winning ways in her direction, transfer his marriage vows to her and learn to set birth before a fair shape. With these words she ran to clasp him tightly in her arms.
Entranced by the maiden’s affable speech, he hastened to return her kisses and joined with her in a fast embrace, declaring that her desires were his own. Next a banquet was held, friends invited, the chieftains collected and the marriage ceremony performed. When all was completed he returned to Britain with his bride, having ordered a stout force of Scotsmen, whose aid he could enlist against various hostile stratagems, to follow immediately behind. As he was journeying back, the British king’s daughter, his original wife, met him. Although she complained that she felt wounded at being superseded by this concubine, she maintained that it was beneath her dignity to set disgust at her husband’s adultery before her love for him; she would not turn her back on him so far as to keep quiet about the sinister schemes which she knew were directed at him. Regard for her son, a token of their union, should at least prompt her to marital affection. ‘He can hate his mother’s rival,’ she said; ‘I shall love her; no setback shall lull my passion for you, no spite prevent me from revealing any evil machinations against you which I have unearthed. Be sure to watch your father-in-law, since you reaped a happy outcome from your embassy and by obstinately seizing the initiative transferred the whole profit of the venture to yourself and sidestepped the wishes of the man who sent you.’ Her words revealed that she was more closely devoted to her husband than to her father. While she was addressing Amleth, the British king appeared, embraced his son-in-law firmly but with little warmth, and conducted him in to a feast, bent on hiding his dishonest intentions by a show of generosity. Amleth, recognizing his duplicity, disguised his fears and took with him a train of two hundred knights, having first put on a mail shirt; he humoured his host and preferred the danger of complying with the king’s hypocrisy than churlishly opposing him. A code of honour, to his mind, must be observed in everything. As he was riding up to the king, the other attacked him beneath the archway at the double gates and would have transfixed him with his spear if his sturdy undergarment had not resisted the steel. Amleth had received merely a light wound and so he sped to the place where he had bidden the young Scottish warriors wait on duty; he then sent back to the king his new wife’s spy, the one he had captured, to report how he had secretly extracted from its safe keeping in the wallet the letter meant for his mistress, thereby intending to throw the blame back on Hermuthrud and acquit himself of a charge of treachery by a genuine excuse.
The king lost no time in pressing hotly on his trail and beggared him of most of his troops, so that when the following day Amleth was on the point of contesting for his life, he altogether despaired of having the strength to resist; in order to display an apparent increase in his forces he took the lifeless bodies of his comrades and propped some up on staves, secured others to nearby rocks, sat some on horseback as if they were alive, and disposed them all with their complete military equipment in lines and formations as though they were about to join combat. The wing of corpses was just as densely packed as his company of live soldiers. Anyone must have been stunned at the sight of dead men being whirled into battle and carcasses mustered to decide the issue. It proved no idle scheme for its inventor, since the forms of the deceased warriors, as they were struck by the sun’s rays, appeared like a mighty host. Those senseless, inanimate figures recalled the original numbers in his battalion and you would have imagined the carnage of the day before had not thinned his band in the slightest. Terrified at the sight, the Britons fled before the battle was started, conquered by the corpses of the foes they had overcome when these were living. I cannot judge whether this victory owed more to cunning or luck. The king was rather slow taking to flight and the Danes, hard behind, disposed of him. When the conquering Amleth had snatched a heavy share of British booty, he made for his own country with his wives. Meanwhile, on the death of Rørik, Viglek had assumed the Danish kingship; after harassing Amleth’s mother with every kind of insolence he had deprived her of her royal wealth and gone on to complain that her son had seized control of Jutland and stolen it from the king of Lejre, for it was his own prerogative to confer and remove the duties of high office. Amleth bore this charge with such equanimity that when he bestowed the finest spoils of his victory on Viglek, he seemed to be repaying slander with bounty. Later, however, he saw a chance to exact revenge, challenged and defeated the other in warfare, and came out into the open as his enemy. He forced into exile the governor of Scania, Fiallar, who, so the story goes, withdrew to a place called Undensakre, which is unknown to our people. After this, Viglek, resuscitated by the soldiery of Scania and Zealand, sent ambassadors to invite him to battle; Amleth’s alert brain perceived that he was balanced between one decision involving disgrace, another spelling danger. He knew that if he took up the challenge he was imperilling his life, and if he shrank from it military dishonour loomed. The desire to preserve his integrity weighed more in a mind which dwelt on gallantry, and a keen thirst for fame blunted his fear of defeat; this prevented the true blaze of his glory from being dimmed by a timid cowering from his fate. He observed too that there is just about the same gulf between an undistinguished life and a magnificent death as men agree there is between experiencing disdain and honour. He was bound to Hermuthrud by such great affection that he harboured a deeper anxiety over her future widowhood than for his own death; consequently he paid keen attention to securing a second marriage for her before he entered battle. At this she protested a masculine confidence and swore that she would not abandon her husband even in the front line, saying she loathed the woman who was frightened to join her husband at his end. Nevertheless she did not stick very closely to this rare promise. When Viglek had killed Amleth as they fought in Jutland, she voluntarily yielded herself as a trophy to the victor’s embraces. Every female vow is stolen away by changes of fortune or evaporates with shifting seasons; a woman’s reliability stands on slippery soles and is weakened by chance accidents; her faith is glibly pledged but executed slackly, hampered by the various allurements of pleasure; always eager to seek out new interests and forget the old it leaps away breathlessly towards its desire. Such was Amleth’s departure; if Fate had tended him as kindly as Nature, he would have shone as brightly as the gods and his talents would have allowed him to surpass the labours of Hercules. There is a plain in Jutland which is famous as his burial place and named after him. Viglek governed the kingdom long and peacefully until he was carried off by illness. His son Vermund succeeded him. As this extended period of calm leisure and prosperity ran on he enjoyed a lasting, uninterrupted peace at home with no disturbance to his security. Despite his being childless during the prime of life, Fortune bestowed a late gift and let him as an older man produce a son, Uffi, even though he had passed so many years without issue. This Uffi outgrew all his contemporaries in stature, but in early manhood he was reckoned so dull-witted and foolish that he seemed hopeless for private and public affairs alike. From infancy he had never taken to play or merriment and was so devoid of a normal capacity for enjoyment that he kept his lips locked in continual silence and governed his face so severely that he had no use whatsoever for laughter. Throughout his childhood he had a reputation for stupidity, yet afterwards altered men’s contempt to high estimation; as he had been the very picture of a dullard, so he turned out to be a model of wisdom and valour. His father, seeing such an apparent booby, married him to the daughter of Frøvin, governor of Schleswig, thinking that with this eminent man as a relation Uffi would gain profitable help in administering the kingdom. Frøvin’s sons were Keti and Vig, young fellows of outstanding character, whose manliness Vermund esteemed no less than their father’s in assuring his son’s future success. At this time Athisl reigned in Sweden, a man of notable fame and energy; when he had vanquished his neighbours on all fronts, not wishing to let slothful inactivity tarnish the glory won by his courage, he made sure that he brought a great many new exercises into vogue by dint of continually practising them himself. Among these was a habit of walking alone each day invested with a full panoply of arms, since he knew that in soldiering nothing was more creditable than the continual use of weapons and he would increase his reputation by zeal in this activity. Self-reliance claimed no lesser place in this man than hunger for praise. He thought nothing was ferocious enough to make him fear any agitation of his spirit in a violent encounter. He crossed with his armed forces into Denmark and provoked Frøvin to a battle at Schleswig, where soldiers on both sides were routed amid heavy slaughter; the leaders of the armies chanced to run against each other with their swords and conducted the business so much like a duel that the contest went beyond the issue of general fighting and appeared as personal combat. Both were equally disposed to seek a confrontation in which they could dispense with the help of their followers and indulge in an exclusive trial of strength to show their worth. As the mutual volley of blows intensified, Athisl proved the superior warrior, overthrew Frøvin, and extended his individual victory into a universal one, so that the Danish ranks were everywhere torn apart and shattered. On his return to Sweden he not only added Frøvin’s death to the roll of his personal achievements, but would also accompany this with inordinate bragging, thus undermining the meritorious action by his presumptuous words. To conceal one’s excellences in modest silence is altogether more admirable than publishing them by loud talk. Vermund raised Frøvin’s sons to the honours of their father’s rank, perfectly justified in conferring such a favour on the children of a friend who had died for his fatherland. This event served as a reminder for Athisl to renew his Danish war. Spurred on with assurance from his previous conflict, he returned, bringing not just a mean handful of troops but the whole flower of Swedish chivalry, as though he would seize command of all Denmark. Frøvin’s son Keti sent one of his captains named Folki to bear the news to Vermund, who happened to be staying on the estate of Jelling. Finding the king feasting with friends, Folki delivered his message and then an exhortation: the opportunity of fighting which he had demanded for some while was now here and forcing itself on Vermund’s wishes; an immediate chance of victory was offered and the honour of an early triumph was his to choose. This lucky event presaged immense good fortune, as delightful and unexpected as it had long been sighed for. Athisl had arrived flanked by countless Swedish troops and with an unwavering presumption of certain victory; since the belligerent enemy would surely prefer death to flight, here the chance of warfare was offered to allow a joyful revenge for their recent blow. Vermund declared that he had fulfilled his role of messenger nobly and bravely, and asked him to spend a short time refreshing himself with a meal; journeys were no good on an empty stomach. As the other replied that he had definitely not got sufficient leisure to eat, he was asked if he would quench his thirst. When a drink was offered, Vermund told him to keep the cup too (it was of gold), stressing that travellers who were tired and hot could sip more conveniently from a goblet than the palm of their hand. The young man was delighted both by the size of the gift and by the kindly words which accompanied it, and vowed he would sooner drain a draught of his own blood as capacious as the drink he had swallowed than ever turn to flee in the king’s presence. Vermund valued such a brave undertaking as his own reward and gained rather more pleasure from conferring the present than the soldier did in receiving it. He later discovered that the captain fought with as much bravado as he had spoken. In the actual battle it happened that amid the various charges made by the squadrons Folki met Athisl and they fought hand to hand for some time until the wounded king raced from combat to his ships, while the Swedish army followed the fate of their leader and took to flight. Because Folki’s wounds and exertions had weakened him and he was saturated through heat and thirst, he stopped pursuing the routed enemy, and in order to recuperate his body drained his own blood into a helmet and drank it. In this way he gave an exceptional repayment for the king’s goblet. Vermund chanced to see this and praised him warmly for carrying out his promise. Folki replied that handsome vows were bound to be seen through to their fulfilment. Such words commended his act just as well as Vermund could. The victors, as usual after a battle, had laid down their weapons and were chatting to one another while they rested; Keti, governor of Schleswig, stated that he was utterly amazed to see Athisl, when there were so many obstacles in his way, finding a chance to slip away from the fight, especially because he was at the forefront of the skirmish and the last to run, and though there was no other foe whose doom the Danes sought more keenly. Vermund replied that he ought to learn how on every battlefield you could distinguish four categories of fighting men. The first type tempered their valour with moderation and while they were passionate to fell those who resisted, were ashamed to ride down fugitives; these were men whose veteran experience of arms equipped them with more stable proof of their courage, and who set their glory not in the flight of conquered enemies but in overpowering the side they must defeat. There was another kind of warrior who, trusting to his strength of body and spirit but without a shred of pity, wrought carnage with indiscriminate savagery on the backs as well as the chests of his adversaries. These young men, carried away by their fervour, strove to embellish their first military attempts with good auguries; burning with a desire for fame natural to their age, they would rush pell-mell to perform right or wrong with the same unconcern.
A third group were nervously torn between fear and selfreproach; fright stopped them advancing, inhibitions of shame prevented them retreating; although they were of noble blood they were conspicuous only for their empty grandeur and swelled the battle line numerically but not with their vigour; they struck at the enemy with their shadows instead of their weapons and were reckoned among the warrior pack solely because you could see their limbs. These were lords of great wealth, more outstanding for their birth than their courage; ownership drove them to hug life and allow more to cowardice than the vigour proper to their noble lineage. Again there were others who went to the action in show, but not in reality; they inserted themselves into the rear ranks of their fellows and, as they were the last to fight, were first to flee; one token of obvious fear revealed their feeble state, for they always purposely searched out escape routes and in their indolence advanced timidly behind the backs of the combatants. It should be supposed, then, that these were the reasons why the king had escaped with his life; the front column of soldiers did not chase the flying Athisl perseveringly, since it was not their concern to check the defeated, but maintain their own victory; as a consequence they tightened their formations so that they could adequately reinforce the newly won triumph and ensure a complete conquest. The second class of warriors, who yearned to liquidate everything in their path, Athisl eluded unscathed, through their lack not of determination but of opportunity; they would certainly have been quick to do him harm if they had had the means. Men of the third category, who during the actual battle frittered away their time roaming about and trembling, hampered their neighbours’ success; although they had been given the chance to injure the king, they lacked the guts to attack him. So Vermund dismissed Keti’s bewilderment and wonder, affirming that he had given the true reasons for Athisl’s preservation. Afterwards Athisl disappeared back to Sweden, yet he still swaggered bumptiously over Frovin’s death and never ceased to chatter ostentatiously about the history of this achievement and to sing his own praises; this, far from indicating that he bore the shame of his late defeat cheerfully, was because his recent flight mortified him and he tried to remedy this by recalling the credit of his old victory. Keti and Vig were quite naturally enraged at this and took joint oaths to avenge their father. Since they believed themselves insufficiently equipped for a direct war of retribution, they armed lightly and made for Sweden unaccompanied; after entering the wood where they had heard from report that the king used to saunter without attendants, they found a hiding place for their weapons. Then they sought AthisPs company for some while as if they were deserters, and when he made enquiries about their country of origin they swore they were from Schleswig and had left on account of a murder. The king believed they were referring to a crime already committed, not one they were bent on executing. By this trick they wished to evade their questioner’s curiosity and let a positive response provide him with a useless piece of information; the truth represented with an underlying ambiguity in their reply would instil a false belief in their hearer. Famous men of the past felt that there was a great deal of ugliness in lies. Athisl went on to say he would gladly know who the Danes thought was Frøvin’s slayer. It was uncertain, Keti answered, who should properly claim the distinction of such a mighty deed, especially as the general view was that he had perished on the battlefield. Athisl replied that it was silly to ascribe Frøvin’s destruction to anyone else, for he, and he alone, had achieved it in hand-to-hand combat. Soon Keti was asked whether Frøvin had any children alive. When he replied there were two sons, the king said he would very much like to know their age and stature. The other answered that they were pretty well like themselves in build, the same age, and about as tall. ‘If their disposition and hardihood should remain like their father’s,’ remarked Athisl, ‘a heavy storm would break over me.’ Asked whether they often talked of their sire’s death, Keti replied that it was useless to keep discussing something that was incurable; in his opinion to be irritably harping on a loss for which there was no remedy was futile. His words were proof that threats should not anticipate vengeance. When he noticed how each day the king would walk off alone to develop his toughness, Keti gathered up their weapons with his brother and dogged his steps. Athisl caught sight of them and dug his heels into the earth, believing that it was unseemly to avoid an impending attack. As they declared that they were going to exact punishment for his killing of Frøvin, particularly because in all his contemptuous boasts he admitted he was the sole cause of his death, he warned them in purposing revenge not to be so foolhardy as to join combat with him when their strength was so weak and ineffectual; in striving after another’s downfall they might well experience their own and waste such promising talents by a premature thirst for glory. Let them preserve their youth, preserve their abilities, and not be possessed by a rash desire to lose their lives. They should allow him to requite the wrong of their father’s misfortune with money, and count it a great honour to carry the reputation of having compelled so mighty a prince to pay a fine and of having shaken him by some overmastering fear. In fact, said he, they could tell by his words that it was not fear that swayed him but pity for their youthfulness. Keti replied that he was vainly spinning out time with this rigmarole, trying to undermine their will to take so lawful a revenge by promising compensation; he told Athisl to advance and to test in single combat what brawn Keti had in him. He would rely on his own stamina without his brother’s aid, so that their fight should not be illmatched and appear discreditable. Our ancestors believed that a battle of two against one was ignominious as well as unfair. Victory resulting from such an encounter was deemed unpraiseworthy, and indeed seemed nearer to disgrace than to honour. People considered that the crushing of a single man by twin opponents held no difficulty and therefore was a cause for the deepest ignominy. So great, however, was Athisl’s feeling of self-confidence that he challenged them both to assail him at once, saying that if he could not dissuade them from fighting he would give them the chance of a safer engagement. Keti rejected this concession so vigorously that he swore he would rather die, for he judged that the type of combat offered by Athisl must blemish his reputation. In wishing to meet Keti’s eager onslaught with a restrained mode of fighting and striking his opponent’s shield merely with light thrusts of his blade, Athisl defended his life with more courage than energy. After this had been going on for some time, the king advised him to enlist his brother in the enterprise and not be ashamed of demanding another’s arm to support him, since he could see his single-handed efforts were unfruitful. When the other shook his head, Athisl said he would not spare him, and giving as good as his word laid on with all his strength. Keti met this with so stout a blow of his sword that it split the king’s helmet and forced its way down to his head. Exasperated by this wound (blood was streaming copiously from his scalp) he went for ICeti with a volley of brisk strokes and beat him to his knees. Vig could not bear to remain an onlooker; since personal affection was closer to his heart than common custom, he put family loyalty before his sense of shame and assaulted Athisl, preferring not to gaze on his brother’s helpless plight but guard him from danger. His action earned him more reproach than fame, for in supporting his brother he had broken the set rules of duelling and was seen as having lent profitable rather than meritorious aid. Thus he yielded to disgrace and to fraternal duty, which balanced one another on opposite sides of the scales. People recognized that, ihough their slaying of Athisl had been efficient, it had hardly been illustrious. With no wish to conceal their deed from the public they cut off his head, draped the trunk over a horse and carried it from the wood to hand over to the inhabitants of a nearby village; they testified that Frovin’s sons had taken vengeance on the Swedish king Athisl for their father’s murder. Blazing their conquest before them, they were received with the highest acclaim by Vermund, who judged it a most salutary performance; he preferred to turn a blind eye to the notoriety, concentrate on the glorious removal of his rival, and judge that the assassination of a tyrant had nothing to do with disrepute. Nevertheless, among other nations it became a byword that the king’s death had weakened the ancient law of combat. After Vermund with the infirmity of old age had lost his sight, the Saxon king, believing Denmark lacked a proper leader, instructed him through envoys not to hold on to the kingdom beyond his due span but to hand it over to his governing; he should not let the laws and defence of his country lapse simply by being greedy for an excessively long reign. What estimation could men have of a king whose mind and eyes had been equally darkened with fearful gloom, the one by senility, the other through blindness? If he refused, yet had a son who dared respond to a challenge to fight his own son, he should allow the victor to command the realm. If Vermund approved of neither proposal, he must understand that it was a matter for war not warnings; in the end he would be made to surrender unwillingly what he was above rendering voluntarily. At this, Vermund was torn by heavy sighs and replied that his years were shamefully abused by such an insult; he had not been so timorous and evasive of battle when he was in his prime to deserve this pitch of misery in his decline. It was no more fitting to censure his defective sight, since this kind of disability was very usual at his time of life and would seem a misfortune that deserved compassion sooner than reproach. A charge of impatience might with more justice be brought against the Saxon king, for it would have been seemlier to wait for an old man’s decease than demand his realm, and somewhat more preferable to succeed a dead person than despoil him while he still lived. Rather than act like a madman and deliver to a foreign power the ancestral Danish claim to freedom, he would answer the challenge personally. Thereupon the ambassadors said they knew their king would recoil from the mockery of joining battle with a blind man; people did not regard such an absurd form of contest as creditable but as bordering on dishonour. It would, however, be more appropriate to settle the business through their blood relations, that is, their two sons. The Danes were paralysed at this, suddenly too dismayed to know how to answer; then Uffi, who chanced to be with the rest, asked his father’s permission to reply, like a mute who has unexpectedly found his voice. When Vermund demanded which of them had asked his leave to speak and learnt from his officials it was Uffi, he protested that it was surely enough for disdainful outsiders to mock his smarting griefs without his own household adding similar saucy jibes. As his followers persisted in affirming that it really was Uffthe said: ‘The man is free to speak his thoughts, whoever he is.’ Uffi told the ambassadors it was futile for their king to try to annex that realm, for it relied on its own ruler’s efforts together with the pugnacity and energy of its bravest nobles. Furthermore, its king was not without a son, or the kingdom an heir; the Saxons should know that Uffi was not just prepared to fight the son of their king, but at the same time any one of their nation’s most valiant warriors at the prince’s side. Hearing this, the plenipotentiaries laughed, since they believed these vehement words were meaningless. Without more ado a site was appointed for the contest and a fixed limit of time set. The bystanders were so astonished at Uffi’s unprecedented speech and challenge that they were at a loss whether to marvel more at his voice or his self-assurance. When the ambassadors departed, Vermund congratulated the person who had made the reply because he had trusted his own powers to the extent of challenging two opponents instead of one; the king said he would rather vacate his kingdom for him, whoever he might be, than for a proud foe. When everyone continued to assert that it was his son whose high resolution had spurned the envoys’ arrogance, Vermund told him to step nearer so that he could verify it with his touch, where his eyesight failed him. After handling his body carefully he recognized his son from his features and large limbs and began to believe his courtiers’ declarations; why, he asked, had he troubled to conceal the melodious sound of his voice so systematically, why had he endured spending such a large proportion of his life without any communication of language, and why had he completely denied himself the use of his tongue and allowed men to believe that his dumbness was a natural defect? Uffi replied that up to now he had been satisfied to defend his father and had had no need for speech until he observed their native good sense being quashed by the gabble of foreigners. Asked further by Vermund why he had chosen to take on two instead of one, he answered that he had longed for this kind of combat; because the overthrow of King Athisl, accomplished by two men, constituted a slur on the Danes, he wished to compensate for it by a single-handed exploit and uproot the old embarrassing memory by a new example of valour. A fresh coating of honour, he said, must be sprayed over that long-standing charge of disgrace. Vermund acknowledged that he had made a just estimate of everything and suggested that Uffi take some preliminary instruction in the use of weapons, for he had had little acquaintance with them. Though Uffi accepted the offer, no breastplate could be found roomy enough to accommodate his wide chest; they were all of such narrow fit that the joins came loose. He was too well built to wear anyone else’s armour. Finally, when his father’s cuirass also split because it was squeezing his body too tightly, Vermund had it cut apart on the left side and held together with a clasp, thinking that it mattered little if the area protected by his shield were exposed to the sword. Moreover, his father told him to decide with supreme care on a blade which he could safely use. A number were offered, but as soon as Uffi grasped the hilt and drove it, each sword was smashed to splinters; there was not one, however hard-tempered, that did not shatter into many fragments with the first blow. The king had a sword of unusual sharpness called Skræp, which at a single stroke would cleave any obstruction right through the middle; no object was so unusually strong that it could resist the edge driven against it. He had no desire to bequeath it for the advantage of posterity, and therefore, bitterly grudging anyone else the benefit, had buried it deep in the earth, intending to debar the rest from using it if he had no hope of his son’s development. Asked whether he had a weapon suited to Uffi’s might, he replied that he had; provided that he could identify the contours of the ground where he had long ago entrusted it to the soil, he would produce one which was right for his son’s physical powers. He then told them to conduct him to a field and, by questioning his escorts about every bit of the area, he discovered from the relevant indications the place where the sword was buried, had it dug out of its cavity, and handed it to his son. Uffi, noticing that it was brittle and corroded through great age, had little confidence in its striking power and enquired if he should not test that too, like the others, to find out its condition before he had to use it in real action. Vermund’s reply was that if this blade broke when he swung it, there was nothing left which would answer to his strength. He should therefore refrain from a procedure whose outcome was still uncertain. So, as agreed, they went to the battleground. This was encircled by the waters of the river Eider in such a way that the intervening space barred access to it except by boat. Uffi made for it unaccompanied while the prince of Saxony was attended by a champion famous for his power; on each side dense crowds of eager spectators thronged the winding banks. Everyone fixed his eyes on the scene, but Vermund situated himself at the very edge of a bridge, meaning to drown himself if his son should be defeated. He preferred to share in the downfall of his kin rather than look upon his country’s overthrow with sorrow-stricken heart. Charged by the two young men simultaneously, Uffi parried the strokes of both with his shield, as he could not rely on his sword; he decided to be patient and ascertain which of the two presented the greater threat so that he could at least hit that one with a single stroke of his weapon. Since Vermund believed that this passivity in receiving blows was due to his feebleness, he edged slowly towards the bridge’s parapet, wishing to fling himself to his death if it should be all over with his son. But Fortune protected the old man as he burned with such fierce love for his flesh and blood. Uffi egged on the king’s son to grapple more keenly with him, telling him to match his illustrious birth with some spectacular deed of valour, so that his low-born companion should not stand out superior to royalty. Then in order to put the champion’s courage to the test, he warned him not to skulk timorously behind his master; he must justify the confidence the prince had placed in him by some outstanding feats of combat, seeing that he had been chosen as his sole aide in battle. The champion, pricked by his conscience, complied by moving in towards Uffi, who tore through his middle with one sweep of his sword. Cheered by this sound, Vermund said he could hear his son’s blade and asked on which particular part of the opponent’s body he had dealt the blow. When his attendants replied that it had sheared not just one section of his body but had sliced through the man’s whole frame, Vermund withdrew from the parapet on to the bridge, now craving for life as eagerly as he had yearned for death before. Then Uffi, who wanted to dispatch his remaining foe like the first, urged the prince with stronger taunts to wreak vengeance for the shade of the retainer who had died for him and thus offer him sacrifice. These solicitations forced the Saxon to come within close range; because he feared the steel’s thin edge was unequal to the violence of his impact, after eyeing intently the spot he meant to strike, Uffi turned its other side towards his adversary and slashed it right through his body. Hearing this Vermund cried that the noise of his sword Skræp had smitten his ears a second time. Immediately his followers confirmed that his son had indeed killed both enemies, the old man’s countenance dissolved in tears with an excess of joy. Happiness watered those cheeks which misery had not been able to moisten. While the Saxons, wretched at the disgrace, bore their fighters to burial with deep-gnawing shame, the Danes welcomed Uffi with exultant leaping. The reproach of Athisl’s slaying was laid to rest, dying away through the Saxons’ dishonour. So the kingdom of Saxony passed to the Danes and was governed by Uffi after his father’s death; he was appointed ruler of both realms, though men had believed he would never even administer one efficiently. The majority have called him Olaf and for his restrained temper he has been named ‘the M ild’. Through the ravages of time his subsequent actions have escaped the customary transmission. Yet from his praiseworthy beginnings one can believe his later achievements were magnificent. I realize in giving such a brief account of his deeds how many of our race’s distinguished heroes have had their lustrous fame and memorials erased through the scantiness of written records. If Fate had granted the Latin language to this country of ours in early days, we should be thumbing countless volumes of Danish exploits. Uffi was succeeded by his son Dan. Although he took his wars across the borders and extended his sway by frequent victories, he darkened with the foul smear of pride the brilliance of the glory he had achieved; he declined so markedly from the uprightness of his distinguished parent that, whereas Uffi had surpassed the rest in modesty, the son in his swelling arrogance despised all others. His inheritance and even the spoils he had himself won from foreign peoples were squandered disgracefully, and the wealth which should have been devoted to royal magnificence he expended on costly, ruinous luxuries. Sometimes children degenerate from their forebears like monstrous births. After him reigned Huglek, who, the story goes, crushed the Swedish despots Ömoth and Ögrim in a sea skirmish. He was succeeded by Frothi, surnamed ‘the Active’, an epithet he confirmed by his bodily and mental endurance; after dealing destruction on ten Norwegian generals, he reached the island which later took his name, to make his final attack on the king himself. This monarch, Frøger, had achieved a double distinction: he was remarkable both for his spectacular militancy and wealth, adorned his sovereignty with athletic prowess, and was rich in prizes for gymnastics as well as the distinctions of authority. Some say that his father was Odin and, when the immortal gods were requested to confer a blessing on him, he received the privilege of insuperability except by one who during a contest could catch up in his hand the dust lying beneath Frøger’s feet. Learning about such a god-given power, Frothi invited him to a duel, since he desired to outwit this divine patronage. First then, pretending inexperience, he begged to be given a lesson in combat declaring he knew that Frøger was well versed in knowledge of its skills. Delighted to find his foe deferring to his professional standing, even asking a favour, Frøger pronounced him wise to submit his youthful mind to an old man’s experience; from his scar-free face and brow unscored by any weapon marks he could see that he must have scant acquaintance with this exercise. He marked out on the ground two squares opposite one another, each side measuring one cubit, intending to begin with instruction on how to use these positions. When these had been drawn, each man took up his allocated station. Frothi then asked Frøger if he would change places and arms. Consent was easily obtained; his opponent’s shining armour excited Frøger, for Frothi wore a gold-hilted sword, a gleaming breastplate to match, and a dazzling helmet of the same kind. Frothi snatched some dust from the place Frøger had vacated, believing this presaged his victory. The prophecy proved reliable: he cut down Frøger at once and thus by a slight trick gained supreme fame for his intrepidity. Where no man had ever been permitted to win by his strength, cunning prevailed. After him Dan assumed the monarchy. While only a -yearold, he was pestered by insolent envoys who told him he must give the Saxons tribute or war. His sense of honour put battle before payment, driving him to face a turbulent death rather than live a coward. In consequence he staked his lot on warfare; the young warriors of Denmark crowded the River Elbe with such a vast concourse of ships that one could easily cross it over the decks lashed together like a continuous bridge. Eventually the king of Saxony was compelled to accept the same terms he was demanding from the Danes. After Dan, Frithlef, named ‘the Swift’, took power. While he was on the throne Hvirvil, lord of Öland, leagued himself with the Danes and assaulted Norway. This man by his endeavours achieved no small increase in renown, for he fought and overthrew the maid Rusla, who in her military ardour had aspired to warfare, and snatched manly fame from his female adversary. For their outstanding acts he took into his alliance her five confederates, the sons of Finn: Broddi, Bild, Bukki, Fanning, and Gunholm. Relying on this fraternity, he dashed his Danish treaty asunder with the sword. His invasion was all the more harmful through being treacherous. The Danes could not believe he would turn so suddenly from friend to foe. For some the step from goodwill to hatred is easily taken. I could believe the morals of our own age had their beginnings in this man, for we too do not count lying and deceit as despicable faults. After Hvirvil had attacked the southern regions of Zealand, Frithlef assailed him in the port which later bore Hvirvil’s name. Rivalling one another for the glory, the soldiers clashed with such determination and so very few shirked danger by flight that both hosts were utterly devastated; neither side could claim victory since both were involved with equal casualties, so strong had been the general appetite for renown at the expense of life. The survivors among Hvirvil’s troop that night tried to preserve their unity by lashing together the remnants of their fleet. During the same night Bild and Broddi sheered the cables which tied their vessels and withdrew them silently from the proximity of the other ships; in abandoning their brothers they gave way to their nerves, prompted more strongly by fear than devotion to their kinsmen. When daylight returned Frithlef discovered that of those allies, after the huge massacre, only Hvirvil, Gunholm, Bukki, and Fanning remained; he elected to fight alone against them all, as he was reluctant to force the torn shreds of his army to hazard themselves yet again. Apart from his natural bravery a sword-proof shirt lent him confidence. He wore this garment to protect his life both in general and in personal encounters. Because he had as much good fortune as courage in the engagement all went well and he struck down Hvirvil, Bukki, and Fanning; Gunholm was in the habit of blunting his enemy’s steel with spells, but by bludgeoning him repeatedly with the hilt Frithlef took his life. He had gripped the blade so passionately, however, that he severed the tendons and lost the use of his fingers, which were clamped to his palm and remained perpetually bent. When he was besieging Dublin, a town in Ireland, and perceived from the strength of the walls that he had no chance of taking it by storm, borrowing a leaf from the shrewd Hadding’s book he ordered fungi to be fixed to the wings of swallows and ignited. Immediately they returned to their nesting places the buildings were lit with flames. The townsfolk rushed to extinguish them and, while they were showing more concern for settling the blaze than warding off their foes, Dublin was taken. Afterwards, when he had lost his troops fighting in Britain and was evidently going to find his return to the coast tricky, he erected the bodies of his dead soldiers and set them in the battle line, simulating his former numbers so well that it looked as though he had suffered no losses. This not only deprived his enemy of any assurance in coming to grips with him but even made them eager to turn tail.
BOOK FIVE 
After Frithief’s death his -year-old son Frothi was placed on the throne in his stead at the concerted wish of the Danish people. After holding an assembly they also decided that the king’s minority should be supervised by guardians in case the monarchy should collapse owing to their ruler’s tender age. Everyone held Frithlef’s memory and name in such high esteem that the sovereignty was handed on to this very young representative of his line. A choice was made and the brothers Vestmar and Koli were summoned to take charge of the royal upbringing. Besides these, Isulf and Aggi together with eight other eminent men were entrusted with the protection of the king and granted authority to govern the realm under him. With their abundant physical and intellectual gifts, their strength and minds were more than equal to the task. Frothi had also allocated dominion over the seas to Oddi. He was connected with the king, inasmuch as he was his closest relation. So these deputies watched over the Danish state till the king should reach his full capacities. Koli’s wife was Gøtvara, who flaunted her outstanding eloquence so much that she would quell anyone, however fluent and articulate. She was proficient in disputation and had plentiful resources in every type of argument. A warrior with words, she was armed with an equal battery of questions and stubborn replies. Though she never fought in battle, no one could vanquish this woman, whose tongue provided her with arrows. Some she confuted by her audacity of speech; others, you could say, she entwined within the meshes of her ironies and strangled in nooses of sophistries. That was this sprightly witted woman’s nature. Besides, highly skilled in making or breaking agreements, she would manipulate the sting inside her mouth to be effective either way. For this reason she was an adept at dissolving or striking alliances. So she would ply the ambivalent trade of her tongue for one or the other. Vestmar had twelve sons, three of whom were given a common name, Grep. These were conceived together and delivered all at the same time so that their sharing of one name bore witness to a simultaneous origin. They were highly expert boxers and swordsmen. Fortune had gladdened Koli with three sons. The king had a sister, Gunnur, whose matchless beauty earned her the title of ‘the Fair’. When Vestmar’s and K oli’s sons grew to adolescence and they became hot-blooded, their self-assurance turned to presumption and they defiled their characters by filthy, degenerate practices. So outrageous and unrestrained were their ways that they ravished other men’s wives and daughters; they seemed to have outlawed chastity and driven it to the brothel. Nor did they stop at molesting married women but also debauched the beds of virgins. No man’s bridal chamber was safe; scarcely any place in the land was free from the imprints of their lust. Husbands were tormented with fear, their wives by the sport made of their bodies. Outrages were submitted to; respect for matrimony disappeared and sex combined with violence became the norm; where wedlock ceased to be respected, love was prostituted; folk merely ran after the immediate satisfaction of their passions. The reason was that during peacetime men’s bodies had no sturdy exercise and became demoralized through inactivity, a friend to vice. At length Grep, the eldest of those who shared this name, wanting to settle the wayward promiscuity of his appetite with a fixed expectation, was bold enough to seek a harbour for his vagrant desires in yearning for the king’s sister. This was quite out of the question; one who had allowed his pleasure to stray lawlessly needed curbing by a sense of shame; apart from this it was audacity for a commoner to covet a girl of royal descent. Terrified of being bullied by her suitor, she enclosed herself in a building fortified with ramparts in order to be more secure from his clutches. Thirty household retainers were introduced to keep watch and exercise constant vigilance over her person. One result of this was that Frothi’s companions sadly lacked female help in the wear and tear of their clothing and, since they had no one to sew new garments or patch up their rents, they kept urging the king to get married. At first he excused himself on the grounds of not being old enough, but finally yielded when their requests became more importunate. He asked his advisers for more details about the woman who would make him a fitting wife and they commended above all the king of the Huns’ daughter. When he withstood this proposal and they pushed for his reasons, he replied that his father had taught him that kings should not look to distant lands for their partners; love should only be demanded from neighbours. Gotvara, hearing this, realized the king was subtly resisting his friends by prevarications. To steady his wavering spirit and raise confidence in his diffident mind she said: ‘Weddings suit younger persons; only a funeral awaits the old. Youth strides forward in its desires and in success, while helpless age totters into the grave. Hope attends a stripling but the ancient are bowed by inexorable death. A boy’s fortune matures with him and will never leave unfinished what it has begun.’ Because of his reverence for her speech he asked her to undertake his suit to the princess; however, in opposition to this she invented the pretext of elderliness, stating that her declining years would not stand such a laborious commission. The king recognized that a bribe was needed and offered a gold necklace as the ambassador’s promised fee. This necklace had engraved studs linked together and miniatures of royalty set between, which could be drawn together and separated by pulling a thread inside: more of a luxurious trinket than a useful article. Frothi expressed the wish that Vestmar, Koli, and their sons should join the same mission, believing that with their shrewdness they would not meet a shaming rebuffi. They went off with Gotvara and were welcomed by the king of the Huns with a feast lasting three days before they could broach their diplomatic business. Such was the method of receiving guests in olden times. When the banquet had continued into the third day, the royal maiden stepped forward to charm the envoys with an address which was totally engaging. The delight of her presence added significantly to the visitors’ convivial enjoyment. As the wine began to flow freely, Vestmar unfolded the scheme of his proposal but in a thoroughly jocular way, since he wished to sound the girl’s thoughts through informal conversation. So that there should be less likelihood of a refusal, he introduced the matter of his embassy by framing merry talk and ventured to exchange laughing words with her amid the roar of the revel. She said she disdained Frothi, who was like a pauper when it came to reputation in the world. At one time no men were thought worthy to wed noble women unless they had heaped a great award of glory from their glittering achievements. A suitor’s worst blemish was idleness. When you sought a lady’s hand nothing was condemned more severely than want of renown. If only your honour were plentiful, all other wealth could be taken for granted. Girls did not so much admire their young men’s looks as their splendid feats. The envoys’ hopes flagged and they entrusted a further attempt to Gøtvara’s cleverness. She set about weakening the girl, not just with words but by an aphrodisiac preparation, at the same time stressing that Frothi was ambidextrous and was quick and skilful in swimming and fighting. The love potion turned the girl’s inflexibility to desire, removed her prejudice, and substituted erotic passion. Then Gøtvara bade Vestmar, Koli, and their sons approach the king without waiting to be summoned and press their assignment once more; if in the end they found him obstructive, they should step in with a challenge to battle before they were refused . Consequently Vestmar entered the court with his armed soldiers. ‘You must now yield to our petitions,’ he proclaimed, ‘or fight against the petitioners. We have chosen to die gloriously rather than go home with our mission incomplete; we cannot return in disgrace, foiled of our purpose by a denial, and where we hoped to win praise have to report the opposite. If you refuse your daughter, accept battle; it must be one or the other. Either we die or our demands are heard; even if we get no joy from you, at least we shall take grief. Frothi will be gladder to hear news of our being slaughtered than refused.’ Without another word he threatened to lunge at the king’s throat with his sword. The monarch for his part asserted that it was unfitting for his own royal grandeur to be matched in conflict with one of inferior rank; for those of unequal authority to fight on equal terms was undignified. But Vestmar never slackened his pressure for a military engagement till he was finally told to go and discover the girl’s actual inclinations; in the past, women who were to marry would be given a free choice in their selection of a husband. The king was in a quandary and wavered anxiously between fear of fighting and guilt if he did not. Referred in this way to the sentiments of the princess’s heart, Vestmar, knowing that every female has a veering mind and shifting aims, began to seek his goal with greater confidence, inasmuch as he was convinced that a maid’s wishes can be more changeable. His assurance in the task increased and hope attached to his endeavours by the artlessness of a girl left to her own decision; a woman free to be coaxed by smooth, flattering compliments would be easily led and quick to comply. Her father followed close behind the envoys, for he wished to gain a clearer insight into his daughter’s feelings. Drawn into loving her suitor by the secret workings of the philtre, she answered that she expected more from Frothi’s talents in the future than his present reputation indicated; he came of a famous father and every man’s nature tended to reflect his birth. It was a view of the youth’s coming splendour, not that of the moment, which had satisfied her. Her father was astonished to hear this, but could not bear to contravene his daughter’s freedom of choice now he had permitted it and he promised she should be espoused to Frothi. After this he gathered ample provisions and taking the princess with a sumptuous train, the ambassadors at the rear, he made haste for Denmark, aware that a father was the most suitable person to give away his daughter at the wedding. As he received his betrothed with the greatest happiness, so Frothi richly honoured the royal dignity of his future father-in-law, and after the ceremonies sent him home loaded with gold and silver. Thus with Hanunda (the name of the Hunnish king’s daughter) at his side he spent three years in peace and excellent prosperity. Leisure brought viciousness to his courtiers, who demonstrated this wantonness born of inactivity by the most appalling crimes. Some they heaved high with ropes and then aggressively pushed their dangling bodies to and fro as if they were playing at ball; they laid kidskins before the advancing steps of others and when they lurched on the slippery surface suddenly pulled hidden cords and tipped them over unexpectedly; yet others were stripped of their clothing and flayed with various tormenting lashes; on some they inflicted mock-hanging by fixing them with nails in the form of a noose; some had their beards and hair set alight with tapers; other men had their pubic hair and genitals scorched. Foreigners were beaten up with bones, others compelled to get drunk with vast quantities of liquor till they burst. Virgins were not allowed to marry until their maidenhead had been tampered with. No man was permitted to give his daughter in marriage till he had purchased their goodwill and assent. It was wrong to take a wife before you had bought permission from them with a bribe. They extended ihcir abandoned acts of lust indiscriminately, not merely on virgins, but to a host of married women. A kind of twin madness drove them, a mingled licentiousness and ferocity. Strangers and guests were treated to abuse instead of a welcome. So many were the scornful provocations invented by this lewd and impudent crew. So much did freedom foster recklessness under a boy king. Nothing prolongs open sin as much as the postponement of vengeance and punishment. This unrestrained and shameless behaviour of his warriors had made the king odious not only abroad but to his own countrymen. The Danes were distressed to find themselves so haughtily and cruelly governed. Grep, not content with humble mistresses, launched himself to such a pitch of foolhardiness that he committed adultery with the queen, becoming as treacherous to his ruler as he was savage towards the rest. Gradually the scandal spread and suspicion of his offence tiptoed silently along until it was known to the public before the king. By turning his attentions to everyone who alluded even slightly to the matter, Grep made it too intimidating for people to accuse him. Yet conjecture over his misdeed was fed first by whispers and then was passed on in gossip; when others become aware of someone’s crime it is difficult for them to keep the knowledge suppressed. Gunnur had a flock of suitors. Aiming to gain revenge for her rejection of him by a stealthy stratagem, Grep demanded the right to evaluate the suitors, for, he declared, this young woman should acquire the best possible husband. He veiled his wrath so that his request to be arbiter should not seem to stem from hatred of the girl. This petition to survey the young men’s merits the king granted. By pretending to invite them to a feast Grep first assembled every candidate for Gunnur’s hand and then severed their heads, which he mounted all round the girl’s normal living quarters, a gruesome exhibition for everyone else. None of this, however, lessened his favour in Frothi’s eyes, and Grep continued to enjoy his old intimacy with him. He decided that the privilege of meeting the king should be sought with a bribe and proclaimed that no person might be granted an interview unless he had first offered presents. He also announced that the approach to such a mighty leader should not be by any well-worn path, but could only be obtained through the most assiduous canvassing, thinking to lighten his barbarous reputation by this simulated affection for his monarch. The exasperated people could only complain of their oppression in silent groans. No one had the pluck to censure these times of misery openly, no one dared expose the increasing chicanery by public accusation; inward grief tore at everybody’s heart, all the more sharply because it had to be concealed. Perceiving this, Gøtar, king of Norway, assembled his soldiers and told them that the Danes found their own king repugnant and longed for an opportunity to replace him; this was why he had determined to convey his army to Denmark, which could easily be occupied through an armed attack, for Frothi’s rule over his land was as rapacious as it was brutal. Then Erik rose to his feet and forbade the expedition with a reverse argument: ‘We can recall’, he said, ‘how people who grasp at someone else’s goods are frequently stripped of their own. In an attempt to seize double wealth they’ve lost everything time and again. A bird needs to be extra-powerful if it wants to wrest the prey from another’s claws. You are rashly optimistic at the internal dissatisfaction in that area; usually in such cases an enemy incursion dispels it. Although the Danes now appear to be divided in their motives, they will soon unite in the face of an invader. Squabbling pigs regularly form a solid front when threatened by wolves. Every man prefers a fellow-countryman to a foreigner for his leader. Every state cherishes its native prince more dearly than a stranger. Frothi will not stand about waiting in his palace but will sally forth to intercept your arrival. Eagles tear at one another with their beaks, and birds in general confront their adversaries face to face. You know yourself that a wise man’s plan must leave no room for regrets. A large body of nobles forms your entourage; keep your quiet life; others almost certainly will give you a chance to discover your military potential. Let your soldiers make a preliminary test of their king’s fortune; control your own safety by being a non-combatant, and if you should set this scheme in motion, leave other men to take the risks. It’s better for a servant to perish than his lord. Your retainer should serve you as tongs do a blacksmith, whose iron implement prevents him searing his hand and fingers in the fire; you too must learn to take thought and spare yourself through the help of your followers.’ Erik finished. Gøtar was amazed at the way his reply had been fashioned from serious, considered opinions, since he had not previously held him a knowledgeable man, and therefore gave him the name Eloquent, believing that his impressive wisdom should be honoured with some title. In fact the young man’s repute had been eclipsed by the uncommon brilliance of his brother, Roller. Erik begged that substance should be added to this generous designation and the name he had been awarded be reinforced by a gift. The king presented him with a ship which the rowers called Skrøter. Now Erik and Roller were both sons of Regner the champion, but born of different mothers. Roller’s mother, Erik’s stepmother, was called Kraka. There fell to a certain Rafn, with Gøtar’s permission, the task of harassing the Danes by plundering raids. Rafn was met by Oddi, who at that time carried the highest prestige as a sea-rover; he was a man learned in magic arts, one who would roam the high seas without a boat and often capsize hostile ships by raising tempests with his spells. Rather than condescend to a test of naval strength he used to churn up the waves by sorcery and direct them to shipwreck the freebooters. Ruthless towards traders he was yet kind to farmers, since he valued a plough handle higher than merchandise and set the countryman’s market produce above mercenary toil for gain. When they joined in conflict with the Northmen, he dulled the enemy’s sight by the power of his incantations, so that they believed the Danish swords being brandished in the distance were emitting beams and flashing as if on fire. Their vision was so weakened that they could not even look at a blade drawn from its sheath, for their eyes were overcome by the brightness and found the illusory dazzle unbearable. Rafn was slain together with the majority of his sailors, so that only six vessels slipped back to Norway to prove to the king that the Danes could not be crushed so easily. These survivors also spread the word that Frothi, depending solely on the support of his champions, reigned against the will of the people, his rule having turned to tyranny.
To test this rumour, Roller, who had travelled in foreign parts and was a keen investigator of the unfamiliar, swore he would become a housecarl of Frothi. Although Roller possessed a mighty figure Erik declared that his vow was rashly spoken. Eventually however, seeing that he would not budge from his obstinate purpose, he bound himself by pronouncing a like oath. The king promised he would furnish as attendants any men they chose as suitable. First the brothers decided to approach their father and request the necessary stores and equipment for such a long journey. He received them as a father should and the next day took them to his wooded pastures where they could view his herd, for the old man was rich in cattle. His treasure, which had long lain concealed within caverns of the earth, was opened up for them. They were allowed to gather from there anything they fancied. This favour was as welcomely accepted as offered. So, they drew the hoard from the ground and bore away their choice. Meanwhile their oarsmen were refreshing their bodies or training them by throwing weights. Some leapt, others raced; these tried their strength by vigorously hurling rocks, those drew the bow to test their archery. Thus by various types of exercise they cultivated a robust fitness. There were also some individuals who drank themselves into a restful sleep. Roller was then dispatched by his father to find out what had been happening in the meantime at home. When he saw smoke rising from his mother’s hut, he approached the outside wall and stealthily glued his eye to a small aperture; surveying the interior, he spied his mother stirring an ugly-looking cauldron of stew. He also looked up and saw hanging aloft on a thin rope three snakes, from whose jaws putrid saliva dripped steadily to provide liquid for the recipe. Two of them were pitch-black, the third appeared to have whitish scales and was suspended a little higher than the others. This last had a knot tied in its tail while its fellows were held by a cord round their bellies. Because he reckoned the business smacked of sorcery he kept quiet about what he had seen, rather than have people think he was accusing his mother of witchcraft. He was unaware that the snakes were harmless or how much power was being cooked in that brew. Afterwards Regner and Erik came up, and catching sight of the smoke from the hut entered to take their places for a meal. When they were seated at the table and her son and stepson were just about to eat together, Kraka pushed towards them a bowl of food, of two different shades; half of it looked pitch-black flecked with splodges of yellow, the other half whitish, for the dissimilar hues of the snakes had given the pottage a double tinge. They had each only tasted a single morsel when Erik, sizing up the dish not from its colours but from the feeling of strength inside him, turned the bowl as quickly as he could to transfer the darkish part of the concoction, prepared with the stronger juice, to his own side, and gave to Roller the paler portion which had been offered to himself; thus he dined more auspiciously. To prevent his motive for the change being detected he said: ‘That’s how the stern becomes the prow when the sea grows rough.’ It required no slight mental agility in the man to take a simile from sailing practice to cover up his purposeful action. So Erik, now refreshed by his meal of good omen, achieved through its internal workings the most authoritative human wisdom. This potent feast generated in him a bulk of knowledge beyond credence in all subjects, so that he was even skilled in understanding the speech of wild animals and cattle. For he was not only expert in man’s affairs but could interpret the way animal noises conveyed sense and indicated particular feelings. Besides this, his conversation was so gracious and refined that whatever he chose to discourse upon was embellished with a whole string of witty maxims. As soon as Kraka had come up to them and realized the tureen had been reversed so that Erik had consumed the preferable share of the broth, she lamented that the felicity designed for her son had passed to her stepson. Soon, amid her sighs, she began to beg Erik, on whom she, Roller’s mother, had heaped such an unusual wealth of good fortune, never to refuse aid to his brother. By eating a single tasty dish he had clearly attained the peak of reason and eloquence, not to mention the facility for continual success in combat. She also added that Roller would have almost the same degree of penetration and in future would not entirely miss the repast intended for him. Another piece of advice was that if they were in utterly desperate straits they could get help quickly by calling her name; she admitted that she relied partly on supernatural power, for she wielded within her a divine force, being in a way an associate of the gods. Erik replied that he was naturally drawn to stand by his brother; it was a shameful bird which fouled its own nest. But Kraka was more distressed by her own remissness than aggravated by her son’s ill-luck; in those days practitioners suffered great embarrassment if they were cheated through their own inventiveness. Then she herself, accompanied by her husband, escorted the departing brothers to the quayside. They embarked together in a single ship, but shortly added two other boats to their number. Already they had touched the coast of Denmark and carried out a reconnaissance when they learnt that seven vessels were drawing near. Erik then ordered two men who spoke fluent Danish to set out without any clothing to gather more accurate information; they were to complain to Oddi that they had been stripped by Erik and report back after careful investigation. When Oddi had given them a friendly reception, they kept their ears alert so that they could ferret out the commander’s whole strategy. He had decided to attack his enemy unawares at dawn in order to slaughter them more speedily when they were wrapped in their blankets; at that time of day, he declared, the human body is normally more sluggish and heavy. Instructions were also given for the ships to be loaded with rocks handy for flinging, a plan which was to hasten his own death. The scouts slipped away in the early part of the night to notify their leader that Oddi had filled all his ships with stones picked for hurling, and revealed everything else they had heard. When Erik had fully comprehended the stratagem, he thought of the smallness of his own fleet and reckoned he should enlist the sea’s aid towards his opponents’ overthrow. He therefore climbed into a small boat and, rowing silently, carried himself close to the enemy’s keels, where he gradually drilled with a gimlet through the timbers near the waterline and shortly made his return, scarcely lifting his oars above the surface. He conducted the operation so cautiously that none of the sentinels detected his arrival or departure. While he was pulling away, the waves penetrated the chinks and Oddi’s vessels slowly sank. As the torrents flowed farther and farther within, the ships looked as though they were being swallowed by the tide. The weight of stones inside made them plunge all the more surely. The cross-benches were already awash and the sea level with the gangways when Oddi, noticing that the billows were almost flush with the decks, shouted for them to get buckets and bale out the excessive intake of water. While the sailors struggled to defend those parts of the sinking vessels where the flood was pouring in, their foe was suddenly upon them. The deluge pressed them even more furiously as they snatched up arms, and in the midst of their battle preparations they were forced to swim for it. Waves, not weapons, fought for Erik. Once he had given it an entry and the power to destroy, the ocean strove on his behalf. Employing salt water with greater success than steel, he appeared to be waging war at a distance by the efficient agency of the waves, making the deep sea his ally. Artifice and victory went hand in hand; the swamped vessels had no chance to be pugnacious. That was how Oddi and his comrades were killed and the lookouts captured, nor did anyone, it is understood, escape to report the calamity. When the carnage was over Erik made a rapid departure and put in at the island of Læsø. Since he was unable to discover anything there to assuage the men’s appetites, he directed two of his ships to sail home with the booty and return with supplies for the coming year. In the sole remaining vessel he looked for an opportunity to get near the king. As soon as they touched Zealand the sailors scattered along the shore and set about cutting down a herd of oxen; it was a case of satisfying their hunger or running the risk of starvation. The cattle were slaughtered, their hides removed, and the bare carcasses thrown into the ship. When the owners of the livestock found out, they quickly sailed in chase of the robbers. Immediately Erik realized they were on his heels, he ensured that the carcasses were tied to marked ropes and concealed beneath the waves. The Zealanders, appearing on the scene, were allowed a free inspection to see whether they could discover any of their beef in his hands, though he emphasized that the corners of the boat were on the small side for hiding things. Nowhere did they discover a carcass, with the result that they transferred their suspicions elsewhere, believing the thieves harmless. Since there were no apparent traces of robbery, they imagined others must be the rustlers, and pardoned the real culprits. Even as the owners were sailing off, Erik hauled up the body of a cow from the waters. Meanwhile Frothi learnt that Oddi and his men had been put down; although its perpetrator was unknown there was a widespread report of the massacre. Some, however, told how they had caught sight of three sails drawing in to land and putting out again towards the north. Next Erik reached a harbour not far from where Frothi was staying, but the very instant he stepped from the boat he inadvertently tripped and fell to the earth. He interpreted the stumble as boding well and predicted that after this weak start more propitious events would ensue. When Grep heard of his arrival he hurried swiftly to the coast; he had heard that Erik was more eloquent than other men and wished to test him with sharp, cunningly chosen words. Grep would overcome all his opponents not so much by clever language as by bullying them with a flow of insolence. He therefore started the argument with abuse and attacked Erik as follows: Grep: Who are you, you fool? On what silly errand? Whence and whither are you bound? What route, what pursuit, what father and family? Those men have special strength, their guardian deity royal, who have never strayed away from their own dwellings. There are few people warm to a deed wrought by a rascal, and the acts of detestable fellows rarely please. Erik: Regner is my father, my characteristic a fluent tongue, and prowess ever my only love. Wisdom was my sole desire, and therefore I scanned the different manners of men as I travelled through many lands. A blockhead, unrestrained and unseemly in his emotions, cannot conduct his affairs with due moderation. Sailing tackle outstrips the pull of rowers; gales ruffle the seas, but a drearier breeze the earth. Oars cleave the wave, falsehood the land; the latter is vexed by men’s mouths, but hands weigh hard on the other. Grep: You are crammed full of disputes, they say, as a cock with filth, strongly smelling of muck, stinking with crime. It’s hard to bring a case against a buffoon, who thrives on a dance of words without expressing a meaning. Erik: By heaven, brainless talk, unless I’m much mistaken, often rebounds on the head of him who uttered it. Through the righteous dispensation of the gods, words poured forth with too little wit return to plague the deliverer.
As soon as we first detect a pair of suspicious wolf’s ears, we believe the creature itself is lurking near. No one thinks we should trust a person empty of faith, one whom report pronounces guilty of treason. Grep: Impudent lad, night-owl, who have lost your way in the darkness, you shall pay the price for such indiscretion of speech. These unhallowed words, which you belch out in your madness, you shall grieve for when your death makes expiation. Your lifeless, bloodless body shall provide a feast for the crows, a morsel for beasts, the carrion of a ravenous bird. Erik: The predictions of the coward and the hardened cravings of the vicious were never contained within their proper bounds. He who cheats his lord and hatches lewd designs will be a snare to his comrades and himself. Whoever nurses a wolf in his home is generally thought to be fostering a thief, a murderer of his own household. Grep: I never, as you believe, took advantage of the queen, but protected her when she was young and vulnerable. Thus my estate increased, for her gratitude first brought me rewards, power, wealth, and good advice. Erik: See! your pressing anxiety indicts you. Independence is safer where the mind remains untainted. He is deceived who craves a servant for his friend; a menial often damages his master. Grep was lost for a deft reply and setting spurs to his horse rode off. Reaching home, he filled the palace with a tempestuous fit of yells and, shouting that he had been defeated by words, urged all his warriors to gather their weapons, imagining he would avenge his misfortune in the vocal contest by force. He swore he would stretch flat with eagles’ talons this line of newcomers. The king, on the other hand, suggested he should reflect a while in his wrath: hasty schemes very often misfired, nothing could be carried out both warily and quickly, and frantic ventures mostly turned against their devisers. Lastly, it was improper for a few men to be attacked by a great swarm. The clever individual was one who could throw a curb on his rage and interrupt his violent impetuosity in time. Thus the king forced the young man to be thoughtful in his impulsive anger. Even so, the fury of his overexcited mind was not entirely summoned to discretion; as a prizefighter in wars of words, embarrassed by his scant success in his latest controversy and deterred from armed retaliation, he demanded that at least revenge by way of black magic should be at his disposal. Having obtained his request, he set off again for the shore with a chosen bevy of wizards. First he sacrificed a horse to the gods and impaled its lopped-off head on a pole; then he propped open its mouth with sticks to give it wide-grinning jaws, hoping the outlandish apparition would strike fear into Erik and thwart his immediate efforts. He believed the simple minds of these savages would cringe before the scarecrow head. Erik was already on his way to meet them when he sighted it from far off; comprehending this unsightly creation, he bade his companions be silent and conduct themselves cautiously; no one must blurt out any words in case unguarded speech gave a loophole for sorcery; if talk should be needed they must leave him to be their spokesman. A river flowed between Erik’s party and the magicians, who, in order to discourage him from approaching the bridge, set up the pole with the horse’s head at the very edge of the water, on their side. Nonetheless Erik, undeterred, walked fearlessly up to the bridge: ‘May this burden’s bad luck recoil on its bearer,’ he called, ‘and ours be the better fortune! May evil come to evil-doers and may this accursed load break its carrier; may stronger auspices bring us safety!’ The sequel came exactly as he wished. The neck was immediately shaken free, and the stake fell and crushed the man who held it. The whole magical contraption collapsed before the power of a single curse and belied its expectations. After Erik had proceeded a little farther, it occurred to him that strangers ought to provide gifts for the king. Chancing to discover a sliver of ice, he wrapped it carefully in his cloak to preserve and offer to the ruler as a present. When he reached the palace, before seeking admittance he asked his brother to follow closely behind him. Now the royal servants, to have some fun at the expense of their new arrival, had laid down a slippery hide at the threshold; when Erik entered and stepped on it their quick jerk on the rope would have overturned him, had not Roller, coming up behind, caught him against his chest as he reeled. Erik, leaning at an angle, remarked that a brotherless man has a bare back. Although Gunnur stated that a king should not be allowed to play such tricks, Frothi criticized the envoy for his foolishness in not watching for a trap. He made out that his prank was excusable because Erik, its butt, had been careless. Owing to the seasonal conditions (midwinter was already past), a fire was burning in the hall. It separated the chairs of the king, who sat on one side, and his champions, who sat on the other. When Erik joined the latter, they emitted blood-curdling cries like howling creatures. The king began to restrain their ululation, telling them that human throats ought not to make animal noises. But Erik put in that it was doglike enough for the rest to bark when one had set them going; everyone’s habits revealed his true origin and species. Koli, the custodian of gifts presented to his monarch, asked Erik whether he had brought any offerings with him, at which he produced the ice he had hidden in the folds of his garment. But while Erik was holding it out for him across the hearth, he intentionally threw it into the fire, making it look as if Koli had let it slip from his fingers as he was receiving it. To everyone nearby who glimpsed the shining particle it seemed as if some bright metal had fallen in the fire. Erik maintained that the offering had dropped through the carelessness of the man he was handing it to, and enquired what punishment was due to its loser. Frothi asked his queen for a decision. She advised him not to relax a statutory law passed by himself, which decreed that losers of gifts being delivered to the king must be punished by death. The rest agreed that there should be no remission of the legal penalty. Frothi was therefore persuaded to confess the sentence obligatory and allowed Koli to be hanged. Frothi then began to address Erik: ‘You, the one who indulges himself in haughty language and a decorative display of style, tell us your place of departure and your reason for coming here.’ ‘I set off from Rennesøy and sat down by a stone.’ ‘Tell me where you went off to then.’ ‘I turned away from a stone, borne on a beam, and time after time took my station by a stone.’ ‘Where did you direct your course to from there, and where did the evening find you?’ ‘Setting out from a cliff I reached a rock and slept by a stone once more.’ ‘There were a great many boulders about’, Frothi observed, to which Erik added: ‘There are not as many to be seen as grains of sand.’ ‘Tell me what your business was and where you put in after that.’ ‘I set out from the cliff and as my ship ran hither and thither I met a dolphin.’ ‘That’s something new,’ exclaimed Frothi, ‘though both these things are commonly found in the sea; but I should like to know what path you took then.’ ‘After a dolphin I sought a dolphin.’ ‘A large school of dolphins’, Frothi observed. ‘There are a good few swimming in the waves’, said Erik. ‘I should like to know where your laborious journey dragged you off to when you left those dolphins.’ ‘Soon afterwards I struck a tree trunk.’ ‘What route did you traverse next?’ ‘From the trunk I came to a log.’ ‘That must be a well-wooded region, if you’re forever using words for bits of trees to mean the homes of your hosts.’ Erik agreed. ‘Yes, you find a fairly large number of trees in the woods.’ ‘Tell me where you next aimed for.’ ‘I was always getting to the lopped forest oaks; but as I was resting there, a pack of wolves, glutted with human corpses, came and licked the points of my weapons. There the tip of the king’s spear was shaken off, that is to say, Frithlef’s grandson.’ ‘I’m at a standstill,’ said Frothi, ‘and can’t think how to answer; you’ve baffled my understanding with your pitch-dark riddles.’ ‘I deserve a prize from you for winning the contest’, replied Erik; ‘you couldn’t really fathom these wrapped-up speeches I fetched out. My mention of the spear point just now signified the killing of Oddi by my own hand.’. When the queen too had judged that he deserved the laurels and an award for his victorious eloquence, the king immediately took a bracelet from his arm and handed it to him as the declared recompense, adding: ‘I should like you to tell me about the disputation you had with Grep, where he was not ashamed to make a declaration of his public defeat.’ ‘When I cast his adultery in his teeth,’ said Erik, ‘he was quelled by shame; he had no means of denying his illicit relations with your wife.’ The king turned to Hanunda to enquire about her reaction to the charge. Not only did she admit her sin verbally, but her red face, a testimony to her bad conscience, showed a clear sign of guilt. Although the king could tell it from her words and her features, he was uncertain what penalty to inflict for her offence and left the queen to pronounce fitting judgement on herself. Because she knew the decision entrusted to her must match the blame, she was hesitant to express an opinion, but while she was continuing to appraise her wickedness for some while, Grep sprang from his seat and ran at Erik to transfix him with his weapon, aiming to rescue his own life by killing his accuser. But Roller forestalled his attempt with drawn sword and paid him in his own coin. ‘Kinsmen’s service is very valuable when you need help’, remarked Erik. ‘In desperate straits you must have good men to oblige you’, replied Roller. ‘I believe’, Frothi said, ‘that the common saying will apply to you two; the assassin’s pleasure will often be short-lived and the joy of his hand brief once he strikes.’ ‘You can’t criticize a fully justified action’, Erik answered. ‘The difference between Grep’s work and ours is that between self-defence and a malicious attack on another.’ Then Grep’s brothers leapt up snorting and vowed they would bring vengeance on Erik’s entire fleet or fight him and ten champions alongside him. Erik replied: ‘The sick must make skilful provision for a journey; a man whose knife edge is blunt must only look for the soft and tender parts and find a way of cutting piece by piece. Someone in difficulties can’t do better than stave off coming evil; delay is a sure answer to pressing circumstances, and I beg three days for preparation, provided the king will let me have the skin from the back of a freshly slaughtered ox.’ ‘One who has fallen on a hide deserves a hide’, said Frothi, openly taunting the petitioner by alluding to his earlier fall. When the skin had been presented, Erik made sandals from it, smeared the soles with fir-resin and sand mixed together to ensure a firmer grip, and then fitted them on his own and his followers’ feet. Finally, after pondering what place to choose for the combat, he told them that, as he was unused to land battles and military tactics in general, he would like the frozen surface of the sea. Both sides agreed on this. The king granted a truce for their preparations and bade Vestmar’s sons withdraw, declaring that it was unacceptable to drive away a stranger, even an ill-deserving one, without hospitable treatment.
Next he returned to find out the decision he had requested from the queen on her mode of punishment. She made no mention of her verdict, but begged to be forgiven for the misdemeanour; Erik commented that it was quite often right to overlook a woman’s errors and withhold the penalty, if the fault could be removed and there were hope of improvement. Hanunda received her husband’s pardon. As dusk was falling Erik said: ‘In Gøtar’s palace we not only have dining-rooms provided for the soldiers who are going to feed together, but each man has a definite place assigned to him at table.’ Frothi allowed them to take the seats which had been occupied by his champions. A servant then brought in dinner. However, Erik, who was well acquainted with their host’s courtly code forbidding any leftovers to be served up, threw away a portion of which he had only tasted a morsel, calling complete helpings mangled gobbets of food. As the meal began to vanish in this way, the waiters, to avoid an embarrassing insufficiency, kept heaping up more and devoted to a modest dinner what would have been adequate for a full-scale banquet. ‘Does a soldier of Gotar normally waste a feast he has only touched once as though it consisted of abandoned scraps and turn his nose up at the first courses as he would at the last remnants?’ the king asked. ‘There’s no room for any uncouth disposition or irregular custom in Gøtar’s manners’, replied Erik. ‘In that case your manners differ from your master’s and I would accuse you of not paying all your attention to sensible behaviour. Whoever opposes traditional standards declares himself a rebel and deserter.’ ‘A wise man must be educated by a wiser. Teaching assists learning and sound doctrine enhances instruction.’ ‘What illustrative lesson will be afforded by your present affectation of over-abundance?’ ‘A king is more securely defended by a small measure of loyalty than widespread knavery.’ ‘Are you a more devoted servant to me than the rest, then?’ enquired Frothi. ‘No one ties the unborn animal to a stall or pen. You haven’t yet experienced everything. And another thing: at Gøtar’s court we usually have some beverage to go with our feasts; liquid added to a meal pleases the banqueters.’ ‘I’ve never met a more shameless request for food or drink” Frothi replied, to which Erik rejoined: ‘Few value or calculate the wants and needs of a man who keeps his mouth shut.’ The king’s sister was then told to offer drink from a large bowl to Erik. The latter seized her right hand together with the extended vessel and said, ‘Didn’t your generosity, noble sovereign, intend this as a present for me? Won’t you agree to let me have what I’m holding as a permanent gift?’ The king thought that by 'gift’ he meant only the bowl, and assented. But Erik then drew the girl to him as though she had been included in the donation. Seeing this, the king said: ‘A simpleton is revealed by his actions. Among us a maiden’s freedom is generally regarded as inviolable.’ Erik then pretended he would cut off the girl’s hand with his sword, as though this had been given to him rather than the dr inking-vessel. 'Well, if I might have taken more than you granted’, he said, 'or if it’s indiscreet of me to keep the whole item, let me at least possess part of her.’ The king realized the mistake of his promise and gave him the girl, since he did not wish to be fickle and repeal what was the fault of his inattentiveness, for the weight of his word must appear strong; even so, to repudiate foolish agreements should be counted the mark of a mature rather than a shifting judgement. He then sent Erik back to the ships, first making the Norwegian guarantee his return. When the appointed time for the battle arrived, Erik and his men advanced on to the ice-encrusted waters; trusting to the stability of their soles they overthrew their adversaries, since these found it slippery and treacherous underfoot. Frothi had decreed that no aid should be lent to anyone giving way or in trouble. Afterwards the victor went back to the king. Upset by the unhappy death of her sons and at the same time keen to avenge them, Gotvara declared that she desired a haranguing match with Erik; she herself would stake a massive necklace, while he should wager his life so that he would receive the gold if he won, death if he were beaten. Erik agreed to the combat and the pledge was deposited with Gunnur. Gotvara spoke first: 'When you grind your battleaxe on the whetstone, doesn’t your shaken penis bruise the quivering rump?’ Erik retorted: 'Since Nature has planted hairs on the body of every man, a particular place is bound to wear a beard. When they are rowing, people must move their haunches, for every task has its own peculiar motions.
When buttock presses on buttock or the waiting vagina receives the penis, why should one need to add any more?’. At this, like one deprived of speech, she was forced to yield the gold to the person for whom she had intended death, and pay out a priceless reward to her sons’ slayer instead of punishment. Her grief was redoubled, her spleen unsated. First bereaved, then silenced by a verbal onslaught, she lost her wealth and the recompense for her eloquence at the same moment; she had gladdened the remover of her offspring, enriched the man who had made her childless, and reaped no recompense for her sons’ slaughter except the shame of her own stupidity and the loss of her property. Observing this, Vestmar decided that if Erik could not be beaten with words he must be assailed by strength; the palm of victory must lie in the death of the defeated and the life of each party should comprise the stake. Erik did not refuse the terms in case he could be thought readier with his tongue than his arm. This was how such contests were held: there would be presented to the contenders a ring made of plaited osier or rope, which they must pull furiously in opposite directions with all the force of their hands and feet until the stronger took the prize; in the struggle, if one wrenched it away from the other, he was declared the winner. As he was competing in this manner Erik gripped the rope more tightly and wrested it from his opponent’s grasp. When Frothi saw this he said: ‘I think it’s difficult to tug the rope against a robust man.’ ‘Difficult, at any rate,’ said Erik, ‘when you have a tumour on your body or a hump on your back.’ At the same instant he kicked the old man down so that he died of a broken neck and spine. That was how Vestmar failed in his attempt at retaliation; while he was thirsting for retribution he met the fate of those he was trying to avenge, and found himself struck down, just like the sons whose death he had longed to repay. While Frothi contemplated hurling his dagger to pierce Erik, Gunnur, sensing her brother’s purpose and wishing to warn her betrothed of his peril, stated that a person could only be called wise if he kept watch for his own safety. Warned by the hint to parry any treachery, Erik reacted acutely to her cautioning. Jumping up immediately, he declared that the wise man’s fame would triumph but guile carried its own retribution, thus censuring by a moderate remark Frothi’s intention to spring a surprise on him. Nevertheless the king suddenly flung the knife, but Erik successfully dodged it and, missing its mark, it struck the opposite wall. ‘You should hand presents to your friends, not throw them’, said Erik; ‘it would have made a commendable gift if you’d offered the sheath as its companion.’ At once Frothi detached it from his belt and surrendered it to the applicant, compelled to relinquish his hate through his foe’s restraint. So, calmed by means of the other’s pretence, he graciously allowed him to keep the object he had launched at him maliciously. Erik, in seeming not to understand the wrong he had been paid, turned it into a favour and received the weapon, meant to deal his doom, as a splendid award. What Frothi had intended as an injury he painted as generosity. After this they consigned their bodies to rest. During the night Gunnur quietly awoke Erik, declaring they must flee; it would be a distinct advantage if they could return safely while things remained unimpaired and the wagon was still sound. With her at his side he rode shorewards and finding, as it happened, the royal fleet hauled up on the beach he split open part of their sides to make them unseaworthy; afterwards he patched them up by reinserting the planks so that his tampering would go unnoticed. Then he and his comrades embarked and put out a short distance from the coast. The king prepared to give chase in his damaged ships, but the waves soon reached deck-level and, although he was quite heavily armed, he had to swim for it with the rest, now more intent on saving his own skin than harming anyone else’s. Their bows sank rapidly and the inundating tide swept the rowers from their benches. As soon as Roller and Erik perceived this, disregarding danger they plunged overboard without hesitation and swam to support the bobbing figure of the king. Three times the pouring waves had already submerged him when Erik, gripping his locks, lifted him from the sea. The remaining throng of shipwrecked sailors were either engulfed by the waters or regained the beach with difficulty. The brothers stripped the king of his wet garments and wrapped him in dry clothing. He kept vomiting out copious streams of salt water. And his voice, fatigued by the continual retching, seemed to have given out. Finally warmth returned to fortify his numbed limbs and his breathing grew faster. But as he had not properly regained his energy he could only sit up, not stand. Gradually his former powers of strength crept back. At length, asked whether he sued for his life and a truce, he raised his hand to his eyes and strove to lift his dejected gaze. As his bodily vigour was slowly restored and he could manage greater command of his voice, he said, ‘By this light which reaches my unwilling eyes, by the air above, which I breathe and look up into with little joy, I beg and beseech you, don’t feel moved to offer me further use of either. In vain you’ve saved one who wished to perish. As you forbade me to drown, at least I can stab myself. Hitherto defeated by no one, I yielded first to your cleverness, Erik, and more miserably because, whereas I’d never been vanquished by famous men, I let a commoner beat me. That provokes great shame in a monarch. For a leader this alone is sufficient reason for dying, since glory is rightly his greatest pleasure; when that has gone you can be sure everything else has. Nothing about a ruler is more talked of than his renown. Supreme judgement and eloquence were once attributed to me, but now each of these apparent powers has vanished, all the more disastrously because I, the conqueror of kings, have, it seems, been subjugated by a yokel. Why do you grant me life when you’ve divested me of honour? I’ve lost my sister, my kingdom, my treasure, my household possessions, and, worst of all, my reputation, as wretched in my calamities as you are recognizably blest by fortune. Why should I survive only to be preserved for such deep disgrace? What sort of freedom can ever make me so happy that it will cancel the degradation of captivity? What will future times have in store for me, seeing that they will only savour of past grief and bring long-lasting regret? What advantage will a lengthened life be if it only carries gloomy memories? The happiest event for sufferers is death. A man’s departure is fortunate if it comes when desired; it doesn’t remove any pleasantness in his existence, merely destroys his nausea at the world. Good times are for living; in bad situations we’d better seek our end. No expectation of a brighter destiny makes me want to live. What event will repair and renew the shredded condition of my fortunes? If you’d not rescued me from danger, I shouldn’t be worrying about them at all now. You could return my kingdom, bring back my sister, restore my treasure, but you can’t make good my renown. No mended article will ever regain its original sheen. The story of Frothi becoming a prisoner will be remembered into the distant future. If you count the insults you’ve suffered from me, I shall die deservedly at your hands; if you reflect on the harms, you’ll repent your kindness. Estimate the monstrously wicked way he treated you and you’ll be ashamed of aiding such a foe. Why do you spare the guilty? Why do you keep your fingers from your persecutor’s throat? It’s only just if the fate I’d proposed for you recoils on me. Were I to have the power over you which you hold over me, I confess I’d pay no attention to pious sentiments. If in your case I’m innocent of the deed, I certainly have to be regarded as a prospective malefactor. My heart, let me tell you, brims with harmful purpose, something often rated as tantamount to crime. Should you refuse to deal my death with steel, I’ll take care to court destruction with my own hand.’ Erik replied: ‘Please the gods to turn aside your stubbornness, turn you aside from seeking a shameful end to a distinguished life. Surely the heavens forbid a benefactor of others to be his own unnatural murderer. You’ve been put under scrutiny by Fortune to see what attitude you’d take in adversity. The Fates haven’t dispensed your doom, only tested you. Whatever sorrow you’ve suffered could be checked by a better run of luck. You’ve only been sent a warning, not a reversal of your well-being. A man must have learnt to grin and bear hardship if he’s going to behave with self-control during prosperity. Again he can see totally how to use his affluence if he’s willingly acknowledged evil times; pleasure following on bitter circumstances is sweeter. Will you reject your preservation just because you’ve been drenched once beneath the deluge of breakers? If the waters shatter your spirit, when are you going to face a sword with a stout heart? Is there anyone who wouldn’t reckon that swimming to safety in armour was a glorious feat rather than a dishonour? How many people would count themselves well off to be allotted your kind of unhappiness? You still have sovereignty, your mind is in good fettle, you’re young, you can look forward to more achievements than you’ve accomplished already. I should hate to think you were so shallow that you ran away from troubles and, because you couldn’t confront them, even wanted to throw away your life. Most unmanly of all is the one who fears hardship so much he loses his confidence to remain alive. Any person with his wits about him doesn’t normally buy off misfortunes at the price of death. To lose one’s temper with others is silly, to do it with oneself crazy. It’s a cowardly madness that drives its begetter to end himself. If you seek extinction deliberately because of some affront or trivial disturbance in your mind, whom are you leaving behind to avenge you? Who’s insane enough to want to punish vacillating Fortune by suicide? Who’s lived such a happy existence that he never struck a rather bad patch? Have your days been so unbattered, your felicity so unbroken, that now, at a slight jolting of misery, you prepare to quit this world in order to spare your sorrows? If you can’t stand these trifles, how can you then hope to bear worse severities? A man’s palate is limited if he’s never tasted the cup of grief; no one without experience of hard times can live temperately when things are easy. You, who should have been a pillar of resolution, are you going to give a display of spinelessness? An exhibition of sheer impotence from the son of a magnificently valiant father? Are you so different from your ancestors that you can turn softer than a wench? Scarcely in your prime and already tired of life? Who set you such an example? Descended from an illustrious grandfather and unvanquished parent, won’t you have the strength to withstand a breath of adverse wind? Your nature reflects the valour of your forbears. Nobody’s overcome you; only your lack of caution has brought harm. You weren’t subjugated, only plucked by us from danger. Will you class friendship as injury, return hatred for a favour? You should have been appeased by our allegiance, not upset. May the gods never allow you to reach that pitch of frenzy where you can call your preserver a snake in the grass. Shall we be held at fault because we’re your benefactors, and reap disdain for our services? Will you regard as enemies those whom you owe a reward for your life? We didn’t take you prisoner but came on the scene in time to help you in your struggles. Look! I return your treasures, valuables and other goods. If it’s reckoned I was too hastily engaged to your sister, marry her to the man of your choice; she’s still a virgin. I should like to serve as your soldier if you’ll have me. Please don’t let anger harden your mind against your own interests. You’ve not been damaged by any loss of property, nor has your freedom been at all eroded. You’ll recognize in me a servant, not a master; whatever decision you take concerning my person, I approve. Be confident that you have the same powers in this spot as in your palace. In other words your ability to command is the same here as at court. Whatever you’d have wished to do with us there, arrange here and now; we’re ready to obey.’ Such were Erik’s words. The king’s feelings towards himself and his enemy were soothed by this speech. After everything had been settled and peaceful relations established, they returned to the shore. Here Frothi gave orders for carriages to pick up Erik and his sailors. When they had regained the palace, he called an assembly to which Erik was summoned, and, having confirmed the betrothal, gave him his sister and an appointment to a military command. Frothi remarked too that he could henceforth only feel loathing for his queen, but was attracted by Gøtar’s daughter. This task needed a new ambassador, and as Erik seemed to undertake everything with ease he was the best man for the mission. Moreover, since Gotvara had been party to the secret adultery, she should be stoned to death; Hanunda, however, would be delivered back to her father, for living in Denmark she might plot to take Frothi’s life. Erik supported his plan and promised to carry out his commands, apart from making one alternative suggestion: it would be more advisable to marry his divorced queen to Roller, from whom there could be no suspicion of treason. This idea Frothi welcomed, revering it as if it were some god-given instruction. The queen too, because she did not want it to appear as if she were pressed forcibly into the match, submitted, as women will, maintaining that there was no natural compulsion for grief, since all distress of mind has its root in the imagination. Those who had deserved punishment ought not to bewail it. The brothers then celebrated a double wedding, one with the king’s sister, the other with his divorced queen. Afterwards they sailed back to Norway taking their wives with them; neither the length of the voyage nor fear of dangers to come could tear them from their husbands’ sides, for each declared she would stick to her partner like a feather to bristles. They now discovered that Regner had died and Kraka had married a man named Brak; next, mindful of their father’s riches, they pulled the treasure up from the earth and carried it away. Gøtar had learnt all about Erik’s good fortune, for his fame had preceded him. Nevertheless, when he knew of his arrival, he was afraid that with his profound self-assurance Erik would work dire mischief on the Norwegians; so he aimed to split him from his wife and unite his own daughter to Erik in her stead. To replace his own lately deceased queen he desired to marry Frothi’s sister more than anyone. When Erik discovered his scheme he called his comrades together and informed them that his destiny was not yet clear of the reefs. He could expect a bundle to slip if it were not securely tied, and in the same way, if it were not fastened by a chain of guilt, the whole weight of a punishment could suddenly collapse. They had recently experienced this with Frothi and perceived how amid the most uncomfortable events the gods had been on their side and protected their innocence; if they preserved this innocence even longer they ought to expect similar help under adverse conditions.
Were Gøtar to take the initiative in challenging them, they should pretend to flee for a short while and would thereby have a sounder pretext for battling with him. The hand had every right to resist when the head was endangered. Anyone who started a broil with blameless men seldom rejoiced in the consequences. First they must incite Gøtar against them, so that they would then have a juster reason for assaulting him. He said no more but went home to visit Brak. Then he found Gunnur and to test her fidelity asked whether Gøtar appealed to her, pointing out that it was degrading for a girl of royal family to be obliged to share a plebeian’s bed. Thereupon she earnestly implored him by the holy gods to say whether this was a ruse or his true thoughts. As he maintained that he was speaking seriously, she replied: ‘Then you are planning to submit me to the most mortifying disgrace, seeing how deeply you loved me as a maiden and are now going to desert me. Report often predicts the reverse of the facts. Your popular reputation deceived me. I thought I had married a loyal husband and now, where I had hoped to find absolute constancy, I now discover someone lighter than the winds.’ With these words she dissolved into a flood of tears. Erik was happy at his wife’s bitterness and shortly, holding her close, said, ‘I wanted to know the measure of your devotion; only death has the right to sever us. But Gøtar is scheming to kidnap you and gain your love by theft. When he’s managed this, pretend it was what you wished, but postpone the wedding until he’s given me his daughter in your place. Once this has been achieved, Gøtar and I shall celebrate our marriages on the same day. In case you should perhaps slight the king with rather lukewarm looks having me before your eyes, our banqueting halls should be separate, though make sure they share a common dividing wall. This will be a most effective device for baffling the intentions of your abductor.’ He then gave Brak instructions to lurk near the palace with a chosen band of stalwarts, who would lend aid when the situation demanded. After this he fetched Roller and, in order to rouse the king, fled by ship with his bride and belongings in pretended panic. Catching sight of Gøtar’s fleet on his tail, he cried, ‘Watch how the bow of guile shoots the arrow of deception’, straight away shouted his sailors to the alert, and steered the ship round. When Gøtar closed in he asked who the captain was, and learnt it was Erik. Was he the man, he called, who put a stop to others’ eloquence with his own incredible display of language? Hearing this, Erik rejoined that Gøtar had once assigned him the name of Eloquent and, he added, this title had been no idle prophecy. Both parties subsequently put in to the nearest beach where Gøtar, learning of Erik’s mission, declared that he desired to possess Frothi’s sister, but chose to give up his daughter to the envoy so that he would suffer less regret in yielding his wife to another man. It would not be unsuitable for the product of an embassy to fall to the ambassador. He was delighted at the prospect of Erik as his son-inlaw, provided he could claim kinship with Frothi through Gunnur. Erik saluted the king’s generosity and approved his idea; he remarked that he could not desire the immortal gods to confer more on him than this unasked gift. Yet Gøtar should first sound Gunnur’s feelings and opinion. She pretended to be gratified at the king’s flatteries and appeared to consent readily to his application, begging him only to permit Erik’s wedding to precede her own; if this were allowed to come first, the king’s would follow more fittingly, especially since, when she entered into the new contract, she would not feel so squeamish through remembering her former one. In addition she asserted that there was no point in muddling two sets of preparations together in one ceremony. The king, elated by this response, warmly commended her requests. His frequent conversations with Erik had enabled him to absorb a brilliant set of aphorisms to delight and invigorate his mind; for this reason, not satisfied with granting him his daughter in marriage, Gøtar also bestowed on him the province of Liderfylke, reckoning that a near relation deserved the presentation of this favour. Erik had brought Kraka with him on his travels because of her skill in enchantments; she had pretended to have an eye affliction which necessitated veiling her face with her mantle, so that not the tiniest area of her head emerged and could be recognized. When people asked her identity she replied that she was Gunnur’s sister, born of the same mother but a different father. As soon as they reached Gøtar’s palace, they saw that a wedding feast was being held for his daughter, Alvild. Erik and the king took their places at table in separate rooms divided by a party wall; the interiors were draped throughout with hanging tapestries. Gunnur was seated next to Gøtar, while immediately opposite, on the other side of the wall, Erik sat between Kraka and Alvild. Amid all the roistering Erik stealthily abstracted a lath from the wall and, unbeknown to the banqueters, opened up a corridor just spacious enough for a person’s body to squeeze through. Then, as the feasting progressed, he began to question his intended bride closely, asking whether she would prefer Frothi or himself as a husband; he stressed particularly that, if one gave some thought to marriages, a royal child should by rights go to the embraces of someone as noble as herself, otherwise the rank of one partner would be eradicated through the other’s inconsequence. When she answered that she could never contemplate a match unless it were sanctioned by her father, he promised that she should be a queen surpassing all others in wealth; this altered all her reluctance, for she was taken no less by the prospect of riches than the honour. The story goes that Kraka also offered her a drink mixed with something which channelled the girl’s desires into love for Frothi. After the feast, Gøtar went round to Erik’s gathering, wishing to make the nuptial hilarity go with a swing. As he left, Gunnur, acting on instructions, slipped through the passage in the wall where the lath had been withdrawn and took the seat next to Erik. Gøtar was amazed to see her sitting next to him and asked with some interest how and why she had come there. She replied that she was Gunnur’s sister and that the king was deceived by their closeness in looks. To get to the bottom of this the king swiftly re-entered the royal banqueting hall, but Gunnur had returned by the same back door and was sitting before the eyes of everyone in her former place. At the sight of her Gøtar could hardly believe his eyes and, completely mistrusting his own powers of recognition, retraced his steps to Erik where he found Gunnur back again as usual in front of him. However often he changed rooms he came upon the woman he was looking for in either place. Not merely similar but identical faces on each side of the wall tortured the king with bewilderment; it seemed downright impossible that two different beings should so coincide in appearance that they were indistinguishable. At last the revelry broke up and he escorted his daughter and Erik, with the etiquette appropriate to a marriage, as far as their chamber. Then he went off to bed elsewhere. Erik allowed Alvild, now destined for Frothi, to sleep apart, while, having previously outwitted the king, he took Gunnur into his arms as of old. Gøtar passed a sleepless night, constantly reviewing the delusive image in his stupefied, perplexed mind; not just similar, but identical! From this there entered his head a view so unsettled and wavering that he reckoned he had been mistaken when it was something he had actually perceived. At length it crossed his mind that the wall could perhaps have been meddled with. When, however, he had given orders for a minute scrutiny to be made, no trace was found of any damage; the whole fabric of the room appeared to be sound and undisturbed. In fact Erik in the early part of the night had fixed the loose lath to prevent his trick being detected. Gøtar next dispatched two spies with orders to penetrate Erik’s bedroom noiselessly, stand behind the hangings and listen carefully to everything. They were also instructed to kill Erik if they found him with Gunnur. After entering the chamber surreptitiously, they hid themselves in curtained alcoves and saw Erik and Gunnur enjoying the same bed, entwined in one another’s arms. Thinking the pair were half-dozing they waited for them to sink into a deeper rest, wishing to lurk there until sound slumber gave them an opportunity to perpetrate the crime. When they heard Erik’s powerful snores, apparently indicating that his sleep was now more serene, they at once advanced with drawn blades to murder him. As they rushed at him treacherously, Erik was woken and, catching sight of the swords levelled at his head, pronounced his stepmother’s name, which she had once told him to utter if he were in danger; aid for his plight came immediately. His shield, which was hanging high on a rafter, straight away fell on him and, as if on purpose, protected his unarmed body from the lunges of the assassins. Taking good advantage of his luck he snatched his sword and sliced off both the feet of the nearer cutthroat. With equal vigour Gunnur ran a spear through the other, matching a man’s spirit though her body was a woman’s. Thus delivered from ambush Erik made again for the sea and prepared to sail during the night. Nonetheless Roller blew a trumpetcall to those whose orders were to stand sentinel nearby, as a signal to invade the palace. When the king heard it, he believed it was a sign that the enemy had arrived and fled post-haste in his ship. In the meantime Brak and his companions, who had forced their way in, seized the king’s possessions and saw that they were piled into Erik’s boats. Almost all the middle stretch of the night was devoted to ransack. In the morning, after the king had learnt of their flight, he organized a chase, but one of his friends advised him not to rush into any sudden schemes and execute them impulsively. He tried to persuade him of the need for greater preparations, since pursuit of the fugitives to Denmark with a handful of men would be futile. Yet because the king’s temper could ill brook the loss, his fury could not be repressed even by this advice; most of all he was irked by the fact that his plot to kill another had recoiled on his own creatures. Gøtar sailed off and put in at the harbour which is now called Ømi. Rough weather blew up and he ran out of food; consequently he decided it would be better to meet certain death by the sword rather than starvation. Therefore his sailors, turning their hands against themselves, hastened their ends by inflicting mutual wounds. But the king and one or two others slipped away into the precipitous mountains. Lofty barrows still indicate the scene of the slaughter. Meanwhile Erik successfully completed his voyage, and Frothi celebrated his marriage with Alvild. Word came later of an invasion by the Wends. Erik was commissioned to suppress this with the assistance of eight ships, since Frothi appeared to be still raw in matters of fighting. Never wishing to decline real man’s work, Erik undertook the task gladly and executed it bravely. When he perceived seven privateers, he only sailed one of his ships towards them, ordering that the rest be surrounded by defences of timber and camouflaged with the lopped branches of trees. He then advanced as if to make a fuller reconnaissance of the enemy fleet’s numbers, but began to beat a hasty retreat back towards his own followers as the Wends gave chase. The foes were oblivious of the trap and, eager to catch the turn-tail, struck the waves with fast, unremitting oars. Erik’s ships with their appearance of a leafy wood could not be clearly distinguished. The pirates had ventured into a narrow, winding inlet when they suddenly discovered themselves hemmed in by Erik’s fleet. At first they were dumbfounded by the extraordinary sight of a wood apparently sailing along and then realized that deceit lay beneath the leaves. Too late they regretted their improvidence and tried to retrace the incautious route they had navigated. But while they were preparing to turn their craft about they witnessed their adversaries leaping on to the decks. Erik, drawing up his ship on to the beach, hurled rocks at the distant enemy from a ballista. The majority of the Wends were slaughtered, but Erik captured forty, who were chained and starved and later gave up their ghosts under various painful tortures.
In the meanwhile Frothi had mustered a large fleet equally from the Danes and their neighbours with a view to launching an expedition into Wendish territory. Even the smallest vessel was able to transport twelve sailors and was propelled by the same number of oars. Then Erik told his comrades to wait patiently while he went to meet Frothi with tidings of the destruction they had already wrought. During the voyage, when he happened to catch sight of a pirate ship run aground in shallow waters, in his usual way he pronounced serious comment on chance circumstances: ‘The fate of the meaner sort is ignoble,’ he remarked, ‘the lot of base individuals squalid.’ Next he steered closer and overpowered the freebooters as they were struggling with poles to extricate their vessel, deeply engrossed in their own preservation. This accomplished, he returned to the royal fleet and, desiring to cheer Frothi with a greeting which heralded his victory, hailed him as one who, unscathed, would be the maker of a most flourishing peace. The king prayed that his words might come true and affirmed that the mind of a wise man was prophetic. Erik declared that his words were indeed true, that a trifling conquest presaged a greater, and that often predictions of mighty events could be gleaned from slender occurrences. He then urged the king to divide his host and gave instructions for the cavalry from Jutland to set out on the overland route, while the remainder of the army should embark on the shorter passage by water. Such a vast concourse of ships filled the sea that there were no harbours capacious enough to accommodate them, no shores wide enough for them to encamp, nor sufficient money to furnish adequate supplies. The land army is said to have been so large that there are reports of hills being flattened to provide short-cuts, marshes made traversable, lakes and enormous chasms filled in with rubble to level the ground. Although Strumik, the Wendish king, sent ambassadors in the meanwhile to ask for a cessation of hostilities, Frothi refused him time to equip himself; an enemy, he said, should not be supplied with a truce. Also, having till now spent his life away from fighting, once he had made the break he shouldn’t let matters hang doubtfully in the air; any combatant who had enjoyed preliminary success had a right to expect his subsequent military fortunes to follow suit. The outcome of the first clashes would give each side a fair prognostication of the war, for initial achievements in battle always boded well for future encounters. Erik praised the wisdom of his reply, stating that he should play the game abroad as it had begun at home, by which he meant that the Danes had been provoked by the Wends. He followed up these words with a ferocious engagement, killed Strumik along with the most valiant of his people, and accepted the allegiance of the remnant. Frothi then announced by herald to the assembled Wends that if any persons among them had persistently indulged in robbery and pillage, they should swiftly reveal themselves, as he promised to recompense such behaviour with maximum distinction. He even told all who were skilled in the pursuit of evil arts to step forward and receive their gifts. The Wends were delighted at the offer. Certain hopefuls, more greedy than prudent, declared themselves even before anyone else could lay information against them. Their strong avarice cheated them into setting profit before shame and imagining that crime was a glorious thing. When these folk had exposed themselves of their own accord, Frothi cried: ‘It’s your business, Wends, to rid the country of these vermin yourselves.’ Immediately he gave orders for them to be seized by the executioners and had them strung up on towering gallows by the people’s hands. You would have calculated that a larger number were punished than went free. So the shrewd king, in denying the self-confessed criminals the general pardon he granted to his conquered foes, wiped out almost the entire stock of the Wendish race. That was how deserved punishment followed the desire for reward without desert, how longing for unearned gain was visited by a well-earned penalty. I should have thought it quite right to consign them to their deaths, if they courted danger by speaking out when they could have stayed alive by holding their tongues. The king was exhilarated by the fame of his recent victory and, wanting to appear no less efficient in justice than in arms, decided to redraft the army’s code of laws; some of his rules are still practised, others men have chosen to rescind in favour of new ones. He proclaimed that each standard-bearer should receive a larger portion than the other soldiers in the distribution of booty; the leaders who had the standards carried before them in battle, because of their authority, should have all the captured gold. He wished the private soldier to be satisfied with silver. By his orders a copious supply of arms must go to the champions, captured ships to the ordinary people, to whom they were due, inasmuch as these had the right to build and equip vessels.
He also decreed that no one should take it on himself to put his personal property under lock and key; an individual would draw from the king’s treasury double the value of any goods he lost. Anyone who thought fit to bolt up his possessions in chests would owe the king a gold mark. Frothi also established that anyone who pardoned a thief should incur the sentence for the theft. Besides this, the first man to flee from battle should forfeit his common rights. When he returned to Denmark, Frothi wished to amend by good measures all that Grep had corrupted by his depraved practices; he therefore kindly permitted women their own choice of partner in order to avoid compulsory matches. He ensured that they should be legally married to any they had wedded without consulting their fathers. On the other hand, if a free woman united herself to a slave, they should be of equal condition; she must adopt servile status and lose the privilege of liberty. Men too were forced by law to marry women they had previously seduced. Adulterers should be deprived of their members by the true husbands, so that continence should not break down through licentious behaviour. Another decree enjoined that if one Dane robbed another, he must make double payment and be charged with violating the peace. If anyone conveyed ill-gotten gains to another’s house and the latter closed his doors behind the man, the host should have all his goods confiscated and be publicly flogged in the assembly, having to all intents and purposes made himself guilty of the same offence. Further, any exile who turned into an enemy of his native land and bore a shield against his fellow-citizens must pay with his property and life. If anyone were sluggish in carrying out the king’s command because of an obstreperous spirit, the penalty was to be banishment. For a wooden arrow that looked like iron was passed everywhere from man to man by way of an announcement, whenever sudden and unavoidable war fell on them. Any of the people who advanced in battle before the standard-bearer were raised in status; a slave became a freedman, a peasant a nobleman. If he were already of high birth he was appointed a jarl. These were the high rewards once earned by the valiant. So much did men of old believe that distinction should be accorded to courage. It was not reckoned that bravery ought to be attributed to good luck, but good luck to bravery.
He ordained too that when he entered into a lawsuit, no man should take an oath or deposit guarantees; whoever had bidden someone else lay a pledge with him should pay the other party half a gold mark, otherwise undergo severe corporal punishment. The king had foreseen that motives for the bitterest quarrels could arise from the deposition of guarantees. He allowed any dispute to be settled by the sword, since he believed it more honourable to combat with sinews than speech. If one of the fighters drew his foot out of the previously marked circle, he must be regarded as vanquished and his case lost. But if a common citizen attacked a champion on any score, he was to fight armed, while the warrior should be equipped only with a club, a cubit long. Again he decreed that if a Dane were murdered by an alien, reparation could be made through the killing of two of those foreigners. All this was done while Gøtar was preparing a fighting force to punish Erik. On his side Frothi fitted out a large fleet and sailed towards Norway. They both put in at the island of Rennesöy, but Gøtar, quailing before Frothi’s great renown, sent envoys to beg for peace. Erik talked to them: ‘It’s a shameless robber who’s the first to ask for a truce or ventures to offer one to blameless men. Those who long for possession must struggle for it; blow must be pitted against blow, malice repel malice.’ Gøtar listened to his words attentively from a distance and, in as distinct tones as he could muster, replied: ‘A man’s gallantry in action is measured by his recollection of benefits received.’ Erik answered: ‘I’ve requited your generosity with the sound advice I’ve given you.’ By this he meant that excellent counsel was more valuable than any sort of gift. And to show that Gøtar was ungrateful for the wisdom he had obtained, he continued: ‘When you were eager to rob me of my wife and my existence, you marred all your show of setting a good example. Only steel has the right to decide between us.’ After this Gøtar attacked the Danish fleet, but met with scant success in the engagement and was slain. As a kindness Frothi later gave Roller Gøtar’s kingdom, which extended over seven provinces. Erik also rewarded his brother with the province Gøtar had once conferred on him. Following these acts Frothi spent the next three years in complete, unthreatened peace. During this period the king of the Huns heard of his daughter’s dissolved marriage and, joining forces with Olimar, king of the East, over two years collected the equipment for a war against the Danes. For this reason Frothi enlisted soldiers not merely among his own countrymen but from the Norwegians and Wends too. Erik, dispatched by him to spy out the enemy’s battle array, discovered Olimar, acting as admiral (the Hunnish king led the land troops), not far from Russia; he addressed him with these words: ‘Tell me, what means this weighty provision for war, King Olimar? Where do you race to, captaining this fleet?’ Olimar replied: ‘Assault on Frithlef’s son is the strong desire of our hearts. And who are you to ask these arrogant questions?’ Erik answered: ‘To allow into your mind hope of conquering the unconquerable is fruitless; no man can overpower Frothi.’ Olimar objected: ‘Every thing that happens has its first occurrence; events unhoped-for come to pass quite often.’ His idea was to teach him that no one should put too much trust in Fortune. Erik then galloped on to meet and inspect the army of the Huns. As he rode by it he saw the front ranks parade past him at dawn and the rear-guard at sunset. He enquired of those he met what general had command of so many thousands. The Hunnish king, himself called Hun, chanced to see him and, realizing that he had taken on the task of spying, asked the questioner’s name. Erik said he was called the one who visited everywhere and was known nowhere. The king also brought in an interpreter to find out what Frothi’s business was. Erik answered: ‘Frothi never waits at home, lingering in his halls, for a hostile army. Whoever intends to scale another’s pinnacle must be watchful and wakeful. Nobody has ever won victory by snoring, nor has any sleeping wolf found a carcass.’ The king recognized his intelligence from these carefully chosen apothegms and reflected: ‘Here perhaps is the Erik who, so I’ve heard, laid a false charge against my daughter.’ He gave orders for him to be pinioned at once, but Erik pointed out how unsuitable it was for one creature to be manhandled by many. This remark not only allayed the king’s temper, but even inclined him to pardon Erik. But there was no doubt that his going unscathed resulted not from Hun’s kind-heartedness but his shrewdness; the chief reason for Erik’s dismissal was that he might horrify Frothi by reporting the size of the king’s host. After his return he was asked by his lord to reveal what he had discovered; he replied that he had seen six captains of six fleets, any one of which comprised five thousand ships; each ship was known to contain three hundred oarsmen. He said that each millenary of the total assemblage was composed of four squadrons. By ‘millenary’ he indicated twelve hundred men, since each squadron included three hundred. But while Frothi was hesitating over how he should combat these immense levies and was looking about purposefully for reinforcements, Erik said: ‘Boldness helps the virtuous; it takes a fierce hound to set upon a bear; we need mastiffs, not lapdogs.’ After this pronouncement he advised Frothi to collect a navy. Once this had been made ready they sailed off in the direction of their enemies. The islands which lie between Denmark and the East were attacked and subdued. Proceeding farther, they came upon several ships of the Russian fleet. Although Frothi believed it would be unchivalrous to molest such a small squadron, Erik interposed: ‘We must seek our food from the lean and slender. One who falls will rarely grow fat; if he has a great sack thrown over his head, he won’t be able to bite.’ This argument shook the king out of his shame at making an assault, and he was led to strike at the few vessels with his own multitude, after Erik had shown that he must set profitability higher than propriety. Next they advanced against Olimar, who, on account of the slow mobility of his vast forces, chose to await his opponents rather than set upon them; for the Russian vessels were unwieldy and seemed to be harder to row because of their bulk. Even the weight of their numbers was not much help. The amazing horde of Russians was more conspicuous for its abundance than valour and yielded before the vigorous handful of Danes. When he wished to return to his own land, Frothi found an unusual obstruction to his navigation: that whole bight of the sea was strewn with myriads of dead bodies and as many shattered shields and spears tossing on the waves. The harbours were choked and stank, the boats, surrounded by corpses, were blocked in and could not move. Nor were they able to push off the rotten floating carcasses with oars or poles, for when one was removed
another quickly rolled into its place to bump against the ships’ sides. You would have imagined that a war against the dead had begun, a new type of contest with lifeless men. Then Frothi assembled the races he had conquered and decreed by law that any head of a family who had fallen in that year should be consigned to a burial-mound along with his horse and all his panoply of arms. If any greedy wretch of a pall-bearer meddled with the tomb, he should not only pay with his lifeblood but remain unburied, without a grave or last rites. The king believed it just that one who interfered with another’s remains should not receive the benefit of a funeral, but that the treatment of his body should reflect what he had committed on someone else’s. He ordained that a commander or governor should have his corpse laid on a pyre consisting of his own boat. A single vessel must serve for the cremation of ten steersmen, but any general or king who had been killed should be cast on his own ship and burnt. He desired these precise regulations to be met in conducting the obsequies of the slain, for he would not tolerate lack of discrimination in funeral ritual. All the Russian kings had now fallen in battle, apart from Olimar and Dag. He ordered the Russians to celebrate their wars in the Danish fashion, and that no one should take a wife without purchasing her; it was his belief that where contracts were sealed by payment there was a chance of stronger and securer fidelity. If anyone dared to rape a virgin, the punishment was castration; otherwise the man must make a compensation of a thousand marks for his lechery. He also ruled that any sworn soldier who sought a name for proven courage must attack a single opponent, take on two, evade three by stepping back a short distance, and only be unashamed when he ran from four adversaries. The vassal kings must observe another usage regarding militiamen’s pay: a native soldier in their own bodyguard should be given silver marks in wintertime, a common soldier or mercenary, and a private soldier who had retired from service just . This law slighted their bravery, since it took notice of the men’s rank more than their spirits. You could call it a blunder on Frothi’s part to subordinate desert to royal patronage.
After this, when Frothi asked Erik whether the armies of the Huns were as profuse as Olimar’s forces, he began to express himself in song: ‘I perceived, so help me, an innumerable throng, a throng which neither land nor sea could contain. Frequent campfires were burning, a whole forest ablaze, betokening a countless troop. The ground was depressed beneath the trample of horses’ hooves, the hurrying wagons creaked along, wheels groaned, the chariot drivers chased the wind, matching the noise of thunder. The cumbered earth could hardly sustain the weight of the warrior hordes running uncontrolled. The very air seemed to crash, the earth tremble as the outlandish army moved its might. Fifteen companies I saw with their flashing banners, and each of these held a hundred smaller standards, with twenty more behind, and a band of generals to equal the number of ensigns.’ As Frothi enquired how he might combat such multitudes, Erik told him that he must return home and first allow the enemy to destroy themselves by their own immensity. His advice was observed and the scheme carried out as readily as it had been approved. Now the Huns, advancing through trackless wastes, could nowhere obtain supplies and began to run the risk of widespread starvation. The territory was vast and swampy, and it was impossible to find anything to relieve their necessity. At length, having slaughtered and eaten the pack animals, they began to scatter owing to shortage of transport as well as food. This straying from the route was as dangerous as the famine; neither horses nor asses were spared and rotting garbage was consumed. Eventually they did not even abstain from dogs; the dying men condoned every monstrosity. Nothing is so unthinkable that it cannot be enforced by dire need. In the end wholesale disaster assailed them, spent as they were with hunger; corpses were carried to burial ceaselessly, and though everyone dreaded death no pity was felt for those who were expiring; fear had shut out all humanity. At first only squads of soldiers withdrew from the king gradually, then the army melted away by companies. He was abandoned also by the seer Ugger, a man whose unknown years stretched beyond human span; as a deserter he sought out Frothi and informed him of all the Huns’ preparations. Meanwhile Hithin, king of a sizable people in Norway, approached Frothi’s fleet with a hundred and fifty vessels. Selecting twelve of these, he cruised nearer, raising a shield on his mast to indicate that they came as friends. He was received by Frothi into the closest degree of amity and brought a large contingent to augment his forces. Afterwards this man and Hild fell in love with each other; she was a girl of most excellent repute, the daughter of Høgni, a Jutland princeling; even before they met, each was impassioned by reports of the other. When they actually had a chance to look upon one another, they were unable to withdraw their eyes, so much did clinging affection hold their gaze. During this time Frothi had spread his soldiery through the townships and was assiduously collecting the money needed for their winter provisions. Yet even this was not sufficient to support a cripplingly expensive army. Ruin almost on a par with the Huns’ calamity beset him. To discourage foreigners from making inroads he sent to the Elbe a fleet under the command of Revil and Mevil, to make sure that no one crossed it. When the winter had relaxed its grip, Hithin and Høgni decided to cooperate in a pirating expedition. Høgni was unaware that his colleague was deeply in love with his daughter. He was a strapping fellow, but headstrong in temperament, Hithin very handsome, but short. Since Frothi realized that it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain the costs of the army as days went by, he directed Roller to go to Norway, Olimar to Sweden, King Ønef and the pirate chieftain Glomer to Orkney to seek supplies, assigning each man his own troops. Thirty kings, his devoted friends or vassals, followed Frothi. Immediately Hun heard that Frothi had dispersed his forces, he gathered together a fresh mass of fighting men. Høgni betrothed his daughter to Hithin and each swore that if one perished by the sword, the other would avenge him. In the autumn the hunters of supplies returned, richer in victories than actual provisions. Roller had killed Arnthor, king of the provinces of Sørmøre and Nordmøre, and laid these under tribute. Olimar, that renowned tamer of savage peoples, vanquished Thori the Tall, king of the Jamts and Hålsings, with two other leaders just as powerful, not to mention also Estland, Kurland, Öland, and the islands that fringe the Swedish coast. He therefore returned with seventy ships, double the number he had sailed out with. Trophies of victory in Orkney went to Ønef, Glomer, Hithin, and Høgni. These carried home ninety vessels. The revenues brought in from far and wide and gathered by plunder were now amply sufficient to meet the costs of nourishing the troops. Frothi had added twenty countries to his empire, and their thirty kings, besides those mentioned above, now fought on the Danish side. Relying in this way on his powers, he joined battle with the Huns. The first day saw a crescendo of such savage bloodshed that three principal Russian rivers were paved with corpses, as though they had been bridged to make them solid and passable. Furthermore, you might have seen an area stretching the distance of a three days’ horse-ride completely strewn with human bodies. So extensive were the traces of carnage. When the fighting had been protracted for seven days, King Hun fell. His brother of the same name saw that the I luns’ line had given way and lost no time before surrendering with his company. In that war a hundred and seventy kings, either from the Huns or who had served with them, capitulated to the Danish monarch. These Erik had specified in his earlier account of the standards, when he was enumerating the host of Huns in answer to Frothi’s questions. Summoning these kings to a meeting Frothi imposed on them a prescription to live under one and the same law. He made Olimar regent of Holmgård, Ønef of Kønugård, assigned Saxony to Hun, his captive, and Orkney to Revil. A man named Dimar was put in charge of the provinces of the Hålsings, the Jambers, the Jamts, and both of the Lapp peoples; the rule of Estland was bequeathed to Dag. On each of them he laid fixed obligations of tribute, demanding allegiance as a condition of his liberality. Frothi’s domains now embraced Russia to the east and were bounded by the River Rhine in the west. Meanwhile certain slanderers brought to Høgni a trumped-up charge that Hithin had dishonoured his daughter before the espousal ceremony by enticing her to fornication, an act which in those days was held among all nations to be monstrous. Høgni lent credulous ears to the lying tale and, as Hithin was collecting the royal taxes among the Wends, attacked him with his fleet; when they came to grips Høgni was defeated and made for Jutland. So the peace which Frothi had established was shaken by a domestic feud; they were the first men in his own country who spurned the king’s law. Frothi therefore sent officers to summon them both to him and enquired painstakingly into the reason for their quarrel. When he had learnt this, he pronounced judgement according to the terms of the law he had passed. However, seeing that even this would not reconcile them as long as the father obstinately demanded back his daughter, he decreed that the dispute should be settled by a sword fight. It seemed the only way of bringing their strife to an end. After they had commenced battle, Hithin was wounded by an exceptionally violent blow; he was losing the blood and strength from his body when he found unexpected mercy from his opponent. Although Høgni had the opportunity for a quick kill, pity for Hithin’s fine appearance and youthfulness compelled him to calm his ferocity. He held back his sword, loth to destroy a youngster shuddering with his last gasps. At one time a man blushed to take the life of one who was immature or feeble. So consciously did the brave champions of ancient days retain all the instincts of shame. His friends saw to it that Hithin, preserved by his foe’s clemency, was carried back to the ships. Seven years later they fell to battle again on the island of Hiddensee and slashed each other to death. It would have been more auspicious for Høgni had he exercised cruelty instead of kindness on the one occasion when he overcame Hithin. According to popular belief Hild yearned so ardently for her husband that she conjured up the spirits of the dead men at night so that they could renew their fighting. ioAt the same time a terrible war occurred between the Swedish king, Alrik, and Gestiblindi, monarch of Götaland. As he was the weaker of the two, Gestiblindi came as a suppliant to Frothi with a promise to yield himself and his realm to the Danish king if he would lend help. Receiving the assistance of Skalk of Scania and Erik, he quickly returned with an additional body of troops. Though Gestiblindi had determined to launch an armed invasion on Alrik, Erik proposed that he first attack the son, Gunthiof, leader of the men of Varmland and Solør, declaring that the sailor wearied by the storm should make for the nearest shore. Besides, a tree without roots rarely grew verdant. During this incursion Gunthiof perished and a barrow records his name. As soon as he heard that his son had been killed, Alrik came hastening to avenge him. When he had sighted his enemies, he called Erik to a secret interview, at which he recounted the treaties struck between their forebears and begged him to repudiate his military allegiance to Gestiblindi. Erik resolutely refused this suggestion, whereupon Alrik demanded leave to tackle Gestiblindi in single combat, since he believed that a personal encounter was preferable to general conflict. Erik pointed out that at his age and with his poor health Gestiblindi was unfit for arms, and making a particular excuse of his advanced years volunteered to battle in his stead; it would be disgraceful, he explained, if he refused to take this duel upon his own shoulders, when his purpose in coming had been to fight for the man. So it was that their contest was staged without further delay. Although he killed Alrik, Erik himself was very severely hurt, and only after remedies had been discovered with difficulty did he make a slow recovery from his critical condition. A false rumour of his death had reached Frothi and tortured his mind with intense anguish. His grief was only dispersed by the welcome return of Erik. He brought the news that by his labours he had added Sweden, Varmland, and Solør to Frothi’s empire. Soon Frothi appointed him ruler over the peoples he had vanquished and joined with this the right to draw annual tribute from Hálsingland, both Laplands, ' Finnmark, and Estland. None of the Swedish kings had previously been called Erik, but thenceforth the name passed from him to the rest. In that same period Alf, who had a son Asmund, ruled in Hedmark, and Biorn, whose son was Asvith, in the Vik province. Now it happened that Asmund was engaged in an ill-starred hunting expedition, setting dogs to take the wild creatures or catching them in nets, when, unluckily, he was all of a sudden enveloped by a mist; an untrodden path fetched him far away from the huntsmen and he strayed over desolate mountain ranges till finally, his horse and raiment gone, he existed by chewing mushrooms and other fungi; in the end his random course brought him into the palace of King Biorn. Now he and the king’s son, after they had lived together for a short time, confirmed the friendship they had cultivated by making every sort of vow that whichever of them lived the longer should be entombed with his dead companion. So strong was their loving fellowship that neither proposed to prolong his days once the other had been snatched away by Fate.
Later Frothi gathered a force together from all the races he had conquered and sailed with a fleet to Norway, while Erik was bidden to lead a detachment overland. It was the usual tale of human avarice: the more he possessed, the more Frothi wanted; he would not leave even this utterly bleak and forbidding quarter of the world unmolested. The acquisition of wealth has never failed to increase men’s greed. The Norwegians had no confidence that they could resist, so that most of them, having abandoned any hope of defence, escaped over the borders into Hålogaland. In order to preserve her chastity the girl Stikla stole away from her native country, preferring the sphere of war to that of marriage. Meanwhile Asvith died from an illness and was committed with his horse and dog to a cavern in the earth. Because of their oath of friendship Asmund suffered himself to be buried alive with him and food was put inside for him to eat. Now Erik, who had crossed the highlands with his army, chanced to come near Asvith’s tomb, and, since the Swedes believed that it contained treasure, they broke into the hillside with their mattocks. Only then did they perceive that they had opened up a cave of greater depth than they had anticipated. Its exploration required someone to be let down into space tied to the end of a rope. One of the spryest of the young men was chosen by lot for the purpose; when Asmund caught sight of him being sent down in a basket attached to a cord, he immediately tumbled him out and climbed into the basket himself. He then gave a signal for those who were standing above, controlling the rope, to haul him up. They drew up the basket expecting a pile of money and were aghast at the extraordinary sight of the unknown man they had pulled out; thinking the dead had returned to life, they flung away the rope and shot off in all directions. Indeed Asmund was hideous in his facial appearance and seemed to be plastered with gore like some kind of corpse. He tried to call them back, shouting that he was alive and their fears unfounded. Erik gazed at him and marvelled at the sight of his horribly stained features with the blood spurting out and flowing over his countenance. For Asvith had returned to life in the nights, and struggling frequently with Asmund had torn off his left ear, leaving a raw, unhealed scar, loathsome to look on. The bystanders asked him to tell them how he had received the wound, and this was his reply:. ‘Why are you dismayed to view me so bereft of colour? How can any man who lives with dead men not grow somewhat faded there?
Every dwelling in the world is wretched for someone alone; unhappy are they whom Fate has robbed of the help of men. This ancient hollow cavern and the shadows of empty night have snatched away the pleasure of my eyes and of my heart; foul earth, the decaying barrow and an overwhelming tide of dirt have diminished the fairness of my youthful face, sapped the powerful strength I often once exercised. Beyond all this I have struggled against a phantom’s energy, wrestled with grievous strain and immense peril. Asvith returned from the other world with ghostly violence; his gashing nails attacked me, renewing fierce battle after his death. Why are you dismayed to view me so bereft of colour? How can any man who lives with dead men not grow somewhat faded there? By some piece of hellish daring Asvith’s spirit was launched from the shades with ferocious teeth to devour the steed and lift the dog to its monstrous jaws. But horse nor dog sated its hunger; swiftly it turned its lightning talons to slash my cheek and take off my ear. Hence the ghastly sight of my torn visage, where blood wells from the cruel wound. Yet the ghoul did not go unscathed; I was quick to scythe off its head with my sword and thrust a stake through its wicked body. Why are you dismayed to view me so bereft of colour? How can any man who lives with dead men not grow somewhat faded there?’. Frothi had now moved his fleet to the edges of Halogaland; there, in order to make a visual estimate of his host, a seemingly incalculable and limitless number, he gave orders for his soldiers to build a mound, each man putting a single stone on the pile. The enemy too followed this method of counting their multitude. The two hills can be seen there still, to convince any who visit the area. On this spot Frothi did battle with the Norwegians and found it a crippling day for casualties. By nightfall each side made the decision to withdraw. Toward dawn Erik appeared on the scene after his overland trek and suggested to the king that he should begin the combat once more. The Danes encountered such extremely heavy losses in the fighting, that only a hundred and seventy ships are supposed to have survived from an original three thousand. The Northmen, however, suffered such catastrophic slaughter that, according to tradition, not even a fifth of their townships remained inhabited. After his victory Frothi desired to re-establish peace throughout his peoples; to ensure that each individual’s personal property should be safe from thievish marauders and to maintain quiet in his realms now the war was over, he fixed one bracelet to the rock they call Frodefjeld and another in the Vik province; he had had a meeting with the Norwegians, at which he warned that it would be necessary to punish all the chieftains of the area if these treasures were filched, for they were intended to serve as a test of the honest conduct he had imposed. It was to the utmost peril of their leaders that this unguarded gold was set up at the very places where roads met, an easily snatched prize to stimulate greedy minds and therefore a fine temptation to the avaricious. He decreed that seafarers who found oars anywhere might lawfully use them. He gave to crossers of streams the freedom to employ a horse if they found it close to the ford, but ordered that they must dismount when its front hooves touched dry land, even though its hind legs were still lapped by the water. He believed that such salutary benefits should be looked upon as kindnesses bestowed rather than wrongs received. However, anyone who had the temerity, having traversed the stream, to commandeer the horse longer should be condemned to death. He ordained also that no one should have his house or a chest bolted, or indeed keep anything under lock and key, promising restitution for lost items at thrice their value. Moreover, he made it known that it was right to claim as much of another man’s food as would suffice to supply one meal. Whoever appropriated more than this amount should be deemed guilty of theft. A hanged thief should have a sword thrust through his sinews and a wolf fastened up at his side, so that the vicious man’s likeness to the fierce animal might be demonstrated through their similar treatment. He made sure that the same penalty was extended to thieves’ accomplices. While he was spending a most agreeable seven years at peace, Frothi became father of a son and daughter, Alf and Øfura. During those days, as it happened, there had come to Frothi the Swedish champion Arngrim, who challenged to combat and killed Skalk of Scania for once robbing him of a ship. Over-jaunty from his deed, he made bold to ask Frothi for his daughter. Finding, however, that the king turned a deaf ear, he requested help from Erik, who was now the ruler of Sweden. Erik urged him to win Frothi’s favour by doing him some distinguished service; he could wage a campaign against Egther, king of Biarmaland, and Thengil, king of Finnmark, because they alone, while the rest were subservient, appeared scornful of Danish power. Arngrim lost no time in taking an army there. Now the Finns are the northernmost of all peoples; indeed they cultivate and occupy a tract of the world which is scarcely habitable. This race use their missiles with an eager zest. No others are more agile in launching the javelin. The arrows they shoot are large and broad. They devote themselves to magical skills and are expert hunters. Their homes are impermanent, for they pursue a nomadic existence, pitching their dwellings wherever they have caught game. They travel on curved boards and race on them across the snowfields between mountain ridges. These people were attacked and overpowered by Arngrim in order to increase his fame. When they scattered in flight, after fighting unsuccessfully, they cast three pebbles behind them, which to their enemy they made look the size of three mountains. Stunned by mistaking this cheating vision, Arngrim recalled his troops from the pursuit, believing himself blocked by a wall of towering cliffs. The next day they met him again and were defeated, whereupon they flung snow on the ground and gave it the appearance of a mighty river. The Swedes gazed at the extraordinary expanse of roaring waters and, utterly deceived by the illusion, misjudged the situation completely. As the victor quaked at this torrent, a meaningless phantasm, the Finns made their escape. On the third day they came to blows once more, but this time they had no further resource to ensure their getaway. When they saw their battle line giving, they surrendered to the power of their conqueror. Arngrim laid down this condition for tribute: the Finns should be counted and each three years, instead of a tax, they must deliver to him sledges stuffed with animal pelts, one load for every ten of their population. He then challenged Egther, the Biarmian leader, to a duel, defeated him and imposed on the Biarmians the duty of paying him one skin per head. Afterwards, laden with spoils and trophies, he returned to Erik. The latter attended him back to Denmark and there had a word in Frothi’s ear about this highly commendable young man; one who had extended the king’s empire to include the utmost bounds of mankind, said he, was worthy of the princess. Frothi pondered on his strong merits and concluded that it would not come amiss to appear as his father-in-law, considering how Arngrim had contrived obvious renown for him far and wide by these celebrated feats. Øfura bore Arngrim twelve sons whose names I have here recorded: Brand, Biarbi, Brod, Hiarrandi, Tand, Tyrving, two called Hadding, Hiorthvar, Hiarthvar, Rani, and Angantir. From youth onwards these applied themselves to the trade of buccaneering; they chanced one day to arrive, all in one vessel, at the island of Samsø, where they discovered offshore two ships belonging to the pirates Hialmar and rvar-Odd; these they boarded, wiped out their oarsmen, and then, not sure whether they had caught the captains, fitted the bodies of the slain each to his cross-bench, whereby they discovered that their real quarries had not been present. At this they were dismayed, realizing their victory was hardly worth a straw and knowing that the coming battle was critical and would be fought at greater hazard to themselves. Hialmar and Ørvar-Odd’s ships had been damaged some time earlier in a storm and one of their rudders torn away; the pair had therefore gone off to the forest to hew another and had pared down the rough wood, working round the trunk with axes until the massive timber had been shaped into the sailing implement. They were heaving it back to the beach on their shoulders, oblivious of their comrades’ calamity, when they were challenged by Øfura’s sons, freshly dripping with the blood of their victims, and the two of them were compelled to fight it out against these superior numbers. It could hardly be called a balanced confrontation when a band of a dozen took on a single pair. Even so victory did not correspond to a count of heads. Although they put down Hialmar, all Øfura’s sons were killed and the honours of conquest fell to the one fated to be the sole survivor from all those warrior associates, rvar-Odd. Swinging his tree-trunk rudder, still roughly shaped, with stupendous force, he laid into the frames of his opponents with such violence that he battered twelve of them to death at one stroke. In this way the storms of warfare were completely dispersed, though a body of pirates still remained on the seas. This particularly encouraged Frothi to embark on an invasion of the West, for his one passion was to spread a state of peace. After he had summoned Erik and mustered the combined fleet of his client kings, he sailed to Britain with a myriad vessels. The ruler of the island knew he could not match this force (the waters seemed totally blocked with ships) and sought Frothi under pretence of capitulation, bestowing flattery on his magnificence as well as pledging his and his people’s subjection to the Danes, the vanquishers of nations; he offered payment by way of tribute or taxes, whatever they demanded. Finally he made sure they were invited to share his hospitality. The Briton’s politeness was acceptable to Frothi, yet such universal promises given readily, without compulsion, bred suspicion of treachery; so quick a surrender by the enemy before battle is rarely performed in genuine good faith. Apprehensiveness about the banquet excited fears that the onset of drunkenness might ensnare their clear wits and they could be assailed from hidden ambushes. The number of guests appeared rather smaller than could safely accept the invitation. It was also thought foolhardy to trust one’s life to the integrity of an untested foe. The British king realized that they were in two minds on the matter and once more approached Frothi with a bidding to come to the feast with two thousand four hundred men, compared with his previous demand of only twelve hundred of his nobles. Although he could attend the banquet with some assurance now that the number of guests had been augmented, his doubts were not yet dismissed and he secretly dispatched a patrol to comb swiftly through the hiding places of the area and bring him prompt information of any traps they might unearth. On this mission they entered a wood where, discovering the wall of an encampment which held British troops, they halted warily. But as soon as they had clearly sized up the situation, they returned in haste. There were dusky tents, darkened by some sort of pitchy canvas, to avoid their catching the eye of anyone approaching. On learning of this, Frothi set a counter-ambush with a relatively strong force of nobles, rather than come to the feasting too ill-prepared and be deprived of ready aid. When these men had gained the shadows, he prearranged a signal for them to lend help, the sound of a trumpet. After this he proceeded to the banquet with the prescribed number of retinue, all lightly armed. The hall had been set out in royal elegance and splendour, draped on every side with hangings of purple dye, in which you could discern the fine and costly workmanship. This purple tapestry beautified the stout wooden walls. The floor was spread with such gleaming carpets that you would have shrunk from treading on them. Above were to be seen rows of oil-lit lamps twinkling and flickering. Censers, too, diffused a fragrance which was further enhanced by the rare odour of an exquisite perfume. The perimeter of the room was lined with tables bearing abundant dishes of food.
Pillows interwoven with gold decked the couches. The seats were piled with cushions. One could have imagined this hall, with its imposing appearance, smiling at the onlookers; nothing which might offend the senses of sight or smell could be detected in all that array. In the midst of the chamber, for replenishing the beakers, stood a giant flagon, holding a monstrous volume of liquid and capable of yielding enough to satisfy the throats of an immense gathering. Purple-clad servants, carrying golden ladles and gracefully discharging their function of wine-bearers, paced in ordered ranks. There was no lack of aurochs’ horns in which to offer the drink. Golden salvers shone at that feast, glinting jewels studded many of the bright goblets. Vast luxury was everywhere. The tables were swamped with delicacies and bowls brimmed with an assortment of liquors. The wine was not consumed unmixed, but by adding juices sought in faraway places they had concocted a nectar of varied flavours. Polished platters were crammed with appetizing viands, especially with trophies of the chase. And there were ample joints of meat from farm animals too. The residents were careful to drink more sparingly than the guests. The latter were ready for a carousal because they felt secure, whereas the natives, who were planning to trap them, had lost any urge towards insobriety. The Danes, who (if my country will pardon me) were used to contests in draining their tankards, loaded themselves with copious draughts of wine. When the Britons observed that they were well and truly intoxicated, they began to slip stealthily from the banquet, leaving the revellers inside the hall; then they pushed with all their strength and jammed the palace doors by moving bars and various barriers into place; finally they set fire to the building. Penned inside, the Danes hammered vainly on the doors as the flames spread and, finding themselves unable to escape, soon rammed the wall to see if there was a means of breaking through it. The English perceived it giving way under the Danes’ hefty battering and began to counteract this with their own muscles; by applying large blocks to the outside they did their best to prop up the swaying structure, trying to prevent the wall from shattering and so affording the prisoners an exit. At last it yielded before the stronger Danish band, whose efforts had become more intense as the danger increased, and they were able to rush from their confinement without trouble. Frothi then ordered the trumpet to be blown to call up the force he had placed in hiding. Roused by the raucous noise of the brass, this company turned the treachery on its authors’ heads, so that the British king suffered his ultimate fate along with countless numbers of his troops. By their aid they afforded Frothi a double benefit, safety to his companions and death to his foes. Meanwhile the Irish, growing dispirited at the increased reports of Danish resoluteness, made invasion of their regions more difficult by strewing the ground with iron caltrops to prevent access to their coasts. The Irish race are always lightly and comfortably armed. They thin their hair with razors and shave the back of the head completely so that their locks cannot be clutched as they are fleeing. However, it is their custom to turn their sword points intentionally towards an enemy hard on their heels and generally to hurl their spears behind them, with the result that they are more skilled at winning in flight than during actual combat. This means that when you might imagine victory within your grasp, a hazardous moment threatens. Instead of hotly pursuing these adversaries in their crafty flight, Frothi used caution and overthrew the Irish leader, Kervil, in battle. The brother who survived him abandoned all hope of resistance and surrendered his country to the Danish king. Frothi shared out the captured booty among his soldiery, so that he could claim to be free from any greedy inclination for wealth and only ambitious to strive for glory. After his triumphs over the British and the spoils won from Ireland, Frothi made his return to Denmark and abstained from the whole occupation of war for thirty years. During this period the Danes’ reputation for outstanding bravery shone bright through almost every land. Since he wished to prolong his conspicuous rule and give it lasting stability, Frothi determined to wield his severity against thefts and robberies, as these noxious evils were of an internal, domestic nature; once his peoples were rid of them they could pursue a calmer existence and no malign obstruction would thwart the continued progress of peace. He ensured that, now enemy activities had ceased, a national canker did not gnaw away his country; when he enjoyed quiet abroad, no wickedness should remain lurking at home. Lastly, in Jutland, this being the chief district of his realm, he had a heavy gold armlet fixed up at a crossroads, a marvellous prize, which would test the integrity he required from his subjects. This bait acted as a stimulant and provocation to crooked minds and unsavoury characters, yet fear of the risk unquestionably prevailed. Frothi’s royal authority was so influential that the gold, to be had for the taking, was preserved as if it were shut away behind steel bars. This novel scheme brought great fame to its deviser. He resolved after his widespread devastations and eminent victories far and near to bequeath peace to everyone, so that a cheerful and tranquil life might succeed savage war and the end of slaughter mark the beginning of safety. For this reason especially his edict was intended to provide a protective bulwark for every man’s property and prevent what had escaped foreign enemies being pillaged at home. In this same age our common Saviour endured the assumption of mortal garb and came to the earth to redeem mankind, while the fires of war were lulled and nations enjoyed a period of the most calm serenity. It has been thought that the extensive magnitude of this peace, the same and unbroken in all parts of the world, attended the divine birth rather than an earthly emperor, and that by an act of heaven this rare gift of time signified that the Creator of time was among us. In the meantime a certain married woman, cunning in sorcery and more confident of her spells than afraid of the king’s ferocity, aroused in her son a longing to purloin the treasure; she guaranteed that he would escape punishment, seeing that Frothi was almost on the borderline of death, dragging along the sickly remnants of a flagging spirit in his doddery frame. Although he objected to the extraordinary danger of his mother’s proposal, she told him to be more optimistic, maintaining that reprisals would be forestalled by a pregnant sea-cow or by some other occurrence. Her words dispelled the son’s fears and made him fall in with her persuasions. When the deed was done, Frothi, as though stung by an insult, descended in whirlwind fury on the woman’s home to tear it in pieces, after sending men to arrest her and her children and bring them to him. Since she divined this beforehand, she deluded her enemies by magic and changed her woman’s semblance to that of a mare. When Frothi appeared on the scene she assumed the form of a sea-cow, looking as if she were searching for food up and down the beach; her sons she made appear like calves with similar but smaller bodies. The king was struck with amazement at these bizarre creatures and told his followers to surround them and so cut off their return path to the waves. Then he climbed down from the carriage in which he travelled because of the infirmity of his aged limbs, and sat on the ground, filled with wonder. The mother, in the shape of the larger beast, thrust her horn forward, charged the king and pierced one of his flanks. The gash took his life, causing a death undeserved by his great majesty. His soldiers, passionate to avenge his killing, aimed their lances and transfixed the monsters. As soon as these were slain, the men observed that they were human corpses with animal heads. That, more than anything, revealed their enchanted nature. So departed Frothi, most illustrious of all the world’s kings. After drawing out his entrails, the nobles kept him embalmed for three years, since they feared the provinces would revolt if their sovereign’s end became known; they particularly wanted to keep his death concealed from outsiders, so that by the facade of his continued existence they could protect what had long been the far-flung bounds of his empire, and with the support of their leader’s old power draw the customary tribute from their subjects. For this reason they would carry his lifeless body about, not, so it seemed, already in a hearse, but in a royal carriage, pretending that this was a service due from his soldiers to a feeble old monarch not in full possession of his strength. Such was the pomp accorded to their ruler by his friends even after his decease. But when finally corruption set in and the rotting limbs could not be checked from decay, they held a kingly funeral and entombed his body beside Værebro, a bridge in Zealand, declaring that Frothi had wished he might die and be buried in the province which was considered pre-eminent among his realms. 
BOOK SIX
 After Frothi had expired, the Danes wrongly believed that Frithlef, who was being brought up in Russia, had died; the kingdom now seemed crippled for want of an heir and it looked impossible for it to continue under the royal line; they therefore decided that the man most suitable to take up the sceptre would be someone who could attach to Frothi’s new burial-mound an elegy of praise glorifying him, one which would leave a handsome testimony of the departed king’s fame for later generations. Hiarni, a bard expert in Danish poetry, was moved by the magnificence of the prize to adorn the man’s brilliance with a distinguished verbal memorial and invented verses in his rude vernacular. I have expressed the general sense of its four lines in this translation: Because they wished to extend Frothi’s life, the Danes long carried his remains through their countryside. This great prince’s body, now buried under turf, is covered by bare earth beneath the lucent sky. When this poem had been composed, the Danes conferred the crown upon its author. So they reimbursed an epitaph with a kingdom and granted the weight of an empire for the weaving together of a few letters. What a mighty honour at such meagre cost! This extraordinary reward for a tiny stanza surpassed even Caesar’s well-known recompense. For the divine Julius was happy to give a township to a man who made famous in writing the victories he had gained throughout the earth, whereas now the lavish generosity of the people squandered the realm on a churl. Not even Scipio Africanus matched the Danes in liberality when he made payment for the record of his achievements; in that case the prize of a laboriously written volume was mere gold, while here one or two uncouth verses won the sceptre for a peasant. At the same time Erik, who held the governorship of Sweden, died of an illness. His son Halfdan took over his father’s powers, but was alarmed by frequent clashes with twelve brothers who originated in Norway, for he had no means of punishing their violence; he therefore took refuge with Frithlef, who was still living in Russia, hoping to derive some assistance from that quarter. Approaching with a suppliant’s countenance, he brought to him the sad tale of his injuries and complained of how he had been pounded and shattered by a foreign foe. Through this petitioner Frithlef heard the news of his father’s death, and accompanying him with armed reinforcements made for Norway.
It was during this period that these brothers, finding themselves deserted by their allies, had constructed a massive rampart on an island encircled by a swift-flowing river and had extended their land fortifications over the level ground; trusting to this hideout they harassed their neighbours with continual forays. When they left the island, they used to reach the mainland by a bridge they had built; this connection with the gateway of their fortress they would regulate with ropes; as though operating on some revolving hinge it would now lay a road across the river, at other times, drawn up from above by the hidden cables controlling it, it would guard the entrance. These young men were of fierce temperament, stalwart in their early manhood, pre-eminent in physique, famous as the conquerors of giants, renowned for triumphs over defeated peoples and rich with their spoils. I have listed some of their names here (antiquity has obliterated the rest): Gerbiorn, Gunbiorn, Arinbiorn, Stenbiorn, Fsbiorn, Thorbiorn, and Biorn. The last is reputed to have had a horse of such magnificent strength and rapid hooves that when the others were unable to cross the river, he alone could vanquish its roaring tide without fatigue. This river swirls down with such headlong violence that animals normally lose the strength to keep afloat in it and are drowned. First it runs in a trickle from the pinnacles of the mountains, then dashes down steep precipices to the rocks below, multiplying the thunder of its waters as it plunges into the deep valleys; though it rebounds continually from one obstructing boulder to another it never loses any of its hurtling speed. As it surges and churns down the whole length of this channel it creates a foaming whiteness everywhere. But when it has shot from the canyon between the cliffs it spreads its flow more spaciously and forms the island from a rock that lies in its path. This ridge, sheer on both sides, projects from the water and is so clustered with different kinds of trees that from a distance they screen the river from view. Biorn also possessed a dog of unusual savagery, a horrifyingly vicious brute which was a terror for people to live with, for it had quite often killed a dozen men unaided. However, since this report is hearsay rather then certainty, a good judge should weigh its credibility. I have been told that the creature was a pet of the giant Ofot and would guard his herd while it was grazing. The young warriors would harry and pillage the neighbourhood, and frequently spilt great quantities of blood. They considered it right and proper to devastate homes, cut down cattle, rifle everything, take away vast hauls of booty, burn to the ground houses they had sacked, and butcher men and women indiscriminately. Frithlef surprised them in one of their reckless raids and hustled them all back into their stronghold, taking into custody the powerful horse, which its rider, scuttling away in panic, had abandoned on the near side of the river to speed his flight, for he dare not take it over the bridge with him. Frithlef then proclaimed that if any person slew one of those brothers, he would receive in gold the weight of the dead body. Some of the king’s champions were spurred by this incentive, seized not so much by hot greed as a fiery courage; they met Frithlef in secret and guaranteed to devote their energies to this enterprise, pledging their lives absolutely if they did not return with the brigands’ severed heads. When Frithlef had commended their brave promise, he ordered these friends to wait and at night made for the river, satisfied with a single companion. As he wanted to appear equipped with strength of his own rather than others’, he decided to use his daring and forestall assistance. Next he battered his escort to death with a hail of flint-stones and threw the lifeless trunk into the water, though not before he had stripped it, donned its clothing, and dressed it in his own garments so that to anyone who saw it the corpse would make it look as if calamity had overtaken the royal person. He purposely drew blood from the packhorse which the man had been riding and spattered it over the animal; when it returned to camp this would lend credence to his own death. Next he struck spurs into his steed, forced it to cut through the middle of the seething waters, and dismounted on gaining the farther bank; then he set about scaling the rampart which fronted the fortress by means of the ladders propped against it. Climbing upwards he managed to grasp the battlements and stealthily entered the building; then, eluding the sentinels, he trod delicately on tiptoe looking for the room where the robbers were seated at their carousal. Having reached this chamber, he stood beneath the archway that spanned the doors. A sense of security arising from their castle’s impregnability had prompted the young men to a drinking bout, for they reckoned that the river with its tearing current made their headquarters inviolable; it could apparently be crossed neither by swimmer nor by boat. And at no point anywhere along the stream could it be forded. Biorn, though he was brimming with convivial gaiety, declared that in his sleep he had seen a beast issue from the waves hideously discharging fire from its jaws to envelop everything in a sheet of flame. They should investigate all the holes and corners of the island and not trust too blindly to the character of the place; an unwary, over-confident assumption of safety could bring dire destruction. Nothing was so well fortified by its situation that Nature alone was sufficient to guard it without human aid. Moreover, they must take the utmost precautions so that his dream-warning was not followed by a miserable disaster. They all therefore stepped out of their stronghold to inspect the whole circuit of the island closely and when they discovered Frithlef’s mount they guessed that he had been overwhelmed by the river waters. Believing the horse had completed the crossing after its rider had been swept from his saddle, they led it in at the gates joyfully like a messenger who had reported the king’s death. Yet Biorn was still alarmed by the memory of his nightmare and urged them to set a watch, since it did not yet seem safe for them to put aside his intimations of peril. Then he sought rest in his bedroom but with the apparition still deeply fixed in his mind. Meanwhile there galloped into the camp of Frithlef’s soldiers the other horse, mottled with the blood which the king had drawn from its veins and splashed over it in order to spread belief in his death. Immediately they made for the river, found the slave’s corpse which the roaring torrent had driven to the bank, and, because of its glittering raiment, believed it to be the body of the king. Their mistake was encouraged particularly by the swelling of the bruised body, since the pounding and mutilation of the skin by the flints had made its bloodless features unsightly beyond recognition. The champions who had recently given Frithlef their word to exterminate the bandits were incensed with wrath at the deed and faced up to the stark danger of the waters, not wishing to sully their resplendent oath by timidly disregarding it. The remainder were infected by their boldness and marched to the river with equal zeal, prepared either to avenge their ruler or meet their fates. Seeing them, Frithlef was quick to lower the drawbridge to the mainland and, as soon as the champions were with him, broke in and immediately cut down the guards. Straight away they proceeded to attack the rest of the inmates and put them all to the sword, apart from Biorn. Frithlef healed his wounds with scrupulous care, made him swear a sacred oath, and took him as an associate, believing it preferable to employ his help than boast of his execution. It was intolerable, he insisted, for such blossoming valour to be plucked in the first years of manhood and suffer so untimely an end. The Danes, who had long before had a false report of Frithlef’s death, now found out about his reappearance and sent emissaries to summon him; at the same time they bade Hiarni relinquish the throne, which they reckoned he held only by proxy at their request. But Hiarni had no inclination to resign this high distinction and chose to expend his life for glory’s sake rather than retire to the ignoble destiny of a commoner. Unwilling to be stripped of his regal dignities and be forced to take back his old condition and fortune, he resolved to preserve his present situation by fighting. In consequence the territory was dangerously torn by tumultuous disturbances. One party adhered to Hiarni, another agreed with Frithief’s claim because of Frothi’s singular merits, so that there was a perplexing rift in the people’s allegiance, some honouring the existing order, others revering the recollection of the past. Regard for Frothi’s memory, however, weighed more strongly and his father’s attractive personality won larger popularity for Frithlef. Most of the wiser sort in fact believed that a man of peasant stock who had unexpectedly risen to the peak of authority beyond any justification of birth, solely by the partiality of Fate, should be removed from the throne; a counterfeit occupant must not prize out the true heir to the title. Frithlef told the Danish envoys to return and ask Hiarni either to lay down his rule or confront him in battle. Hiarni considered it a sad business to cling to life before honour and, by sacrificing his glory, seek safety instead of death; while he was engaging Frithlef in conflict, he was crushed and fled to Jutland; here again he rallied a band and made a fresh attack on the victor only to find his companions decimated, so that he had to flee without any attendant; an island bearing his name-’ testifies to the event. When, after this double massacre, he saw himself almost completely denuded of troops and his fortunes lower than he could bear, he transferred his energies to deception and approached Frithlef with his features disguised, intending to cultivate a close acquaintance till there came a chance to murder him treacherously. The king admitted him and for some time Hiarni concealed his design under pretended servitude. He professed himself a distiller of salt and pursued his humble duties among those menials who did the dirtier tasks. At meal times he was always the last to seat himself at table. He also refrained from taking baths in case the many traces of wounds on his naked body betrayed him. However, when the king, to satisfy his own suspicions, compelled him to wash, he recognized his enemy from the scars and said: ‘Now, you shameless rascal! How would you treat me, if you’d found me obviously intending to kill you?’ Hiarni was nonplussed and replied: ‘If I’d caught you, I should have challenged and fought you, to give you a better opportunity to clear yourself of the charge.’ Frithlef shortly followed his suggestion, challenged and overcame him, and buried his body in a barrow which bears the dead man’s name. Presently his advisers urged the king to think about marriage so that he could continue his line, but he strove to maintain his bachelorhood, pointing to the case of his father, where the wantonness of Frothi’s wife had brought him deep dishonour. In the end, yielding to everyone’s pressing entreaties, he undertook to ask for the hand of the daughter of the Norwegian king, Amund, through envoys. During the voyage one of these, whose name was Froki, was drowned in the ocean and at his death dealt a peculiar omen to the affair. After the surging billows had met over his head, blood welled up from the depths to dye the whole surface a strange red, so that where the sea a moment before had been whipped by the gales to a white froth, it was now observed to take on an unnatural hue and heave with a crimson swell. Amund intractably spurned the royal suitor’s request and treated his envoys with scant ceremony; he declared that Frothi’s tyranny, which had once severely menaced Norway, was good reason for rejecting the embassy. However, his daughter Frøgerth had a high regard for Frithlef’s birth and worshipped his brilliant deeds; she began to throw reproaches at her father because he scorned to have a son-in-law of irreproachable nobility, who neither lacked courage nor was handicapped by his pedigree. She mentioned too that portentous aspect of the sea when the waves suddenly turned to blood; what was it but a forecast of Norwegian doom and a clear prophecy of Danish victory? . When Frithlef, eager to overcome the rejection by perseverance, employed a second embassy to repeat his request for her hand, Amund was vexed to meet this obstinate demand for a suit he had already denied once; in a cruel endeavour to check this impudent wooer’s ardour he rushed the envoys off to execution. As soon as Frithlef had news of this outrage, he summoned Halfdan and Biorn and sailed to Norway. On his side Amund, equipped with his country’s defences, put out his navy to encounter the enemy. Both fleets steered into the fjord they call Frøkasund. In the night Frithlef had left his camp to reconnoitre when he caught an unusual sound of the air being beaten not far away; stopping in his tracks and looking up, he heard this song from three swans crying above him: ‘While Hithin sweeps the seas and cuts the furious tides, his serf drinks from gold and sips milk from goblets. A slave’s happiest condition is when a royal-born heir does him obeisance, rashly exchanging their estates.’ Finally, as the birds’ voices ceased, a belt fell from the sky inscribed with letters which interpreted the song: while Hithin, the king of Telemark’s son, was playing a boy’s game, a giant had assumed normal human shape and carried him off; he had taken a boat to cross to the neighbouring coast and was forcing the lad to row as the vessel chanced to pass Frithlef at the time he was bent on his work of spying. The king hated the thought of the captured youth being made to toil like this and longed to deprive the snatcher of his prey. The boy advised him to treat the giant to some sharp invective, assuring him that an attack would work more effectively if he first lashed him with abusive verse. So, Frithlef began: ‘If you’re a giant, three-bodied, invincible, whose pate almost touches the heavens, why does a laughable sword stick by your flank, a stumpy blade gird your great side? Why do you guard your mighty chest with a weak weapon, careless of your body’s size, and only wield a puny dagger? In a moment I’ll thwart your brash attack, if you struggle to fight with that blunted steel. As you’re a timid monster, a lump lacking the proper strength, you’re swept head-foremost like a fleeting shadow, for your grand, spectacular figure contains a craven heart sliding with fear, a spirit at complete odds with your limbs. Your frame’s structure is tottering, since a tumbledown mind cripples your fine shape, your nature at variance in all its parts. Henceforth you’ll have no reward of fame, no longer be regarded brave and glorious, only be numbered in the ranks of the unknown.’ At these words he lopped a foot and a hand off the giant, forced him to flee and liberated his captive. The pair immediately went off to the headland where he dwelt, removed the treasure from his cavern, and carried it away. Exulting in his spoil, Frithlef had the kidnapped youth help him sail across the waters and in a lively voice wove this song: ‘We’ve turned our blood-drenched sword, blade red with gore, to slay an impetuous monster, while you, Amund, presider over Norway’s defeat, lie deep in rest, as your courage slips away and escapes, your lightless mind oppressed by obscuring darkness. We’ve battered the ogre, divested him of limbs and wealth, when we probed the abyss of his desolate cavern. There we seized and ravished the piled-up gold. And now we brush the wandering main with our oars, joyously ply a craft laden with booty back to the shore, shooting the waves as our skiff measures the waters; briskly furrow the deep, lest the oncoming dawn reveal us to our foe. Let us speed then and churn the sea with all the strength of our hands, seeking the camp and our ships before the sun pushes his rosy head from the clear waves, so that when the story is known and Frogerth hears of the plunder won through our gallant attempt, she may turn her heart more sweetly to our prayers.’ On the following day the vast contingents of Frithlef and Amund met and a cruel battle ensued, partly waged on land, partly at sea. The lines were deployed across the countryside, and yet fighting men also made their assault in ships. At a point when blood was being shed freely, Biorn found his ranks giving way; he eventually unleashed his hound and set it on his adversaries to win a victory with the dog’s teeth which he had been unable to achieve by the sword. What a shameful overthrow for his foes, where a column of brave warriors were attacked and routed by bites. It is hard to say whether their flight was more disagreeable or disgraceful. To be reduced by an enemy who borrowed help from an animal should have made the troops of Northmen blush. But to have his soldiers’ waning courage restored by canine assistance was no disadvantage to Frithlef. Amund fell in this battle. When his attendant Ani, nicknamed ‘the Archer’, urged Frithlef to fight with him, he was challenged by Biorn, a man of knightly rank, to prevent the king encountering an ignoble person. As Biorn was attaching an arrow to the string of his bent bow, a shaft shot by Ani suddenly pierced the cord at the top. It was quickly succeeded by a fellow-arrow which dug into the knuckles of his fist. A third appeared and struck the arrow fitted to his bowstring. Ani, intentionally using his ready talent for long-range archery merely to hit his foe’s weapon, tried to discourage the champion from his purpose by indicating that he could easily do the same to his body. Nevertheless Biorn’s pluck was not in the least diminished; he despised hazard to his person and entered danger with spirit and expression unaltered, seeming neither to make any acknowledgement of Ani’s skill nor remit any of his usual valour. Quite undeterred from his intent, he fearlessly devoted himself to the duel. Both combatants were wounded and withdrew, but later they fought a second contest at Addarnæs, each thirsting for fame.
With Amund’s death, Frithlef was relieved of his bitterest enemy and gained total, untroubled peace; he made his ferocious disposition surrender to pleasure and, transferring his interests to the pursuit of love, refitted his fleet, determined now to seek the marriage previously denied him. Then he embarked on the voyage, but when his fleet was becalmed he intruded upon some villages to try to find food. He was entertained hospitably by a man called Grubbi and eventually formed a connection with his daughter, by whom he had a son, Olaf. After some time had elapsed he won Frøgerth, but while he was making a rather difficult crossing back to his homeland he was driven onto the shores of an unknown island; in his sleep he saw a figure who told him to dig up some buried treasure, but to wrap himself in an ox skin before approaching the dragon guardian in order to evade its poison; he was also instructed to stretch a hide over his shield before he thrust it in front of the venomous fangs. To test his dream-vision he attacked the reptile as it crawled from the waves, yet for a long time his darts were cast vainly at its scaly side, for its tough outer skin thwarted the impetus of his spears. The serpent threshed with its mass of coils, and the entwining loops of its tail uprooted any trees they came into contact with. Everywhere its body slithered it hollowed out the earth down to bed rock, throwing up a steep bank on either side, just as in certain spots we see an intervening valley between opposite hills. Frithlef concluded that the upper parts of the beast were impregnable and tested its belly with his sword; he pierced a section of its groin and spilt out the gore as the creature lay in convulsions. When it had expired, he had the hoard dug from the vault and carried away on his ships. After a year had rolled by he took the utmost pains to reconcile Biorn and Ani, who had frequently challenged one another to combat, and made them exchange hatred for a mutual regard; to these two as well he entrusted his -year-old son, Olaf, to be reared. Frithlef also joined in marriage his mistress Jorith, Olaf’s mother, and Ani, whom he had made a companion-in-arms, since he judged that she would brook separation from him more cheerfully if she were wedded to so mighty a champion and obtained his strong embraces instead of the king’s. It was a custom among the ancients to consult the oracles of the Fates concerning the future experiences of their children. Frithlef intended to investigate the fortunes of his son by this ritual, and having offered solemn vows approached the deities’ temple in prayer ; here, peering into the shrine, he recognized the three maidens sitting in their respective seats. The first indulgently bestowed on the boy a handsome appearance and a plentiful share of men’s goodwill. The second presented him with abundant generosity. The third, a female of rather petulant and jealous disposition, spurned the unanimous favours of her sisters and, in a wish to mar their blessings, implanted the fault of meanness in the boy’s future character. That was how Olaf, when the others’ benefits had been vitiated by the mischief of a gloomier destiny, received a name from the two types of offering, niggardliness mixed with liberality. So it was that this blemish, conferred as part of the gift, bedevilled the sweetness of the earlier kindnesses. Returning from Norway, Frithlef made a journey through Sweden and, taking this mission on his own shoulders, successfully requested from Hithin, whom he had once rescued from the monster, the hand of the latter’s daughter for the still unmarried Halfdan. In the meantime the king’s wife, Frogerth, bore him a son, Frothi, who later gained a surname from his great munificence. Because people recollected the prosperity of his grandfather, whom his name recalled, Frothi from his cradle and early infancy became such a darling to everyone that none could bear even to let him walk or stand on the ground but cuddled and kissed him continually. He was not attached to one person only for his upbringing, but was, as it were, reared generally by everybody. When he was his father died and, as the Saxon princelings, Sverting and Hanef, were snubbing his power and struggling towards open rebellion, he conquered them in battle; after their peoples were completely vanquished, as a token of their servitude he imposed a fine of a fixed sum of money per head. So generous was he that, instituting a novel custom of bounty, he doubled the traditional pay of the soldiery. He did not expose himself to the vulgar lures of vice, as despots commonly will, but did his best to attain everything which in his eyes related to upright conduct; he strove to keep his riches accessible to the public, to surpass all others in largesse, to precede everyone in deeds of kindness, and, most difficult of all, to overcome envy by his virtue. For these reasons he very soon won such a shining renown everywhere that as a very young man not only did his fame equal the reputations of his forefathers, but he even outstripped the deeds recorded of the most ancient kings.
In those days there was a man Starkath, son of Storværk, who, when he and his comrades were involved in a disastrous shipwreck, was the only one to escape through strength or luck; on account of his extraordinary pre-eminence of body and mind he was received by Frothi as his guest. After he had been his companion for some while and been treated more elegantly and handsomely each day, he was at length given a splendid ship and told to pursue the life of an adventurer, at the same time exercising watch over the seas. Nature had equipped him with a superhuman physique and spiritual endowments to match, so that men believed that in bravery he was second to none. So widespread was his conspicuous renown that even today his deeds and name remain distinguished in popular esteem. The roll of his achievements not only scintillated in our own country but had gained him brilliant repute even through all the provinces of Sweden and Saxony. It is definitely recorded that he came from the region which borders eastern Sweden, that which now contains the wide-flung dwellings of the Estlanders and other numerous savage hordes. But a preposterous common conjecture has invented details about his origin which are unreasonable and downright incredible. Some folk tell how he was born of giants and revealed his monster kind by an extraordinary number of hands; they assert that the god Thor broke the sinews which joined four of these freakish extensions of overproductive Nature and tore them off, plucking away the unnatural bunches of fingers from the body proper; with only two arms left, his frame, which before had run to a gargantuan enormity and been shaped with a grotesque crowd of limbs, was afterwards corrected according to a better model and contained within the more limited dimensions of men. At one time certain individuals, initiated into the arts of sorcery, namely Thor, Odin, and a number of others who were skilled at conjuring up marvellous illusions, clouded the minds of simple men and began to appropriate the exalted rank of godhead. Norway, Sweden, and Denmark were ensnared in a groundless conviction, urged to a devoted worship of these frauds, and infected by the smirch of their gross imposture. The results of their deception spread, so that all other realms came to revere some kind of divine power in them, believing they were gods or the confederates of gods; they rendered solemn prayers to these magic-mongers and paid the respect to an impious heresy which should have gone to true religion. An outcome of this is that the days of the week, in their appointed series, we think of under the names of these ‘gods’, since the ancient Romans are known to have given them separate titles from the names of their deities or from the seven planets. One gathers plainly from this very nomenclature of days that the persons who were honoured by our people were not the same as those the earliest Romans called Jupiter and Mercury, or those whom Greece and Rome accorded all the homage of superstition. What we call Thor’s or Odin’s day is termed by them Jove’s or Mercury’s day. If we accept that Thor is Jupiter and Odin Mercury, following the change of the days’ designations, then it is clear proof that Jupiter was the son of Mercury, provided we abide by the assertions of our countrymen, whose common belief is that Thor was the child of Odin. As the Romans hold to the opposite opinion and maintain that Mercury was born of Jupiter, it follows that if their claim is undisputed, we must realize that Thor and Jupiter, Odin and Mercury are different personages. Some say that the ones adored by our nation only shared the title of gods with those Greece or Italy used to honour, and that the former borrowed both the name and their rites, being nearly comparable with them in dignity. This is enough digression about the deities of Denmark’s past; I have briefly brought these matters into general notice to make clear to the reader what worship our native land observed in its era of pagan superstition. Now I shall return to the point where I departed from my subject. Ancient tradition says that Starkath, whom I introduced earlier, devoted his initial career to pleasing the gods through the murder of Vikar, king of Norway; some narrate this version of the affair: Odin once desired that Vikar should come to a dismal end, but did not wish to effect this openly; he therefore made Starkath, already remarkable for his unusual size, famous for his courage and his skill in composing songs, so that he could use the man’s energies more readily to accomplish the king’s death. Odin hoped that this was how Starkath would show his thanks for the privileges bestowed on him. To this end he also gave him three times the span of mortal life, in order that he might perpetrate a proportionate number of damnable deeds. So determined was he that crime should accompany this man’s prolonged existence. He soon came to Vikar and for some time lodged with him as one of his followers, devising a trap during his attendance on the king. Eventually they set off together on a pirating expedition. However, they arrived at a place where they were harassed by a long spell of violent storms, and here the gales interrupted their voyage in such a way that they spent a major part of the year doing nothing, until they decided that the gods must be appeased by human blood. Lots cast in an urn showed a demand for a royal victim. Starkath then twined round the king’s neck a noose he had made of osier, pretending to offer the appearance of an expiation merely for a brief moment. But the tightness of the knot fulfilled its function and cut short Vikar’s breathing as he hung there. While he was still panting Starkath tore out the remnants of life with his sword, and when he should have lent relief disclosed his treachery. I cannot entertain the view of one version which relates that the soft osiers hardened as they suddenly gripped and acted like a halter of iron. Next he took Vikar’s ship and, in order to live as a sea-robber, approached Bemuni, one who for daring surpassed all the pirates of Denmark. This man’s shipmate, a fellow called Frakki, had begun to find pirating a drudgery, put down a money settlement, and withdrawn from partnership with Bemuni not long before. Starkath and Bemuni were so careful to preserve temperance that they are supposed never to have resorted to intoxicating liquor, afraid that continence, an excellent bond between courageous men, might be forcefully shattered if they overindulged. When they had devastated whole provinces, their lust for domination also made them invade Russia; the natives had little confidence in their fortifications and arms as means of stopping the enemy’s inroads and so they started to cast unusually sharp nails in their path; if they could not check their onset in battle, they would impede their advance by quietly causing the ground to damage their feet, since they shrank from resistance in the open field. Yet even this kind of obstacle did not help rid them of their foes. For the Danes were cunning enough to foil the Russians’ endeavours. They at once fitted wooden clogs on their feet and trod on the spikes without injury. Those pieces of iron were each arranged with four prongs, so fashioned that on whatever side they happened to land they immediately stood balanced on three feet. Striking into pathless glades where the forests grew thickest, they rooted out Flokk, the Russian leader, from the mountain retreat into which he had crept. From this stronghold they claimed so much booty that every single man regained his ship laden with gold and silver. After Bemuni’s death Starkath, because of his valour, was summoned by the Biarmian champions and there performed many feats worthy of the telling, before entering Swedish territory. There he spent seven years in a leisurely stay with the sons of Frø, after which he departed to join Haki, a jarl of Denmark, for, living at Uppsala in the period of sacrifices, he had become disgusted with the womanish body movements, the clatter of actors on the stage, and the soft tinkling of bells. It is obvious how far his heart was removed from frivolity if he could not even bear to watch these occasions. A manly individual is resistant to wantonness. He went with Haki when his fleet put out for Ireland, since they did not wish to leave the most outlying of the world’s domains unattempted by Danish arms. The island’s ruler at that time was Huglek. Although his treasury was stacked with riches, he was such a slave to greed that when on one occasion he offered someone a pair of shoes adorned by the hand of a dedicated craftsman, he first withdrew the laces from their eyelets and turned his present into an insult. The meanness of his action made it such a faulty gift that he apparently reaped dislike rather than gratitude from the recipient. He was never moved to be generous towards respectable folk but reserved a fond liberality for his comedians and buffoons. This degenerate man needed to form intimate friendships with other degenerates and, polluted with vice, would charm the companions of his sin with pandering allurements. He had, however, two nobles of tested courage, Gegath and Svipdaf, who, through their fine military achievements, shone like jewels on a dunghill amid this mob of effeminates. They alone were the defenders of the royal wealth. When the fighting started between Huglek and Haki, the Irish ranks dissolved, for the rabble of entertainers, whose fickle minds made their bodies equally unreliable, scurried away in panic and repaid their sovereign’s immense favours only by fleeing disgracefully. Then Gegath and Svipdaf confronted those thousands of opponents by themselves and waged battle with such incredible valour that they seemed to play the parts of a whole army, not a mere brace of soldiers. As Haki pressed him tenaciously, Gegath dealt him such a severe frontal gash that the top of his liver was exposed. It was here that Starkath, while making for Gegath with his sword, suffered an acute injury to the head; later in a song he told how he had never encountered, before or since, such a rigorous blow; although the divisions of his cleft scalp were bound by the enclosing outer skin, an unseen livid wound within concealed festering poison. Once Huglek had been defeated and killed and the Irish driven to flight, Starkath administered a flogging to all the players who had the misfortune to fall into his hands. It was better, he thought, to impose a ludicrous penalty on a batch of clowns, no more than damage to their skins, than to inflict the grievous stroke of capital punishment. Happy to sentence them to the lash’s shaming mockery, he chastised this sordid gang of professional laughter-makers ignominiously. Next the Danes commanded that the king’s wealth should be hauled from his treasury in the city of Dublin and dismembered by universal pillage. Such a vast hoard of money was discovered that no one much cared whether or not it was strictly divided. Later Starkath together with Vin, chief of the Wends, was assigned to curb a revolt in the East. Taking on the combined armies of the Kurlanders, Samlanders, Semgalli, and finally all the peoples of the East, he won glorious victories on many fronts. A notorious desperado in Russia called Visin had built his hideout on a cliff known as Anafial, from which he inflicted all kinds of outrage on regions far and near. He could blunt the edge of any weapon merely by gazing on it. With no fear of being wounded he combined his strength with so much insolence that he would even seize the wives of eminent men and drag them to be raped before their husbands’ eyes. Roused by reports of this wickedness Starkath journeyed to Russia to exterminate the villain. Since there was nothing which Starkath thought it difficult to subdue, he challenged Visin to single combat, counteracted the help of his magic, and dispatched him. To prevent his sword being visible to the magician he wrapped it in a very fine skin, so that neither the power of Visin’s sorcery nor his great strength could stop him yielding to Starkath. Afterwards at Byzantium, relying on his stamina, he wrestled with and overthrew a supposedly invincible giant, Tanna, and compelled him to seek unknown lands by branding him an outlaw. As no cruelty of fate had hitherto managed to cheat this mighty man of his conquests, he entered Polish territory and there fought in a duel and defeated a champion called by our people Vaske, a name familiar to the Teutons under the different spelling of Wilzce. Meanwhile the Saxons were contemplating rebellion and giving particular thought to how they could destroy Frothi, so far undefeated, in a way which would avoid a general conflict. Because they believed the most suitable method was individual combat they sent emissaries to issue a challenge to the king, aware that he always embraced every danger eagerly and that his high spirit would certainly never give way to any admonition. When they knew that Starkath, whose bravery intimidated most men, was occupied elsewhere, they reckoned then was the time to accost Frothi. But while the king was hesitating and saying he would have to consult his friends about a reply, Starkath appeared on the scene, back from his sea-roving; he severely criticized the idea of the challenge, because, as he pointed out, such fights were not appropriate for kings except against their equals and certainly they should not be undertaken against men of the people; more properly it devolved on himself, as one born in a humbler station, to handle this contest. The Saxons approached Hama, famous among them for his athletic prowess, with many assurances that if he would throw his energies into a single combat, they would repay him with the weight in gold of his mountainous bulk; inveigled by the prize money, the champion was attended to the field marked for the contest by a jubilant procession of soldiers. On their side the Danes, decked in warlike array, led Starkath to the duelling ground, so that he could act the role of his monarch. Hama, exulting in his youth, was scornful of an opponent feeble with age and chose rather to wrestle with this worn-out old man than encounter him with arms. He went for Starkath and would have sent him reeling to the earth, had not Fortune, who would not allow the veteran to be overcome, stopped him being harmed. History records that he was struck down by Hama’s driving fist, brought to his knees and touched the ground with his chin. Starkath took fine compensation for being thrown off balance; as soon as he regained his feet and had a hand free to draw his sword, he chopped Hama’s body in half. A large portion of land and sixty slaves were the prize of his victory. After Hama’s death the Danes grew so haughty in their rule over the Saxons that each year they forced them, as a sign of bondage, to contribute a sum for every one of their limbs which was a cubit long. Hanef felt bitter at this and, in his eagerness to do away with the tax, contemplated war. Each day a steadfast patriotism steeped his heart with pity for the oppressed, so that, being prepared to offer his life for the freedom of his countrymen, he made plain his inclination to rebel. Frothi crossed the Elbe with his troops and slew Hanef near the township named after him, Hanover. Though Sverting was no less moved by his fellow-citizens’ suffering, he pretended to turn a blind eye to the distress of his country and revolved designs for liberation in a mind more stubborn than Hanef’s. At times it is awkward to decide whether his zeal was nearer to right or wrong. Nevertheless, as his longing for an insurrection expressed itself in treachery, I flatly denounce it as a crime. Even if seeking the liberty of one’s homeland seemed very proper, he should not have striven for it through guile and treason. Since Sverting’s conduct was clearly discreditable there can be no question of its desirability. It is more commendable to attack your adversary openly and air your hate in public than hide your real and harmful intentions under a spurious friendliness. Anything won by wrongdoing is empty of glory, its fruits short-lived and perishable. Just as it is an untrustworthy mind which conceals its proud hypocrisy by devious artifices, so everything allied to deceit turns out transient and frail. Most wickednesses have been known to recoil on their authors and this, according to the story, is what happened to Sverting. He had planned to stage a banquet, invite the king to it, and then destroy him by fire, but Frothi, even though he had been brought to his death, turned on his aggressor and killed him too. So it transpired that the iniquity of one caused the extinction of both. Although Sverting’s deception of his enemy worked, it did not guarantee safety to its inventor. Frothi was succeeded by his son, Ingiald. With a mind set askew from virtue, he abandoned the patterns of his forebears and surrendered himself wholly to the baits of wanton extravagance. At variance with all that was good and upright, he grasped at vice instead of sound morality, severed the tendons of restraint, neglected a noble sovereign’s duties, and became a vile slave to riotous living. Any disorderliness or impropriety he cultivated to perfection. He sullied the glorious deeds of his father and grandfather by constant pursuit of the foulest lusts, darkened the glowing records of his ancestors with the most infamous practices. So addicted was he to gluttony that he saw no point in discretion or moderation when catering for his appetite and had no desire to avenge his father or repel his foes’ aggressions. He vitiated his noble lineage in sloth and idleness by leading the dissolute life of a voluptuary and his degenerate soul strayed along a crooked route far from the tracks of his forefathers, delighting to plunge into the most disgusting pits of filthiness. His idea of greatness was to collect fatteners of fowls, scullions, frying-pans, all kinds of factories for the palate and various connoisseurs in the art of roasting and spicing meats. He could not bear to learn familiarity with arms, soldiering, and warfare, nor let others train for such exercises. Casting aside masculine enthusiasms, he emulated those of a woman, for his unbridled itch for gorging himself was aroused by every aroma from the kitchen. Without a shred of sobriety he would always be exhaling the fumes of his last drinking orgy and with stinking breath belching out the ill-digested impurities of his stomach. His excesses were as sickening as Frothi’s military exploits had been glorious. So much had this untimely corruption of greediness sapped his mind with its gratifications. Starkath, who loathed his debauches, was brought to leave Ingiald’s side and seek to join the retinue of the Swedish king, Halfdan, preferring work to ease. Indeed, he could not bear to condone even the slightest self-indulgence. As Sverting’s sons feared they might be punished by Ingiald for their father’s crime, they gave him their sister in marriage, a favour intended to forestall revenge. Ancient tradition tells that she bore sons: Frothi, Frithief, Ingiald, and Olaf, though some declare that her sister gave birth to the last. There was a goldsmith of low birth, who, ready with cajoleries and armed with a variety of those little presents which most captivate a girl’s fancy, had enticed Ingiald’s sister, Helga, through a lover’s sweetness, to respond to his passion. After King Frothi’s death there had been no one to foster the father’s merits in his daughter, with the result that she was without any guardian to tutor her. When Starkath heard the facts repeated again and again by travellers, he was determined not to let the craftsman’s overweening desires go unpunished (as it was his habit to remember and acknowledge benefits, he was just as quick to chastise arrogance) and he hurried to wreak vengeance on such uncommon audacity, ready to repay to his orphan child Frothi’s old kindnesses. Eventually he travelled across Sweden and entered the goldsmith’s home, where he took a place near the threshold, pulling down his cap to avoid recognition. The smith, who was not wise enough to know that strong arms occasionally lurk beneath a cheap cloak, told him sharply to quit his house without delay and he would get some of the poorest scraps of food among the beggar mob. Nevertheless the old man’s ingrained self-control lent him patience so that he made it his business to settle quietly there and gradually learn to bear with his host’s rudeness. Reason restrained the onset of his anger and checked his fury from bursting out. The smith next approached the girl with unconcealed lechery, threw himself into her lap and offered her his hair to comb through with her maidenly hands. Thrusting forward his loincloth he demanded that this nobly born woman should pick away the fleas and insisted that she should not blush to insert her lovely fingers into the filthy coverings of his thighs. Then, imagining he was free to take his pleasure, he introduced his craving palms inside her gown and let his restless fingers wander close to her breasts. She however, gazing intently, perceived the presence of the old man she had once known, felt ashamed, and rejected the unrestrained, lustful fondling of the smith’s lewd hands, telling him to stop his lascivious games; weapons were what he needed more.
By the time he observed this, Starkath, who had been sitting near the door with the cap shadowing his face, had drunk his fill of rage so that he could not restrain his arm any longer but threw off his covering and let his right hand leap to grasp his sword. The smith, who was expert in nothing but licentiousness, faltered in sudden panic as he realized that it meant a hand-to-hand fight; he cast away all hope of self-defence, for he saw that the only answer for his plight was to run. Even so it was as difficult to break out at the door while his foe was guarding the entrance as it was unpleasant to wait for the killer’s attack indoors. Finally, hemmed in by necessity, he put an end to his hesitation and decided that a risk where there lay even a moderate chance of safety was preferable to clear and obvious peril. Although flight was beset with difficulties and danger, he chose it because it appeared to offer aid and a nearer way to salvation; delay was rejected as a hopeless evil which would inevitably bring harm. But as he was gaining the threshold, the old man, who was watching the door, dealt him a cut up the middle of the buttocks, whereupon he missed his footing and collapsed half-dead. His assailant had made a particular decision to avoid turning his celebrated arm to the destruction of a grovelling tong-wielder, and thought that the flames of his base passion could be penalized more harshly by disgrace than death. Some people believe it more of a punishment to be injured than killed outright. So it came about that the girl who had never received the attentions of a mother and father became a woman of well-trained propriety and fulfilled, as it were, the duties of a conscientious guardian over herself. After Starkath had looked all round and noticed that the household were grieved at the recent defeat of their master, he took care to enlarge the wounded man’s dishonour with insults and began to taunt him: ‘Why is the house benumbed with silence? What reason for new grief, and where is that doter resting, whom my steel lately punished for his shameful love? Does he retain his pride and indolent lechery, hold to his purpose and glow with the first flush of lust? He must tarry an hour with me in conversation,
By the time he observed this, Starkath, who had been sitting near the door with the cap shadowing his face, had drunk his fill of rage so that he could not restrain his arm any longer but threw off his covering and let his right hand leap to grasp his sword. The smith, who was expert in nothing but licentiousness, faltered in sudden panic as he realized that it meant a hand-to-hand fight; he cast away all hope of self-defence, for he saw that the only answer for his plight was to run. Even so it was as difficult to break out at the door while his foe was guarding the entrance as it was unpleasant to wait for the killer’s attack indoors. Finally, hemmed in by necessity, he put an end to his hesitation and decided that a risk where there lay even a moderate chance of safety was preferable to clear and obvious peril. Although flight was beset with difficulties and danger, he chose it because it appeared to offer aid and a nearer way to salvation; delay was rejected as a hopeless evil which would inevitably bring harm. But as he was gaining the threshold, the old man, who was watching the door, dealt him a cut up the middle of the buttocks, whereupon he missed his footing and collapsed half-dead. His assailant had made a particular decision to avoid turning his celebrated arm to the destruction of a grovelling tong-wielder, and thought that the flames of his base passion could be penalized more harshly by disgrace than death. Some people believe it more of a punishment to be injured than killed outright. So it came about that the girl who had never received the attentions of a mother and father became a woman of well-trained propriety and fulfilled, as it were, the duties of a conscientious guardian over herself. After Starkath had looked all round and noticed that the household were grieved at the recent defeat of their master, he took care to enlarge the wounded man’s dishonour with insults and began to taunt him: ‘Why is the house benumbed with silence? What reason for new grief, and where is that doter resting, whom my steel lately punished for his shameful love? Does he retain his pride and indolent lechery, hold to his purpose and glow with the first flush of lust? He must tarry an hour with me in conversation, “ Don’t pale at a peace-loving raven, a tattered old man” , replied the smith. “ That valiant hero you fear would never sully himself with such common rags. A brave man rejoices in splendid attire and seeks a garb to match his spirit.” . Then flinging off my disguise, I snatched my sword and, as he fled, severed his privates, showed where the rump, cut away from the bone, laid bare his entrails. Shortly I rose and pounding her face with my fist drew blood from the girl’s nose; then those lips accustomed to wicked laughter grew wet with blood and tears; foolish love was punished for all it had practised with seductive eyes. “ Unhappy her play who, blind with desire, rushes like a crazy mare, buries her name in lust. You deserve to be sold in a foreign land and grind a millstone, unless blood squeezed from your nipples proved you falsely blamed, and a breast empty of milk swept away your guilt. Though to my guess you are innocent of the charge, do not bear suspicious signs or surrender yourself to false tongues, letting the gossip of the crowd pluck you to pieces. Lying slander and infamy have ruined many. The popular mind is deceived by a tiny word. With reverence honour your forbears, remember your parents and grandparents; let your flesh and blood keep their glory.” What madness assailed you? What destiny prevailed over you, shameless artisan, to try your lust on a princess? And who drove you, a lady deserving an illustrious bed, to an ignoble passion? How can you venture to taste a mouth reeking of cinders with these rosy lips, endure those hands filthy with charcoal upon your breast, press to your sides those forearms that turn the burning coals, let those palms ever hardened by the pincers touch your fresh cheeks, or take that head that was showered with sparks and clasp it in your bright arms? I remember what a great difference there is between the many smiths, for once they smote me. A common name from their trade links them, but beneath lie minds separate in their natures. To my thinking they are superior who forge swords and spears for the battles of men, reveal their spirit through their dispositions, signal their hearts by the toughness of their task, in toil admit their prowess. But some who, when the hollow mould yields its metal, imitate various shapes with the molten gold and smelt the natural ore, these are they in whom Nature has formed a weaker character, endowed their hands with supreme skill, but laden them with fear. Often such men, as the fanned heat liquefies the ore that is poured in the pot, subtly filch slivers of gold from the lumps, while the vessel thirsts for its stolen metal.’ Thereupon Starkath, who had derived no less satisfaction from speech than from deeds, returned to Halfdan and in closest friendship served as his soldier, never ceasing to practise war, for as he had withdrawn his soul from pleasures, so he harrowed it with the unremitting exercise of weapons. Ingiald’s sisters were Helga and Asa, of whom Helga was fully ripe for the marriage bed, while Asa, being younger, was unsuitable for matrimony. The Norwegian Helgi, spurred on with eagerness to request Helga’s hand, boarded ship. He had prepared for his voyage with such lavishness that he had hoisted sails tricked out with gold, which were secured to the gilded masts by purple ropes. On his arrival Ingiald promised that he should gain his wishes if he dared to put his reputation to the test by facing in battle the champions pitted against him. Helgi was unalarmed by this stipulation and replied that he would most gladly devote himself to such an agreement. So, the contract for the future marriage was hallowed by a solemn betrothal ceremony. During this period there had grown up in the island of Zealand, as the story says, the nine sons of a certain chief, highly endowed with stamina and fortitude, the eldest of whom was Angantir. As he was a rival suitor for the same girl and saw that the match denied him had been promised to Helgi, he challenged him to a conflict of strength, determined to be rid of the annoyance with his sword. Helgi gave his approval to the proposed battle and by mutual consent the encounter was fixed for the first day of the marriage. Whoever refused to contend after being challenged was an object of derision to everyone. For this reason Helgi was racked by the shame of declining the fight and, on the other side, dread of actually waging it. He believed that he had been provoked to an unequal struggle contrary to the normal laws of combat, since he had apparently pledged himself to strive alone against nine men. As he pondered over the business, his betrothed told him he would need help and urged him not to enter a fight where it seemed he could ask for nothing but death or dishonour, especially as he had put no exact limit on the number of his adversaries; he should spare himself the danger and go with an appeal for the preservation of his safety to Starkath, who was living among the Swedes, a man regularly at the side of the distressed, one who often happily intervened to rescue people in desperate straits. The scheme was welcome to Helgi; taking with him a small retinue, he entered Sweden and made his way to its most celebrated city, Uppsala; he stopped short of it himself but sent someone ahead to sound Starkath initially by greeting him with an invitation to the wedding of Frothi’s daughter. This courtesy irritated Starkath just as though it were an affront and, staring fiercely at the young messenger, he answered that he would have punished him for this fatuous mission, had not his beloved Frothi been mentioned in the instructions; the fellow must imagine he went running like a jester or parasite after a lavish dinner as soon as he smelt someone’s cooking. As soon as Helgi had heard this from his follower, he went to the palace himself, saluted the old man in the name of Frothi’s daughter and entreated his companionship in the battle he had accepted after the challenge; he confessed himself inadequate for it because the terms of agreement had left the number of the opposing group unspecified. When Starkath had learnt the time and place of the combat, he treated his suppliant kindly, gave him reassurance by a guarantee of aid and bade him return to Denmark with his escort, where, he stated, he would find his way to him by a short, secret route. Helgi departed, and after an interval of some days Starkath set off, if one can believe the tale, with a speed of foot which enabled him to measure in a single day distances which the preceding company are said to have traversed only in twelve. So it chanced that both parties met, having reached their destination, Ingiald’s palace, at one and the same time. When Starkath, like a servant, was passing along by the tables ranged with guests, the nine brothers I have mentioned were emitting wild snorts accompanied by ugly gestures and, acting out their battle manoeuvres, were animating one another for the fight by mutual encouragements. Some reckon they barked at the advancing champion like savage dogs. Starkath upbraided them for making themselves look ridiculous with such unnatural expressions, frolicking with distended jaws, and cried that this was how half-men in wanton profligacy extended their impudence to excess. When they asked him whether he had enough courage to fight, he retorted that he could certainly depend on his vigour to take on not just one but all comers. Immediately they heard this, the nine understood that this was the man they had been told was travelling from far off to assist Helgi. It was also Starkath who voluntarily undertook to stay awake and keep a close watch on the bridal chamber; pulling shut the doors of the bedroom he barred them with his sword instead of a bolt, so that by standing guard he might allow the married pair an undisturbed rest. When Helgi woke and had shaken off the lethargy of sleep, he remembered his promise and thought about buckling on his armour. He noticed, however, that a little of the night’s darkness still remained and, since he wanted to wait for dawn, he turned over in his mind the peril he was soon to face, but was cut off by a gentle drowsiness stealthily creeping over him; feeling heavy and tired he took himself back to bed. At first light Starkath came in and saw him asleep, locked in the arms of his wife; he could not bear to give him a brusque shaking and startle him rudely from his relaxed slumber, for he was disinclined to arouse him presumptuously and interrupt the delight of such fresh wedlock as though it were all through his own cowardice. He therefore decided it was more laudable to court danger alone than seek comradeship at the expense of another’s joy. After retracing his steps quietly he went out into the plain known in our language as Røliung and, scorning his foes, sat down beneath the slopes of a mountain, where he exposed his body to gales and snow. Then, just as if a mild spring breeze were blowing over him, he took off his cloak and set about removing the fleas. He also threw his purple mantle, a recent present from Helga, over a bramble in case anyone should believe he had put on such a garment as an umbrella against the furious lances of hail. The champions then appeared, approaching the mountain from the opposite quarter, for they were searching for a place to sit sheltered from the wind; there they lit a fire to fend off the cold. Eventually, as there was no sign of Starkath, they sent someone up to the peak where he could view his arrival more plainly as if from a watchtower. He clambered up to the summit of its rugged heights and caught sight of the old man on the steep side, covered by a blanket of snow right up to his shoulder-blades. The man shouted to ask him if he were the one who was to play his promised part in the battle. Starkath affirmed it, and when the rest came up they enquired whether he had resolved to meet them all at once or individually. ‘Whenever a sorry pack of curs snarls at me’, he replied, ‘I usually send them scampering off all together, not one by one.’ He meant that he preferred to tackle them in a batch rather than singly, since he believed that opponents should be spurned with words first, weapons afterwards. On entering the contest he felled six of them before they could give him a single wound; the remaining three, however, dealt him seventeen gashes, so that a large section of his bowel was sliding from his abdomen, and yet he destroyed these foes just like their brothers. Losing his entrails, his powers failing, and suffering torments of thirst, he crawled in search of a drink towards a beck which ran close by, craving for its water. Yet when he observed that it was contaminated with blood, he felt nauseated at the sight and would not sip its pollution. In fact Angantir’s corpse had fallen flat into its stream and dyed its course so deeply with his red blood that it now seemed to flow not with water so much as a pink liquid. Thus Starkath thought it preferable to lose his vital energies rather than gain them from such a foul beverage. With his strength almost spent, he wriggled and kneed himself over to a nearby rock and lay leaning against it for some little while; a hollow can still be seen in its surface, as though the weight of his sagging body had marked it with a clear impression. Nevertheless I think this appearance was created by people’s skilful exertions, for it surpasses belief that a granite-hard rock could so resemble malleable wax that from mere contact it should assume the form of a man who simply rested against it and be endued with this concave shape for ever.
A person who chanced to be passing in a cart saw Starkath almost entirely cut to pieces and was struck equally with horror and amazement; he reined in and asked the warrior what reward he would receive if he tended and healed his injuries. But as Starkath preferred the torture of his agonizing wounds before the ministrations of those in low walks of life, he insisted on knowing his employment and family. When he learnt that the man had the post of bailiff, he was not content with rejecting him but trampled him with abuse: such a fellow disregarded all honourable duties and made jeering language his business, tarnishing the whole course of his life with a constantly evil reputation; his idea of profit was to ruin the poor, he was prepared to allow no one’s innocence but to inflict wrongful charges against all, and was at the height of happiness when something lamentable occurred in another’s fortunes; he toiled most of all to find out everyone’s doings by clever, underhand investigations and lashed out at harmless characters whenever he could find some treacherous opportunity. As this individual was going off, another man arrived to offer help and treatment; like his predecessor he was told to reveal his status, to which the reply was that he had married someone’s maidservant and was working in the country to pay for the release of his wife from her master. Starkath then said he had no wish to receive aid from one who had accepted a slave’s embraces, a type of union he should be ashamed of. If there were any worth in him, he would at least have felt distaste at intimacy with a female who was someone’s property, and be enjoying a free woman as the partner of his bed. What a great man we must now judge Starkath! After involving himself in the most desperate danger to his life, he was as vigorous in scorning assistance as he had been in sustaining his lacerations. On his leaving, a woman happened to come walking by. When she approached nearer the old man to wipe his wounds clean, he first ordered her to relate her birth and occupation, to which she replied that she was a slave whose regular task it was to work with a grindstone. Then he wanted to know whether she had any children, and when he heard that she had a little girl he bade her go home and offer her teats to her squalling daughter, for he considered it utterly degrading to accept relief from a wench of the lowest order. He knew she could give suck to her own offspring better than nurse the injuries of an outsider.
At her departure there arrived a young man riding in a wagon. On spying the old man’s gashes, he came up to offer assistance, and, being asked his identity, replied that he was a farmer’s son, used to working on the land. Starkath commended his stock, pronouncing it a praiseworthy calling, in which folk sought their subsistence by a trade of honest labour and certainly realized no profit unless it were gained by the sweat of their brows. The man was quite right to prefer a country life even to the most splendid opulence; its blameless fruits seemed to grow and be cultivated in the shelter of a middle state, halfway between a brilliant and a squalid fortune. Not wishing to let the young man’s humanity go unacknowledged, he rewarded his proffered kindness with the mantle which he had cast on to the briar. The farmer’s son came close, restored the torn-out parts of his stomach to their rightful place and bound in the cluster of protruding intestines by knotting plaited shoots around him. After that he drew the old man into his wagon and conveyed him as far as the royal palace with all solicitude and respect. Meanwhile Helga began to instruct her husband, indicating the great caution he must take; she knew, she said, that Starkath soon after his return from defeating the champions would exact retribution for Helgi’s absence, since he would consider he had yielded to sloth and carnal pleasure instead of keeping his word over the appointment to fight. Her husband would need to counter him forcefully, as Starkath’s custom was to spare the brave but loathe cowards. Helgi thought her forecast as sound as her suggestions and braced his body and mind in a glow of new-found courage. When Starkath had been driven to the palace, indifferent to the pain of his injuries he leapt nimbly down from the chariot and, as though quite unhurt, shattered the doors of the bridal chamber with his fist and burst in. Helgi sprang from the bed and, following his wife’s advice, pierced Starkath’s forehead with his sword as the other rushed at him. Just as he seemed about to drive his weapon again to inflict a second blow, Helga flew swiftly from the bed, snatched up a shield and interposed it to save the old man from imminent destruction; even then the shield was shivered as far as the middle of the boss by Helgi’s mighty swordstroke. So, this woman of commendable wit helped her friend, and although her plan was to hurt him her hand preserved him; she had protected her husband with her warning, the old man by her action. The incident induced Starkath to leave Helgi alone and declare that this prompt and convincing show of manliness indicated that here was a person of assured valour, who ought to be spared. Whoever graced his noble character with such confident resistance did not deserve to die. Because Halfdan had been killed by his rivals, Starkath made his way back to Sweden before his wounds had received medical attention or yet developed a covering of scars, and, after quelling certain rebels, established Halfdan’s son, Sigvarth, as the heir to his father’s rule. He had only been living with the new king for a short while when he discovered from spreading reports that Ingiald, son of the Frothi who had been insidiously overthrown, far from punishing his father’s murderers, had been prompted by his crooked heart to grant them kindness and friendship; stung by darts of vexation at this frightful act and bitter to see a young man of such talents renounce his connection with so glorious a father, he slung a massive bundle of charcoal across his shoulders as if it were some precious burden and set off for Denmark. When passers-by asked why he was carrying such a strange load, he informed them that with these coals he was going to forge a keen edge to King Ingiald’s dull brains. He took a short and easy path, by which he accomplished his swift, uninterrupted journey, as it were, in one breath; at the end he received Ingiald’s hospitality and as usual ascended to a seat reserved for elders. Among the last generation of royalty he had regularly taken a position of the highest dignity. When the queen entered she caught sight of this muddy individual in rough, dirty rags and judged the guest rather hastily from his unseemly guise, for she assessed the man by his dress; rebuking him for a stupid lout who had rushed to the table ahead of his betters and occupied a seat unfit for his boorish attire, she ordered him to leave his place in case he touched the cushions with clothing less clean than it might have been. As she was unaware that in an exalted gathering the mind carries a much brighter sheen than any apparel, she counted his action of self-assurance a piece of crass impudence. Undaunted, the old man obeyed and, though he felt grieved from the rebuff, with amazing self-control swallowed the reproach which his prowess did not deserve, nor did he let the indignity force a word or sigh from him. Nonetheless he could not entirely hide the rancour of his distress in silence. Rising up and departing to the
farthest part of the palace, he stooped and flung his body against the stout walls with such a crash that the timbers shook violently and the building was almost brought down in ruins. This was the result of his exasperation, not merely at the rebuke but the disgrace of being criticized for his poverty, and why he vented his anger at the queen’s insulting speech with such uncontrollable severity. When Ingiald returned from hunting he took a close look at this visitor who went about forever unsmiling and did not pay him the deference of rising, and he knew from the sight of his unbending features that it was Starkath. He gazed at the hands toughened in warfare, the scars on his front, the piercing power of his eyes, and noted that even if the deep furrows of stabs remained all over his body he had lost none of his nerve. He therefore scolded his wife and strongly advised her to dismiss her angry pride, charm with compliments the man she had reviled, win him over with kindnesses, and, when she had fortified him with food and drink, regale him with delightful conversation; this, he told her, was the person his father had once assigned to watch over his upbringing, the tender guardian of his childhood. Recognizing too late the old man’s character, she changed from inflexibility to gentleness and waited respectfully on the one she had repulsed and nettled with her sour abuse; instead of the disdainful hostess she began to play the most fawning of flatterers, wishing to oppose his anger with attentiveness, and less blameworthy in that once she had been chided she quickly abandoned her mistaken attitude. Even so she paid dearly for it, for the place where she had trounced the valiant old man for sitting down at the table, she afterwards saw stained with the blood of her massacred brothers. Now as Ingiald was eating that night with the sons of Sverting, sending into the delicacies of the sumptuous banquet piled before him on the tables, with a friendly invitation he kept the old man from withdrawing too early from the company; as though the delights of an elaborate cuisine could have undermined his staunch and solid manhood! When Starkath had brought himself to look on them, he would not touch these enjoyments, and, to avoid indulging himself in such outlandish habits, steeled his appetite against temptation to the palate with the moderation that was his greatest strength; he had no wish to allow his celebrity as a warrior to be impaired by the enticements of an orgy. His fortitude loved abstemiousness, found so much profuse fare alien to it, and recoiled from excessive feasting; it never had any time for valuing extravagance and always rejected pleasure to gaze on virtue. When he saw the ancient habits of temperance and all the good old customs being perverted by this new luxuriousness and unrestraint, he looked for a serving of coarser food, disdaining the costliness of a more lavish meal. Scorning the banqueters’ all-out self-indulgence, he stemmed his hunger with smoky, rancid food, which tasted all the better for being simpler; he had no desire to weaken the sinews of true manliness by contamination with the synthetic sweetness of foreign rarities, or break his established rule of frugality through curious rituals of the stomach. It vexed him to find them going to the expense of roasting and boiling the same meat for a single meal, and he regarded as an abomination food which had been steeped in the vapours of the cookhouse and had had many different concoctions rubbed over it by a skilled chef. Not so Ingiald; he jettisoned the patterns of his ancestors and indulged in the alteration of table ceremonies more freely than hereditary practice allowed. After he had dabbled in Teuton fashions, he felt no shame in submitting to their unmasculine frivolities. Not a few epicurean nourishments poured from that drain down the throats of our countrymen. From them originated richer courses, more highly equipped kitchens, the contemptible labours of cooks, a variety of unsavoury sausages; from them we travelled away from our fathers’ usage and adopted a more dissolute form of dress. Our land, which had nurtured what you might call a natural continence, now demanded its neighbours’ luxury. With its lure it won Ingiald, who thought it no blushing matter to repay wrongs with favours, nor considered his father’s pitiful murder with any sigh of bitterness. Because the queen believed the old man’s wrath could be best dispelled with gifts and, so that she should not depart without satisfying her purpose, she drew from her own head a beautifully made circlet and placed it in his lap as he was dining; because she could not blunt his valour she wished to buy his goodwill. But her offence still rankled with Starkath, who, considering more disdain than respect lay in the gift, threw the offering back in her face; he acted wisely, for he knew it was indecorous for a man to put a woman’s headband on his locks and therefore had no desire to lay this unwonted article of effeminate adornment on a head marked with scars and accustomed to helmets. So, one affront requited the other; he exchanged his scorn for her rejection of him and, in avenging the disgrace, behaved with almost as much dignity as when he suffered it. In his devotion to Frothi the veteran warrior’s soul had been fastened with the inseparable hooks of affection, drawn as he had been by so many fine rewards from his lord’s magnanimity; no wheedling courtesy was going to entice him to give up his designed revenge; he must strive to show the gratitude he owed for the king’s liberality even after his death and make sure he paid reciprocal kindness to the departed, whose most loving spirit and unstinted friendship he had enjoyed during his lifetime. Thus he carried a mournful picture of Frothi’s assassination deep within his breast, nor could he have plucked his reverence for that famous leader from the inmost recesses of his heart; he therefore did not hesitate to put the claim of their old intimacy before any present benefit. But recollection of the queen’s earlier reproach meant that her subsequent compliance held no charm for him; he could not forget the shame of wounded self-respect. Visions of wrongs or kindnesses are liable to stick more tenaciously in stalwart than in cowardly minds. He was not used to the habits of people who associate with friends while their lives prosper and desert them in their distress, those who have less regard for affection than fortune, with their own advantages closer to heart than fellow-feeling. Bent on her scheme, the lady saw that even her present could not draw any festive merriment from the old man; consequently she became even more affable in her attempts to coax him and increased the honour to her guest by deliberately instructing a flautist to play; the music was provided to sway his continued resentment, since she wished to break the strength of his natural harshness with its ingenious strains. But the allurements of wind or strings harboured little power to weaken the man’s stubbornness. The listener recognized that the consideration shown him savoured more of pretence than any love towards him. So the player was deceived in his expectations, for it was like serenading a statue instead of a human being; he learnt that entertainers’ tricks were useless for shaking such a heavy sternness; it was impossible to undermine such massive determination with idle breath from your mouth. Starkath’s features were set in obstinate displeasure and there was not the slightest sign of his being any more subdued than usual.
Because of his vows he must remain inflexible and be appeased neither by the flute’s melody nor the comforts of the palate; he believed it vital for him to be devoted to his rigorous, manly purpose, not to delights of the ear or feasting. He therefore hurled a bone, which he had chewed bare of meat, at the face of the bobbing musician and made his puffed cheeks collapse as the air rushed out violently. The action told them how his dour nature sickened at histrionic noises. For his ears were stopped by anger and were open to no pleasurable accomplishments. He repaid this odious employment with an ugly reward, fitting enough for a performer. This fine judge of deserts bequeathed the reward of a bone flute to the flautist and gave him hard wages for his delicate service. No one could tell whether the musician played or wept more tunefully; his anguished flood of tears proved how little manliness lies in pampered bosoms. This creature who had surrendered himself totally to enjoyments had never learnt how to brave an assault of misfortune. The attack foreshadowed the disastrous outcome of the banquet. Starkath’s soul, cherishing its grimness, rightly fixed itself on vengeance with unflinching severity; since he loathed a musical instrument as much as others found it agreeable, he compensated for the unwelcome entertainment with his insulting fling of the bone and thus admitted that he owed stronger allegiance to the noble ashes of his powerful friend than towards his corrupt and objectionable ward. Then, as a further flout to the player, he composed the song soon to be quoted. The queen was dumbfounded at the valour she could not sap, so that her ineffectual attempts to bestow favour on him ended in admiration. After Starkath had seen the men who had struck down Frothi living in the king’s highest esteem, he betrayed in his wild stare the vast rage this engendered and disclosed his inward feelings by facial expression; the unmasked savagery of his glances bore witness to the secret tempest within his heart. At length, when Ingiald tried to cajole him with royal dishes, he pushed them away, content with cheap, humble provision, for his stomach quite turned at imported relishes and, being accustomed to a plain diet, he would not caress his taste buds with piquant flavours. Asked why he had refused with so stormy a brow to accept the sovereign’s generosity, he declared that he had come to Denmark to find Frothi’s son, not some character who crammed his gluttonous maw with a surfeit of fancy picnics. The king’s addiction to Teuton extravagance had driven him to provide meats roasted afresh, though they had been adequately boiled already, purely to glut his gourmet’s belly. After this he could not leave Ingiald’s conduct uncriticized; with extreme acrimony he heaped censure on his head, condemning him for his irresponsibility: with mouth agape after an orgy of stuffing himself Ingiald would emit in crude belches the fumes from his last bout of gorging; aping Saxon voluptuousness he had wandered far from sobriety in his gross excesses, so devoid of manhood that he caught not the faintest shadow of it. Besides this, Starkath reminded him that, worst of all, he had touched the supreme height of infamy by neglecting to avenge his father, even when he was at the age of first military service; disregarding the law of nature he had lavished kindness and attention on the butchers who had shed his sire’s blood, welcomed those scoundrels with fondest affection, and not only allowed to go scot-free men whom he should have fiercely punished, but these knaves he should have executed he had judged worthy to be honoured at his home and table. Starkath is said to have continued with this song: ‘Let weakling youth yield to old age and reverence an elder’s numerous years; let none reproach his long span of seasons when the man is courageous. Although an ancient’s hairs grow white, his valour persists unaltered, nor can sliding Time calumniate his virile heart. An offensive guest, who taints his show of goodness with vice, a slave to his gullet, asking nothing but his daily fodder, elbows me away.
When I was known as Frothi’s companion, I always sat in the midst of his soldiers high up the hall, first among jarls I took my repasts. The fortune of that nobler age has changed; I am locked in a crevice, like a fish that has swum winding away to seek a recess, hidden under waves. Wont in an earlier generation to recline on a handsomely cushioned couch, I am crushed now amongst the riff-raff, driven from the packed hall. I might have been thrust from the doors backward, had not my side rebounded from the wall and the beam in my path stopped them from pushing me to an easy departure. I’m baited by the titters of this courtly throng, denied the welcome a stranger deserves, rent with their thorny wit and gnawed by presumptuous gibing. What news whirls about on many tongues, what is the course of events, your country’s condition? As a newcomer I should love to know what happens in your province. And why, Ingiald, submerged in sin, do you hesitate to revenge your father? You can’t view your noble parent’s death with equanimity? Why, you sluggard, do you worship feasting, softer than harlots deprave your belly? Does vengeance for your slaughtered father mean so little to you? . When last I left you, Frothi, I learnt with divining mind that you would surely meet your doom from enemy swords, mightiest of monarchs! And when as a traveller I trod a long country road, a prophetic groan seized my heart, predicting that I should henceforth see you no more. What misery, that I should then be so far distant, assailing the remotest peoples on earth, when the king’s throat was craftily sought by his treacherous guest. Otherwise I should have avenged my lord, or partnered his suffering, accompanied his fate, rejoicing to follow my blessed ruler to a similar death. I haven’t come to gladden my gullet with banquets, nor coddle my flesh nor pursue the joys of a rotund paunch, but shall strive to smite such corruption. During the past, illustrious kings have never placed me amidst the rabble, but allowed me to occupy one of the high seats among my acquaintance. When I returned from Sweden traversing extensive tracts, I expected rewards if only I could meet again and delight in my dear Frothi’s offspring. But seeking a worthy man, I found a gluttonous king devoted to vice and voracity, whose vile pleasure-seeking has turned his bias to ungoverned licence. Halfdan’s statement was clearly valid when he prophesied we should shortly see, begotten of a wise father, a son totally brainless. However degenerate the heir may be reckoned, I shan’t permit the riches of mighty Frothi to benefit strangers, or lie open to theft.’ At these words the trembling queen removed from her head the band which, in female fashion, happened to adorn her hair and offered it as a present to the enraged old man in an effort to avert his spleen. Starkath, disgusted, flung it insultingly back in her face and once more sang in a loud voice: ‘Please take away that womanish gift, replace that turban on your head. A hero never donned chaplets suited only to love-making. It’s quite grotesque for men of battle to bind their locks with twining gold. That style better suits a bunch of soft weaklings. Give this offering to your spouse, who loves debauchery and lusts as his fingers turn the rump of a capon toasted brown to pick its guts. The wife of Ingiald, skittish and wanton, joys to practise Teuton rites, devises orgies and prepares adulterated foods. She titillates the palate with new menus, chases a flavour unheard-of and sensual, yearns to cumber each table with courses ever more gorgeous. She dispenses bowls of wine to her husband, planning all with eager provision, and assigns dishes, once-cooked, to be roasted in a second oven. A pert, precocious whore, she feeds her pig of a mate and, bold with her buttocks, she delights to receive his thrusting penis in criminal lust. She seethes and bakes and roasts again, devising a feast of spendthrift excess, a loathsome female, heedless of decency, priestess of vice. This insolent, haughty, sexual soldier, avid for dainties, renounces customs of proper restraint and exercises her arts of gastronomy. Hotly she seeks to insert in her belly puréed turnip from a smooth tureen, pancakes steeped in delicate syrup, and rows of shellfish. io. I never recall the great Frothi digging his right hand inside a fowl, tearing at the arse of a roast chicken with crooked thumb. What previous king was ever such a gourmand as to rummage in unclean, rotten entrails, scoop and claw with his fist at a bird’s filthy bum? Valiant men eat raw rations; no need of sumptuous spreads, I think, for stout-hearted bosoms which meditate the practice of war. You might more fittingly sink your teeth in your bristly beard, bite and rend it, than greedily drain that bowl of cream with your wide-open mouth. We shunned the taint of a smart cookshop, staying our appetites with rancid fare. Few were delighted in times gone by with hot sauces. A plate of ram’s and swine’s flesh was provided, without any taste of herbs; through sparing habits no man was defiled by immoderation. You who are licking the milky fat, I beg you, don a manly spirit; remember Frothi and revenge your father’s death! The worthless, quaking heart shall perish; it shall not ward off or escape the lash of Fate, though it hides in a dell or crouches in shadowy caves. Once I was one of eleven nobles, devoted liegemen of royal Haki, when Begath sat at meals above Belgi in order of precedence. We allowed ourselves a shrivelled ham to take the keen edge off our hunger; to tame the fire in the stomach a hard crust was provided. Nobody looked for steaming tit-bits, but each would turn to commonplace foods; only simple preparations were needed to dine the powerful. The people shunned foreign delicatessen, the greatest craved for no feasts, and the king himself remembered to lead a temperate life, spending little. He despised the look of spicy mead, drank malt-brewed ale with his friends, nor hesitated to serve uncooked provisions, since he loathed roasted meats. His table was always laid modestly, its only luxury a slender salt-cellar, so that tested tradition should no way be altered by imported fashions. At one time no one decked the board with flagons and wine bowls. The steward filled a cup from the barrel; there was no abundance of decorated pottery. None who revered generations past placed polished jars beside the tankards, nor were foodstuffs once piled on a platter by a spruced-up flunkey. No vain host would embellish his supper with small shell-shaped dishes or smooth ladles; this shameful parade of modern manners has ousted everything. What man could ever permit the killing of his parent to be bought off by taking bribes, ask from a foe payment to atone for a murdered father? Would any sturdy, prosperous successor let such creatures jostle his side, allow this despicable bargain to drain all his manly vigour? Thus, when the glories of kings are sung and generals’ triumphs are hymned by the poets, I shroud my blushing face in my mantle, sick at heart. Look, since you’ve won no resplendent victories, nothing to deserve the historian’s pen, no heir of Frothi can have his name read among the distinguished. Why do you tear me apart with your wicked eyes, who are known to honour your father’s slayers and revenge him only with rolls and lukewarm soup? When avengers of criminality are praised, to quell the shame in your impious breast you’ll fervently wish to be deprived of your ready power of hearing. Often another’s virtue’s been able to rend a heart aware of its guilt, and malignant feelings in the soul are suppressed by a good man’s fame. Although you make for the East, or withdraw to dwell in Western lands, or are driven thence to seek a territory of the earth near the equator, or visit the ice-bound climes above which the pole of heaven stands looking down on the neighbouring Bears and rapidly spins the celestial sphere, far and wide disgrace will dog your heels, and mortification suffuse your face, when mighty kings assemble to sport themselves. Awaited by everlasting dishonour, you cannot appear in the midst of illustrious ranks, but will pass your days rejected in every region. The Fates gave a child to Frothi, brought forth to the world when divinities looked askance, one whose desires were enthralled by crime and sordid lust. Much as a squalid cavity is built in a ship, to which the foul bilge water can drain, so a flood of viciousness poured into Ingiald. Fearing widespread infamy, you’ll squeeze yourself into a corner of your country, listless in your vile den, not to be viewed by honourable companies. Then you will shake your beard at perverse Fortune, hampered by a tormenting harem of mistresses, while a drab singes your ear with her nagging cries.
As long as chill terror retards your mind and you fear to become your sire’s avenger, you are plainly degenerate, nothing more than a slave in your habits. You can be crushed with scant preparation, as when one seizes and slaughters a kid, or butchers a tender lamb by slitting its throat with a knife. Look, the inheritor of Denmark after you will be the despot Sverting’s son there, whose slothful sister you maintain in unseemly wedlock. While you delight to honour a bride weighed down with jewels, clad in glittering gold, I’m scorched with vexation and shame, lamenting the degradation. As furious pleasure catapults you along, my distressed thoughts recall the shape of a former time and tell me here is much matter for grief. The crime of your foes, whom you now adore, I rate very differently, since the face of this age is offensive to someone who knows how it once was. O Frothi, if only I could see those men guilty of your murder brought to due justice, I’d yearn for no more complete gratification.’ By his instigation Starkath prevailed so much that he struck out from the king’s torpid, paralysed mind with the flintstone of his reprimand a blazing fire of resolution. At first Ingiald’s ears remained deaf to the song, but afterwards he was moved by his guardian’s more urgent exhortations and his spirit, late in the day, caught the heat of revenge; he forgot the part of reveller and became an adversary. In the end he leapt from his place and unloosed the avalanche of his fury on the guests; bloodthirsty, ruthless, he bared his sword and levelled its drawn point at the throats of Sverting’s sons, whose palates he had been tickling with culinary delights. Speedily he carved them to pieces and swamped the table ceremonies in blood; he severed the frail bond of their fellowship, exchanged shameful conviviality for unmitigated savagery, and turned from hospitality to hostility, from the most grovelling slave of luxury to the grimmest agent of retribution. Starkath’s energetic speech of inducement had raised a spirit of ardour in the weak, pliant youth and, removing it from its hiding place, so hammered out and refashioned his courage that deserved satisfaction for their deeds was wreaked on the perpetrators of that grievous assassination. The young man’s integrity had been in exile but had certainly not breathed its last; brought to light again with the old man’s support, it had the greater effect because it had been so tardy, all the more spectacular when it replenished the goblets with blood instead of wine. How then can we value this tireless veteran, who had stormed with his eloquent admonitions the vast corruption of the king’s mind and in its place, after bursting through the barriers of immorality, had planted a most effectual seed of valour? Acting in partnership, he assisted the royal arm and not only displayed outstanding bravery himself, but summoned it back where it had been uprooted from another’s bosom. When their work was finished, he began to speak: ‘Farewell, King Ingiald. Your soul, full of passion, has revealed its daring. Now the heart that reigns in your body has given its own sign; a deep determination was not missing from your breast, although you kept quiet until the time came; your probity makes reparation for the harm of delay and a strong fortitude redeems your flaccidity. Come, let’s demolish the rest, so that none escapes the hazard that each has similarly earned. The deed must return upon its author, the mischief recoil and crush its architect. Let the servants lift the dead bodies into a cart, an attendant swiftly drive away these corpses unworthy to receive the final rites or be housed in tombs; no funeral procession or pyre shall confer the sacred honour of a barrow. Strew them over the land to rot and be pecked away by birds, and pollute all the fields with their noxious putrefaction. Be sensible, king, and escape from your barbarous wife, lest the she-wolf bear a litter like herself and from you a beast arise to prey on its father. Say, Rothi, perpetual mocker of cowards, do you think we’ve made to Frothi adequate restitution by paying him seven deaths in revenge for one? See, they’re borne out lifeless who honoured your rule only in show and beneath subservience planned treachery. Yet the hope always lodged in my mind that offspring will ever reflect their parents’ nobility, pursuing the role in life their blood has inherited. Now therefore, Ingiald, more than in times gone by you deserve to be named lord of Lejre and Denmark. When, King Haki, I was a young, beardless soldier following your leadership, I hated extravagance and natures that were wanton, for I worshipped nothing but warfare. Exercising mind and body, I banished everything godless from my heart, shunned delights of the belly and embraced valour with my soul; those whose profession was arms once wore only rough-and-ready clothing; rest was rare, sleep short; toil sent leisure to the winds and time slipped by with little cost; there were none, as now, in whom the insatiate appetite of a blind maw obscured the light of reason. One of these, dressed in elaborate mantle, delicately turns his steed, unknots his spreading hair, and allows his unbraided tresses to float. He often joys to hold forth at assemblies and covets his pittance, fondly solacing a sluggish life by handling entrusted commissions with venal tongue. He infringes laws by violence, assaults men’s rights with the sword, tramples down innocents, feeds on debt, loves greed and lechery, sneers with his biting laugh at fellowship, and picks out whores as a hoe weeds grass. Faint-hearts perish, though battlefields in peacetime are silent. Though he lies at the heart of a vale, no vault will protect one who fears Fate. Eventual doom snatches everyone alive; there is no hole for evading death. But after shaking the whole world with defeats, shall I, unwounded, meet a peaceful end through the pressure of illness and be raised up to the stars?’
 BOOK SEVEN
 There is ancient but reliable evidence that of Ingiald’s four sons three were destroyed in war and only Olaf survived to reign after his father; some offer the doubtful opinion that he was the child of Ingiald’s sister. Posterity has received little accurate information of his doings, covered as they are with the cobwebs of antiquity, and tradition merely claims to have preserved his last wise piece of advice. When he was finally being squeezed in death’s grip, he wished to make provision for his sons, Frothi and Harald; he therefore ordered one of them to exert royal dominion over the land, the other over the waters, in such a way that neither should have lasting use of these separate powers but share them in annual rotation. So, fair conditions of rule were arranged between them, but Frothi, the first to have control of the seas, came off in disgrace through frequent defeats while he was pirating. The reason for his misfortune was that his sailors were newly married and preferred the home-based pleasures of matrimony to strenuous warring abroad . After a lapse of time Harald, the younger, obtained sway over the ocean and chose marines who were bachelors, for he was frightened of ending in disappointment like his brother. His fortunes corresponded to the men he had enlisted and he played the pirate as conspicuously as his brother had been inconspicuous. This bred jealousy in Frothi, all the more so as their wives, Ulfhild and Signe, daughters of the Swedish king Sigvarth and Karl, governor of Götaland, respectively, were forever wrangling over precedence and so put paid to the collaboration of their husbands in this alternating existence. In the end Harald and Frothi’s family association was ripped apart and they divided the property they held in common, surrendering the claims of brotherly affection to female squabbles and bickering. Frothi, in the belief that he was becoming disfigured by his brother’s renown and that scorn was being heaped upon him, gave a member of his household instructions to kill Harald by stealth, for he could see that, although he outstripped him in years, he was surpassed in prowess by his brother. Immediately this was accomplished, he made sure that the tool of his knavery was quietly murdered, in case his accomplice should reveal the felony. Afterwards, wishing to produce testimony of his innocence and escape the stigma of crime, he ordered a full inquiry into the unexpected calamity that had removed his kinsman. Yet all these artifices could not prevent him from being condemned by the people’s unspoken conjectures. When, later, he asked Karl who had killed Harald, the other replied that it was disingenuous of him to put a question about something he knew very well. This remark cost him his life, since Frothi concluded that Karl was making a veiled accusation of fratricide. After this their uncle sought to eliminate Harald and Halfdan, Harald’s sons by Signe, the daughter of Karl; but their guardians devised a clever plan to save their wards. They cut off the claws of wolves and tied them to the soles of the boys’ feet, so that by roving out frequently they scored the mud near their home and the snow lying on the ground, to make it look as if wild animals had been patrolling there. Next the children of some slave women were cruelly killed, their bodies dismembered and the mangled limbs scattered over a wide area. When the youths were looked for but not found, people discovered the strewn parts, pointed to the beasts’ tracks and noted how the earth was smeared with blood. It was supposed that the boys had been devoured by ravenous wolves and hardly anyone allowed himself to doubt so clear a proof that they had been rent to pieces. This visual evidence was the youngsters’ preservation. Shortly they were confined by their guardians within a hollow oak and, to prevent any sign of their being alive, food was for a long time brought to them under the pretence that they were dogs; they were even given the names of hounds so that no rumour should spread about their being in hiding . Belief in their deaths was rejected solely by Frothi, who set out to find their place of concealment through a woman with second sight. The power of her incantations was such that she could apparently summon to her hands something in the distance, visible to her alone, however tightly it was tied up with knots. She told Frothi that a man called Regner had been bringing them up under cover and to maintain secrecy had given them dogs’ names. When the youths perceived that they were being drawn out of their recess by the weird potency of the enchantress’s spells and pulled under her very gaze, in an effort not to be betrayed by such dominant, horrifying compulsion they dashed into her lap a shower of gold which they had had from their protectors. As soon as she had received the bribe, pretending to fall ill suddenly she collapsed like one lifeless. When her servants enquired the reason for her fainting so unexpectedly, she informed them that the whereabouts of Harald’s sons’ refuge were unfathomable, for they had an extraordinary resistance to the workings of her most formidable magic. Satisfied with a slight gift, she did not bother to wait for a larger one from the king . Later, when Regner discovered that the people’s tongues ran rife with suppositions about himself and his wards, he transported them both into Funen. But he was captured by Frothi, and, after having admitted being the youths’ custodian, begged the king to spare the lads he had made fatherless and not imagine that flinging himself into a double murder constituted happiness. By his words he changed Frothi’s barbarity to penitence; he also promised that he would report to the king any signs of the pair trying to stir rebellion in Denmark. So his wards gained their safety, while Regner lived for many years without anxiety. The boys grew to manhood and returned to Zealand, urged by friends to avenge their father; they vowed that they and their uncle should not both live out the year. Having discovered this, Regner was prompted by recollection of his pledge to seek the palace after dark and declare that he had come in secret to disclose to Frothi something he had promised. He did not, however, allow them to rouse the sleeping monarch, as it had been Frothi’s habit to execute anyone who disturbed him in the night. It was once considered no small crime to cause unwelcome interruption to the royal slumbers. Next morning the sentries told Frothi of the visit, and when he realized that Regner had brought news of a plot he gathered his soldiers together in a decision to forestall treason by ruthless measures. The only salvation for Harald’s sons was to simulate madness. As soon as they perceived the surprise attack they began to behave like lunatics, frenzy-driven.
As Frothi imagined they were demented, he forsook his intention, believing it unjustifiable to put men to the sword when they appeared to be turning their swords on themselves. The next night they destroyed him by fire, a fit penalty for a fratricide. They had assailed the palace and first crushed the queen beneath a pile of stones, then set the dwelling alight so that Frothi was forced to crawl into a narrow grotto, which had been hewn out in the past, and up its dark warren of tunnels. While he was trapped in this hideout, he perished, asphyxiated by the smoke and heat. After Frothi’s extinction, Halfdan reigned over the country for about three years until he handed over his duties of rule to a regent, his brother Harald, and went off in a pugnacious spirit of piracy to ravage Oland and those bordering islands which are separated from the edge of Sweden by a winding sound. This expedition ended when he beached his ships there for the winter and surrounded them with a palisade. Next he laid hands on Sweden and slew its king in the field. Afterwards Halfdan was about to do battle with the king’s nephew Erik, son of his own uncle Frothi, when he learnt that Erik’s champion Håkon had the knack of blunting swords by witchcraft; he therefore fitted iron studs to a gigantic club and made it into a battering instrument, with the idea that its wooden strength would prevail against the power of sorcery. Then, overtopping the rest in the exceptional quality of his courage, he veiled his head with his helmet and, right in the midst of the enemy’s fiercest onrush, without any screen for himself, poised and then swung his oak cudgel with both hands against the opposing rampart of shields. However robust the obstruction, it was smashed to smithereens at the impact of his massive bludgeon. Finally, as the champion sped through the fray to meet him, he was demolished when Halfdan’s weapon crashed furiously down on him. Even so, Halfdan was defeated and had to slip away into Hålsingland, where he went to demand attention for his injured body from one of the old Harald’s former soldiers, Vitolf. The latter, who had spent most of his life under canvas, had eventually retired to this lonely province after his leader’s sad end and there relaxed his wonted martial zeal to live as a peasant. Since his foes had often pursued him with their missiles, he had gathered no mean skill in medicine through continually having to doctor his own wounds. If anyone tried to wheedle help out of him, he would secretly administer something to hurt rather than heal the man, reckoning it much more creditable to extract favours by threat than cajolery. When Erik’s militia, bent on seizing Halfdan, menaced Vitolf’s home, he robbed them of their vision so that they could neither catch a glimpse of the nearby building nor trace its position with any certainty. A mist of delusion had so dulled their eyesight. After Halfdan with his assistance had regained complete strength, he summoned Thori, a champion of remarkable talents, and declared war on Erik. Observing that the troops Erik had led out to confront him outnumbered his own men, he held back an unobserved part of his force with orders to go into hiding among the bushes by the roadside, so that they could spring an ambush and wipe out their foes as they were marching along a rather narrow stretch of the track. But Erik saw this detachment in time, and, after he had explored the possibilities of advancing, decided he had better retreat; he would rather not be pressed hard by the wily enemy as he wound his intended way through the precipitous mountains. The two sides consequently pitted their strengths against one another in a valley hemmed round by steep heights. During the fight Halfdan observed his line giving way and therefore clambered with Thori to the top of a cliff strewn with rocks; they prized up these boulders, rolled them down on the enemy drawn up on the slopes below and with their falling weight crushed their opponents’ battle line. Ultimately Halfdan’s stones regained the victory he had lost with conventional weapons. For this valorous feat he was called Biargramm, a name which appears to be a compound meaning ‘wildness of the mountains’. For this reason he began to be held in such esteem by the Swedes that he was believed to be the son of great Thor, accorded divine honours by the people and judged worthy of public libations. The minds of conquered individuals find it hard to rest easy and the impudence of the defeated always struggles against prohibition; so Erik, in a bid to repair the losses incurred by his flight, attacked the regions subject to Halfdan. Even Denmark was not to escape this kind of violence, for he considered it right and proper to molest the homeland of the man who had driven him from his own. By preferring to inflict damage rather than fend it off, he liberated Sweden from a hostile army. When Halfdan learnt that his brother Harald had been worsted by him in three battles and killed in a fourth, afraid of losing his realm he was forced to abandon Swedish territory and seek his own land once more. Though Erik had deserted his domain of Sweden somewhat readily, he regained it just as quickly. However, if Fortune had wished to teach him how to retain as well as recover his kingdom, she would certainly not have delivered him into Halfdan’s hands. This was the way he was captured. Returning to Sweden, Halfdan cunningly concealed his fleet and sailed on to encounter Erik with only two ships. He was attacked by ten enemy vessels, but after some changeable, tortuous navigation slipped back to his own hidden forces. His adversary chased him rather too far and the Danish navy emerged into the open sea. So Erik was surrounded; but he rejected the offer of being spared under conditions of servitude, for he could not bear to set life before liberty; he preferred death to submission, not appearing so greedy for existence that he would turn from free man to slave, or, in a new role, dance attendance on one whom Fortune had recently made his equal. Bravery does not know how to buy its safety at the price of disgrace. He was therefore removed in fetters to a neighbourhood where wild beasts roamed to suffer a death unsuitable for so majestic a spirit. Halfdan, having grasped control of two dominions, decked his popular fame with a triple reputation. He composed poetry in the native manner fluently and eloquently, and was no less of a cynosure for his prowess as a combatant than for his sovereignty. Hearing that two vigorous and able pirates, Toki and Anund, were a menace to surrounding districts, he assailed and disposed of them in a sea fight. In times past people believed that the supreme goal was a celebrity achieved not by dazzling riches but by hard activity in war. Illustrious men once made it their concern to pick quarrels, start up old feuds, loathe ease, choose soldiering in preference to peace, be evaluated by courage rather than property, and take their greatest delight in battles, their least in banqueting. Halfdan was not left long without a rival. There was a man of very high rank called Sigvald, who, before a Swedish assembly, recalled with tears in his eyes the deaths of Frothi and his queen, and generated such hatred for Halfdan in nearly every breast that by a majority vote they granted him permission to rebel. Not satisfied with vocal support alone, he courted popularity and so seized on the people’s hearts that almost every man’s hand was drawn to plant the royal crown on his head. He had seven sons, skilled in the practice of sorcery; often, impelled by sudden strong fits of madness they would bellow wildly, take bites at their shields, swallow hot coals and walk through any bonfire; nothing else could restrain their frenzied bouts but rigorous chains or the slaughter of human victims. It was either their savage natures or a demonic fury that instilled into them such insanity. As soon as he heard of this revolt, Halfdan, there and then in the middle of a pirating expedition, told his soldiers to arm themselves for battle; though they had hitherto savaged foreigners, they must now drive their swords into the bowels of their own countrymen; whereas they were usually bent on extending the empire, they must now avert its unlawful theft. Even as Halfdan was bearing down on him, Sigvald sent envoys with these instructions: if his deeds matched his name and he was in fact as great as his renown, he would consent to fight alone against Sigvald and his sons and free his people from danger by exposing himself. When Halfdan answered that a just form of combat ought not to involve more than two opponents, Sigvald said it didn’t surprise him that a childless bachelor declined contests where they were offered him, for his lukewarm character had struck a disgraceful chill into his body and soul. One couldn’t distinguish children from their begetter, since at birth they drew from their father a shared origin. For this reason he and his sons must be considered as one man on whom Nature in a way had bestowed a single body. Halfdan writhed with shame at the insult and began to respond to the challenge, prepared to compensate with mighty feats of valour for such a sneering disparagement of his celibacy. As it happened, he was walking through a tract of shady woodland when he tore up by its roots an oak which blocked his path, and by simply stripping off its branches shaped it into a hefty cudgel. Armed with this weapon he composed a short song: ‘See! This rough block, which I bear with head held high, to other heads will bring gashes and death. Never a more fearful threat shall scourge the Göta people than this leafy weapon of wood. It will split the haughty sinews of their bulging necks, crush their hollow temples with its timber bulk. This club will tame our country’s raging madness, and none shall be more lethal to the Swedes. Breaking bones, dashing through men’s mangled limbs, its torn-off stump will thrash their wicked backs, pound the homes of our kin, spill our citizens’ blood, be a pestilent blight on our land.’ These lines heralded his attack on Sigvald and his seven sons; their vigorous ardour was useless against the extraordinary mass of his truncheon, which consigned them to oblivion. n . At that time a certain Harthben, who came from Hålsingland, imagined it a glorious achievement to kidnap and ravish princesses and would slay any man who hindered him from wreaking his lusts; because he preferred his brides aristocratic, not humble, he calculated that the more high-ranking the women he could take to bed and violate, the greater credit it was to him. Anyone who had the presumption to measure his courage against Harthben’s did not escape reprisal. His towering frame stretched to a height of nine cubits. As messmates he had twelve champions, whose task, whenever he was seized by the fury which promised a brawl, was to repel the attack of rising frenzy by binding him. When Harthben and his champions bade Halfdan take them on individually, he not only undertook the contest, but promised them in a speech of immense self-confidence that he would win. As soon as he heard these words, Harthben, possessed by immediate transports of rage, took hard bites out of the rim of his shield, snatched fiery coals with his mouth and gulped them down into his entrails without a qualm, ran the gauntlet of crackling flames and finally went completely and savagely berserk, even turning his furious sword-arm against the vitals of six of his champions. Whether thirst for battle or natural ferocity brought on this madness is uncertain. With the remainder of his band of thugs he then went for Halfdan. The latter smashed him down with the extraordinary giant hammer and deprived him of life and victory; thus he recompensed Halfdan, whom he had challenged, and the kings whose daughters had been raped. Now Fortune was in the habit of offering Halfdan unexpected motives for battle, as though in testing his strength she were never satisfied; so it happened that Egther the Finn was harassing the Swedes in a pirate raid. Halfdan, having discovered that Egther had three ships, assaulted him with the same number, but, as he could not defeat him before night concluded their skirmish, challenged him to a duel the next day and overthrew him. After this he learnt that Grimi, a champion of amazing power, had demanded Thorhild, daughter of Prince Hathar, under threat of combat; her father had proclaimed that whoever removed Grimi should win his daughter, and, though Halfdan had reached old age a bachelor, he was stirred by the prince’s promise as much as the fighting-man’s impudence and journeyed to Norway. On entering the country he made all his features unrecognizable by camouflaging his face with dirt; once he reached the place appointed for battle, he was the first to draw his sword. Realizing that it had grown blunt before his enemy’s gaze, he cast it to the ground, drew another from its scabbard and coming near to Grimi, cut through the meshes at the edge of the mail protecting his chest and severed the bottom rim of his shield. Grimi, amazed at his action, said, ‘I can’t remember an old fellow fighting more spiritedly’, and immediately, unsheathing his blade, he sliced and shattered the shield Halfdan had thrust forward. But as his right hand lingered over the stroke, Halfdan lost no time; he met it swiftly with his own sword and took it off. Nevertheless Grimi transferred his weapon to his left hand and pierced his assailant’s thigh, taking vengeance for his maimed body with a paltry wound. The victorious Halfdan gave his vanquished foe the opportunity of ransoming the little life he had left, for he did not wish to be seen odiously robbing a powerless, mutilated man of his miserable remnants of existence. This gesture showed his conduct almost as praiseworthy in sparing as in overcoming his enemy. For the prize of his conquest he gained Thorhild as his wife; she bore him a son, Asmund, from whom the Norwegian kings are proud to be descended, retracing their established line of succession back to Halfdan. Later Ebbi, a pirate of peasant stock, was moved by assurance of his own prowess to aspire to an illustrious marriage and became the suitor of Sigrith, the daughter of Ungvin, king of Götaland; on top of this he demanded half the kingdom as dowry; when Halfdan was consulted on whether the match should be countenanced, he advised Ungvin to give a feigned consent and he himself would then put a stop to the match. Halfdan also asked to be allotted a place among the seated guests. As Ungvin approved of his scheme, Halfdan destroyed all appearance of his kingly grandeur by assuming a hideous disguise and, coming upon the wedding at night, spread fear when all who met him were thunderstruck at the arrival of this man of superhuman size. He shortly entered the palace, gazed round at everyone and asked who it was that occupied the place next to the king. As soon as Ebbi answered that he was sitting side by side with his future father-in-law, Halfdan demanded in tones of utmost rage what raving madness had brought him to such a pitch of insolence, presuming to mingle his own vile, contemptible species with the splendour of outstanding nobility, daring to lay serf’s hands on a royal personage, and, not even satisfied with this ambition, trying to seize partnership in another’s realm. He then challenged him to a sword fight, declaring that the other would have to win before he had his wishes. Ebbi replied that night combats were for monsters, daylight suited human beings; so that he could not offer the time as an excuse for refusing battle, Halfdan pointed out that the brightness of the moon turned night into day. Thus Ebbi was forced to contend with him, the banqueting hall became an arena, and by laying the pirate in the dust Halfdan changed the wedding to a funeral. After some years had elapsed, he died in his own country and because he had had no children, had bequeathed his royal wealth to Ungvin and appointed him his successor to the throne. Ungvin was afterwards crushed in war by Regnvald, his rival, but left a son, Sigvald. This man’s daughter, Sigrith, was so conspicuously modest that when a large crowd of suitors flocked to her because of her beautiful appearance, it seems she could not be induced to look upon any of them. Confident of her self-restraint, she begged her father to grant her as husband the man who could sweetly coax her into gazing back at him. At one time our well-controlled young women severely disciplined the sauciness of the eye, so that their hearts’ purity might not be corrupted by too much freedom of looking, and aimed to display their chaste souls through a retiring expression. Then a certain Ottar, Ebbi’s son, fired perhaps by his great achievements, or perhaps sure of his charm and eloquence, glowed with an unrelenting passion to woo the girl. Though he strove to bend her glance with all his natural powers, no art whatsoever would raise her downcast regard and he went away marvelling at the unyielding severity he could not overcome.
There was a giant who had the same intentions, but when he discovered his attempts equally ineffective he bribed a woman to become the maiden’s attendant for a period and secure her friendship; eventually she found a cunning excuse for quitting the palace and inveigled Sigrith far from her father’s house; soon after, the giant rushed upon her and carried her off to his narrow den on a mountain ledge. Some are of the opinion that he assumed female shape, whereby he craftily lured the girl away from home and finished off as her kidnapper. When Ottar learnt about this, he ransacked the depths of the mountain in order to track down the girl, discovered her, slew the giant, and led her away with him. The huge creature in his attentions had bound back her hair into a tight knot so that the bunch of curls was held in a twisted mass, a tangled cluster which no one could easily unloose except with a knife. Again using various incentives Ottar attempted to make the girl look at him, but when he had long tried to attract her drooping eyes and nothing happened to accord with his wishes, he abandoned his scheme. He could not bring himself to use the girl lustfully, for he was unwilling to stain with disreputable intercourse a daughter of noble parentage. After she had hurried blindly for a long while through the twisting paths of the wilderness, she chanced to arrive at the hut of an enormous woman of the woods. Assigned the task of grazing her herd of she-goats, Sigrith once more enlisted Ottar’s help to become free, whereupon he assailed her with these words: ‘Don’t you prefer to take my advice, join in a union to match my desires rather than stay with this drove and tend rank-smelling kids? Rebuff the hand of your evil mistress, take to your heels from this savage keeper, come back with me to the friendly ships and live in freedom! Abandon the animals in your charge, refuse to drive these goats, and return as the partner of my bed, a prize to suit my yearnings! As Fve sought you with such eagerness, turn upward your languid eyes, and with an easy movement raise your bashful face just a little! I shall set you again in your father’s home, restore you in happiness to your tender mother, when once you disclose your gaze at my gentle prayers. Because I’ve borne you from the pens of giants more than once, confer the reward in pity for my long-lasting, arduous toils and relax your rigour! Why have you taken to this hare-brained madness, preferring to herd a stranger’s flock and be reckoned among the slaves of ogres instead of arranging a harmonious, sympathetic marriage agreement between the two of us?’. Nonetheless she did not want her chaste and constant mind to waver by staring at the world about her, but continued to preserve the same inflexible habit and kept her eyelids motionless. How demure are we to imagine the women of that age must have been, who could not be prompted to give a mere flicker of the eyes under the strongest provocations of their admirers? When Ottar therefore was unable to incite the girl to look at him even after earning it with a double service, weary with humiliation and grief he went back to his fleet. After Sigrith had ranged far and wide as before over the rocky landscape, she stumbled in her wanderings on Ebbi’s house, where, ashamed of her threadbare, needy condition, she made out that she was the child of paupers. Although her face was spread with pallor and she was clad in a meagre cloak, Ottar’s mother observed that she came of high pedigree and, having seated her in a place of honour, kept the girl with her, treating her with respectful courtesy. The girl’s beauty revealed her nobility and her birth stood out from her tell-tale features. On seeing her, Ottar asked why she buried her face in her robe. As he wished to be more certain of her thoughts, he pretended that she was to become his wife, and as he climbed into bed gave Sigrith the lamp to hold. Since the light was nearly out, she was tormented by the flame creeping close to her skin, yet she gave such a display of endurance that she restrained any movement of her hand, to make believe that she felt no annoyance from the heat. The warmth inside her overcame the temperature outside and the glow of her longing heart checked the scorching of her flesh. Finally, as Ottar told her to take care of her hand, she shyly raised her eyes and turned her gentle gaze to his; straight away the pretended marriage became real and she ascended the nuptial bed as his bride. Later Sigvald took Ottar prisoner, intending to hang him for debauching his daughter; however, Sigrith immediately explained in detail how she had been carried off, which not only brought him into the king’s favour but induced Sigvald to join with Ottar’s sister as his wife. After this a battle was fought in Zealand between Sigvald and Regnvald with troops of chosen worth levied on each side. When they had spent three days slaughtering one another and their charges had secured no definite victory because of the superlative courage shown by both armies, Ottar either became bored with the never-ending struggle or was seized with a desire to win glory; contemptuous of death, he broke through where the enemy were thickest, cut down Regnvald among the bravest ranks of his soldiers, and won the day unexpectedly for the Danes. This fray was marked by the cowardice of the greatest nobles. These military elite became so panic-stricken that the forty most valiant Swedes are said to have turned tail. The chief of these was Starkath, not usually one to be shaken when things grew harsh or highly dangerous; yet some strange dread stole up on him and he chose rather to follow his comrades than scorn their flight. I could imagine his alarm was instilled by divine power in case he should think himself endowed with more than man’s normal ration of fortitude. Human success never knew perfection. All these fugitives later went to fight in company with Haki, prince of buccaneers, as though they had fallen down to him like scraps from the war. The throne was subsequently inherited from Sigvald by his son Sigar; he himself had three sons, Sigvald, Alf, and Alger, and one daughter, Signe. of these Alf, who excelled the others in spiritedness and physique, devoted himself to a pirate’s trade. He had a remarkably beautiful head of hair, locks of such radiance that people thought they shone with silver. The story goes that in the same period Sigvarth, king of Götaland, had two sons, Vemund and Östen, and a daughter Alvild, who almost from her cradle displayed such true modesty that she had her face perpetually veiled by a robe to prevent her fine looks arousing anyone’s passions. Her father kept her apart under very close supervision and gave her two poisonous snakes to rear, intending that these reptiles should act as protectors of her chastity when eventually they had grown to full size. No one could easily pry into her bedroom when entry was blocked by such a dangerous barrier. He also decreed that anyone who tried to get in unsuccessfully should at once be decapitated and have his head impaled on a stake. When fear was applied to young men’s forwardness it checked their heated fancies. Then Alf, Sigar’s son, believing that the more perilous an enterprise the more brilliant it was, declared himself a suitor; he was told to subdue the creatures which kept guard by the girl’s room, for the terms of the decree dictated that only their vanquisher should enjoy her embraces. To aggravate their ferocity more sharply towards him he wrapped his body in a pelt wet with blood. As soon as he approached the confining doors draped in this garment, grasping a bar of red-hot steel in a pair of tongs he thrust it down the viper’s gaping throat and laid it lifeless on the floor. Next, as the other snake swept forward in a rippling glide, he destroyed it by hurling his spear straight between its open fangs. But when he asked for the victor’s earnings according to the words of the agreement, Sigvarth answered that he would only take as his son-in-law the man his daughter had chosen freely and genuinely. As the girl’s mother was the only one to grudge the suitor’s petition, she examined her daughter’s heart in an intimate conversation. When the princess warmly praised her wooer’s handsomeness, the mother abused her bitterly, saying she had lost all sense of shame and been won by baited looks; she had not formed any proper judgement of his virtue, but, gazing with an unprincipled mind, had been tickled by his enticing, flattering appearance. Once Alvild had been prevailed upon to despise the young Dane, she changed into man’s clothing and from being a highly virtuous maiden began to lead the life of a savage pirate. Many girls of the same persuasion had enrolled in her company by the time she chanced to arrive at a spot where a band of pirates was mourning the loss of their leader, who had been killed fighting. Because of her beauty she was elected the pirate chief and performed feats beyond a woman’s courage. Alf undertook many fatiguing voyages in her pursuit until, during winter, he chanced to come across the fleet of the Blakmanni. At that time of year the running waters solidified so that a vast pack of ice gripped their vessels and, however strongly they rowed, they could make no progress. Since the prolonged cold guaranteed the prisoners a fairly safe footing, Alf ordered his men to test the frozen bight of the sea after putting on brogues; if they dispensed with slippery shoes, he said, they could dash over the icy surface with a better balance. As the Blakmanni supposed they had prepared their heels for a speedy flight, they came in to do battle; however, they could only make a lurching advance, for the smoothness beneath their soles gave their feet an unsteady hold. Since the Danes were able to move across the ice-bound deep treading more securely, they crushed their adversaries, who could only stagger along. After this victory they steered towards Finland. It so happened that when they had entered a narrow gulf and a party was sent in to reconnoitre, they discovered that the harbour was occupied by a handful of ships. Alvild had sailed before them with her fleet into the same confined inlet. Immediately she caught sight of unfamiliar craft in the distance, with rapid rowing she shot off to encounter them, judging it wiser to burst on an enemy than lie waiting for him. Though his companions were warning him not to aim at a larger number of vessels with his own, Alf replied how intolerable it would be if anyone reported to Alvild that his purposeful course was upset by a few boats in his path; it would be wrong to let such a petty circumstance smirch the fine record of their enterprises. The Danes were filled with astonishment when they found what graceful, shapely limbed opponents they had. When the sea fight had started, the young man leapt on to Alvild’s prow and made his way up to the stern, slaughtering all who resisted him. His comrade Borkar struck off Alvild’s helmet, but seeing the smoothness of her chin, realized that they ought not to be fighting with weapons but kisses; they should lay down their hard spears and handle their foes more persuasively. Alf was overjoyed when, beyond expectation, he had presented to him the girl he had sought indefatigably over land and sea despite so many perilous obstacles; he laid hands on her more lovingly and compelled her to change back into feminine clothing. Afterwards she had a daughter by him, Gyrith. Borkar married Gro, Alvild’s attendant, who bore him a son called Harald. In case anyone is marvelling that this sex should have sweated in warfare, let me digress briefly to explain certain features of such females’ character and behaviour. There were once women in Denmark who dressed themselves to look like men and spent almost every minute cultivating soldiers’ skills; they did not want to allow the sinews of their valour to lose tautness and be infected by self-indulgence. Loathing a dainty style of living, they would harden body and mind with endurance and toil, rejecting all the fickle pliancy of girls and compelling their womanish natures to act with a virile ruthlessness. They courted military expertise so earnestly that anyone would have guessed they had unsexed themselves. Those especially who had forceful personalities or were tall and elegant tended to embark on this way of life. As if they were forgetful of their true selves they put toughness before allure, aimed at conflicts instead of kisses, tasted blood, not lips, sought the clash of arms rather than the arm’s embrace, fitted to weapons hands which should have been weaving, desired not the couch but the kill, and those they could have appeased with looks they attacked with lances. Now I shall return from this byway to my main narrative. At the beginning of spring Alf and Alger resumed their pirating expeditions; they were navigating various parts of the ocean when they came with their hundred ships on Prince Hamund’s sons, Helvin, Hagbarth, and Hamund. Battle was engaged and only as the darkness of twilight parted their blood-weary hands were the soldiers ordered to keep truce during the night. The next day this was confirmed for good by a mutual oath; so many injuries had been sustained on both sides in the previous day’s fight that there was no possibility of combat being renewed. The participants were driven to make peace when equally matched bravery had exhausted them. During the same period Hildegisl, a man of noble Teuton family, requested the hand of Sigar’s daughter Signe, confident in his handsomeness and rank. His insignificance brought out her utter contempt; to her he seemed spineless and to be building his fortunes on the worth of others. It was his proved reputation for mighty deeds that had specially turned her affections towards Haki. She had a higher regard for the valiant than the feeble and admired decorations for achievement more than a decorative face; all the charms of beauty, she knew, grow cheap when valued against sheer courage, for they cannot balance it in the scales. There are girls who are fascinated more by a lover’s prestige than his appearance, who go by the features of the mind not the countenance, and are kindled to exchange marriage vows only by consideration of a man’s spirit. Now while Hagbarth was on his way to Denmark with Sigar’s sons, unknown to them he managed to talk with their sister and eventually extracted from her a faithful promise to become his mistress secretly. Later, when her maids happened to be comparing the distinguished reputations of noblemen, she put Haki before Hildegisl, stating that in the latter nothing could be found but his figure to recommend hirn, while the flourishing soul of Haki compensated for the blemish on his face. Nor was she content to elevate him with this straightforward compliment, but is said to have sung the following song: ‘This man lacks charm, but shines in the forefront of excellence, his features gauged by their forcefulness. For a lofty spirit redeems a rough appearance and overcomes physical defects. His mien flashes with valour, a face helped by fierceness, honoured for its rigour.
A stern judge of behaviour praises the visage for the mind, not the mind for beauty. Shapeliness does not enhance a man’s value, but daring and renown achieved with arms. Only a fine head boosts the other man, a glowing countenance and lustrous locks. Empty loveliness stales, the deceptive glory of looks is its own ruin. Valour and elegance are governed by different objectives; one lasts, the other perishes. Bloom alone brings corruption; beneath the slipping years it gradually vanishes. Manliness better strengthens the heart, for it does not lapse and fall in a moment. The people’s esteem is duped by the outwardly fair, misses the rule of right. But my judgement gives stronger acclaim to fortitude, spurning a graceful presence.’ Her voice reached the bystanders’ ears, but in such a way that they believed she was praising Hagbarth under the name of Haki. Since Hildegisl was upset to learn of her preference for Hagbarth over himself, he bribed Bolvis, a blind man, to induce the sons of Sigar and those of Hamund to change their fellowship to hatred. There were two of these old men, the other of whom was Bilvis, employed by King Sigar to counsel him in nearly all his affairs. These two had quite contrasting characters; one used to reconcile quarrelling parties, while the other loved to divide close friends by sowing resentment between them and fanning unhealthy jealousies into complete ruptures. First, then, Bolvis disparaged Hamund’s offspring to the sons of Sigar with lies and slanders, maintaining that it was never their custom to observe oaths of brotherhood constantly and peaceably; they could not be held in check by a compact, only by force of arms. So the young men’s alliance broke down and while Hagbarth was far away, Sigar’s sons, Alf and Alger, sprang an assault on Helvin and Hamund and killed them at the harbour they call Hamund’s bay. Afterwards, to avenge his brothers, Hagbarth fell upon them with fresh forces and crushed them in battle. Hildegisl had both buttocks pinned with a spear but got away. The incident provided an opportunity to have a good laugh at the Teutons, for the unseemly injury certainly branded him with disgrace. Later on, as if he had not stricken Sigar’s daughter enough with the slaying of her brothers, Hagbarth dressed himself in woman’s clothing and went back alone to her, relying on the promise she had made him and feeling more secure in her loyalty than alarmed because of the deed he had done. This is the extent to which desire makes light of danger. To advance a plausible reason for his mission he professed to be a fighting woman of Haki’s, coming from him on embassy to Sigar. At night when he retired to bed among the maidservants, and the slaves who were washing and towelling his feet asked why his legs were so hairy and his hands not very soft to the touch, he answered: ‘What wonder if the tender hollow of my foot has hardened or if the hairs stayed long on my shaggy legs, when the sand has so often grated on my soles and brambles have scratched me while I walked? Sometimes I bound through the forest, now race over the main, travel alternately across land and water. Breasts confined under iron mail and often hit by spears or javelins couldn’t grow soft to the touch as with you, who are covered by a mantle or delicate robe. Neither spindle nor baskets of wool have given tasks for my hands, only weapons dripping with slaughter.’ Signe did not hesitate to connive in the pretence and back up his assertions; she replied that it was natural for hands which were used to managing wounds more often than wool, holding fights rather than fleeces, to display a corresponding coarseness; you wouldn’t expect them to be limp with the yielding softness of a girl’s, nor smooth to others’ fingers. They’d been hardened partly by the toils of war, partly by seafaring habits. It wasn’t the custom of one of Haki’s warrior slaves to devote herself to women’s chores but to hurl spears and lances with a blood-stained right arm. There was no cause to marvel if her soles had stiffened through pacing out long distances; they’d been bruised by the rough shingle every time she ran along the beaches and had become tough with calluses, not tender to feel, like theirs; their feet had never gone far, but had been perpetually confined within the thresholds of the court. When Hagbarth on the pretext that he was to have the choicest place of rest had taken Signe as his bedfellow, amid their words of shared delights he softly began to address her: ‘Say your father caught and condemned me to a melancholy fate, will you ever forget your promises and seek a husband after my death? If that misfortune occurs, I’ve no hope of forgiveness, for your father will spare no pity in taking revenge for his sons. I killed your brothers, after stripping them of their sea power, and now, unknown to your father, as if I’d never done anything to thwart his wishes, I hold you here, sharing your bed. Tell me, my only love, what kind of desire you will cherish, without my accustomed embraces.’ Signe answered: ‘Believe me, my darling, I want to die together with you, if Fate presents your destruction first, nor do I wish to prolong my length of days when mournful Death has driven you to the tomb. I f you should close your eyes for ever, victim to the savage wills of executioners, or whatever doom stifles your breath, whether illness or the sword, on water or soil, I relinquish all wanton and shameful passions, to vow myself to a similar end, so that those whom the bed’s contract bound together may be linked by the same fatal suffering. Even should I feel death’s pains, I shan’t desert the man I reckoned worth my love, who plucked from my mouth its earliest kisses and took the first-fruits of my tender virginity. If a woman’s voice carries credence, I believe no promise was ever more certain to last.’ Her words proved such a tonic to Hagbarth’s mind that he calculated the pleasure he derived from her vow greater than the peril which lay in his departure. However, he was betrayed by the young serving-women and set upon by Sigar’s henchmen, though he fought long and stubbornly to defend himself and cut many of them to pieces in the doorway. At last he was taken and led to the assembly where he found that the people were divided in their judgements. A number declared he should be punished for such a serious outrage; but Bilvis, brother of Bolvis, together with other advocates of a better sentence, counselled that instead of treating him ruthlessly they should put his active vigour to good service. Then Bolvis, stepping forward, stressed that it was injurious advice which urged the king to pardon when retribution was imperative, and let misplaced pity soothe an honest outburst of rage. How could Sigar be moved to spare or commiserate with someone who had not only robbed him of the twin consolation of his sons but also splattered him with the insult of a debauched daughter? This sentiment was approved by the majority of the assembly, Hagbarth condemned, and a gibbet erected to receive him. So it transpired that, whereas previously hardly anybody had put forward a harsh vote, a savage sentence was now the general wish. Soon afterwards the queen proffered a cup, telling him to slake his thirst, and then hurled taunts and threats at him: ‘Now arrogant Hagbarth, judged fit to die by the whole assembly, put this horn goblet to your mouth and taste its thirst-dispelling liquor. Repress your fears, now that you are facing the last hour of life, and sip this mortal cup with bold lips, so that its draught may soon steer you to the underworld regions, where you shall come to the prison palace of stern Death, your body given to the gallows, but your soul consigned below!’. Then the young man, grasping the goblet he had been offered, is said to have given this reply: ‘I shall take hold of this final draught, my last drink, with the very hand which did away with your two sons. I shall not visit the nether region and its fierce ghosts, unavenged. It was my effort that accomplished their defeat and locked them in infernal caverns. This right arm dripped with your family’s blood, deprived your offspring of their boyhood years; those your womb brought forth to the light were not spared by my lethal sword. Infamous woman, distracted in mind, ill-starred mother, bereaved of your children, time will never restore them to you, no day nor age will ever give back the lads my stark death-dealing removed.’ Recompensing her threats of extinction with taunts about her slain sons, he flung back the cup at the queen and doused her face in a drenching spray of wine. Meanwhile Signe asked her weeping maids whether they could endure to become the associates of her venture. They replied that they would perform any wish that was in their lady’s mind, and they gave their sincere promise. With tears streaming she said she wanted to follow in death the only partner she had ever had to her bed and ordered that, as soon as the signal had been given from the watchtower, they should fire the bedchamber with torches, make nooses of their gowns, tie these round their throats and, by kicking away the footstools, strangle themselves. When they concurred, she poured them wine to diminish their fear of death. Next Hagbarth was brought to be hanged on the hill which afterwards took his name. In order to test his beloved’s loyalty, he asked the hangmen to hoist up his mantle, alleging that it would give him satisfaction could he gaze on some image which afforded a preview of his coming death. When they carried out his request, the watchman on the tower thought they were finishing off Hagbarth and signified what he had seen to the girls who were enclosed within the palace. Shortly after, they set the building alight, thrust away the wooden supports under their feet and let the halters twist tight around their necks. Hagbarth, seeing the palace swathed in fire and the familiar bedroom blazing, declared that his joy in perceiving his sweetheart’s faithfulness felt greater than the misery of his own approaching end. He also called upon the assistants to put him to death and testified how little importance he attached to his fate by singing this song: ‘Quick, fellows, seize me, swing me into the air! It’s sweet, my bride, to die after your departure. There are the halls rosy with crackling fire, and your love reveals its long agreement. Your firm vows are fulfilled, now you are my consort in death, just as in life. A single end for us both, one union after; our first love cannot perish at random. Happy am I to be blest with such a companion, and not go miserably to the gods below alone. Come, let this knot squeeze the middle of my throat! This final pain will bring me nothing but pleasure, for my beloved’s restoration is certain, and death will soon bring its own delight. Each world has its joy; both will proclaim a mutual rest for our spirits, faith in love. See, I willingly accept the decisive moment you offer, since not even among the shades does love let a partner disappear from its embrace.’ After these words the hangmen did their work and the noose dispatched him.
Should anyone incline to believe that the traces of antiquity have vanished entirely, proof exists locally that this story is true: the deceased Hagbarth left his name to a village situated not far from Sigersted; there a mound rising slightly above the plain, like a bulge in the earth, indicates old foundations by its measurements. Someone reported to Archbishop Absalon that he had seen a beam which a peasant had discovered in that spot when his ploughshare struck it as he was turning up the soil. When Haki, the son of Hamund, hearing of these events, looked as if he were going to transfer his fighting from the Irish to the Danes in revenge for his brothers, he was deserted by Haki of Zealand, Viger’s son, and by Starkath, whose assistance he had employed continually up to that time after Regnvald’s death. One was impelled by considerations of friendship, the other by esteem for his birthplace, two different motives which produced in each a parallel stimulus. Patriotism discouraged Haki from invading his own land, since he would appear to be preparing battle against his own fellowcountrymen, while the others were making war on foreigners. Starkath, on the other hand, had exchanged mutual hospitality with Sigar and therefore refrained from acting as his foe, for he did not wish to give the impression of repaying kindness with injury. Some people have such a deep gratitude for benevolence that they cannot be persuaded to make a nuisance of themselves to those whose generous courtesies they remember once enjoying. Haki, however, felt that his brothers’ death was more of a loss to him than his champions’ desertion and collected a fleet in the harbour which is called Hærvig in Danish, in Latin the Bay of Armies; after landing his troops, he drew up the lines of foot soldiers at a point where the town built by Esbern now gives protection with its fortifications to those who dwell in that neighbourhood and rebuffs the entry of ferocious barbarians. Then, having split his forces into three, he sent on two-thirds of his ships, appointing a few men to row to the River Susa, where they must steer hither and thither along its meandering course in order to supply help to the infantry as and when necessary. Haki journeyed in person with the remainder overland, marching mostly through wooded countryside to escape being seen. The road, once hemmed in by thick forest, is now partly arable land and bordered only by thinly scattered shrubs. To avoid missing the shade of the trees when they emerged into the plain, he gave his men orders to cut off branches and carry them. In addition he instructed them to throw away some items of clothing together with their scabbards, and bear naked swords, so that they should not be overburdened in their rapid progress. To record this act he bequeathed an unforgotten name to a mountain and a ford. By advancing at night they slipped past two guard posts, but when they had come upon a third, a sentinel who had watched the extraordinary sight lost no time in reaching Sigar’s chamber where he announced that he had something baffling to report: he had seen leaves and bushes walking along like human beings. The king enquired how far off the approaching wood was, and, being told it was close, commented that this freak of Nature portended his own death. A result of this was that the bog where the bushes had been cut down was known in popular speech as Death Swamp. Afraid of being caught in the narrow streets, Sigar left the town to look for more open and level ground where he could essay the enemy in battle. At a point which is called Valbrønde in the vernacular and the Spring of Corpses or Slaughter in Latin, he was mown down after a sorry struggle and annihilated. Haki’s victory turned to savagery; he followed up his good fortune with massive outrage, making no distinction of rank or sex in his lust for indiscriminate butchery. No thought of pity or shame softened him as he splashed his sword with women’s blood and wrought violence on mothers and children in one ruthless, wholesale massacre. At the news Sigvald, Sigar’s son, though he had so far never poked his nose outside his father’s halls, mustered an army in order to play the part of avenger. Panic-stricken at the assembling of such a host, Haki retreated with a third of his forces to his fleet at Hærvig and they looked to their own safety by putting out to sea. His partner Haki, nicknamed the Proud, reckoned he ought to take heart from iheir recent success rather than have qualms during the other Haki’s absence; preferring to surrender his life before fleeing, he stood guard over the residue of the army. For this purpose he withdrew his camp back to the town of Alsted for a little while to await the arrival of the ships, cursing the snail’s pace of his friends. For the fleet which had been sent up the river had not yet anchored at its port of destination. The death of Sigar and affection for Sigvald roused the people’s feelings so generally that both sexes engaged in fighting and you would have believed that even the women were giving assistance to the combat. The next morning Haki and Sigvald clashed in a battle which lasted two whole days. The contest was cruel and decisive; each general fell and the honours of victory were won by a Danish remnant. During the night following the encounter, the fleet which had penetrated the Susa reached the shelter of its appointed haven. At one time navigable by rowers, the river bed is now choked up with solid material, so that its narrow channel has become sluggish and restricted and allows access to very few craft. When at dawn the sailors had spied the bodies of their comrades, they heaped up a spectacularly high mound for their leader’s burial, which is famous even now and is traditionally called Haki’s Tomb. Borkar, arriving unexpectedly with his Scanian cavalry, spread carnage amongst their numbers. After destroying these enemies, he manned the ships, which had lost their oarsmen, and then rowed at breathless speed after Hamund’s son. In their encounter Haki came off worse; lent wings by fear he sped away with three ships to Scotland. There after a lapse of two years he died. All these wars and critical events had so much depleted the Danish royal family that eventually it was evident that it had been reduced to one woman, Gyrith, daughter of Alf and grandchild of Sigar. When the Danes perceived that they had lost the guidance of their regular nobility, who had become extinct, they handed the kingdom over to men of the people, and, creating rulers from ordinary stock, assigned the jurisdiction of Scania to Østmar, of Zealand to Hunding; they gave Hani lordship over Funen and divided the supreme authority in Jutland between Rørik and Hathar. To obviate any ignorance about the begetter who supplied the succeeding generations of kings, it occurs to me that I ought to make a short but essential digression and touch on certain particulars. Gunnar, the most courageous of the Swedes, was once, so it is said, vindictive towards the Norwegians for the most serious reasons; he begged and obtained leave to harass them, and then afflicted them with dire perils, sending out the first of the sorties he had planned into the province of Jæren; sometimes he enveloped them with arson sometimes with murder, but refrained from theft, for his only delight was to stride along tracks littered with corpses and over paths soaked in gore. Although other men would stop short at cutting throats and were more interested in pursuing plunder than killing, he set savagery before spoils and would mainly indulge his destructive whims in massacring people. The inhabitants were driven by his brutality to forestall the looming danger by public submission. When Regnvald, the king of the Northmen, now in extreme old age, heard of his animus for oppression, he fashioned a cave and had his daughter Drot incarcerated within it, first granting her a suitable retinue and providing sustenance for a long period. He also committed to the cave, along with other royal household gear, some swords which had been embellished by the intricate craftsmanship of smiths, so that his enemy would be unable to capture and use weapons which he was aware he could not handle himself. So that the cavern should not rise up too obviously, he made its hump level with the solid earth. Then he set out for war, but, since his aged limbs were incapable of marching into battle, he had to be propped on his escorts’ shoulders and advanced by using other men’s legs. After fighting with more ardour than success he was killed, leaving his country a severe cause for shame. Wishing by some unusual degradation to chastise the conquered people for their worthlessness, Gunnar appointed a dog as their head of state. What else are we to imagine his aim was here other than to make the populace, bursting with pride, clearly understand that he was punishing their haughtiness, when they had to bow their heads in deference to a yapping animal? Unwilling to spare any affront, he set up governors to supervise public and private affairs in its name. To these he added separate ranks of nobility to keep unremitting watch over it. Apart from this, he decreed that if any of the courtiers thought it beneath him to pay respect to his leader and omitted to make the most reverential obeisance to its comings and goings as it trotted about, he must atone for it by the loss of his limbs. He imposed a double tribute on this race, one to be paid from their autumn harvest, the other in springtime. So the Norwegians’ swelling arrogance was punctured and he made sure they recognized plainly that their pride was humbled when they saw themselves forced to pay homage to a dog.
As soon as he heard that the king’s daughter had been shut up in a distant hiding place, Gunnar bent all his wits and energies to tracing her. Eventually, while he was personally conducting a search along with others, he half fancied he could detect a murmuring noise far underground. Gradually working his way nearer, he grew more convinced that he caught the sound of a human voice. When he had given orders for the earth beneath their feet to be dug down to solid rock, a cavity was suddenly revealed where he could see a warren of winding passages. The servants who tried to defend the tunnel’s uncovered entrance were cut to pieces and the girl dragged out of the hole along with the other prizes which had been stored there. All, that is, except her father’s swords, for these, with admirable foresight, she had stowed away in an even more secret place. Gunnar compelled her to submit to his lust and she bore him a son, Hildiger. This boy was a close rival to his father in cruelty; always out to kill, concerned merely with the destruction of humanity, he positively panted with a mania to spill blood. His father outlawed him for his unbearable atrocities, but Alver soon granted him a region to lord over; from here he embroiled his neighbours in war and massacre and spent the length of his days under arms, letting banishment slacken none of his usual brutality, nor allowing the change of environment to alter his disposition. In the meantime Borkar, comprehending that Gunnar had forcibly taken Regnvald’s daughter Drot to his bed, robbed him of his partner and his life and married her himself. She was no unwilling bride, since she considered it proper to take her father’s avenger in her arms. For while the girl mourned her father she could not bring herself to submit with any pleasure to his murderer. She and Borkar had a son, Halfdan. At the beginning one heard nothing of this young man but reports of his stupidity; later on, however, he became famous for his shining achievements and his career was distinguished by the highest marks of honour. As a stripling he was cuffed by a celebrated champion for making childish fun of him, whereupon Halfdan went for him with the staff he was holding and killed him. This affair presaged the glorious deeds to come, marking a turning point between the contempt he had so far earned and the full splendour of his future. His act was a prophecy of the mighty feats he was to perform in war. At that time Roth, a Russian pirate, was devastating our homeland with barbarous pillage and violence. His behaviour was so inhuman that, whereas others would spare their prisoners from As soon as he heard that the king’s daughter had been shut up in a distant hiding place, Gunnar bent all his wits and energies to tracing her. Eventually, while he was personally conducting a search along with others, he half fancied he could detect a murmuring noise far underground. Gradually working his way nearer, he grew more convinced that he caught the sound of a human voice. When he had given orders for the earth beneath their feet to be dug down to solid rock, a cavity was suddenly revealed where he could see a warren of winding passages. The servants who tried to defend the tunnel’s uncovered entrance were cut to pieces and the girl dragged out of the hole along with the other prizes which had been stored there. All, that is, except her father’s swords, for these, with admirable foresight, she had stowed away in an even more secret place. Gunnar compelled her to submit to his lust and she bore him a son, Hildiger. This boy was a close rival to his father in cruelty; always out to kill, concerned merely with the destruction of humanity, he positively panted with a mania to spill blood. His father outlawed him for his unbearable atrocities, but Alver soon granted him a region to lord over; from here he embroiled his neighbours in war and massacre and spent the length of his days under arms, letting banishment slacken none of his usual brutality, nor allowing the change of environment to alter his disposition. In the meantime Borkar, comprehending that Gunnar had forcibly taken Regnvald’s daughter Drot to his bed, robbed him of his partner and his life and married her himself. She was no unwilling bride, since she considered it proper to take her father’s avenger in her arms. For while the girl mourned her father she could not bring herself to submit with any pleasure to his murderer. She and Borkar had a son, Halfdan. At the beginning one heard nothing of this young man but reports of his stupidity; later on, however, he became famous for his shining achievements and his career was distinguished by the highest marks of honour. As a stripling he was cuffed by a celebrated champion for making childish fun of him, whereupon Halfdan went for him with the staff he was holding and killed him. This affair presaged the glorious deeds to come, marking a turning point between the contempt he had so far earned and the full splendour of his future. His act was a prophecy of the mighty feats he was to perform in war. At that time Roth, a Russian pirate, was devastating our homeland with barbarous pillage and violence. His behaviour was so inhuman that, whereas others would spare their prisoners from distinguished by eminent birth she ought to look on him with a view to marriage, since it seemed that only for that reason would she grant herself admittance to this joy. Gyrith replied that he could not induce her to allow the last representative of an aristocratic royal line to couple with a man of inferior station. Not satisfied with reproaches against his mean family, she went on to throw taunts at his ugly face. Halfdan observed that as she criticized him for two faults, because his blood lacked lustre and because he was disfigured by his cracked mouth with its unhealed scar, he would not reappear to sue for her hand before he had erased both marks of ignominy by winning glory in arms. He also begged her not to grant any man access to her bed until she had reliable news of his own return or his death. The champions, whom Halfdan had robbed of their brother long before, were annoyed to find that he had spoken to Gyrith and on his departure tried to ride him down. When he saw them coming he bade his companions seek hiding while he took on the champions alone. Though his followers lingered thinking it would be wrong to obey his command, he drove them away with threats, stating that Gyrith would never discover him refusing to fight through faintheartedness. He lopped down an oak, shaped it into a club and, having swiftly joined combat with twelve single-handed, took their lives. After he had killed them, not content to win renown by such an outstanding feat but meaning to perform one still greater, he had his mother give him his grandfather’s swords; one of them was called Lysing, the other Hviting from the sheen on its sharp edge. When he learnt that war had flared up between the Swedish king, Alver, and the Russians, he instantly journeyed to Russia and offered aid to the inhabitants, who all received him with highest honour. Alver was active in the locality, so that he had only to cross a little ground to cover the distance between them. His warrior Hildiger, Gunnar’s son, had challenged the Russian champions to combat him; but when he observed they were putting forward Halfdan, knowing this was his half-brother, he set fraternal loyalty before considerations of valour and announced that he would not join battle with a man who had had so little testing, where he himself was famed as the vanquisher of seventy men-at-arms. He therefore ordered Halfdan to find his own level by less arduous experiments and then pursue objects equal to his strength. He furnished these suggestions not because he doubted his own courage but through a desire to keep himself blameless, for he was not only very brave but had the knack of blunting swords by magic. Although he remembered that his father had been overthrown by Halfdan’s, he felt two impulses, desire to avenge his father and affection for his brother; he decided it was better to back out of the challenge than become involved in an abysmal crime. Halfdan demanded a substitute and, when a swordsman appeared, slew him; soon even the enemy voted him the palm for gallantry and popular acclaim judged him the most valiant there. In the next day’s contest, when two men attacked him, he cut down both; on the third day he overcame three; on the fourth he encountered and subdued four and on the fifth demanded five. Having overwhelmed these, he kept increasing the number of his opponents and victories in similar fashion until the eighth day arrived when he took on eleven at once and laid them all in the dust. Once Hildiger perceived that the record of his own achievements was rivalled by the other’s magnificent prowess, he could no longer hold from meeting him; as soon as he realized that Halfdan, who had wrapped rags round his sword, had dealt him a mortal wound, Hildiger cast his weapons away, lay down on the earth and addressed his brother in these words: ‘I should like the hour to roll by in conversation, stop the swordplay, rest on the ground a little, vary the interval with talk, and warm our hearts. Time remains for our purpose. Different destinies control our two lives: death’s lottery brings one to his appointed hour, while processions and glory and a chance to live the days of better years await the other. The omens distinguish us in separate roles. Danish territory bore you, Sweden me. Once Drot extended a mother’s breast to you; I too sucked milk from her teat. Here her children have dared to clash with wild weapons, and fall; brothers sprung from noble blood rush to slaughter each other, until, craving the summit, they run out of time and win an evil doom; desiring the sceptre they combine their deaths to visit the underworld river together. By my head stands fixed a Swedish shield, adorned with a bright window of varied reliefs, ringed by panelled pictures of wondrous art. There a multicoloured scene depicts princes destroyed, champions overthrown, wars too, and the remarkable work of my right arm; in the midst, strikingly engraved and painted, there stands the likeness of my son, whose course of life this hand brought to its boundary. He was my only heir, the one concern of his father’s mind, given by the gods to comfort his mother. Bad is the fortune that heaps unprosperous years on the happy, jostles laughter with grief, and plagues the courageous. It’s a mournful, miserable task to drag out a downcast life, draw breath through gloomy days, and deplore what the future may hold. Whatever foreknown links are fastened by the Fates, whatever the mysteries of divine reason sketch out, whatever events are foreseen and held in the sequence of destiny, no change in our transitory world will cancel.’ After he had spoken, Halfdan condemned his brother’s procrastination in leaving so long the confession of their fraternal bond; he answered that he had kept silent to avoid being judged a coward if he refused to fight, or a scoundrel for actually doing so. While he was earnestly excusing himself, he passed away. But among the Danes a rumour started that Halfdan had been laid low by Hildiger. After this Sivar, noblest of the Saxon race, began to woo Gyrith, sole survivor of royal blood among the Danes, but as she secretly preferred Halfdan, she imposed a condition on her suitor; he must not seek marriage with her until he had regathered the Danish kingdom, now torn limb from limb, into one body and had restored by arms what had been wrongfully snatched from her. Although Sivar attempted this in vain, he bribed all the counsellors and was eventually allowed betrothal with her. When Halfdan in Russia heard of this from traders, he sailed back so precipitately that he arrived before the wedding date. On the first day of the celebrations, prior to making for the palace, he asked his companions not to stir from the watch points he had assigned them till their ears detected the distant clash of swords. Once he stood before the girl, unrecognized by the banqueters, he fashioned this song, darkly obscured so that the plainness of common speech should not disclose his thoughts to too many: ‘Leaving my father’s sceptre, I never feared woman’s false fabrications or subtle female cunning, when I subdued in battle one alone, then two, three and four, and soon five followed by six, seven, eight together, then eleven single-handed. I didn’t then think that she must be marked with a stain of dishonour, fickle in her promises, fraudulent in her agreements.’ Gyrith replied: ‘In frail control of affairs my irresolute mind was perplexed, timorous, changeable, drifting. News of you, borne on varying reports, was fleeting and uncertain; it seared my wavering heart. I feared that your youthful years had perished under the sword. Could I resist alone my elders and governors when they would brook no denial, pressing me into marriage? The warmth of my love remains and shall remain, united and matched to yours; my promise has not swerved and will gain opportunities you can rely on. I have still not deceived you in my undertaking, even though I couldn’t, by myself, reject the innumerable pressures of my advisers nor withstand their stern directions to accept the marriage bond.’ Even before the girl had finished her reply, Halfdan had run his sword through the bridegroom. Not satisfied with annihilating only one, he proceeded to massacre the majority of the guests. As the Saxons were staggering back drunkenly to make a counter-attack, lalfdan’s attendants arrived on the scene and cut them down. These deeds won him Gyrith. When he realized she was prone to infertility and since he had a consuming desire to father a child, he went to Uppsala to try to secure her fruitfulness; the oracle advised him, if he wished to raise offspring, that he must first offer solemn propitiation to his brother’s ghost, and once he had obeyed its words of wisdom, he obtained his heart’s desire. Gyrith bore hirn a son, whom he named Harald. ro. For his sake Halfdan attempted to restore the Danish kingdom, which had been mangled by the outrages of its chieftains, to its ancient form of rule; while waging war in Zealand, however, he launched an attack on Vesti, a champion of outstanding repute, and was himself killed. Gyrith saw what happened; she had assumed male attire and was laking part in the battle through devotion to her son; though he fought zealously his comrades fled, and she took it upon herself to carry him away on her shoulders to a nearby copse. Weariness stopped most of the enemy giving chase, but, as he hung over her, one of them planted an arrow in his buttock. Harald consequently reckoned his mother’s aid had brought him more embarrassment than assistance. ro. Because he was of amazing beauty and outstanding size and since he surpassed his contemporaries in strength and height, he had enjoyed such fondness from Odin, whose oracle appears to have been responsible for his birth, that no blade could impair his unscathed condition. Thus weapons injurious to others were rendered futile and could cause him no hurt. This benefit did not go unrecompensed; he is said to have promised Odin all those souls which his sword had cast out of men’s bodies. As a memorial he had engravers carve his father’s accomplishments on his tomb, a rock in Blekinge, which I have already mentioned. Afterwards, having heard that Vesti was to celebrate his wedding in Scania, Harald journeyed there in the guise of a beggar; when night had brought the revels to a close and all were drugged with wine and sleep, he battered his way into the bridal chamber with a beam. Vesti dashed a cudgel at his mouth but merely knocked out two of his teeth without inflicting a wound. Later two incisors pushed up unexpectedly to repair the loss. This occurrence earned him the nickname ‘Hilditan’, which some say he acquired from his prominent row of teeth. Killing Vesti on the spot, he gained control over Scania. He went on to attack and wipe out Hathar in Jutland, where the name of a town forever marks his downfall. After this he overthrew Hunding and Rørik, occupied Lejre, and remoulded the divided kingdom of Denmark into its original form. Next he discovered that Asmund, king of the Vik, had been robbed of his dominion by his elder sister; roused by this demonstration of female effrontery, while war was still hovering he sailed in a solitary vessel to Norway to offer Asmund help. After battle had been engaged, he advanced on the enemy clad in a purple cloak, his locks crowned by a band tricked out with gold; instead of armour he trusted to his unspoken certainty of Fortune, so that he appeared to be equipped for a feast rather than warfare. But this garb did not reflect the qualities he displayed; he preceded the armed companies unshielded, simply wearing his royal attire, and with this ready fighting spirit, exposed himself to the raging perils of conflict. The shafts aimed at him lost their power to harm as if their points had been blunted. When the other side observed this fighter’s immunity, they pressed hard on him, humiliation spurring them to a keener assault. Harald, his body unhurt, either beat them down with his sword or made them run to save their skins; so the sister was crushed and Asmund restored to the throne. Though the king offered him rewards for his triumph, he claimed that the wages of fame were enough in themselves; he therefore refused recompense as meritoriously as he had earned it. After he had maintained that he intended to gather renown from his victory, not money, all were struck with as much amazement at his self-control as by his valour. Meanwhile the Swedish king, Alver, died leaving three sons, Olaf, Ingi, and Ingiald; Ingi, not satisfied with the inheritance from lits father, declared war on the Danes so that he could extend his empire. When Harald wished to investigate this event through the oracles, he met an old man, very tall and with only one eye, wrapped in a shaggy cloak, who said his name was Odin and that he was skilled in the tactics of war; he offered Harald a most profitable lesson on how to dispose his army in the field. Odin told him that when he was about to make war with his land forces he should divide his entire battle line into three squadrons; each of these he should pack in twenties, but extend the middle section beyond the rest by a further twenty men, arranging them to form the point of a cone or pyramid, and should bend back the wings to create a receding curve on each side. When a muster was held, he should construct the files of each squadron by starting with two men at the front and adding one only to each successive row. Thus he would set three in the second line, four in the third, and so on, building up the following ranks with the same uniform symmetry until the outer edge came level with the wings. Each wing must contain ten ranks. Again, behind these cohorts he was to introduce young warriors equipped with javelins; to the rear of these he should place a company of older men to reinforce their comrades, if their strength waned, with their own brand of seasoned courage; a skilful strategist would see that slingers were attached at the sides, who could stand behind the lines of their fellows to assail the enemy with shots from a distance. Beyond these he should admit indiscriminately men of any age or class without regard for status. The final battalion he ought to separate into three prongs, as with the vanguard, and deploy them in similarly proportioned ranks. The rear, though connected to the foregoing columns, might offer defence by reversing itself to face in the opposite direction. If a sea battle should occur, he must divide off a section of his navy, so that while the main fleet began the proposed skirmish these other ships could skim round and encircle the enemy vessels. Once he had been drilled in this system of warfare, he surprised Ingi and Olaf as they were preparing hostilities in Sweden and stamped them out. When their brother Ingiald, under pretence of ill-health, sent ambassadors to beg a truce, Harald acceded to his demands, for, having in his manliness learnt to spare those in misery, he was unwilling to vaunt himself over anyone depressed by a period of low fortune. Later, exasperated by Ingiald’s wrongful abduction of his sister, Harald plagued him with long, indecisive wars, but finally took the other into his friendship, preferring to have him for an ally rather than a foe. After this he heard that a struggle over the kingdom must occur between Olaf, king of the Thronds, and two women, Stikla and Rusla; utterly enraged at such female brashness, he went to the king unobserved by the royal retinue and, assuming apparel which would obscure his long teeth, made an attack on these amazons. Each of them was quashed and he bequeathed to twin harbours a name related to theirs. It was then that he showed a very striking proof of his bravery. Wearing a shirt which only reached up to his armpits, he faced spears with his chest unprotected. When Olaf offered him reward for his victory he refused the favour, making it a problem to decide whether he set an example more of valour or self-restraint. Next he attacked a champion of Frisian stock called Ubbi, who was ravaging the confines of Jutland and inflicting wholesale massacre on the populace; since he was unable to subdue him with weapons, he encouraged his soldiers to grip him with their hands, threw him to the ground, bound him, and put him in chains. Even though he had imagined shortly beforehand that Ubbi would bring him heavy defeat, he asserted his superiority through this humiliating form of assault. Nevertheless he gave him his sister in marriage, made him one of his lieutenants, and went on to lay the neighbouring Rhenish peoples under tribute, choosing, however, the most valiant of that race to serve in his army. Harald used these to overthrow the Wends, but made sure that its generals, Duk and Dal, because of their courage, were captured and not killed. As soon as he had incorporated them in his military fraternity, he vanquished France and, turning to Britain shortly afterwards, overcame the king of the Northumbrians and enrolled among his troops all the most likely young men he had subdued. of these one known as Orm the Briton was held pre-eminent. Harald’s resulting fame drew champions from various parts of the world and these he formed into a band of mercenaries. Strengthened by their numbers, he could hold down uprisings in all his realms through dread of his name and dispel from their leaders the audacity to fight with one another. Nor did anyone have the nerve to take command of the seas without his consent. For at one time the slate of Denmark held dual sway over land and waters. Meanwhile in Sweden Ingiald died, leaving Ring, his son by Harald’s sister, a very small child; Harald gave him the control of his father’s kingdom and appointed guardians for him. So, with all the provinces and their princes now under complete subjection, he ruled in peace for fifty years. To prevent his soldiers’ spirits relaxing into sloth during this period of rest he decided they should be trained constantly by swordsmen in the art of parrying and dealing blows. Some of them became so adroit in this remarkable exercise of duelling that they could graze their opponent’s eyebrow with unerring aim. If anyone at the receiving end so much as blinked an eyelid through fear, he was shortly discharged of his duties and dismissed from court. In those days Oli, son of Sigvarth and a sister of Harald, was drawn from Norwegian lands to Denmark by a desire to set eyes on his uncle. Because it is well known he held first place in Harald’s entourage and later, after war with Sweden, assumed sovereignty over Danish affairs, it suits my purpose to make a short review of his achievements as history remembers them. After spending fifteen years in his father’s house he had become famous for his incredible gifts of mind and body. Apart from this his aspect was so wild that what others effected with their weapons, he did by merely gazing upon the enemy, and his piercing, glittering eyes terrified the very bravest man. When he received a report that Gunni, lord of Telemark, and his son Grimi had taken to brigandage and occupied the forest of Edeskov, an area of dense undergrowth and the darkest glens, he was beside himself with rage at their conduct; he earnestly requested his father to let him have a dog, a horse, and some easily obtainable armour, condemning any young man who allowed a stretch of time to slip away in idleness when it should be devoted to courageous deeds. After obtaining his demands, he carried out a minute inspection of the forest concerned, during which he observed that the snow had been broken by a man’s deep footprints; clearly one of the robbers had walked across its frozen surface. Using the tracks as a guide, he surmounted the slope of a hill, only to come upon a huge river. As the original human footprints disappeared at this point, he resolved to gain the farther bank. However, the volume of water, whose waves dashed down in a headlong torrent, appeared to make the crossing too difficult, and the bed of the river was strewn all its length with hidden rocks, which churned it into a whirl of foam. Nonetheless his eagerness to make speed removed any apprehension of danger from Oli’s mind. His valour vanquished fear, his impetuosity scorned peril, and, thinking nothing awkward to accomplish which appealed to him, he overcame the thundering maelstrom on his horse. Once he had passed over this, he reached a defile encircled everywhere by marshes and hard of access because of a bank which had been thrown up before it; when he had ridden his horse up to the top, he noticed a compound containing many stables. After he had turned out a troop of horses with a mind to lead in his own steed, a servant of Gunni named Toki was so irritated at this insolence from a stranger that he attacked him fiercely, but Oli was able to check his assailant merely by putting up his shield as a barrier. Thinking it degrading to suppress him with a sword, Oli gripped him, broke every limb and threw him sidelong into the house from which Toki had burst. Gunni and Grimi, quickly roused by this insult, slipped out of different doors at the back and together charged at Oli, disdaining his youth and strength. They were both fatally wounded and their physical forces quite spent when Grimi, scarcely able to draw his final breath and almost devoid of energy, fashioned this song with his last gasps: ‘Though our bodies are certainly impotent and escaping blood has drained our stamina, though life has been lured from our wounds, and throbs scarcely felt in our mangled breasts, I tell you this crisis of our ultimate hour should be famous through our dauntless courage, so that none can say a more manly battle, a harder conflict, was anywhere waged, and, when the tomb rests our tired flesh, this harsh strife shall win rewards of eternal fame for us who bore arms. Let the first slash break our foe’s shoulder blades, then the steel rip off his two hands, so that when the subterranean god receives us, a similar doom may snatch Oli, a common death shudder over three, and our triple dust be concealed in one urn.’ ii. So far Grimi had spoken. But the father emulated his invincible spirit and answered his son’s valiant words with mutual encouragement thus: ‘Although the blood has seeped from our veins completely and a mere vestige of life stays in our waning bodies, let our final struggle prosper, so that our glory may not be short. First then go for his arms and shoulders with your spear, and undermine our foe’s handiwork. In death we three shall share one barrow, and a single vessel contain our companion ashes.’ At his words, both, resting on their knees (for the nearness of death had sapped their energies), made a desperate bid to grapple at close quarters with Oli, so that on the point of expiry they might equalize with their opponent; they cared not a damn for their fate, providing they could envelop their slayer in a common downfall. One of them Oli destroyed with his sword, the other with his hound. Yet he did not quite achieve victory without shedding his own blood, for, though hitherto unscathed, he finally sustained a wound on his front. Nevertheless, when the dog had busily licked him over, his physical powers were restored; shortly afterwards Oli decided to publish testimony of his conquest by hoisting the thieves’ corpses on gallows, where they could be more widely viewed. When he had taken over their stronghold, he put all the booty he found there into secret custody and kept it for future use. At that time the arrogant wantonness of the brothers Skati and Hialli crept to such a pitch of insolence that they would tear virgins of exquisite beauty from their parents and ravish them. Eventually they even marked out Esa, daughter of Olaf, prince of the Varmlanders, for violation, and instructed her father that he or some deputy must do battle to defend his child, if he did not wish her to become a slave to the lust of outsiders. As soon as the news reached Oli, he was overjoyed at the prospect of combat and, borrowing a countryman’s outfit, he made his way to Olaf’s palace. Allowed to take one of the lowest places at table, he gazed at the king’s sorrowful household and deliberately beckoned his son closer to enquire why everyone wore such lugubrious expressions. The other told how his sister’s chastity must very soon be sullied by warriors of the utmost ferocity unless someone quickly intervened to protect her; Oli then asked what prize would go to the man who staked his life for the girl. The king’s son put the question to his father, who answered that he would grant his daughter to the man who championed her. His reply, more than anything, fired Oli with enthusiasm to accept the risk. ii. Now it was the girl’s habit to walk right up to guests and, holding up a light, inspect their faces as carefully as she could, so that in staring she might assure herself of their character and condition. It was believed that she also scrutinized the marks and lines of the countenance and thus sized up their lineage, since she could discern the quality of someone’s blood merely by her keenness of perception. When she approached Oli with the lamp and stood scanning him, she was stunned into an extraordinary panic by his eyes and fell down in a dead faint. As her vitality slowly returned and she started to breathe in and out more freely, she once more tried to look at the young man, but her body suddenly slid and collapsed, as if her mind had been bewitched. When she strove to raise her closed, downcast eyes a third time, she was able neither to move her gaze nor control her feet, with the result that she immediately lurched and tumbled to the floor. So much had stupefaction numbed her strength. Seeing this, Olaf asked her why she had fallen so often. She testified that she had been smitten by the grim regard of their guest, affirming that he was sprung from kings and that, if he repelled her would-be ravishers, he richly deserved her embraces; everybody then requested Oli, whose face was obscured by the hat he wore, to unmuffle himself and let his features be recognized. He then bade them all dismiss their sorrow and let their hearts be as cheerful as they could; revealing his brow, he made the whole company turn their gaze eagerly in his direction to wonder at his handsome appearance. His hair was a radiant blond. Even so, he was careful to keep his eyelids tight shut in case he frightened the onlookers. You would have seen the banqueters suddenly begin to caper and the courtiers leap about, their spirits raised with optimism, their deep melancholy plucked away in an outburst of joy. Hope relieved their dread, the feast wore a different aspect, and nothing was at all as it had been at the beginning; so, one guest’s liberal undertaking dispelled the general apprehension. Amidst all this, Hialli and Skati arrived with ten of their menials, as though they meant to carry off the girl there and then; they disturbed the proceedings with uproarious shouts, calling upon the king to fight if he would not put his daughter at their disposal. Oli immediately met their mad behaviour with a promise of combat, adding one proviso, that none should stealthily attack his fighting opponent in the rear; combatants must always meet face to face. Single-handed he proceeded to strike down the twelve with his sword Løgthi, achieving a feat beyond his years. The battle was staged on an island situated in the middle of a lake; not far distant is a village which provides a record of this massacre by recalling the combined names of the brothers Hialli and Skati. After the maiden had been given to him in reward for the victory and had borne him a son, Ømund, he gained his father-inlaw’s permission to revisit his father; when he discovered that his country was being attacked by Prince Thori using Tosti and Liot, who were known respectively as the Butcher and the Monster, he went to join battle with them, happy to take only a single attendant dressed as a woman. Once he was in the vicinity of Thori’s dwelling, he carefully concealed his own and his companion’s swords in hollow sticks. Approaching the palace, he hid his true features under the disguise of a man crumpled with age. He gave out that in Sigvarth’s house he had been king of the beggars, but that he had been driven into exile by the determined hatred of the king’s son, Oli. Presently a great many courtiers, saluting him by the name of king, began to kneel to him and offer him their hands for fun. He then told them they must ratify what they had been acting in sport and, whipping out the swords he and his comrade were carrying inside the staves, assaulted the prince. Some aided Oli, turning the joke into serious business and not profaning the loyalty they had mockingly pledged, while many stood firm on Thori’s side and broke their empty vow. As a result the skirmish that arose amongst themselves remained indecisive. Finally Thori was crushed, as much by his own followers’ weapons as his visitor’s; Liot, mortally wounded, conferred the nickname of Vigorous on his conqueror, judging Oli as active in mind as he was fierce in his deeds, though he foretold that the other would perish by a deceit similar to the one he had used against Thori; unquestionably he would fall through treachery within his own house. With these words he instantly gave up the ghost. So we can see that the dying man’s final utterance with its shrewd prediction comprehended the doom that was to befall his victor. These feats accomplished, Oli was only reunited with his father when he had brought peace back to his home. After Sigvarth had granted him dominion of the ocean, he destroyed seventy maritime kings in contests of naval power. Those of foremost reputation among them were Birvil, Hvirvil, and Thorvil, N ef and Ønef, Redvard, Rand, and Brand. The wide fame of his achievement kindled those champions, who yearned in every fibre to accomplish manly deeds and drew them in shoals to strengthen his brotherhood of warriors. In addition he enlisted in his bodyguard young fellows of headstrong temperament, who were ardent for renown. He also received Starkath into his retinue with the highest esteem and looked after him with more friendship than profit. Provided with these forces, he corrected the self-assertiveness of the neighbouring monarchs through the greatness of his name, and, by removing their troops, also took away their presumption and concern for mutual conflict. Afterwards he went to Harald, who gave him command over the sea, and finally he was transferred to Ring’s band of soldier confederates. At that time there was a certain Bruni, whom Harald made the one close confidant of all his plans. If ever he and Ring needed to exchange messages of a more secret nature, they would commit their instructions to this man. Bruni had gained this degree of intimacy because he and Harald had been brought up together from the time they had shaken the same rattles. However, amidst the toils of his constant journeyings he was drowned in the waters of a river; Odin, assuming the disguise of his name and clothing, carried out a deceitful embassy whereby he undermined the kings’ close bond and sowed such strife through his deep artifices that between those who had been joined in friendliness and kinship he generated a hardened dislike, which, it seems, could not be satisfied without warfare. At first there grew silent differences between them until, as each made his partialities known, iheir hidden acrimony burst into the open. They announced their hostility, whereupon they devoted seven years to assembling the machinery of war. Some claim that Harald was not prompted by resentment or jealousy of the other’s crown, but, of his own free will and without telling anyone, intentionally sought occasions for dying. When through his old age and rigour he became a burden even to his subjects, he preferred the sword to the rackings of disease and opted to surrender his life on the battlefield rather than in his bed, so that he might meet an end which fitted the performances of his past life. In order to contrive a more glorious death and make his way to the underworld better attended, he desired to enrol a large number of partners in his fate, manufacturing an opportunity for his future destruction by these voluntary preparations for war. For such reasons he was seized with a yearning for his own as well as others’ deaths and, to balance the losses on both sides, mobilized equal opposing forces, though he allowed somewhat greater strength to Ring, whom he had rather come off victorious and survive him. 
BOOK EIGHT 
Starkath as well as being a chief pillar of the Swedish war was the first to relate its history in an eloquent compostion in Danish, though it was handed down by word of mouth rather than in writing. Since it is my resolve to describe in Latin the sequence of events which he set out and related according to our country’s custom in the vernacular, I shall start by reviewing the most eminent nobles on either side. I am not seized with any desire to comprehend the entire host, a body which could not even be counted precisely. First my pen shall recount those who stood on Harald’s side, shortly after, the men who served under Ring. of the captains who flocked to Harald, the most illustrious are known to have been Sven and Sam, Ambar and Elli, Rathi of Funen, Salgarth, and that Roi whose length of beard gave him his famous nickname. In addition there were Skalk of Scania and Alf, Aggi’s son, who were joined by Ølvir the Broad and Gnepia the Old. Also among their number was Garth, the founder of Stangby. Then there were Harald’s kinsmen, Blend, from far-off Iceland, and Brand, whom they called Crumb, together with Torfi and Tyrving, Teit and Hialti. These sailed to Lejre, their bodies equipped for war, excelling in strength of intellect and matching their tall stature with well-trained spirits; they were versed in shooting missiles from long-bows or crossbows, would commonly take on the enemy man to man and could dexterously weave poems in their native speech. So assiduously had they cultivated mind and body. From Lejre, Hort and Burgar went out, as well as Belgi and Begath. Bari and Toli accompanied them. From Schleswig issued Haki Scarface and Tummi the Voyager under their leaders Hetha and Visna, whose female bodies Nature had endowed with manly courage. Vyborg too, instilled with the same spirit, was attended by Bo, Bram’s son, and Brat the Jutlander, who were both longing for the fray. In the same troop were the Englishman Orm, Ubbi the Frisian, Ari the One-eyed, Alf, and Götar. After these we must count Dal the Fat and Duk from Wendish territory. Visna was a woman hard through and through and a highly expert warrior; her chief followers among the band of Wends who thronged about her are known to have been Barre and Gnisli. The remainder of this company bore small shields in front of their bodies ;md used very long swords; these sky-coloured shields they pushed round behind them in time of war or gave to their bearers, so that, having cast away all protection from their breasts and exposed their persons to every danger, they would plunge into the fight with blades drawn. Among them the most shining lights were Tolke and Imme. /Yfter these, Toki, born in the province of Julin, is known to fame together with Otrik, called the Young. Now Hetha, encircled by ready comrades, brought to the war a century of armed men. Their captains were Grimar and Grenzli; next, Ger of Livonia, Hama and Hunger, Humli and Biari are remembered as the most courageous of the princes; these would very often wage duels successfully and far and wide win outstanding victories. So the two women I have mentioned, graceful in battle gear, led their land forces to combat. Thus the Danish troops streamed together company by company. The kings from the North were equally talented though differing in their allegiance, some defending Harald, a proportion Ring. Those who had joined Harald’s side were mi and Øsathul, I Iun, Hasten and Hithin the Slender, Dag, surnamed Grenski, and the Harald whose father was Olaf; from the province of Hadeland, Iar and Herlef and Hothbrod, whose nickname was the Unbridled, enlisted in the Danish camp; from the region of Imsland came Hunki and Harald and, journeying from the north to meet them, Haki and the sons of Bemuni, Sigmund and Særk. The king had extended his patronage to all these warriors in a generous and friendly fashion; held in highest honour by him, they received swords chased with gold and the choicest spoils of war. The sons of old Gandalf had also arrived, intimate acquaintances of Harald through their long-standing dependence on him. So thickly did the Danish navy crowd the seas that it seemed as if a bridge had been built connecting Zealand with Scania. The closepacked throng of vessels provided a short cut for anyone who wanted to walk from one province to the other. Not wishing the Swedes to be caught unprepared for war, Harald sent envoys to Ring to make public the breach of peace between them with an open announcement of hostilities; the same men were also instructed to prescribe a site for battle. Such was the list of Harald’s fighting men; Ring’s party comprised Ulf, Aggi, Vind, Egil the One-eyed, Götar, Hildir, Guthi, A lf’s son, Styr the Strong, and Sten, who dwelt near the marshes of Vánern. With them were Gerth the Glad and Glum from Varmland. Next in the reckoning came Saxi Fletter and Sali the Göta, both from near the Göta alv. Thorth the Hobbler, Thrond Big-nose, Grundi, Öthi, Grinder, Tovi, Kol, Biarki, Högni the Clever, and Rok the Swarthy spurned the fellowship of the masses and formed a single detachment away from the rest of the company. Besides these we may count Rani, whose father was Hild, Liuthbuthi, Sven of the Shorn Crown, Rethir the Hawk, and Rolf the Wife-lover; pressing close to them were Ring, AtiPs son, and Harald who hailed from the district of Toten. These were joined by Valsten from the Vik, Thorulf the Thick, Thengil the Tall, Hun, Sylfa, Birvil the Pale, Burgar, and Skum. But the bravest had come from Telemark, men with maximum courage and a minimum of pride; Thorlaf the Unyielding, Thorkil from Gotland, Gretir the Unjust, hungry for attack, and, hard on their heels, Haddir the Tough and Roald Toe. Those remembered as arriving from Norway were Thrond of Trondelag, Toki of Møre, Rafn the White, Hafvar, Biarni, Blig, whom men called Snub-nose, Biorn from the district of Sogn, Findar of the Fjords, Bersi, who came from the town of Falu, Sigvarth Swinehead, Erik the Storyteller, Halsten Harki, Rut the Irresolute, and Erling, nicknamed the Snake. From the province of Jæren Odd the Englishman, Alf the Farwanderer, Enar Big-belly, and Ivar, named Thruvar, set out. From Iceland came Mar Red-head, evidently born and bred in the place called Midfjord village, Glum the Aged, Grani of Bryndal and Grim, who originated in Skagafjord, from the town of Skær; after that we should take note of Berg the Seer, who brought his companions Bragi and Rafnkel. The most valiant of the Swedes were Ari, Haki, Kævle-Karl, Krok the Countryman, Guthfast, and Gummi of Gislemark. Indeed, they were kinsmen of the divine Frø and faithful confederates of the gods. The four sons of Alrik, Ingi, Oli, Alver, and Folki, entered Ring’s service, men of ready hand and quick counsel, who cherished their leader in close friendship; these too traced the origin of their race from the god Frø. Also among their number was Sigmund from the town of Sigtuna, a champion of the marketplace, a master in transactions of buying and selling. Then came Frosti, whom they named Oil-lamp, and his comrade from the town of Uppsala, Alf the Proud, who was a skilful javelin-thrower and used to march in the forefront of the battle line. Oli had a bodyguard of seven kings, prompt to lend their strength and advice, namely Holti, Hendil, Holm, Levi, and Hamar, with the additional enrolment of Regnald the Russian, grandson of Rathbarth, and Sigvald, who clove the high seas with eleven light ships. Lesi, conqueror of the Pannonians, gilded a fast galley and fitted it with a golden sail. Thryrik rode on a ship with prow and stern twisted into the likeness of a dragon. Tryggi and Tvi-Vivil, sailing separately, brought with them twelve vessels. In Ring’s navy was to be found a total of two thousand five hundred ships. The Gotland flotilla was waiting for the Swedish fleet in the harbour called Gam e. Ring therefore led the troops on land, while Oli was ordered to command the naval forces. A site, between Vik and Vårend, and a time were appointed for the Götar to encounter the Swedes. You could then see the prows everywhere furrowing the waves, and spreading canvas blocked one’s view of the ocean. The Swedish fleet enjoyed a prosperous voyage, so that it sailed earlier to the location of battle while the Danes were still struggling against foul weather. Ring disembarked his soldiers and, along with those he had brought himself by the overland route, prepared to deploy them by companies in battle array. When they started to spread out rather loosely over the countryside, it was discovered that one wing extended all the way to Vårend. The king, on horseback, went the rounds of his host, who were disordered in their ranks and stations, and positioned in the van the ablest and best equipped under the leadership of Oli, Regnald, and Tvi-Vivil; then he pressed the remainder of his army into two wings in a sort of arc shape. He detailed Ingi and the other sons of Alrik together with Tryggi to keep an eye on the right, while he instructed the left to take their orders from Lesi. The outlying companies and squadrons were formed mainly from a close-knit troop of Kurlanders and Estlanders. In the rear stood a line of slingers. Meanwhile the Danish fleet, now that clement breezes were blowing, sailed uninterruptedly for seven days till it came to the town of Kalmar. You would have been amazed to observe the sea everywhere studded with craft blown before the wind and their sails stretched along the yards cutting out the prospect of the sky. The navy, in fact, had been swelled by Wends, Livonians, and seven thousand Saxons. Scanian leaders and guides, well acquainted with the terrain, were assigned to those who were making their way over dry land. When the Danish forces came upon the waiting Swedes, Ring, who had instructed his men to bide patiently while Harald arranged his companies in formation, forbade them to blow the battle signal till they perceived the enemy king settled in his chariot near the standards; he said he trusted that troops who depended on a blind general could easily collapse. If greed for another’s empire had seized hold of Harald in his declining years, he was as witless as he was sightless; such a person could not be satisfied with his wealth, even though, were he to consider his age, he ought to be pretty well content with a tomb. The Swedes were under strong compulsion to fight for their freedom, fatherland, and children, whereas their foes had undertaken this war solely through foolhardy arrogance. On the opposing side, moreover, there were actually very few Danes; the majority who stood in the enemy line were Saxons and other girlish peoples. Consequently Swedes and Norwegians should reflect how vastly superior the multitudes of the North had always been to Germans and Wends. Their army, compounded not of solid military timber, so it seemed, but the slimy dregs of humanity, would prove contemptible. This harangue fired high the spirits of his soldiers. After Bruni, as Harald’s deputy, had been told to construct the battle line he designed a wedge-shaped front, posting Hetha on the right flank, putting Haki in control of the left, and making Visna the standard-bearer. Harald, standing prominently in his chariot, complained, in as loud tones as he could, that his beneficence to Ring was being repaid with ingratitude. The latter was advancing hostilities against him, even though he had received his kingdom from Harald’s own hand. Without pity or mercy for his old uncle, he was putting his personal ambitions before any consideration of kinship or kindness. He bade the Danes recall how illustrious their foreign victories had always been and how it was their custom to be the lords rather than the servants of their neighbours; he exhorted them not to permit such splendid glory to be undermined by the presumptuousness of a conquered race, nor let the dominions they had won for him in the bloom of his youth be filched away now that he was weakened by old age. The trumpets blared and each side joined battle with utmost violence. You might well have imagined that the heavens were suddenly rushing to assault the earth, that woods and fields were subsiding, that the whole of creation was in turmoil and ancient chaos had returned, all things human and divine convulsed by a raging tempest and everything tumbling simultaneously into destruction. When it came to the hurling of spears, the intolerable hiss of weapons filled the entire air with a din quite unbelievable. The steam from men’s wounds drew an unexpected mist across the sky and the daylight was concealed under a hailstorm of missiles. In that engagement the activity of the slingers counted for much. After the shafts had been flung from hands and catapults, the troops fought it out at close quarters with swords and iron-clad maces. It was then indeed that most blood was spilt. Sweat streamed from their weary bodies, while the clash of blades could be heard miles away.
Starkath, who was the first to recall the sequence of the war’s events in his native tongue, records how, fighting foremost in the battle line, he laid low Harald’s lords, Hun, Elli, Hort, and Burgar, and sheared off Visna’s right hand. He declares also that a certain Roi and two others, Gnepia and Garth, were wounded by him and fell in the fray. To these he adds the father of Skalk without mentioning his name. Starkath swears too that he hurled the bravest of the Danes, Haki, to the earth and in return was so injured by him that he departed from the field with a lung protruding from his chest, his neck cut right to the middle and a hand minus one finger, whose gaping gash for a long time seemed unable to produce a scar or be susceptible to cure. According to the same witness the maiden Vyborg, in contending against the foe, prostrated the champion Soti. While she was threatening more of Ring’s warriors with slaughter, Thorkil, who had come from Telemark, shot an arrow and transfixed her. Such men of Gotland, skilful archers, would string their bows so tautly that their shafts could pierce even shields. No instrument proved more deadly. The arrowheads penetrated breastplates and helmets as if they were defenceless bodies. Meanwhile Ubbi the Frisian, the ablest of Harald’s soldiers and surpassing the rest in his physical frame, apart from eleven he had wounded in the conflict, killed twenty-five chosen champions. These were all Swedes or Götar by descent. Next, attacking the enemy’s front line and leaping into the thickest of his adversaries, he dispersed the Swedes this way and that as they scattered in terror before his spear and sword. It had almost turned into a rout when Haddir, Roald, and Gretir, emulating his valour, assaulted Ubbi, determined to risk their own lives in order to avert wholesale destruction. However, since they were afraid to press in closely, they carried on their action from a distance with arrows, which descended in an everincreasing shower to riddle Ubbi’s body; yet no man ventured to join in hand-to-hand combat with him. A hundred and forty-four bolts had occupied the warrior’s breast before his corporeal strength failed and his knees sank to the earth. So, ultimately by the activity of the Thronds and those who dwelt in the province of Gudbrandsdalen, the Danes experienced a massive defeat. It was the supreme vigour of Starkath, who was the first to recall the sequence of the war’s events in his native tongue, records how, fighting foremost in the battle line, he laid low Harald’s lords, Hun, Elli, Hort, and Burgar, and sheared off Visna’s right hand. He declares also that a certain Roi and two others, Gnepia and Garth, were wounded by him and fell in the fray. To these he adds the father of Skalk without mentioning his name. Starkath swears too that he hurled the bravest of the Danes, Haki, to the earth and in return was so injured by him that he departed from the field with a lung protruding from his chest, his neck cut right to the middle and a hand minus one finger, whose gaping gash for a long time seemed unable to produce a scar or be susceptible to cure. According to the same witness the maiden Vyborg, in contending against the foe, prostrated the champion Soti. While she was threatening more of Ring’s warriors with slaughter, Thorkil, who had come from Telemark, shot an arrow and transfixed her. Such men of Gotland, skilful archers, would string their bows so tautly that their shafts could pierce even shields. No instrument proved more deadly. The arrowheads penetrated breastplates and helmets as if they were defenceless bodies. Meanwhile Ubbi the Frisian, the ablest of Harald’s soldiers and surpassing the rest in his physical frame, apart from eleven he had wounded in the conflict, killed twenty-five chosen champions. These were all Swedes or Götar by descent. Next, attacking the enemy’s front line and leaping into the thickest of his adversaries, he dispersed the Swedes this way and that as they scattered in terror before his spear and sword. It had almost turned into a rout when Haddir, Roald, and Gretir, emulating his valour, assaulted Ubbi, determined to risk their own lives in order to avert wholesale destruction. However, since they were afraid to press in closely, they carried on their action from a distance with arrows, which descended in an everincreasing shower to riddle Ubbi’s body; yet no man ventured to join in hand-to-hand combat with him. A hundred and forty-four bolts had occupied the warrior’s breast before his corporeal strength failed and his knees sank to the earth. So, ultimately by the activity of the Thronds and those who dwelt in the province of Gudbrandsdalen, the Danes experienced a massive defeat. It was the supreme vigour of with the mace, Ring, believing that propitiation must be rendered to Harald’s ghost, attached to the royal chariot the horse which he was riding himself, laid a handsome golden saddle upon it, and dedicated it to the king’s honour. Then he offered his vows and added a prayer that Harald, borne on this steed, might outstrip those who shared his doom on his way to the underworld and importune the lord of the infernal regions to grant his comrades and foes alike a peaceful abode. He next raised a pyre, on which the Danes were bidden to deposit their ruler’s gilded ship to feed the flames. As the superimposed corpse was being consumed in the fire, he went round the mourning jarls and strongly exhorted them all to cast a large quantity of weapons, gold, and precious objects onto the pyre as tinder, thereby showing reverence to such a mighty king, who had deserved this respect from them all. He commanded that when the body was completely burnt its ashes should be consigned to an urn, transported to Lejre, and there buried in a royal funeral with his horse and his arms. By carefully performing the due obsequies for his uncle, Ring won the Danes’ goodwill and turned inimical hatred into friendship. Afterwards he was entreated by the Danes to appoint Hetha to rule the remnants of their land, but fearing his enemies might suddenly unite against him with restored strength he broke Scania away from the Danish community, placing it under the separate governorship of Oli, and commanded only Zealand, and the kingdom’s territories that were left, to obey Hetha. Thus the empire of the Danes was brought by changing Fortune under Swedish power. Such was the outcome of the fighting at Bråvalla. But the Zealanders, who had had Harald as their captain, thought it a disgrace to be subject to a woman’s laws, for the spectacle of their former prosperity still hovered in their minds; they approached Oli and begged him not to let them be held in submission to female sway when they had been accustomed to serve under the most glorious of monarchs. In addition they promised to transfer their allegiance to him if he would guarantee to take up arms and remove their degrading situation. Oli was not slow to heed their petitions, attracted as much through recollecting the sovereignty of his ancestors as by the soldiers’ homage towards him. Therefore, after ordering Hetha to come to him, he forced her to withdraw her jurisdiction from all areas except Jutland, employing threats in preference to force; Jutland itself he made a tributary state, to ensure that a woman was not given a free hand over that realm. Apart from this he became the father of a son, to whom he gave the name Ømund. Yet Oli was addicted to cruelty and played the tyrant so iniquitously that all who had found Hetha’s reign ignominious repented of their previous scorn. Twelve chieftains, either stirred by their country’s adversities or alienated from Oli through some earlier cause, began to devise a plot against his life. Among these twelve were Lenni, Atii, Thot, and Vithn, the last being connected with the Danes by birth, even though he was a commander among the Wends. Since, however, they did not trust their strength or ingenuity sufficiently to accomplish the crime, they bribed Starkath to join their league. After being induced to carry out the deed with his sword, he resolved to make his attempt and perform the role of bloody executioner while the king was taking his bath. He entered as Oli was washing, but very soon, struck by the other’s sharp glance as his bright eyes darted continually hither and thither, Starkath felt his limbs numbed with secret dread; he stopped in his tracks, then stepped back, checking his hand and his purpose. Someone who had beaten down so many armed generals and champions could not stand the gaze of a single, unarmed rnan. Oli, clearly aware of the effect caused by his look, covered his face and asked Starkath to approach nearer to give whatever message he was bringing; because of their old acquaintance and long-tested friendship any inkling of his treachery was a world away from the king’s thoughts. But the other sprang forward with drawn blade and plunged it into the king, hitting him in the throat as he struggled to rise. They put down pounds of gold as the old man’s reward. Later he was stung with shame and remorse; his grief over the felony he had committed was so bitter that, if any mention were made of it, he could not restrain his tears. When he came to his senses, his conscience blushed at the enormity of his guilt. In revenge for his own crime he killed several of those who had instigated him to it, thus taking satisfaction for the deed to which he had lent his hand. The Danes appointed Ømund, Oli’s son, king, believing that more attention should be paid to his parent’s rank than his deserts. When he grew to manhood he was no whit inferior to his father in achievements. Indeed, he bent his energies towards equalling or surpassing everything Oli had, accomplished. There was at that time a ruler of a sizeable people among the Northmen, Ring, whose daughter Esa, through her high reputation, had recommended herself to Ømund’s favour when he was looking about for a wife. But his hopes of biddng for her hand were diminished by Ring’s exclusive preoccupation. He desired only a son-in-law of proven valour, for to him as much honour was to be achieved by feats of arms as others think resides in wealth. Ømund therefore, in order to gain distinction in that type of renown and win praise for his bravery, endeavoured to obtain his wishes by force and so took his fleet to Norway with the idea of making an attempt on Ring’s kingdom under the plea of heredity. He was received in friendly fashion by Oddi, prince of Jæren, for this man maintained that Ring without any doubt had usurped his inheritance, and he deplored the frequent injuries he had suffered at his hands. During a period when Ring was pursuing a piratical expedition in Ireland, Ømund attacked his undefended province; bypassing the property of the ordinary people, he gave Ring’s personal possessions over to be plundered and slew his kinsmen. Oddi had joined forces with him for this purpose. Among all his many and various deeds, Ømund could never bring himself to assault anyone whose forces were fewer than his own, since he kept in mind that he was the son of an extremely courageous father and this led him to depend on valour, not numbers, when he waged war. In the meantime Ring, home from his raids, appeared in the vicinity. Apprised of his return, Ømund fell to constructing a gigantic ship from whose height he could fire missiles on his opponents as from a fortress. He enlisted the rowers Ømoth and Tola, sons of the Scanian Atil, one of whom was instructed to act as steersman, the other to be in command at the prow. Ring too showed no lack of craft and inventiveness in tackling them; displaying a mere fraction of his troops, he struck his enemies from the rear. Through Oddi Ømund learnt of his subtlety and sent men to overpower those who were set in ambush for him, while Atil the Scanian was ordered to encounter Ring. He obeyed this injunction with more readiness than luck, for his fortunes were shattered in the fight, his troops were massacred, and he fled beaten back to Scania. As soon as Oddi had helped him repair his forces, Ømund deployed his fleet for an engagement on the open sea. It was now that Atil saw a clear forecast of the Norwegian war in dream visions; setting sail as quickly as possible in order to redeem himself after his flight, he delighted Ømund by joining him just before the battle. Relying on his help Ømund entered the sea fight with as much success as self-confidence. He conducted the actual combat on his own and thereby regained the victory his followers had lost for him. Ring, mortally wounded, peered at him from lifeless eyes, beckoned, as well as he was able, with a gesture of the hand (for his voice had failed), and begged Ømund to be his son-in-law, declaring that he would accept death happily if he had left his daughter to such a husband. Before he could hear the answer he expired. When Ømund had wept over his departure, he gave one of Ring’s daughters in marriage to Ømoth, whose loyal assistance he had enjoyed during the war, and took the other as his own wife. At that same time the maiden Rusla, surpassing a woman’s temperament in her strenuous military activities, had had frequent clashes with her brother Thrond for the throne of Norway. As she could not bear the idea of Ømund lording it over the Norwegians, she declared war on all who had given their allegiance to the Danes. When a messenger informed Ømund of this, he selected his finest soldiers to quell the rising. But Rusla overcame them and, waxing proud from her victory, her heart transported with extravagant hopes, she set her sights on nothing less than securing the sovereignty of Denmark. First she attacked stretches of Halland, where Ømoth and Tola were sent over by their king to meet her; defeated, she ran from the fight and withdrew to her fleet. She then made away over the water with only thirty ships, the rest having been seized by the enemy. While his sister was steering clear of the Danes, Thrond confronted her with his troops, but suffered defeat and was robbed of his whole army, so that he only escaped by travelling on foot over the Dovrefjell without a single companion. So Rusla, though shortly beforehand she had yielded to the Danes, by conquering her brother turned her flight into triumph. Discovering this, Ømund first dispatched Ømoth and Tola by a short, secret route to rouse the people of Telemark against Rusla’s domination and then took a large navy across to Norway himself. The result was that the common people ejected Rusla from the realm; when the Danes appeared among the islands where she had expected safe refuge, she turned tail without offering resistance. The king hotly pursued her, intercepted her fleet at sea, and destroyed it amid general slaughter; his adversaries suffered almost total annihilation, yet he returned from his conquest with no lives lost and bearing handsome booty. Rusla, however, slipped away with a small number of other vessels, her boat, rowed at high speed, furrowing the waves. While managing to evade the Danes, she ran into her brother, who cut her to pieces. Unforeseen dangers often have more effectual power to harm us, and in many cases the situation makes the evils we fear less more perilous than those we feel threatened by. After Thrond had been granted the governorship for eliminating his sister and the remainder compelled to pay tribute, the king returned to his own country. During this period Thori and Beri, the most energetic of Rusla’s soldiers, were freebooting in Ireland. Becoming acquainted with the death of their mistress, which they had long ago sworn to revenge, they purposefully sought out the king and issued a summons to incite him into combat. At one time it was considered a dishonour for kings to decline such provocations. For the fame of our ancient princes was gauged more by prowess in arms than by riches. Ømoth and Tola approached the king to offer to meet his challengers in battle. Ømund praised them warmly but at first refused to accept their aid, wishing to avoid disgrace. Finally, however, he yielded to the persistent entreaties of his followers and consented to try his fortune through others’ hands. Tradition tells how Beri fell in the contest, while Thori withdrew from the fight gravely injured. The king first cured the latter of his wounds, shortly afterwards accepted his fealty, and then made him jarl of Norway. Later on, when envoys were dispatched to levy the usual tribute from the Wends, not only did they massacre the envoys, but attacked Ømund with a Wendish force in Jutland; he overthrew seven kings in the one encounter, a victory which reestablished his customary right to the impost. Meanwhile Starkath was worn out from an already prolonged life; since he was now regarded as retired from military campaigns and combat duty, yet was loth to see his long-standing glory and distinction dissipate through the failings of old age, he thought it would be honourable to embrace a voluntary end and hasten on death at his own decision. This man, who had fought so many splendid battles, judged it beneath him to meet a bloodless death; so that he could enhance the brilliance of his past life by a glorious departure, he chose to be slain by someone of noble blood rather than await the overdue javelin of Nature. Dying through illness was once thought as discreditable as this by individuals who were dedicated to warfare. Detesting the delay of a lingering existence because of his frail body and dimmed vision, he used to carry, hanging at his neck, the gold which he had earned for destroying Oli, so that he could buy an executioner; he believed no way would be more fitting to atone for his profane outrage of kingship than to make the reward for his own murder the same that he had received for Oli’s, and pay for the loss of his own life with the gold given him for another’s slaughter. This, he reckoned, was the sweetest use he could find for the damnable pelf. He therefore girded himself with two swords and carried two sticks to support and guide his infirm steps. A peasant who noticed him thought the wearing of two swords rather superfluous for an old man and in mockery asked Starkath to let him have one as a gift. The other led him to hope his request would be satisfied, bade him come nearer, drew the blade from his side and ran him through. His action was seen by a certain Hathar, whose father, Lenni, Starkath had killed some time back in a fit of repentance after the king’s assassination; this man, who was hunting wild creatures with his hounds, abandoned the chase and told two of his friends to spur their horses furiously and ride them hard at the old man to fill him with terror. They charged forward, but when they wished to gallop away Starkath’s sticks cut off their retreat and they paid for it with their lives. The sight struck deep panic into Hathar; he sped on horseback nearer to Starkath, recollected who he was (though he was not recognized by the old man), and asked him if he would like to exchange one of his swords for a carriage. It had once been his habit, Starkath answered, to penalize jeerers; no jackanapes who insulted him ever went scot-free. But with his defective eyesight he could not make out the young man’s features. He therefore composed a song of the following kind to reveal the pitch of his vexation: ‘As river waters sweep along their channel unreturning, so the gliding years of human life flow swift and irreversible, rush on their fatal course helped by old age, which will fetch an end to all. Age damages men’s eyes and footsteps alike, steals their tongues and minds, slowly extinguishes the brightness of fame, and smears away their shining deeds; it seizes on tottering limbs, chokes the task of the breathless voice, and weighs down the nimble brain under listlessness. When a cough is born, and flesh scabs and itches, and hollow teeth grow numb, and the stomach turns squeamish, then age sends into banishment youthful grace, fouls the shrivelled complexion, and plants many a wrinkle on the darkened skin. It crushes noble skills, obliterates the monuments of our fathers, chars the titles of ancient glory, demolishes wealth, seizes and gnaws away the worth and practice of valour, overturns all things, throws them into confusion. I too have learnt the harms of pernicious age: diseased eyes, hoarseness in larynx and chest, all a man’s advantages flowing in reverse. With props I assist my body, less sprightly now, leaning flabby limbs on supporting staves. Bereft of sight, I control my steps with twin wands, follow the shortest path directed by rods, and trust the guidance of sticks instead of vision. No one takes care of me, no soldier brings comfort to a veteran, unless Hathar were here . to help his shattered friend. Once he honours anyone with his dutiful affection, true to his purpose he attends him with the same unflagging warmth, dreading to snap their initial bonds. Frequently he bestows fitting rewards on war heroes, venerates their spirit, grants his esteem to the valiant, and reveres famous comrades with gifts. He scatters riches, strives to amass glowing renown by his bounty and surpass many of the mighty. Nor does his strength for the fight fall below his sense of duty; quick to take arms, slow to waver, ready to start the fray, yet ignorant how to . turn his back on a pressing foe. But Fate, as I recall, appointed me at my birth to pursue battle and fall in battle, mingle in the uproar, lavish attention on weapons, and lead a life of bloodshed. Denied repose, I haunted the camp, and disdaining peace grew old under your standards, War-god, amid maximum danger; I have thought it creditable to skirmish, vanquishing fear, scandalous to remain idle, glorious to commit widespread carnage and ply slaughter on slaughter. Often I have seen monarchs stern in combat clash, shields and headpieces pounded, the fields steeped in blood, breast-mail broken with the spear points still embedded, hauberks everywhere yielding to the thrust of the sword, and wild beasts revelling as they fed on the unburied soldiers. Then, as someone by chance was bent on a noble exploit, hands powerful in strife, while he wrestled in a circle of foes, another split the corselet drawn over his head, perforated the helmet, and plunged the blade into his scalp. This sword, unsheathed and driven by my arm in war, cleaving men’s headgear, has often lodged in their skulls.’ Hathar replied with the following strains: ‘Where do you come from, adept composer of native poetry, supporting an uncertain tread with a frail staff? Where are you making for, fluent bard of a Danish muse? Devoid of that rare strength, all grace has faded away, the colour is exiled from your face, pleasure dismissed from your soul, the voice has forsaken your throat and now only grates sluggishly; your body has lost its former quality, decay has at last taken over, consumed your vigour and natural appearance. As a boat buffeted by incessant waves develops cracks, so old age brought on by the long train of years produces bitter death, life is discharged of its force and goes to ruin, loses its early condition. Who forbade you, famous old man, to perform the regular youthful frolics, toss a ball, crack nuts between your teeth? Better you should now sell your sword and buy a carriage for normal travel and a steed easy to rein, or purchase a light chariot at the same price. Better that infirm elders, whose steps betray them, be drawn by mules; turning wheels are more use to one who staggers on hopeless feet. But if you happen to object to selling that piece of scrap metal, your sword will be snatched away and deal your death blow.’ Starkath replied: ‘Villain, your lips are glib in sowing rash talk, inharmonious to a good man’s ear. Why do you ask a reward for guidance, something one offers voluntarily? I shall go on these feet of mine, not basely relinquish my blade to purchase outside assistance; Nature gave me the right to walk, told me to trust in my own two soles. Why do you, who ought of your own accord to be leading me along the road, shower mockery, banter me with insolent words, throw on the heap all those deeds I performed to deserve lasting glory, rewarding my merits with reproach? Why attack with laughter an aging warrior, thrust disgrace on my unimpaired renown and glittering feats, tread down my fame, and slander my valour? What honest claim have you to demand a sword unsuited to your powers? This is no weapon for a weakling’s flank or the peasant hand of a cowman wont to entice music from a reed pipe, tend his flock, and supervise herds in the meadows. Your place is surely among the servants, next to the greasy pot where you steep morsels in the broth of the foaming stew-pan, dip thin crusts in abundance of oily fat, thirstily suck the warm soup from your stealthy finger; skilled at spreading your everyday cloak on the ashes, you sleep on the hearth, doze often during sunlight, busily do your duties in the steaming kitchen, but seldom make brave blood flow in the field with your shafts. Avoider of light, lover of filthy corners, contemptible slave of your belly, you are valued no more than a cur which licks up dusty meal and husks. By heaven, you didn’t seek to strip me of my sword on that day when in utmost peril I became thrice conqueror of Oli’s son. Truly amid that gathering this hand could break a sabre or rend any obstacle, so weighty was its blow. What of the time when first I taught them to run on wood-shod feet down the shore of Kurland, that path strewn with countless spikes? When I purposed to enter those fields thick with iron caltrops, I armed their torn soles underneath with pattens. Then I killed Hama, who met me with massive strength; soon together with Vin, son of the chieftain Flebak, I crushed the Kurlanders and those races reared in Estland and in Semgallia. Later, attacking Telemark I came away with my crown bloodstained and bruised from the strokes of hammers, battered by the tools of smiths. Here I first learnt what power is contained in the implements of anvils and how much spirit lies in the common people. The Teutons too were punished at my hand, when I felled your sons, Sverting, over their cups, men who were guilty of Frothi’s wicked murder, the master I avenged. No lesser deed was wrought when for a precious maid I slaughtered seven brothers in a single contest, where the wasted ground, in which the parched sod never gives birth to new grass, witnessed my entrails escaping. Soon we subdued Kærer the commander, as he designed a war at sea, his ships crammed with superlative soldiers. Then I dealt death to Vaske, punished the shameless smith by puncturing his buttocks, and destroyed Visin with my sword though he blunted weapons from his snowy cliffs. Next I defeated the four sons of Ler and the champions of Biarmaland. After seizing the king of the Irish people, I ravaged Dublin’s wealth; my courage shall always remain vivid, from the trophies of Bråvalla. What more? My valiant achievements surpass number, and if I try to recount and celebrate in their entirety the feats of this hand, I give up; the total sum transcends description; my performance defeats reporting, nor can speech correspond with my actions.’ Thus Starkath. At last, in talking with him, he became aware that Hathar was Lenni’s son and realized the young man came of a distinguished family; he offered him his throat to cut, urging him not to shrink from taking satisfaction for his father’s murder. He promised that if Hathar complied, he would become possessor of that gold which Starkath had received from Lenni. To goad Hathar into a fiercer mood towards him, he is said to have egged him on like this: ‘Also, Hathar, I bereaved you of Lenni, your father; pay me back, I beg, strike down an old man who longs to die, seek my throat with avenging steel. For my spirit wishes this service from a noble headsman, but shudders to demand its doom from the right hand of a coward. A man may justly choose to anticipate Destiny’s law; what you cannot flee, you may even take in advance. A young tree must be nourished, an ancient one hewn down. Whoever overthrows what is close to its fate and fells what cannot stand is an executant of Nature. Death comes best when craved, life becomes tedious when the end is desired; don’t let disagreeable age prolong insupportable circumstances.’ With these words he proffered money drawn from his purse. Hathar, excited by a passion to enjoy the fee no less than to take revenge for his father, guaranteed that he would not spurn the payment but carry out his wishes. Starkath willingly offered him his sword and then bent forward his head beneath it; he urged Hathar not to fulfil his task of executioner squeamishly or handle the blade effeminately, and told him that if, when he had killed him but before the body dropped, he could leap between the fallen head and torso, he would be rendered proof against any weapon. It is uncertain whether he said this to instruct his murderer or to punish him. Possibly the uncommon bulk of Starkath’s body might have struck him down as he sprang. Hathar, then, drove his sword vigorously and lopped off ihe old man’s head. The story tells how, severed from the trunk, it snapped at the soil with its teeth as it hit the ground, the fury of the dying jaws indicating his savage temper. Afraid that there could be treachery underlying the promise, his slayer prudently refrained from leaping. If he had thoughtlessly done so, he might have been crushed under the impact of the descending body and paid for the old man’s murder with his own life. Not wishing to let such a magnificent champion lie without a tomb, he gave orders for his corpse to be buried in the plain which people call Røliung. I have learnt that Ømund died in utmost serenity during a period of unbroken peace, leaving behind two sons and as many daughters. The eldest of them, Sigvarth, duly inherited the kingdom while his brother Buthli was still a lad. It was at this time that Gøtar, the Swedish king, fell hopelessly in love with Ømund’s younger daughter through hearing of her ravishing beauty and gave the diplomatic responsibility of treating for her hand to someone named Ebbi, Sibbi’s son. By handling the negotiations adroitly, he brought back welcome news of the girl’s consent. All Götar’s wishes were now satisfied except for the wedding, but, apprehensive about conducting the ceremony among foreigners, he sent an earnest request by the same ambassador that Ebbi be allowed to escort his betrothed over to him. When he was crossing Halland with a fairly small retinue, Ebbi stopped to put up for the night in a rural hamlet where two brothers lived on opposite sides of a river. It was their habit to murder guests they had received hospitably, for they were adept at hiding their villainy under a cloak of kindness. They had hung, high up in the ceiling on hidden chains, a longish beam, somewhat like a wine-press, tipped with a sharp iron edge; during the night they would release its fastenings and send it falling to decapitate those lying beneath. The suspended machine had hacked off a vast number of heads in just such a manner. After the visitors had been treated to a lavish dinner, servants laid bedding by the hearth for Ebbi and his folk so that the devilish apparatus would come crashing down and shear their necks, which would be stretched towards the fire. When they went off, Ebbi looked up at the contrivance slung overhead and told his companions to pretend to fall asleep and then shift their bodies, declaring that they would find a change of position very salutary. But some who were not Ebbi’s dependants despised the warning which the remainder observed; wherever they discovered a place to lie these sank down to rest without stirring. As deep darkness drew on, accomplices in the plot set the hanging weight of the guillotine in motion. Shaking it from its moorings, they let it plummet down to earth to destroy those below. As soon as the perpetrators of the crime had fetched a light to gain a clearer picture of the results, they realized that Ebbi, on whose behalf more than any they had undertaken it all, had coped skilfully with the danger. Immediately he rushed upon them and wreaked satisfaction in blood. Both parties suffered casualties and Ebbi, having lost his men, had to face the river, which was thick with lumps of ice, but managed to cross it when he chanced to find a boat; the account he gave to Götar was more concerned with the hazardous adventure than the outcome of his mission. Götar, assuming the business had proceeded under Sigvarth’s instigation, prepared to make armed reprisal for the crime. When Sigvarth had been attacked and defeated by him in Halland and his sister captured by his opponents, he retreated to Jutland. Afterwards he won as much esteem through subduing a mob of Wends, who had ventured battle without a commander, as he had incurred disgrace by fleeing. Nevertheless the same company he had beaten when they were leaderless very soon forced him to yield them victory in Funen after they had found a chief. Though he fought them repeatedly in Jutland, it was with scant success. As a result he was divested of Scania and Jutland, and retained merely the central parts of his kingdom like fragments of a consumed body without the head. His son Jarmerik went as spoil to the enemy along with his two very young sisters; one was sold to the Norwegians, the other to the Germans, for in those days marriageable girls were frequently put up for auction. Thus the Danish kingdom, so bravely extended, decked so gloriously by our forebears, enhanced by so many conquests, through one man’s lassitude sank from the highest splendour of its fortunes devilish apparatus would come crashing down and shear their necks, which would be stretched towards the fire. When they went off, Ebbi looked up at the contrivance slung overhead and told his companions to pretend to fall asleep and then shift their bodies, declaring that they would find a change of position very salutary. But some who were not Ebbi’s dependants despised the warning which the remainder observed; wherever they discovered a place to lie these sank down to rest without stirring. As deep darkness drew on, accomplices in the plot set the hanging weight of the guillotine in motion. Shaking it from its moorings, they let it plummet down to earth to destroy those below. As soon as the perpetrators of the crime had fetched a light to gain a clearer picture of the results, they realized that Ebbi, on whose behalf more than any they had undertaken it all, had coped skilfully with the danger. Immediately he rushed upon them and wreaked satisfaction in blood. Both parties suffered casualties and Ebbi, having lost his men, had to face the river, which was thick with lumps of ice, but managed to cross it when he chanced to find a boat; the account he gave to Götar was more concerned with the hazardous adventure than the outcome of his mission. Götar, assuming the business had proceeded under Sigvarth’s instigation, prepared to make armed reprisal for the crime. When Sigvarth had been attacked and defeated by him in Halland and his sister captured by his opponents, he retreated to Jutland. Afterwards he won as much esteem through subduing a mob of Wends, who had ventured battle without a commander, as he had incurred disgrace by fleeing. Nevertheless the same company he had beaten when they were leaderless very soon forced him to yield them victory in Funen after they had found a chief. Though he fought them repeatedly in Jutland, it was with scant success. As a result he was divested of Scania and Jutland, and retained merely the central parts of his kingdom like fragments of a consumed body without the head. His son Jarmerik went as spoil to the enemy along with his two very young sisters; one was sold to the Norwegians, the other to the Germans, for in those days marriageable girls were frequently put up for auction. Thus the Danish kingdom, so bravely extended, decked so gloriously by our forebears, enhanced by so many conquests, through one man’s lassitude sank from the highest splendour of its fortunes to revisit his homeland and become acquainted with his kindred. Knowing that the queen had planted adequate guards to stop any prisoners escaping, he saw to it that what he could not attain by force he should rise to through artifice. Consequently he wove a basket of rushes and osiers of the kind that countrymen used to construct in a man’s shape in order to scare birds from the corn, and put a live dog inside; then he removed his clothes and draped the dummy with them to give it a more plausible human likeness. Next he broke open the king’s personal coffers, purloined the treasure, and hid it in places known only to himself. Meanwhile Gunni was instructed to keep his friend’s absence secret; he brought the basket into the palace, goaded the dog into barking, and, when the queen asked him what was happening, replied that Jarmerik was making this racket because he had lost his wits. Misled by the figure’s delusive appearance, she ordered him to throw the madman out of the house. Gunni carried the effigy outside and put it to bed just as if it were his frenzied companion. Towards nightfall he led the guards on to make merry and drink copious draughts of wine at their feasting; when they had fallen asleep, he chopped off their heads and attached them to their groins to make their deaths more unsightly. The queen, roused by the din and anxious to find out the cause, rushed to the doors. As she poked her head out rather unwarily, Gunni all of a sudden stabbed her with his sword. Collapsing to the floor with a mortal wound, she turned her eyes up to her assassin and said: ‘If I’d been allowed to stay alive, you wouldn’t have got away from this land unpunished, for all your tricks and pretences.’ A flood of such threats poured from the dying woman upon her killer. Then Jarmerik together with Gunni, his partner in this famous enterprise, went to the tent in which the king was holding the funeral banquet for his brother; since everyone had been overcome with liquor, they stealthily set it ablaze. However, as the flames spread more extensively, some of the inmates shook off their drunken stupor, untied their horses, and, having discovered who the fire-raisers were, gave chase. The young men at first rode off on beasts they had found, but when their mounts were eventually worn out by the long gallop, the two continued their flight on foot. They were very nearly caught when a river proved their salvation. They had previously sawn through to the middle of the timbers on the bridge to delay pursuit, so that it was now unable to bear loads and on the verge of collapse; l his they circumvented and purposely drew off into the dark depths of the water. The Wends, hot on their trail, little foresaw the danger and, incautiously weighting the bridge with their steeds, were unseated and pitched headlong into the river when the boards gave way. As they were swimming clear and making for the bank, they (bund their path blocked by Gunni and Jarmerik, who either drowned or slaughtered them. With excellent cunning these youths brought off a feat beyond their years, carrying out their intelligent plan efficiently, not like escaped slaves but elders gifted with wisdom. When they came to the coast they stole a random boat and sailed out to the open sea. The pursuing barbarians caught sight of them in the vessel and tried to halloo them back, promising that if they returned, they would become rulers, since an ancient ordinance of the state prescribed that a king’s slayers should succeed to his throne. For a long while the constant shouts of the Wends deafened their receding ears with these seductive promises. During that period Sigvarth’s brother Buthli was governing the Danes as regent; when Jarmerik returned they compelled Buthli to resign the realm to him and descend from monarch to private citizen. At the same time Götar accused Sibbi of raping his sister and executed him. Sibbi’s relatives, deeply upset by his death, ran wailing to Jarmerik and promised they would join him in attacking Götar to avenge their kinsman. Nor were they negligent in fulfilling these pledges. With their aid Jarmerik overthrew Götar and attained possession of Sweden. Now that he exerted control over two nations, he felt enough confidence in his increased power to attempt battle with the Wends. After capturing forty prisoners he hanged them, each with a wolf tied to his body. He wished to inflict on his enemies a method of punishment at one time reserved for murderers of kinsfolk, to make it plain to observers, from their juxtaposition with such savage creatures, what cruel predators these people were on the Danes. Once he had subdued their territory, he stationed garrisons at suitable points. From there he set out to wreak havoc in Samland, Kurland, and many countries in the East. With the king thus occupied, the Wends reckoned they had a fine opportunity to revolt against him and, having butchered their overlords, ravaged Denmark. On the voyage back from his raiding, Jarmerik chanced to intercept their fleet and annihilated it, an achievement which adorned his previous record of victories. The way he put their nobles to death was pitiful to watch: first piercing their shins with thongs he straight away secured them to the hooves of monstrous bulls; when hunting dogs were set on these animals, they dragged the victims pell-mell through mud and mire. This incident took the edge off the Wends’ spirits and henceforth they acknowledged the king’s rule in fear and trembling. Jarmerik, enriched with the plunder of so many races, wished to make a dwelling which would be safe from ransack; therefore he erected a building of wonderful workmanship on top of a high cliff. He gathered clods of earth to construct a mound, threw in piles of stones for the foundations, and encircled the bottom with a rampart, the middle with balconies, the top with battlements; and all round he posted permanent sentinels. Massive gates at the four points of the compass allowed free access. In this magnificent mansion he collected all the accoutrements of his wealth. When he had settled his home affairs in this way, he once more turned his ambition to matters abroad. Soon after beginning his voyage he encountered at sea four brothers, hardened and zealous pirates from the Hellespont, and lost no time before tackling them in a naval battle. This was waged for three days till he called it off, having settled for betrothal with their sister, together with half the tribute they had imposed on those they had vanquished. Following this, Bikki, son of the Livonian king, escaped from captivity under the brothers I have just mentioned and came to Jarmerik still nursing the memory of an outrage, for he had once been robbed of his own brothers by this Danish ruler. Jarmerik received him kindly and in a short time Bikki became the sole confidant of all his secrets. As soon as he perceived that the monarch responded to his advice on every topic, in his role of consultant he incited Jarmerik to the most execrable deeds and drove him to commit shameful crimes. By pretending subservience he sought to discover some device for injuring him. He particularly stirred him against his nearest relations. In this way he endeavoured to achieve fraternal revenge by treachery where he was unable to do it forcibly. Eventually the king renounced virtue for squalid vices and through the savage acts prompted by his insidious guide made himself generally hated. The Wends also rose in rebellion against him. To quash it, Jarmerik captured the leaders, thrust ropes through their calves, and had them torn apart by horses dragging in opposite directions. The execution of the nobles by dismembering was his method of penalizing their stubborn tempers. This measure kept the Wends obedient in their state of unvaried, firm subjugation. Meanwhile Jarmerik’s sister’s sons, who had been born and reared in Germany, took up arms against their uncle on the strength of their grandfather’s title, contending that they had as much right to rule as he. The king demolished their German fortresses with his war engines, blockaded or took a large number of towns, even razing several to the ground, and won for his countrymen a victory without loss of Danish lives. The Hellespontine brothers met him, bringing their sister for his bride as they had stipulated. After the wedding had been celebrated, at Bikki’s instigation he again made for Germany, where he captured his nephews and had no hesitation in taking their lives with the noose. Gathering together the aristocracy under pretence of a banquet he ensured that they too were dispatched on the same pattern. In the meantime Brodér, the king’s son by a previous marriage, undertook to look after his stepmother, a duty he fulfilled with the utmost vigilance and probity. Bikki, however, charged him with incest before Jarmerik and, to substantiate his false claim, brought corrupt witnesses to testify against him. When the case for the prosecution had been fully presented and Brodér was unable to support himself with any defence, Jarmerik ordered friends to pass sentence on the condemned, for he thought it less impious to delegate the punishment of his son to others than dispense judgement himself. The decree of the rest was that he should be outlawed, but Bikki did not flinch from voting the harsher penalty of death, asserting that anyone who could perpetrate such an unspeakable seduction must be duly hanged. So that this might not be deemed to proceed from his father’s cruelty, he proposed that Brodér should be fastened with a noose and stood on a beam which was supported by attendants; as soon as weariness of the weight made them withdraw their hands, they would be as good as responsible for the young man’s execution and, by carrying the blame themselves, clear the king from the bloodguilt of his son. Moreover, unless the charge were properly followed by retribution, he asserted, the youth would set a snare for his father’s life. To guarantee that the adulteress Svanhild met a foul death, she must be trampled beneath the hooves of a herd of animals. ro. The king followed Bikki’s advice and, when his son was brought to the gallows, had the bystanders hold him up on a plank so that he would not be throttled immediately. The harmless cord, straining very loosely at his throat, exhibited merely the appearance of hanging. Jarmerik delivered the queen, however, to be tightly trussed on the ground and crushed beneath the feet of horses. According to the story she was so lovely that even the very beasts cringed from mangling limbs of such sheer beauty under their dirty hooves. The king, guessing that proof had been given of his wife’s innocence, began to feel repentant for his misjudgement and hastened to untie the slandered woman. But as he was doing so Bikki flew to his side to affirm that the queen, lying on her back, was terrifying the animals with dreadful spells, nor could they batter her unless she were turned face downwards; he realized that her comeliness had helped to save her. After she had been placed in this position, the herd were driven in and gouged deep into her body as they stamped all over it. That was Svanhild’s end. ro. Meanwhile the dog which had been an old companion of Brodér approached the king uttering what sounded like groans, as though it were bewailing its master’s suffering, while his falcon, which had been brought to the spot, began to pluck out its innermost feathers with its beak. Jarmerik concluded that this self-stripping was an augury of his own bereavement and, to forestall the omen, sent someone at top speed to rescue his son from the halter. The featherless bird led him to predict that if he were incautious he would be left without children. Once Brodér had been delivered from mischief, Bikki, fearing he would pay for his denunciation, made it his busines to inform the Hellespontines that Svanhild had been brutally murdered by her husband. As they set sail to revenge their sister, Bikki returned to Jarmerik and revealed that the Hellespontines were intending war. Reckoning he had a better chance if he fought from within his walls rather than on the battlefield, the king retreated into the stronghold he had erected. There he filled the inner recesses with supplies and the battlements with men at arms in order to withstand a siege. Shields and small bucklers glittering with gold were hung decoratively round the topmost circle of the building. It so happened that before the Hellespontines shared out their booty, they killed a large number of their own fellows who had been accused of embezzlement. Because this intestine massacre had annihilated so sizable a proportion of their forces and they believed the storming of the royal castle too ambitious for their strength, they consulted a witch named Guthrun. By her magic the king’s defenders were suddenly robbed of sight and turned their weapons against one another. Perceiving this, the Hellespontines seized the approaches to the gates by coming up under a mantlet of shields. Next, after tearing out the doorposts and bursting into the building, they chopped down the blind platoons of their foes. In the mélée Odin appeared, seeking the very thick of the fighting, and by his divine power counteracted the sorcery to restore the Danes’ stolen vision, for he had always fostered them with a fatherly affection. Although the Hellespontines habitually used charms to toughen their bodies against weapons, he taught the Danes how to pound them severely with a hail of stones. In this way each band was destroyed in the mutual slaughter. Jarmerik’s mutilated body, with hands and both feet lopped off, rolled among the dead. His successor was Brodér, one who was ill-suited to the throne.Sigvald reigned after him. While Sigvald was growing old, his son Snio undertook vigorous acts of piracy and thereby not only saved his country’s depressed fortunes, but revived its ancient character. Once he had assumed the crown, he curbed the haughty champions Eskil and Alkil, a victory which brought Scania back into the fold, for it had earlier been withdrawn from the inclusiveness of Danish power. After a time he fell in love with the king of Götaland’s daughter, and she with him; messengers were dispatched in secret to attempt to arrange a rendezvous with her. The girl’s father intercepted them and they were punished for their imprudent mission by being hanged. In his desire to deal revenge Snio had taken the offensive against Götaland when he encountered the king with his forces; the Göta monarch told him to settle the issue by a contest between selected champions, whereupon Snio laid down conditions for the duel: each king should lose his own or acquire the other’s power according to the differing fates of the warriors, the kingdom of the defeated side to constitute the prize of victory. The outcome was that the king of Götaland, vanquished through the ill-fortune of his defenders, was forced to yield his dominion to the Danes. When Snio discovered that the girl had been pressed by her father into marriage with the Swedish king, he sent someone to her to sound out her feelings; this was a ragged fellow who used to crave alms along the public highways. After he had taken his place, as beggars do, near the threshold, he happened to catch sight of the queen and whined in feeble, sing-song tones: ‘Snio loves you.’ Though it reached her ears, she pretended not to have heard the sound and without turning her gaze or step went straight on into the palace; then, reappearing quickly, she answered with an indistinct, scarcely audible whisper: ‘And I love my lover.’ These were her only words before she walked away. The beggar was delighted she had given word that she returned Snio’s love and the next day, as the lady came near the door where he sat, he spoke with his usual brevity: ‘Your wish needs a place.’ She departed again, showing not the slightest sign that she had gathered any import from his squeaky voice. A little later, she passed close to her questioner and declared she would shortly be going to Bökerör; that was the place she intended to make for when she fled. When the beggar had learned this, he persisted with the same sharp enquiries to discover a time suitable for her undertaking. Equally cunning and enigmatic in her speech, she named, as quickly as she could, the beginning of winter. Her attendants had overheard the light exchange of this lovemessage, but took her fine ingenuity for the ravings of a complete fool. Once the beggar had told him all this, Snio arranged for the queen to be embarked on a ship after she had departed on the pretext of going for a bathe, taking her husband’s treasure with her. Subsequently he and the Swedish king fought again and again for supremacy, the one trying to regain his proper bride, the other striving to keep her in his unlawful possession, but, as victory went this way and that, the issue was undecided. At this time the harvest was ruined by severely bad weather, so that the price of corn rose very high. When foodstuffs began to be short and the populace painfully tormented by famine, the king, concerned to find some way of alleviating the seasonal distress, noted that people were spending rather more on beverages than eatables and therefore introduced this economy. He prohibited carousals and decreed that no liquor should be prepared from grain, under the conviction that by banning needless drinking he could dismiss their bitter hunger and allow thirst to lend an easy sufficiency of food. There was a man, rampant in his gluttony, who lamented that the custom of drinking had been banned and therefore resorted to deep guile in order to find a new outlet for his pleasure; for his personal extravagance he exempted himself from the state law of abstinence, obtaining his delight through a clever and laughable operation. By taking the tiniest licks at the prohibited fluid he eventually satisfied his longing to become drunk. When he was hauled before the king for it, he maintained that he had observed the most scrupulous restraint, chastening his voracious thirst by a device for modest consumption, and persisted in clearing himself from blame by saying that he only took minute drops. Finally, to the accompaniment of terrifying threats, he was forbidden not only to quaff but also to sip the liquid; yet even then he was unable to control his habit. In order to enjoy his illegal pastime legally and not have his gullet subordinated to another’s command he would steep crumbs in liquor, then eat the soaked morsels and after a long process of chewing induce the desired state of intoxication; thus he achieved the proscribed measure of satiety within the bounds of the law. So relentless was the fury of his stomach that, sacrificing welfare to selfindulgence and undaunted by royal intimidation, he hardened his heedless appetite to scorn every danger. A second time he was summoned by the king on a similar charge of contravening the regulations. Even now he did not stop defending his actions, but disputed that he had ever opposed his sovereign’s orders or violated the decree of abstention by his own weakness, especially since the edict described the form this frugality should take, for it was apparently prohibited to drink alcohol but not to eat it. Then the king, calling the gods to witness, swore by the common good that the next person who dared to do such a thing would be executed. Deciding that death was a smaller hardship than temperance and that it would be less arduous to relinquish life than his prodigality, the man again boiled up barley and fermented his brew; since he had no hope of putting up any defence to excuse this further greed, he applied himself to his tankards unabashed and indulged openly in tippling; as his cunning had now become brazenness, he preferred to await the monarch’s chastisement rather than turn sober. When the king questioned him as to why he had so often exonerated himself from the prohibition, he replied: ‘This wish, your highness, was due not to my appetite so much as good will towards yourself; I remembered that at royal funerals one must pay the last respects to the dead with carousal. Because I didn’t want the feast celebrating your obsequies to lack ceremonial toasts through scarcity of ale, my mindfulness, not my maw, prompted me to see to the preparation of the forbidden liquor. I’ve no doubt that you’ll die of starvation before the rest and will be the earliest to need a tomb, since this is why you’ve passed this strange law about thriftiness, for fear that you’ll be the first to go short of food. You’re thinking of yourself, not others, when you can bear to introduce these new, miserly habits.’ The fellow’s sophisticated irony changed the king’s wrath to self-reproach. When he realized how his decree for public safety had recoiled to bring derision on himself, he abandoned his plan for the common benefit and rescinded the ordinance, resolving to cancel his decision in preference to incurring the ill-will of his citizens. Whether it was because the ground had had insufficient rainfall or been baked too hard, the seed, as I mentioned before, lay dormant and the fields bore only sparse crops; the region, starved of food, was worn down by a weary famine, nor was there any help available to stave off hunger while provisions were so inadequate. At the instigation of Aio and Ibor a motion was passed that old people and infants should be killed, then all who were too young to carry arms be evicted from the realm and the country given over solely to the able-bodied, so that no one but capable soldiers or farmers should stay to dwell at their hearths under the roofs of their forefathers. When these two men brought the news to their mother, Gambaruk, she saw that the authors of the nefarious decree had grounded their own safety on this crime; condemning the assembly’s decision, she denied that it needed the murder of kindred to rescue them from their predicament and declared that it would be a more decent scheme, and desirable for the good of their souls and bodies, if they preserved the duty owed to parents and children and selected by lot those who should leave the land. Were this to fall on the aged and infirm, stronger individuals should offer to go into exile in their stead, voluntarily undertaking to endure this burden on behalf of the weak. Such men were not entitled to live who had the heart to buy life with wickedness and impiety, who would persecute their parents and children by such an atrocious edict, who were prepared to administer cruelty instead of affection. Finally, all those in whom love of their own existences weighed more than devotion to their families deserved nothing but ill of their country. The majority voted in favour of this new proposal when it was reported back to the assembly. Everyone’s fate was thrown into the urn and all who were marked out by lot were pronounced exiles. In the end those who had been unwilling to bow to necessity of their own accord were forced to obey the dictate of chance. First they voyaged to Blekinge, then sailed past Møre and put in at Gotland, where, according to Paul, prompted by the goddess Frigg, they are said to have adopted the name of Langobards, whose race they later founded. Eventually they steered their way to Rtigen, left the boats, and began to journey overland; they traversed a great extent of the earth, fighting and plundering as they went, and, after spreading carnage far and wide, finally sought a home in Italy, where they changed the ancient name of the people for their own. Meanwhile, as the work of cultivators diminished and the traces of furrows became overgrown through neglect, the Danish land took on a wooded aspect, bristling with the shapeless masses of rising forests, as if it had dispensed with the natural beauty of its turf, and the present-day appearance of its fields also indicates this. The acres that had once been fertile with corn can now be seen thick with tree trunks, and where farmers, turning the soil deeply, scattered the huge clods, woods have now sprung up to enfold the countryside, which still retains vestiges of its old cultivation. If the fields had not remained untilled and gone to waste with long disuse, the clinging tree roots would certainly not have been able to share the soil with ploughed furrows in one and the same area. The mounds which were raised on level tracts by the exertions of our ancestors to bury their corpses have in our day been invaded by clumps of timber. One can still see lying among the woodland glades many piles of stones which were once dispersed over the whole landscape; the country folk took pains to gather these up and throw them into massive heaps so that the ploughshares would not be obstructed in every direction, for they would sooner sacrifice a little of their land than find the whole of it intractable. From the peasants’ efforts to work their fields more easily, people consider that there was at that time a larger population than later, since we are now satisfied with small plots of ground and confine our agriculture within a narrower compass than the outlines of ancient tillage. From appearances in our own age it is therefore amazing that a former grain-producing soil has today become only fit to yield acorns, that the rustic plough handle and blades of corn have given way to prospects dotted with trees. I have set down these facts about Snio’s reign as reliably as I could and they must suffice. Snio was succeeded by Biorn and after him Harald came to supreme power. His son Gorm achieved a position of significant honour among the old Danish leaders for the renown of his active life. This man was enterprising in a novel way, for he preferred to exercise the spirit of adventurousness he had inherited not with weapons, but by investigating features of natural phenomena; as other princes were stimulated by a craze for war, he was excited by a deep-seated passion to discover marvels, either hit upon through his own experience or divulged by word of mouth. As he was bent on viewing things strange and rare, he decided that before all else he must test a report he had heard from the Icelanders, of the place where a certain Geirroth dwelt. They would throw out unbelievable statements about the immense heap of riches there, but the road thither was said to be fraught with every peril and for mortals almost impassable. Those who were knowledgeable claimed that you had to sail across the Ocean which girds the earth, putting the sun and stars behind your back, journey beneath the realm of night, and pass finally into the regions which suffer perennial darkness without a glimmer of daylight. Yet Gorm stamped out any fear of these besetting dangers in his youthful heart, which yearned not for gain so much as glory; he hoped that high distinction would accrue to him, if he could only venture on a quest never yet attempted. Three hundred volunteers proclaimed their wish to accompany the king and it was decided to enlist the originator of the story, Thorkil, as guide to their expedition, inasmuch as he was an expert geographer and well informed of the route to that land. When he had accepted the duty, he ordered them to build ships strong enough to withstand the unprecedented fury of the sea they must navigate; they must be constructed with more than usual solidity, fitted with manyknotted ropes and closely driven nails, filled up with abundant provisions, and covered on top with oxhides to guard the inner quarters from the spray of the encroaching waves. The voyage was undertaken with only three swift galleys, each containing a hundred select men. When they came to Hålogaland, they lost the following breezes and were tossed to and fro on the waters, encountering some tricky sailing hazards. At length there also arose a critical shortage of food so that they ran out of bread and had to stay their hunger with meagre rations of porridge. After a span of days they detected in the far distance the thundering din of a storm which sounded as if it were deluging rocks. Guessing that land was near, they sent an extremely nimble youth to scale the mast as a lookout, upon which he shouted that a precipitous island lay in sight. Overjoyed, they all searched with eager eyes in the direction he had pointed, longing expectantly for the relief of the promised shore. When they had eventually gained it, they struggled along mountainous paths over the intervening slopes to reach the higher ground. There were cattle racing about in droves along the seaboard, but Thorkil forbade the men to take any more than would serve once to stem their appetites; if they herded them away, he said, the guardian deities of the place would stop the mariners departing. But they, more anxious to go on glutting themselves than obey his order, put the temptation to gorge before his advice for their safety and laded the empty holds with the carcasses of slaughtered beasts. The oxen were ridiculously easy to catch because they gathered in amazement, quelling their timidity, at the unusual sight of men. The following night, monsters flew to the shore, filling the woods with their howls and, cutting off the boats, laid siege to them. One of these creatures, more gigantic than the rest and armed with a massive club, waded out into the sea. Striding near, he began to bellow that they would not be allowed to sail away before they had atoned for their outrageous murder of the cattle; they must compensate for the depletion of the sacred herd by handing over one man from each vessel. Thorkil bowed to their threats and delivered those three who had been fixed upon by lot, wishing to keep the majority unscathed by jeopardizing the lives of a few. Immediately this was done, they were wafted forward by a favourable wind and sailed on to the farther coast of Biarmaland. This is a region of everlasting cold, spread with deep snows, for it does not experience the sun’s vigour even in summer; abounding in trackless forests, it is incapable of producing crops and is haunted by animals uncommon elsewhere. There are many rivers, whose courses are churned into the foam of roaring rapids by the reefs embedded in their channels. Here, when they had drawn up their boats on the shore, 'Thorkil instructed them to pitch their tents and added that they had now reached a point from which the passage to Geirrøth would be short. He forbade conversation with anyone who overtook them, stressing that nothing gave the giants more power to harm newcomers than words uttered discourteously and he warned his comrades that it would be safer for them to stay silent; only he could speak without harm, since he had observed the customs and habits of this race before. As evening drew on, a man of extraordinary stature came up and greeted the seamen by their names. Since all the others remained dumbfounded, Thorkil advised them to give him a cheerful reception, introducing him as Guthmund, Geirrøth’s brother, one who conscientiously guarded from danger all who landed there. When the giant wondered why the rest kept so quiet, he replied that, as they were quite unused to his language, their ignorance of the tongue made them feel ashamed. Guthmund then invited them to be his guests and offered them carriages to ride in. While they were travelling along, they discerned a river spanned by a bridge of gold. When they wanted to cross it Guthmund called them back, telling them that the bed of this stream formed a natural boundary between the human and the supernatural worlds and no mortal was permitted to step beyond it. Presently they came to their guide’s house and were conducted within. There Thorkil, drawing his company to one side, began to urge them to play a diligent role among the variety of tests they might encounter; they must abstain from delicacies which were alien to them and be sure to sustain themselves with their own provender; they should touch no one as they sat down at the table but look for seats away from the native residents. Anyone who partook of their fare would become one of the fearful swarms of monsters, lose his remembrance of everything, and have to lead a squalid life in that community ever afterwards. Similarly he told them not to set a finger on the servants or the cups they offered. The twelve sons of Guthmund, excellent in their talents, stood round the tables and likewise his twelve daughters, renowned for their beauty. When Guthmund noticed that the king was only tasting the food his own servants brought him, he upbraided Gorm for the rejection of his hospitality and complained that he was being uncivil to his host. But Thorkil had ready a suitable excuse for his behaviour. He reminded him that men who ate unusual foodstuffs were often badly upset; the king was not ungrateful for another’s kindness, rather mindful of his own health, so that he looked after his system in the normal way and had provided for his supper the diet he followed at home. What was done from a wholesome desire to avoid illness should not in any way be put down to contempt. As he saw how the guile beneath his preparations was thwarted by his guests’ sparing habits and that he could not weaken their temperance, Guthmund determined to undermine their chastity and strained with all the power of his ingenuity to sap their self-control. He offered the king one of his daughters in marriage and promised the rest that they should have whichever of his maidservants they asked for. 'Though the majority applauded his proposal, Thorkil also forestalled their surrender to these and all other temptations with a salutary word, and with amazing restraint took pains to behave partly as a wary stranger, partly as a happy guest. Four of the Danes, however, who set Their desires before their safety, received Guthmund’s gift with open arms. The resulting contamination rendered their thoughts distracted and helpless, so that they lost all their old recollection of things, and it is said that after this action they remained in a feeble-minded condition. If only they had kept their conduct within the permitted hounds of discretion, they would have rivalled the fame of Hercules, overcome the giants’ strength by their wills, and have become everglorious for their wonderful services to the nation. Still Guthmund persisted stubbornly in his scheme to lay a I rap; he extolled the delicious produce of his garden and tried hard to lure the king into it to sample his fruits, intent on breaking down his determined cautiousness by putting enticing baits for the palate before his eyes. Against this treachery Gorm was again strengthened by the hacking of Thorkil to reject the supposedly indulgent politeness; he excused himself from eating with the plea that he must now hasten on with his journey. Since Guthmund believed that his own wits had proved inferior to Gorm’s at every point, he despaired of accomplishing his wiles and, having conveyed them all to the farther bank of the river, allowed them to pursue their expedition. Moving on, they beheld in the near distance a gloomy, decayed town, looking most of all like a misty cloud. Stakes raised at intervals along the battlements displayed the severed heads of men. Before the gates they saw dogs of uncommon savagery keeping vigilant watch over the entrance. By throwing a horn smeared with fat for them to lick, Thorkil calmed their bounding fury at little cost. The gate entry stood open high above them, but by propping up their ladders to reach it they gained the lofty point of access. Within, black misshapen spectres thronged the city, and you could hardly tell which was more frightful, the sight or sound of these gibbering phantoms; everything was foul, so that the rotting filth assailed the visitors’ noses with an unbearable stench. They then came upon the stone chamber where, according to rumour, Geirroth kept court. Although they were resolved to explore the confines of its terrifying vault, they checked their steps and stood trembling on the very threshold. Thorkil glanced around at their faltering spirits and with manly encouragements dispelled their hesitancy to enter; but he warned them to exercise self-discipline and not touch any object in the dwelling they were to penetrate, even if it appeared delightful to own or of lovely aspect; they must keep their minds as far from all greed as from fear, and neither desire what would be agreeable to snatch nor be alarmed at anything ghastly to behold, though they would be moving among an abundance of each. Hands which were greedy for loot would suddenly find themselves bound fast and unable to wrench themselves from the article they had fingered, as if tied with unbreakable fetters. He instructed them to enter in an orderly way, by fours. Brodér and Bukki were the first of them to venture in, followed by Thorkil and the king; then the rest stepped forward in regular groups. The hall, completely ruinous within and thick with a vile, powerful odour, they saw crammed with everything which could disgust the eye or mind. The doorposts smeared with age-old soot, the walls plastered with grime, the ceiling composed of spikes, the floor crawling with snakes and spattered with every kind of filth— these unexpected sights terrified the newcomers. Above all, the offensive, undying stench assaulted their unhappy nostrils. The bloodless apparitions of monsters squatted on the iron seats, which were railed off by leaden trellises, while fearful porters were stationed to keep watch at the threshold. Some of these raised a din with bundles of clubs, others played an ugly game of tossing a goatskin to one another. I Iere for a second time Thorkil repeated his warning that they should not rashly stretch out covetous hands towards forbidden objects. Advancing, they saw a shattered section of cliff and not far away on a higher platform an old man with a perforated body sitting opposite the area of broken rock. They saw also three women, their bodies laden with tumours and, so it seemed, with no strength in their backbones, occupying adjacent couches. Since his comrades were curious to know, Thorkil, who was well aware of the reasons behind things, taught them that once the god Thor, harassed by the giants’ insolence, had driven a burning ingot through the vitals of Geirrøth, who was struggling against him, and when this fell farther it had bored through and smashed the sides of the mountain; he confirmed that the women had been struck by the force of Thor’s thunderbolts and had paid the penalty for attacking his divinity by having their bodies broken. When they departed from that spot, they found lying before them seven wine jars encircled with golden hoops, each threaded through with many dangling silver rings. By these they discovered the tusk of a rare beast, its ends edged with gold. Next to this rested a huge aurochs’s horn, carefully set with attractively gleaming jewels and dexterously carved; at its side was to be seen an armlet of amazing weight. One man, inflamed by unbridled avarice, laid his covetous grasp on the gold, unaware that the sheen of its beautiful metal concealed fatal destruction and that deadly peril lurked within this glittering prize. Another too, incapable of restraining his greed, stretched uncontrollable hands towards the horn. A third, matching the other two in selfassurance and unable to discipline his fingers properly, did not flinch from loading the tusk on his shoulders. Though these spoils were delightful to gaze upon, they were pernicious in their operation, for their appearance made them seductive objects to men’s eyes. The armlet turned into a snake and fell with the poisoned tips of its fangs upon the man who wore it; the horn, lengthening into a dragon, took the life of its bearer; the tusk assumed the form of a sword and plunged its point into the bowels of the one who was carrying it. The remainder quailed before the disastrous fate of their companions, for they believed that, though guiltless, they would die like the criminals, expecting that even their innocence would not confer immunity on them. Then the doorway to a farther room showed them a narrower recess in which was disclosed a secret chamber of richer treasures; here war gear too massive to clothe human beings was spread out. Amongst it they saw a royal military cloak with an elegant hat attached and a sword belt of marvellous workmanship. Thorkil was seized with wonder at these, shook off the curb of his desires and shed the control he had resolved upon; after he had so often advised others against it he now did not even manage to check his own cupidity. Putting his hand on the mantle, he offered the rest a rash and daring example, which was nothing short of theft. As soon as this was done, the sanctuary shook from its very foundations and began to rock with a sudden vibration. Immediately a shriek rose from the women that these wicked robbers were being endured too long. Then the wraiths which they had thought halfdead or mere lifeless shades leapt up suddenly from their seats, as if they were obeying the women’s voices, and rushed forward violently to assault the strangers. The remaining creatures raised a hoarse bellowing. Then Brodér and Bukki, reverting to a pursuit they had mastered long ago, retaliated by shooting missiles everywhere among the attacking ghouls and destroyed the band of monsters with the aid of their bows and slings. No other force could have been more effective in warding off their assailants. Yet the intervention of their archery only saved twenty from the whole of the king’s company; the remainder were torn to shreds by the demons. The survivors retraced their steps to the river where Guthmund ferried them over and received them in his home; though he entreated them long and often he could not detain them, but eventually, having given them presents, let them go. At this point Bukki slackened his normal vigilance over himself, relaxed the muscles of his temperance and rejected the manliness he had exercised hitherto; he was seized with hapless love for one of Guthmund’s daughters, and obtained his request for a suicidal marriage; shortly afterwards, his brain overcome with a sudden giddiness, he lost all the memory he ever had. He who had gloriously conquered so many preternatural beings and overcome so many perils was now himself vanquished by passion for one girl; his heart, wandering from the path of self-control, had been set under the wretched yoke of voluptuousness. As a mark of respect he was escorting the king on his depature and was about to cross the ford in his chariot when the wheels sank too deep, so that he was engulfed in the furiously swirling waters and drowned. The king honoured his friend’s death with lamentation, but lost no time before setting sail. At first his voyage was prosperous; later, however, he was battered by contrary gales until his comrades were expiring of starvation; when only a few were still left alive he turned his thoughts to religion and resorted to offering prayers to the gods, reckoning that divine assistance was the only defence in their extreme plight. Finally, whilst the others were imploring the different heavenly powers and deciding that a sacrifice must be made to the majesty of various deities, Gorm solicited Utgartha-Loki with combined vows and propitiations and thus obtained the beneficial spell of weather they desired. On his return home, aware of having passed through all those seas and hardships, he felt that his spirit, worn out with tribulation, should be given a complete rest; he therefore sought to obtain a queen from Sweden and exchanged his previous enthusiasms for a sedate, contemplative life. After he had spent his days with the utmost regard for his own safety and almost reached the end of his existence, because certain individuals had persuaded him with convincing proofs that souls were immortal, he kept turning over in his mind what sort of dwelling he would repair to when the breath had left his body, or what reward was earned by a ready devotion to the gods. As he meditated on these problems, some who were ill-disposed towards Thorkil approached the king and informed him that, to reach any certainty in matters which were beyond the easy understanding of mortals and too deep for human wisdom to penetrate, he would have to gauge the opinion of heaven by consulting divine oracles. He should therefore seek the favour of Utgartha-Loki, none being more fitted to effect this than Thorkil. There were others, too, who accused the latter of treachery and suggested he was an enemy to the king’s life. As soon as Thorkil realized that he had been singled out and his person was imperilled, he demanded that the instigators of the charge should bear him company on his journey. Those who had branded an innocent man, discerning that the danger they had contrived for another individual had now recoiled on themselves, tried to retract their scheme. But pestering the king’s ears with their excuses proved useless; they were even upbraided for timidity and were forced to set sail under the captaincy of Thorkil. When wickedness has been concocted against someone, as often as not it will be driven back surely on its author. Once they saw that they were unavoidably obliged to face the hazard, they covered their ship with oxhides and filled it with a plentiful cargo of provisions. This vessel carried them to a sunless region, a land that knew neither stars nor the light of day but was shrouded in everlasting night. After they had sailed under this strange firmament for some time, their wood finally ran out, so that they had no fuel for their braziers; as there was nowhere to boil meat, they had to stave off their hunger with raw victuals. A large number of the eaters, however, contracted a deadly illness through consuming too much uncooked food. First a weakness, induced by the unaccustomed diet, crept into the stomach and then, as the virus spread further, the disease attacked the vital organs. So the evil was double, for excess could lie either way; fasting was painful, but to indulge the appetite dangerous; you knew it was unsafe to feed yet abstinence was just as detrimental. They had abandoned all hope of salvation when, like a bowstring which breaks more easily if it is stretched rather tightly, they were relieved by a piece of help that dawned unexpectedly. A glimmer of flame suddenly sighted not far away instilled into the prostrate mariners a new optimism that they might continue living. Thorkil decided to collect some of this seemingly god-given bounty and, to be surer of rejoining his shipmates, fixed a flashing jewel as a marker to the top of the mast. Once he had gained the shore his gaze fell on the tiny entrance to a cave approached by a narrow ravine. Telling his companions to wait for him outside, he entered and perceived two enormous, eagle-headed demons, which were replenishing the fire with such tinder as they had managed to gather in their horny beaks. The cave mouth was unsightly, the doorposts in disrepair, the walls black with filth, the ceiling dingy, and the floor infested with snakes, everywhere offensive to the eye and mind. Then one of the giant creatures greeted him and observed that he had embarked on an extremely difficult undertaking; in his burning desire to address an unfamiliar deity he had made acquaintance with this region beyond the world to pursue his search and enquiries. He would tell him the paths to take on his proposed journey if Thorkil could utter three true opinions expressed in the shape of pithy sayings. Thorkil replied: ‘Heaven help me, but I can’t recollect ever having scanned a household with less elegant noses; nor have I been to a place where I’d be more unhappy to live.’ Then again: ‘I’m sure my better foot is the one that can reach the exit first.’ The monster was delighted with Thorkil’s wit and praised the truth of his maxims; he then informed him that he would first need to travel to a land bare of grass and overcast with pitchy gloom. Before he could anchor at his chosen destination, he must endure a lengthy voyage of four days’ constant rowing. There he could see UtgarthaLoki, who had taken a hideous, eery cavern for his squalid dwelling. Thorkil was aghast to learn that he was still forced to sail far and dangerously, but his tentative hopes overcame his present qualms and he asked for a firebrand. The giant bird answered: ‘If you want fire, you must deliver three more statements in as terse a form as before.’ Thorkil replied: ‘Even if it comes from a mean source, good advice must be followed.’ Then: ‘I’ve come so far in my foolhardiness that, should I ever manage to get back, I must thank my feet as much as anything for rescuing me.’ And again: ‘If I were free to withdraw here and now, I’d make sure to restrain myself from returning ever again.’ When he had carried back fire from there to his fellows, they found a kindly breeze and on the fourth day put in at the intended harbour; with his companions Thorkil disembarked in a country where the unchanging face of darkness repressed any alternation of light; though he could adjust his vision only with some difficulty, he made out an unusually vast cliff. Intent on surveying its interior, Thorkil told his comrades, who were standing as sentinels outside, to strike a flame from flints and light a fire at the point of access as a useful safeguard against fiends. After this, with others in front acting as torch-bearers, he squeezed his body into the narrow jaws of the cave and gazed on every side at rows of iron seats festooned with slithering serpents. Next a quiet stretch of water flowing gently over a sandy bed met his eyes. When he had crossed it, he reached a place where the floor of the cavern sloped downwards rather more steeply. From here the visitors could see a murky, repulsive chamber. Inside they discerned Utgartha-Loki, his hands and feet laden with a huge weight of fetters; his rank-smelling hairs were as long and tough as spears of cornel-wood. Thorkil kept one of these as a more visible proof of his labours by heaving at it with his friends till it was plucked from the chin of the unresisting figure; immediately such a powerful stench rolled over the bystanders that if they had not smothered their nostrils in their cloaks they would have been unable to breathe.
They had hardly gained the open air when the snakes flew from every direction and spat over them. Only five of Thorkil’s comrades were able to embark with their captain, for the remainder had been destroyed by the poison. The phrenetic demons hovered above and cast their venomous spittle all over those beneath. The sailors stretched the skins over themselves as umbrellas to keep off the toxic rain. When one of them at this point wished to take a look out, the corrupt matter touched his head and removed it just as if his neck had been sliced off with a sword; another, peeping from under the covers, had been blinded by the time he brought his face back underneath; yet another was unfolding the protective hide when, in thrusting out his hand, he lost his arm from the shoulder through the virulent saliva. While the rest were vainly begging their deities to be better disposed to them, Thorkil addressed prayers to the god of the universe, making appeals and pouring out libations to Him; soon afterwards, enjoying a calmer sky and clearer weather, they made a prosperous voyage. And now they thought they could glimpse another world and the route which led to the territories of men. In the end Thorkil landed in Germany, which in that era had been introduced to Christianity, and there among its people he first began to learn the worship of God. The band of his associates had been sadly depleted through having to breathe in such a strange atmosphere and only a couple of the crew had been bypassed by death to return with him to their fatherland. The wanness of the leader’s face disfigured his appearance and originally handsome features, so that even his friends did not know who he was. Nevertheless, when the filth had been wiped away, he again became recognizable to the onlookers and the king became very excited to find out the results of his quest. Even yet the detraction of his rivals had not been stilled and there were certain men who affirmed that, once the king had discovered what Thorkil had to disclose, he would die suddenly. Gorm was more inclined to believe their story through the suggestion of a dream he had had which gave a distorted prediction of this event. Therefore at the king’s command men were procured to murder Thorkil in the night. Somehow he got wind of the business and, leaving his bed without any of the others knowing, he substituted a heavy log beneath the sheets; by so doing, he evaded the king’s treacherous device, for the hirelings chopped the tree trunk to pieces instead.
The next day he went up to the king as he was taking nourishment and said: ‘I forgive your barbarity and grant you pardon for your mistake in deciding on retribution rather than kindness towards one who brings favourable news of his mission. For you alone Fve dedicated my person to so many miseries, shattered myself through such a multitude of dangers; whereas I expected to find in you a patron to reimburse my labours with thankful compensation, Fve encountered harsh punishment for my bravery. But I shall pass over my duty of revenge, since, if the ungrateful are pricked by any conscience, I’m happy to have the sense of shame in your heart expiate this outrage against me. I must be right to conclude that you are worse than all those raging devils and savage beasts, if, after being plucked from the snares of so many monsters, I couldn’t be exempt from yours.’ The king yearned to know all he had to tell; judging it difficult to fly in the face of destiny, he demanded a revelation of his adventures in their order of occurrence. Listening with avid ears to all the other parts of the narrative, when at last his own deity was unfavourably described he could not stand it. He was unable to bear hearing this ugly and invidious report of Utgartha-Loki and was so grief-stricken about the god’s vile state that he gave up his ghost at the unendurable words, even while Thorkil was in the middle of his tale. And so, while he continued to cherish dearly the veneration of this futile divinity, he came to learn where the true prison of sorrows lay. The hair which Thorkil had extracted from the giant’s whiskers, as though to furnish evidence of his mighty undertakings, discharged its effluvium on the ring of bystanders and caused the deaths of several. After Gorm’s decease his son Gøtrik reigned. This ruler was remarkable both for his military prowess and his generosity, so that you could not say whether his courage or his kindness was more characteristic of him; so well did he correct severity with mildness that the one seemed to counterbalance the other. It was at this time that the Norwegian king Goti was visited by the Icelanders Beri and Ræf; the latter was treated with respect and friendliness and given a heavy bracelet. When he saw this, one of the courtiers praised the size of the gift over-extravagantly and asserted that no one’s philanthropy matched Goti’s. Although Ræf owed gratitude for the present, he could not bring himself to approve of this bombastic and immoderate eulogy and therefore pronounced Gøtrik Goti’s superior. In order to squash the flatterer’s empty declaration, he preferred to give his word on behalf of Gøtrik’s generous disposition in his absence rather than fawn hypocritically on his present benefactor. Again he reckoned that it was rather more valuable to be reproved somewhat for ungratefulness and not assent obsequiously to the commendation of an idle boast, to stir the king with straight truths instead of duping him with lies and sycophancy. Ulf, however, persisted not only in reaffirming his previous adulation of Goti but in putting his thesis to the test and proposed a wager with his sceptical opponent. Ræf, after securing his agreement, proceeded to Denmark, where he discovered Gøtrik on his throne distributing pay among the soldiers. When Gøtrik asked him who he was, Ræf replied that his name was Little Fox. Some were filled with merriment, others with amazement, but Gøtrik answered: ‘A fox ought to catch his spoil in his mouth.’ And shortly, taking a band from his upper arm, he beckoned Ræf and placed it between his lips. Ræf immediately fitted this ring on his own arm and displayed the beauty of its gold to everyone, but kept the other arm a little concealed inasmuch as it lacked any ornament; his cunning earned him another present like the first from that right hand of unsurpassed liberality. But it was not the size of the reward that made it gratifying to Ræf so much as victory in the dispute he had entered. After the king had been informed about the laying of the wager, he rejoiced because his bounty towards Ræf had been by accident rather than design and declared that he had felt more pleasure in the giving than the recipient experienced from the gift. Returning to Norway, Ræf killed his rival when the other refused to honour his pledge and, taking Goti’s daughter prisoner, brought her for Gøtrik to possess. When Gøtrik, who was also known as Godfred, had transferred his wars to foreign soil, auspicious fortunes extended his fame and power; among the other deeds of his that are remembered he imposed these terms of tribute on the Saxons: whenever a change of sovereign occurred in Denmark, the Saxon leaders must set apart a hundred snow white horses to grace the accession of the new ruler. If the changing sequence of events brought the Saxons a new leader, he too must humble the beginning of his power by obediently rendering the same payment to the glory and greatness of the Danes; in this way he must confess our people his overlords and present ritual evidence of his own thraldom. Not satisfied even with the overthrow of Germany, Gøtrik went on to test the strength of Sweden, appointing Ræf as head of the delegation. Since the Swedes were afraid to kill him with naked violence, they resorted to villainy and got rid of him while he slept by crushing him with a rock; what they did was suspend a millstone high up and later cut the ropes so that it fell on his neck as he lay beneath. It was decreed that every ringleader must give twelve talents of gold and each of the common people one ounce of it to Gøtrik to atone for this crime. They called it the fox-cub’s tax. Meanwhile Charlemagne, king of the Franks, after smiting Germany in war, compelled it to adopt the Christian religion and submit to his jurisdiction. Learning of this, Gøtrik attacked the peoples who lived on the banks of the Elbe and tried to bring Saxony back to its old acknowledgement of his rule, even though the inhabitants were happier to accept Charlemagne’s yoke and the armed might of the Holy Roman Empire in preference to that of Denmark. At that time Charlemagne had withdrawn his conquering troops across the Rhine and therefore held back from encounter with this unfamiliar enemy, just as though the river’s intervening barrier restrained him. Although he meant to recross the Rhine and settle the Gøtrik business, he was summoned by Leo, the pope of Rome, to defend his city and obeyed the command; his son Pepin was entrusted with the responsibility of carrying on the fight against Gøtrik so that, while Charlemagne was dealing with a faraway adversary, his son would conduct this operation he had begun against a neighbouring foe. Since he was torn with a double anxiety and his powers divided it was necessary to provide a suitable solution on both fronts. During this period Gøtrik won a spectacular victory over the Saxons; then, mustering new forces to provide greater martial strength, he determined to avenge the insult of his lost dominion not only on the Saxons, but on the whole of the German populace. Initially he subdued Friesland with his navy. This is a very low-lying province and, whenever the Ocean rages, the waves burst through the barricade of dykes so that the flat stretches of fields regularly receive the full brunt of the deluge. Gøtrik set an impost on this district, not so much strict as unusual. I shall describe briefly its stipulations and how it worked. First a building was designed, taking up a length of feet from one extremity to the other, and divided into twelve sections, each of twenty feet. At the upper end of this structure sat a royal treasurer and in line with him at the farther end a round shield was displayed. When the Frisians wanted to pay their tribute, the custom was for them to throw their coins one by one into the cavity of the shield, but under this system of reckoning they might only be collected for the king’s revenue if the remote ears of the tax-gatherer had caught the sound of their far-off clink. So it was that the official could only count towards the tribute the money he had heard fall from his distant position; should the sound be too faint to be within earshot the amount was indeed taken for the treasury, but was not reckoned as part of the total sum demanded. Many of the thrown coins struck the shield without any ring being audible to the collector, with the result that the Frisians, wishing to discharge their set contribution, would sometimes expend a large part of their income in useless payment. The records say that later on Charlemagne relieved them of this onerous tribute. Gøtrik had overrun Friesland and Charlemagne had already returned from Rome when the Danish king resolved to swoop down on the farther regions of Germany; however, he was caught in an ambush by one of his own retainers and dispatched with a traitor’s weapon in his own home. Immediately he heard the news, Charlemagne skipped for sheer joy, admitting that he had never met with any stroke of luck as delightful as this. 
BOOK NINE
After the death of Gøtrik his son Olaf ruled. Zealous to avenge his father, he was prepared to put personal feeling before his duty to the people and embroil his land in civil wars. When he died his body was received in a mound which had been built near Lejre and took its well-known name from Olaf. He was succeeded by Hemming, of whom I have discovered no achievement worth recording except the peace, strengthened by oaths, which he established with the emperor Louis. Perhaps there were many remarkable deeds, glorious in his era, but the malice of time has concealed them. Following these rulers, Sigvarth, surnamed Ring, whom the Norwegian ruler of the same name had once fathered on Gotrik’s daughter, reigned with the support of the Scanians and Zealanders. His cousin Ring, also a grandson of Gotrik, held Jutland. As its smallness made each half of the realm insignificant, the split dominion began to be despised and even attacked by outsiders. Sigvarth proceeded against them with more rancour than he did against his rival for the kingdom and, since he preferred foreign to internal wars, persisted for five years in putting up a defence against the dangers to his country. He chose to endure a domestic wound so that he could cure one inflicted from abroad all the more readily. For this reason Ring, seizing a chance to usurp the other’s command, tried to transfer jurisdiction over the whole realm to himself and saw fit to destroy from within the man who was performing guard duty at the gates of his country. Invading the provinces belonging to Sigvarth, he paid for the defence of their common homeland with ingratitude. Some of the Zealanders who were especial partisans of Sigvarth, to demonstrate a more genuine loyalty to their absent lord, bestowed the name of king on his son Ragnar, even though he had scarcely yet been plucked from his cradle; they were quite aware that he was too immature to rule, but they wished to rouse the lethargic spirits of their comrades against Ring by making this beloved child their leader. When Ring heard that Sigvarth had in the meantime returned from his expedition, he attacked the Zealanders with a large force, proclaiming that if they did not surrender he would put them to the sword. The Zealanders, who were being ordered to choose between shame or peril, mistrusted their strength, being so few, and requested a truce in order to consider the situation. This was granted; but because they did not appear to be at liberty to seek Sigvarth’s protection and it looked dishonourable to embrace Ring’s, they fluctuated anxiously for some time between fear and embarrassment. As no advice was forthcoming in this dilemma, even from the old men, Ragnar , who happened to be there, addressed the conference: ‘A short bow fires its arrow suddenly. Though I may seem to be butting in with a boy’s presumption before my elders have spoken, please be indulgent towards my mistakes and pardon anything childish I say. Someone who gives wise advice mustn’t be rejected, even though he might seem a mean fellow. Minds willing to learn ought to swallow profitable instruction. Although being branded as deserters and renegades is ugly, it’s rash to be audacious beyond one’s strength and equal blame can be proved to exist in both courses; you must pretend to go over to the enemy’s side and, as soon as the opportunity arises, abandon him at a timely moment. So it will be better to forestall our foe’s anger by simulated obedience than give him a weapon to assault us more fiercely for refusing his wish. If we decline the regime of a stronger individual, what are we doing but voluntarily providing a sword to slit our own throats? Often subterfuge is most effective when nourished on concealed aims. The fox must be caught in a trap of cunning.’ His sound plan shook the wavering citizens out of their hesitation and added a force lethal to their enemy’s war aims. The assembly, amazed at this boy’s eloquence no less than his intelligence, gladly accepted the decision of a first-class brain, surpassing what was normal at his age. The older members, who had failed to offer a solution, felt no qualms in submitting to the lad’s instructions, for, though they proceeded from a youngster, they contained the full weight of practical knowledge. Afraid of exposing the author of the scheme to immediate peril, they sent him over to be brought up in Norway. Shortly afterwards Sigvarth assailed Ring and they locked in combat; Ring fell, but his opponent was also hurt and in the space of a few days died from the incurable wound. Ragnar inherited his throne. About this time the Swedish ruler Frø, after killing Sigvarth, king of the Norwegians, removed the wives of Sigvarth’s relatives to a brothel and exposed them to public prostitution. When Ragnar heard of this he set out for Norway, intent on exacting vengeance for his grandfather’s sake. On his arrival many women of quality, who had lately suffered abuse to their bodies or feared that their chastity was in imminent danger, began to dress themselves as men and flock in eagerness to his camp, vowing that they would put death before dishonour. The man who had come to revenge the humiliation offered to these women felt no shame in borrowing their help against the cause of their disgrace. Among these had appeared Lathgertha, a skilled female fighter, who bore a man’s temper in a girl’s body; with locks flowing loose over her shoulders she would do battle in the forefront of the most valiant warriors. Everyone marvelled at her matchless feats, for the hair to be seen flying down her back made it clear that she was a woman; as soon as Ragnar had laid his grandfather’s slayer in the dust, he made particular enquiries of his fellow-soldiers as to the identity of the girl he had noted in the vanguard; he confessed that his victory was due to her energy alone. Having discovered that she was of distinguished foreign birth, he set about wooing her with determination through intermediaries. She, while secretly disdaining his overtures, pretended to agree. When by her deceptive replies she had brought her panting suitor to a point where he was confident of achieving his wishes, she ordered a bear and a hound to be tethered in the porch of her house so that these animals might act as a defence and protect her room from the full fervour of his desires. Invigorated by the favourable message, he embarked, crossed the straits and, after bidding his companions wait in a valley named Gaulardal, he proceeded alone to the girl’s home. The beasts were there to receive him but, by piercing one with his spear and catching hold of the other’s throat so as to twist its gullet and throttle it, he overcame the danger and won the maid for his prize. From their union were born two daughters, whose names history has not remembered, and a son, Fridlev; Ragnar spent the next three years peacefully. Deciding that his recent wedding meant no prospect of his return, the Jutlanders, an arrogant people, leagued with the Scanians and tried to make a belligerent attack on the Zealanders, who through an active devotion for Ragnar maintained their loyalty to him. Apprised of this, Ragnar fitted out three hundred vessels and, with compliant winds for his voyage, wiped out the Scanians who had ventured to engage him at the village of Hvideby; by the end of winter he had fought with successful results against the Jutlanders who lived near Limfjorden in that region. When he had had the good fortune to quell the men of Scania and Halland a third and yet a fourth time, his love turned away from his marriage and towards Thora, daughter of King Herröth, with the result that he divorced Lathgertha. He criticized his wife’s trustworthiness, for he recalled that she had once set two brutes of the wildest savagery to destroy him. Meanwhile it chanced that when the Swedish sovereign Herröth had taken himself to the forest to hunt, his friends found some snakes there, which he brought back for his daughter to rear. She readily obeyed her father’s bidding and brought herself to foster these reptiles with a maiden’s hands; further than this she took pains to supply a whole carcassof beef each day to gorge their appetites, unaware that by feeding them thus in private she was cultivating a public menace. When they were fully grown they scorched the countryside with their venomous breath until the king, regretting his idleness, made a proclamation that he would give the princess to anyone who would rid him of these pests. Although a stream of young men, prompted thither by bravery as much as sensual desire, tried their hands at the perilous task, they wasted their time. Once Ragnar had found out the whole story from men who travelled between the two lands, he begged from his nurse a woollen cloak and some very shaggy thigh-coverings, with which he could baffle the serpents’ bites. He dressed himself like this believing that such clothing, cushioned with hair, would act as a protection and at the same time be flexible enough to allow nimble movement. When his ship touched the Swedish coast, the weather was freezing; he intentionally threw himself into the waters and then exposed his soaking garments to be stiffened by the cold, so that they would become even less penetrable. Clad in this manner, he first said goodbye to his companions and urged them to remain loyal to Fridlev, then went on by himself to the palace. Immediately he caught sight of it, he strapped his sword to his side and grasped a thonged spear in his right hand. As he advanced, a snake of prodigious size slithered towards him; a second, equally enormous, glided in its track. They vied now to batter the youth with their spiralling tails, now to spew a constant stream of poisonous vomit on him. In the meantime the courtiers hid themselves in the more sheltered corners to view the fray from a distance, like nervous little girls. The king himself, just as panic stricken, had taken refuge with one or two others in a narrow room. But Ragnar, depending on the toughness of his frozen apparel, thwarted their virulent leaps with his mantle as well as his weapons; without aid his unflagging spirit battled tirelessly as he faced those two pairs of open jaws shedding their venom on him. His shield repelled their bites, his apparel their poison. In the end he launched the spear, driving it at the bodies of the monsters, which were pressing him hard; it tore through each one’s vitals and the fight ended happily for him. The king gazed with some curiosity at his dress, noted how rough and bristly it was and, mocking especially the shagginess of his nether attire, the inelegant look of his breeches, nicknamed him Lothbrok as a joke. To refresh him after his struggles he also invited Ragnar to feast with him and his friends. The other stated that he must first return to see the retinue he had left behind and went off; when he brought them back, they were decked sprucely for the coming banquet. Finally, when the feasting was over, he took the agreed pledge for his conquest. Through her he became the sire of two outstanding characters, Rådbard and Dunvat; Nature gave them additional brothers, Sigvard, Bjørn, Agner, and Ivar. Meanwhile the Jutlanders and Scanians, kindled with inextinguishable flames of mutiny, dismissed Ragnar’s claims and handed supreme control to someone named Harald. After Ragnar had dispatched ambassadors to Norway to plead for friendship and aid against these foes, Lathgertha, in whose veins there still ran strong feelings of her former love, sailed speedily with her son and second husband. She resolved to provide Ragnar with a fleet of a hundred and twenty vessels, even though he had once renounced her. Reckoning that he needed help from all quarters, Ragnar enlisted support from every age group, piling infirm and sturdy together, feeling no embarrassment at introducing boyish and elderly squads among formations of the able-bodied. First of all he set about breaking the Scanian power and waged a heavy battle with the insurgents on the field which in Latin is called Wool. Ivar, only years old, fought remarkably, displaying a mature strength in his young body. Sigvard, however, while throwing himself head-on at his opponents, fell forward to the ground and was wounded. This accident gave such serious concern to the watching allies that they considered fleeing, and not only Sigvard was demoralized but almost the whole armed might on Ragnar ‘s side. Nevertheless Ragnar strengthened their stunned and drooping spirits by his manly conduct and inspiration and forced them to try for victory just when they were prepared to accept subjugation. Lathgertha too, with a measure of vitality at odds with her tender frame, restored the mettle of the faltering soldiery by a splendid exhibition of bravery. She flew round the rear of the unprepared enemy in a circling manoeuvre and carried the panic which had been felt by the allies into the camp of their adversaries. Finally, when Harald’s line had given way, his troops been massacred in abundance and their leader put to flight, she returned home from the battle; that night she stuck a dart, which she had concealed beneath her gown, into her husband’s throat, thereby seizing for herself his whole sovereignty and title. This woman, of the haughtiest temperament, found it pleasanter to govern a realm alone than share the fortunes of her husband. In the meanwhile Sigvard was borne to a neighbouring town and his body delivered to the care of doctors. When their efforts had proved completely hopeless since the terrific gash responded to none of their poultices, an amazingly tall person was observed to approach the sickbed; he guaranteed to Sigvard that he would immediately enjoy sound health provided he would consecrate to him the souls of those men he was to strike down in war. Nor did he remain anonymous, but went on to give his name as Roster. Realizing that he could gain a vast blessing at the price of one small promise, Sigvard gladly acceded to his request. Then the old man, touching the discoloured point of infection, cleared it away with a quick manipulation of his hand and promptly stretched a scar across the wound. Lastly, after sprinkling dust on his irises, Roster departed. Spots unexpectedly appeared in his staring eyes and the dust produced what looked strikingly like little snakes. I could well believe that the one who staged this miracle wanted to give a more obvious proof of the young man’s future savagery through his eyes, so that this penetrating feature of his person should not fail to offer some prognostication of his subsequent life. An old crone, who was there to administer his medicines, took one glance at his countenance bearing these serpentine marks, recoiled from the young fellow in peculiar terror, and, slumping suddenly to the floor, fainted away. So it came about that the popular name of Snake-eye was widely attached to Sigvard. During this time Thora, Ragnar’s wife, was carried off by the ravages of disease; this sank her husband, who was deeply devoted to her, into boundless, oppressive grief. Since he believed he could best shake this off by some employment, he resolved to find comfort in exercise and temper his misery with toil. In order to banish his sorrow and procure consolation, his thoughts turned to soldiering and he decreed that every head of family should offer the son he supposed most worthless or one of his lazier and less trusted slaves to serve in the king’s army. His edict, though one would have imagined it basically incongruous with his purpose, in fact taught the least dependable of the Danish race to show themselves superior to the most valiant among other peoples and brought great improvement to these youths, since the ones who had been selected were eager to vie with each other and expunge the stigma of sloth. Further, he ordained that all legal disputes should be settled by the judgement of twelve approved elders; the usual provisions for settling cases should be abandoned and neither prosecutor nor defendant allowed to plead. When he reckoned that this law had helped him put an adequate stop to the malicious charges of evildoers and men no longer entered into ill-considered lawsuits, he mounted hostilities against Britain; there he made a strike and killed its king, Hama, the father of a noble young prince, Æ lla. Then, when he had disposed of the earls of Scotland, Pentland, and the islands which they call Southern or Meridional, he gave his sons Sigvard and Rådbard power to govern these domains in their stead. Norway too, forcefully bereft of its ruler, he commanded to obey Fridlev and ensured that in addition he became governor of Orkney, which had also had its own earl removed. Meanwhile certain of the Danes who persisted in their resentment of Ragnar set their minds firmly on an uprising and rallied to the side of Harald, at one time an exile, in a bid to elevate his shattered fortunes. This piece of foolhardiness stimulated a hot-blooded spirit of civil war against the king and, when all was calm on the foreign front, embroiled him in hazards at home. He set out to check them with a navy from the Danish islands and smashed the rebel column together with Harald, the leader of this defeated force, who was driven hot-foot into Germany, compelled to resign unblushingly the honour he had gathered so unscrupulously. Nor was Ragnar satisfied to put his prisoners to a straightforward death but chose rather to kill them under torture, so that individuals who could not be induced to forsake their disloyalty might not even be allowed to lay aside their lives without punishments of the most stringent ferocity. Now he divided the estates of Harald’s fellow-fugitives among the men who were serving with himself in the army, for he judged that the fathers would be better punished if they saw the reward of their inheritance go over to children they had rejected through their own decision, and the heirs who were dearer to their hearts cheated of their patrimony. Even yet Ragnar had not steeped himself in revenge to his full satisfaction and, since he believed that this was a sanctuary for his enemies and Harald’s refuge, decided to go on and storm Saxony, for which purpose he begged the help of his sons; it so happened that he stumbled upon Charlemagne, who just then was lingering on those borders of his empire. Because he had intercepted Charlemagne’s sentries and eluded the guard he had posted, Ragnar expected that everything else would be quick and easy to bring off, but a dwarfish woman, a soothsayer, like some heavenly oracle or expounder of the divine will, suddenly warned the Frankish monarch with a helpful prediction; she informed him that Sigvard’s fleet had moored at the mouth of the River Seeve and by her timely prophecy anticipated the impending danger. Listening attentively to her counsel, the emperor appreciated that it was an enemy who had come on the scene and, now on the alert, took measures to stop these barbarians by opposing them in battle. When he strove against Ragnar he did not enjoy the same luck in action as when he had received word to beware of the threat. That tireless man, who had subdued almost the whole of Europe, who had paraded over such a vast stretch of the world with his unruffled, mighty conquests, here saw that army which had vanquished so many states and so many peoples turn tail and be overthrown by a small company from a single province. After Ragnar had imposed heavy tribute on the Saxons, he heard reliable news from Sweden of Herröth’s death and that his own children had been dispossessed of their grandfather’s property through the chicanery of Sörli, who had been chosen as regent; requesting Bjørn, Fridlev, and Rådbard to be his associates (Regnald, Hvitserk, and Erik, the boys Svanløg had borne him, had not as yet reached a suitable age to wield arms), he made for Sweden. Sörli, confronting him there with his army, gave his opponent the option of meeting en masse or individually; the other chose single combat, whereupon Sörli brought Skarth, a fighting-man of tested courage, together with his band of seven sons to challenge and engage him. Ragnar, with the three sons he had enlisted as his fellow-warriors, clashed with his opponents under the eyes of both armies and emerged victorious from the contest. Because Bjørn had executed slaughter on his foes without a scratch, he adopted ever afterwards a nickname from the iron-like strength of his sides. His win had given Ragnar confidence that he could surmount all perils and, attacking Sörli, he slew him and the entire force he had conducted to that locality. After Bjørn had been granted hegemony over Sweden as a reward for his striking bravery, Ragnar had a moderate breathing space from wars; then, happening to become rather fond of a young woman, he tried to devise a means of readier access towards gaining her and so set about winning over her father with the most courteous attentions and lavish generosity. Time and again he would invite him to banquets where he bestowed attentions on him with the utmost charm. When the father arrived, he rose to his feet respectfully; when he wished to take his place, Ragnar honoured him with the seat next to his own. He often regaled him with presents, now and then with the most affable conversation. As the latter discerned that no virtues of his own could be a reason for calling forth such esteem, he cast about in his mind and recognized that this fine open-handedness of his overlord stemmed from desire for his daughter, the kindnesses being merely a gloss for his lustful intent. In order to balk the lover’s ideas, however subtle, he had his daughter watched all the more sharply in view of the sly ambitions and purposeful schemes for catching her which he saw afoot. Ragnar however, reinvigorated by a trustworthy message of her sympathy, found his way to the village in which she was being kept and, confident that love knew no obstacles, unaccompanied sought lodging with a neighbouring peasant. The following morning he exchanged his clothing with the womenfolk and was soon standing in female dress by his girlfriend as she was unwinding wool; though his hands were clumsy, he craftily employed them in the unmanly work to escape discovery; in the night he took the maiden in his arms and satisfied his wishes. As the time of birth drew near and the girl’s swelling stomach betrayed the deed which had polluted her chastity, the father, wondering whom she had allowed to defile her, questioned her incessantly to find out her unknown seducer. But since she persisted in declaring that none but a maidservant had ever shared her bed, he entrusted the investigation to his sovereign. Ragnar could not bear to let a guiltless handmaid be branded with this curious charge; he therefore swallowed his shame and established another’s innocence by confessing his personal guilt. Through his decency he dismissed the false accusation against the woman, thus ensuring that the ridiculous tale was not broadcast among base ears. He went on to say that the son she was to bear would be of his own lineage and he wished his name to be Ubbi. When the boy had grown a little, even at a tender age his mind took on qualities of mature discernment. His affections were directed towards his mother because she had slept with an august partner, whereas he refused to revere a father who had lowered himself to a union that fell short of his true nobility. Afterwards, when Ragnar was proposing a campaign against the Hellespontines, he called an assembly of the Danes and, engaging to introduce laws highly beneficial to his people, made this decree: just as each head of family once provided for military service the child he thought least of, now he must arm his most powerfully active son and his most responsible slave. This done, he took all the sons that Thora had borne him, though not Ubbi, and in a series of bruising encounters subjugated the Hellespont and its king, Dian. Involving Dian in one disaster after another, he eventually obliterated him. His sons, Dian and Daxon, who in the past had been apportioned the daughters of the Russian king in marriage, obtained the troops they requested from their father-in-law and with blazing enthusiasm sped to execute the business of their father’s revenge. On noting the vast army of his foes, Ragnar felt uneasy about his own forces; he therefore constructed bronze horses mounted on small wheels and had them brought round on easily manoeuvred carriages; then he gave orders for them to be launched with maximum velocity into the thick of the enemy. Their power broke up the opposing lines so well that prospective victory appeared to rest more on his machinery than his soldiery, for their irresistible weight smashed everything it struck. One general fell, the other slipped away, whereupon the entire Hellespontine army retreated. The Scythians too, attached to Daxon by close ties of blood on his mother’s side, are reported to have been crushed in that defeat. Their province was assigned to Hvitserk, while the king of the Russians, diffident of his strength, hastened to fly off before Ragnar’s awe-inspiring weapons. All other opponents were brought to heel after prompt surrender, but, after spending nearly five years in pirating expeditions, Ragnar discovered that the Biarmians, reduced not long before, were openly critical of his rule and he could put inadequate reliance on their passivity. When the Biarmians knew of his arrival, they addressed their magical spells to the heavens and by agitating the clouds eventually brought about huge, raging thunderstorms. Consequently the Danes could not put to sea for some time, with the result that they ran out of food supplies. Suddenly the tempests abated, only to be replaced by a burning, baking heat. This curse was no more endurable than intense cold. The two wicked extremes of climate following one upon the other broke the men’s constitutions. Many were finished off by dysentery. So the majority of the Danes, trapped by the fluctuating sky, contracted disease, and death was widespread. Once Ragnar realized that he had been hampered by severe weather that was not natural but contrived, he pursued his voyage as best he could till he reached the regions of Kurland and Samland; the peoples there deeply reverenced his majesty as if he were the greatest and most glorious of conquerors. Their favour maddened Ragnar all the more against the Biarmians’ arrogance and he sought to avenge his slighted dignity in a surprise attack. Their king, whose name is unknown to us, was thrown into consternation by his foes’ sudden invasion and, having at the same time no heart for an engagement, took refuge with Matul, prince of Finnmark. Depending on the accomplished marksmanship of Matul’s archers, he harried Ragnar’s army as it wintered in Biarmaland and remained unscathed himself. The Finns have always travelled by gliding swiftly on smooth boards and have complete control of their speed as they race along, so that men say they can be there and gone in a flash, just as they please. As soon as they have done damage to their enemy, they shoot away in the same lightning fashion as they flew to the scene. The nimbleness of their skis and bodies combined gives them a practised ease in attacking and retreating. You can imagine how aghast Ragnar was then at being helpless to control his own fate; once the vanquisher of the Holy Roman Empire at the height of its power, he saw himself ultimately swept into utter disaster by a defenceless, uncouth fighting force. So it was that the man who had distinguished himself when he pulverized the glittering splendour of the imperial armies, the renowned troops of that most magnificent and unperturbed of leaders, now yielded to a band of obscure peasants and their miserable, flimsy equipment; he whose warrior glory could not be dimmed previously by the strength of the most courageous nation was unable to withstand a tiny handful of contemptible men. Eventually, with a force which had gallantly destroyed the world’s most illustrious parade of power and weightiest machine of military might, with whom he had clearly overthrown all that thunder of foot soldiers, camps, and horsemen, Ragnar managed to assail this mean, worthless mob secretively and, so to speak, like a thief; he did not blush to sully his bright fame, won publicly in the light of day, with nocturnal subterfuge and resort to a concealed ambush instead of displaying his valour in the open. It was an undignified piece of work but profitable in its outcome. Ragnar was just as overjoyed at dispelling the Finns as he had been when Charlemagne was routed, for he admitted that he had found these poorly equipped people more powerful than the most highly organized legions; he could stand the heavily armed might of the Empire better than the light darts of this ragged tribe. After the king of the Biarmians had been killed and the Finnish ruler put to flight, Ragnar had his achievements engraved in writing on stone surfaces, which he set up in a high place to establish an everlasting record of his victory. In the meantime Ubbi was prompted by his grandfather, Esbern, to an impious longing for the throne; casting aside any decent consideration for his father, he appropriated the royal crown for his own head. When Ragnar came to know of his presumption from the Swedish jarls, Kelther and Thorkil, he set sail in great haste towards Götaland. Esbern, discovering that the two Swedes were bound to Ragnar with a single-minded loyalty, tried hard to bribe them to desert their lord. Yet they would not swerve from their resolution, replying that their own judgements depended on Bjorn’s, since no Swede would venture to diverge from his will. Esbern lost no time before attempting to lure Bjorn; he dispatched envoys to engage him in the most friendly talks. The latter stoutly asserted that he would never incline towards treachery more than true faith, and pronounced it quite abominable to favour a scoundrel of a brother before loving a good father; the ambassadors themselves were punished like instigators of a serious crime and hanged. The Swedes, moreover, rewarded any further party of emissaries with equal discomfiture for their mischievous proposal. Deciding that he was making little headway with these stealthy, underhand moves, Esbern came out into the open, mustered his troops, and dashed into war. However, Ivar, governor of Jutland, believing that neither side in the profane battle had much sense of right conduct, shied away from such wicked fighting by going into self-imposed exile. Ragnar attacked and slew Esbern at the bay which is called Green in Latin and ordered his head, shorn from the lifeless body, to be fixed to his prow as a dreadful prospect to troublemakers. Ubbi fled, but renewing hostilities in Zealand, once again assailed his father; eventually Ubbi’s line gave way and, standing alone, he was molested from all quarters; even so he overthrew so many of his adversaries that he became surrounded by a growing pile of enemy corpses, which acted as a strong barricade and easily prevented his challengers from coming near. In the end the bands of foemen poured round him in such swarms that he was captured and led off to be loaded with chains like a common criminal. However, with his enormous strength he cleared himself of his fetters by hacking them off, yet when he tried to rend and discard the ropes with which they then bound him, he could find no way to break free from their resistance. After Ivar discovered that the insurrection in his homeland had been shattered and the rebel punished, he made his way back to Denmark. As he had unflinchingly observed his duty towards his father amid the tempestuous savagery of the would-be parricides, Ragnar acknowledged his devotion with deep respect. Meanwhile Daxon, following a long spell of futile attempts to overthrow Hvitserk, who was ruling Scythia, at last made his bid after deceiving him with a feigned truce. Though he was hospitably welcomed by Hvitserk, Daxon had secretly armed a crowd of warriors, who had ridden to the city in waggons as though coming to market, with the intention of wrecking his host’s palace in a night attack. Hvitserk beat down this gang of cut-throats with such slaughter that, enclosed as he was by a heap of the enemies’ bodies, they had to prop ladders up to the top in order to seize him. When his twelve comrades, captured by their foes at the same time, were given the chance of returning to their home country, they consecrated their lives to their sovereign, preferring to share another’s danger rather than escape their own. Nevertheless Daxon, moved to pity by Hvitserk’s distinguished figure, had not the heart to pluck the budding flower of that noble nature. Not only did he offer him safety, but also his daughter’s hand together with a dowry of half the kingdom; he had rather preserve such a fine creature than punish him for his manliness. But the other, through the dignity of his spirit, sniffed at a life granted on sufferance and, scoffing at freedom as if it were some trifling gratuity, embraced the death sentence of his own accord; he told Daxon that Ragnar would be less ruthless in avenging his son when he learnt that Hvitserk had chosen this manner of dying of his own free will. His foe, in wonder at this nonchalant attitude, promised that he should be destroyed with whatever type of end he had in mind to be inflicted on him. The young man accepted the freedom of choice as a great favour and asked if he could be bound and burnt along with his comrades. Daxon submitted with no hesitation to these eager requests for death, dealing the desired method of execution as though it were some kindness.
When he heard the news, Ragnar in his grief was set on dying, for he not only went into mourning, but, with a heart completely stricken, confined himself to his bed and let groans reveal the sorrow he had suffered. His wife, whose self-reliance surpassed a man’s, chided Ragnar’s feebleness and fortified him with her masculine exhortations; she summoned his soul from its dejection, told him he must resort to energetic warfare, and declared that a courageous father would make better amends to a son’s blood-stained ashes through arms than tears. Further, she advised him not to whimper like a woman, for he would reap as much dishonour through weeping as he had previously gained glory by his valour. Her words made Ragnar fear he might obliterate his ancient renown for bravery by effeminate lamentation; he therefore threw off his sad demeanour, removed the outward marks of misery, and allowed the hope of a swift revenge to revive his dormant resolution. So at times stout dispositions are strengthened by weaker ones. After putting Ivar in charge of the kingdom and restoring Ubbi to his former favour with affectionate paternal embraces, he sailed with his navy over to Russia; there he captured Daxon, entwined him with penal chains and removed him to confinement in Utgarth. Ragnar undeniably handled his dearest son’s slayer with the most merciful restraint when he chose to allow his appetite for the cherished revenge to be satisfied by exiling the culprit instead of killing him. His lenience struck deep shame into the Russians for venting their rage further upon a king whom even their harsh wrongs could not drive into executing his prisoners. In a short time Ragnar actually took Daxon back into his favour and restored him to his country, on the promise that he would come to him barefoot once a year with twelve unshod elders and humbly render tribute. He believed it finer to chastise a penitent prisoner mildly rather than swing the bloody axe, to sentence a proud neck to unremitting servitude in preference to cleaving it once and for all. Journeying back, Ragnar put his son Erik, nicknamed Windhat, in control of Sweden. Fridlev and Sigvard were serving with Ragnar when he found out that the Northmen and Scots had falsely recognized two other individuals as their monarchs; first he removed the usurper from the kingship of Norway and transferred its exercise to Bjørn; then, in his and Erik’s company, he ravaged Orkney and finally landed on Scottish territory to finish off their king Murial, when he was worn out after a three-day battle with them. Ragnar’s sons, Dunvat and Rådbard, having fought spectacularly, won a gory victory for their father, but shed their own lifeblood in the process. Once he had returned to Denmark he learnt that in the interval his wife Svanløg had been carried off by a disease; immediately he sought to heal his cares in solitude, incapable of enclosing his griefstricken mind within the confines of his home. But the unexpected arrival of Ivar, expelled from his kingdom, made him forget his bitter sorrow. The Britons had put him to flight and conferred spurious royal power on a certain Ælla, son of Hama. Since Ivar knew those parts well, Ragnar put to sea with a fleet under his guidance and reached a port known as Norwich; there, after landing his troops, he engaged with Ælla, who was supported by British strength; the battle was protracted for three days until Ælla wished himself elsewhere; the casualties of the English were extremely severe, the Danes’ very light. As soon as Ragnar had completed a year of conquest there, he called for the assistance of his sons and swiftly set out for Ireland; after the slaying of its king, Melbrik, Dublin, crammed with barbaric treasures, was besieged, stormed, and taken; here Ragnar encamped for twelve months before voyaging through the Mediterranean Sea right up to the Hellespont; as he then covered all the lands in his path, he achieved outstanding victories, nor did Fortune anywhere disturb his uninterrupted and successful advance. While this was happening, Harald, with the adherence of certain Danes who were feebly attached to Ragnar’s leadership, spurred his country to fresh rebellions and came forward to take possession of the crown. Ragnar met him with an attack as soon as he returned from the Hellespont; Harald had poor success and, as he perceived that aid from his home resources had evaporated, he approached Louis, then stationed at Mainz, to demand help. But the latter, filled with a consuming zeal to propagate his religion, made it a condition that he would only guarantee succour if this heathen consented to follow the worship of Christ. He said there could be no agreement between minds when each party embraced opposing forms of faith. Anyone who sought assistance needed from the start a fellowsoldier of his own creed; there could be no partners in great enterprises who were divided by principles of spiritual devotion. This decision brought deliverance to his guest and publicity for his own piety. When Harald had been ritually baptized, Louis immediately strengthened him with Saxon reinforcements. Trusting to these, he applied care and expense to erecting a church in the district of Schleswig, to be consecrated to God. Once he had adopted the pattern of a devout life from the practices of Rome, he dishonoured pagan idolatry, uprooted its shrines, outlawed the sacrificial attendants, and abolished the priesthood; thus he was the first to bring Christian rites to a primitive land and by extirpating the worship of devils fostered the true belief. Finally he paid most scrupulous attention to everything which might help to preserve this religion. Even so, he began his scheme with more holiness than success. For once Ragnar appeared he desecrated the hallowed rites introduced by Harald, annulled the true worship, restored the false religion to its ancient position, and gave his blessing to its ceremonies. Harald, on the run, now staked his fortunes on impiety instead. As he had been the leading pattern for the new belief he was the first to display its neglect; from being the glorious promoter of this blessed faith he emerged a notorious apostate. Meanwhile Ælla took himself to Ireland, where he put to torture and the sword all who had bound themselves in close loyalty to Ragnar. When the latter launched a naval attack on Ælla, the Almighty wrought due punishment on Ragnar and made him pay visibly for his spurning of Christianity. He was seized and thrown into a prison in which snakes were allowed to feed on his guilty limbs and the shreds of his entrails provided a dismal sustenance for vipers. After they had gnawed his liver and a serpent lay siege to his heart like some deadly executioner, he reviewed the achievements of his whole career in undaunted tones, adding this coda to the end of his narrative: ‘If the young pigs had only known the distress of their boar, they’d certainly break into the sty and release him from his suffering without delay.’ Since Ælla understood this to mean that some of Ragnar’s sons were still living, he gave orders for the tormentors to abstain and the adders to be removed. But when his henchmen had run forward to carry out his bidding, it was found that Ragnar had anticipated the king’s command and was dead. What can we say except that he was divided between two different fates? One had given him an unimpaired fleet, a beneficial empire, and a fine efficiency in pirating, the other had imposed the ruin of his splendour, the slaughter of his fellow-soldiers, and a most bitter end to his life, when the tormentor watched him entwined by venomous reptiles, vipers glutting themselves on a heart which he had borne unflinching in the face of every danger. By his descent from brilliant conquests to the abject lot of a prisoner he taught us that no one should put too much trust in Fortune. Ivar, as chance would have it, learnt of this calamity while he was watching sports. Nevertheless without the least sign of any unusual weakening, he retained the same expression on his face, gave no indication of his suppressed misery at the announcement of his father’s death, and did not even allow any clamour to arise, but forbade the people, stunned by the report, to leave the stadium. His features therefore did not discard their cheerfulness, for he had no wish to put an end to the games by interrupting the spectacle, nor did he turn his gaze inward from the clapping crowd to his own personal sorrow, in case he should suddenly collapse from the most spirited celebration into the deepest dejection and be seen to have played the part of a grief-stricken son instead of a vivacious leader. Sigvard, however, on receiving the same message, thought more about the love he bore his father than personal suffering and, in a state of shock, plunged deep into his foot the spear which he happened to be holding, insensible of the injury to his person through the asperity of his grief. He was prepared to do serious harm to a portion of his body to help him endure the mental blow more stoically. His action revealed bravery and anguish both at once, since he split his situation into two halves, heart-broken son and man of inflexibility. The news of his father’s death was brought to Bjørn while he was playing a dice game; snatching up a die, he squeezed it so violently that blood was forced from his fingers and dripped on to the board; on this occasion he learnt certainly that the cast of Fate was more capricious than the actual cube he was throwing. Hearing of these events, Ælla decided that, of the three, the one who had exhibited no filial compassion had taken his father’s death with the most iron fortitude, and for this reason regarded Ivar’s courage as his severest threat. Now Ivar, after making the passage to English shores, found his fleet too weak to grapple with the enemy’s; therefore, setting guile above daring, he tested his wits on Ælla and asked for a piece of land large enough to be encircled by a horse hide, as a pledge of truce between them. His demand was met. The English king reckoned this boon would cost him little and was delighted that such a mighty enemy was begging not for something huge, but trifling; a very small skin, he imagined, would encompass a mere patch. Ivar, however, cut the hide into extremely thin laces and stretched them out until he had surrounded an area of ground suitable for raising a city on. Ælla was now filled with remorse at his lavishness, for he understood the dimensions of the leather too late and could make a fairer estimate of this little skin after it had been divided than when it was in one piece. What he had believed would enfold a minute plot of earth he saw investing a broad extent of acres. Ivar, once he had founded his city, imported supplies which would amply serve against siege, since he was eager to fortify it against famine as well as defend it from his enemies. In the meanwhile, when Sigvard and Bjørn arrived with a fleet of four hundred vessels, they issued the king with an open challenge to battle. It was fought at a prearranged time and Ælla captured; they ordered his back to be carved with the figure of an eagle, exultant because at his overthrow they were imprinting the cruellest of birds on their most ferocious enemy. Not satisfied with inflicting wounds, they salted the torn flesh. After Ælla had thus been destroyed, Bjørn and Sigvard sailed back for their own domains, while Ivar held England for two years. During these events the Danes, persistently rebellious, had taken to war and conferred the kingship publicly on a certain Sigvard and Erik, both of royal blood. The sons of Ragnar together attacked them with a navy of seventeen hundred ships off Schleswig and killed them after six months of fighting. Burial-mounds remain there as testimony; similarly the bay where the engagement took place was rendered famous by Sigvard’s death. And now, apart from Ragnar’s sons, the royal stock had very nearly been extinguished. Next, after Bjørn and Erik had returned to their homes, Ivar and Sigvard settled again in Denmark in order to keep a tighter rein on the insurgents, while Agner they made governor of England. The latter was provoked by the Englishmen’s rejection of him to evacuate the inhabitants from this disdainful province with Sigvard’s help; he would rather those acres lie without cultivation, unyielding through neglect, than nourish arrogant farmers, and he believed it preferable to turn the island’s rich fields into an ugly wilderness instead of trying to govern this bumptious race. Afterwards he was keen to exact vengeance for the death of Erik in Sweden, who had been removed through the malice of someone called Östen; but while he was closely bent on revenging another, he paid the foe with his own blood; eagerly seeking retribution for his murdered kinsman, he sacrificed his own life to brotherly affection. Sigvard, supported by the unanimous vote of the entire Danish assembly, took over his father’s empire. After widespread slaughters he was happy to enjoy honour at home and now thought it better to be esteemed noble in civilian dress, not armour; abandoning camp life, from being a ruler of great violence he began to act as a scrupulous guardian of peace, finding as much attractiveness in ease and tranquillity as he had previously thought rested in a string of victories. Fortune favoured his change in aims to such an extent that as he distressed nobody with hostilities, so no one harassed him. When death took him, he left a very small child, Erik, to inherit his nature rather than his kingdom or peace. For Erik, the brother of Harald, despising his namesake’s tender years, invaded the country with a band of revolutionaries and seized the royal crown; with no qualms about challenging the boy’s rightful leadership nor wresting the sovereignty from him illegally, he proved himself less worthy to reign in that he was ready to despoil a powerless individual. He divested him of his sceptre, himself of virtues, and in making an armed assault against an infant stripped all manliness from his heart. Where greed and ambition flare up no place can be found in the same blood for tenderness. However, the vengeance of divine wrath requited this lack of human decency. All at once war started between him and Guttorm, Harald’s son, ending with such carnage that both of them lost their lives along with countless others; then the Danish royal line, spent with these fearful massacres, was reduced to the one son of the Sigvard I wrote of before. Through the loss of his relations he had the luck to attain the throne, more fortunate in this case to have his kinsmen dead than alive; in the absence of other models of activity, he moved in the steps of his grandfather and suddenly emerged as a whole-hearted practitioner of piracy. If only he had not behaved like the headstrong heir of Ragnar’s spirit by stamping out the worship of Christ! With steady persistence he would torture all who observed the deepest piety, strip them of their property, or punish them with exile. Nevertheless it would be futile to criticize his beginnings when I am going to applaud the latter part of his career; a man’s life is more praiseworthy when a bad opening is effaced by a glorious close rather than where, after a pleasing start, he runs downhill into mischiefs and crimes. For Erik, setting aside the profanity of a misguided mind on the wholesome advice of Ansgar, atoned for all the offences of his pride and spent as much energy in fostering Christianity as he had before in spurning it. Not only did his receptive soul draw draughts of a healthier doctrine, but he also wiped away the stains of his youth through his later purity. At the time of his death he left behind Cnut, whom the daughter of Guttorm, Harald’s grandchild, had borne him. While Cnut remained an infant, a guardian was needed both for him and the realm; but, as most people thought the responsibility of such an office would create envy or be difficult to fulfil, they decided to select a man by lot. The wisest Danes, nervous of making an arbitrary choice for such an outstanding post, gave greater initiative to someone else’s presiding destiny than to their own judgements; the outcome of the election was referred to chance in preference to settled deliberation. So it came about that Enni-Gnup, a man of strong and untainted virtue, was forced to stoop his shoulders to this heavy task and embark on a role of tutelage decreed by fate, involving the protection of the whole commonwealth no less than the cradle of an individual monarch. This is why some inexpert historians ascribe a central place to him in their chronicles. After Cnut had run through the course of his youth and reached the strength of manhood, he set aside those who had devoted their services to his upbringing; whereas folk had almost no hopes for this young man, he turned out to be an unexpected pattern of uprightness, only to be lamented in one feature, that he made the passage from life to death without espousing the emblems of the Christian faith. Soon the supreme authority passed to his son Frothi. His circumstances, sustained by arms and warfare, advanced to such a pitch of good fortune that he drove back under their ancient yoke the provinces which had once seceded from Denmark, and bound them to obedience as of old. He also presented himself in England, a country which had long been well acquainted with Christianity, to be sprinkled with holy water. In a desire that his personal salvation should be freely extended to his people, he asked Agapetus, at that period pope in the city of Rome, to teach the Danes about God. But before his prayers could be realized he ended his days; the idea outstripped the actual achievement, since his death preceded the arrival of the Roman mission; even so, he gained as much reward in heaven through his pious intent as is vouchsafed to the rest through their actions. His son Gorm, who was given the nickname of ‘Englishman’ because of his birth in England, took over the royal command after his father’s decease, while he was on that island, but though his fortune was quickly attained it did not persist long. For as he journeyed to Denmark to arrange affairs there, he discovered that his brief withdrawal meant a lasting loss. The English, who were counting on his absence for their chances of liberty, engineered a national rebellion against the Danes, putting their trust in swift revolt. But the more he was scorned and resented by the English, the more devotedly the Danes revered him. Therefore, while he stretched out hands eager for empire towards each of the two provinces, he held one but lost control of the other beyond recall, since he never at any time made a valiant attempt at its recovery. It is very difficult to keep a grasp on over-extensive dominions. Subsequently his son Harald came to the Danish sovereignty; posterity has only a dim recollection of him and he left no record of mighty achievements, because he sought to conserve the royal strength rather than enhance it. After him Gorm attained the summit of power; he was always malignantly disposed towards the true faith and desired to obliterate the toleration of Christians just as though they were the foulest of mankind. Those who subscribed to their precepts he vexed with all manner of injuries and never rested from hounding them with every slander he could. Further than that, in order to restore the primitive worship to the shrines, he treated a church which had been established by a religious community on a plot of land in Schleswig as if it were some impious dwelling of ungodliness and razed it to its very foundations, punishing those he could not lay his hands on to torment by demolishing their holy chapel. Although he was reckoned outstanding in height, his spirit bore little correspondence with his physique. In conduct he restricted himself to the satisfaction of ruling, so that he was happy to maintain his authority without enlarging it; he believed it fitter to protect his own property before encroaching on others’, concerned to guard his acquisitions rather than acquire their increase. i. Encouraged by his nobles to perform the rites of marriage, he courted Thyra, daughter of Æthelred, the English king, longing to make her his wife. Excelling other women, as she did, in dignity and enterprise, she laid one condition on her suitor: she declared that she could only marry him if she received Denmark as her wedding present. On these terms she became engaged to Gorm, but on the night when she first climbed into the marriage bed she addressed persistent entreaties to her husband that she be allowed abstinence from intercourse with him for three days; she was in fact determined not to indulge in love-making until she had learnt through some dream-omen that their union would be fruitful. By feigning moderation she hindered the proving of their wedlock, putting on a show of bashfulness to cover this scheme of ascertaining their issue; thus she postponed their interchange of sensual delight with a specious modesty in order to investigate the prospects for the continuance of their line. Others suppose she declined the caresses of the nuptial couch so that by her continence she could win her bridegroom over to Christianity. Although the young man’s ardent soul remained deeply bent on her love, he preferred to respect another’s restraint before his own pleasures and thought it more gallant to control his impulses during the night than rebuff his girl’s tearful wishes, believing that her pleas, which really sprang from calculation, were allied to her reserve. The result was that, when he should have played the part of a husband, he became the ward of her chastity, not wishing at the outset of their wedded life to be censured for a lecherous mind as if he paid more heed to his strong lusts than personal propriety. So that he should not appear to be snatching the maiden’s ungranted love prematurely in carnal embraces, he even stopped their sides from having contact by placing a naked sword between them and made the bed like a mutual dwelling with divided compartments for himself and his bride. ii. However, because of a fortunate type of dream he soon tasted the joy his voluntary kindness had deferred. While his mind was sunk in slumber, he imagined that two birds, one larger than the other, fluttered forth out of his wife’s womb, then hovered in the air before soaring to the sky and after a short interval returned to perch one on each of his hands. A second and a third time, after refreshing themselves in a short rest, they took off with outstretched wings, till at last the smaller of them flew back to him alone, its feathers smeared with blood. Bewildered by the vision and still heavy with sleep, he emitted a groan prompted by his stupefaction and then filled the whole house with rousing cries. While he was explaining what he had observed in answer to the servants’ questions, Thyra, understanding that she would be blessed with progeny, discarded the idea of putting off the consummation, eagerly renounced the virginity she had desperately implored him to preserve and, exchanging celibacy for sexual love, gave her husband the welcome chance to possess her; she compensated for his virtuous self-control by the total liberality with which she allowed him to consort with her, though she stated that she would not have become his true wife had she not gathered from the shadowy images of his dream a certainty that she would enjoy fertility. By a scheme as subtle as it was strange her simulated shyness developed into a knowledge that she was to bear children. Nor did Fate cheat her expectations; she shortly became the happy mother of two sons, Harald and Cnut. , . Once they had reached manhood they put out with their fleet and quelled the unbridled impudence of the Wends; nor for that matter did they allow England to go free from the same kind of persecution. Æthelred, delighted with his grandsons’ promise, gained pleasure from the violence they inflicted on him and welcomed this terrible outrage as though it were the most generous favour. He found much more virtue in their courageousness than in any respect for himself, believing it more creditable to be challenged by such assailants than revered by sluggards, as if he perceived evidence of their future hardiness in their daring natures. He could not doubt that some day they would invade foreign lands if they were now claiming their mother’s inheritance so boldly. Because he esteemed injuries from them much more highly than services, he passed over his daughter and bequeathed England to them in his will; he did not hesitate to give greater weight to the name of grandfather than father, and this was wise, since he knew that it is considerably finer and more fitting for men than women to handle a kingdom and reckoned that the position of his peace-loving daughter and his warlike grandsons should be kept distinct. In the event Thyra felt no grudge in being herself disinherited and seeing her sons made the legatees of her father’s possessions. She considered that their preferment would shed more honour than reproach upon herself. These two, after enriching themselves with repeated gains from piracy, with unswerving optimism extended their aspirations towards the seizure of Ireland. When Dublin, which was considered the capital of the province, lay under siege, the Irish king entered a wood adjoining the city with a mere handful of skilful archers; there, using an indirect and cunning method, from far o ff he aimed an injurious arrow at Cnut, who was attending a sports display at night amid a heavy throng of his soldiers; the arrow struck the front of his body and dealt him a mortal wound. Cnut wished to keep his injured state concealed, since he was afraid the enemy might greet his critical condition with an outburst of joy, and therefore, though his voice was at its last gasp, ordered that the games should carry on to the end without any commotion. By this artifice he enabled the Danes to win Ireland before the Irish were aware of his death. Who would not mourn the end of this man, whose guidance was sufficient to achieve victory for his warriors in a scheme which operated longer than his life? The Danes had found themselves in extreme difficulties and were so enveloped by dangers that they almost abandoned hope of preservation; but because they obeyed their dying leader’s instructions, they very soon triumphed over the race which had caused their fears. At this period Gorm had advanced to the very end of his days, having passed a long succession of years in blindness; in prolonging his old age to the ultimate bound allotted to human beings he became more concerned about his sons’ lives and advancement than the remnant of his own existence. So dear to his heart was the elder boy that he swore he would personally kill the one who first brought tidings of his death. When Thyra chanced to hear the news that he had undoubtedly been slain, since no one dared to broach the matter openly to Gorm she grasped at her own ingenuity for aid and revealed by actions the disaster she was afraid to betray by word of mouth. After taking the royal robes from her husband’s shoulders, she draped him with shabbier ones and brought other symbols of grief to show there was a reason for mourning; our ancestors used to have these accoutrements on funeral occasions and would demonstrate bitter sorrow by the severity of their dress. ‘What are you telling me? That Cnut is dead?’ Gorm asked. ‘They were your words’, Thyra answered. ‘I didn’t announce it.’ Her reply brought about her husband’s end and her own widowhood, so that she bewailed her son and her spouse at one and the same time. While she acknowledged to Gorm his child’s fate, she united them in death, attended the burials of both with equal tears, and devoted a wife’s lamentations to one, a mother’s to the other, though at that moment she needed cheer and comfort, not a bombardment of calamities.
BOOK TEN 
After Gorm’s decease Harald desired to further the prospects of his hereditary domain by performing exploits of remarkable courage, and therefore, launching a pirate expedition across to the East, he braved the all-encircling Ocean. Æthelred meanwhile had perished and, though Harald gathered profit from his assiduous, lucrative employment, he derived rather more heartache from the death of his grandfather than delight from his own rule. But while Fortune loaded him abundantly with barbarian riches, she stripped him of his English possessions; albeit granted foreign booty, he was deprived of the treasure nearer home which he should have inherited. For Æthelred’s son, Æthelstan, passed over in his father’s will, opposed with displeasure the document recording Harald as heir and, tearing up his parent’s wishes, sought the equal cultivation of his own. For this reason the Norwegian king, who grieved to see the command of this widespread empire given over to a man of dull sensibilities, equipped an armed fleet and made for the island of England in the hope of seizing power. Once Æthelstan perceived that his own strength was weaker than his adversary’s, he lost confidence in settling the fight and changed his belligerence to compliance, eager to capture his foe’s goodwill with politenesses if he could not beat him back by force. Not only did he receive the king with the friendliest of faces and the most courteous address, but better to free his country from the threat of warfare, guaranteed to bear the cost of educating Norway’s son, Håkon, who was still quite young, and similarly promised to bequeath his realm to him. He reckoned this was an offer particularly worth making so that he might have the use of Norwegian troops against Harald. As he was terrified of the latter’s ferocity, he decided it was preferable to mitigate his own childlessness by voluntarily adopting an heir instead of waiting for one who made a forcible claim. Æthelstan’s enemy seized on the proposal impulsively; he embraced the proffered agreement, relying so much on the bestower’s good nature that he did not shrink from committing a son, dearer to him than his own soul, to Æthelstan’s untested honesty. After this Harald brought back his forces from the East, but though, having a particularly strong and just case, he might have been instigated to challenge his uncle’s deed, he nevertheless managed to overlook Æthelstan’s lust for power without retaliation, cloaking his resentment under a show of patience and choosing to bear gently the deprivation of his due property instead of taking possession of it savagely. Only a short interval elapsed before Håkon, receiving news of his father’s death, began preparing to set sail on the voyage homewards; but he was recalled when Æthelstan arrived in a great rush and, having abandoned for a little while his attempt to catch the breeze, brought his vessel close in to shore. Håkon believed he would hear something fresh from his mentor beyond the usual teaching about his behaviour with which he was daily instructed, and was told that at times of feasting he should not wear a sombre countenance, but in gazing at his friends ought to have a happy look in his eyes. Æthelstan had impressed numerous other maxims of upright conduct on him and would not let him be unaware of how to comport himself at social gatherings. Not only did his father’s death yield him Norway, but shortly afterwards the demise of his teacher opened the way to England for him. Now Harald was afraid that bearing injustices, as he had done hitherto out of consideration and esteem for his kinsman, would in the long run bring him under reproach of cowardice, and that what had been a mark of his restraint would be termed a shortcoming; so he resolved to inflict the first damage on Håkon by causing an upheaval in Norway, for he believed that, once the other’s forces at home were vanquished, he could crush those abroad more readily. When he had therefore settled the barbarian question with royal effectiveness, he returned to Denmark, where he was encountered by Harald, son of Gunhild, who was looking for assistance against that very Håkon; he promised to pay tribute if he could receive effective support for his side through benefit of Danish power. Amid the bitterest strokes of Fortune he met with the king’s kindest generosity. As military aides he was given Evind and Karlhøvde, and, after being presented with a fleet of sixty ships, departed in possession of the required escort, with the result that he placed more confidence in the Danes’ help than anxiety over his own adverse circumstances. On completing his voyage back to Norway, he occupied himself in a land battle against his foes, seeing no opportunity offered for fighting them at sea. During the fray Evind incited H åkon to advance among the throngs of combatants in the front line, and, as the monarch displayed a clearer view of himself, the other man went for him with an extraordinarily large axe, and would have struck him, had not one of his bodyguard forestalled the weapon driven at the king by endangering his own person. Evind brought down his brandished axe-blade with such violence that the steel clove the middle of his trunk, finding nothing to stop its passage through his limbs. As he knelt down to try to tug the weapon out of the earth where it had sunk deeply, Håkon stepped on top of the slain warrior’s corpse and transfixed him. One can hardly say whether Håkon or the soldier betrayed a higher sense of duty. The latter had thwarted the king’s death by sacrificing his own existence, while the former requited the felling of his henchman by taking splendid revenge for the destruction of one who had helped him escape calamity. What could be more glorious than that soldier’s deed? Concerned with another’s security rather than his own, he expended his life’s breath voluntarily on his leader’s behalf and by interposing his own individual doom made sure that the general safety of his comrades was not put at risk. In the meantime Thoralf appeared on the scene; Håkon had stationed him in ambush with a view to driving off the enemy’s rearguard, and now he mounted an attack on their battle line, striking down Karlhøvde and beating the Danes into flight. The destruction of this single warrior turned the fortunes of the rest. Chary of hounding the stragglers too persistently, Håkon tightened the reins on his allies and called them back with wholesome advice, in case some inadvertent carelessness of his troops might cause the fate of the conquered side to recoil on the conquerors. Certainly comparable slaughter among each army had rendered martial success equal for both parties. Although the one seemed closer to victory, its casualties resembled those of the vanquished. But as Håkon was returning to his fleet, a portent occurred, incredible to recount. A spear was sighted, snaking about high in the air on a swerving, zigzag path, so that the spectators were overwhelmed as much with fear as wonder. Moving with unpredictable twists and turns into various regions, it seemed as if it were trying to spy out with greater accuracy the point where it would plant its wound. As everyone was following the course of this marvel in deep astonishment, doubtful what such a strange object could predict, it suddenly fell, to convey its menace, dreaded by all, upon the solitary head of Håkon. Some reckon that Harald’s mother, Gunhild, had cast a witch’s spell on the dart, whereby she exacted punishment from the victor for the defeat of her son. Thus, after achieving the good fortune of a throne through the unforeseen annihilation of his foe, Harald paid his promised tribute to the Danes for three years to show his good faithAt that period Styrbjörn, son of the Swedish ruler, Björn, was robbed of his realm by Erik, his uncle Olof’s son; in order to beg assistance he travelled as a suppliant with his sister Gyrith to Harald, Thyra’s son; inasmuch as he found him quite ready to offer friendship, he granted Harald the hand of this sister in marriage all the more freely. After this, Harald took control of Wendish territory with his troops and settled an appropriate garrison of soldiers at Julin, the most celebrated town of that province, putting Styrbjörn in charge. Their piratical raids were conducted with a fine strength and spirit and gradually increased as victories were won round about; eventually they rose to such a harsh pitch that they brought uninterrupted disasters to sailors throughout the northern Ocean. This policy added more to Danish power than was gained by any military strategy on land. Among the fighters were Bo, Ulf, Karlsevne, Sigvald, and a great many others; my pen refrains from writing a comprehensive catalogue, since this would sooner weary the reader than give pleasure. Meanwhile Styrbjörn, spurred by the prick of revenge, yearned to repay the wrong he had received and, calling Harald to his aid, let loose against Erik’s hated tyranny the wrath he felt at the recollection of his injuries. With this in mind the king was departing for Halland when he heard from a messenger that a German invasion was being initiated by Otto, the Roman Emperor. After pursuing an encroachment on another’s territory with feebler energy than the defence of his own, Harald subordinated his plan of an engagement abroad to the guardianship of his homeland and retraced his steps back to Jutland, marching at top speed to lend assistance to the inhabitants who had been overpowered. Nevertheless, by the time Harald reached there, the emperor had crossed Jutland, where he met with no resistance because the people did not have their king to lead them; but he was stopped from further progress by the barrier of Limfjorden, which at that period closed off Vendsyssel with its waters; Otto threw his lance into the waves before he altered course back to the Eider, returning very much as if he had taken flight. In casting the spear he habitually used into the sea tides, he gave his name to the channel, thus meaning to leave a memorial. Yet though his attack was serious, his departure proved him an empty threat. Harald, in burning haste, hounded the withdrawing remnants of his foes and cut down Eppe, who was commanding the rear, and everyone else he lighted upon. In the meanwhile Styrbjörn was forced by his soldiers’ insistent reproaches rashly to entrust his fortunes to the courage of his companions; anticipating the reappearance of Harald’s support, he dashed to his own ruin with headstrong stupidity. Through venturing on warfare overhastily and assailing the Swedish positions with too little care, he met his death. Undoubtedly anyone who in some oppressive, dangerous situation relies on another’s thoughtless behaviour instead of his own foresight is wilfully submitting his throat to the enemy’s swords. Afterwards, in order to make her country safer from surreptitious incursions by foreigners, Thyra set about cutting off with a rampart and ditch all the land that lies between Schleswig and the Ocean to the west, and undertook to build an earth fortification of firm construction surmounting the rampart. Later on, a similar patriotism led King Valdemar and Absalon, archbishop of the Danish people, to superimpose a wall of brick, whereby a more solid, massive new edifice might restore the old barrier that was crumbling, rather than allow more frequent future collapses to reduce its weak structure further. By using the former defence work as a foundation they finished off the incomplete design of that resolute female with their masculine intelligence, making the performance all the more successful in that they knew their own activity surpassed in its distinction that of a woman. Because Thyra bore a man’s heart beneath a feminine exterior, she also freed Scania, pinned down under Swedish despotism, from the burden of rendering tribute. So, by repulsing her enemies on one flank with a wall, on the other with weapons, she brought an equally beneficial protection to the different borders of her fatherland. Meanwhile, when Harald had died in Norway, his son Håkon yearned to strip from his country the disgrace of paying the impost he had inherited; after hearing of the emperor’s activities in Jutland, he hoped that Harald would be enmeshed for a little while in German wars, and so had the nerve openly to refuse his contribution, gathering greater hope and confidence from the Saxon armies than from his own forces. But Harald settled his differences with the emperor and embraced the fellowship of universal religion; he thereby won peace for his kingdom with both God and man, cheating Håkon of his idly conceived expectations and delivering himself from delusion and his homeland from conflicts. Once he had learnt of Håkon’s rebellion, he judged that the arrogance of the young men of Norway must be punished all the more severely in the recognition that they had haughtily stuck their necks out in defiance of himself. He therefore dispatched a pirate band from Julin in response to this effrontery, and ordered its leaders, Bo and Sigvald, to exact revenge for the disdain shown him by the Norwegians. As soon as Håkon sighted these forces, he perceived that his situation was threatened by insupportable difficulties; as there was no provision to hand for encountering the danger, in his despair of human help he turned, supposedly, to divine aid, and set about appeasing the powers above with a rare propitiatory offering. Bringing his own two sons, both of outstanding ability, to the altar like victims, he slaughtered them in an abominable sacrifice to secure victory. He showed no hesitation in purchasing his realm through the destruction of his own blood relatives and chose to forego the name of father rather than lose his fatherland. Have you ever heard of anything more stupid than this king? He could bear to devote the twin butchery of his dearest children to the uncertain outcome of a single battle, courting the fortune of war by the murder of his kin, and to render his bereavement as a gift to the gods for their support of his conflicts. In the event the Danes joined combat with him in a naval encounter, but in whichever direction their troops rushed to launch an attack, they met the hostile force of a thunderstorm, which injured them as sorely as if it were their enemy. Besides, the wicked tempest that had arisen pounded our soldiers’ heads with a barrage of such uncommonly large hailstones that their eyes were assailed as though by darts from the clouds; they completely lost the power to see ahead of them, with the result that they felt the onslaught of the elements more grievously than that of their foe. So it transpired that the Norwegians were more fortunate in the power of the heavens than in their own strength, and the Danes, who were doubtless feeling that the wrath of the gods had been unleashed against them, were put to flight before they could become involved in bloodshed. Even though they had acquitted themselves splendidly while fighting on the battlefield, Karlsevne and Sigvald were among the captives taken by the victors; but they won considerably more glory in chains than in the fray. Anxious to have a closer acquaintance with the renowned bravery of Danish youths, Håkon had these two brought to him, so that the prisoners’ endurance might be put more fully to the test. Report had it that Nature had implanted so tough a spirit in them that even if they received blows across the face they would show not even a light twitch of their eyebrows and would retain exactly the same composure, whatever provocation their aggressor submitted them to. The first to undergo this experiment was Sigvald; when one of Håkon’s escort smote him with a massive club, his eyes never even flickered. Indeed the more desperate the trial of his valour, the less he gave way to misfortune. His companion displayed an equal firmness of mind. As another attendant loomed over Karlsevne’s head with a brandished axe, the latter sent him sprawling with a kick and when the fellow tried to direct a sword stroke at his neck, the Dane dashed the weapon from his hands to grasp hold of it himself, fettered as he was; then, after causing his fall, he took the man’s head off. His audacity, forestalling danger, made him as nimble as he was tireless in his efforts. Amid the clash of chains the prisoner’s heroism could not be dissociated from his strength. Certainly, as he perceived Fate venting its increased thunder on him, he gave even clearer proof of his intrepidity, although beset by the most unpleasant insults. Neither death at his elbow nor the affront of shackles had the power to impede this unrestrained and manly act. Because the monarch was amazed at their steadfastness, he wished to give employment to these two fine soldiers instead of chastising them both, and so he promised to remit their penalty if they would serve on his side in loyalty and friendship. They, on the contrary, considering it indecent to pay forced allegiance out of consideration for their lives (inasmuch as their faithfulness to another master meant more than their own safety), haughtily scorned his terms and refused to covet a benefit which would prolong their existence, if it meant agreeing to a demeaning pact. Observing this, Håkon judged that their bravery should be granted immunity, for he did not wish to punish, but to approve their powers of endurance. History tells us that Gyrith had borne Harald two sons. The elder, Håkon, outshone his brother, Sven, in the wonderful quality of his talents and the happy enhancements conferred on him by Nature. Håkon attacked the Samlanders, but when he noticed that his soldiers’ spirits were rather subdued as they considered the dangers attending this war, he set fire to the fleet, which had been drawn up on to the shore; his intention was to remove the hope of flight more effectively from their wavering minds, and by such firm compulsion he did indeed rid them of their feeble cowardice. With the possibility of sailing gone they were made to perceive that their return had to be engineered through victory. In being complacent about despoiling himself of his vessels, he was all the more secure in seizing booty from the enemy. There was no doubt that Fortune then took pity on the Danish leader, procuring as he did the assistance of his sailors through the loss of their ships and seeing complete want of a navy as the means to military success. So he brought about a happy outcome by a plan as intelligent as it was risky. Once the Danes had conquered Samland, they slaughtered the males, but forced the women to marry them; in this way they severed loyalty to their marriages at home and engaged eagerly enough in foreign unions, so that they shared their blessings with the foe through the common bond of wedlock. The Samlanders are therefore quite right to count themselves as having a direct blood-relationship with the Danish race. So much did love for their captives seize the hearts of these victors that they abandoned their desire to return home and settled in an uncivilized region in preference to their native land, feeling more akin to other men’s wives than their own. After this perished Thyra, the chief splendour of Denmark. Harald had her body borne in a magnificent funeral procession and amid everyone’s loud lamentations committed her to burial at a point not very distant from his father’s tomb. No one’s house could be devoid of sorrow at such a keen loss, for all were convinced that with the death of this individual the common prosperity of their country had breathed its last. One can now observe a shrine there, located between the companion tombs of husband and wife. , i. The following story must not stay shrouded in silence. A certain Toki, who had served for some time as one of the king’s men, had surpassed the zeal of his fellow-soldiers in his duties and by his virtues had gained a number of ill-wishers. It happened that, being somewhat drunk, he was talking to his comrades at table, when he boasted that he had such consummate skill in archery that with the first shot of an arrow he could hit an apple, however small, set on top of a far-off stick. The claim, initially picked up by his listening critics, also reached the ears of the king. And soon the ruler’s evil propensities transformed the parent’s self-confidence into peril for his son, since Harald gave orders that the dearest pledge of Toki’s life be made to stand in place of the stick; if the author of this undertaking failed to dislodge an apple placed on the boy’s crown the first time he loosed an arrow, then he should pay for that worthless bragging with his own head. The monarch’s command impelled the soldier to accomplish more than he had promised, seeing that he had been trapped by backbiters who censured vaunts that had been spoken when he was scarcely sober. By his assertion therefore he was put under an obligation to execute something which he had never even asserted; so it turned out that he stretched his efforts to a feat he scarcely anticipated, and what he had little comprehended in his declarations he performed more fully when it came to the proof. Steadfast courage, though ensnared by malicious tongues, cannot relinquish true assurance of mind. Indeed, the harder the test, the greater was Toki’s resolution in accepting it. As soon as the youth was presented, Toki carefully warned him to keep his ears level and his head upright, and to take the hiss of the oncoming arrow with total passivity, in case a slight movement of his person should jeopardize this trial of his father’s first-rate proficiency. Casting around also for a means of dismissing the lad’s fear, he turned his face to one side so that he should not be terrified by the sight of the shaft. Toki than extracted three arrows from his quiver and with the first one that was fitted to the string he cut through the set target. If the boy’s head had chanced to be in its path, the son’s suffering would doubtless have brought hazard recoiling on his father and the misdirection of the bolt joined striker and struck in death. I am uncertain whether to bestow greater admiration on the father’s bravery or the son’s character. The former avoided murdering his offspring by his judgement and skill, while the latter achieved his own safety through submission of body and mind at the same time as he kept his devotion to his sire. He steeled his adolescent body with an older man’s spirit, displaying a valour as he awaited the dart which matched the marksmanship Toki exhibited in shooting it. Th e youth’s steadiness had helped to ensure that neither his own life nor his parent’s security was snatched away. Questioned by the king as to why he had pulled several arrows out of the quiver when he had simply needed to put the fortune of his bow to the test once, Toki replied: ‘So that if I made a mistake with the first arrow, I could take revenge on you with the points of the rest; nor did I want the possibility of my blamelessness being penalized, while your fierce nature went scot-free.’ By being so outspoken he showed what a reputation for courage he was entitled to and indicated that the king’s command had deserved retribution. Nevertheless, despite the fact that he had been rescued from the storms of compulsion, he was soon afterwards caught in an equally violent tempest of mischief. Harald was proclaiming how expert he was in the art practised by Finns as they traverse their snowy glades, when Toki ventured to set against this his own excellence, praising himself in like manner; as a result he was forced to give proof of his declaration on Kulien Rock. But what he lacked in training, he made up for by daring. Climbing to the peak of the towering cliff, he fitted smooth boards to his soles, put his trust in these slender planks and launched his swift conveyance into thin air. A breakneck flight carried him towards precipitous crags, where his fearless hand none the less managed to maintain due guidance. Neither the immense danger nor any paralysis of his wits could stop him keeping a steady balance. T h e sight of such a vast descent would have terrified anyone else, so that even before he embarked on the danger, he would have found his brain fuddled by sheer fright. In the end the skis he was standing on smashed against an outcrop of rock and he was dislodged from them, but found firm salvation in the accidental shattering of these laths; otherwise close to death, he grasped an unexpected anchor of deliverance whereby he survived his own shipwreck. Through his sharp collision with the mountainside his race had a safe outcome in that he merely lost a pair of splintered skis. If hard, impassable boulders and great chasms had not lain in his path he would certainly have ended by careering into the sea that washed the base of the cliff. Here he was picked up by sailors, but left behind for the unloved king a report that gave him a more melancholy fate than he actually encountered. Moreover, the fragments of the runners, discovered by other seamen among the waves, falsely strengthened belief that he had suffered a calamity. In fact, reckoning that Harald was made uncomfortable by his very presence and realizing that they were not honours but perils being devised to reward his courageousness, he transferred his exertions and attachment to Sven, the ruler’s son, by serving in his guard. Later, since he had no wish to set about moving a block of massive weight with inadequate provision, Harald brought out all his national troops; using the joint forces of men and oxen, he ordered this stone of extraordinary bulk to be dragged away from the shore of Jutland, where it had been discovered, to mark his mother’s tomb. All this time Sven’s fellow-captains in the navy had loathed Harald’s authority, partly because he had shown support for the worship of God, partly because he inflicted exceptional burdens on the ordinary people; so, they introduced a well-briefed individual, whom they had covertly instigated, to ask Sven craftily whether he would be willing to enter upon war on his father and take over the realm. This communication put it into the prince’s mind to aim for the throne by parricide and, thanking his questioner, he answered that he would gladly accept the esteem shown by his country. Hearing this, the nobles enlisted his covetousness with greater confidence now that it had been tested, and boldly brought to light the plots they had hitherto concealed in their hearts. To follow up more openly the designs which they had covered up during their secret machinations, by public acclamation they immediately declared Sven to be monarch. While this was happening, Harald, preoccupied with hauling the stone, started to interrogate closely one of his navy who had just come up to him, asking if he had ever seen anywhere else such a gigantic object handled by men’s labour. The other said he remembered setting eyes lately on the drawing of an enormous weight, accomplished by human strength. The king bombarded him with questions to find out what this was; ‘I was there when Denmark was recently taken away from you’, he replied; ‘you can judge yourself which needed the heavier effort of pulling.’ That was how Harald, looking to another’s opinion for praise of his undertaking, received the news that his realm had been stolen. Only then did this ruler repent that he had fixed cattle yokes on the necks of human beings. For when he had abandoned his scheme for transporting the huge mass and wished to turn from dragging the boulder to preparation for war, he met with the severest frowns from his soldiery. Wounded by such a humiliating affront in that employment, the army refused to take up arms on behalf of someone who had required it to bear the yoke. No regal order or entreaty could induce these men to procure safety for the head of one whose shaming command had condemned their necks to this affliction. There were some, however, who did not share the popular feeling, and amid the turbulence of public upheaval preserved their customary regard for their sovereign. Relying on their support as he strove to use his power to crush his son’s initiative, Harald was himself vehemently assaulted by martial forces belonging to his own blood. Having been overcome in warfare by Sven, he pinned his faith on escape to Zealand, where he recruited a further battalion, but came away with the same kind of fortune as before, this time after a sea contest. Now that he had been stripped of fighters at home, all that was left was for him to call on a foreign contingent for aid. So, quitting his homeland, he sought exile in Julin, because it was packed with Danish warriors and could be regarded as the military nucleus most loyal to him. In the meantime Sven, not yet satisfied with having dishonoured filial loyalty by animosity against his father, tried to court the people’s favour; giving rein to impiety, he resolutely bent his attentions to the abolition of holy rites and, after expelling every trace of Christian worship from the land, restored sacrificial priests to the temples and offerings to the altars of the gods. Once again his father attacked him, on the coast at Helgenæs, with a mixed band of Danes and Wends, but dragged out the day in fighting without experiencing either flight or victory. As both armies were exhausted by their struggle, they devoted the next day to a conference so that they might knit together a peace; but as luck would have it, Harald, convinced that they would come to terms, wandered off independently and disappeared into a small neck of the forest. Here he was crouching among the trees to empty his bowels, when he was hit by an arrow from the bow of Toki, who had been thirsting to avenge the injustices he had suffered; Harald was carried back wounded to Julin by his retinue and there his life quickly came to an end. His body was dispatched to Roskilde, where it was given a consecrated burial place in a church founded by him not long before. His native country, at one time ungrateful for the benefits it had received from him, now gave overdue consideration to its conscientious leader’s deeds, and what it had rendered in smaller measure to the living man, it thought fit to offer him more amply now that he was dead; by paying reverence at his funeral with all their warm strength of feeling, the Danes cherished his ashes with a humanity which displaced the arrogant hate they had shown him during life. After Harald’s decease Sven rejoiced that a favourable opportunity had arrived when he could vent his fury on Christian practices, and he tore up the whole of this religion, root and branch; at his instigation, having already embarked on worship of the Godhead, the Danes returned to superstitious beliefs, embracing this regression to their old error all the more openly because they were secure in the knowledge that its harshest critic had perished. This foolhardy behaviour, however, was repaid with misfortunes of considerable stringency by a Divinity retaliating against men’s scorn of Him, and He hounded its originator with the most depressing twists of fate. The man who had led his people to abandon their faith was stricken with grievous severity, inasmuch as the Lord never ceased to embroil him in the worst of violent catastrophes, so that, divested of any favourable success, Sven was compelled to undergo a life of bitter experiences. When the inhabitants of the town of Julin initiated a marauding raid on Denmark, its ruler was taken prisoner and found it possible to gain ransom only after promising to purchase it with his weight in gold and twice his weight in silver. The Danes, who had lavished affection on him for his desertion of holy rites, contributed the sum which restored him to his homeland, yet even then his eyes were clouded with dense mists of ignorance and he still disdained to lift them towards the rays of shining light. For this monster crammed with wickedness, whose heart was so unlike his father’s, was not ashamed to separate himself from Harald’s uncommon splendour and move towards the depths of darkness. But although his personal defects were his undoing, he profited by others’ altruism. Destiny dealt him a similar blow a second time, and after the children of noblemen had been given as security on his behalf and an agreement introduced stipulating the same amount as before, he sought and obtained assistance for his ransom. Since he was unable to meet the promised debt from his own treasury, he offered for sale woods and forests, sometimes publicly, sometimes privately, to all who had surrendered sons, dearer than their own lives, as surety for his safety; the money he then received for these estates was immediately counted out to those who had taken him into captivity. The Scanians and Zealanders bought woodlands for common use by public subscription. In Jutland, however, it was done by families closely related to each other, who participated in the purchase. At this period our race frequently engaged in viking expeditions, but this was extremely rare for the Wends; nevertheless such ventures began to spread more widely amongst them because the pirates of Julin, displaying their Danish zeal against Denmark herself, were particularly harmful to its countrymen through the selfsame vigour they had derived from the national character. These regular incursions have been put down in our own day through the patrols, alert on the citizens’ behalf, of King Valdemar and Archbishop Absalon. The energetic involvement of these two has ensured that peaceful cultivation is maintained on land and safe navigation on the waters. Avid to take revenge for the acts of violence against him, and, more than anything, bent on using his troops to demolish Julin, which he regarded as a den infested by a gang of cut-throats, Sven filled the sound which separates the islands of Møn and Falster with his royal fleet. As soon as it appeared that he shortly intended to overrun the territory of the Wends, the dwellers in Julin boldly calculated that any attack from this cunning enemy should be anticipated by stratagem. When they found out that Danish guards patrolled the fleet at night for its protection, they chose and equipped a number of oarsmen for the assignment. At daybreak they arrived before the customary appearance of the sentinels and pretended to have just returned from their watch; rowing in a small skiff across the harbour, which was bristling with longships, they ventured right alongside the king’s vessel, where the steersman announced that he had some confidential information which Sven really ought to know about. Believing that he was bringing a report of some matter discovered in the night, the king drew back the awning which covered the ship and, poking his head out, leant forward towards the caller, expecting a friendly conversation. When the other saw that Sven was ripe for his treachery, he suddenly gripped his neck in a brutally savage clasp, dragged him from the ship and with the help of his assistants tossed him into their pirate boat. Then they sped away in flight with rapid strokes of their oars. So, by getting their nimble wits to aid them, they effected by guile what was impossible by the use of weapons. Consequently someone who a little while before had shone out from the pinnacle of grandeur was then transformed by a derisive jest of Fate into the miserable slave of barbarians; whether he had done greater wrong to his father or to religion I cannot say, but he saw the province he had dishonoured with his parent’s exile now the provider of a prison and the avenger of parricide; he also found himself obliged to strip of its wealth the motherland he had robbed of its Christian worship. Nor could his followers be very quick to help him, for they first had to roll back the tarpaulins that screened the ships, fit oars into the rowlocks and draw up their anchors from the waves. So the campaign yielded to deceit and, since its participants did not have the courage to pursue the barbarians without royal leadership, the fleet set sail and restored the soldiers to their native shores. Amid these buffets of destiny Sven, bereft of any man’s aid, experienced the benefit of female help. After his kingdom had been drained of wealth and there did not even appear to be gold enough for his ransom, the philanthropy of the married women was such that they pulled off their earrings with the rest of their jewellery and competed to make up in weight the estimated quantity; they set more store by their sovereign’s welfare than by their own attractiveness, enhanced by the beauty of their ornaments. Thus, in the matter of his release, both sexes showed their concern for the need of one human being. So it was more of a gratification than a trouble for these ladies in their gowns to buy back with their private means the topmost representative of the state. In laying out their communal donations they showed no hesitation in seeking safety for a person who had led the way as a persistent advocate for the abandonment of true religion. Our country, unaware of its own ruin, thought it a deed of patriotism to requite a supreme crime with the most handsome generosity, bestowing unwarranted courtesy and favour on someone who had offered violence both to his father and to divine power, so that what should have been atoned for by his punishment was rewarded by their allegiance. Whereas his subjects had held deep hatred for Harald, they burned with an equally strong affection for Sven, exhibiting disdain for the promoter of Christianity and friendship for an individual who scorned it. In this way the people commended a sacrilegious spirit and castigated a pious one, heaping just as much contempt on the father’s holiness as it had loaded honour upon the son’s blemishes; it worshipped its present king with an excessive fondness and partiality because he had annulled sacred practices, to the extent that it had recovered him from pirate captivity three times by proffering the agreed payments. Sven’s heart was grateful enough to dispense rewards to the matrons for their compliance. For he granted to women from then onwards the right of sharing inheritances, from which the law had originally excluded them. But in order to collect the money still lacking from the previous amount of tribute, he ordered his fields and estates to be auctioned, and therefore, as he himself was sold by foreigners, so he put his homeland up for sale to his citizens. I am not certain whether he was made happier or more wretched by his period of starvation, seeing that it reduced his frame but proportionally spared his wealth, and by having his limbs waste away he conserved his riches. Not yet satisfied, however, with despoiling him of his resources, the barbarians forced the severely plagued king to swear that he would also abate his anger, thereby wresting a double bargain from the pitiable fellow. If the one promise was hard to deliver, it was disgraceful to accede to the other. Necessity had dictated that he should pour away his revenue to the enemy; even so, it is a charity bordering on disgrace to cast aside all regard for an injury and to compensate for suffering by allowing exemption to one’s captors. As it is weak to submit to an outrage, so is it shameful to relinquish vengeance for it. To be pushed beyond the limits of one’s strength is more laudable than to use it languidly. By no means backward in his eagerness to dispense with imprisonment, he took an oath to abandon the idea of revenge and conceded the articles of the proposed covenant; his enemies were thereby enriched no less with the privilege of enjoying peace of mind than by the levy of gold, and Sven betrayed his servility all the more because he had resigned himself to obtaining freedom in this craven manner. In fact, love for their country still carried so much weight with these men who had deserted it that, when they perceived the Danish royal stock had dwindled to a single son of Harald, they decided his life should be spared to avoid the foremost position of the realm falling to outsiders. For this reason they were hungry for his treasure, not for his destruction, preferring to console themselves in their poverty with his fortune sooner than his blood. Nevertheless divine castigation did not leave this royal abdicator of religion to rest peacefully from its stings. It caused Sweden, too, to turn hostile to Danish power. When its king, Erik, who had adopted a surname from his victories, recalled to mind the assistance Harald had brought to Styrbjörn against the Swedes in times past, he burst into violent flames of passion over this man Sven, and crossed with his army into Denmark with a view to accomplishing his revenge, for he longed to repay the father’s offence by an attack on his son. Although he was connected with the Danish monarch by quite a close blood tie on Sven’s mother’s side, he set anger before kinship, and was the bolder in his purpose inasmuch as he knew that the other’s circumstances had often been weakened, bruised, and harassed by frequent assaults of adversity, while he himself had constantly turned on the highest pivot of good fortune. Sven was beaten by him when they fought in Scania and sought exile with Olav Tryggvason, the Norwegian ruler, leaving behind him a daughter of surpassing loveliness, Thyra, named after her grandmother, though who her mother was I cannot say; he lived in greater hope from his recollection that, after Olav’s father had been thrust from his kingdom long ago, he had been restored to his throne through Harald’s help. Despite the fact that he was not yet accorded the title ‘king of Norway’, Olav discharged the duties of the crown, with full management of its affairs. Even though he had lain under an obligation for the kind support lent to his own father by Sven’s father, he none the less had little intention of returning the favour he owed, so that he rejected the fugitive’s supplication, denied every particle of the aid he sought, and entirely withheld his assent from someone who was almost at the end of his tether. He did not give the homeless Sven any backing and thought nothing of repulsing the man whose parent had effected the recovery of Olav’s homeland. Insulted and humiliated by his refusal, Sven ran for protection to the English. But their king, Edward, still rather young, levelled an accusation of ambitious designs at him, though he merely craved help; he imagined that Sven was not so much a refugee who needed succour as a subtle fellow who was trying to reclaim his realm in the guise of an exile; since Edward read his powerless situation as a proof of cunning, he turned a deaf ear to the outcast and sent him packing. Indeed, it was his father’s prosperity which had rendered the son’s wretched condition so suspect. Seeing that his hopes and entreaties with regard to these two ill-disposed heads of state were fruitless, he set out for Scotland, where, among the wild natures of a savage people, he experienced the compassion he had failed to discover in a somewhat milder race. The revolutions of Fortune are generally so changeable and uncertain that sometimes, when the mind of a human being is cheated of its expectations, he achieves in quite a simple fashion something he had never anticipated. It was this cruelty of Fate that prompted Sven to commit himself to cherishing Christianity and, whereas his eyes had been drawn away by darkness, with refreshing gaze he now bathed them in the light. Once he perceived that his two chief iniquities, parricide and sacrilege, had been rewarded in abundance with reciprocally harsh punishments, captivity and exile, he allowed himself to feel an honest shame at having disregarded wholesome teaching; bending his thoughts and concerns to sacred duties, he made amends for each of those sullying crimes with heartfelt tears of repentance. Moreover, when he had performed all the necessary personal rites, he received baptism and immediately embarked on a continued devotion to the Faith. At one time a blot on humanity, he now emerged as a tower of strength. The Deity was quickly softened by his helpful penitence and the favour of divine grace procured him the sumptuous blessings of old; in the seventh year of Sven’s exile Erik died, affording him ready access to his kingdom, and in this way God bestowed on him a native land in place of banishment, a full measure of glory and supreme authority in exchange for penury. Erik’s son, Olof, now returned to Sweden with Sigrid, his mother, and as long as he lived there he controlled the kingdom, albeit under her ascendancy.
Sven thus conformed to religious belief and took possession of his country at nearly the same moment. Worried, however, that the subjects whose goodwill he had gained through his impiety would be drawn to sudden hatred if they were incited by his devoutness, he concealed his spiritual orthodoxy by publicly disguising his true creed, while privately following it. And so these contrary impulses embedded in the same breast, deepest dread alongside the most sincere veneration, had reduced a mind torn apart by confused uncertainties to almost the last degree of irresolution. On the one hand fear of losing his realm, on the other, terror of offending the Almighty pierced his heart’s defences with their unpredictable threats. He quailed in the face of an avenging deity if he were to spurn His religion, and before a populace who would punish him if he devoted himself to that faith. As his intent brain balanced and compared these conflicting motives, he perceived he must yield to the strong awe which God inspired sooner than to that provoked by the people. This was why he secretly approached the nobles and with covert suggestions tried persistently to make them adopt pious observances, and since he was unable to cull his arguments from learned doctrine, he pursued the business with rough and ready skill. From his eagerness to establish Christianity he thus adopted the role of instructor before acquiring the necessary dexterity and practice. In fact, as one might suppose, the nourishing remedy required by a healthy head is spewed up by the rest of a body that is desiccated and antipathetic. A nation which loved the old ways could not bear to give its attention to learning strange new ideas. Indeed it found this foreign mode of worship obnoxious and jealously embraced its own native cult. Therefore God, blazoning His divine power, introduced a partner in this noble employment for the eager but ineffective propagator of religion, namely Poppo, a man of striking intellect and piety, outstanding for his remarkable scholarship. This personage addressed a public meeting of the Danes at the seaport which is called Isøre, from the great quantity of ice that appears there; when his speech proved incapable of directing them away from their temples, where they wanted to pay homage, with a clear signal he supplied sure proof for his declarations and gave these people confirmation of his teaching by a holy miracle before their very eyes. Poppo asked them whether they would submit to his counsel if they saw his hand, in contact with red-hot iron, remain completely unharmed; all replied that in that case they must undoubtedly obey him, and so he told them to heat to glowing point a leaf of metal which had been shaped into a glove, and then inserted his arm right up to the elbow. He immediately carried it undaunted round the whole circle and then shook it off at the king’s feet; after this he displayed to view his right hand, totally unblemished and preserving the same sound condition and colour as before, to everyone’s reverent wonder. Such an astonishing sight won over an otherwise impervious crowd to his own zealous way of thinking and the danger he underwent became not a frustration to his precepts but a demonstration of them. So he triumphed over natural processes by fulfilling his bold undertaking without flinching. Moreover, through the fame of this miracle he implanted from abroad a religious spirit in our race. A result of this incident was that the custom of single combat was abolished and it was decreed that the majority of cases should depend for their decision on an ordeal of the above type, for the Danes believed it was more proper to refer the weighing of disputes to divine judgement than to human contests. Hence Poppo obtained from Archbishop Adaldag of Bremen the distinction of holding the bishopric at Arhus, which he richly deserved for his life and works. The same title and office were granted to Harik at Schleswig and to Liafdag in Ribe; similarly Gerbrand shed lustre on Roskilde. The thorough-going devoutness of the pious monarch spread the cultivation of Christianity through new priesthoods and enhanced it with churches and shrines. In the early days these four centres of religion were satisfied with foreigners to preside over their sacred ceremonies for, since prelates were lacking in our land, they depended on an intermittent rather than an unbroken line of primates. By his salutary instruction Bernhard, who had journeyed from England, afforded no less profit to Norway. Its monarch, Olav, however, still concerned himself so much with taking auspices and observing omens that, even when he had been baptized with a sprinkling of holy water, he did not imbibe the first elements of religious instruction sufficiently well, with the result that neither by spiritual example nor by weight of teaching could anyone prohibit his eager attention to the warnings of augurs or stop him finding out the future from other readers of bird omens. So, devoid of faith, or at any rate with only a pale shadow of it, he invalidated his semblance of devotion by his tawdry superstitiousness. With the same energy as before Bishop Bernhard guided King Olof of Sweden towards Christian observance and graced him with the name of Jakob, signifying by this dignified title his improvement in conduct. But I have not fully ascertained whether this monarch actually learnt sacred usage and doctrine from Bernhard or from the archbishop of Bremen, Unne. It was at this period that the citizens of Lund laboured to build a church where, under Gerbrand, bishop of Roskilde, they worshipped God within the sanctity of their local shrine. Unne’s corpse, in fact, is entombed at Birka, a town celebrated in ancient tradition, while that of Bernhard occupies the crypt at Lund. Meanwhile the Norwegian sovereign, Olav, who was still a bachelor, impelled by his longing to enjoy renown and become master of Denmark, sought the hand of Sigrid with the intention of joining the Swedish power to his own side, which would enable him to realize his wishes more easily. Consequently Sven, who was anxious not to expose two flanks of his country to attack from the united forces of those two realms, hit on a very clever type of scheme; he enlisted the aid of a pair of his more resolute housecarls, who, pretending they were under sentence, went to Olav as suppliants. Because he treated them with some courtesy as befitted exiles, once they had become relatively friendly with him they considered they might pursue their design with greater boldness; so they began to be more forthright in their language and, associating abuse of Sven with compliments for Thyra, heaped the father’s character with insults as freely as they sang the praises of his daughter’s beauty. In this manner, through putting on the pretence of being outlaws, they concealed their harmful lies under an appearance of goodwill. With the incentive of her attractive looks they prevailed upon Olav to make a bid for the girl so that he instructed delegates to tender his entreaties to Sven. When they approached him, the latter gave the suitor his word that he should obtain the marriage he requested. As soon as he heard the news, the Norwegian king was transported to the seventh heaven, reckoning it more desirable to wed an unspoilt virgin than a woman in matron’s garb; he hankered after her chaste embraces because he could not bear to mar his early manhood in the bosom of a widow. Therefore he disclosed as much scorn for the one as esteem for the other. Giving Sigrid a formal invitation to a make-believe conference, he asked her to board his ship so that they might have a talk together. Despite his overtures the queen held back for a while, allowing her modesty to protect her from any danger, but in the end she acceded to his bidding. Though she was still uncomfortable and reluctant to comply, he laid a gangway, secured by hooks, to form a bridge for her to ascend the vessel. As she was climbing aboard to greet the king, the wily Norwegians pulled away the plank and she was sent spinning head first into the waves. Not content with disconcerting her perfect majesty by the lowest impropriety, to give a clear imputation that she had a sensual mind the sailors followed up the unseemly tumble they had caused her with a cacophony of loud neighing sounds. Such is Norwegian politeness, versed in tricks and mockery, which did not blush to deceive with a shameful plot the trust of a most noble female, to trample on a lady’s dignity with insults, and to repay her affection with dishonour. Truly, whoever expends kindliness and indulgence on that race does a favour only for thankless wretches. But the queen, after having almost choked to death in the deep, was got ashore with some effort, to the deep humiliation of the Swedes. Eventually, when she had recovered her breath, she was unable to endure the discredit of her narrow escape in silence, for she reckoned that King Olav had impugned her respectability, and so she censured this odious affront, uttering all the threats she could muster. Enraged by these two harsh wrongs, peril and shame, she could not stomach calmly such a provoking injury to her delicacy, seeing that she had been degraded from a sovereign of unimpeachable distinction to her arrogant suitor’s contemptible laughing-stock. Thus it was that the intelligence of an astute leader, concealed beneath that amazing bluff, shrewdly won over to his own side the forces which he stripped from Olav. As it was, Sven immediately found that, once he applied to Sigrid for her hand, she was as favourably disposed to him as she was implacable towards his rival. Soon, pursuing resolute vengeance for the indignity suffered by his wife, Sven denied Olav his daughter when the latter asked for her hand. After an interval of time Sigrid bore him a son, Cnut. That was how Olav came to be robbed of two magnificent marriages; for rashly spurning one partner he deserved his slighting rejection by the other, and it turned out that his repulse by one and his high-handedness with the second meant he lost both. However, since he knew that Sven had generally met with little success in war, Olav based his calculations not on the other’s strength but on his fortunes and, making ready his ship, of fine renown, he prepared to exact revenge by force of arms. Sven, for his part, called on his stepson for support, and took on his enemy in a sea battle. During the fray Enar, Olav’s archer, who was powerful in physique and skill, had been bending his amazing bow with such strength that no intervening obstacle could halt the swift flight of an arrow shot from it, however hard the material. One which struck the ship’s mast went clean through the timber with its force. A similar one, after ripping through the king’s shield and penetrating a plank of the vessel, scarcely reached the end of its momentum in the waves. This was why Enar alone was capable of giving the foe severer trouble than all the rest of his comrades put together. His aim was so sure that he struck whatever target he attempted. The result was that Sven, terrified by such a prodigious weapon, felt more fear of this single stem of wood than of his adversaries’ entire fleet. Realizing that their only hope was to destroy it, he ordered his marksmen to try not so much for the archer as for the tool of his trade; he yearned to have the bow and its luck broken so that he could wage a less hazardous war. While Sven’s chosen company vied with one another in showering their missiles on Enar’s implement, one of their shafts happened to hit the bow and this deprived the master of his ability and the enemy of success. When the noise of its crack resounded everywhere, Olav, stunned, asked what it was that had shattered. To which Enar answered: ‘You can reckon Norway’s been riven from you.’ He judged that more assistance lay in his bow than in the army, and comprehended the future outcome of the battle in his laconic but acute reply. Things fell out just as he had predicted. The smashing of the bow presaged subsequent disaster for the Norwegians. Olav decided to forestall the enemy forces by taking fate into his own hands and committing suicide; in full armour he took a flying jump into the deep waters, as though he would depart from the world more happily if he could dispense with his lust for life and were not obliged to look upon his conqueror. Once Sven had seen the hostile troops brought under his control, although his warriors had thrown them into flight he wished to win their allegiance by an address, and so, after an outstanding martial triumph he turned to amiability, believing it no disgrace if the victor came to terms with the vanquished. Still unsatisfied after the subjugation of Norway, Sven travelled to England, where he made a covenant with Æthelstan that, following the latter’s death, he should enjoy the possessions and title of the monarch there. During the same era, Rimbrand succeeded Poppo and Markus replaced Harik as sanctified bishops. In taking over the ecclesiastical office of Liafdag, Fulbert shone resplendently. After him Odinkar the White, of illustrious family, assumed the mitre. Magnanimous towards God, he donated his ample inheritance to the regular needs of his parishes, without keeping even a meagre amount of money for himself; churches hitherto lacking possessions he made rich in fertile land and property, so that the noble cathedrals throughout Jutland received almost all the estates they now hold through his pious benefactions. More interested in the people’s devoutness than his personal belongings and striving for substantial before perishable fame, with a brief expenditure of goods he obtained lasting pleasures of the soul, and so preferred to relinquish his noble patrimony rather than let the Christian religion lack resources; thus he conveyed the legacy he had inherited to the One he knew must repay these pious gifts with eternal blessings. Nor was he content to have devoted his private effects to holy works, but in order to fulfil every function and category of virtue, he supported these bounties with even further deeds of goodness. Putting his knowledge of sacred doctrine at the service of Zealand and Scania, he gradually became a marvellous exponent of theology there. No less willing to perform spiritual than material duties, Odinkar did as much to propagate his faith as he had done to enrich it; not only had he contributed his inheritance to the Church, but he would also have been prepared to die on its behalf. Now Sven, although weary with the toils of an old man’s existence, still paid unflagging attention to divine worship during his last years, and his reverence for the Lord lasted as long as he drew breath. Free of all human perturbation, he passed away in the full glow of an excellent life. Certainly he had been divided between two fates, for a shifting fortune bandied him to and fro between derision and distinction, substituting captivity for his kingship, and exile for his captivity. Who would have imagined that he would progress from the most elevated throne to the fetters of the Wends? Who could guess that he would return from Wendish chains to a monarch’s regalia? Yet he went from ruler to prisoner and from prisoner to ruler. A companion now to abject sorrow, now to the highest felicity, he set side by side a double measure of each destiny in the conflicting situations of his career. At Sven’s death the English and Norwegians, not wanting their country’s highest station to be under the control of a foreign power, deemed it more satisfactory to choose kings within their own ranks instead of borrowing them from neighbours; they accordingly shrugged off their deference to Danish power and placed Edward and Olav respectively at the peak of royal grandeur. Cnut, who had taken over the throne of Denmark, was reluctant to challenge the imposing strength of these two kings in his early days of leadership, but was not keen either to see his dominion confined to the bounds of his own country; as a result he did not neglect the idea of regaining his father’s empire, but at the same time disguised the fact and made it his first objective to carry the sword into Wendish territory and Samland, on the grounds that these were weaker realms. Though he had suffered harsh wrongs from them, Sven had been chary of striking at the former people, hindered as he was by scruples about his oath, and the latter, once overcome by Håkon, had turned their hands to rebellion against the Danes after his decease. This new successor to the Danish crown skilfully contrived to punish the offence of the one, the vexation they had caused his father, and of the other for their revolt. He was quite aware that a gifted individual can gather the strength to expand his capabilities by starting with a smaller-scale enterprise, and for this reason he wished during this apprenticeship in warfare to mark the beginning of his early manhood with some noble feat. For that reason he vigorously used his force against the insurgents, perhaps with greater promptness in that active spirits, as they are putting themselves more on trial, show superior daring and so are successful in performing some remarkable task. Holding to this scheme, Cnut found his hopes raised by two signal victories, and these led him to aspire to a third, over the English. In order to achieve this more readily, he cloaked his hatred for Olav, who held joint-sovereignty of Norway with his brother Harald, and armed him against Edward, the other participant in the late revolt. To employ enemy against enemy was as precarious as it was provident, but by this means he ensured that those united in ambition were divided in war. After the Danes and the English had locked in a sharp struggle, Tymme, a Zealander, noticed that the banners of his own side had fallen back considerably before their opponents’ charge; picking up on his spear a small, light branch which chanced to be lying there, he used it as a standard; then, raising a cry in the way that Cnut’s soldiers would usually bellow mutual encouragement to one another, he placed himself in the forefront and successfully caused the opposing squadrons to turn tail. Having appointed himself ensign-bearer, he rescued his fellow-soldiers more by virtue of his courage than by raising the flag, so that he prevented the wavering Danish fortunes from collapsing and hoisted them to complete triumph. Not only did he display consummate valour himself, but also recalled it to the breasts of his comrades, from which it had almost totally fled. Later he assumed a surname from his glorious act, and in addition, because of his bravery, he was deservedly awarded by the king the rank of vexillary. For their part the Danish side, lacking a standard-bearer from the nobility, were proud to follow the steps of a common man; even if this guidance appeared to be of a humble sort, its consequences were glorious and led the way to safety for their reinvigorated hearts. Then Edward, perceiving that the fervour of the Danish army was intolerable to the crushed spirits of his own troops, joined in a treaty with the foe, since it was not feasible to rejoin battle with them; until the close of his life he and Cnut would hold an equal share in the kingdom and, when Edward died, the other would inherit all his possessions. So the conqueror forced the conquered to grant partnership of the empire to him while he lived, and to bequeath the whole of it to him at his decease. It was during this period that Cnut had his way with Ælfgifu, allured by her exceptional womanly appearance, even though she was deeply loved by Olav. The latter, therefore, either because he had been cheated of his mistress’s affection, or whether because Cnut had stolen his promised share of England, regarded this personal insult as more important than their warfare in a common cause; quitting the campaign, he returned to Norway, stung equally by anger and misery, and believing it perfectly fitting to desert someone who had plagued him with a full portion of disgrace and distress. A further seven years had elapsed when Cnut, while he was feasting in his banqueting chamber, was approached by certain followers, who began to greet him as king of all England. He, thinking they were obliquely criticizing the treaty he had struck with Edward, replied that he had no qualms whatever about it. But he could not keep anger from his heart or a blush of shame from his face, believing that these words, which derived from their crime, smacked of discourtesy. They followed up the lethal service they had performed with an indiscreet confession, boasting that they had been responsible for Edward’s murder, since they thought to delight King Cnut by an announcement which in fact kindled his highest displeasure. Treating them as assassins of royalty, instead of providing the expected reward he made sure they were hanged immediately, thereby condemning their disreputable work with an ugly form of retribution. Though recognizing that he had been freed of a keen rival, he was happier to treat the deed as a punishable offence than requite it as a useful favour. Others record that Edward was killed on Cnut’s secret instructions and that he demanded satisfaction from the culprits to avert suspicion. To furnish belief in his own innocence and stress that he had been in no way privy to the wrongdoing, he thought fit to deal severely with the scoundrels. However, it was this action that first shook his subjects’ regard for their lord. Once he had acquired his English territories, Cnut decided that alliances should be knit with his neighbours; to this end he married Emma, daughter of Robert, duke of Normandy, and also allowed Robert’s brother, Richard, to take as wife his own sister, Estrith. He made Emma the mother of Cnut and Gunhild, and so established harmony between the two peoples through the bond of common blood. With a view to the swift gathering of a ready and skilful bodyguard, Cnut swelled their ranks with illustrious recruits by offering very substantial pay for bravery; he reckoned that choiceness rather than numbers of troops would bring respect and honour for his authority. Ardent soldiers, whose merit is best fostered by rewards, flocked eagerly to attend on him. It so happened that the monarch’s generosity fetched from Sweden one U lf, who was noted more for his guile than for his strength, and enticed him into this military unit. As I have mentioned him in passing, I shall give a brief account of his origins. In a district of Sweden lived the father of a family who had a daughter of engaging beauty; once, when she had gone out to amuse herself with her young maidservants, there came an enormous bear, which drove away her companions and then snatched her up; nevertheless, as it carried her off to its familiar lair in the forest, it clasped her gently and held her to its chest with its paws. But now it approached her lovely limbs with a novel kind of greed, a longing to clasp rather than kill her, so that, though it had originally aimed to tear her apart, she afterwards became the prey of its abominable lust. At once it turned from robber to suitor, relieved its appetite in intercourse, and exchanged its ravening hunger for the satisfaction of its desires. In order to nourish her more tenderly, it made frequent raids on nearby herds of cattle and attacked them fiercely; the girl, who in the past had normally eaten more delicate repasts, now became used to them sprinkled with blood. The captive’s beauty tamed the wild savagery of her kidnapper to such a degree that, whereas she had been terrified that it wished to take her life, she now found it eager for love-making, and received food from a creature who she had initially feared would swiftly make her its meal. Is there anywhere that love does not penetrate or anything it does not undermine? At its prompting the urge of the belly yields to the dictates of passion even in the unrestrained ferocity of wild animals. Finally the owner of the herd, exasperated by the dwindling of his impoverished stock, set watch for the beast; after he had encircled it with dogs, he continued to drive it furiously, running and shouting, till he pursued it, as it happened, to the spot where the girl was being kept. Its den, enclosed by trackless marshes, was screened with an intertwined succession of boughs providing a continuous leafy canopy. Here the animal was quickly surrounded by men with nets, who assailed it with hunting spears until they had stabbed it to death. But Nature, a craftswoman sympathetic to the two different materials, wanted to disguise the unnaturalness of the union by adapting the seed, and granted a normal birth to this monstrous engendering, with the result that wild blood was invested with the features of a human body. When a son was born, his relatives gave him a name taken from his begetter. Eventually, when he had been told the truth about his descent, he wreaked deadly revenge on his father’s murderers. Thrugils, his son, surnamed Spragelæg, imitated his sire’s courage in such a way that he showed not the slightest trace of deviation from its excellence. He produced Ulf, who made the lineage evident through his character, and by his spirit exhibited the ancestral strain. But let me go back to the path from which I digressed: because Olav, backed by his brother Harald, posed a cruel threat to the Danes, Cnut mounted a naval attack from England and forced him to depart into exile to his father-in-law, Yaroslav, a prince of the Eastern peoples; having thus regained Norway, he then returned to drive from his homeland Richard, who had conceived a bitter hatred for Estrith, his wife; once she had been restored to Zealand, her brother allowed her to discharge royal duties. In the meantime occurred the death of Olof, king of Sweden, and he was succeeded by Ömund, who received a name from his longevity. When Olof died, the Norwegian Olav found the confidence to return to his native soil where, enlisting aid from the Swedes, he made a daring and successful bid to seize the throne of Norway, for he observed that Cnut had now lost his halfbrother’s assistance and was deprived of the most notable component of his forces. Because the common people were ignorant of justice and were everywhere pursuing an uncivilized existence, Olav promulgated beneficial laws to guide them towards a better way of life; the ancient records of these statutes are valued and respected by Norwegian folk to the present day. No less reverent towards God, he gained fame from a remarkable instance of how he safeguarded religion. One Sunday, when he had thoughtlessly whittled at a stick with a knife and had been rebuked by certain bystanders for being slack in his religious duties, he at once began to loathe his right hand, seeing that it had helped him commit a transgression through his lapse of mind; suddenly gathering together the scattered wood shavings, he used them to build a small fire on the palm of his hand, which he allowed to be scorched, taking revenge for the accidental slip of behaviour by submitting himself to genuine torture. Such was his scrupulous care in adhering to the small points of his faith that, when any were infringed, he showed no hesitation before exacting a disagreeable punishment on himself. As he was convinced that torments awaited offenders in hell, he chose to pre-empt that more grievous agony by a much lighter suffering; in his judgement it was more prudent by hardening his endurance to brace his hand to bear present penalties instead of keeping his soul in fearful suspense concerning future tribulations. So, to prevent others being distracted from God’s worship, he decided the best course was not even to forgive himself, and an action he could honestly have covered up he did humble penance for. Although he might have justified his mistake on grounds of carelessness, so that there should be no cheating with religion he prepared to make sure that he exhibited his remorse; he wished the pain to be confirmation of his atonement, whereas exemption from it would have endorsed his offence. Because he was equipped with wisdom and piety in the highest degree, he came closer to the common faith than to personal guilt. The noble integrity of his gesture gave him an epithet which will be remembered everlastingly. Olav also offered protection for the needy, care for orphans, reverence for the office of priesthood, and assistance for those who had suffered cruel losses. Moreover, there flowed from the generous fountain of his heart many other displays of goodness. So much for his merits; one who is hallowed by the people’s veneration has no need of my personal praise. Jealous of Cnut’s power, Ulf whipped himself into a frenzy of hatred; because he could not safely exhibit his enmity and since he wanted to frame an effective trap for the king, he veiled the means of his deceit under a pretence of serving him. As the Swedes at this time were ceaselessly invading Scania, Ulf was the first to demand to go off and put an end to the matter; when he had obtained leave to carry out his duty, he begged that Estrith be bidden, in a letter stamped with the royal seal, to perform any command that he, Ulf, gave. This demand was granted, and at once he approached her to ask her to be his wife, changing his commission to make war into entreaties for marriage, and thinking it fitter to play the passionate before the strong-armed diplomat. Estrith believed that it all had to do with her brother’s secret instructions and therefore made no resistance to Ulf’s importunacy. In this way a clever-minded leader, spurred on by the grudge he had nurtured, distorted his ambassadorial function, quashed any doubts entertained by brother or sister through his fast talking, in which he was adept, and managed to mislead them entirely through his monstrous and subtle treachery; after the cunning fabrication of this plot, he offered bold confirmation of his hostility by proposing war against the Danes. He had no wish to await Cnut’s vengeance inside his realm and so, with a view to averting retaliation, saw to it that he and his wife crossed over into Sweden. Relentlessly turning over the scheme of assaulting Denmark, he made Omund and also Olav of Norway party to his plans, suggesting that the latter should make for Zealand with his naval forces, the former assail Scania with a land army, while he himself promised to captain another fleet from Sweden. As soon as this projected enterprise was discovered, a certain Håkon from the village of Stangby, a keen devotee of the sovereign, took sail as fast as he possibly could and so furnished Cnut with an opportunity to learn everything, revealing it with a goodwill that corresponded to the depth of affection felt for his king and country. The monarch acted upon the announcement of this serious plot by assembling an army; and reluctant to let the news bearer go unrewarded for his long, perilous voyage, he recompensed his faithfulness with well over an acre of Scanian land as a gift. In the meantime Olav had given instructions for his fleet to heave to off one of the islands, while he set his course for Zealand in a trim, well-prepared vessel. Once ashore, he gathered the populace for a meeting, calling on them to surrender in the most eloquent harangue he could produce; at one moment he would coax the minds of the multitude, at another those of individuals with suitably invented enticements, for he trusted that in the end power he had established by peaceful means would be more reliable than that founded on battle. He was welcomed by a leader of the community, who shaped a crafty reply in the friendliest terms and, though the commons merely feigned their support, Olav grasped at this with highest hopes. Finally, as the potential despot was exchanging various arguments with these folk, one of his watch, arriving from the coast, reported that large sails could be seen heading for land. Then one of the elders, who was awaiting his sovereign’s arrival, urged the dithering Olav to retain an undeterred spirit, since, he stated, it was only the regular merchandise being brought to shore; the spokesman reckoned he would not have a better chance to check this foe than by harbouring his hatred under a guise of amiability, so that he could spin out Olav’s hopes with meaningless talk. When a second, similar report came, his informant dispelled the orator’s fears with an assertion resembling the earlier one. In the end Olav began to suspect his declarations; he commanded a lookout to run to the coast and find out whether it was indeed Cnut, or whether a band of traders had given the impression of an approaching armada. As soon as the man returned with the communication that in the distance he had seen the sea teeming with ships, the king broke off their conversation immediately, cursing the old man for his pack of lies. But the latter even then persisted that his account was completely true; from these new arrivals, he maintained, it was possible for a person to purchase Denmark by the sword. Olav got away only with some difficulty, and made for his own fleet with the aid of unflagging rowers. Shortly afterwards Cnut reached the port with his navy and allowed his oarsmen, overcome by their exertions, a night’s rest to recoup their strength. There he learnt from the locals that Ömund had invested Scania with a land army, while a squadron of ships under Ulf had occupied the River Helge. Cnut reacted by intercepting Ömund and at the same time dispatched his fleet to subdue the sailors who had moored in the river. As soon as the Danish captains heard from him that Ömund had been crushed in a notable battle at Stangebjerg, they longed to perform a matching feat of bravery themselves, for when their king had been acting so valiantly, they had no wish to look like ne’er-do-wells; in order to cross with greater speed to the island their enemies had seized, they proceeded to an adjacent one and extended pontoons across the intervening stretch of the stream. At that point the river waters flow more broadly, spreading beyond their normal channel to give the appearance of a large lake. Ulf then advised his troops not to beat back the foe from their enterprise, but told his men to assail them with spears and arrows from afar as they were marching across; he said they would turn out to be building themselves a final causeway of death with their own hands. As the work proceeded further, Ulf spread out his company in battle formation on the bank facing them to look as if they were intending to stop our troops passing over. This sight made the Danes all the more fervent to reach the opposite side and crowds of them began to overload the bridge. While they packed on to the rafts, pressing forward to attack without any conception of how dangerous their advance was, the structure gave way and they found themselves, even as their spirits were panting for a fight, deposited in the waves. If the flood raised anyone just once back to the surface, as will often occur in such an emergency, he was immediately clasped in another’s arms and lethally dragged down to the depths. As they mingled in this way, each clinging to someone else and demanding help from his comrades, they brought about their mutual doom; if any man sought someone to promote his safety, he found a luckless partner to share his fate. Nor, weighed down as they were by arms and armour, had they any chance of rescuing themselves by swimming. That was how Ulf, not so much a conqueror as an ensnarer of the Danes, gained through others’ headstrong behaviour a result he could never have achieved by his own powers; thus he stamped down his foe’s undoubted courage more effectively by postponing a confrontation than by mounting an offensive. Nevertheless, he dreaded that retribution would follow upon his action and, since he perceived the Danish fleet obstructing his path in one direction and their king hovering in another quarter, he hit on a plan for preserving his band, a task that would have been difficult using force, but which was made speedy by his skilfulness. Casting around determinedly for a way of escape, he saw that his sole refuge lay in abandoning his navy; consequently that night he left behind the larger vessels and transported his entire body of soldiers to the opposite shore in rowing boats; by this means he kept his departure secret and got his troops away into hiding. When dawn broke, the Danes were eagerly thirsting to take revenge for the destruction wrought on their companions, but as soon as they stormed the enemies’ ships, they discovered them empty of defenders. The king gave orders for the lake to be dragged and made provision for the bodies of those drowned, after they had been retrieved with hooks and sweep-nets, to be given their last rites at Asum, a town bordering on the river. By dint of bribing certain Norwegians, Cnut ensured that Olav was overcome in a civil war. Thus a brilliant-minded leader, assailed through the greed of his own people, found that though they would protect him abroad, they were ready to stab him in the back at home. His brother Harald, who feared similar treachery from his own race, went off to Constantinople, turning away from the dubious loyalty of his homeland to a protracted exile. Cnut had now become lord of six powerful realms and his uncommon splendour even shed radiance on the Holy Roman Empire. He conferred his daughter, Gunhild, in marriage on the emperor, Henry, and when, shortly afterwards, the latter was shaken by an insurrection in Italy, Cnut lent assistance to suppress the rebels’ conspiracy and to restore him to his original fortunes. Once he had returned from there, he set his eldest son, Harald, on the throne of England, appointed Cnut ruler of Denmark, and Sven, borne to him by Ælfgifu, over Norway, and all this without the least diminution of his own authority. For though he consigned the rule of three provinces to as many sons, he none the less kept the overall command of the three to himself, because he had no desire for supreme power to be placed in anyone’s hands but his own. Moreover, as these leaders were still fairly young, he gave them the most steadfast men as aides to safeguard their official duties. Later Estrith, who had given birth to a son, Sven, won her brother’s forgiveness for her husband, using her child as an intermediary. The friendliness which Cnut had refused Ulf on account of his treasonous services, he felt should be granted him out of consideration for a child so closely related to himself. In addition he joined Ulf’s sister to an English earl, God wine, for he was keen to link one race with another in hearts and kinship. Tradition tells us that from this union came Harold, Bjørn, and Tostig. The emperor had by Gunhild a son, whose name, Magnus, was to match his good fortune; famous public figures of Germany are said to have originated from him in an unbroken line of descent, distinguished ornaments of the Teutonic people. At that time Gottschalk, a young Wend of outstanding qualities, arrived to perform his military service in the king’s regiment. His father, Pribignev, a strong devotee of Christian worship, was vainly attempting to recall the Wends to the faith they had revoked; contrary to the custom of his tribe, Gottschalk had been entrusted to teachers so that he could obtain instruction in letters; yet when he realized that his father had been murdered by Saxons intent on gaining possession of his country, he did not allow his fierce spirit to grow tame in such calm pursuits. He suddenly exchanged books for weapons and turned from his cultivation of knowledge to recruitment in arms, afraid that he might follow the customs of his ancestors too feebly by applying himself to foreign mental exercises; relinquishing his scholarly endeavours, he chose to play the brisk avenger before the sedentary student, because he believed it fitter to use his mind more with audacity than with diligence. So, obeying the dictates of Nature in preference to those of his instructor, he at length secured his revenge and then sought out Cnut’s corps of soldiery. In this way the young man’s mind, brought up short by a ferocious incentive when it was at the very threshold of learning, was unable to overcome the inborn harshness of his blood by the fundamental procedures of education. At this period in Denmark new prelates are reported to have succeeded their predecessors. Avoco replaced Gerbrand and Odinkar the Younger was created bishop of Ribe. Cnut, on the other hand, as he toured the three kingdoms I mentioned before, gave recognition to his bodyguard, who numbered no fewer than six thousand, by fitting out in style for them sixty ships, any one of which was capable of holding a hundred armed warriors. This is how he maintained them: in summer they guarded the kingdom by keeping watch, whereas during the winter they were split up and quartered in different camps. They were paid afresh each month. At the season when our Creator chose to share his immortality with us and the annual festival had come round once more, Ulf was invited by Cnut to a banquet at Roskilde; but liquor got the better of this warrior’s carefulness and that night he began to sing out his own praises, in particular commemorating the calamity that had recently befallen the drowned men. The king concluded that the other was openly taunting him for the dangers to which he had exposed his followers and unleashed a spate of furious anger against Ulf’s abusive lyrics, for he thought it shameful to entertain a guest under whose leadership he knew he had been robbed of his bravest champions. Accordingly Cnut gave orders, even during the ceremonial meal, that some of the bystanders should murder Ulf, so that he paid a fitting penalty for his impetuous tongue. So while, being far from sober, he recalled the deaths of those others, he was chanting his own dirge, and as he greedily drained the goblets it was as if he were replenishing them with his own flowing blood. With such an impudent nature he truly deserved to win pain instead of pleasure, for he had claimed it as an honour that through his leadership the king’s crack division had suffered its greatest damage. After the killing had been accomplished, Cnut compensated for his wrong in having broken the bonds of kinship and having left his sister a widow; he assigned two large territories of land to Estrith, which she later caused to be divided so that tithes could be presented to a church which has been regarded with particular veneration, that of the Holy Trinity at Roskilde. At this time the large numbers of men-at-arms who had streamed to Cnut’s court proved somewhat irksome, not so much because of the expense but on account of their passionate feelings. The reason was that the majority set greater store by their brawn than their behaviour; if any had acquired some significance in battle, they looked on the proprieties of peace as unheroic, to the extent that those who were prominent afield were considered plebeian indoors, and characters which blended respectability and ferocity were scarcely to be found. The result was that a great many who were habitually given to violence and brawling proved a continual threat within the palace. The king perceived that between them there existed an immense disparity in race, language, and temperament, for they were motivated by various conflicting emotions towards one another, some vexed through arrogance, others by envy, and certain ones, too, because of anger; in order to prevent them from behaving factiously, he published a salutary body of military rules with precise stipulations, so that by this means he might put an end to the variance occasioned by their huge differences and show them the sense of responsibility needed in a soldier. Influenced by the advice of Øpe, a Zealander who surpassed all the rest in good judgement and influence, after the most careful consideration, in order to prevent the possibility of outside affairs being disrupted by wrongdoing at home, Cnut repressed the turbulence caused by the hatred they felt for their associates and with particularly strict legal decrees controlled the factious spirits of his soldiers by encouraging something like brotherly esteem. With the purpose of wedding affability to their boldness, he engendered handsome qualities of behaviour in the most powerful warrior, and was eager to sluice out from his entourage the company of any unbridled, disputatious fellows, like the despicable bilge water they were. To drive off this crowd of reprobates from the doors of his hall, he ordained that in taking their places at table his followers should observe the order in which they had been called to military service; a man who had sworn allegiance to the crown before another should take precedence over him in the seating arrangement. So correct did Cnut consider it to reward seniority in the profession by a select position at mealtimes that he avoided letting them sit in random fashion and visibly upset the order of rank. Anyone who arrived a little late and entered after the start of a meal through being delayed should be admitted amongst those already seated. But if the latter were already so tight-packed that the newcomer was unable to find a place, the numbers being too large, the one who had settled himself in this man’s position should rise and take the next seat, each getting up in turn as a mark of respect until the whole row of diners had spaced themselves out and left room to accommodate the rightful occupant; as for the person who sat at the end of the table, he must depart. If anyone in defiance persisted in usurping someone else’s place, the person who had been ousted brought his complaint about the insult to those sitting in immediate proximity; a tribunal was then held, these same people were produced as witnesses, and the plaintiff brought an action against the accused, whereby a person who had obstinately turned a deaf ear when asked to withdraw might be ignominiously dismissed from the service. The king was permitted to relax the necessary punishment three times running for those involved in such an offence; in these cases any culprit would be shifted down as many places as the number of times he had disregarded a comrade’s request to surrender him his proper seat. In this way the law in its moderation joined restraint with firmness, halfway between harshness and leniency, so that there should be scope for self-reproach even while the breach of rules received punishment. But if someone disgraced himself by committing this very misdemeanour on a fourth occasion, he was banned from the mess and forced to eat apart, where he could never share dish or drinking cup with any of his fellow-soldiers. It was reckoned that any man who had been granted pardon thrice should not be indulged any further; an individual who had been culpable so often now deserved to be disciplined for his offence. His decision was to penalize obstinacy by ostracism. An affront to military rank produced strong rancour in the king, who considered that a warrior who knew no respect for a peer would pay little enough to a superior. Similar punishment was visited on every small default, for example, if anyone had hurled abuse at another or rudely soaked him with a drink. Now it was the king’s more frequent habit to conduct campaigns by sea than on land. Consequently, whenever he did need cavalry, those soldiers who had no grooms took turns on watch to make sure their horses were guarded. But at the time the animals were watered, should someone borrow a colleague’s horse, to the extent that he rode on its back continually without alternating between his own and the other’s steed, then he submitted to the stated disciplinary action. So great was this ruler’s enthusiasm to preserve respectability in his subordinates that he thought even those who strayed merely a fraction outside the limits of decency should be brought to heel and be awarded their just deserts. If, when bundles of corn were thrown into the stable, someone gave ears from the common fodder to his own horse, but the stalks to another person’s, and did this on three separate occasions, he was compelled, as with the previous regulation, to continue his soldiering under disgrace or to quit it dishonourably. Equal observance must be shown when a comrade was riding across a river: one should not gallop parallel to him in such a way that a violent wash swirled downstream towards him. So meticulous was the consideration given even to the small courtesies of fellowship. Any sentinel who had been assigned to a post and allowed sleep to overwhelm him so heavily that his clothes or weapons could be removed while he slumbered was punished by the imposition of a similar penalty. The recruit whose personal weariness interfered with his public duty of keeping watch was thought likely to be of small use to royal authority. Against more serious offences harsher measures were laid down. I f a man had injured any of his fellow-soldiers with hand, sword, or cudgel, or had forcibly wrested something from another’s grasp, or tugged viciously at someone’s hair, or, the very worst, had devised a plot against his sovereign and there was ample testimony from witnesses of his deed, he should be removed from the king’s retinue and discharged from the service, just as if he were guilty of a capital crime. The person who had been severely hurt by the offending soldier first of all asked the king to set up his seat of justice to exert military discipline. Then he issued a challenge for the accused to come to the law court by means of three sets of summoners. Each set was composed of only two comrades-in-arms. I f the defendant who was to be brought to public trial possessed his own property, they would normally deliver their injunction once at his home and twice in the palace next to the place where he usually sat, whether he was there or not. But if he had no private dwelling, in that part of the hall where he was accustomed to take his place he had to be challenged three times with a claim for him to make his appearance. When the court proceedings began, those who had issued the summons swore that their plea was genuine and that in bringing this action they had allowed themselves no regard for partiality or wrongs received, and at the same time they fulfilled their roles both of summoners and witnesses. It then remained for two men to declare forthwith against the defendant their evidence of the principal deed, after they had been instructed to swear on oath that they would say nothing except what they had verified with their own eyes and ears, and act neither out of love for the accuser nor from dislike of the defendant. In an investigation of high treason, credence was generally given more readily to aural proofs, but evidence rested firmly on eyewitnesses. Moreover, charges were not allowed to be rejected by means of a defence. Denunciation by witnesses could not be undermined by protection from another individual or by the defendant’s own refutation. So much weight was lent to the witnesses’ authority that it was considered a madness next door to sacrilege to disparage the reliability of their testimony. No argument of the accused could uphold either his guilt or innocence against the thunderbolts of evidence. Nor if someone had been challenged to appear before the court could he use a counter-oath against the plaintiff. Following the depositions of informants came the rigid decrees of the judges, condemning the accused to lose honour, wealth, homeland, and, finally, his whole part in the army, as though he were obviously in the wrong and had now no defence to make on his own behalf. His enemies were then granted esteem and freedom from punishment. The sentences were accordingly passed, whether the accused was there or not. Being some distance away could help no one in preventing the testifiers furnishing an accusation or the judges delivering their penalties. These latter parties each played their roles to the full, in such a way that the accused was never allowed resort to any self-defence. Then at last the king, taking up the enquiry, asked if the pronouncement met with everyone else’s approval. Merely performing the function of a listener, he entrusted the trial’s final decision to the military, since he thought it odious to condemn those he had himself shown favour to. As a result he was chary of giving a harsh ruling on men who had provided him with sterling service and therefore referred to the assembly conducting the investigation the enquiry that had been brought to him; he had rather his silence be a confirmation of restraint than that his sentence should endorse his severity. Finally, once the soldiers’ reply had been heard and the votes of the whole meeting were seen as conforming to the initial judgement, the condemned man would regularly be asked if he had made up his mind whether to depart for banishment overland or across the sea. The monarch thereby wished his followers to be punished by outlawry sooner than by death and conceded the option of exile instead of taking violent measures against them. If the criminal had chosen to trust himself to the sea, he must be accompanied to the shore by a crowd of fellow-soldiers, given a boat, a pair of oars, provisions, and a bucket for bailing out water; they had to wait on the beach for as long as it took until his oars, if that was his method of voyaging, or the yardarm, if he had decided to sail, disappeared from sight. Then finally they all repeated the original sentence and abused the fugitive with the most bitter, lashing curses, the voice of every warrior harshly condemning him. Should a gale have swept the culprit back to the coast, he was at once treated as an enemy and paid the penalty for his outrage to the community; his life was now at stake as the other soldiers passionately sought to carry out his punishment in a deadly, recriminatory attack. The withdrawal of such offenders was thus attended by danger no less than disgrace. But if the man who had been discharged from military service preferred to go into banishment overland, he must be conducted to the very edge of the forest by a similar escort of fighting-men, and all had to wait a long while during his departure until they knew he would be far away. At the end the whole contingent raised a loud hullabaloo, shouting three times at the top of their voices and combining it all with a huge din, to prevent the vagrant from straying back to them by mistake. Then at last everything was completed according to established law, and in case it might seem that suffering had been inflicted on an unsentenced individual, the rigid and now inexorable severity of the whole company directed its utmost condemnation upon the malefactor; it ensured that one who had severed himself from the excellent society of his regiment was forced to live as a dishonoured outcast and vagabond. So, those who had been convicted under military discipline were sent off to lead an utterly degraded existence through the weight of infamy imposed on them by the courts. The king in fact did not hanker after the blood of offenders, but only for their reproof; he reckoned they would be better punished by a shameful rather than a sanguinary kind of retribution. If any of the other warriors encountered him afterwards having with them one more weapon or companion than the wanderer, and spared his life, then that soldier would be deemed to have associated himself with that object of scorn, because he had been too timid to proceed with vengeance against the other’s crime. Such was the law for dismissing wrongdoers from service in the army, whenever they had fallen away from the standard of conduct required in the royal household. At one time this was the way disgraces that besmirched military honour were repulsed by the shield of the penal code. If the accused person could not be overmastered by evidence which the plaintiff brought forward, he could summon six of his fellow recruits to testify on his behalf and thereby prove he was innocent of the alleged offence. Were one of the company of fighting-men to injure another unwittingly, not knowing him to be a member of the militia, he had to collect the same number of comrades who would swear as a body that there was every reason to believe he had acted in error. Now those who had been sentenced by the customary laws and condemned in this way were bereft of joy; a hard fate embraced them and this was all the more definite because we know that the bishops of three realms pronounced solemn excommunication on all who were guilty of those felonies. Thus the power of discipline clung to a twin pillar, for it depended partly on the king’s support, partly on that of the Church, so that you would have imagined human decisions were ratified by divine judgement. The firmness of the system broke up dissensions, put an end to rivalries, stamped out insurrections, and made the soldiery more compliant towards their ruler. Later on, either through lack of energy or because princes were merciful, its sternness became tempered by monetary fines. An exception to this, however, was made for the offence of beating someone with a stick, since such implements are normally used only to drive dogs away. So much did our ancestors’ sense of shame cause them to feel that the deepest reproach lay in a humiliating blow. Nevertheless the monarch himself happened to be the first to fall accountable to his own decrees, and he reduced the stability of the law, which till then had rested sound and secure, when under the influence of drink he killed one of his own soldiers. As soon as he realized that he was manifestly culpable under the statutes passed by himself, he was seized with bitter remorse; having convened an assembly of his housecarls, he stepped down from his throne and within view of all prostrated himself in supplication on the ground, after which he commanded the men to demand whatever punishment they wished for the crime he had committed; he promised he would willingly incur the adjudged penalty at their hands. Though Cnut could have defended his action under the pretext of his sovereign power, he abased himself to receive requital from his warriors, preferring to make humility a proof of his mildness rather than let force be a mark of arrogance. The retainers filed out of the meeting in tears and entered into discussion; they could see that passing a pitiless sentence on the king would be scarcely decent and would serve very little purpose, for they were quite aware that without him they would constitute a body without a soul and be a prey to those they had hitherto had the whip hand over. Lastly they had to acknowledge that if the king underwent retribution their whole military status would be dislocated, the proscription of one would mean doom for them all, his downfall would bring about their own collapse, and his condemnation would put their entire community in jeopardy. Therefore, uncertain what to decide in such a difficult situation and fearing to use either too lightly or too severely the judicial prerogative which had been entrusted to them, they voted that Cnut should be fined at his own assessment, considering this matter better left to the royal pleasure than to the notions of individual subjects. It was their belief that his offence was pardonable, since it was known to have been committed on impulse, not by design. Accordingly, after being in the position of defendant he was appointed judge, and they bestowed the power to pardon on one who was expecting to be penalized. Enabling him to give a ruling on the act at his own discretion was a noble gesture, for there was a danger that they might complete their problematical task rashly when they cast their verdict, either by demanding too lenient a revenge for their confederate, or by seeking too damaging a punishment for their king. The awkward circumstances made them grant deliverance to their ruler, although he had almost come to grief through his own misdemeanour. Moreover they thought the satisfaction he had given for his wrongdoing had been sufficiently painful, in that a man at the peak of success could have endured to throw himself down thus as a humble petitioner. In the end, after treating him respectfully and telling him that he must no longer play the part of a hesitant culprit but of a selfconfident judge, they restored him to his throne. The king determined that he should atone for his guilt by a money contribution. Because at other times murderers would customarily make amends for their crime with marks, he assigned himself a payment of by way of fine. To this sum he added gold marks as a gift and established a law that the same form of amercement should always be imposed on any guilty of a similar outrage. of the total amount he assigned a third part to the crown, another third to the militia, and the remainder to the relatives of the slaughtered man. And because in the present instance he had been obliged to act both as king and criminal, he divided the share allotted to himself between ministers of the Church and the poor, estimating that a pious gift should be offered to appease God, as the universal ruler. He acted both as merciful judge and generous defendant, who could claim a sort of forgiveness and the hope of absolution by espousing this necessary process of atonement. Nevertheless, during the rest of this monarch’s life there was no one who abused military practice and then offered penance for it. As long as recalcitrant members were dealt with in the prescribed way, the soldiers had no mind for legal disputes. In exacting retribution allowance was never made for ties of blood and kinship so as to prevent the duty of condemnation going forward with appropriate thoroughness. But now that the primitive bonds between our fighting-men have become flabby and weak, more serious wickednesses occur amongst these comrades-in-arms than among outsiders; all proceedings against malefactors have come to a halt, and a person who should be punishing an infringement of the rules becomes its defender, with the result that there is nobody to put a stern, inflexible curb on the lax behaviour of the troops. So, leaders of our own day have not considered it the slightest cause for shame to repeal these traditions of army discipline, confirmed by long use. Whenever peaceful life at home is tossed on the billows of civil discord, the mould of ancient custom is split apart. With young recruits of an unbridled and ardent nature one must not be overpartial or lavishly indulgent, but employ strict measures. Cnut is recognized as having been scrupulous in this way, genuinely and strongly alert in managing matters which concerned the military code. Apart from this it was not permitted for the king to dismiss a soldier or a soldier to depart from the king’s service except on the last day of the year. Later this seriousness of principle percolated from the royal court into the daily habits of somewhat humbler households and for a long time men of rather lower status were keen to model their pattern of behaviour on that of their superiors. In the meanwhile death snatched away Sven, who was at that period devoting himself to the guardianship of Norway, and soon the highest office of that province devolved on his father. But when Cnut heard that Richard had returned, he was intent on exacting punishment from Richard for the abusive way he had treated holy matrimony; he was determined to rebuff the insult offered by Richard to his own marriage bed when the latter had cast off Cnut’s sister and played the arrogant husband more callously than was warranted; he therefore launched a massive fleet in the direction of Normandy. Shortly afterwards Cnut received the melancholy announcement of his son Harald’s fate, yet in a manner that answered more to his public campaign than to his private emotions he pushed forward his troops at exactly the same rate as before, and did not relax spirit and sense of duty so as to relinquish his enterprise. Never once did he turn his gaze towards his personal grief, but kept his focus on the military expedition as a whole; such was the outstanding self-control with which he divided his time and circumstances between the roles of courageous father and vigorous general, as he gave this display of striking resilience, no less in sustaining the death of his son than in striving after that of his foes. Rather than await his attack, Richard hastily took flight for Sicily. Meanwhile the laborious hardships of campaigning weighed on Cnut to the detriment of his health; as he observed his physical strength ebbing and realized he would soon lose his life, he called together his captains and told them they must not return to their homes until the war was finished; if they carried his coffin on their shoulders at the battle front, bearing his lifeless body as if it were their leader among the foremost groups of fighting warriors, there was no question that they would gain victory; and after the enemy had been routed, in order that he should have a respectable memorial for his ashes, they must commit him to burial at Rouen after promising the inhabitants their freedom. The French would be ready to observe this condition when they knew their adversaries were just on the verge of departure from their lands and they could free their country from terror at so little cost. What boundless resolution the king showed on his deathbed! When his men had sunk to their lowest level of distress, Cnut’s guidance was more active than his vital spirits. The preservation of his survivors depended on the dying man’s genius. His corpse, conveyed on a bier by the soldiers during the engagement, helped the Danes right through to their triumph, as though he still survived to urge them on; you would have imagined his dead presence exerted influence to bring about their success just as much as when he was alive. His followers, having given their guarantee of departure, shortly afterwards approached the people of Rouen about his interment. The foe seized upon the terms and granted a resting place in their city for Cnut’s remains. Carrying out the advice they had received, the warriors successfully accomplished the battle, stipulations, burial, and funeral rites, and after taking their deceased monarch into action on their shoulders, dealing defeat, and seeing his body to rest, they stayed only to collect provisions before they returned to their own communities. Such was the end of Cnut, a ruler whom none of our kings surpassed in brilliance, even though others won more dazzling victories. The trustworthiness of his gracious reputation had so much augmented his great deeds that, though there were some who had equalled him in their glorious exploits, he excels them all in the extent of his renown. And though lack of information, uncertainty, and the rust of antiquity have impaired the splendour of those others, Cnut’s prestige, supported by the enjoyment of a long-lasting fame, revives continually through the undying fruits of memory. Amply furnished with piety and courage, he was concerned to extend Christianity no less than his empire. Notwithstanding the fact that he had become celebrated far and wide for his illustriousness as a warrior, he also cultivated gentler endeavours, and from his own revenues set up communities of cloistered priests in a great many places; he enlarged the number of churches by adding new foundations and increased people’s reverence for the Faith, which he himself had ever displayed to the full, by contributions paid out of the royal funds. In case he appeared to favour deeds of bravery more than his duties towards God, and desiring to supply himself with equal praise in either sphere, he also left the monastic order more flourishing. His active enthusiasm attained such a bright splendour that, whereas the martial valour of highly courageous monarchs has entered the oblivion of bygone ages, posterity has firmly recognized how rich was Cnut’s reputation for winning success. In the meanwhile Sven Estrithson, awaiting Cnut’s arrival in England," so that he could shake the inhabitants more thoroughly out of any bid for revolt, spread his army garrisons about, for he did not want to rouse the strength of the English, whom he mistrusted, by allowing them an unimpeded attack on his defences. When, however, news of Cnut’s death was brought to the Norwegians, because of their lasting shame at compliance with a foreign power they threw off Danish authority, seceded in favour of Magnus, Olav’s son, whose surname marked his goodness, and gave him the kingdom. The proven saintliness of his father had gained him the people’s support. Therefore, not satisfied with granting their devotion to the parent, they had extended their favour to his son also. While this was happening, Cnut, as deeply upset by the report of Norway’s treachery as he was by that of his father’s death, began to be worried, for if he turned his efforts to war with his neighbours, in the delay caused by his absence he might find himself deprived of England; he therefore judged it more prudent to tolerate the revolt of the lesser country than give an opportunity to the larger one for a similar attempt; he considered that the fear alone of a graver event outweighed a smaller distress. For this reason he concealed his displeasure at the insult and approached the rebel with certain terms, stipulating on oath that whichever of them died first should yield his kingdom to the survivor; this would avoid a situation where a new division of the realms tore apart the old acknowledged authority and divided the supreme power, which had formerly had the advantages of unity. So he strove to keep Denmark and Norway under a single command, his preference being to subordinate one to the other instead of letting each exercise rule individually; he would rather foreigners held sway over his country than that his country should exclude foreigners from those it governed. Surely that agreement, inasmuch as it was more subject to chance, came all the nearer to foolishness, in that it would produce for one or the other realm either a glorious sovereignty or mean servitude. Each party took an oath agreeing to abide by the covenant. Next, after he had journeyed to England, Cnut discovered that Sven’s indefatigability had brought complete peace everywhere, and so he joined his half-brother, Edward (whom one of the same name had fathered when he married Emma) as an associate ruler with himself; it was not that he lavished fraternal love on him, but so that he might forestall his ambition by bountiful generosity and, through letting him acquire a part of the kingdom, stop him from aspiring to the whole. He allowed him to share dominion, not because the other was respected and dear to him, but because Cnut was suspicious of his courting popular favour and mistrusted the influence afforded by his father’s lineage. Edward, however, had a lowlier spirit than his stock would suggest. His soul was quite feeble and he presented a fairly ignoble specimen of character. After reigning for two years, Cnut came to the end of his life. Relying on his relationship with Cnut, Sven left garrisons behind in England and sailed in haste to Denmark; his hopes of holding on to the island lay with the sons of Godwine, his quite close blood relatives, and he also assumed this would happen because of his copartner’s stupidity and idleness. As soon as Magnus heard of Cnut’s death, he took possession of Denmark (an action which the ordinary people calmly assented to), inasmuch as it was owed to him by the conditions of his mutual agreement with Cnut himself, who had left it to him in his will; though Sven put forward his own qualification of kinship, Magnus objected and pointed to the stipulations of the earlier compact. On the pretext of a bequest he had no hesitation in demanding a realm to which he had not the least right by consanguinity. But the Danes were influenced by the covenant their solemn promise had bound them to, believing that they should show firmer allegiance to the obligation of an oath than to family connection; this was why, after weighing up the two rivals, they opted for the foreigner instead of the home claimant, since they paid more careful respect to a pledged treaty than to the kingdom’s legitimate line, and were more affected by their own word of honour than consideration for their homeland. So the inclination of their consciences led them to take the side of a stranger and to overlook the house of Cnut; they chose to displace their kings’ line with this odious rejection sooner than break a sworn engagement, for they estimated that the duties of decision-making must entail regard for good faith, not flattery; principles, they pleaded, deserved more concern than principalities. They had no wish to compromise their vow and let it become a halfway stage to falsity. How strong we can imagine the citizens’ sense of justice to have been in those times, where we can observe it holding so much power between men of different nations! I f only religion, now come of age, had such steadfast force and authority among our people today as it had with those of the past, when belief was still weak and delicate! i. Sven, on the other hand, reckoning the agreed terms bordered on imbecility, longed vainly to abrogate the rash contract effected by his cousin; it was quite idiotic, he concluded, to be subservient to a race they had formerly governed, to cast off their common freedom for one injudicious oath, and to withdraw suddenly from a resplendent empire into the most grovelling thraldom. But the high-minded judgement of the populace prevailed, and it was according to their wishes that value was attached to the agreement, and not to royal descent. Just as Danish honesty responded to Magnus’s desires, so English treachery cheated and overthrew the all-too-trusting Sven. After the latter’s departure from England, Harold, son of Godwine, shamelessly harbouring an ambition to rule the whole land, held consultations with the inhabitants; he then gave orders that the Danish soldiery, who were distributed among the garrisons, should be invited to sumptuously prepared banquets at one and the same time in a number of different townships; yet this deference was only a front, and when nocturnal wine and sleep had lulled them to unconsciousness, he had them ambushed and murdered. A few brief moments of that night put an end to the Danes’ long domination and an empire that had been painstakingly reinforced over the years by the valour of their forebears. Fate never again restored that rule to our countrymen. In this fashion England regained by crime the right to self-government which she had lost through faint-heartedness. So Harold, who had been simultaneously the instigator of the Danes’ overthrow and of his fatherland’s liberty, allowed Edward to retain supreme authority, appraising his lineage rather than his intellect; his idea was that the king might enjoy sovereignty and the name of monarch, while he himself ruled in actuality; the position he was unable to attain through high birth he would rise to fortified by his power. Edward, on the contrary, secured only by the superiority of his family and not by wisdom, under an empty show of royalty fostered the inclinations of vicious men and encouraged insolence among his aristocrats; nominally the head of state, in reality he was a pathetic slave to his noblemen, happy enough for others to snatch the profit, while he himself was left with the mere shadow or outline of his status. Thus they shared the substance, repute, and control of England mutually, but, as though the two of them occupied different levels, they kept the claim to a title and the actual power separate. However, as Harold was not content with the mere resemblance of administering another’s realm, he aspired to a personal manifestation of splendour. He was even jealous of Edward’s prestigious name and, aiming to transfer all the regalia of the state to himself, sought to achieve his longings by foul play; in killing the king he snatched that glorious appellation for himself, the only thing he appeared to lack. Meanwhile Sven, though he could rely on scant help from supporters, decided to risk the chances of war with Magnus, and did not delay joining combat against huge odds with his small, disorganized force. As a result, after fighting with dismal luck in Jutland, first a sea battle, later a cavalry engagement, and having lost both, he retreated to Funen, no more successful in arms than in his army. Once Sven realized that he was bereft of all assistance and was steeped in the scorn of his own side as well as his enemies’, he skirted Zealand and Scania, planning to head for Sweden, where he could depend on his father’s connections. While Magnus kept up a dogged pursuit by land and sea, a Wendish host poured unexpectedly into Jutland. Their invasion made it difficult for the victorious Norwegian to know whether he should continue the expulsion of his routed foe or counter the new threat. After a certain Wend of very noble birth had lost his twelve buccaneering sons in Denmark, he resolved to avenge his bereavement with the sword and made an attack on Jutland. Magnus therefore, at the persistent entreaties of the common people, consented to take the initiative and open hostilities; ignoring his rival, he turned his weapons from an internal enemy towards an adversary from outside and, seemingly content to forget a personal grudge, took upon himself a public grievance, since he had no wish to give the impression of pursuing his own ends too assiduously at the expense of the country’s interests. Even though the position of pre-eminence still lay in the balance and his authority was uncertain, this leader of foreign blood did not hesitate to transfer the danger to his own shoulders. Now on the night preceding the day of conflict, a truly prophetic shape overshadowed his slumbers. As he was taking rest, the ghost of someone hovered before him and foretold that he would beat his opponent and could be assured of his victory from an omen, the death of an eagle. On waking the following morning King Magnus made known his dream sequence, to everyone’s deep amazement. And the portent accorded with his vision. When his troops marched forward, he sighted, alighting nearby, the eagle which had been revealed to him in his sleep; galloping towards it on his rapid steed, he launched a spear and forestalled the bird’s flight with the swift-moving missile. The strangeness of the incident raised the onlookers’ expectations of victory. Consequently the army seized on this sign to infer that the fortuitous end of the eagle spelt inevitable destruction for their opponents. Indeed, once they had all seen how the circumstances matched the dream, they were, in a way, sure of the outcome and interpreted the occurrence they had witnessed as an augury in their favour; jumping swiftly to the same conclusion, everyone assumed that it meant an almost foolproof chance of winning. Their belief in the portent carried them to such a pitch of daring that, imagining the prospect of victory already before their eyes, with complete disregard for peril they raced with one another to leap into the fray. Because they snatched the earliest opportunity of fighting, the result of the battle corresponded exactly with the auspice and the Wends were massacred to a man. Emerging victorious from his successful engagement, Magnus became an idol of the people; invigorated by their ready support, he returned to harrying his competitor for the crown, and this he did all the more ruthlessly, inasmuch as the fruitful issue of events had gained him more favour and had equally taken goodwill away from Sven; the hearts of common folk were estranged from the latter and what backing was left from them was enormously weakened; not only was his hope of recruiting forces removed, but even those he had gathered soon disbanded. Furthermore there was a Wend, Gottschalk, one among many others who had abandoned military service under the unfortunate Sven; for a long period this man had been reflecting how badly his fortunes had fared beneath another’s command, and when he perceived that no good prospects remained for his lord, he relinquished his soldiership and deserted without shame; it was safer in his view to experiment with his own luck rather than subscribe to someone else’s, so that, when he despaired of the king’s ever anticipating a brighter future, he at least did not flinch from taking vengeance for the death of his father. Things turned out according to his scheme. For after he had conducted wars with varying results, he brought the Wends under his sway and, as external threats left him unbroken, so it became clear that he could not be overthrown by events at home. Yet blessed with the rule he had sought, he was not happy until, in revenge for his father’s murder, he had crushed the Saxons; a kingdom and its riches by his reckoning yielded little honour unless retribution were added to such effects. Owing to his defence of their territories Magnus began to be regarded with such affection by his subjects that all agreed to a proposal to name him ‘the Good’, a title normally attributed to other men for their conduct, but one he obtained in honour of his fortunate experiences. Sven’s affairs had now become desperate and he embarked for Scania, as I stated earlier, intending to revisit Sweden, the region where his father’s family originated. With furious impetuosity Magnus sped hard on the other’s heels, but while Magnus was riding past the town of Alsted his horse was startled by a hare in its path and, when it pitched him against a tree trunk from which spiky shoots happened to protrude, he lost his life. After it had been brought home to Norway, his body received its burial at Trondheim in the precinct reserved for royal tombs. Sven had been involved in the most harrowing catastrophes of Fate and deprived of all human help; yet the protection of a bountiful heaven shone down upon him and, though Fortune in her harshness had robbed him of a realm, her kindness restored it to him.
BOOK ELEVEN.
 Afterwards Denmark’s condition swung this way and that according to various chance occurrences. Sven acquired the chief command more by good fortune than by his own vigour, but his assumption of this office did nothing to effect the restoration of Danish prosperity and fame. So unblest was he in popularity and ineffectual in rule that he could not draw the hearts of his subjects, which still emitted the harshness of their old enmity, to any genuine reverence for himself, or sway his people, alienated as they were by anger, towards a gentler frame of mind. The remnants of their former hatred sat so heavily in the breasts of these Danes that they put personal feelings before advantages to the state and chose to let their country’s reputation be ruined by their stupidity rather than allow it to be revived when their leader entered upon his reign. Where animosities have been sown and generated, it is no simple matter to Uproot and destroy them, for, as esteem inclines easily towards dislike, so the transition from dislike to esteem is generally a hard one; seldom does anybody’s mind pay the tribute of real allegiance to a person for whom it has once felt deep abhorrence, nor when it has originally cherished violent hostility to someone does it later turn back to him with affectionate regard. The strength of this passionate behaviour, proceeding from their hot resentment and nourished by I be secret flames of jealousy, not only removed any expectation he had of performing spectacular deeds, but even marred the reputation his noble actions deserved. This attitude showed their scorn for the new monarchy and gave proof of how devotedly they worshipped the former one; it demonstrated at the same time the mischief of their recent unjust behaviour and a fulfilment of their old loyalty. At the commencement of Sven’s kingship occurred the death of bishop Avoco, who presided over the sacred rites at Roskilde. In his place was appointed William, a former priest and clerk to Cnut the Great; though he was an Englishman, he was well trained in every virtuous function and ability, and above all skilled in a bishop’s holy duties. Right up to his time Roskilde had held the prerogative of wielding ecclesiastical control over the people of Scania, but Avoco instituted a division of that episcopal see. It was as if, after having obtained the other half of the diocese for itself, it immediately shared the newfound power of this privilege between two of its closely adjacent towns. Lund and Dalby, after assuming religious superiority, at once divided it between themselves so that they vied with one another in their dual use of the same authority; Henry was appointed to the bishopric of one, Egin to the other. Henry, however, killed himself by his excessive addiction to drink, and all the legal rights and marks of honour attaching to the prelacy passed to Egin, primate of Lund; both of these high clerical positions ran as it were, into a single body, although the prestige of bis sober citizens ought not rightly to have breathed its last with the death of that drunken churchman. Nevertheless, the squalid dissipalion of the shepherd spilled over into calamity for his flock, and the innocent township had the intoxication of its inebriate pontiff to thank for the removal of its episcopate. Thus his baleful greed in lippling carried off one, while the other was advanced by his wholesome habit of abstinence. An aberration, indeed, unworthy of an ordinary man, let alone a prelate, a condition replete with disgrace, on which the mockery of all succeeding ages heaps a full measure of scoffing and raillery! In this way an alcoholic bishop blurred the radiance of his holy office with the most sordid stains of gluttony, and through bringing it into notoriety during his life, destroyed it at his departure; by his insatiable quaffing at an earthly tankard he deservedly forfeited enjoyment of the heavenly chalice, and although he should have brought renown to his rank, he cast a blemish on it, so I hat instead of promoting goodness he became a pattern of infamy. The result was that, whereas he should have set others an example of abstemiousness and moderation, he justly paid the cost of abusing temperance by this unbecoming fate. His memory sheds no small disgrace on the annals of Denmark, since in dying a buffoon’s death his personal dishonour became a cause of public shame. At this point there appears a timely mention of Harald’s marvellous history. After losing his half-brother Olav, he was unable to secure his own safety within his fatherland and therefore relied on escape to Constantinople. Condemned by the emperor there on a charge of murder, he was sentenced to be thrown to the palace dragon, which would tear him to pieces; they considered nothing more powerful than this creature’s bite for putting criminals to death. As he was going to prison, a slave of unquestioned loyalty spontaneously offered himself as a companion of his doom. He ceased to be a household menial and took on the role of a comrade, preferring to embrace death sooner than desert his master. Before sending them down, weaponless and naked, into the mouth of the cave, the jailer searched each man reasonably closely. Though the attendant was completely stripped, Harald went in clad simply in a loincloth, for modesty’s sake. The warder, whom he had secretly presented with an armlet, strewed the floor with small fish, so that the dragon might have something on which to expend the initial onset of its appetite; in this way the prisoners’ eyes, blinded by the darkness of the dungeon, would have a slight chance of perceiving something from the gleam of The fishes’ scales. Harald then gathered the bones from skeletons, wrapped them tightly inside the linen cloth, and, by pressing them into a single ball, effectively formed a cudgel. As soon as the dragon had slithered in, it rushed with immense voracity on the prey before il, but Harald took a flying leap and landed on its back; next he plunged a barber’s razor, which he had chanced to have concealed on his person, into the reptile’s navel, the only part penetrable by the steel. Because it was plated with iron-hard scales, every other part of the serpent’s body repelled all stab wounds. This blade, now corroded by rust and scarcely fit to cut anything at all, was frequently shown by King Valdemar to his friends, for he was a man who was extremely keen to know about adventures and to relate them. Harald, sitting aloft on the brute, could neither be seized by its huge jaws, nor harmed by its pointed teeth, nor dislodged by the coils of its tail. The servant, wielding the solid load in his hand, never stopped pounding and belabouring the creature’s head with a rain of heavy blows until it was dead, soaked in blood. As soon as the emperor learnt of this, his desire for revenge turned to wonder, and he released Harald from punishment on account of his bravery, believing that such boldness deserved the gift of deliverance. Not satisfied merely with remitting the sentence, he also lavished affection on him and, after presenting the two with a ship and a sum of money, allowed them to depart; whereas he ought to have penalized Harald for his crime, he spared him for his courage, since he preferred to honour his manliness rather than condemn him for the mischief he had committed. 
Harald returned and, after assaulting and taking possession of Norway, brought over his forces to invade Denmark. When Sven had collected together the men of Jutland, with more zeal than caution he attacked the whole body of Norwegians at the River Djursa; his campaign was as deficient as his fleet and his luck proportionate to the number of his troops. Indeed the fighting was rash and calamitous for him in equal measure. The majority of the Jutlanders leapt into the river in terror of the sword, and, anticipating their enemies’ business, thought it more prudent to be destroyed by doing violence to themselves than submitting to that of foreigners. What they dreaded from the foe they inflicted on themselves, and where there was an alternative choice of deaths they opted to perish by water, not weapons. While they timorously refused one kind of fate they eagerly espoused the other, while they fled before their opponents they wrought malevolent cruelty on themselves, prepared to render their spirits more calmly to the waves than to the winds, because they believed they would suffer a harsher extinction from steel than from the stream. Thus you were unable to tell if they sought their doom in ii masculine or a womanish manner, and it was uncertain whether cowardice or valour triggered off their longing for death, seeing that such furious passions made it difficult to judge whether these ravishers of their own lives were courageous or fearful. Shortly afterwards the leader of the defeated band, Sven, replenished his forces from Scania, Zealand, and some of the islands besides, hastened to occupy the River Nissa with his navy, and on Harald’s arrival led it out to meet him on the high sea. When the Danes considered the match of their own slender resources with the enemy’s multitude, they thought it would benefit their sparse ranks if I bey coalesced; therefore, having drawn up their vessels in formation, I bey began to join them together with hawsers, so that, continually held fast by these links, the fleet might find an easier way to give mutual help. As all of them were fortified by this constraint, their unbreakable ties would serve either for collective flight or for victory, and none would gain an opportunity to slip away from such a tight partnership. So convinced were they that weakness must be toughened by compulsion.
This is where you appear before us, Aslak, oarsman of Skjalm the White, you who must be given space for a literary encomium on The boundless fame of your martial prowess. While the Danes were fighting the Norwegians in that naval engagement, you were not content to perform the most outstanding feats of battle within your own ship, but, throwing away all your bodily protections apart from your shield, jumped aboard the most crowded of the enemy vessels, and trusting to your physique battered the foe’s limbs with the trunk of an oak which you had earlier cut down to be a tiller for your rudder; with a hail of brisk blows you smashed everything in your path and by your mighty, thunderous strokes diverted the astonished attention of those fighting men from their personal dangers to gaze upon your heroism. Not only that, but the most valiant warriors in both armies were made oblivious of the current struggle through their astonishment at your activities; you excited them into forgetting the contest and its crises, so that they looked more eagerly at you than to themselves; all the most alert soldiers disregarded their own perilous situation and felt more amazement at the sight of you than fear for their indeterminate safety. This is why you carried out the operation more powerfully with your staff than the rest did with their swords; pulverizing everything in irresistible fashion before the eyes of the Danes on one side and the Norwegians on the other, you executed labours which would have been unbelievable had people not watched I hem. You did so much to bring level the small size of the allied band and the enormous host of the enemy that, although the forces in the contest were unequal, the equal success of the two warring sides was prolonged right up to nightfall, and even if the quantities of troops were ill-matched, you caused their fortunes to be quite similar, finally, when you had overwhelmed every rower on the ship, some with your flail, some in the flood, you won a breathtaking victory single-handed over so many adversaries, after being struck a great many times, though never severely. The incident would surpass belief, if it were not that Absalon himself had handed on the story in his reports of the fight. Whereas the Danes saw no sign of reinforcements, the unexpected arrival of a familiar leader broke upon the Norwegians. As soon as they perceived his coming, the Seamans’ spirits were bruised and weakened, and therefore they unloosed the couplings of their vessels, but silently enough for no clatter to betray them; they cut through the cables to sever the connections and stealthily withdrew themselves from the remainder of the company at dead of night. Next, once they had secured their escape with the inaudible dip of their oars, they beat a furtive retreat by following a tributary of the river they had sailed out from; there, abandoning ship, they sped away hither and thither across pathless countryside, worthy objects of censure and abuse for Danes of every generation. The baseness of their flight, a matter of supreme shame for its perpetrators, left a mark of infamy which is also passed on to their descendants. As soon as daylight reappeared, Sven, even though he was bitterly disheartened by the disgrace of the absconding crews, instead of turning tail chose to entrust his luck to arms and to the hardihood of steadfast resistance. Despite the realization that his total of ships and soldiers was inferior, he took his paltry remnants in to fight, since he wanted his own manliness to expunge the dishonour inflicted by his allies and judged that wars are waged more effectively through strength of temperament than of numbers. Nevertheless he found the outcome of this rashly entered contest calamitous, for victory did turn on numbers. Skjalm the White, a general who during his lifetime had all the troops of Zealand at his bidding, was hemmed in by a huge enemy mob, harshly dealt with and captured; it was not that he had fought timorously, but because he had been completely emptied of vitality by loss of blood; however, the victors made allowances for his greatness to the extent that, whereas on other occasions it was their custom not to spare prisoners, in this case they protected his life and held him in confinement. They would not let a man of such notable merit be put to the sword. His ill-luck of the moment was not enough to remove their high respect for his past successes. Nevertheless, in ihe depths of night he eluded their powerful guard at Lake Gedeso. Now Harald, not satisfied with draining away the Danes’ capacity for endurance in two conquests, threatened them time and again with his aggressive energies. When Sven was pressed hard by the other’s strategies, he prepared to defend his country against this provocation with greater confidence than accomplishment. Yet after he had been the victim of a double disaster, he was reluctant to test his chances in national warfare a third time, for he perceived that the state of Denmark had already been shattered by his rash commitment to those two battles. In the meantime the younger sons of Godwine, loathing the elder in their rivalry for the throne, shunned his hated lordship by a voluntary departure, choosing of their own free will to endure the gloom of exile rather than contemplate the brilliance of their brother’s fortune within their homeland. At length they came to King Harald of Norway with a guarantee of allegiance and promised him their own and their country’s subservience if he would enable them to obtain supreme authority there. His greedy lust for power made him snatch at the exiles’ offer, and the Norwegian fleet set sail for the shores of England. At the same time it so happened that the duke of Normandy mounted a similar violent attack on a different side of the island. 'The English king, Harold, caught between two hostile bands, was undecided as to which he should take on first, and so for some while allowed both to push forward unopposed. The Norwegians imagined that his hesitancy was allied to fear, with the consequence that, contemptuous of body armour, they pressed resolutely on for plunder, as if they were quite free of dangers. However, while they swept forward heedlessly, dispersed and straggling, the English had no trouble slaughtering them. Their success supplied the victors with the self-confidence for any supremely daring deed they might envisage. Nonetheless, as their boldness grew without consideration, they shortly attacked the Normans, and, since they reaped no joy of the battle, lost the honours of victory they had so recently won. Not a trace of the defeated king would have remained, had he not been discovered afterwards in a dark, solitary spot and handed over by peasants. His two sons departed with all speed for Denmark accompanied by their sister. Sven, overlooking their father’s true deserts, received them with the kind of affection that befits relatives and gave the girl in marriage to the Russian king, Valdemar, who was also known as Yaroslav by his people. A later inheritor of his stock and name, his grandson by a daughter, became the ruler of our own day. So on the one side British, on the other Eastern blood flowed into our leader at his propitious birth and created an embellishment for both races through his shared lineage. As soon as Harald had been eliminated (his crimes had earned him a further title, ‘the Bad’), Sven’s realm, which had hitherto been altogether lame, now, rid of its bitterest foe, began to march along with the stride of a more prosperous fortune; the repressed Danish captaincy now unfurled the billowing sails of success. He was famous among men for his generosity, renowned for his munificence, excellent in every feature of philanthropy, for he also made it his closest concern to build and adorn holy churches and brought a motherland still inexperienced in sacred rites to a more refined practice of religion. He spoiled this splendid conduct only by his excessive lust. By plucking the chastity of many respectable girls, he fathered a large number of sons on mistresses, but got none through marriage. From these liaisons came Harald and Gorm, Ømund and Sven. To them were added Ubbe, Oluf, Niels, Bjørn, and Benedikt, all greatly resembling their father and taking very little after their mothers. A similar mean alliance produced Cnut and Erik, the noblest jewels of their land. A daughter, Sigrid, to whom I must return in a later section, was born to a concubine in the same way, and afterwards came to be the wife of Gottschalk the Wend. Because the king’s mind at length recoiled from the allurements of promiscuity and an unrestrained indulgence in love-making, he decided to check his inclinations by seeking a chaste marriage bed. He aimed to make amends for his involvement with all those paramours lb rough the permitted institution of wedlock, the regulation of a single union, and not to squander his royal virility in future with bedfellows of that kind; therefore, in his desire for legitimate offspring, he took Gyda, whose father was the Swedish monarch and who was Sven’s blood relation; pretending that it was a sanctified bond, he joined her to him and called their intercourse matrimony. While it was his intention to celebrate the sacred conjugal ceremony, he nevertheless used this name to gloss over his shameful act; while he drew back from one crime, he promptly plunged into another. It was more acceptable to fornicate with partners of different descent ban with one from his own family, but even so, the practice of both kinds of sex is open to a charge of wantonness. Egin and William could not let this pass without interference. Alter vainly attempting to draw the king away from such illicit nuptials and resolutely confronting him with admonitions to dissolve The marriage compact, they unleashed deserved and bitter tirades against his incestuous passions. But having devoted themselves to reproaches and seen they had achieved nothing, they took their complaints of his unsuitable match to the archbishop of Bremen, leaving the decision about his correction to the senior prelate. When the latter had delivered a pious and salutary warning to Sven that he was guilty of incest, the king countered his teachings with threats and announced that he would silence his impudent censure with the sword. Unwilling to brook any annoyance, the monarch considered it right to yield to his ferocity and not to the strength of hallowed prescription; he preferred to abandon his religion if it otherwise meant relinquishing his bride. Because they feared a Danish threat from the sea, this affair caused the people of Hamburg to transfer Their archbishopric to Bremen. But while Sven was pondering these matters, William’s remonstrances would not allow him to fulfil his scheme. By his venerable counselling he removed a fury akin to madness from the king’s breast and recalled him from his attachment to this purpose by the very strong determination of his teaching. A healthier disposition of mind suddenly possessed the monarch. Once his instructor’s wholesome direction forced him to recover his senses, he quickly severed the knot of an improper marriage, dismissed his hot, lustful feelings, and cast of his spouse by divorce. Not only did he suppress his wrath, but extricated his heart from enjoyment of that unpermitted partnership. After Gyda had returned to her father’s home, assuming the tokens of widowhood she grew to old age in unblemished purity of conduct; having made vows of chastity, she refused to wed any other man and, because she had defiled herself in a wrongful nuptial bed, from then onwards disclaimed her right to any other. Once she had embarked on a regime of piety, she spent the rest of her life as a single woman; severely strict in her virtue, she compensated for the offence of forbidden intercourse by avoiding even that which was unforbidden. Nor could she endure spilling into idle ease; every day it was her habit to sew objects of exemplary beauty for places of worship, and she made her waiting-women apply themselves continually to the same kind of tasks. From these she bestowed as a gift to the cathedral at Roskilde a priest’s chasuble adorned with embroidered figures, where nothing was spared in the cost of expensive materials or in the skill devoted to its superb needlework. She also fashioned many other articles of ecclesiastical attire for divine service. Sven assembled church ministers whose way of life was exceptionally commendable. Yet however much he admired their education, he gave even more careful attention to their standard of behaviour, since he found it unbecoming to grant them his intimate acquaintance solely for erudite pleasures. Sven was so sure that the study of integrity carried greater weight than the elements of learning that, in making his selection of clergy, he considered principles of worth before those of knowledge and chose to have at his side the support of dependable rather than intellectual servants. There was another Sven, a man from Norwegian territory, well versed in all the offices and faculties of virtue, but with little proper notion of scholarly achievements, whom the king had admitted to the privileges of his circle. Transferred from a governorship to the priesthood, even though he was hampered by deficiency in the Latin tongue, he had a rich and abundant command of vernacular speech. The other clerics, seeing that the king disregarded their talents in favour of this man’s goodness, which surpassed theirs, felt they should belittle his ignorance with some derisive, scornful jest. So, as he was about to say mass, for the sake of a laugh they substituted a missal which had had some letters rubbed out. At the point where he should have made a request for the king’s safety in the solemn words of the prayer as it was set down in the book, he was about to describe him as God’s ‘assistant’, but, since the page had been meddled with by his rivals, he rudely called him ‘ass’; he had no idea how to help himself by correcting the mistake and so compensate for the erasure. Thereupon the bystanders greeted the reader’s inexperience with joyful heaves of merriment until their faces dissolved into unrestrained laughter and religion itself deteriorated into a sport because they were so tickled by the joke. As soon as the incident was over, the monarch took hold of the missal, which had been brought from the altar, and perceived that it had been tampered with by a spiteful hand; when he saw the traces of a recent effacement, the reason for the uncouth expression in the prayer, he abhorred the hearts of that envious company, rebuked their insolent deceit, and affirmed that their disparagement of Sven showed greater defectiveness than his lack of knowledge. The latter, he added, would shortly be twitting his empty-headed mockers. Having then urged Sven to seek out a school, the king promised that he would defray his expenses. This affair in no way made him diminish their customary friendship, for he did not wish to give an appearance of having responded to the priests’ jealousy instead of thwarting it. Once he had set out on this course, the priest Sven devoted himself with extraordinary efficiency to the study of the liberal arts. Kager to undertake training in letters, to which he had so far shown little attachment, in order to obtain instruction in this subject he turned his back on native tutors and enrolled himself to be educated in a foreign school, where he began to improve a mind highly receptive to teaching and became versed in the Latin tongue. By applying himself to the language he was soon amply equipped, so that with his apt brain he acquired an abundance of vocabulary and the most advanced principles of grammatical form; after he had escaped the reproach of primitive rusticity, the exercise of his abilities endowed him with a smooth eloquence. So it was that through his ardent desire to learn he brought back a clear leadership in knowledge and after a brief lapse of time discovered that those who had jeered at his ignorance were now astonished at his talents. Among them all William had enjoyed first place in his intimacy with the ruler and answered the other’s regard with a mutual return of feeling. Cherished by the king more dearly than the rest, he repaid his affectionate esteem with unique loyalty. These were the men of integrity whom the sovereign trusted to have close at his side as his most reliable servants. Now the following events gave magnificent evidence of William’s discipline and a firm proof of royal moderation. The sacred Eve of the Circumcision had come round and King Sven had been celebrating the occasion with a festive banquet for his nobles, when he found out that certain lords had been gossiping about him less than respectfully, in fact secretly vilifying him; since he believed that hidden treason had been brought to light in their drunken jollity, driven by the stings of anger he dispatched assassins to stab them as they were preparing for morning prayer within the Church of the Trinity, as if such divine precincts were the most suitable place to slaughter human beings. He compounded this felony against his guests with sacrilege and turned a house of holiness into a workshop of barbarity, where no respect for time or place could stop him giving rein to his bloodlust. Although he had been infuriated, and rightly so, by the desecration of the cathedral, William at first pretended to be unaffected by the incident and did not give his attendants the smallest indication of his bitterness, but waited for a suitable occasion to take revenge. So when it was his duty, as bishop, to conduct divine service, he not only refrained from acknowledging the king’s arrival with a properly respectful meeting, but also, when Sven strove to enter the sanctuary, William, decked in priestly vestments, without consideration for their acquaintance barred him from the lowest steps with the crozier he normally carried; he was convinced that the monarch did not deserve to pass inside the sacred portals, seeing that he had besmirched their sanctity with citizens’ blood in a serious and shameful violation of the peace; with no reference to his sovereign rank, he called him, not king, but a butcher who shed human gore. Nor was he satisfied with laying blame on his guilt but, after planting the point of his staff on Sven’s chest, preached to that stone-clad heart a lesson in repentance for the murder it had commanded. He set the affront to state religion before a personal association, since he was well aware that the obligations of friendship were one thing, the duties of priesthood another, for according to the latter the disgraceful acts of masters must properly be punished just like those of their menials, noblemen’s misdemeanours dealt with no more leniently than those of peasants. Though he had done more than enough in repulsing the king, he also added his curse and did not even hesitate to utter a sentence of condemnation in his presence. William’s astounding boldness left it uncertain whether he had struck Sven more forcibly with hand or voice; he crushed him with the severest reproaches, first chastising and repelling him with his tongue, then with his right arm, so that he buffeted vice within the breast in which he had previously fostered virtue. Where such a blatant crime was concerned he thought that retribution should not be long awaited, that it was simpler to confront the birth and infancy of sin before its later growth, in case delay allowed the offence to be nourished and gain vigour with the lengthy passage of time. And so, when an onrush of fury and heedlessness pushed the king over into lawless behaviour, the bishop was impelled to exact vengeance by the sternness that arose through his eager devotion to religion. With his strong championship of the faith he restored the credit owed to his status and administered a healthy lesson to another for his reckless behaviour. As he had no wish to give the impression of neglecting the guardianship of his sacred duties, he exerted harshness as though oblivious of compliance; he could neither bear to be amicable towards a foe of sanctity, nor play the part of a conformist and not that of a prelate. In appearance he showed himself an enemy, in effect a friend, since he assessed the loyal assurance of fellowship and true reward of intimacy by considerations of firm justice rather than of unfair partiality. Therefore he subordinated his lenient disposition to rigour by laying aside mildness for a while, reckoning it would be right for him to assume a certain measure of cruelty for a short period in order to assert Christian discipline. For this reason, as soon as he had been sought out and confronted by a dangerous gang of soldiers, with a firm resolve he spurned the blades set at his throat and conducted himself as boldly in despising the peril as he had in provoking it. Blessed with such toughness of mind and endowed with an abundance of this noble spirit, he presented the aspect of one whom the protection of God’s love enabled to rise above the power of human fear. Then the king, restraining his men from murder, perceived that William had been motivated not by rash displeasure but by his belief in a public show of sternness; Sven’s conscience was suffused with shame, with the effect that he felt more dejected at the disgrace of his wickedness than at the bishop’s rebuttal. He straight away returned to the palace where, after the other’s reproachful castigation, he wore a subdued expression and, now that he had heard his words of dignified vexation, made no protest. Next he took off his royal robes and fitted himself with a worn-out garb, because he chose to give evidence of his sorrow with tattered clothing rather than flaunt his arrogance through display. Once he had been cast down by this harsh judgement of the prelate, he could no longer endure to be decked in regal splendour but, throwing aside the symbols of royal grandeur, put on a significant cloak of penance. Moreover, along with his attire he divested himself of authority and superseding his role as a sacrilegious tyrant became a steadfast worshipper of all that was holy. Making his way back to the cathedral precinct barefoot, he prostrated himself at the porch and, humbly kissing the ground, through a controlled feeling of shame curbed the grief which is generally felt most keenly after censure. Immediately he ceased to act like someone punishing a rebuff, and atoned for the sin of his bloodthirsty command with humiliation and repentance. I believe that his soul did not dwell in the realm of villainy, but was only a migrant there, for as at the beginning foolhardiness drove him across the frontier into crime, so afterwards he was governed by a totally level restraint and temperateness. With what deep gentleness can we imagine his heart was furnished? For not only could he bear to grant immunity to a bishop who had openly employed against him the severest power available to an ecclesiastic, but was also able to show his veneration by an abject request for pardon, and so earned William’s favour with the supportive help of his self-abasement and his contrition. Sven knew that the Deity could not be appeased by force, only by obedience, and consequently made good the barbarity of his sin by the guilty anguish of his laments. In addition the smallest provocation to a sense of decency had thrown him into so great a turmoil that he compelled the goodness woken by his sense of dishonour to control his rage; then all the ferocity unleashed on religion by his savage orders was matched by the reverence he paid, after his spirit had been so severely broken. Yet while he was behaving in this manner, he encountered exceptional mercy and comfort from the churchman. The latter had already intoned the initial psalm when the choir sang the introit, but as he was due to add the customary Gloria in ritual fashion after the Greek prayer, he discovered from his attendants that the suppliant king was at the doors. Thereupon, stopping the chant and bidding his clergy be silent, he walked back to the entrance and asked the monarch why he was behaving thus; the other confessed his misdeed and, vowing that he would make reparation to the Church, begged the priest’s aid and forgiveness; at once, revoking his curse, William put his arms round the recumbent figure and, having wiped away his tears, removed the trappings of his woe; he bade him once more assume his royal dress and disposition, stating that it was not permitted to mix private mourning with public gladness. He could not bear to gaze at the king while the latter bore a humbler expression than befitted his sovereignty or while he lay prostrate at the threshold in supplication, but revived him with kindly words and told him to reclothe his body with his former garments, which would lend him a more suitable regality, and to advance in more elegant state; he felt that Sven had given to the Faith satisfaction that was hard enough, inasmuch as he had had the courage to behave in such a lowly manner and abase himself like this as a petitioner. After that, when William had issued instructions about the details of his penance, he commanded the choir, who had arrived in large numbers to celebrate the festival, to come forward and meet the king so that they might afford him a more handsome reception; at once he was greeted with deference and led right to the altar, as everyone made joyful exultation. That was how the bishop tempered his previous appearance of ferocity with gracious affability and compensated for the unpleasant rejection with this spectacle of compliance. William gave no less respect to his remorse than he had shown harshness towards his offence. Beyond that, he removed Sven’s anxiety while he was still grieving, injected him with self-confidence, and scattered the asperities of his personal gloom through public thanksgiving. So, the criminal defilement that had contaminated this headstrong man was atoned for by means of pious stringency. Moreover, the people accorded their highest approval and applause to such a worthy sense of shame in their ruler, admitting that he had emerged more devout in his penance than he had been villainous in his autocracy. The prelate had now acted out the part of an austere, dutiful avenger, whereby he had behaved with forbearance in this example of rigour and mercy alike and no more scanted his kindness than his castigation. Just as he had sternly defeated the king’s inflexibility, so he guided his unassuming conduct with tenderness and mingled equity with affection in such a way that he neither scorned the king as a supplicant nor welcomed him in his arrogance. In this affair he exhibited qualities of fatherly feeling to the utmost, for in parental fashion he followed up his reproaches with endearments, prepared neither to embrace Sven when he was haughty nor spurn him once he displayed humility. Afterwards he returned to the interrupted rites at the altar and chanted the Gloria to the Supreme Father on account of this royal amendment; William gave way to joy all the more gladly because a shocking source of distress had preceded it. The king, however, continued to rest for two days, but eventually on the third he donned royal apparel and, when the solemnities of the mass were being celebrated, ascended to a lofty point of the cathedral; there, after a herald had effected a reverential silence, he reprimanded himself with the strongest indictments before the whole congregation and confessed how he had inflicted a grievous wound on the Faith. Next he extolled the bishop’s forbearance, in that he had so readily pardoned such an infamous felony and promptly restored to Christian practices this culprit, who was guilty by his orders if not by his own hand. To give satisfaction for such a bloody command he proclaimed that half the district of Støvnæs was being donated as a gift to the Church. Sven did not blush to direct personal notification of his disgrace to many ears. These events brought about an indissoluble union between crown and clergy. The monarch not only regarded the prelate as a friend on the same level, but provided him with even larger increases in authority, since he had been stimulated to favour by the bishop’s services more than provoked to wrath by his invective; he realized that the ecclesiastic had been incited to challenge him not through private resentment but because of his flouting of the state religion. Sven reacted to William’s amazing strictness with consistent goodwill, while the latter responded in the same manner to the king’s pious restraint. Each offered daily prayers in their desire that separate dates of death should not intervene between such substantial harmony of souls. In mutual enthusiasm they vied with one another in paying deeply deferential courtesies and fostered the outstanding loyalty of their bond with an interchange of esteem so strong that one might discern between them rather an intimacy among equals than the friendliness of a superior to someone of lower station. I shall pass now to Cnut, Sven’s son, who had the foremost gifts of Nature heaped upon him by a gracious, kindly disposed Fortune, and whose years were outstripped by a mind well indicated in his personal qualities. After having banded together a group of young men, he completely suppressed the terrifying raids of pirate vessels and then further distinguished his adolescence by triumphs over the Samlanders and Estlanders, so that he ascended beyond the foundations of his father’s power to new levels of strength. This success presaged his future rule. In order to extend and protect his country he maintained perpetual vigilance and he had the confidence to be accepted as the instigator of affairs which he might scarcely have been capable of witnessing at his still immature age. On top of that he toughened his youthful frame by continual exercise to accomplish energetic wars and undergo fighting like a man; his renown for courage in battle rose to such brilliance that he seemed to reincarnate the soul of Cnut the Great and to have obtained a share in his good fortune as well as his name; in fact no one had any doubts that he would gain succession to his father’s throne. Ripe now for bravery, he was clearly not unready for glory. Nor did this young man fail to display generosity. Cnut’s elder brother Harald, a fellow of very dull sensibilities, was during his formative years continuously smothered under a blanket of lethargic inactivity. At last Sven, almost spent at the end of a long life, was attacked by ill-health, his body gripped with a fever, while he was at Suddatorp, a town in the Jutland region. As the deadly humour ran riot and he realized that the fatal affliction was touching upon his heart, he gathered what little final breath still remained in his lungs and entreated those present to bury him at Roskilde. Not satisfied with a promise of their services, he enforced adherence to it with an oath. That sanctified locality, which Danish kings had revered according to ancient custom, habitually provided a residence for them in their lifetime and a resting place when they met their fate. The king’s corpse, borne by his followers in a magnificent cortege, had already reached the shores of Zealand when William first received directions that he must travel to meet it. Without pause he pursued a speedy journey to that city where, summoning men to dig deep into the earth, he gave orders to erect a tomb in the cathedral of the Trinity, first for the king, then for himself. When the gravediggers, imagining his words issued more from grief than plain intention, pointed out that no tomb was needed for the living, only for the dead, he declared that they would have to set about his own burial before Sven’s, and added that he could not have the prayer unfulfilled in which he had always desired to die at the same time as his lord. Because his hearers were stunned with amazement, regarding his command as one more suited to a madman, he induced them to comply by threatening punishment unless they obeyed him. In this way he foresaw that his death was certain, even though his body was not yet distressed by any malady. Then he sped away with a swift horse to encounter the funeral procession, until he chanced to arrive at a wood named Topshøj, in which he caught sight of two wonderfully tall trees growing beside the road; he gave directions for each to be felled and shaped for use as a bier. His servants supposed that their instructions related to fashioning the king’s hearse, carried out his bidding, and then placed the litter on the backs of horses remarkable for their strength. When the bishop had ridden past the wood, he discerned Sven’s funeral train in the near distance and shouted to the driver to stop; immediately after, as if he wished to relax, he took off the cloak he was wearing, spread it out on the ground and threw himself flat on top of it. Next, raising his hands, palm upward, he beseeched the Creator to grant him an end to existence, if any ministry of his had pleased Him. Truly it was William’s desire to follow on the heels of his dead friend without any hesitation, nor did he prefer to forsake him by living longer. Once he had uttered this prayer he lay back as though on his bed at home and gave up the ghost. What boundless solidarity, that could prove more attractive than continuing to live! When William’s servants began to feel it strange that he stayed resting there for such a long while and their wish to rouse his recumbent form was unsuccessful, they then discovered that he was lifeless. As a result there arose fresh grief amongst everybody over his unexpected departure. His retinue took him up on to the bier and carried him in front of the king, so that the funeral procession of the one who died later came first. As men set their shoulders beneath Sven’s coffin, William, transported on horseback, preceded him almost as if he were driving him to his burial service. Since he was conveyed beforehand into the sanctuary, William’s prophecy saw its true fulfilment on his return. Through the astonishing circumstances in which he gained his death he made it quite clear that his veneration of the king was due more to affection than to Sven’s prosperous position. After the last rites had been sumptuously carried out, their two bodies were immured in the closely adjacent sepulchres. Such are the estimable wages of friendship: as soon as one of the two companions has departed, the individual left behind conceives an appetite for death, because his palate rejects the sweet taste of life. Afterwards Sven the Norwegian, whom I have shown earlier, took over the episcopacy with the universal assent of the clergy. However, when it came to the business of choosing a successor to the throne, the populace were uncertain of their decision. The majority of the Danes remembered what fierce hazards Cnut, though still a private citizen, had exposed them to, and were frightened that these might become even more severe, should he be invested with the kingdom; petty-minded in their estimate of true worth, they made a most unfair assessment of his merits and refused him his rightful increase of honour, so that they made light of the rewards due to his virtues and repaid his brilliant exploits with a shameful rebuff. As they disliked him heartily in their anxiety about his activities, in like proportion they showed enthusiasm for Harald because they craved an easy life, and therefore put inertia before enterprise, choosing for themselves a slothful ruler to govern them in preference to a valiant one. This was why they spurned a bright, outstanding talent and had no qualms about bestowing the highest rank, which they had denied an excellent man, on a defective individual; rejecting valour, they pressed public distinction on apathy. Nevertheless this mean-spirited attitude was glossed over with a spurious semblance of reason, for they contended that Harald, being the elder, was owed the crown by simple law of Nature. What an extraordinary form of partiality! Virtue had caused one to be disliked, while vice had made the other attractive. It was only the Scanians whose minds were swayed by a bias towards justice, with the result that they respected Cnut’s fine qualities, abhorred Harald’s idleness. An assembly accordingly met at Isøre for an election to take place. In that locality the vast expanse of Ocean is admitted into a very narrow mouth, where the raging seas are pushed and squeezed through a tight entrance between the headlands. The middle of the bay is beset with shoals concealing dark perils for sailors. The receding tide reveals these and, returning, hides them. The fleet from Scania put in on the eastern shore, the others landed to the west. Here the brothers, each in the midst of his supporters, harangued the crowd in separate places. Having summoned a gathering of his partisans, Harald announced that he did not regard a preference for his brother as in any way an insult to himself, except that the very destiny of birth had set Cnut below him in authority and it would be preposterous for the elder to be defeated by the younger. Even though his rival seemed to reveal riper capacities, he himself was superior according to natural order and the prerogative of age. In addition it would be intolerable if Cnut should be recommended through causing harassment to Danish subjects and exposing his fatherland to dangers, whereas the humanity he himself had maintained towards everyone was now proving prejudicial to his advancement; they must not value men’s services in such a way that they would wish to requite their own afflictions with kindness and their happiness with exclusion. This type of recompense was offered most of all by the ungrateful. Furthermore, if he were to attain supreme power, he undertook to abolish iniquitous laws and bring in ones that were as agreeable and mild as they could wish. As soon as Harald guaranteed such a substantial and welcome godsend, the assembly, tempted by such pernicious allurements, named him king, conferring his father’s realm upon one who deserved to earn scorn for his laziness before any preferment or favour. The acclamation of the people, wrested from them prematurely by his sugared oratory, gave greater reward to this man’s lying promises than to Cnut’s unvanquished bravery. So the contest between these rival brothers, depending as it did on the support of various factions, was settled merely by the votes of the parties concerned, without arbitrators or judges. Harald, bolstered by the delusion of the ignorant masses, soon afterwards sent representatives to warn his brother not to canvass for the primacy now that it had been accorded to the elder, nor to set his own reputation first; Cnut knew which of them was senior and should not stir up internal disagreements and domestic strife in an attempt to ruin a kingdom made famous by the talents of their forebears; he must not inspire divisive rebellions in his homeland by sinister treachery, but rather close his mind to ambition, shed all indiscretion, and not be ashamed to support his competitor for the throne. Threats were added to cautions, his injunctions framed not so much with enticements to peace as with provocations to war. Beyond that, Harald made sure that most sympathizers on his brother’s side were inveigled into accepting him by using men who had been bribed to promise improvements in the laws and the enjoyment of a less restricted life. In this way the hearts of the multitude were alienated from Cnut partly by hope, partly by fear. As Cnut’s troops melted from him, he himself, after being ordered to renounce the realm whose safety he had protected and whose boundaries he had extended, slipped away into the narrowest straits off the Scanian coast, in command of three ships with curved prows, and no others. When representatives from his brother assured him that he might become joint ruler of the kingdom and recommended his return, he rejected their seductive precepts and fled into Sweden, believing it the height of stupidity to trust Harald’s word while his own fortunes were shattered, seeing that he had been subjected to the other’s menaces even when his circumstances were still flourishing. In a short time, as though oblivious of the wrongs he had suffered, turning his back on his country’s affairs he strenuously pursued a campaign against the peoples of the East, begun whilst his father was alive. Harald held a council for eight days, during which it was suggested that the pledges he had given should be effectively honoured, so that he might use his regal office for cultivating the people; first he promulgated the right to issue a counter-oath in the face of a judicial challenge, and ordained that the defendant’s role should have precedence over the machinery of prosecution. In fact he granted the accused permission to speak for himself in order to refute the accuser’s charge, whereas previously he had not been allowed to argue in his own defence or reject an allegation when it relied on the testimony of witnesses. Though suited to liberty, this law, strengthened by use, has turned out to be harmful to religion. For the actual ability to defend oneself, relying not on the employment of arms or of witnesses, but solely on the reliability of an oath, has sullied with perjury the attempts of many to attain their greedy wishes, and also completely overthrown the custom of engaging in single combat. To men of succeeding generations it has seemed more satisfactory to settle initiated legal disputes by swearing on oath rather than by swordsmanship. The former is more dangerous as regards Christian integrity, the latter in considerations of safety. It is a usage tenaciously adhered to and resolutely exercised by the Danes to this very day, so much so that people would rather lose their lives than forfeit the practice, and sacrifice their own welfare in reverence for it. Now Harald was single-mindedly dedicated to sacred observances and disregarded the stern application of those edicts he had passed; a weak and permissive laxity meant that he overlooked everyone’s unpunished offences, and thus allowed all the protections of the penal code to break to pieces; the king was unaware that the Deity was better pleased with a soundly governed domain than with worthless elements of superstitious belief, that the strict prosecution of justice was more acceptable to Him than needless flattery in prayers; again, he did not realize that the divine will is more fully satisfied when the monarch produces the ordinances of legislation rather than the fragrances of oblation, that God appreciates smiting brigands more than breasts, looks with greater pleasure on lowering, not the knee, but the number of crimes, and prefers the upholding of civil rights for the poor to the offering of a sacrificial rite. Though there is an obligation for royal dignity to direct proper thought to religious observances, it can sometimes be rather finer for monarchs to attend to law courts than altars. But the king disregarded everything of that sort; notable only in his affection for sacred ceremonies, his lavish tolerance would bear with the most injurious deeds, so that he carried out fewer actual reforms than he had promised. Harald proceeded against offences not only by pardoning them, but even by giving permission for them, with the result that he made his homeland as destitute of justice as it was enriched by his previous guarantees. Yet he believed there was no disgrace in his decline from the true standards and behaviour of our sovereigns. After a reign of two years’ length he paid his debt to Nature. After Harald’s death Cnut was recalled, with the approval of his brothers, to take the most exalted position in the kingdom; while he was in exile he had again entered upon the war against the Easterners which he had begun in early manhood and, having once accepted the throne, he turned his attention to renewing those hostilites with all his might, more with a view to extending the Christian faith than to satisfying his greed; with the improvement of his fortunes he also wished to secure increased renown. Nor did he withdraw his hand from that venture until the dominions of the Kurlanders, Samlanders, and Estlanders had been totally put down. As soon as he had rid himself of these opponents, he next sought round for a wife, but considered the prospects for marriage among his neighbours ignoble and beneath his dignity, so that he invited Adela, daughter of Count Robert of Flanders, to be his bride. From this union came a son, Karl. When he perceived that the sinews of ancient law had been slackened and impaired by the arrogance of the lords, Cnut strove with all his natural abilities to restore his country to a proper pattern of moral conduct; by passing the strictest regulations he brought in respect for greater legality and thereby pulled a weakened and sinking level of justice back to its earlier quality. Making no concessions to blood or intimacy which might prevent his acting impartially, the king did not let any friend or kinsman go unpunished if he had done wrong; after looking into every detail of former practice, he drew fast the loose chain of the law with a very tight clasp and in his concern applied traces of his father’s severity; but this diligence won him the deepest hatred of the magnates. To holy rites he restored their due dignity and extended the support of his patronage to those who held the priesthood. As he noted that the bishops were accorded too little rightful veneration by an indolent and uncultivated populace, he made sure that those who held so high a title should not remain like private citizens; by diligently enforcing a well-considered ordinance he allowed them to associate with noblemen and granted them first place as though they were leaders of the aristocracy, uniting authority with rank. For he took care that less than adequate reverence should not overcome the gravity of such an important office, which would mean that those placed at the pinnacle of Holy Church would be degraded by enjoying only a lowly status. Cnut did not merely confer additional distinctions on the bishops, but even took pains to enhance the ordinary ranks of the clergy by favourable decrees. In order to augment the honour bestowed on them, he withdrew the settlement of disputes between literate clerics from ordinary courts and referred them to tribunals composed of personnel of the same calling. Moreover, he allowed them to impose a fine on those guilty of a religious offence, when such people were unable to refute the charges against them. In fact all decisions about the punishment of persons who had committed crimes against Christianity were put in the hands of the clergy, so that every case of this nature was removed from public trial and assigned to an ecclesiastical court, to ensure that conditions did not reduce those who stood on different planes of dignity to the same level. In this way he added more weight to the Church’s prestige; he wanted its members to be given special regard for a splendour which was more exalted than that of the topmost secular dignitary. Thus it came about that no Dane, except the king, bishops, and whoever is judged as the most likely successor to the crown, is allowed to bring a personal action against any cleric. Again this ruler tried to accustom the common people, still backward in Church matters, to the religious obligation of paying tithes. But his exhortations to this end were futile, since the beginnings of a new form of worship could not be adapted to a time that was not yet ripe for it. In the meantime Bishop Sven went ahead with the building in stone of Roskilde cathedral, which had been started by William. When the chancel had been completed, he observed that it was only the shortage of space available for the pulpit that prevented the dedication being performed; in order to erect the pulpit he resited William’s tomb and had his remains dug up from his burial place and removed to the sepulchre where they now lie. On the night before the intended day of dedication, the sacristan had a dream: during his sleep someone draped in priestly vestments instructed him to tell Sven that it was quite enough for him to have assumed William’s merits in completing the construction of the church and in pursuit of his own glory appropriated to himself the results gained from the cost of another’s labour; he should not proceed to disturb the remains of the man whose renown he had striven to grasp, or try to shift them away from the body of his dearly loved king. Punishment, he declared, must undoubtedly be visited on the one who had instigated the desecration, unless the piety of his existence forestalled it; retribution, however, would now fall on that very part of the church which Sven had built, and he, the apparition, would overthrow the whole structure of his work from top to bottom. He also warned against anyone being so presumptuous as to meddle with his tomb in future, forecasting that whoever moved his remains from their resting-place would never do so with impunity. Then he seemed to strike the roof with his sceptre, whereupon the whole fabric of that work was demolished; and the actual destruction of the sanctuary proved the truth of the dream. This end of the church suddenly fell, uprooted from its lowest foundations; the vision was so consistent with reality that the collapse accompanied its identical moment in the dream, and what had occurred in one man’s imagination during the night, by day became apparent to everyone’s eyes. The event was so miraculous that even when the chancel fell in ruins it did not crush its custodian. He had not been dashed to pieces by the heavy masonry that was piled everywhere or so much as shaken by the danger from that massive avalanche of building material, but remained sleeping peacefully, even though his bed lay right next to the falling superstructure. The townsfolk, alarmed by the thunderous noise, came running in consternation at the catastrophe before them and witnessed the sacristan, who they thought had perished in the downfall, emerging untouched from amid the heaps of rubble. Every person’s gaze was focused on him in devout wonder at this occurrence. It was not easy to tell whether the onlookers were more stunned by the subsidence of the cathedral or the preservation of the sacristan. The fact that he had been saved from the weight of stone above his head gave no small proof to the narrator’s vision. When William’s nocturnal commands had been disclosed by him to the bishop, the latter smiled and remarked that it did not surprise him if the dead man’s character corresponded with his sternness while he was alive; nevertheless he personally would direct his care to restoring the ruined section of the cathedral. For a long time afterwards, therefore, William’s tomb remained untouched, until in our own age Herman, dean of the chapter, and Arnfast, the cathedral schoolmaster, observed that it was easier of access than all the others and the most ornate; with the tacit approval of the rural provost, Isak, they gave orders that it should be opened up for the burial of Bishop Asser. Furthermore, when the earth had been dug down to the bottom of the grave, they found the bishop’s rochet unspoilt among his bones, which had been eaten away in the ground. As soon as these had been lifted, a powerful fragrance from no apparent source was wafted to the noses of the bystanders as if from some blessed fount of perfumes; no one could then doubt that William had attained heaven, seeing that his remains were suffused with this wonderful sweetness of earthly odours. Those who touched them found such a persistent aroma clinging to their hands that, despite their attempts to remove it by washing and bathing, they could not do so for three days. Yet they did not revere these holy relics in a fitting manner, but had them placed at the furthest end of the sepulchre. However, their audacity was certainly attended by retribution. The instigators of this sacrilegious scheme suffered a baleful end for their presumption, in such a way that each met punishment answering to his share in determining to profane the tomb. As Herman was sitting at a council of priests headed by Absalon, his nostrils were suddenly assailed by erysipelas, whose violence not only deprived him of physical strength, but even the use of his voice; he stayed mute and speechless for three days until, as the inflammation spread to a wider area, he died, fully deserving to be afflicted in that part of his body where he had breathed in the divine scent without gratitude. Arnfast’s departure was no pleasanter: when he wished to take treatment for a deadening weakness in his muscles, he incautiously drank a medicine which was supposed to win back his health, but only induced lethargy. Finally his liver burst and he discharged it in gobbets by vomiting; these pieces were collected in a basin by the doctor and were seen by Archbishop Absalon when he kindly came to visit him. While the latter was there, the invalid testified that all these tribulations could be put down to his desecration of William’s remains; that was the clear penalty he had paid for disdaining the bishop’s command and he offered himself and all his property to the Church; after three months in this feeble condition, he breathed his last with a mind totally repentant. The third perpetrator of this rash deed, viewing the wretched end of the other two and apprehensive that he might be close to a very similar chastisement, forestalled a harsh doom by an act of piety. At St Mary’s Church he founded a convent for holy virgins at great personal expense and instilled the doctrine of virtue into them for the rest of his life. Even so he did not escape vengeance entirely, for he died from a consumptive lung after a long-drawn-out decline. So the first of these was swept away by a sudden death, while the other two slowly perished when a disease issuing from different sections of the body caused them finally to waste away. Thus it was that each of them was punished according to his measure of responsibility for violating the bishop’s burial place. Because they had not been willing to guard their health by a protective wisdom, they brought disaster on themselves by rushing blindly into error. Sven was anxious not to appear careless in completing his promised restoration of the cathedral and so took right to its proper finish the work he had begun on the fabric of Roskilde’s sanctuary. To bring the task to perfection he added as an embellishment a crown, fashioned with painstaking skill and cost, believing that royal wealth was better employed in furthering the magnificence of sacred objects than in pandering to human greed. At almost the same period, too, with the sovereign’s help, Egin brought to its fulfilment the work he had started on the cathedral church of St Lawrence. When the king instructed that both these houses of God should receive their dedication, he gave an endowment of amazingly generous proportions. Supported by funds from the bishop, he established annual prebends for those who sang the liturgy at St Lawrence’s. Cnut himself defrayed part of their everyday expenses from his own treasury and the royal estates, while the prelate paid a share from the benefactions previously conferred on the cathedral; so very active were they in their religious rivalry that you could not have told which of the two was more devoted to God. On the first day of the dedication ceremony, the king, once he had paid solemn homage at the altar, consigned a quarter of the profits from the royal mint, a quarter of the fines he had levied on the citizens, and a quarter of the midsummer tribute as a gift to be held in perpetual right by whichever bishop occupied that see at any one time. He was no less liberal in safeguarding the personal privileges of the clergy and made sure that almost all the payments legally due to the king from the tenants of cathedral land should be allotted to these men who were enrolled to sing in the choir. He wanted only fines for shirking military service and damages for violating the peace to be his own royal perquisites, together with the inheritances of those who had died without living relatives. So he took the lead just as much in proclaiming concessions to the cathedrals as he did in supplying them with aid. And in order to secure permanence for his laws he made any who tried to overthrow them subject to excommunication by the bishop. The ancient respect for these edicts still persists, even though many afterwards have rashly tried to oppose them. Now though Cnut had conducted himself with such resolute piety in all affairs, he appeared particularly remarkable in his affection for the Faith, since he never turned his gaze away from its strictest observance. As he noted that his horde of brothers, callow and unruly, were a real annoyance to their country, after making provision for them with full and generous allowances he incorporated them into his retinue, leaving out only Oluf, who was to govern the Schleswig region, and thereby eased a public burden from his own purse. At length, perceiving that since the time of his father’s uncle the reputation of Denmark had been overturned and her armies were falling into idleness, a yearning to revolutionize his country gradually crept into his mind. Resolving to display his great-uncle’s spirit more decisively and dissatisfied that he had graced his ambitions merely with conquests in the East, he believed that England, lost through misfortune, must be regained, on the grounds that he should have inherited it. Cnut reflected that the martial fame of his forefathers and the boundaries and wealth of their empire had been increased more than anything by the repute they had won in England; no greater lustre had accrued to them from all their eastern spoils than from those of this one island. It was the mark of an obtuse and degenerate spirit to shrink from emulating one’s forerunners; better to sacrifice his throne than exercise sovereignty penned within the narrow confines of a tiny piece of earth. Through his desire to reflect the intrepidity of his ancestors by pursuing similar policies, to accomplish some labour consistent with their aims, and to match the renown of these precursors, he relied on his own diligence to repair everything his father’s laziness had ruined and, detesting his parent, emulated his forebear, Cnut the Great. Accordingly he first revealed his secret plan to Oluf and, meeting with the other’s encouragement, then disclosed the idea to the people. These all showed a ready enthusiasm for it. But though he had imagined O luf’s response indicated a return of fraternal regard, he little knew that he had here a covert rival, full of artful pretence, for the king judged the affection he felt for the other man was mutual. Even if discretion offered Cnut different advice, his moral purity would not let him carry dark suspicions of his brother; he could not entertain the thought of rashly impugning the honesty of a close relative or putting foes and kinsmen on a par with each other through fear of treachery. In aspiring to the crown Oluf was oblivious of any sense of duty towards a brother and hid the nature of his profoundly false heart under a deep semblance of trustworthiness; once Cnut’s purpose had been spread abroad, he heartened him with flattering speeches and lent his exhortations, not because he anticipated that the other could regain such a mighty realm, but in order to turn the difficulty of the prescribed campaign into hatred for the prescriber. Assessing his brother’s feelings with disdain, Oluf recompensed his loyal love with fratricidal deception. Since he noted that Cnut’s subjects resented his having reimposed a previously neglected rigour with his new legislation, Oluf incited him privately to execute measures which were publicly found displeasing, so that he might cause his brother’s unpopularity to mount. Reluctant to engineer sedition on his own, he chose associates to compose an undercover alliance of conspirators. His scheming bore fruit. The nobles, whose unrestraint had been checked by the king’s sanctions, joined in league with Oluf to promote the murderous plan. Cnut fancied that all their minds were bent on glory, not crime; after orders had been issued to the fleet, he voyaged to the edge of Limfjorden, from which it is only a very short sail to the Ocean; at one time this passage was navigable, but now an intervening sandbar closes the exit. Here the monarch, after waiting an age for his brother to come, found that the troops had lost all their verve owing to the delayed departure of their ships. Having concocted his strategy of leisurely progress, every day Oluf postponed his time of arrival, working up this deceptive scheme for frustrating the enterprise and seeking sustenance for his treason with lying pretexts about hindrances; he wanted to drag on this procrastination until the king set off without him so that in the intervening period he could filch his realm, or till the army, kept on tenterhooks by the lull, started to vanish, with the prospect that the king would suffer contempt if he did not punish the deserters, or become a universal object of loathing if he did. In this fashion Oluf, by putting off his appearance, made a mockery of his brother and lord, endeavouring by this dishonest method, as sly as it was insidious, to undermine the laborious preparations for that noble-hearted, heroic design. Nor did his cunning procedure fail, because the entire fleet, sick of its period of waiting, forsook the ruler. Unaware of his brother’s machinations, Cnut time and again had issued commands pressing for the loiterer’s appearance, till eventually, when he was made acquainted with O luf’s treachery, after instructing the navy to await his return, with a picked force he sped to Schleswig, where he surprised and stunned his unprepared brother. Once the latter had been led forward and accused, he was incapable of offering any valid refutation of the charges; since he was as good as convicted, without any means of defence, the soldiers were ordered to put him in shackles. Even so, they would on no account let their hands carry out an affront unfitting for one of royal blood, for which their respect was so great that anyone descended from a line of kings they would rather condemn to death than torment with fetters; in their eyes it was more tolerable to give a sentence which entailed a feature shared by all humanity, instead of one that demanded a demeaning penalty. Our race’s sense of propriety has usually counted the punishment of chains as a deep humiliation, and believes that to be subjected to them is the most melancholy of all fates. Reckoning that noble minds are more afflicted by a shameful than a bloody chastisement, they are convinced that the second provides a handsomer doom than the first, just as much as a law of nature differs from an evil of fortune. Their brother Erik performed the service entrusted to the soldiery, feeling that more regard should be paid to Cnut’s lawful directive than to his nefarious brother; he should make no allowances for their blood relationship, seeing that it was a matter of retribution for his offences. If he was lacking in probity, he thought, this man could claim no deference from his family; made detestable by a defective sensibility, such a person had tarnished all the brightness of his birth. Consequently Erik did not heed the name of brother, only O luf’s intention of fratricide. To such an extent does the value of consanguinity prove worthless when a relative has debased himself by his behaviour. Afterwards the king removed the fettered Oluf to a ship bound for Flanders, where he had him consigned to the safe keeping of a jail. The conspirators could gain scant information about his capture, by report or messenger, and so, to enable them to disband the troops in a more adroit fashion, using the king’s profitless delay and absence as a pretext, they lured the fleet with secret admonitions and gave them orders to sail for home. Should any person have openly encouraged them to adopt this measure, by law he would have deserved to have his property confiscated and be driven into exile, or to undergo capital punishment. For this reason the instigators of desertion judged that the safest course would be for the ordinary folk, with no apparent prompting, to assume responsibility for this presumptuous withdrawal; in that way the crime of mutiny could not be pinned on private individuals but would be of public origin. The nobles’ artful scheme, in fact, carried so much weight with the short-sighted, hot-headed multitude of common people that, equally induced by these men’s influence and by the boredom of inaction, they took the very bold liberty of returning. As soon as the monarch got wind of their behaviour, he first displayed sorrow, but later gladness. For he made their offence a religious matter and, by calling it a fine, seized his first opportunity to exact tithes; Cnut was delighted because this chance had procured him the most advantageous grounds for his plan, since he wished to lend grace to the Faith out of his own disgrace. When the nobility heard about the seizure of Oluf, whom they had hoped might lead their party, disappointed of the treachery they had designed, they did their utmost to pretend it had never occurred. It was for these reasons that the king later called together an assembly, to whom he pointed out the extent to which military discipline had always benefited Danish warfare: the lower classes had invariably complied with the commands of their lords; kingly authority depended on the people’s assent; the renown of princes had increased through the loyalty of their soldiers more than anyone else, and their power held no significance unless it was sustained by popular support; he himself had recently encountered an insult which hitherto had been unknown to monarchs. The leaders of this unwonted rebellion had put slovenliness before daring, and with their longing for an inactive life had undermined the work of his glorious enterprise. He also added the amount of money they should duly be condemned to pay for their unpatriotic offence of desertion, resolving that each single captain should give marks, each rower , as a fine. As no one refused to contribute, the money payment was guaranteed. As soon as he was apprised of this, Cnut announced that he was prepared to release them from this demand if they were willing to pay tithes to the priesthood. The members of the meeting asked leave to hold a consultation and withdrew from the king for a short time to confer on whether they ought to be satisfied with the proposed terms. It was difficult to fulfil either consideration: if the money were paid, they believed a great many would be reduced to poverty; but the rendering of tithes, which must be performed throughout the ages, imposed everlasting bondage on the providers. Therefore, where one gloomy prospect seemed juxtaposed with another and they had to choose the less painful course, it looked as though the harsher proposition was the one that went hand in hand with an interminable period. When the people perceived that the former penalized them alone, the other their descendants too, they opted for present scarcity in preference to supplying gifts for ever. Taking into account the different time scales, they elected to redeem their guilt in a way which would bring hardship solely on themselves rather than to their posterity; they would sooner be deprived of their earnings once than perpetually lose their liberty, thinking that if a sum were drawn from them by law, it did not constitute a disgrace, but if it were coaxed and squeezed out of them, this would expose them to shame. Moreover, in their judgement, handing out their produce to others each year was more a degradation than conformance to Christianity. Once the king saw that they favoured the worse half of the bargain, pretending he was going to levy the money, he went off into the northern region of Jutland, where he appointed Toste, nicknamed ‘the Fleecer’, and his crony, Horte, as tax collectors, for he wanted to disseminate the system of religious tithing through dread of the fine. These two were told to determine the value of the rebels’ possessions and then leave their property untouched, but they carried out the order more ruthlessly than they had been bidden and hammered the common people with unjust extortion. Those who challenged the kingship held a popular meeting at which they complained bitterly about these activities and falsely exaggerated their accusations; inventing tales that distorted the truth, they made these money-gatherers loathed by one and all. What they judged were the activities of those men-at-arms, not the king’s orders, and they paid heed not to the director’s wishes, but to those of the person directed. When at their instigation a huge mob assaulted the collectors, they checked the wrong being done to them all by a public riot, looking more at events that were happening than the commands behind them. Nor were the people appeased by the murders of these men, but even allowed their madness to burst out against the sovereign. Cnut, calculating he should shun their attack by a timely absence, retreated to Schleswig, where he settled his wife and son, with instructions to escape to her homeland if things turned ominous, considering that there would be no protection for them among these traitors. He feared to leave an heir who was not yet ripe for the monarchy to the whims of his countrymen. In this situation the inhabitants of Vendsyssel, reckoning their only chance of freedom lay in fighting, started to issue taunts at his flight, just as if they were his conquerors. And when the Jutlanders began to menace him, he realized that even his old supporters were leaving him in the lurch; these distressing times did not permit him to recruit fresh reinforcements and so, to find greater safety through retirement he made for Funen, hoping to gain security from the protection of this island. However, he discovered no less ferocity there, unmerited by such a deeply pious soul. Hence a self-assurance in venting their rage, fuelled by the Jutlanders, exacerbated the passionate foolhardiness of the masses, and likewise an assumption that there was no restraint on attackers caused a storm of misery to beat upon the king. Certainly the populace, who were anxious not to relinquish their attempt for fear of retribution, calculated they must show constancy in their wickedness. It was their belief that one who had been twice vexed would not abate punishment for the criminals. Thirsting for his extinction, they sought this saintly man’s death with the most burning hatred and, seemingly motivated by despair of pardon, wished to do away with him as a foe rather than experience what he was like as an avenger. Not content with having expelled him beyond their own borders, the Jutlanders resolved to drive him from Funen as well. Cnut, after hearing news of their crossing, had decided to depart for Zealand, when a man called Blakke, who had attained a very close friendship with him, even though he secretly bore the king violent dislike, with sham loyalty strongly advised him to refrain from flight; he should search for assistance in the town of Odense and not look round for somewhere to hide, like a woman; he promised that in the meantime he would spy out the doings of the common folk himself and oppose their rage with his gentle persuasions. If he were unable to calm their feelings, he would report this sufficiently early for the monarch to make good his escape. Cnut acceded to his proposals. Thereupon Blakke disregarded his mission and, with perverse warnings and cajolery, far from winning their favour for the king, built up even more vigorous animosity towards him amongst the citizens. He urged them to seize the originator of their maltreatment as promptly as they could and not let him sneak off and disappear; they should be reminded that deliverers from oppression do not despise monarchs, only tyrants; no blame attaches to an act that is committed in striving for right; defenders of their country are exempt from murder, as the true servants of patriotism they are; no personal reproach clings to anyone where it is a matter of championing public freedom. Apart from that, if they attempted the task in vain, their condition would be abysmally wretched, but if they obtained their objective, they would prove the most fortunate of men. With these and similar methods the populace were spurred towards the king’s assassination, till Blakke had roused them all into a bloodthirsty attempt to destroy his innocent life; by that same process these ordinary folk were worked up into madness as though he had lit them with a Fury’s torch, and wherever he started to instigate it, the violence at once grew. Far from opposing their rashness firmly, he designated himself the promoter of general insanity. So, because of his pernicious harangues, a swifter-flying tempest of insurrection raged, and once someone was found to excite this storm a more serious rebellion burst out. Returning from them, he reported that the people now showed a more placid temperament: the squall of disturbance would easily be calmed if Cnut in turn would be willing to lay aside his anger and remit punishment for the offenders. As the king supposed that his helper had been faithful in this errand, he entertained him to a feast of royal opulence and loaded with gifts the one who had been such a mischievous construer of his benignity. Gratitude for this treachery was felt on both sides; moving to and fro from one party to the other, Blakke perverted his business of negotiation, so that instead of acting as an intermediary he began to play the traitor; starting as its investigator, he emerged as an inciter of wickedness by giving a distorted explanation of the ruler’s intentions and a lying account of the people’s. In this way the man’s glib falsehoods, purporting to be diplomatic communications, hoodwinked king and populace alike, the former by not warning him to shun the threatening mob, the latter by instructing them to have no mercy on the waiting monarch. When next day Blakke offered much the same promises as earlier, Cnut sent him off to spy out any mutinous behaviour, since he adopted this common enemy as the architect for shaping peace between himself and the citizenry. His usual duplicity did not desert the envoy. For the people, goaded by his noxious counsels, unleashed an even wilder tumult, directed at the king’s person. In the meanwhile Cnut, who regularly attended solemn mass each day (for he let nothing intervene before his faith), came to the church of St Alban in order to supplicate for his own welfare. In case anything should detract from his love of God, he chose to approach the Almighty with prayers sooner than attack his foes with weapons. Here, while he was devoting his time to worship and pursuing his pious duties, the frantic crowds, now armed, encircled the sanctuary to cut him off. All those of his soldiers who had managed to run ahead of their enemies now sought the king in their aim to be partners of his peril, eager to redirect the threat on to themselves; although they could have gained their safety by withdrawal, they stayed to court danger and preferred to meet an illustrious death rather than rescue themselves by flight. What abundant warmth, then, we must admit dwelt in the hearts of these bodyguards, who, to avoid abandoning their lord to an unhappy fate, exposed themselves to a hazard which they might well have avoided, and where there was ample opportunity to escape considered it better to regard their sovereign’s preservation before their own. Benedikt, too, had determined to die in the church alongside his brother, staunchly affirming their fraternal bond. Erik, however, found himself separated and hemmed in by their adversaries, and where he was unable to hold the huge mob single-handed, contrived a means of retreat by slashing through the opposing throngs with his blade. When nobody would venture to break violently into this home of divine peace and all the rest hung back, Blakke was the first to head for the doors with his sword and, in taking the initiative, imparted the same boldness to everyone. Thus he stood out as leader and originator not merely of sacrilege, but of communal parricide. Seeing this, the people’s rebellious impulses were again excited, and they assaulted the church; bursting inside, they polluted that holy dwelling in a whirlwind of profanation, even to its most sacred recesses. However, Blakke was hewn down at the very entrance where he had broken in, and by making propitiation in this way for high treason, he also paid the penalty for his violation of the sanctuary. His destruction was avenged by the death of his killer. So it was that the one met his fate because of his viciousness, the other through his sense of duty. I could well have believed that the blood of the loyal warrior and that of the traitor, shed simultaneously, ran in separate streams, without any mingling of their rivulets, and the flow, on one side from the devoted man, on the other from the blackguard, advanced along entirely different courses. Benedikt intercepted one of the invaders at the threshold and was struck down while ardently defending the church doors. Cnut himself, amid the gore, the crashes, and the impinging violence, assured of a clear conscience, maintained his normal composure, and applied himself no more sparingly to his spiritual observance than if danger were far off, for he wished to exert strong perseverance rather than give way to strong fear. Not even in his final hour did he forget his zeal for Christian piety: as soon as he heard the surrounding wall, which was made of wood, being chopped down by the rabble and realized that death was at his shoulder, he summoned a priest in order to make confession of his private conduct; in profound and bitter grief he was pardoned for the sins of his past life and won the reward of forgiveness through wholesome penitence. So confident had he become now of his blameless state that, though the present crisis bore heavily on him, he seemed not to shrink from death, but to grasp at it fearlessly. Moreover, spreading out his arms on each side, he sank down before the altar, certain of his end; while he waited there for his assassin, like a prostrate victim, he was transfixed by a lethal blow from a spear that had been hurled through a window; his death constituted a holy sacrifice, in which, after his warriors had poured out their blood, he paid with his own at the very last. Though showers of missiles rained upon him from every quarter, he kept his body motionless and did not leave the spot where he lay until he was committed lifeless to the bier. From those deeply venerable wounds ran even more glory than blood. In his departure from this life he accepted the start of a better existence; condemned by his enemies’ judgement, he was saved by God’s. They dealt him a fortunate death blow, because, in removing him from the world of earthly virtues, they brought him to the enjoyment of heavenly ones; divested of a transitory and brittle power, by their action he was made possessor of a true, everlasting happiness. In fact his goodness, which had been unperceived, shone out afterwards with transparent proofs. Once she had learnt of this, the queen returned to her own country with her young son, leaving behind twin daughters; one of them, Ingerd, married Folke, an aristocrat of Swedish descent, and bore him sons, Bengt and Cnut; through one of these two she had as grandsons Birger and his brothers, of whom the former, jarl of Sweden, is still alive today. The other daughter, Cecilia, became the wife of Erik, a prefect of Götaland, and had by him Cnut and Karl; from these a large number of descendants arose, linked together as eminent representatives of a distinguished family line. Now that the king had been annihilated, the people rejoiced over a crime they should have lamented, and even considered it a pleasure to insult him. But as they were offering patriotic motives as a pretext for the murder and palliated this by calling it tyrannicide, God would not allow his knight to be cheated of his dues and therefore revealed the unacknowledged innocence of this saintly man by clear signs, granting him also honourable distinctions in death for the outstanding brilliance of his life. Indeed, in order to expose the spite of the regicides He made known the victim’s worth through the evidence of marvels and disclosed his excellence, unknown to the humble folk, by extraordinary illuminations. Although the commonalty were struck with awe, they displayed a grudge against his virtuousness, with the result that for a long time they fruitlessly tried to obscure the striking proof of heaven’s indications. Their old, envious outcries and vigorous, long-standing hatred flared up even more persistently, so that they could not be induced to pay him sacred honours; believing they had dispatched him for his nefarious deeds, they tried by their human reasoning to deny a message made plain from above. Though they saw that his character, condemned by them, had been vindicated by divine judgement, they framed lawful grounds for his slaughter with a view to disguising and covering up the credibility of those miracles; by preserving a stout defence of their action, they were not ashamed to be steadfast champions of their own beliefs. Nor were they satisfied with having robbed the king of his life, but even endeavoured to strip away the glory of his death; not content with having extinguished his mortal light, they strove to bury his fame too. But celestial brightness cannot be enveloped in human darkness. The radiance of these miracles dispelled the gloom of doubt by shedding the clear light of truth upon it. His healing sanctity brought sound cures to diverse sick constitutions. And as increasing confirmations forced the spleen of detractors to give way in the face of his virtuous powers, they could no longer discourage belief; nonetheless they continued to defend their action stoutly, even while conceding his saintliness, but this did not proceed from the excellencies of his earlier career, they asserted, so much as from his contrition at the very end of it. So a legitimate reason for the deed was fabricated and honour was only bestowed on him after he had forfeited his life. Claiming that the king had perished deservedly, they said his devoutness had come from his tears, and assessed his purposes as having more to do with acquisitiveness than Christianity. Afterwards these individuals made no small restitution for their mistake. Their successors, too, tainted with the jealousy of their fathers, ascribe the nature of his sanctity to his lamentation rather than to his character and, perpetuating the mistrust into our own age, wrap themselves in the error of the past; they cannot be persuaded to lay aside their aversion and give Cnut’s blessedness an honest appraisal. But his sanctity, originating in a little town, has in our own time become resplendent almost throughout the entire world; his cult, accepted first by those citizens, has gradually penetrated the whole community. Once revered exclusively by the burghers of Odense, the goodness of his existence no less than the strength of his miracles has been hallowed, too, by the adoration of all the people. To this very day tokens of auspicious fortune are inseparable from his beatific soul. The outcome has been that Cnut, having now attained the immortality conferred by the divine spirit, does not cease to give his country protection from on high, just as he once aimed to elevate it by earthly patronage; therefore his sainthood, abundantly enriched by the rewards of praise and renown, has gained a prominent place in the calendar. Furthermore, there are daily signs of his exerting beneficial effects and repaying his fatherland’s ill-will with kindnesses. In every era Denmark will pride itself on the symbols of his worth. With such lustrous beams is splendour imparted to the deaths of holy personages when human malice resists heaven’s favours.
BOOK TWELVE
After Cnut’s assassination, the Jutlanders, steadfastly maintaining their iniquitous league, adopted an extraordinary devotion for Oluf and, by giving their wholehearted support, pressed for his election as king; they hoped that he would render them enormous devotion in return, seeing that they had sought the realm on his behalf at this time of great crisis; such an honour they little thought of paying to his brothers, since these were suspected of cherishing an uncommon love for Cnut. Therefore, when an amount had been stipulated, they offered Niels, brother of both the previous and the future king, as surety for O luf’s release, and once the latter had been delivered, endowed him with royal authority. Niels displayed no mean proof of fraternal affection, for he did not shrink from assuming his brother’s chains and purchasing the kingdom for him by being fettered himself. Immediately Erik learnt about this, he recalled the outrage he had inflicted on Oluf at their brother’s behest and, terrified of retribution, made his escape to Sweden with Bodil, who was granddaughter to Galician Ulf and the daughter of his son, Trugot. The Danes, however, strove to collect the money and counted out the agreed sum to the creditor for the restoration of Niels, who had acted as a guarantee. But after Oluf had been released from imprisonment in Flanders, Fortune, who loathes parricides, sent him back like some blight on the rich fertility of our people. For when the Danes gave their approbation to the commencement of the new king’s reign and heaped shameless derision on the earlier monarch’s downfall, the Deity, always hostile to the guilty, decided that their crime should not flourish long without His vengeance; he wished to requite brazenness with poverty and demanded suitable propitiation for that communal murder with a universal famine. In order to chastise not individuals only, but the whole populace, God equalled the number of years that Cnut had reigned with a similar period of totally extreme weather, whereby he exacted a revenge, harsher than any that could be wrought by human strength, through the power of the heavens. Every crop was parched during the scorching spring and summer months; but autumn precipitation was so severe that, if any growth should have sprung up on low-lying ground or in the dampness of a swamp, it perished in the persistent storm floods; a cause of benefit to mankind would have demanded climatic conditions that were just the opposite. The solstices lacked their due rainfall, but there was an immoderate allocation of it in August, which normally loves drought. Then you might have seen the face of the countryside, drowned under deluges from the skies, simply presenting the appearance of a vast-spreading lake. Whatever produce the summer struggled to bring forth was overwhelmed by the autumn, and so inclement were the seasons that neither did rain moderate the heat nor heat alleviate the torrential rain. Farmers actually rowed about in small boats across the waterlogged fields, shearing off and collecting the heads of corn that floated on the surface, and then put the remnants of the rotting ears into fire-heated ovens to dry out; afterwards they would grind the grain between millstones, not because they could make bread, but to turn it to some use as porridge. In consequence the dearth of food became so appalling that through lack of nourishment the bulk of the population died of starvation. This scarcity afflicted the rich with want, the poor with extinction; it robbed the great of their money and lesser folk of their life’s breath. Where there was insufficient sustenance, the wealthy classes purchased wholesome commodities with their gold and silver, while the swarm of paupers, without cash or anything to eat, were everywhere killed off by savage hunger. Even the king, reduced to the final stages of decline, exchanged a large number of his estates for produce, and, having given instructions for his lands to be sold, bought provisions with the money he obtained from his properties. The nobility thought it no shame to expend the accoutrements of their high birth for the same purpose. In fact neighbouring countries had corn in abundance, which suggested the penalization of an individual race, not a punishment visited on the earth generally. This horrific calamity forced conviction on the people’s minds and compelled them to admit the saintliness they had previously refused to recognize, so that, after despising Cnut’s greatness, they eventually came to worship it. Certainly such clear retribution, which attacked the Danes exclusively (others had supplies enough and to spare), gave obvious proof of the murderers’ offence and of the dead man’s blamelessness. The person who wielded greatest influence among the Danes, Bishop Sven, after enjoining them to repent of the regicide, had warned the people that this curse would seize on them. He was considered kind to the populace and reverent towards God, superintending Christian practices with scrupulous care and preaching to congregations with a superior command of words. So Sven won everyone’s approval and in our land he attained the summit of authority and the peak of eloquence. With a voice as elegant as his mind he shaped his community’s morals, not only with speech, but also by setting an example through his calm actions. Once the Cathedral of the Trinity was completed, he enjoyed the collaboration of Cnut in his holy work when he finished building the cloisters. In constructing churches dedicated to Mary he was equally energetic. He exerted himself strenuously to found one in the same city, another in Ringsted, and a third to St Michael at Slagelse. In this manner he indicated with what unusual zeal he burned to pay homage with sacred shrines. Dissatisfied with merely displaying piety at home, the bishop determined to seek its reinforcement elsewhere and quickly took upon himself the toil of pilgrimage abroad. When he reached Constantinople on his route to Jerusalem, he gathered together precious objects of various kinds together with the relics of holy men and had them sent back as indispensable requisites to be used in his cathedral at Roskilde. But whereas Greece witnessed his devoutness, Rhodes saw his death. At about this time, on the death of Rikvald, bishop of Lund, the succession passed to Asser, a man outstanding in the excellence of his character and family. Despite the fact that Oluf had passed almost ten years on the throne, amid the continued privations of his household he was still unable to perform any function that accorded with royal grandeur. Yet his neighbours, though scorning his poverty, believed it would be a disgrace to assault a famished individual with the sword, and reckoned they ought not to crush a starving people with weapons, put human pressure on those harassed by God, or intensify heavenly vengeance with mortal strength. Who, anyway, would covet a realm which had been ruined by so many years of the most abject deprivation? . When the king was celebrating Christmas with an inadequate supply of bread in the palace, he looked all around at the barren condition of his dwelling and was sadly perplexed to behold the shameful want of food on his tables; cradling his head in his hands, with tears streaming down his face and thoroughly sick at heart, he acknowledged the distress of the times with a groan. He truly bewailed the fact that such a meagre feast had been served to so many banqueters and concluded that this vile state of hunger was a discredit to him on that most glorious of days. It seems to me that he lamented a shortage that looked like someone else’s but was in fact his own. Next, after saying grace, he raised his eyes aloft and begged God, the all-Creator, if anything had roused His wrath against the people, to satisfy it by imperilling the sovereign and not his subjects, for he held that the hardest circumstance of this age was the utterly wretched plight of his native land. Oluf blushed with humiliation at having to set before the eyes of distinguished guests a feast so devoid of appetizing dishes that it seemed to cause hunger instead of assuaging it. Nor did the Supreme Being turn a deaf ear. For the king found a quick way to meet his end; by his charitable prayer he brought death upon himself and, if one may say there is any virtue in a parricide, salvation to his country; through his noble sense of shame at remaining alive he removed the torment of that enormous devastation. The surrender of his life is therefore invested with a more glowing memory than can be attributed to his exploits, considering that it was the destiny of his fatherland which persuaded him to give up the ghost. Furthermore, he revealed the depth of affection for his people that was lodged in his breast, since he wished to atone for their sins in his own person and requested that the communal hazard should recoil on him alone. Surely, seeing that he sacrificed his own safety for that of his citizens, his character should not be denied the honour of a good name. Fortune, then, terminated and swept away the famine along with its originator, and exchanged dearth for plenty. After being recalled from Sweden, his younger brother Erik, next in line, ruled in his stead, with everyone’s strong support. His reign brought new relief to the endangered people’s dwindling harvests, and the crops, visited by timely and welcome showers, gained strength once more. While Erik occupied the throne, the condition of the fields advanced to such a high state of fertility that pecks of any kind of grain would be sold for a penny each. And as every successive year of his sovereignty went by, so this fruitfulness of the lands progressed. The result was that he received an additional name, ‘the Good’, not only through his practice of the mildest habits but from the regular mildness of the seasons. Poverty was then wholly superseded by profusion, need by abundance. The reader should not find it wearisome to be given a brief catalogue of this man’s virtues. Apart from the impressive merits of his mind he had been raised above the norm by the addition of unique physical characteristics; of rare size, his person had attained such a height that no one else’s head reached his shoulders. Because he was just as thickset as he was tall, you would have imagined his entire frame had been worked at and refined by Nature with the most perfect ingenuity; she united in him a power of sinew that exactly matched a body of remarkable bulk. No other had the build, none the toughness to equal his, for along with superb stature he had been endowed with outstanding gifts of strength. If he hurled a spear or stone from his chair he out-threw standing competitors, since this posture could not prevent him from giving proof of his vigorous capacities. Again, while seated he took on two of the stoutest fellows in a wrestling match: as he grappled with one of them, he clenched the other tightly between his knees and did not stop before he had planted a foot on the first and then one on the second, in order to tie the hands of both behind their backs. He displayed no less might in a tug-of-war contest. Holding one rope in his right hand, another in his left, he gave the farther ends to four unusually powerful men to pull in the opposite direction. While they strove vainly to dislodge him from his station, Erik tightened his grip on both ropes, now with his right, now with his left hand, and used his vast energy to such effect that he either wrested the cord from their grasp or brought them forward as they desperately struggled to resist him and compelled them to come with the rope, which they were incapable of hauling back. The character of the king’s voice was majestic in the extreme. He would not only address assemblies with his extraordinary eloquence but at the same time fill them with the ample resonance of his delivery, so that during the proceedings both the bystanders and those situated on the perimeter could hear him quite plainly. Also, to win the goodwill of the ordinary people, at the very end of his speeches he would customarily add a bidding that, as soon as husbands arrived back home, they should greet their wives, children, and even servants, in his name; he promised to preserve each man’s rights and stressed that he owed a common debt to everyone in his heed to maintain justice. There undoubtedly lay a gentle soul behind the king’s valour, which meant that he was as much a stranger to cruelty as he was free from idleness; his disposition fell midway between indolence and ferocity. Besides, whenever he showed sternness, it was always very favourable to humble folk. To prevent the lords’ greed weakening the ties of justice and their insolence taking the edge off the law, he blocked their arrogance with his firmness and, the farther away he was from those evildoers, the more he exerted his authority to inflict injury on them. When his absence diminished the fear that he used to strike into the oppressors of the populace, he had them seized abruptly by a band of his retainers, and made sure they were hanged. How else could he have outweighed their offence but by using the gallows to tip the scales in his own favour? For this reason he became a terror to the upper classes, but was dearly beloved by the lower orders, because he treated the latter with fatherly tenderness, the former with royal severity. Erik’s physical and mental brilliance was only darkened by the force of his lust with its repulsive stains of profligacy. Wearying of the marriage bond, he focused his sexual desires on the bedchambers of courtesans, even though he had been fortunate enough to wed a wife of notable beauty and character. Yet Bodil had a heart sufficiently patient to endure her husband’s promiscuity. She honoured with attentions befitting a fond mother the girls whom she perceived Erik loved to distraction and kept them among her attendants as long as she lived so that she might indulge her partner’s inclinations more readily. Also, in order to enhance their looks, she very often saw to their coiffure with her own hands; though it would have been more than enough for her to have suppressed her resentment, she added her affection too, and, because she was unable to satisfy Erik with her own appearance, it was her wish to do so with that of others; she would rather tend her spouse’s feelings through them in preference to avenging the offence to herself, and so avoid suggesting that such a celebrated leader was guilty of shameful behaviour. On this account she reckoned it more generous to devote her services and not her spite to these females who had snatched away the object of her love. Therefore she not only concealed her husband’s misdemeanours by dissembling, but, turning a blind eye to his liaisons, could bear to lavish favour on women who strictly deserved her dislike; repaying contempt with respect, affront with kindnesses, by her conduct she provided an exemplary pattern of womanly patience. Moreover, this unparalleled restraint and benevolence recommended the unforgettable memory of her name to later generations. Erik’s sons were Harald, Cnut, and Erik; but the first is reported to have been born of a mistress, only the second in wedlock, and the third from an adulterous union. The king also had several daughters by concubines, one of whom he awarded in marriage to a certain Håkon, who had promised to take revenge for the murder of Bjørn. This Bjørn, a brother of Erik, after subjugating Holstein and Dithmarschen, in order to prevent rebellion had constructed a fortification and put a rampart and ditch round the island where Uffi, son of Vermund, was related to have joined in single combat with two of the finest champions of the Saxon race. One of the citizenry, nursing a personal abhorrence of Bjørn’s tyranny, transfixed him in the side with a spear as he was haranguing a crowd. During that period Wendish arrogance cruelly irritated our race with its pirate attacks; for a long time this bravado had been strengthened by the distressed condition of the Danes and promoted by O luf’s inactivity rather than rebuffed by any exertions of his. There was a man named Aute, of highly distinguished family, who was killed by the Wends while journeying to Falster from Zealand, because he chose to die sooner than be taken prisoner. Indeed the courage inherent in Danish blood holds that a captive’s lot is more miserable than any other fate. Aute’s brother, Skjalm the White, brought the matter forward at Danish assemblies when they were at their most crowded, voicing numerous complaints; he swayed the people by his ascendency and forced them to decree that this one person’s death should be avenged by everyone’s hand. The king had so far elevated the authority of the populace that it had the right to decide on expeditions, and it was not the monarch’s supremacy but the popular will that controlled national warfare. Meanwhile Alle and Herre, originating in Scania, but forfeiting its society on account of their crimes, sought Julin, an assured haven for Danes, under the name of outlaws. Zealously emulating the occupations of this town and carrying out plundering assaults on the coasts of their homeland, they began to destroy Danish property in an appalling fashion. After this the young warriors of Denmark attacked Julin, wore down its citizens with a siege, and, in return for a truce, compelled them to offer up all the pirates they held inside the walls together with a levy of money. Once these freebooters had been handed into our people’s control, it was considered they should give satisfaction for the harm done to their nation by a particularly merciless form of death. In order to bring them to a more savage end, the Danes bound their hands behind their backs and had them first tied to posts; they then probed the hollow of their bellies with a knife and, when their bowels were laid bare and the front end drawn out, they wound the remaining intestines on stakes; the torture did not cease till the entire cavity had been emptied of its entrails, and the tormented creatures had been forced to shed the breath of their wicked and greedy lives. Although the sight was distressing to look upon, in effect it proved extraordinarily useful to our countrymen. Not only did it lay punishment on the guilty, but it gave everyone else a severe warning to avoid any similar grounds for execution. It therefore set an example to the onlookers no less than a penalty for the sufferers. Nor did Erik crush the extensive power of the Wends and weaken their vigour just once, but pounded the unruly tempers of that race a second and a third time, and this with such force that he was never afterwards disturbed by the stormy tides of their piracy. Meanwhile, following the death of Egin, Asser, a Jutlander of the most illustrious rank, acceded to the bishopric of Lund. It so happened that, owing to empty, false suspicions the archbishop of Hamburg had resolved to pronounce excommunication on Erik. Apprehensive of this, the king anticipated the sentence with an appeal and made his way to Rome forthwith; here careful consideration was given to his case, so that he was able to make a powerful rejection of the primate’s charges, and returned after gaining the upper hand over the prosecution in all aspects of his defence. Not content with having been a most able champion in delivering his own claims, through his dislike of the opposing faction he could not bear the idea that the dignity of this holy sanctuary should remain subordinate to an outside priesthood. Accordingly he made the journey back to Rome to entreat that he, his homeland, and its national worship should be freed from that Saxon prelacy, so that in the sphere of religion they should not submit to the necessity of being entirely subservient to foreigners or be bound to seek their doctrinal teaching from strangers. It was not hard for him to gain the assent of the Curia. Not wishing to deny such a celebrated personage and moved by consideration of his merits as well as his wearying toils, it granted his request, promised to grace his realm with the appurtenances of the highest ecclesiastical office, and sent the king away gladdened by the expectation of all that it had guaranteed. But subsequent events proved less fortunate. After his return Erik was dining according to royal custom in a courtyard of the palace where among the rest there happened to be present a teacher of the art of music. When this man had embarked on a long disquisition in praise of his art, he stressed along with other matters that human beings could be drawn into frenzied madness by hearing the sounds of particular modes. Indeed, he asserted that there was such power in the strings of his harp that if the bystanders listened to its cadences they would not be able to stay in their right minds. Asked whether he was skilful in this type of playing, he admitted he was an expert; so, when the king offered first entreaties, then even threats, he was obliged to give a demonstration of its effect. Since he had not been able to dissuade his bidder either through fear of insanity or by his forecast of danger, he arranged that the building should first be cleared of weapons in case they supplied the means for those who had become demented to inflict hurt, and then for several individuals to be stationed nearby but away from the instrument’s audibility; these people were told that, when the noises of lunacy increased, they must break down the doors, snatch the harp from his hands and smash it over his head, so that his further strains should not deprive the newcomers, too, of their reason. He also suggested that there be men ready to put up strong resistance to the raving fury of those affected, supposing, while they were out of their minds, that derangement should lead to brawling, and they used their strength to kill one another. His plan was followed. Once the palace had been emptied of arms, which were then protected by bolts and bars, the musician began to finger the instrument and to play a melody of unusual seriousness. As soon as it was heard, the audience seemed filled with a stunned melancholy. After this, as his harp improvisations grew livelier, they were led to a more frivolous state of mind, and instead of being gloomy started to clap and to indulge their bodies in frolicsome movements. At last, stimulated by fiercer notes to a point of thoughtless rage, they revealed by shouts that their spirits were overcome with delirium. In this way the modulations to different modes altered their mental dispositions. So, when those who had been standing in the forecourt away from the sound of the music realized that the king and all his companions inside were losing their wits, they burst into the hall to capture the frenzied monarch, but could not hold him in their grip. Driven by an overwhelming seizure of madness, Erik broke violently away from their grasp, for his disorder also increased his natural vigour. Overcoming the combined strength of those who tried to wrestle with him, he made a sudden escape, tore the palace doors off their hinges, snatched up a sword, and dispatched four soldiers when, in a bid to restrain him, they moved too close. Finally, buried under a heap of cushions, which the servants had piled high on every side of him, he was caught, to the great risk of everyone concerned. But as soon as he recovered his right mind, he first of all paid proper compensation for infringing the military code. Desiring to proclaim his repentance in a more active form of atonement, he embraced the scheme of undertaking a holy pilgrimage to make amends for his crime, and decided that he would travel to Palestine, revered for the memory of God’s coming there. After he had long and silently turned over this pious ambition in his heart, he eventually introduced the idea to those whom he particularly intended as companions on his journey because of their excellent physique. Although they took his announcement painfully, he made the matter known at thronged meetings of his countrymen. As soon as he had also divulged his plan to the assembly at Viborg, the multitude, thunderstruck, groaned aloud as if they were destined to lose a father, crying out that his absence would spell disaster for their homeland; in their attempt to detain him every member of the populace wore one expression, that of a weeping friend. At last, bathed in tears, they threw themselves down in supplication at his knees, earnestly imploring him not to regard the obligation of a personal vow as more important than the public interest and stressing that the honest management of his kingdom would be better pleasing to God than self-exile. In opposition to the entreaties of the gathering he set the solemn duty of his promise, and on these grounds remained inflexible in his resolve. The people were not without a clever proposal to counter the rationale of his justification, in that they undertook to give a third of their possessions to the needy if he would retract the declaration. Nevertheless, even this offer did not shake his dogged determination in this sacred purpose. Erik said that a person’s integrity could not be repurchased by his earning blame, and he would not be released from his undertaking by incurring a debt; if he took advantage of their proposition, he declared, he would be involving himself in the risk of perjury and putting his country in peril of poverty. He would rather provide for his departure out of his own pocket and not borrow from elsewhere for the inevitable expenses, in case he derived profit from others’ inconvenience in order to carry out his spiritual design. Consequently the king took the leading citizens on one side to consult with them about his replacement by an interim regent, not because his own wisdom was faulty, but to avoid a situation in which he appeared to have disregarded other people’s concerns so that he might give rein to his own, preferring his individual judgement to that of the community. Having listened to his words, the magnates replied that they would allow his choice, even though he was applying for their view, and would certainly not doubt his conscientiousness on this point, since they had learnt how extremely shrewd he was in other respects. The king granted the role of deputy ruler to his son Harald, whose superior age qualified him for preferment. The duty of completing Cnut’s upbringing was entrusted to Skjalm the White, a man of the most brilliant and incorruptible merit, who had been allotted the administration of all Zealand and also of Rügen, which he himself had made tributary. But Erik’s heed of the son named after him was more superficial, because this child was of meaner birth, and he was therefore consigned to the charge of less influential tutors. Once these arrangements had been settled, the sovereign, feeling inclined to diminish his tall appearance, chose as travelling companions men with bodies of comparable size, all the loftiest he could, and thereby moderated his own wonderful aspect through the height of others; he had no inclination to be a laughing-stock for foreign gazers by standing out unusually above the rest. Nor was Bodil’s spirit languid in imitating her husband’s aspirations. She followed his lead in taking the same vow, but would not share his bed, thus adding chastity to the virtues of a pilgrimage. However, Erik did not abandon his concern for the fatherland he was leaving. So that the Danes would not have to practise the duties of their faith under an archbishop in another country, he sent ambassadors to the Papal Curia, urging his petition that the honour of the primacy should be conferred as an embellishment to our native Church. And in fact his reliance on Rome’s promise was not disappointed. When a legate journeyed from the Curia for the purpose of furnishing our national clergy with this token of sacred privilege, he first looked at the most populous cities in Denmark, surveying everything with a highly inquisitive eye; as he gave no less consideration to persons than to townships, he decided that this chief ecclesiastical office should be granted to Lund, on account of Asser’s exemplary character and because the route to that place was very accessible by land and sea from surrounding regions. Not only did he rescue Lund from Saxon domination but also appointed it to preside over the Swedish and Norwegian Churches. Indeed, Denmark owes no small debt to the benevolence of Rome, which enabled her to attain the right to freedom as well as giving her sway over external affairs. In the meantime Erik sailed to Russia, then made his way overland, and, having traversed an immense area of the East, reached Constantinople. The emperor was nowhere near bold enough to receive him into the city, but rendered him the courtesies of hospitality after instructing him to encamp outside the walls, since he believed that under the guise of piety Erik was aiming at treachery. Fastening his suspicions on the Danish king’s renown and huge size, he preferred to lay out money to assist him rather than invite him inside the ramparts. Furthermore, the emperor at the same time took occasion to eye with distrust those Danes whom he cherished in closest intimacy, as though they would have more thought for the ruler from their homeland than for their own wages. For amongst all the others who earn their pay in the city of Constantinople, men who speak the Danish tongue occupy the highest military posts and the emperor customarily uses them as a bodyguard to protect his safety. None the less this potentate’s conjectures did not escape Erik’s notice. Yet pretending to have observed nothing, he pressed for an entry to the city for the sake of venerating the holy shrines, prefacing this by saying that he had been specially drawn to that locality by a desire to pay homage to his faith. The emperor, commending the devotion behind his entreaty, vouched that he would respond to his request the following day. Meanwhile the Danes who were enrolled in the Greek militia approached the emperor and earnestly requested leave to give salutation to their king; this was granted, but they were ordered to leave one at a time, since he did not want all their hearts to be worked on simultaneously by a single incitement from Erik. As it happened, the emperor had secretly bribed those who were fluent in both languages to report back to him the conversations they had with Erik. First, then, when they had greeted the king, they were asked to be seated. After that, Erik began by telling them that the Danes performing military service for the Greeks had for a long time now attained the peak of distinction on account of their manly virtues, that though they were expatriates they were in a position of command over native residents, and that they were much more fortunate abroad than they were at home. Apart from that, the emperor trusted the protection of his life to their loyalty, and the habit of choosing them had sprung not so much from their own worthiness as from the bravery of the men who had devoted themselves to serving in the Greek army before them. For this reason they should take very good care not to indulge in any partiality to get drunk but must keep sober, for they would acquit themselves better in the soldiering they had undertaken if they neither overloaded themselves with wine nor burdened their prince with worries. If they relinquished the rule of temperance, they would be as slow to carry out their military duties as they would be quick to become involved in brawls. Also, when they were about to engage with an enemy, he warned, they should have more regard for their courage than for their lives, not forestall death by fleeing, and not be looking to preserve their safety through cowardice; he promised that the moment he came back to his own country, he would repay their trusty service with rewards, and if they shed their lives fighting valiantly in the front line, he would show his esteem to their next of kin and other relatives. By speaking to them all in these and similar terms he established a ready devotion towards Greece among the Danes. As soon as the emperor learnt about his speech from those he had suborned, he announced that the Greeks were wrongly supposed to have the advantage in wisdom, because they had cast doubts on the integrity of a leader whose race they had known was averse to all dishonesty; from their well-proven experience of these people’s constancy the Danish ruler’s reliable character might have been judged. As he now saw that Erik’s thoughts were bent on holy works, not duplicity, he gave orders for the city to be decked out and the streets made to look more elegant; proffering his right hand, he received them respectfully and led them as if in triumphal procession all the way to the senate house and the palace accompanied by loud general rejoicing; the one at whom he had undeservedly directed his suspicions he accorded as much honour as a man could possibly show. On top of this he gave up a royal palace to the Danish king as a most honoured guest, one which no later emperor proved willing to use, in case it should look as if someone were putting himself on a par with this very great man by sharing the same roof, and also that from the regard given to that lodging it might become an everlasting memorial to this visitor. Furthermore, after summoning an artist who could express Erik’s height in a life-size portrait and catch his appearance, either standing or sitting, with a most accurate coloured representation, he had his amazingly tall figure painted as a lasting showpiece. Reluctant to let such a distinguished guest go without a gift, he told Erik to demand whatever suited his fancy. But as the other spurned any riches, the emperor realized he longed more than anything for sacred remains and presented him with the hallowed relics of saints’ bones. Erik warmly accepted the holy gift and when it had been endorsed with the imperial seal made sure that these treasures were conveyed to Lund and Roskilde. As he would not allow his place of origin to be without any objects of veneration, he had transported to Slangerup a fragment of the Holy Cross together with the sanctified bones of St Nicholas. He erected a church in that town and the spot where we now see the altar is reported to be where his mother gave birth to him. Again, he wholeheartedly refused a heavy weight of gold which the emperor made available to him, since he did not want it to seem as if he disregarded his zeal for restraint and was grasping after Greek wealth. Hence the emperor shortly began to accuse him of insult, declaring that Erik had not poured scorn on the offering so much as on his host; brushing aside the king’s pleas, his host compelled him to accept the gifts shamefacedly, though to avoid being an object of reproach had been Erik’s only incentive. Yet not wanting to appear in the role of receiver and exclude that of giver, the Dane responded with obliging courtesies and equal generosity. Nevertheless novelty lent value to his presents, and these tokens from a foreigner were all the more precious to the emperor in that they were seldom seen in Greece. Then, after the emperor had let him have warships and supplies, he sailed swiftly to Cyprus. This island once had the peculiarity of not permitting burials, to the extent that any corpses entrusted to the ground by day were thrown up again the following night. Here the king was overtaken by a fever, which he recognized as heralding his death; he therefore asked if his body might be buried in the most populous Cypriot town, telling them first that, though the earth spewed up others’ remains, it would retain his own quite peacefully. Having then obtained a sepulchral mound according to his wish, he curbed the ancient resentment of the soil with the benign presence of his body, and whereas it had previously rejected human carcasses, he now induced it to suffer his own as well as others’ interments. The hardships of that pilgrimage also brought about his wife’s decease. The entire royal progeny of Sven had now been reduced to merely three sons, Sven, Niels, and Ubbe. As is clear from the above narrative, Cnut, Benedikt, and Bjørn all fell to the sword, while sickness carried away the rest. After Erik’s departure two years intervened before Denmark received definite news of his death. Therefore Sven, the next eldest brother after Erik, aspired to the throne so avidly that, confident because of his age, he did not feel there was any point in waiting for the arbitration of the whole country, but called an assembly at Viborg, since he had no qualms over pre-empting the authority of the public’s choice by the judgement of a single province. Perhaps he feared to trust the unworthiness of his own character to more penetrating scrutiny and therefore preferred to seize the most exalted rank with the agreement of a handful rather than submit his fortunes to the unpredictable decree of the entire population; so, with the votes of only a minority he chose to lay hands on the power which a universal decision should have given him. But while he was following the route to Viborg and spurring on his horse to the meeting place, his strength failed him and he consequently requested a carriage to convey him with greater smoothness and comfort, maintaining that he would die happy if he lived for at least three days under the title of king. Certainly his flabby muscles and sluggish limbs could not reverse the path of his speeding mind. Yet because of his acute illness he even detested this mode of transport and, bidding his servants hurry, demanded a litter; he said he would not care at all if he laid down his life at the gathering once the people had saluted him as ruler; the inextinguishable heat of ambition could not be conquered by his weak condition. Nevertheless, being negligent towards his deteriorating state of health, as he was striving to reach the assembly he overtaxed his stamina; the outcome was that he did not achieve the crown before death, but death before the honour of the crown. The subsequent election, then, had to centre round Niels and Ubbe. Harald had earned himself the people’s supreme loathing by his iniquitous government of the realm. His superintendence had turned to malicious ill-treatment and he had acted so odiously and despicably that, abandoning any regard for justice, he exerted the most foul despotism over his subjects in the form of pillage and depredations, harassing the common folk with every kind of outrage. The result of this was that all hated his vile tyranny and had not the slightest intention of handing the kingdom to its despoiler; it would be intolerable, they believed, to repay his cruelties with indulgence, his wringing grasp with preferment. When everybody congregated at Isøre therefore, they resolved to award supreme power to Ubbe by right of seniority. Niels, the only one who might conceivably take the decision badly, gave unqualified approval to the assembly’s choice; the custom had been for Sven’s sons each to take his turn over the succession to the crown according to precedence in age, the elder always having the next in line as his heir to this title. Ubbe, however, who had too little trust in his native intelligence, refused to shoulder such a huge responsibility, as if he were conscious of his own indolence, and asserted that his quicker-witted brother was eminently suited to this office. He really thought it more sensible to measure his weakness of spirit by personal judgement and not leave the decision to others. None the less it is my opinion that, with this attempt to avoid arrogant behaviour, his feelings about his capacities were more diffident than accurate, when he considered it a wiser course for him to reject rather than welcome the crown; in not being ashamed to concede to his brother’s sagacity what had been offered to himself, he was certainly the one who deserved that distinction more. The Danes indeed made a far from true valuation of his discreet modesty and were unaware that this shrewd individual had sought a way of shunning the burden by a pretence of unskilfulness; instead of allowing themselves to pass him over heedlessly they ought to have persisted until they overcame his objections. What sane person would doubt that here was a heart packed with earnestness, someone who chose to keep within the circumstances of a private life in preference to aiming at an enhancement of grandeur which would only entail cares and anxieties? 
BOOK THIRTEEN

Niels, then, ascended the throne, but he was so entirely disinclined to be haughty in spirit that he shed none of his old forbearance, with the result that he adhered to all the habits of his previous life and did not allow his disposition to change with his luck; he would rather his character appear to surmount Fortune than be subordinate to it. Apart from that, he had no desire to burden his fatherland with a costly retinue and ruinous taxes, and therefore, acting no more presumptuously as a king than as a soldier, he kept only a small daily bodyguard, who were happy to drive away brigands with their six or seven shields. He married the daughter of Inge, the Swedish sovereign, and of Helene; this was Margrete, whose virginity had been broached by her first husband, King Magnus of Norway. The latter, after launching an eager attack on Sweden, advanced his troops against the Hallanders, too, but when they struck at him in an unexpected counter-attack, he had to beat an ignominious retreat to his ships, barefoot as he was, so that he also received a nickname from this despicable flight. Not knowing how to withstand a force which so swiftly threatened his safety, Inge purchased peace from him by handing over his daughter as a bride and by this favour warded off the peril. Margrete bore Magnus no offspring, but by Niels had a son who suffered an ill-starred fate. In early manhood their boy, Inge, thrown by a wild and headstrong horse, had his limbs trampled on by its hooves and expended his royal blood on the filthy mud of the roads. His life was squandered in the most miserable of deaths, for his arms and legs were scattered along the route, while his trunk lay mangled on the earth. His tutor, wanting him to gain the feel of the horse, had let him hold the reins in his hand, but the youth, not yet mature enough to control the steed with them, got his foot caught in the stirrup and had his body dragged along the ground. Another son, Magnus, prompted more by the favourable endowments of Nature than of Fortune, enacted a loathsome crime in murdering a relative and became a famous example of treachery. His mother, keen to generate greater goodwill towards him from her kinsmen through the aid of family ties, joined in marriage the daughter of her brother Regnald to Henrik, and her sister’s daughter, Ingeborg, to Cnut. She divided the inheritance from her father into exactly equal parts and distributed these fairly, one to herself, the others to her nieces, the wives I have just mentioned. From this act there rose a quarrel between the Danes and Swedes, which was quickened by several further sources of enmity, and it has lasted right to this day, clinging to its old hatred. Furthermore, a mistress is reported to have borne Niels a daughter, Ingrid, who was later married off to a man named Ubbe. Margrete, however, not only enlarged the wealth of holy churches with estates, but also put all her energies into increasing their splendour and to altering the priests’ needy way of life by investing them with choice adornments. In order to deck the faith in grander fashion, she took it upon herself to produce richly bordered chasubles and other pastoral vestments, which were then provided for the use of ecclesiastics.
Now Henry, the son of Gottschalk and Sigrid, had been unwarrantably deprived of his mother’s property by Niels, and therefore began to be so passionate to reclaim his inheritance that he menaced the Danes unwearyingly, so much so that he forced their monarch to guard his own safety by locating sentinel posts within the boundaries of Schleswig. Henry left the territory between there and the Elbe without one farmer. In order to exact vengeance for this behaviour, Niels brought out his fleet and landed at Ltitjenburg, after ordering Eliv, who controlled the Schleswig district, to lead forward a company of cavalry to meet him. The Danes, in fact, had not yet learnt how to settle foreign conflicts by taking in mounted troops. But the fickle governor, bribed with an agreed sum from Henry, with his greedy mind had a higher regard for gain than for the king’s command. Consequently Niels had to deploy his host over the Wendish plains without using horses. Then the Wends, considering it a safer policy to tire out our infantry by dashing at them on horseback rather than by joining battle with their whole army, circled round our wings and our flanks, attacked these sections at different points with their missiles, and harried their foes with assaults from various angles. Indeed, as soon as Niels launched a straight charge at them, they were carried back into flight and withdrew as energetically as they had struck; but to avoid a direct confrontation with our men, whose weight posed a greater threat than their agility, the Wends wheeled round and bore down on our troops from the rear, retaliating against our awesome pugnacity by an underhand method, what might be termed a robbers’ ambush. So the Danish battle line, crumbling and weakened because it had fared rather badly on level soil, occupied the foothill of a nearby mountain; inasmuch as they had been unable to protect their lives with weapons, they wished to defend themselves through the lie of the land, and after gaining the advantage of the summit, looked down from their safe position on the enemy below. The following day, loath to let it appear that the strength of his position afforded more security than his army’s own might, Niels preferred to repeat the uncertain outcome on the plain instead of taking comfort in the sure protection of the mountains. Nevertheless his footsoldiers were incapable of withstanding the vitality of cavalry forces. Hence, by endeavouring to regain the honour lost in battle, they increased the humiliation of their previous defeat with a second one. I could have imagined that the issue of this engagement sprang more from inadequate resources than lack of spirit, for, while their courageous hearts gave too casual attention to prime military advantages, the Danes paid the penalty, not of fear, but of unskilfulness, and, trampled down, fell, not beneath the power of their opponents, but through their own heedlessness. Though he fought nobly, Harald is said to have been so seriously hurt that he could not manage to walk, but had to be lifted on to his shield by his followers and assisted back to camp by the helping hands of others. Cnut, too, was unable to stand owing to the acute severity of his wounds, and found a most ready devotion in one of his soldiers. This man, not wanting his lord to be seized by their adversaries, did not flinch from dispelling the hazard to Cnut by endangering himself. Purposely bidding his comrades run off, he feigned numbness by adopting a slower pace and offered his hands to be tied by a Wend who loomed over him; suddenly, however, he grabbed at this fellow’s nearby reins as he rode past and with help brought by his companions robbed the barbarian of his mount. Once he had gained possession of the horse, he immediately used it to go to the rescue of Cnut, who was in the extremities of weakness. So his bravery, as cunning as it was risky, met with a happy outcome. As twilight drew on, the remnant of our warriors, who had suffered a miserable setback in this conflict, again sought the mountain top, their sole refuge and defence. They had also run out of food and drink, so that, quite apart from their injuries and fatigue, they were tortured by the need for sustenance. Almost reduced to utter starvation, they perceived dangers everywhere around them with no relief forthcoming from any quarter, for stormy weather had delayed the Scanians’ arrival and Eliv, bribed by Henry, had neglected to bring reinforcements and proffered only excuses for his tardiness; therefore, despairing of human aid, they had recourse to the assistance of heaven, choosing to set the remainder of their crushed hopes in God’s rather than human strength. The next day was the eve of that on which the holy rites of St Lawrence came round for celebration once more; because the Danes believed they could take no better vow to appease divine power than that of fasting, they held a sad meeting and made this solemn promise: whenever in the yearly calendar that day returned which precedes the feast special to St Lawrence, or before the general one of All Saints, or that which we customarily dedicate to the memory of Christ’s passion, it should be marked with the strictest and most conscientious abstinence by every Dane, young and old. This pledge, offered under the compulsion of national distress, was confirmed with the most scrupulous attention by their descendants, who thought it discreditable to break a vow of restraint agreed upon by their forefathers merely because of the stomach’s pressing demands and their greed for food. But when at dawn our troops started to make for the ships once more, banded together in companies, they met the Scanians, who had just made land with their fleet. Buoyed up by the encouragement of their arrival, they told the Scanians, whose bodies and energies were as good as new, to prevent the enemy cavalry falling upon them from the rear. Then they moved onward in an orderly column until, as it happened, they were obliged to cross the yawning depths of a slimy marsh that lay in their path; as soon as they had begun to traverse it there was no way of making a detour, and they were quickly stuck fast in the boggy mire, their feet clamped and sinking in the ooze, so that once their forward passage had been thrown into confusion, there was nothing so much as a frenzy to escape. The majority, sucked down into the swamp’s slithery mass, were slaughtered by their foes like cattle. As they were so desperate to reach the other side, this obstruction became perilous for them as they tumbled on in blind and reckless haste. Eventually they just managed to regain the coast and effect their departure. Inasmuch as they were confident of victory, the Wends shouted vaunts and praises of their own might; they disparaged the Danes’ vitality and impudently abused them for their spinelessness, while trumpeting their own prowess; Henry, who well knew the true mettle of our men, said he had a different understanding and assessment of his enemies’ hardihood: a clear parallel could be drawn between their king and a vigorous steed; if it were aware of its own strength, it would scorn all the horseman’s directions, but since it had no realization of this, it readily submitted to its rider’s will. Should Niels trust in his own powers, everything would go his way, but, being diffident, he would never achieve success. Afterwards Eliv was condemned as a traitor by the king because he had tried to sell his country’s fate; he was humiliatingly stripped of his governor’s privileges as well as his family inheritance, and paid satisfaction for his squalid profits with the most abject poverty.

Henry, however, his boldness raised to a higher pitch by the happy outcome of the previous battle, harried the Danish shores with piratical raids, not only ravaging the lands bordering on the Eider, but also the whole countryside between there and Schleswig and the earthwork known by us as ‘Dannevirke’. At times even the unsuspecting city was attacked by troops brought in stealthily from the sea. After Eliv had been relieved of office there was still no one to oversee that territory, and even internal thefts were added to the heavy number of foreign depredations; the township was oppressed more grievously from within than from outside, insofar as concealed activities are acknowledged to be more conducive to harm than those carried out in the open. Men feared their fellow-citizens as much as they dreaded the enemy. Because the Frisians, along with the inhabitants of Holstein and Dithmarschen, entertained a hope of escaping retribution as long as they had no governor, they devoted their days to brigandage, their nights to burglary; wherever they were unable to scale the rooftops, they attacked the foundations of houses with pickaxes and hoodwinked the watchmen by burrowing underneath. Stewards, on the other hand, were no less, eager to protect their property. Horses were hobbled with iron and kept in a pound, so that no one could spirit them away secretly, houseguards lay fastened to the doors to ensure fuller security, and, not content with locks and bolts, people dug ditches in front of their entrances to make them more impregnable. As thieving ran more rife, a man of noble family, perceiving that many folk put an end to their penury by furnishing themselves with ill-gotten gains, took it into his head to procure goods by the same means, regardless of shame; though this individual had been of a most honourable disposition, when he became excited by expectation of profit he had no qualms about casting his character down from the highest summit of nobility into the deepest and foulest sewer of iniquity. Treating the dignity of his line despicably, he turned his inherited natural vigour to lawless abandon, and what should have provided nourishment for goodness was made a pretext for vice. Even if an accusation had been made publicly, nobody had the temerity to institute proceedings against him, and people held that his crimes were far more likely to go unpunished, inasmuch as the criminal was known to be of distinguished rank. At this time Cnut sent men to transfer from Zealand to Funen money which his guardian had kept in trust for him; when their ship lay halfway between the two coasts, they sighted pirates looming on the horizon and therefore, letting the money bags down on a rope, hid them below the waves. When at last they could see that their rowers were not strong enough and feared they might lose the chance to get away, they severed the cord, preferring to resign that ancient royal store to the seabed rather than relinquish it to their foes. Although Niels viewed the incident from afar as he was making the crossing from Funen to Zealand, he was unable to bring assistance to the endangered crew because his ships were small and awkward for the oarsmen to manoevre. Later, as soon as he spied Cnut’s happy face, he chided him for wearing such a joyful expression and remarked that it would have been better if he had felt grief for the recent loss of his father’s and grandfather’s riches. Cnut replied that he was not in the least upset by this stroke of Fortune; on the contrary, he had taken it as her kindness and a splendid opportunity for him to show generosity. As he had never hitherto ventured to touch the pile of treasure amassed by his forebears, so, when it came his way in future, he would dispense it liberally; wealth, he said, was the highest incentive to avarice, and whoever strained to hoard it could give no attention to humane conduct. His words made it plain that he was in control where money was concerned, whereas the king was controlled by it. The following story displays outstanding proof of this. Owing to the incessant and violent forays by raiders from across the frontier no one dared take up the privilege of governing Schleswig, even when it was offered. However, Cnut sought this very dangerous office from his uncle, not because of a desire for affluence but through confidence in his own manhood; nevertheless, as he could not obtain it free, he sold his share of the inheritance, and so attained a post that was terrifying to others by actually buying it, for he reckoned a military appointment would only be profitable if it could have gained him an allowance of fame and celebrity. In this way an honour which was to be dreaded by cowards was sold by King Niels to a courageous bidder; but the purchaser set more profit in the practice of soldiery than the enjoyment of wealth.
Soon after he had taken up his command Cnut sent envoys to inform Henry that he would be glad to hold peace talks with him, provided that he had first made amends by compensating for the damage done in Jutland and restored the booty he had taken. The ambassadors set off, while in the meantime Cnut himself, as if able to predict the reply, assembled a body of his own supporters and of friends from across the border, since he had resolved to follow up the envoys’ return with war. Henry’s response was that he would neither strike up friendship with the Danes nor cease to demand the birthright due to him through his mother. On hearing this, Cnut sent back the legates to cut short publicly any participation in mutual peace. Henry scoffed at the Danish representatives and likened Cnut to a horse chafing at its rider; he himself would take pains to bridle the other’s exuberance. After listening to this rejoinder, Cnut mounted a night march, which, though very swift, was effected with the least possible commotion; he refrained from force of arms and plundering so that his arrival should not be prepared for, and reached Henry’s stronghold at dawn. The latter, little expecting such a precipitate invasion, was unready to seize arms or to employ any means of defence, but straight away rode into the river which ran near the city walls; this single barrier of water enabled him to elude his foes, so that he rejoiced in having chosen to trust his preservation to the stream rather than to the town. When Cnut caught sight of him after he had already gained the farther bank, he asked Henry by way of a joke whether he had got wet. The other responded by demanding why Cnut was undertaking this march, to which he answered that he had come to receive the bridle Henry had promised. The latter, perceiving from the other’s witty reply that Cnut was upbraiding him for the threats he had recently launched, accompanied his own embarrassment with humour: ‘You seem’, he said, ‘to be lashing out at me so powerfully with your hooves, that I can neither handle nor curb you!’ Cnut’s response was to raze his fortress and then devastate the cultivated lands in the rest of the area. Secondly, once his troops had been reinforced, the Dane heaped fire and destruction upon the whole of the Wendish territory and not only rid his fatherland of its enemy, but the enemy of his strength, so much so that, whereas previously Henry had been regularly hurling defiance at him, he was now left without adequate resources even for his own defence. Finally, once he had crippled the whole of Henry’s forces through a combination of shrewdness and courage, Cnut, being motivated by natural kinship in that they were very closely related to each other, after playing the foe in public, now privately behaved as Henry’s friend. On one occasion he dismissed his army, and, with an escort of only twenty knights, made his way to the place where he had learnt Henry was residing, having sent ahead people to bid him greeting. Henry, remarking that his adversary was being deceptively agreeable to him, began to enquire immediately where on earth Cnut was. When they replied that he was there at the gate, the other was dumbfounded by the news and was ready to overturn with a blow of his hand the table where he happened to be seated at breakfast. The envoys then swore that their leader’s presence arose from peaceful intentions and by their repeated reassurances dispelled Henry’s erroneous fears. As soon as they had convinced the king, he restrained his inclination to flee with a proof of affection. Leaning on the board, his face bathed in tears, he declared that Denmark would be a sorry place if she were deprived of such a fine man; from now onwards he would cultivate his friendship truly and sincerely. There is no doubt that the love between blood relations forced Henry to forget his own adversities and acknowledge his opponent’s worth; in ceasing to think about his own fortunes, he began to eulogize another’s. The moment Cnut entered, Henry took him in his arms, with tears as lavish as the feast he provided for him. Giving greater heed to the Dane’s present mildness than to the injuries dealt previously, Henry set this one instance of kind generosity before the numerous damages Cnut had inflicted on him. Nor did Cnut take ungratefully the sorrow that proceeded from a kinsman’s gratitude. Indeed, because he derived more pleasure from begetting peace than from his enjoyment of banquets, and as he was beginning to act, as it were, the role of go-between, he told Henry that he must court his uncle’s favour; to this his incessant prompting finally secured the Wend’s consent. After they had introduced an agreement over the sum involved, Henry assigned into the possession of Cnut the inheritance from his mother, for the recovery of which he had waged war against the Danes; Cnut then transferred the property to King Niels on the same terms under which he had accepted it, and then paid over to Henry the money that he had received from the sovereign. Afterwards Henry invited and welcomed Cnut to a banquet, stressing that on his previous visit the Dane had been less sumptuously entertained than was right and proper. Assessing that the other had just awarded him both life and safety, Henry bequeathed the Wendish kingdom to him and confirmed it with an oath. A subsidiary factor was that Henry had little confidence in the capacities of his sons to prosecute wars with the Germans, who were proving a particular thorn in the side of the Wends, and so with remarkable freedom of judgement he adopted as his heir someone ripe in valour, in preference to leaving his legacy to a natural but ineffective successor, who would allow it to become prey to foreign penetration. When he made this offer, Cnut maintained that Henry would earn the stigma of disloyalty by rejecting his innocent children, and said he could not take advantage of such wrongful promises. But in the end Cnut submitted to the very persistent entreaties of Henry, who found a rationale for his decision in the indolence of his own sons. Henry had also warned him that he was much in need of the emperor’s goodwill, since it would seem that the Wendish kingdom lay within the latter’s disposal; Cnut therefore sent him the gift of a horse whose feet were shod with gold. In this way he made what was an apt present in itself still more imposing for the recipient through this unusual decoration of its hooves. I could well have supposed that the emperor then set more value on the pains taken by the donor than on the actual donation, seeing that the more contemptuously this precious metal was regarded, the more splendid it would make the gift appear. After Henry’s demise Cnut took over the province that had been left to him, without meeting any resistance. i . In the meanwhile, as he was not held in high estimation at home and was without fame abroad, Harald yearned to console himself for his character deficiencies by piling up riches; he therefore pushed his disposition, already replete with wickedness, into the deepest abyss of villainy; his hirelings were employed in pillage and burglary, the labours of his serfs devoted to highway robbery. Stolen goods from the neighbourhood supported his henchmen’s lifestyle and its cattle contributed to defraying his expenses. During the summer this man’s insidious acts of piracy were inflicted on natives and foreigners alike. Besides that, he constructed a fortress opposite Roskilde and filled it with a rabble of his most disreputable hangers-on, so that he could more easily threaten harm to the city. Once he had used his evil minions to ravage the wealth of the countryside, he started to plunder that of the citizenry by the same means. At night they would creep up secretly to rented shops and purloin whatever earnings they fancied without fear of punishment, while others sometimes held drawn swords to the tradesmen’s throats and promised they would die if they did not submit quietly to the outrage. Such theft with violence reduced the once highly prosperous townsmen to the last straits of indigence. Provoked and goaded by all this skulduggery, the inhabitants of the province, their hearts burning with rancour, began to lay hands on Harald’s property to avenge their losses, and seized spoils in retaliation for spoils, loot to compensate for loot. They did not see themselves as carrying off another’s possessions but simply reclaiming what was theirs. Not knowing how to hold on to his lands securely, Harald only avoided an assault from the frenzied mob by taking to sea. When Cnut saw him so avid to seize others’ belongings and hell-bent on acquiring wealth in every quarter by the most depraved methods, he remarked that Harald was like a bird that collected all kinds of feathers to build its nest, which was going to be blown to pieces in a trice by a hurricane. Similarly, he said, Harald, who had preyed on everyone, would become everyone’s prey and would undoubtedly atone for stripping others of their goods by experiencing danger to his own. Erik’s attitude towards the people, on the other hand, was kindly. When he sought for the share of patrimony due to him, he was rebuffed by his brother Harald, who told him that participation in an inheritance did not extend to a son born of an adulterous union. Angered by this rejection (and with good reason), he turned to fierce raids on Harald’s property, believing it matched his integrity to be revenged for those insults by securing booty from his brother. He hoarded his plunder at Arnakke, placing magnificent treasure in this mean, abandoned spot. One night Harald sprang a surprise attack on him there and, after realizing that Erik had managed to slip away, because he was given no opportunity to linger and was afraid to hesitate too long over the spoils, set torches to the thatch and chose to destroy the building by fire, crammed as it was with his own store of pelf, rather than let it go intact to its abductor. Immediately he discovered what had occurred, Cnut gave them both strict orders to appear before him in Schleswig, for he was keen to settle a dispute that had risen from disrespect and feared that the glory of their father might be dishonoured and vanish with the sons; if they refused to comply, he warned, they stood to lose some part of their bodies. When they were together, as a brother he demonstrated their errors, and, after devoting close thought to the circumstances, carried out an extremely fair division of the inheritance between them, adjudging that Erik and Harald should take equal shares in their father’s property. During the same period the wife of Henrik, Sven’s son, nourishing a hearty loathing for intimacy with her despised husband, adopted a disguise and stole out of her home at dead of night. The story goes that one of the young men in her household, who had gained a very close acquaintance through his allegiance to her, cleverly managed to inveigle her into falling in love with him. Then, in case the affair should be revealed and bring peril to them both, having led her astray as a woman he dressed her as a man and conveyed her stealthily away. However, using random clues to trace her steps, her husband caught her at Alborg in intimate circumstances and led her off home, after her lover had slunk away. The husband imagined that his humiliation had originated from the secret counselling of Cnut, and therefore pursued this blameless, upright man with muted insinuations, despite his innocence. Meanwhile, when the ruler of Swedish territories died, the Götar had the effrontery to confer supreme control on Magnus, even though this gift was wholly at the discretion of the Swedes; the former were seeking to enhance their own status by meddling with the prerogative of others. Consequently the Swedes rejected their authority, for they would not endure abandoning the old privilege of their race merely to satisfy the envy of a people rather little known. So, giving attention to the character of their ancient powers, they elected a new monarch in order to nullify the title which had been torn from them by wrongful conferment. But in a short time the Götar murdered him and at his decease the sovereignty reverted to Magnus. When he conceived a desire to marry, Magnus fulfilled this inclination by asking Boleslav, duke of Poland, for the hand of his daughter. After she had been betrothed to him through intermediaries, he shortly gathered a fleet on his father’s orders and brought it to Wendish territory. The king of the Wends, Vartislav, had long been at odds with both Danes and Poles. Niels now proceeded to attack the city of Osna and compelled Vartislav to buy off the siege under a pact. Sailing from there to Julin, he met Boleslav, who had furnished himself with a large detachment. Strengthened by the latter’s troops, Niels executed a swift assault on Osna. Later, leaving behind his companion in victory, he escorted away his son’s betrothed, who had been brought to him there. Because Vartislav observed that the lands of the Wends had gone to waste under the unbearable weight of depredation, he begged for a peace conference. This was held, but with scant success, and he therefore approached the Danes again with a similar entreaty as they were embarking from Strela. Relying on their pledges of non-aggression, he entered King Niels’s ship on the latter’s invitation, but at the malicious instigation of the king’s bodyguard was prevented from leaving again and held like a prisoner. Cnut raised a complaint about this incident at the assembly and began to issue a strong warning to the king that he should not give way to treachery through the forcefulness of others when he ought to be exercising personal restraint; by taking prisoner an enemy who had followed his guarantee of trust he was not only depriving Vartislav of freedom, but himself of permanent honour and renown. Unless he released the captive, his individual crime would become a matter of collective shame to his country. With these effective arguments Cnut delivered a friend from bondage and his lord from ill-repute. This eminently fair proposal of his, which met with the approval and support of the whole assembly, nonetheless gave a great stimulus to others’ resentfulness. Once the fleet had been disbanded, it was decided to conduct the wedding ceremonies in the city of Ribe. This was a port thronged with vessels that brought a fine variety of merchandise to the community. When Cnut walked in procession there, dressed in the Saxon fashion and more elegant than anyone else, Henrik, his eyes bespread with jealousy, was unable to bear the sight of another person’s brilliant finery; bickering sprang up between them and his cousin pointed out that Cnut’s purple robe would never guard his ribs against sword thrusts. Cnut answered that Henrik was no safer, clad as he was in sheepskins, and so had satisfaction for the attack on his splendid costume by an urbane reproach to Henrik’s churlishness, a retort finer than threats or jibes. In this way he was happy to deal with criticism for his imitation of foreign fashion with a scoff at our homely style of dress. Cnut afterwards wandered through the regions of the East as a sea-rover, returning home with glittering prizes and hoping thereby to gain enhancement to his authority; in recompense for his services, however, he was confronted by an accusation from the king, who blamed him for plundering within the bounds of Sweden. Now Magnus, too, emulated his vigorous pursuits with similar deeds of worth; among other distinctive trophies he had his followers bring back to his native country some unusually heavy implements known as Thor’s hammers, which were venerated by men of the primitive religion on one of the islands. Ancient folk, in their desire to understand the causes of thunder, using an analogy from everyday life had wrought from a mass of bronze hammers of the sort they believed were used to instigate those crashes in the heavens, since they supposed the best way of copying the violence of such loud noises was with a kind of blacksmith’s tool. But Magnus, in his enthusiasm for Christian teaching, hated the heathen religion, and held it an act of piety to rob the shrine of its objects of worship and Thor of his emblems. The Swedes even today look on Magnus as a sacrilegious despoiler of heavenly treasures. If only his end could have matched his beginnings! . Many of those close to Magnus through blood or friendship detested Cnut’s success. Nothing, to be sure, fans the torches of envy more than the unequal capacities of supposed equals; the insult to Henrik’s marriage bed particularly made him Cnut’s rival. Nevertheless Margrete, who was very warm in fostering affection between her kinsmen, opposed the vehement temperaments of these young men with her calm counselling and employed a salutary guidance in her instructions to control and restrain the dangerous fury of their immoderate behaviour. However, she fell victim to a dropsical humour, which caused a grotesque swelling of her shins, and no medicines could assuage the deadly raging of the disease; at the point where she had almost completely wasted away she summoned Cnut, in whose excellent character she felt confidence, and earnestly encouraged his loyal support to promote peace in his fatherland and harmony amongst his relations; he should strengthen and protect these assets and conduct himself as nobly in home affairs as he had abroad. She also added that there were some ill-wishers who were doing their best to sow hatred and disrupt the affection that existed between members of the royal family; she herself had suppressed such people’s baleful provocations with perfectly sound dissuasions. Declaring that God should be witness to his sincerity, Cnut undertook to be disinterested and dependable all the rest of his life; he pledged to counter any tempestuous trials, not choose to inflict them, and swore that he would repay animosity with kindness. Margrete was overjoyed at this generous promise, affirming that his strong assurances would enable her to die with an easy and untroubled mind. But as she had stemmed the tide of youthful jealousies while she lived, so her passing away released it. Impatient of restraint, the young men took her death as an excuse for the first bold step towards their intended crime. Beyond the grudges commonly felt against Cnut, Henrik had harboured his own personal resentment and detestation, and now with irresponsible wickedness he threw off the curb that had hitherto been set on his malevolence. In order to fabricate deceit more successfully and find a more accessible avenue to evil-doing, he made the jarl Ubbe and Ubbe’s son, Håkon, accomplices in his plot. These three, weary of Cnut’s uncommon brilliance and of trying to rival his excellence, unsheathed their lies to make people react strongly against his outstanding reputation. Eager to envelop this dazzling light of his country in impenetrable darkness, they reported that Cnut did not have the slightest respect for the king’s life and circumstances but that his over-hasty ambition anticipated Niels’s departure and was already claiming regal authority for itself. The monarch was affected by the supposition of his nephew’s overweening contempt for him, and after commanding the assembly to convene, he gave orders that Cnut should be called to it. The young man came to the appointed place of attendance before his uncle, and on the latter’s arrival ran uncloaked to meet him, showing a German style of politeness, for, as the king was dismounting, Cnut paid deference to him by courteously holding his saddle. When Niels began to speak to his gathered subjects, he told them that Sven’s sons had given particular regard to seniority in the management of the realm; they had regulated the succession by order of birth and fixed the prerogative to rule by precedence of years, so that the younger was not allowed to be preferred to public honour ahead of the elder. For this reason, being the most youthful, he was the last to come to the throne, since, following the example of his brothers’ self-control, he had not launched an attack on Fortune, and had waited for her favours rather than seize them; in other words he had not reached prematurely to grasp the summit of power with greedy hands before the proper time. Cnut, on the other hand, had not observed the model of his forerunners sufficiently well, but had outraged the habit of this noble custom by appropriating the rights of kingship through assuming its title, while he could not yet do so in reality; in taking this name, a unique token, earlier than was lawful, he did not blush to be regarded now by his dependants under a false label of sovereignty; he would be acting more maturely if he based the chance of reigning not on the cringing flattery of his followers but on the death of the still-living king, and prefer to wait for a distinction that would come in due course, not try to snatch it before time. In this and similar fashion Niels deprecated the fact that Cnut was endeavouring to tear from him the designation of royal identity. Cnut then rose, his gaze long fixed intently on the ground and for a while nothing but sighs and sweat preceded his speaking. Finally, his eyes and his spirits lifting, he leant in his usual manner on the hilt of his sword and said: ‘These persons are acting foully, Father, who provoke your self-restraint and make you transgress what befits your royalty and years; any who stir the calm of your peaceful nature with blustering falsehoods are using their slanderous whisperings to create trouble. I find it extremely depressing when I see the virtuous sobriety of your mind taking on an aspect of ill-temper that is totally alien to you, and being carried astray by what might be termed a perverse steering of your reason. Please, I beg you, reject those loud-mouthed, lying purveyors of tittle-tattle, spew away this false fictitious charge! I cannot bear to be given a name that is dangerous to you. “ M y liege” is what my followers call me, not “ king” . Since, therefore, I have been habitually greeted as “ Lord” by the Wends, these detractors have put an unfavourable construction on the high courtesy of that race and been bent on turning an instance of foreign affability into a matter for incrimination; such fellows, indifferent to the respect owed to yourself, even defame the rightful obedience shown by others. However, I do not lay claim to the appellation of sovereign, as you assert, but, qualifying the grandeur of my title, actually shun any haughty distinction in the way I am addressed and have no concern with the envied peak of glory. In this fashion the goodwill of barbarians echoes my name without any detriment to your majesty. The esteem I enjoy among outsiders is suffered badly only by those who are eager to bereave me of my life and pluck a loyal warrior from your side. I consider such creatures just as hostile to your interests as they are to my person. But let us suppose that I am called “ king” ; we know that your son there, Magnus, recently acquired the marks of regal status and a royal name among the Götar. If I had been favoured with a similar piece of luck with the Wends, you ought to have considered it pleasant indeed to possess the allegiance of twin monarchs, and reckoned it an amelioration of your fortunes as well as mine. Everything won by my labour I would now be putting without hesitation at the service of your exalted dignity, so that you might gather the fruits of subjection, where otherwise you would have to endure opposition and losses. As a result you would have been in a position to invest more love than hatred in my prosperity. Over and above that I believed it more joyful than any other lot, more splendid than any other pursuit, to stand guard over your security and that of our fatherland. You know yourself whether or not I have been an efficient soldier. Danes, farm your coastline, if you so wish! Build your houses as close to the seas as you want! You can shun the waves yourselves! I shall keep you safe from sea raiders! . And if you are not ashamed to acknowledge the truth, when you stayed in Schleswig some time ago you found it necessary to bolster your safety against Saxon forays with sentinels perpetually on duty. Should you now desire to lodge there, you can spend your nights free from anxiety. Moreover, the narrow bounds of your realm, holding only Denmark inside them, I have spread outwards by unwonted extensions to its borders. Those who were previously your foes have been brought under tribute and through my actions now wait upon your authority. Where I sowed the seed, you have reaped the crop with no trouble to yourself. Indeed, it is right that a warrior should bear all the cost and the king receive all the profit; and, not to pursue my personal military achievements any further, I have also received wounds in the front of my body fighting for your sake in general campaigns. Yet you attack me, who have deserved so well of you, and blame me with mistrustful complaints; in your opinion there is nothing ugly in censuring the ready loyalty and proven blamelessness of your veteran man-at-arms. Have I done all this only to merit a dressing-down in the public assembly over my supposed rivalry with you? Are these the rewards I am to enjoy for my hardships, the wages for my service in your army— to be made to feel the vexation of the one personage from whom I had expected kindliness? Dissociate yourself from this defect of ingratitude, this blemish that makes you respond to my acts of fealty with envy and disparagement. None the less I conjecture that all this vigorous denunciation does not stem from your malice, but should be credited to the spite of your hangerson. When individuals are situated at the summit of power it is better to be rather hard of hearing in the presence of informers. Long may you wield this ancestral dominion and handle the title and appurtenances of kingship in prosperity! May Fortune provide you with the successor who is your natural heir! I, however, shall remain in whatever role she has cast for me, and never cease to revere your Highness with loyalty and obedience.’ Softened by his words, the king’s face took on a gentler expression; there in the assembly he immediately set aside the displeasure he had conceived through spurious instigations and, after cursing those who had assaulted the innocent Cnut so brazenly, promised that henceforth he would turn a deaf ear to whispered calumnies of that sort. As soon as Henrik perceived that the whole edifice of his slanders had been overturned by Cnut’s amazingly skilled answer, he approached the monarch with confidential forebodings, saying that Cnut was possessed by the most consuming ambition for the crown and that Magnus would exert a doubtful claim to the kingdom in future, if he and his cousin were going to have a dispute over supreme power which was to be settled by the people; the popular vote would be bound to elect Cnut sooner than anyone else among the flock of nobles. He should therefore, as a father, entrust the right of succession to his own judgement, not that of others, and sweep any rival away from the seat marked for his heir, always provided he wished to consult his son’s best interests. Since Cnut’s destiny was open to doubt, the sensible thing for Niels to do was to aim at intercepting it with a sword. By pestering the king time and again with such suggestions Henrik twisted his mind, already enmeshed in worries, towards even deeper suspicions than before. i . At this time Magnus, just as though he had received carte blanche from his father to have regard for his own fate by making away with his competitor, summoned the men who had earlier associated themselves with Henrik in the partnership of that damnable plot and forced them to swear they would observe strict silence regarding their enterprise. This band was now joined by Håkon the Jutlander. No one distrusted his words at all, even though he was known to have married Cnut’s sister. The conspirators reviewed the situation together secretly over a long period, considering with what violent hazards or what heavy doom they should overwhelm the saintly head of Cnut so as to consign him to oblivion; they tied the noose of their sinister plan as they lay on the ground, so that, if the truth chanced to be revealed, they could safely swear that they never stood or sat together intriguing against his life; they would defend their guiltlessness by appealing to their physical position, little realizing that anyone taking an oath that involved a quibble on words was liable to be perjured. Their sham and deviant form of integrity was more criminal for its impiety of language than of action, for it profaned religion, not with a rash use of the hands, but of the lips. « When Håkon the Jutlander perceived that the outcome of their talk, which had begun mildly enough, spelt a dangerous threat to Cnut’s life, he at once withdrew from his colleagues in this murderous scheme and left the chamber, in case it should appear that he had played the part of cut-throat instead of brother-in-law. Warned by the ringleader not to sever the bond of his oath, he replied that he would neither be an accomplice in the stratagem nor betray it; nevertheless it would have been preferable to forestall the peril to an innocent man by giving some sign rather than remain silently acquiescent. Wishing to conceal the fabrication of his designs with the help of their relationship and to avert all taint of suspicion by his sharp cunning, Magnus reckoned his foremost task should be to connect himself in equal, though feigned, friendship with the man whose blood he impatiently thirsted for; this he would do by a sworn pact as though to draw their tie of kinship close through sacred authority; to preclude any connotation of malice in his show of piety, and to avoid being thought a meditator of dark or seditious purposes, he cloaked his devilish machinations under an artful simulation of sanctity. After gathering together a throng of noblemen in Zealand and inviting Cnut to a banquet at Roskilde for the holy celebration of Christ’s nativity, Magnus gave out that he had been seized with a desire to embark on a pilgrimage to holy places. In addition he arranged for Cnut to take care of his wife and children, enjoining him to keep a close eye on his household affairs. It so happened that Ingeborg got wind of the plot through hints from some who were in the know and immediately made it her business to warn her husband by letter that he should seek to evade the snare being laid for his life. But Cnut, fancying her message proceeded from womanish fear rather than her having lighted on the truth, scoffed at the advice and declared that he set just as much trust in Magnus’s heart as in his wife’s. If good fortune had been willing to furnish him with the same prudence his spouse wished for him, he would have been shrewder in escaping the traps of duplicity set in his path, and would not have let his easily trusting nature become tangled in the hooks of another’s malevolence. Meanwhile, when the Danish lords had observed the festival by banqueting at Roskilde for four days and the communal meeting had already dispersed, Cnut and Magnus passed the remainder of this blessed season in separate dwellings. At the same time it chanced that a close relative of Cnut had quarrelled in his presence with a soldier, dealt the fellow a blow of his cudgel, and killed him; as a result, being ordered to quit the royal palace, he sought out Magnus. The latter was wary in case any information about his conspiracy should leak through to Cnut from this person, and, on the night when he was busy preparing to accomplish the ghastly business of execution, he commanded all the rest to attend him, refusing only the company of this man, whom he suspected of an old intimacy with Cnut. Then he pressed his confederates to give an assurance, bound by an oath, not to breathe a word about anything. Following this, he concealed a soldier in the shadows and assigned each accomplice a post in ambush, having looked around to see that darkness shrouded their stations. Shortly afterwards Cnut, who had been received by Erik, prefect of Falster, at his home in the community of Haraldsted, was invited by Magnus to an unwitnessed meeting; one of the conspirators, a Saxon and a skilled minstrel, brought the request, and the place of rendezvous was named as a wood very close to the village. Since Cnut never surmised any deceit in the affair, he did not arm himself before sending for his horse; without bothering to gird a sword at his side for protection, he went off escorted only by two knights and two squires. When one of his servants told him not to go without a weapon, he answered that there was not the slightest need of steel to safeguard himself. So confident was he of experiencing no aggression in Magnus’s company that he did not even suppose a blade necessary at their encounter. But his adviser insisted that he must equip himself and he therefore grudgingly buckled on his sword. Then, because the minstrel was aware that Cnut was well disposed towards the Saxon race and its way of life, he longed to alert him with a gentle warning; yet since he was apparently still held back from doing this by qualms about his oath and clearly considered it wrong, he tried to reveal it covertly, dividing his integrity between steadfast observance of the secret and honest preservation of a guiltless man. So he purposely started to recount the famous treachery of Grimhild towards her brothers by weaving it into a beautiful song and tried to instil into Cnut through this notorious instance of deception an apprehension that something similar might happen to him. Even so, nothing in this ambiguous warning could shake his firm composure, for he placed such reliance on his family connection with Magnus that he would sooner risk his own life than cast a slur on the other’s friendship. Nevertheless the minstrel persisted in approaching him with still more positive gestures and exposed the top of the corselet he wore beneath his cloak. But even then he could not provoke Cnut to suspicion or plant timidity in a heart so packed with courage. Genuine and diligent as he was, the attendant wanted in this way to prove his allegiance, while yet remaining unperjured and devoid of falsity. Just as Cnut was nearing the outskirts of the wood, he was welcomed by Magnus, who was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree; assuming a hypocrite’s cheerful expression he kissed Cnut with feigned endearment. As he held Magnus tight in his embrace, Cnut felt his chest clad in mail and began to make keen enquiry as to why he was wearing it. The other, eager to disguise his perfidy and wishing at the same time to give a reason for having armour on, said that there was a countryman whose home he longed to destroy. Cnut solemnly pondered this savage project together with the sacredness of the season (the rites of Epiphany were then taking place), and begged him not to besmirch a public festival with private vindictiveness. Magnus declared with an oath that he would not slacken in his revenge nor give up the scheme, at which Cnut started to promise his cousin due reparation and to offer his own guarantee of satisfaction in this matter. When the party of ambushers began shouting, Cnut swept his gaze in that direction and asked what this company of soldiers wanted with him. Magnus replied that it was time for them to discuss the succession to the throne and supreme power. Cnut then expressed his fervent hope that Magnus’s royal father would long continue his prosperous voyage beneath the sails of a propitious fortune; but, he added, this was not an appropriate occasion to speak about subjects of this nature. As he said this, Magnus sprang up and seized him by the forelock, as though he were going to teach him a lesson. Since the other’s double-dealing was now apparent, Cnut laid his hand on his hilt, yet before he could manage to unsheathe the sword, or had even drawn it more than halfway, Magnus had split open the centre of his skull and taken his life. After that the remaining conspirators plunged the points of their weapons time and again into his supine body. Delivered into the earth, his blood caused a beneficial fountain to gush up for the everlasting advantage of men. As soon as the murder became known, the sons of Skjalm, who had been very close to Cnut through their upbringing together, directly sought out the king to beg his permission to bury the body in the precincts of Roskilde, where the tombs lay. Niels, however, refused them this facility, saying that the townspeople must needs be enraged if the evidence of such a crime were present before their eyes; those who conducted Cnut’s funeral procession would unleash their bitterness all the more keenly against the detested Magnus, were he there. For this reason Cnut’s obsequies would involve the turbulent clash of battle more than the payment of tender respects due to human feeling. However, in my opinion Niels may have seemed to show fear, but really it was hatred, and his concern was to prevent even fouler discredit accruing to the killer if splendid rites were held for the murdered duke. Once the king’s petitioners had returned, they bore the pitiful corpse of their friend to the grave in a humble funeral at Ringsted. But God’s magnanimity did not desert their labours, since He caused the sudden birth of a spring to mark the spot where the bearers rested and the dead man’s bier had come to a halt. There were also several other signs by which the dazzling lustre of Cnut’s saintliness shone out. Report of the outrage produced wholesale mourning throughout the country and every home was filled with lamentation. When the people heard the devastating news of his slaughter, they straightway abandoned the joyful celebrations being held at that time of year and exchanged the seasonal customs for grief; as they bewailed his passing, both sexes joined their groans in unison, like those of a single companion. That his burial was conducted amidst public affliction was a demonstration of the huge love he had instilled in everyone’s heart. His countrymen had honoured him during his life with affectionate services, and now the weeping they lavished over his death gave witness to their grateful memories; as their sobs accompanied Cnut, so their vehement curses pursued the individual who had robbed him of his life. Magnus, however, was wildly elated by the occurence of this wicked assassination and made his way again to Roskilde as though he had a strong hope of grasping the crown now that his challenger had been removed; he leapt for joy at his luck over this shameful deed and saw nothing disgraceful in his attitude. Over and above the pleasure he had taken in the act, he was hardened enough to scoff insolently at Cnut’s sacred wounds, for which by rights he should have shed tears filled with remorse. Even so, not wishing to allow him to perish without producing offspring from stock of such outstanding merit in earth and heaven, God supplied the deceased man with an heir. At the eighth sunrise following Cnut’s death, his wife, Ingeborg, went into labour, gave birth to the son she had conceived by him, and named the boy after his maternal grandfather. Afterwards Sunniva’s son, Håkon, whom I introduced earlier, along with Peder, whose mother was Bodil, and the sons of Skjalm pursued the hideous crime by framing serious accusations; in every popular assembly they deprecated the intolerable killing of their friend, eager to rouse the people’s rage against that ruffian’s highly iniquitous action. As well as this, at the meetings they brought to everyone’s view Cnut’s cloak, which had been torn with numerous gashes. This mangled garment stirred up the populace in a way which proved of no small benefit to their doleful case. Indeed a great many found that the sight of such ugly rents in his mantle made them yearn intensely for revenge. Nonetheless Cnut’s saintliness, also, proclaimed by frequent tokens and proofs, and spread abroad through holy miracles, was an extraordinary help to those complaining against his destruction. Harald, too, though cherishing a stronger ambition for the throne than for retribution, went occasionally to the assembly convened at Ringsted, where he delivered a denunciation of his brother’s murder that was full of pathos. Erik, on the other hand, who had been delegated authority in the islands by Cnut, seethed with passion, preoccupied solely with thought of retaliation. However, Niels, afraid of the people’s hostility and suspecting that it would be dangerous for him to enter the assembly, did not dare expose his own or his son’s retinue to the violence of the mob, but summoned Asser, archbishop of Lund, to give him counsel. On the prelate’s advice he left Magnus behind at Roskilde and proceeded to Ringsted, hoping that in the absence of his son he would find the thronging commoners in a more peaceable mood. Yet as he did not feel it would be safe to attend a meeting that was to be held in the hills, he decided it would be preferable to remain quietly in the town rather than risk chancing the unpredictable loyalty of the multitude. When Cnut’s brothers had offered to the assembly a concerted plea in connection with his death, the crowd, excited by their tearful oratory, pronounced public condemnation on the butcher who had spilt his innocent blood, and revealed their verdict on the man who had put down so pious a soul. Nevertheless, as they were doubtful about the king’s involvement, they did not let themselves deal sternly with Niels, revered as he still was for his former condition, in case they should appear to make no distinction between guilt and blamelessness. They therefore left the father of his country unscathed by this kind of censure, since they were unpresuming enough to judge both his dignity and age worthy of regard. At length a reference occurred to their ruler’s absence, which sparked off a sudden, frenzied riot; the orderliness of the meeting disintegrated and people were passionate to seize him amid their own homes; they proclaimed that because he had declined to meet them earlier they had the right to accost him, especially as he had established himself in the neighbourhood yet refused to grace the assembly with his presence, even though it needed him there in order to be fully active. After Niels had learnt all this from the infiltrators he had planted to discover the opinions expressed at the gathering, he sent out Asser to counteract the rage and aggressiveness of the people with the respect which they owed to his nobility and priestly office. As the primate was riding to face the populace, he caught sight of Erik and, slipping down from his horse, caught the other’s reins in his right hand. For a long while Asser urgently entreated him to dismiss his hastily bred anger, promising the satisfaction ordained by law for Magnus’s felony, and a constitutional defence of his father, Niels’s, probity. Going further, he removed his mitre to expose his dignified head to the overexcited crowd. His appeal exerted such a strong influence on Erik that the king was not only granted safety but given leave to come to the next assembly. Although the wild zeal of the mob was speeding them towards revenge for Cnut, they chose rather to fix their gaze on the archbishop’s authority, which weighed very heavily with the Danes, believing they should yield to his requests instead of their own feelings. The monarch, attending the meeting without his son, was allowed to win his defence only on condition that he swore to shun the company of Magnus, who must be exiled from home and fatherland and not return until he had received pardon from the people. However, to make sure he did not provoke the fury of the commons, Niels held a separate council from theirs, the instructions from each side being carried by intermediaries. The king’s advisers, seeing opportunities in an exile which Magnus could spend in Götaland (since he was its ruler), suggested that Niels take advantage of this stipulation, for they thought the quality of the general public’s hatred for Magnus would thin down as time went on, and a protracted absence would have the merit of securing a gentler attitude towards him from his countrymen. They hoped that ordinary folk would necessarily be moved to pity over his ejection and in view of his penitence abate the wrath they had expended on the crime. So, when the ugly mood of the citizenry had been pacified, Niels went off to Jutland, Magnus to Götaland so that he could present the appearance of an outcast. But the king’s friends disparaged the agreement. Because they had abetted Magnus in the affair of Cnut’s assassination, they reviled the terms of the demand, saying that Niels had dealt with their interests in an atrocious way and asserting that it would have been better for him to resign ultimate power sooner than condemn his only son, a child born into the expectation of royal dominion, to be disgraced with banishment merely to satisfy the puny threats of some yokels. For this reason Magnus’s right to come home ought to depend on his parent’s decision, not on the people’s; he should be restored to his fatherland and family by being granted the favour of a speedy recall, with no thought for the malicious rabble. Stimulated by their talk, Niels sent envoys to summon Magnus back, and, with an affection that ran counter to his fear of God, once more entered into the association he had forsworn. Careless of perjury, he did not worry in the least if he embraced a kinsman whose presence had been banned. But Magnus’s return, prompted by his father’s rash fondness, again roused the storm which had been calmed by his departure. Erik and Harald, who had hitherto granted Niels security from punishment, now issued a joint condemnation of him and his loathed son, since the king had broken faith in his word and proved a murderer by complicity; they therefore held that where the two were equally to blame for the crime, they should suffer the same penalty. His oath was accorded no further trust, now that he had made his faithlessness apparent to everyone by inviting his son back so precipitately. But the commons, unwilling to attack the king without royal leadership, decided to fight beneath a known banner, reckoning that troops who did not start under this safeguard of new auspices would prove frail in their enterprise and ineffectual in their purposes.
Consequently the Danes aimed to elect a king, preferably from the usual family, but they bypassed Harald, and gave their assent to confer the title and regal authority on Erik, because he was related to this line. The difference in their characters made the choice between the two brothers easy. Harald’s avarice as well as a lust replete with shameful acts were good reasons for his rejection from the monarchy. Since he despised holy matrimony, his bedchamber was the constant resort of mistresses. Not satisfied with a wife, he sullied his marriage bed by introducing to it other women from outside. Their offspring were each put in individual cradles and brought up in the palace under the unrestricted supervision of their mothers, a sad sight for the true spouse. In this way the next generation also came under suspicion owing to the obnoxious morals of the parent, for the father’s present immorality made people afraid that his progeny would resemble him in the future; indeed, they considered that children’s dispositions frequently reflect the characters of their sires. For these reasons everybody chose to look away from Harald and concentrate their gaze and kindly thoughts on Erik. Yet the latter, judging that he ought to indulge his own sense of restraint before other men’s partiality, refused to accept the honour offered by the populace, because he first desired to procure some embellishment to monarchic power and to wage war as a prelude to his sovereignty. He therefore felt it obligatory to direct his energies towards revenge and yet to hold himself aloof from royal command until he had gained a victory. First of all he headed for Jutland with troops for the enterprise that had been laid upon him. But as he was advancing with his battle line formed, Thore, bishop of Ribe, received him with treacherously prepared lies, asserting Niels’s essential innocence and promising that in future this ruler would observe the whole content of his oath. Then, parading a great many verbal excuses, the bishop redoubled his prayers for peace. Erik’s judgement of the intention behind his entreaties was naive, however; since Thore’s fictions made him unwary, he immediately called back the standardbearers and ordered his forces to halt. As soon as Niels learnt from his intelligence about Erik’s delay, he had no problem in routing these opponents, who were stretched at their ease. Thus their leader, hoodwinked by the prelate’s falsehoods, paid the price for his stupid credulity. When he perceived that this incident had given him a justifiable pretext for hostilities, but that he could not be distinguished by a regal title in Isøre because of his difficult circumstances, Erik returned to Zealand and with the support of its inhabitants and those of Scania, accepted the honour that he had previously refused; throwing off all pretence, he was now roused to exert an even bitterer revenge for his brother’s sake. After that he wrote a letter to Lothar, begging him to avenge his friend’s death, desiring Magnus’s punishment for the murder of a kinsman, and pressing him to join in a military alliance, first by entreaties and then also with a stipulated payment. The emperor, induced more by his craving to gain ascendancy over the kingdom than to exact retribution, made the imperial soldiery take up a position near the defences of Jutland. His hopes for the plan lay not so much in his own strength as in civil disturbance within this divided region. Erik sailed with his navy to meet Lothar at Schleswig. Magnus, however, anticipating the arrival of both his foes by carefully building up the earthwork, had stationed a strong garrison at the gates. After an interval of some days Niels hemmed the inner side of the rampart with a large band of Jutland troops. Such were their numbers that the emperor was afraid to engage in battle with them, and had not enough pluck to employ Erik’s fleet for the purpose of launching his own forces into the city. As he considered it unsafe either to attack the fortifications or to entrust his fighting-men to the ships, and because he realized he was frittering away his time uselessly, he devised terms for a truce, under which he might acquire a plausible reason for raising the siege. And so, turning his back on Erik, even though he had guaranteed him unswerving, steadfast support, the emperor made a compact with the leaders of the opposing side, stipulating that he himself should abandon the blockade and Magnus serve in the army of the Holy Roman Empire. Magnus grasped eagerly at the proposition and paid submissive homage to Lothar; but beneath his compliance he was meditating a stratagem. The emperor withdrew his troops across the Eider according to the agreement, and Erik, as soon as he heard, took ship to go and meet him; cursing him roundly for his Germanic breach of faith, he upbraided Lothar with reproaches for his fickleness, and vowed that in the future Magnus would demonstrate the same brand of trustworthiness towards his new master as he had lately shown when he cultivated the fellowship of Cnut. Nor did it turn out to be an empty declaration; after the emperor had retraced his steps beyond the Eider, Magnus treacherously attacked Adolf, who had been commanded to keep an eye on the borders; he not only rid him of his soldiery, but also compelled Adolf to throw away his weapons in humiliating fashion and to make his escape by swimming. Seeing himself bereft of assistance from the emperor, Erik, totally sick at heart, returned once again to the east. There appeared on the scene ambassadors dispatched by the Norwegian king, Magnus, to petition for the hand of Cnut’s elder daughter, albeit she was not yet ripe for a husband. Erik, in hope of gathering more strength, treated this mission agreeably and was very cheerful at their reception, since he was eager to enlist the aid of a neighbouring people by benefiting from a marriage alliance. Because wars were always disturbing his periods of rest, he too was still a bachelor, and so he took to wife this Magnus’s stepmother, who had at one time been queen of Norway, for her stepson regarded him with favour as one who merited such a marriage exchange. The winter months, then, were spent peacefully, but hostilities began to brew again as the season for them returned. Niels started to collect an army from western parts, while Erik, elevated by the promises of Christiern, who came from a highly distinguished family in Jutland, also prepared for battle by recruiting reinforcements from the east. Through his hatred of Magnus, Christiern had defected from Niels and pledged himself to assist Erik with might and main. However, Peder, the bishop of Roskilde, was a follower of Erik in his person, but of Niels in his heart, adhering to the former through dread, but to the latter because of his affection for him. Harald’s allegiance, on the other hand, wavered this way and that, swaying between dislike and a sense of guilt: with reflections of shame and embarrassment he avoided Niels’s camp, but, likewise, refused to be one of his brother’s housecarls, since he envied and hated the way Erik had been preferred to himself. Consequently he and two of his sons, both of proven qualities, accompanied Erik’s side, but more for appearance’s sake than from goodwill towards him; because Harald saw himself outstripped by his brother in a bid for the realm, the aversion he felt for him was no slighter than his ill-feeling towards Cnut’s slayer. Meanwhile Christiern assembled a team of his connections and resolved to do battle with the king. But Niels, having discovered both his desertion and his hostile preparations, divided the soldiers he had enlisted to combat his enemies into naval and land forces. As well as this he made ready to take on Christiern in an engagement, at the same time appointing Magnus admiral of the fleet, so that he could encounter Erik. Now the latter had put in at the island of Sejerø. Unaware of this, Magnus, with the wind more than fate in his favour, set sail from Arhus and, because some ships raced ahead of others, advanced with his flotilla in a dispersed and straggling line. Erik, knowing of his approach beforehand, embarked in a longboat and with vehement exhortations stimulated the captains of his squadron to action, first individually, then all together, but particularly Peder and Harald, whose loyalty to him was uncertain and suspect. He had no craving to take on Magnus’s combined sea power all at one go, and so, as the other’s ships arrived one by one according to the speed of their passage, he ravaged them and wrought carnage among their crews. When Magnus observed these perils from a distance, he furled his sails straight away, opting to trust his ship to its anchor sooner than to the breeze, and, by sounding a trumpet-call, drew together his navy, which had been scattered across the face of the deep. By putting the cowards to flight and contending with the more courageous spirits, Erik, whose vessels enjoyed superiority in numbers, enclosed his adversaries in a tight ring; this pressure increased the savagery of the conflict, almost as if one fleet were laying siege to the other. Once the Jutlanders realized that neither the power of victory nor an opportunity for flight lay within their destiny, they chose to consider their leader’s welfare before their own, and preserved his safety at critical cost to themselves. As they were unable to win success for Magnus, they burst through the tightly packed wedge of their foes’ warships in order to secure deliverance for him in the hour of his defeat. As soon as he had boarded a pinnace, with minds impervious to the dangers they formed what amounted to an avenue for his escape; and when he had slipped away, still maintaining an unabashed, fighting doggedness, they ended their tussle only in death or capture. After the victors had pounced on the spoils of the vanquished fleet, they spied among the booty pulled out from the vessels a fellow wrapped up inside a sail. Judging his lack of courage from the degrading nature of his hiding place, they hanged him there and then for his faint-heartedness, to ensure that someone who had hesitated to devote his life bravely to the fray should surrender it with a demeaning style of death. In the interim Christiern, after being worsted when his company came to blows with that of Niels, was taken prisoner amid the terrific slaughter of his men and consigned to a prison within a fortress in Schleswig. Erik, however, cock-a-hoop over his fresh success in battle, yet ignorant of the fortunes of Christiern and his followers, covered Limfjorden with his navy, hoping to make Jutland his own. Having disembarked his men without much consideration, he learnt from a messenger of Christiern’s rout and the king’s approach; since he was more shattered by his friend’s bad luck than cheered by his own good fortune, he withdrew his soldiers and hastened his return. But quite a number of his column, making their way back to the ships rather slowly, were butchered by Niels’s force when it fell upon them. As a sequel to this event Harald went over to the side of Niels, who lured him with secret assurances. He had harboured deeper resentment through Erik’s ascendancy than anger at Cnut’s murder, and his brother was more irksome to him than was his other brother’s destroyer. Moreover Magnus, recognizing that his enemies’ martial strength was increasing advantageously, and his own shrinking miserably, made an attempt to undermine their fraternal war partnership. With this end in view he put pressure on Harald, who he knew followed Erik’s faction with questionable sincerity, by promising him promotion in rank. Though Harald concealed his feelings of rage under a cloak of deference, a more violent detestation of Erik than of Erik’s assailant blazed within him. For this reason he not only forsook his brother’s company of warriors, but strengthened with ampler defences the fortress which he had raised in the neighbourhood of Roskilde, in order to lend more effective support to Niels; so, by this faithless desertion of Erik, Harald sated the jealousy which he had conceived at the other’s preferment. When Erik had laid siege to this stronghold and encircled it with a large detachment of Zealanders, he could see that his endeavours were severely obstructed by the reinforced barrier of the ramparts; he therefore obtained a ballistic device from the Saxons who lived in Roskilde and complemented his native resources with a foreign contrivance. Indeed, our own people, still amateurs in the field of military engineering, had had little practice in the use of such equipment. This was why the first boulder, discharged from the machine with insufficient momentum, fell somewhat short of the fortifications and caused merriment among the castle’s inmates. Jeering at the power of the catapult, they predicted that all its subsequent shots would prove futile. The second projectile, fired with greater velocity, struck an enormous roof as it descended; with its weight and impact it penetrated right through to the cellars and shattered the whole structure with an appalling crash. The building, with only a wooden base as its foundation, a kind of fulcrum which it rested above, could be moved in any direction with a light shove. Harald, looking on, was forced by the trajectory of the second missile to abandon the confidence induced in him by the failure of the first; he expected neither to withstand the siege from within nor to receive military aid from outside, and because the wall facing the sea had been demolished and was not as closely invested by the enemy, he drove his horses out at night through the breach and proceeded to follow them on foot with his soldiers. As a hubbub rose over the whole station, Harald mounted and rode at a fierce gallop, after telling his men to shout out on purpose, ‘Get Harald!’; among the packs of bellowing warriors he was mistaken for one of his pursuers, rather than the leader himself, and so found an easy route for escape. The deceptive cries of the fleeing men, no less than the hour of day, are thought to have given their foes a misleading assessment of the situation. Nonetheless some of the Germans affirmed that they had pierced Harald with their arrows as he was speeding to safety. So this cunning-witted general, once he had foiled the besiegers with artifice and circumvented danger by his shrewdness, regained his vessel and sailed for Jutland. Just as if Harald had been his party’s champion in Zealand, Niels received him with regal beneficence and even valued him as one of his intimates by conferring on him the highest honours. Yet this friendliness was not entirely without distrust, for people looked askance at Harald’s unexpected forsaking of his brother and his sudden arrival as a deserter. While all this was happening, the Swedes, because they had heard that Magnus was engaged in civil wars, appointed as their ruler a certain Sverker, who had come from the ordinary ranks of Swedish society; it was not so much for their high estimation of him as the fact that they rejected a foreigner’s sway, being apprehensive of bowing to an outside leader necks that would ordinarily have submitted to a fellow-countryman. The Norwegian Ulvild, whom Niels had married after Margrete’s death, was first inveigled by this Sverker through mediators bearing love-tokens, and soon afterwards stealthily abducted by the man himself, who brought her to the point of sleeping with him. Treating this union as wedlock, he made her the mother of Karl, a later successor of his to the Swedish crown. During this period St Cnut’s daughter, who had for some time been betrothed to the king of Norway, was taken there to be his wife by the emissaries he had sent to Denmark.When the winter months had passed, Niels, who was yearning to take vengeance for the long-standing insult of his subjects’ desertion, conveyed a numerous fleet from Jutland across to Zealand. After he had been defeated by Niels in a desperately bitter conflict at Værebro, Erik went with his wife, at one time queen of Norway, and his little son Sven, born of a mistress, to seek Magnus the Norwegian, trusting to their bond of kinship; the latter’s reception of him Erik at first found extremely kind, but shortly afterwards deceptive and treacherous. i. Meanwhile Niels, well disposed towards Harald’s requests for the Saxons’ punishment, broke into Roskilde at his instigation, and, having arrested all those Germans who were lodged in the city, sent them off to be dealt such chastisement as Harald fancied. Because he had heard they had manned the ballista and had bragged with their lies about his own death, Harald mutilated them by having the ends of their noses cut off, asking them whether it was really himself they had killed with their shafts. Then one of the victims, seeing the knife brought close to his face, claimed that he had to be spared because of his learning. As Harald believed he was a man of letters, he called off his henchman and conducted the fellow to a feast, where he instructed him to recite a solemn grace in the usual fashion. The captive retorted that his skill lay in cobbling, not in saying a benediction. Harald, amused by the man’s sharpness, allowed him to go unpunished for his cunning, and after being enlightened, felt too disconcerted to renew the anger he had let drop while he was deceived; he did not want it to look as though he was correcting his mistake by inflicting torment. During these same years another Harald, of Irish origin, shook Norway, a land of huge prosperity, like some thunderbolt or tempest. Since he made out that his father was Magnus, the pillager of Ireland, he was told to substantiate his assertion and supply proof by a superhuman test; he then walked barefoot over red-hot sheets of metal (for this was the trial demanded of him) and not one portion of his soles was injured, with the result that by emerging unscathed, a manifest miracle, he led a large proportion of Norwegians into being convinced by his claim. From his person spread the whole blight of the Norwegian wars. Niels in the meantime, resolving to crush his rival in some trap, encouraged King Magnus of Norway to murder him for a contracted fee. As no crook was more venal, from being hospitable Magnus turned hostile through the stimulus of gain and with a show of strong allegiance posted a highly attentive body of guardsmen from among his followers to strengthen Erik’s protection, shrouding deceit with courtesy. But the queen taught Erik, her uncle, how a stratagem lay beneath these kindnesses, with the result that he revealed Magnus’s scheme to his friends who lived in Lolland, begging their assistance. And their inclination to come to his aid was brisk enough. Making for Norway in a single vessel, these Lollanders signalled their arrival with a clandestine message to Erik. Since he was aware that the Norwegians took extreme delight in their enormous capacity for liquor, he reckoned the best way of bamboozling the sentinels appointed to watch him was by getting them drunk. He therefore tackled the sobriety of this escort by offering them the pleasurable prospect of a drinking bout and, once the revels had begun, plied the bodyguards with many a goblet. In order to increase their passion for imbibing, he scattered dice among the stoups as an incentive to intoxication. Although Erik competed in the game and placed bets against some of them, he also purposely followed up any lucky throw of his with clumsy moves, so that by their success in winning he could lure on his fellow-gamblers, excite their sporting instincts, and make them eager to carry on with the play. In the end, pretending to be worn out with tiredness through staying awake so far into the night, he went off to bed after leaving a companion, a priest and fellow-exile, to throw the dice for him. This man attended to the business with a cool head, and when he had undermined their soberness, or what remained of it, with stoup after stoup, he found a space to rest in their midst, as they all lay there overcome by wine and sleep. While they were thus occupied, Erik had smashed a hole in the side of his bedroom and with his wife and close retainers departed stealthily to the sea; here, discovering ships along the shore, he had the sides pierced through to the bilges, so that he could better secure escape for his party. But as he was seeing to this operation, the thought flashed into his mind that he had left his little son sleeping in the guest chamber. So much does haste envelop the mind in forgetfulness, for it is a fact of human nature that the more busily a person’s brains are employed, the more careless he will be. Though he had no doubts about the danger of lingering, he could not be so unnatural as to throw away concern for his own flesh and blood. Consequently he sent servants to rescue the young fellow, scorning the painfulness of delay owing to his exceeding love for his child. Immediately the lad was brought, Erik set out on to the high seas. At dawn the men who had been assigned to take care of Erik hammered on the entrance to his lodging, demanding to know if he had yet shaken off the effects of last night’s drunken spree. They were astonished to be greeted by silence and, when no reply was forthcoming, tried to elicit one by a battery of shouts. Finally, dumbfounded by the lack of any sound within, they stove the doors in and found the dwelling empty of its guests. With loud protests that these sly beggars had foxed them, they nervously brought the news to their lord of what had happened. He at once made for the coast, launched his ships and ordered his men to intercept the runaway. Nevertheless, as soon as he observed that the vessels were filling with water on account of the damaged hulls, he had them hauled up on to the beach for repairs; after they had been pushed down again into the waves, Magnus laid on sail and at the same time put pressure on the rowers to make more speed. So avidly did he aim to win the price set on Erik’s head. Meanwhile Erik had crossed a large expanse of the sea and gained a significant lead on his enemy so that his pursuers would not find it easy to catch him; after a short time Magnus realized that he had undertaken the voyage to no purpose, and so, having commanded the oarsmen to change direction, went back home. Erik bent his course back to Lolland, which had remained firmly loyal to him, and by seizing and hanging Ubbe, whom Niels had made governor of the smaller islands, gave clear notice of his return. When news arrived that the king was due to keep Christmas Day in Lund, Erik hurried to Scania and, anticipating his arrival, seized the whole outlay which had been gathered to make provision for the monarch. Learning of this while he was in Zealand, Niels collected foodstuffs by public assistance, but refrained from progressing any farther. Next summer, however, he brought together the whole Danish fleet save that of Scania and put in at Fodevig, where he stationed his foot soldiers ready for battle close to the shore. Soon after they had been drawn up in companies, they glimpsed in the distance a cloud of dust raised by the hooves of Erik’s horses, and retreated steadily to the ships. Growing terrified as they went owing to the thunder of the cavalry bearing down on them, they let their march degenerate into a stampede. Once he overtook them, Erik hacked them down without resistance, for they had been conquered not by fighting but by destiny; he claimed a victory with no losses, thanks to God’s vengeance for Magnus’s parricide. Since the latter dreaded surrender, while the rest turned tail he repelled the enemy by facing them with a sizable band of bold warriors. Once he perceived that there was little leeway for escape, he considered it noble to meet a courageous end and to secure a more glorious death through combat. Indeed, he preferred to embrace fate rather than flight in case he bruised his former lustrous reputation for valour. Eventually, after waging a notable battle marked by huge slaughter of his opponents, Magnus was destroyed and fell, along with Bishop Peder of Roskilde, on a pile of the bodies of men he had laid low himself. As he had a comrade in death, so, too, he found a companion for his grave. i. A villager brought a horse to Niels, who then sought his ship. But the majority of the fugitives, once they had gained the vessels, were so eager to climb in through the oar holes that they submerged some of them with their huge weight. For this reason those who had first managed to make their way inside used their blades to lop off the hands of the latecomers as they thrust them into the boats, paying no heed to fellow-feeling and proving savager towards their friends than to their foes. Ah, what a desperate sight that was, where men, clinging to the sides and dangling there, were harried from one direction by their adversaries and thrust back from the opposite quarter by their colleagues. Chance had revealed this proof of how much each person chose his own safety before another’s. Be quiet, you frivolous, babbling flatterers, who do not blush to assert that the souls of your friends are dearer to you than your own. I am tempted to believe that this success had little to do with human strength, but was granted by God in return for the assassination of that most saintly person, Cnut. No other war was more prolific in its squandering of bishops’ blood. Peder of Roskilde, the Swedish Bishop Henrik, and all the prelates of Jutland apart from one are reported to have been overthrown during this fight. In the preparations leading up to it Magnus Sakseson, one of Erik’s warriors, gave unique evidence of his dependability. After Niels had issued his soldiers with orders to watch the coastal stretches of Zealand in order to prevent anyone crossing over to Erik, he was let down on a rope by his followers over the jutting cliffs at Stevns Klint, boarded a small boat when it was dark, and rowed to Scania, where he brought welcome aid to his lord. Later Magnus of Norway, accusing his wife of laying bare his schemes, renounced her and sent her back to Erik; he thought that a spouse who had set family sympathies before conjugal affection deserved to be repudiated. In his scorn for her he did not consider it disagreeable to flout his marriage vows and deprive himself of the wedded state. Niels, however, slipped away to safety in Jutland, where it looked as if he had been preserved as a butt of Fortune; attaching equal importance to his childless condition and his age, he proclaimed that Harald should inherit his throne, not so much to be his successor, but so as to leave behind an opponent for his rival. Then, wanting to bring the people of Schleswig to a peaceable frame of mind after their longstanding alienation through Magnus’s crime, he made overtures with the purpose of arranging a reconciliation between himself and them; as he reckoned they would take pity on his years and his ill-luck, he resolved to enter the town with a view to taking hostages. Whilst he was once again hesitating to expose his head to these citizens of untested loyalty, he acceded to the encouragement of a certain Boje, chief magistrate among the townsfolk, and gave up his security along with his suspicions. Entering the gates, which had been opened deliberately, he found that the clergy met him with reverence, the people with ferocity; in other words, the citizens expressed divided feelings over his reception. Members of the church showed their respect with a ceremonial religious procession, yet the remaining burghers greeted him like a foe. As soon as he noticed them coming through the streets with their banners to confront him, despite his friends’ strong suggestion that he take refuge in St Peter’s Church, he directed his way to the royal residence; he would rather be protected by a palace than a shrine, lest a holy sanctuary be sullied by a bloody brawl, and said that he would meet his end more tranquilly in the hall of his ancestors. His soldiers were not slow in their resolve to defend his life by sacrificing their own. For a long time they kept him unscathed by valiantly interposing their bodies and thought it not unpleasant to put their own security in extreme hazard to safeguard his. First the men of Schleswig shed the blood of these supporters, and finally spilt the king’s too.

Book Fourteen.
In the meantime Erik had pointed his fleet towards Jutland, but, putting in at the island of Sejerø, heard the news of the king’s overthrow. It so happened that during this turbid period, Erik and Bjørn, the two eldest sons of Harald, left their father to join Erik, though their success did not match up to their sincerity. Approached in the night by a secret deputation from their father, the two sons listened quietly to his message. Even so Erik got wind of that embassy and, in order to test their loyalty, maintained silence for some while, pretending he had no idea of the incident. When, however, they persisted in keeping their father’s overtures concealed, he imagined that it would be fruitless to expect information from them in this mysterious matter and abandoned hope of any hint of a voluntary disclosure; summoning them into everyone’s presence, he launched a violent denunciation and accused them of treachery, because they had done nothing to shed light on the commission laid upon them by their parent. Being questioned further as to the nature of his communication with them, they said he had asked their opinion about his most profitable course of conduct, to which they had replied that he should go to live as an exile in Norway; consequently they had not thought fit to declare how they had advised him until they knew whether the advice he sought had been followed. Yet although their statement was true, it did not meet ready belief, since people judged that it had been submitted under pressure rather than spontaneously. Therefore since Erik wanted to put their protestations to the test, he gave orders that they should both be kept under strictest guard in the fortress of Schleswig, so that, once he had discovered the correct facts, he could offer them a reward for their blamelessness or punishment for their guilt. Later on, when Erik chanced to enter this fort, the same young men presented themselves to him, despite their shackled feet, and threw themselves before his knees in supplication; asserting their worth and innocence, they implored him to put an end to their imprisonment. Erik, gratified by their reassurances as much as he pitied their ill fate (for their father’s disappearance had lent corroboration to his sons’ story) and being full of warmth from the wine he had been drinking, shed tears over their misfortune and promised them deliverance for their truthfulness. But when Christiern had happened to learn of this from the courtiers, meeting Erik just before daybreak as he was making his way to the cathedral, he mocked him for becoming over-carefree after yesterday’s bout of intoxication and so extravagantly generous that he had not minded giving Denmark as a gift to his foe. Following this mode of expression with a clearer statement, he suggested that Harald’s sons would entertain a higher regard for their chains than for their freedom, and would only repay their deliverer with hatred, not gratitude. If Erik spared their lives, what was he doing other than preserving for Harald the assistance of these able-bodied youths? Swayed by his words, Erik chose to renounce his promise rather than reject his friend’s counsel, and by a cool-headed punishment rendered null and void the magnanimity that had arisen while he was in his cups. Once he was urged to be ruthless, he felt no compunction in setting aside his inclination to mercy. So, whereas their hopes had been stretched towards the prospect of survival, their lives were destroyed by drowning. During this same period the Norwegian nobility asked Magnus to surrender half his kingdom to Harald Gille, since the latter was, like himself, of royal descent; but when Magnus refused to grant recognition to a fellow of unknown parentage, they fought out the issue with the sword in the district of Fyrileif. In the meanwhile Erik’s brother, Harald, having made his way back to Jutland, was proclaimed king by the voices of the assembly at Urne. Apprised of this, Erik hauled his vessels right across the ice, where the water had been frozen by the cold, as far as the high sea, and sailed to Jutland unobserved; in the village of Skibetorp he surprised Harald with his remaining sons during the night, dragged him at daybreak from his chamber, and, with total disregard for their brotherhood, put him to death. However, one of the sons, Oluf, observing that the bedroom had been encompassed by armed men, changed into women’s clothes and made a lucky escape through the midst of his enemies. It was during this period that Harald Gille was thrust out of Norway and journeyed to Denmark in order to gather a number of troops from Erik. Because Magnus had repudiated his marriage, Erik received Harald, that king’s rival, as a suppliant and, delighted to have been offered a plausible excuse for war, decided to furnish him with aid. Although Harald had been blessed with scarcely any spiritual gift apart from generosity, his power lay in his physique, where he was abundantly endowed. At the town of Helsingborg, confident in his strength, he laid a bet with Erik to see if he could outstrip the other’s finest horses; two of these were put in for the contest, but Harald reached the finishing-post ahead of both. Supported by two staves as he flew along, his body sped forward, leap upon leap. It was also his wont to give another display of extraordinary athleticism: during a voyage he would frequently jump from the stern and run across the extended blades of the oars up to the prow; from there he would change direction to the opposite side of the boat and traverse the remaining banks of oars to regain the position he had left. If only Nature had dealt him qualities of mind to match, there would have been no way he could have surrendered himself to his rival, to be struck down in the embraces of a mistress. Though Erik desired to assist him, the Danes’ internal peace was then being disturbed by the Wends, and he was unable to follow up his intentions actively. In consequence, overlooking his friend’s worries, Erik attended to his own and, when he had collected a fleet to sail against Rügen so that he might dispatch his campaign more efficiently, he was the first to introduce horses on a Danish naval expedition, assigning four animals to each ship, a custom which later generations have been at careful pains to preserve. A count of his numerous fleet revealed eleven hundred vessels. After they had landed from them on Rügen, the Danes discovered that the city of Arkona had been strengthened with a stout defensive garrison. To make sure that they did not allow assistance to be sent from the bordering tribes, the Danes used mattocks to break up the strip which joins the edge of Arkona to the mainland of Rügen, from which it is almost cut off; then they built the earth up into a high rampart that cast a good deal of shadow. The Hallanders were entrusted to guard it and instructed to take orders from Peder as their leader. This contingent was unprepared for a night attack by the men of Rügen, who had sought out a crossing through the shallows, but after they had cut down a large number of our soldiers, they were driven back by the rest of the army. As the Arkona garrison had insufficient strength to engage in battle and since they saw no present opportunity of enlisting support, overcome by necessity they bargained for their safety by agreeing to be converted to Christianity, and capitulated to the Danes on the understanding that they could keep their revered statue. This local effigy was worshipped by the citizens with special awe and the neighbouring peoples would flock to pay it ceremonial honour, but the name of St Vitus, by which it was distinguished, was a false one. However, now that this idol had been preserved, the townsfolk could not bear to have their ancient mode of ritual completely abolished. First, then, ordered to undertake the solemn observance of baptism, they proceeded to the pool, keener to slake their thirst than to embark on a novel faith, and under the guise of a religious act refreshed their siege-weary bodies. In like manner the people of Arkona were given a holy priest to direct them to the pattern of a more refined existence and to impart the first precepts of the new religion. Nevertheless, following Erik’s departure they threw out Christianity, priest and all. In fact the inhabitants of Arkona, renouncing affection for the hostages they had submitted, returned to their ancient totem cult, and with just the same sincerity they had shown in adopting God’s worship, abandoned it. i . Later, when Erik had straightened out affairs in Denmark and the realm had returned to peaceful conditions, he once more gave attention to his friend’s concerns, which had been neglected when the time was unsuitable; to back Harald’s cause he first sacked the city of Oslo, loyal to Magnus, and shortly afterwards destroyed it by fire. When a year had passed by and Harald repeated his requests for help, Erik brought across the entire Danish fleet to reinforce him. Once hostilities had been joined, Magnus, feebler in military strength, was captured. Harald, while granting him the continued enjoyment of his life, commanded he should lose his eyes and testicles, so that he might not strive for the kingdom through the pleasure of looking on it or by intercourse produce an heir to avenge himself. When, after being blinded and castrated, he was asked which of his followers he would like to share this eye torture with him, he replied that few took delight in it. Then a man whose appearance closely resembled his, who had served with outstanding loyalty as one of his soldiers, presented himself for the punishment; averse to a situation where none among such a large retinue was willing to suffer with his lord, he stated that, as he had looked very like Magnus with his sight, so too would he when he had been deprived of vision. Though he deserved respect for his bravery, he still endured the penalty amongst those scoundrels. Magnus, however, took upon himself the religious duties of selfrestraint, more through physical weakness than spiritual ideals, and after wielding the sceptre ended by wearing the cowl. Meanwhile Erik, eager to ennoble with the embellishments of justice the peace he had won by fighting, recalled to their primitive vigour the laws established by our forebears, which at that time had been almost overthrown by the mighty storm of war; his distinction for valour was now seen to be matched by his prominence as a defender of right. Injustices inflicted on humbler folk he would recompense by punishing their superiors; sparing neither friend nor relative, he would chastise inconsiderate greed among the nobility with the sword or the noose. Through these exertions he attracted the loathing of the aristocracy and the allegiance of the common people, with the result lhat he was feared by the powerful but dearly beloved by ordinary folk. Yet it was his habit to give such high praise to the quality of his own deeds that he was sometimes taken for a liar. There is a story that Erik’s life was saved by a dream a member of his escort once had: when the king had chosen to sail to Zealand from the River Schlei, one of his crew imagined in his sleep that he was riding over bare mountain ridges on a rather headstrong horse; in mid-career he was pitched down into the darkness of the valleys, where a huge flock of owls rent him to pieces with their talons. Next morning he jokingly related the incident to his shipmates, but Erik took this nightmare as a prior warning of danger, and to avoid having the man as a fellow-voyager, transferred himself to another vessel; accordingly when his comrades foundered and perished, he remained safe, joyful that he had preferred to trust his preservation to a different ship and not his own. i. It so happened that the dislike which had originally grown up between Erik and the bishop of Roskilde, Eskil, soon flared into open quarrels. In this affair the prelate gained the involvement of Peder Bodilson, and by the influence which he wielded first and foremost among the Zealanders, excited them into hating their monarch so that, assisted by a strong popular tumult, he drove Erik off beyond the bounds of that region. Once their ruler had been thrust out, the bishop enrolled the people of the province into a political confederacy under the name of freedom, and sought hostages from those he suspected of dissent. As the sons of Skjalm were the only ones who refused to participate in the rebellion, Eskil summoned them to appear before a general assembly and threatened to strip them of their property if they did not deliver hostages on a specified day. But when they had ridden to the meeting, they stuck firmly to their resolution, uncowed by intimidation or the penalty of losing their goods. In the event they came off scot-free, whereas the punishment recoiled on Eskil. The king returned with his Jutland fleet and the bishop, after persuading his father and uncle to act as mediators, was fined marks in gold. Peder, however, anticipated Erik’s revenge by dying and so escaped the disciplinary action that the king was preparing for him. During this same period Asser departed this life and, when it came to his replacement by a new archbishop of Lund, the king and people were divided in their support. Because of Asser’s remarkable virtues the Scanians gave their approbation to Eskil, a very close relative of his, for they had no wish to see the primacy depart from his family. The king, prompted by the shameful memory of his expulsion and mindful of the contempt that Eskil had shown him, put forward in preference to the people’s choice Rike of Schleswig, who had recently succeeded Adelbjørn; this was because Erik had enjoyed his friendly services when he was winning possession of the realm. Nevertheless, their various wishes had not so far moved to the point of public strife and dispute, for the Scanians concealed their sentiments through fear. At that time a man named Plov, a well-born Jutlander, was hatching a secret plot against Erik’s life, even though he professed to be a member of his bodyguard. Coming to him at Ribe, Plov demanded his rightful pay as a soldier. Once he had taken it, he saw this as a reward granted to him for the murder of his sovereign. By chance Erik had been asked to pronounce regal judgement to settle a bitter argument between certain citizens and he had resolved to carry this out in the public assembly. Here Plov was instructed to answer a complaint made against him by a peasant; pretending he must speak and advancing with his lance, Plov requested that Erik should grant him a hearing. The king stood leaning on his spear and gestured with his hand to the crowd, who were disturbing the peace, signalling to them not to make a noise. Plov earnestly scrutinized him for some time, believing that he was wearing a mail-shirt beneath his tunic, but as soon as he had grasped the fact that the king was without armour, he transfixed him with his lance. Furthermore, in an effort to appear as bold in speech as in action, he shouted that he had laid the king low, and urged everyone else to slaughter the soldiers. While the other retainers slipped away fearfully in every direction, Erik Håkonson, whose mildness had earned him his nickname, displayed a unique example of bravery. For a long time he protected the king’s lifeless body with his sword, and when his companions had disappeared in flight, alone among so many of his fellow-warriors maintained a dauntless spirit, a man worthy to inherit Erik’s kingdom, seeing that he steadfastly continued to wield arms for his master, even after the latter was dead. Now that the Danish throne sat empty, no one was so convinced of his own descent or courage that he dared to seek or to seize it. Neither Sven, Erik’s son, nor Cnut, Magnus’s son, nor Valdemar, Cnut’s son, was yet old enough to assume the crown. Christiern, however, who had helped to avenge the father of Valdemar, declared I hat this boy was eminently suited to the kingship. But his mother, observing that the royal office, beset with a multitude of harsh perils, could only be handled with difficulty even by adults and would be disastrous for a young lad, refused to surrender the boy at Christiern’s request, saying that such an employment was the prerogative of his elders. Finally, when the other persistently repeated his demand, she forced him to swear an oath that he would never allow the election of Valdemar to the monarchy. But Christiern brought him right before the people at one of their assemblies, where he recalled the kindnesses bestowed on them by the boy’s father: how he established laws and privileges at home, how he crushed the foe abroad, how he rid his country of robberies and pillaging, how he again made Denmark dominant over the Wends, even though she had been almost drained and lifeless, how he also restored anew to each individual whatever had been taken from him by force, and how in recompense for all these activities the realm deserved to be allotted to someone of his blood. Even so, because his son’s years were not yet ripe enough for royal command, and since it was no advantage to the Danes to serve in the army under an immature leader, some man should be sought out who might look after the kingdom as regent until his ward came of age. They could adopt no one more fitted for this duty than Erik, grandson of the preceding Erik through his daughter, for his boldness and conscientiousness were both remarkable and he was descended from a kingly line on his mother’s side; this person would yield supreme power to his protegé when he reached adulthood. So royal authority was conferred on Erik by popular acclaim and because of the grandeur that surrounded the boy. With this one exception, fearlessness of mind, Nature had favoured Erik with none of her gifts, and he was as devoid of wisdom as he was graceless in the arts of speech. Yet he was so generally careless of his safety that when he was about to enter battle, his attendants would keep a fairly close watch on him to stop him from dashing forward alone against the enemy. Then Eskil, learning of the late king’s death in Jutland, journeyed unexpectedly to Scania in a desire to achieve a higher rank of priesthood. In fact Erik, wanting to put into effect the unfulfilled intention of his predecessor with regard to Rike, was keen to further his advancement by conferring on him the office of archbishop. However, the Scanians, who were prepared to suffer the very worst rather than have the primacy conveyed to a new family, decided to wage war on the king. On being informed of this, Erik readily withdrew from his plan, so that he would not earn the enmity of the multitude through his partiality for one man; giving Eskil permission, therefore, to change his see, he appointed Rike bishop of Zealand, conditional on the clergy’s support. While this was happening, Oluf, Harald’s son, returning home from Norway, demanded his father’s property as his birthright, for it had been seized by his uncle during the civil wars. Erik countered his application by appealing to the ancient law which decrees that those who have wronged their country must forfeit their goods. O luf’s father, he said, had laid himself open to the sentence prescribed by this statute in employing foreign troops against his native land. As a result Oluf embraced the proffered chance for rebellion with some enthusiasm, just as if he had received a rightful excuse to declare war. He interpreted the insulting rebuff he had been dealt as a licence for revolt, and from being a petitioner for his personal inheritance he turned into someone who gazed with longing at the whole realm. Nevertheless he resolved to conceal his venom and to overthrow the king in an ambush. While the monarch was staying the night in a lodging at Arnelund, he attacked, but was first encountered by sentinels, who had observed his stealthy arrival. Quickly turning their steeds, by their shouts they roused to arms the distant soldiers, who were buried in sleep, and prepared to defend the gates first themselves. Later, helped by the reinforcements when their comrades arrived on the scene, they repulsed their foes’ attempt. As though defeated in his purpose, Oluf now hurried to Sweden, but shortly afterwards, when Erik left Scania, he came back and, having by proclamation gathered together a meeting in Arnedal, solicited the people with promises of a less curbed life; after enticing them to grant him their allegiance, he appropriated the royal title to himself. Outraged at this, Eskil made an assault on him with a body of men from Lund, but his fervour was higher than his success. Initially he was worsted by Oluf, was soon afterwards besieged in the city where he had taken refuge following the battle, and finally, overcome by necessity, bargained for deliverance by surrendering hostages and taking an oath to guarantee his good faith. Later, however, when Oluf had left the area, he found a suitable opportunity to escape; with spectacular presumption he put his esteem for Erik before the hostages’ welfare and reverence for his oath, believing it no sin to wrench apart the bond of an undertaking that had been wrung from him, in order to honour a friendship of his own choice. When Eskil came to see him in Zealand, the king rewarded him for his devotion and constancy by granting him a huge area of land including many villages. Feeling he had been defeated in his absence because of the archbishop’s flight, Erik, while the Scanians were still strongly backing Oluf, in order to restore his fortunes, sailed off on an expedition with a sizable fleet to the coast known among the people as Landøre. He was apprehensive that this was a very unlucky spot, being prone to believe a fanciful story which had it that kings who attacked that shore would not last out the year. Yet while he was afraid of death if he were present, he lost the victory through being absent. Shunning this soil as if it were some destined evil and fearing the ferocity of that stretch of land more than the sword’s violence, he drew up his troops in line of battle and assigned them to advance under Eskil. The latter, more expert in archiepiscopal rites than in military tactics, experienced very much the same luck as he had done in his previous conflict, and presented a sorry sight before the king. Staring at this disaster, Erik had the chance to learn the lesson that generals owed more to their own strength than to womanish fantasies. What snares of superstition, what delusions of credulousness are we to imagine beleaguered his mind on that occasion? At other times Erik had always wielded such a vigorous arm that his soldiers had to restrain him from plunging recklessly into the enemy ranks, but now he refused to participate in the fray as though terrified, and from nearby watched his own side being defeated through his withdrawal. Buoyed up beyond measure by this victory as if he had now destroyed Erik himself, Oluf plundered the primate’s and the monarch’s property alike without the least reverence; as an affront to Eskil, by whom he was conscious of having been challenged on two occasions, he allotted the management of the archbishopric to a priest of the same name. Next, as though he had smashed to pieces the entire power of his rival in the late contest, leaving behind all his body-armour at Lund, he set off for other localities with no fear and without weapons. Hearing of this, the king, collecting from anywhere and everywhere whatever light craft he could lay hands on, brought an army over from Zealand by dark, while his friends in distant Scania provided guidance for his crossing by the brightness of sparks struck from flints. Intercepting the four strongest men from O luf’s militia in their homes, he had them drowned. Once the pretender had been stripped of his sacred appurtenances of office by the true archbishop, he was then put to death by hanging. Next the king took possession of his enemy’s arms and armour, welcome booty for his soldiery. With the aid of this equipment, he finally joined battle with Oluf near the settlement of Glumstorp, where the latter was vanquished. He retreated to Götaland from where, after the lapse of some days, he returned through Blekinge, but was once again put to flight by Erik; yet as soon as he had reached the mountain ravines, he relied on their protection to destroy those who were in close pursuit. He also hurled a detachment of his troops at the enemy’s rear and with this band all but annihilated the contingent from Lund. Subsequently, however, Oluf made his escape. Then, as if events in Scania were proceeding too little in his favour, he transferred hostilities to Zealand, anxious to alter his fortunes along with the location. When he was none the less beaten in a clash near the River Bydinge by citizens who had been enlisted under Rike’s command, he sped away to Halland. Once more he made his way from there to Zealand, where he learnt from peasants that Bishop Rike was lingering in the village of Ramløse; Oluf secretly passed the night in the same neighbourhood. As soon as he had discovered the position of Rike’s bedroom from hearing the sound of his morning office, Oluf ordered his soldiers to charge the doorway. To protect their master the grooms of the chamber ran to the entrance but were slaughtered at the threshold. The bishop himself, seeing that he was hard pressed and hemmed in by the utmost peril, subordinated religion to his safety and, slipping a shield over his neck, fought superbly to prevent his foes gaining access; in the meantime the priests who acted as his secretary and ring-bearer shored up the doors, which had almost been wrenched off their hinges, by heaping a pile of pillows against them. Because Oluf could not take the building by force of arms, he accordingly assaulted it with fire. But Rike, reckoning he would meet a finer death from the sword than by being burnt alive, craved a respite so that he might have a talk with Oluf; in confirmation of this he was given a friendly promise and, the moment he stuck his head out of doors, he was cut to pieces. Having executed his revenge by murder, Oluf eagerly raced to the coast; here he boarded ship with as much excitement as he had disembarked quietly and made his escape over the water before the king, who was at that time staying in the area, heard news of the deed. Once the news spread, the pope of Rome pronounced the harshest anathema against Oluf and conferred the power on all other prelates in Europe to deliver similar excommunication upon the man. Moreover, he gave the injunction to every bishop in Jutland that he should make sure to unleash a like sentence as due punishment for his unholy sacrilege, believing that anyone who put an end to a distinguished celebrant of holy rites deserved to be excluded from them. Immediately Erik understood that Oluf was steering for Halland, he sailed after him with all speed. When the news of his arrival at Arstad was announced to Oluf, the latter looked to an escape with the help of a nearby bridge and, after chopping it down behind him, encamped safely on his own side of the river. The newcomers, however, fell upon a handful of his soldiers, whose manliness or sluggishness made them slower to run away, and routed them. Then an old soldier of Erik’s called Ingemar, thinking his lord’s rival should be eliminated, without the cost of fighting but by some nimble piece of treachery, and enticed by expectation of reward or desire for fame, went to Oluf making himself out to be a deserter; Ingemar followed him in the pretence of having gone over to his side until eventually, as Oluf was riding along in full view, Ingemar, relying on the swiftness of his horse, aimed to transfix him with his spear; and his wish would have come true, if Oluf had not slid down from his steed in a trice and dodged the oncoming shaft with a deliberate swerve of his body. Ingemar, in a rather ill-considered effort to find an easy route for galloping away, spurred on his horse sharply and sent it headlong into a miry bog, where, stuck fast in its depths, he was killed, a fate which little corresponded with his original purpose. After this, tempted by a desire to marry, Erik took as his bride the sister of Hartwig, archbishop of Bremen; certainly she was of noble birth, but her lineage was more striking than her virtue. At her instigation Erik handed out ancient royal estates as gifts, especially to those retainers who had performed courageous service against Oluf; nor did he spare his kingly wealth, but lavished it to recompense men who had undergone dangers on his behalf, as though he had taken over responsibility for these riches merely to pour them out as donations to others and disburse them completely in soldiers’ pay. Eventually Erik exterminated his rival and a major proportion of Oluf’s troops in a fight at the River Tjute. Nevertheless his foreign wars were not conducted with the same talent as those fought on Danish soil. The campaigns he led against the Wends did not strike dread into them so much as cause them laughter. Everything about him was so indolent and relaxed that you would surely not have thought a real man could have acted in this way. The wishes of the meanest individual were observed when it came to disbanding the soldiery. He would often accede to the campfollowers’ shouts of ‘Let’s go home’, and dismiss the fleet. On account of his irresolution the barbarians in their spirited ferocity not only despised him as he ranged abroad, but also came marauding when he stayed in his own dominions. While he chanced to be sailing swiftly from Zealand to Funen and caught sight of pirates looming in his rear, he raced frantically to the shore, where he left behind all the tackle to be claimed as their booty when he abandoned the ship, shamefaced and frightened. After the passage of some years, while he was in Zealand he felt himself in the grip of fever and retreated as far as Funen, his island of origin, prepared to give up his life in the place where he had received it. There, despairing of any cure for his sickness, in a wish to show regard for his soul if he could not give care to his body, he exchanged his royal raiment for a cowl and, summoning his detachment of soldiers, publicly renounced the kingdom. It was indeed believed and also taught by experts in religion that nothing more effective could be found to efface sin than scrupulous penitence. Then Eliv from the village of Vissing, who was seated with the rest next to the sick ruler, told everyone that they should consider their decision carefully in the matter of electing a king, inasmuch as they were now free from their current military allegiance. This speech finished off the little that was left of the monarch’s life, for he could ill bear the idea of his successor being sought while he still lived. On Erik’s decease the people’s opinion on the kingship was divided. Cnut canvassed for the crown widely in Jutland and Sven likewise in Zealand, the first Magnus’s son, the second the son of the preceding Erik. The former earned respect through his father’s merits, the latter from those of his grandfather. While Sven was in the process of wooing votes from the Zealanders, the majority of whom received his application favourably, a certain Oluf, nicknamed the Stammerer, roused by a desire to imitate earlier custom, cursed all who were conferring the royal title on Sven, and Sven himself, if he should accept it, saying that he, Oluf, could never be induced to rush into such a declaration without consulting the sovereign authority of the whole country or allot regal distinction to a private individual without securing agreement from the people of the realm. He reminded them that although Zealand was the region where elections were held, true power lay in the will of the entire body of society. While the whole company remained undecided and were somewhat reluctant to express their minds, a certain Sten, scorning ancient usage, first proposed the title of king for Sven (who had approached him secretly with promises), and then drew the majority of the gathering to voice a similar affirmation. In this way the common folk fell in with his purposes and soon, following suit with their votes, gave their approval to a proposal which shortly beforehand they had feared to endorse with their own judgement. Under the same instigator the people of Zealand, to obtain the assent of their neighbours for the support of the king they had created, entrusted the mission, which should be handled capably and astutely, to a man of surpassing eloquence, Jakob Koleson, so that by flattering their importance he might urge the Scanians into alliance with them on their selection of a candidate. He was assigned as a companion for Sven on this visit to Scania, where, receiving an opportunity to speak, he informed them that the Zealanders had not wished to make any claims for their decision in the choice of monarch unless they were unanimous with the Scanians; they preferred to pursue rather than pre-empt agreement with them in all matters and would carry out no business of any magnitude without it. Even so, their hearts cherished an ingrained affection for Sven and they longed to have him as their ruler, provided the Scanians were pleased to give their assent; quite apart from his splendid personal qualities he was recommended by the excellences of his father and grandfather. He told them to remember how by themselves they once crushed all the other combined Danish forces, how, when Sven’s father had been reduced to well nigh utter despair and awaited nothing but death, they restored him to sovereignty, and he begged them to show to the son the thoughtfulness with which they had treated his parent. Declaring the Zealanders’ partiality without revealing their action, he prevailed on everybody to vote for Sven, for not only did the embassy from Zealand move them to this goodwill but the memory of their own gallantry as well. Cnut, too, was exalted by the Jutlanders with the same acknowledgement, because they took badly the fact that Sven had usurped the name of king through the rash presumption of the two assemblies. From there, depending on the Jutlanders, Cnut travelled to Zealand, avid to gain possession of the title. Later his secret guarantees pushed Archbishop Eskil, who had hitherto favoured Sven’s faction, into deserting it. Excited by these promises, the archbishop employed gobetweens to instruct Cnut to come with his navy to Scania, and he engaged to be his partner in war. So that he might gain a pretext for changing sides and put forward a plausible reason to give colour to his sliding allegiance, he made out that Sven had done him wrong; as though he intended to enter into debate with him, Eskil gathered soldiers, pretending he would discuss matters with Sven, and made for Lund, where the other was also staying. While he was duplicitously negotiating for an agreement there, Eskil learnt from the scouts who had been posted to watch out for Cnut’s coming that he was already near. Not waiting to resolve the dialogue, at that moment he suddenly revealed his design, which was unknown to the rest. Unfurling his banners, he hastened to the coast, riding full pelt. But Cnut, sailing in towards land before the other’s arrival, was loth to disembark his troops; driving his ships back to the high seas, he returned to Zealand, cursing the insincerity of Eskil’s pledge. In this way Fate made mockery of their current scheme, in which events failed to turn out as planned. Sven, on the other hand, hard on the heels of the primate as he hurried from the city, overthrew him in battle as he was retracing his steps. After he had captured Eskil, because no public prison was available he hoisted him up to the tower of St Lawrence’s Cathedral and made the church his jail. However, as a result of this, he feared the severity of excommunication, the ultimate revenge of prelates, and not only delivered him from bondage, but in order to procure his commitment and greater goodwill, even presented him with a village in the country and a large part of the island of Bornholm. Following this he engaged with his rival, but without Eskil’s participation, at Slangerup, a rural community in Zealand, and after gaining the upper hand in a most gruesome battle, ejected him from that island. He returned victorious to Scania, while Cnut fled back to his refuge of Jutland. In this period the pope, observing that religion was almost overwhelmed and destroyed by the tempestuous violence of the barbarians, sent letters throughout Europe directing the adherents of the Christian faith to assail all its foes. Individual Catholic states were instructed to invade the heathens across their borders. Therefore, to avoid neglecting their public religious duties in favour of personal hostilities, the Danes committed themselves to his edict and adopted the emblems of a holy crusade. So Cnut and Sven, exchanging hostages and relinquishing their malevolent exertions against each other, established peace for the time being so that they might better pursue their aims; withdrawing the sword from their own vitals they turned it towards the defence of the Church. Thus they mended the strife arising from their competition for the kingdom by agreeing on a joint campaign; uniting their forces, they set off for Wendish territory, while, according to a compact, the Germans simultaneously invaded a region on a different side of that country. The Jutlanders under the generalship of Cnut and men from the Hedeby area led by Sven swooped on the enemy’s port. The Zealanders and Scanians were last to appear and, wherever there was a space for each contingent, formed a ring with their ships round those which had already arrived. On the shore the Saxons came up to meet them, desperately anxious to champion the faith and prepared to become military allies of the Danes. Soon, when both armies surrounded Dobin, a town famous for piracy, the whole Danish host abandoned their vessels apart from a small band who were left to guard the fleet. Realizing how few in number these sentinels were, the inhabitants of Rügen resolved to extend help initially to the besieged by violently seizing the attackers’ navy. Shortly afterwards they fell upon the Scanians, who were closest to them because of the naval formation, and routed them almost in their entirety, whilst the Jutlanders thought their calamity gratifying, for they did not consider those soldiers as allies who they knew had a different leader from their own. Moreover, their recollections of the battle at Fodevig had not yet faded away, ensuring that the recent animosity between their two sides still seethed. Indeed people driven by personal resentments have never publicly banded together in mutual association. Asser of Roskilde, whom the king had made admiral of the fleet, was suddenly prompted by cowardice to forsake his ship and board a merchant vessel after rowing over to it in a skiff; through finding a hiding place there instead of rousing his followers’ valour by setting a shining example in battle, as he should have done, he struck fear into their hearts with this disgraceful exhibition of flight. First, however, the Scanians joined their vessels closely together in a squadron with linking chains, to prevent those with more timorous spirits from running away, but soon, when they had been worsted, they shattered these ties, which had been so purposefully provided, by snapping them at random; some of the Danes were put to the sword, others hastened their own deaths by letting themselves fall headlong into the waves. As the men from Rügen perceived that quite a few of the ships would be difficult to take because of their size, they wished to instil dread into their foes by making their own numbers appear vast; consequently they doubled their own fleet by appropriating the boats of the dead crews, and erected awnings over them as though they were filled with oarsmen, veiling the empty benches with canopies. They also employed another, no less ingenious, ruse to misrepresent their fleet; at night they would put out to sea silently and bring back their vessels at first light, in order to give the appearance of a new flotilla and make it seem as if reinforcements had just arrived on the scene. But because they did this on a number of occasions, their subtlety proved fruitless. Meanwhile, as the Danes were pressing on with the siege, they received a report that their fleet had been overpowered in a raiding attack. As soon as this news had brought them back to the port, after laying hold of the remnants of their navy they expelled the men of Rugen (who were too fearful to withstand them) from the harbour and avenged the butchery of their comrades by routing these enemies, even though the sea was still hardly navigable owing to the welter of corpses. Cnut wanted to yield his own fast warship to Sven, who had been despoiled of the boat in which he had come; but the latter, suspicious of his rival’s generosity, criticized Cnut’s obliging offer. Despite his seeing the other’s squadron intact and his own almost entirely depleted, he would not undertake the return voyage relying on another’s vessel. He was conveyed back to Schleswig, but after an interval stole a march on Cnut by taking possession of Zealand, where he encircled Roskilde, which was destitute of walls, with a rampart and ditch, so that it could be a place of refuge. Once he had entrusted its guardianship to Ebbe, he proceeded to Scania. io. Cnut, however, reckoned that Fortune had dealt kindly with him through the harm suffered by the Scanians, for he calculated that the power she had subtracted from his rival she had bestowed on him; loath to let Sven recover from the ruin of his most recent disaster by allowing him time to relax, relying particularly on the Jutlanders, he advanced into Zealand, which divided its support, being friendly both to himself and his adversary; he believed it would most probably give its preference to the first of them to claim possession of it. When, however, he discovered that at the instigation of Ebbe Skjalmson, Roskilde had defected and closed its gates to him, he sent ahead a person called Sune to encourage it to capitulate; this man was remarkable only for his talkativeness, pleasing in his command of words rather than expert in his judgement. Once he had reached the town, he first rode nonchalantly to and fro before the rampart, till after a little while he launched a fluent, well-turned speech at the men standing on the defence works and set forth the terms of his mission with greater eloquence than success. Receiving him with deliberately gentle and agreeable phrases, Ebbe contrived to have Sune caught by sending out some young soldiers as if to surrender. One of these youths gradually stole up to him, forcibly took control of his bridle while the rest beat the horse’s rear, and in this way brought the ambassador to the townspeople as a prisoner. He was first punished by being locked in fetters, and later, when Sven arrived, had his eyes put out, paying the penalty for his ill-considered inducements. Hearing of this, Cnut returned to Jutland, mistrusting his ability to capture the city, but as soon as he saw an advantageous moment, with the hope of recouping his fortunes he entered Zealand unexpectedly at a point where the land is washed by winding inlets of the sea; he took Roskilde as it lay unprepared and destroyed Ebbe’s house by fire, though not before the latter had slipped away to join Sven. Also, the community, to avoid Cnut’s being constrained by lack of means and so compelled to depart, decreed that he should have supplies of food at their own expense. The Scanians were possessed by an equal partiality for Sven; to prevent him from having to abandon hostilities through being weakened by dwindling reserves and scarcity of provisions, they gave him replenishments from a public collection. That was how fierce the competition was for honour and meritorious behaviour on each of the two sides. Meanwhile the most nobly born of the Jutlanders and those who were remarkable for their unparallelled fame in war service sought out Sven in two fast sailing ships. Now that he was girded with their strength and had enlisted Eskil’s aid, he conducted a force over to Zealand and clashed with Cnut near the village of Tåstrup. When Sven’s battle line wavered, he followed the fainter hearts who ran away, but was recalled by the success of the braver sort; even while he believed himself conquered, he suddenly emerged as the conqueror. Cnut’s men, on the other hand, would not allow him to descend into the fray, either because he was still relatively young, or because they did not wish him to be embroiled in the perils of combat, so that, instead of leading his troops into action, he became a spectator. After some days had elapsed, Valdemar, St Cnut’s son, who was then for the first time of a proper age to take part in armed conflict, detesting Cnut for his father’s demerits, joined the other side, bent on serving a soldier’s apprenticeship in Sven’s camp. Through his partisanship Valdemar brought in a very large number of troops for his commander. After the young man had been granted by Sven the authority of his father’s governorship, in a regular series of engagements he completely vanquished Cnut Henrikson, who was eagerly anticipating that same title as a fief from Cnut, son of Magnus. Their rivalry for that modest prize was no less passionate than that of the kings for supreme power. Yet victories always fell to Valdemar in abundance. For Cnut, despite extraordinary eloquence, was in fact totally disorganized in his conduct. Sven, now endowed with Fortune’s benevolence and an increase in manpower, left for Funen, determined shortly to hound his competitor in Jutland. Once there he began to organize warfare against the people of Holstein, spurred on by an exile named Edler, who promised to provide a host of smallish vessels for transport across the river. For the Holsteiners had shattered the bridge in order to make the passage more cumbersome. But in spite of his assurances, when they came to the Eider, the negligent Edler had merely supplied two little boats; although eager to precede his men in one of these, Sven was drawn back by the sounder judgement of his warriors, who asked him to make trial of the foe’s intentions by first sending others over, and not to test the situation by hazarding his own person. They reckoned that the inhabitants were lurking somewhere not far off, ready to assault a portion of our troops, as many as they felt it necessary for them to overpower. And indeed their supposition proved correct. The Holsteiners, hidden in the adjacent forest glades, patiently awaited the arrival of our vanguard, and when as many had crossed as l hey were confident of taking, they charged so that all were either killed or made prisoner; even so, the Danes displayed a fair measure of bravery in repelling the danger, inasmuch as they could not flee and were aware they had to fight under their sovereign’s gaze. In this way despair of preservation and the visible presence of their leader inspired our warriors to strive for valour. Dismayed by the soldiers’ perils, each skipper made his boat fast to the stakes planted in midstream, reluctant to convey the remaining troops across or to ferry back those who had already been delivered. They therefore neither enabled the monarch to advance nor helped the defeated men to retreat. In the meantime Cnut, overburdened by the excessive cost of maintaining his soldiery, discovered no less kindness in the west than he had lately met with in the east. He collected contributions from the countrymen, whom he had treated mildly, and found among the Jutlanders a generosity similar to that which he had received earlier in Zealand. Avoiding confrontation with him, Sven returned to Scania, because he was too frightened to assail his rival’s undiminished cohorts with the sparse remnants of his own. After a space of time, having ransomed his captured soldiers, he now felt safe and resolved to approach Jutland. But while he was crossing Funen, news of Ebbe’s decease reached him. Cast down by his death, Sven conducted his troops back to Zealand, abandoning for the moment his belligerent schemes and choosing rather to mourn his retainer than to attack his challenger. Ebbe had been so close to him that there was nothing done in the assembly or in the running of Sven’s camp which excluded his help, and in his public or private affairs he depended absolutely on the authority of Ebbe’s judgement. When, however, his recent sorrow for the man’s death passed away, he marched swiftly through Funen and into Jutland with the intention of renewing hostilities; once he had agreed to grant immunity from royal taxes to the citizens of Viborg, he induced them to undertake warfare on his behalf. Cnut, who had equipped himself with a huge contingent from the east, journeyed to meet him there, and would undoubtedly have come off victorious, had he not turned his horsemen into foot-soldiers on the advice of his supporters. For his lords, reminded of earlier campaigns in which things had gone wrong with their cavalry manoeuvres, believed they should dispense with the aid of steeds, in an attempt to apply compulsion to their own soldiery and deprive any cowards of the chance to take to their heels. They situated Cnut, together with a few horsemen, in the midst of the infantry, where he could assess his followers’ conduct in the action. Never before had Sven felt so little confidence in his own cause. But as soon as he saw his adversaries deliberately shed those means of military assistance, his profound despair changed to the height of expectancy, since he knew very well that, shorn of cavalry, his foes would prove to be sluggish, unspectacular combatants, and were forgoing an advantage to their defence instead of giving themselves firmer strength. Not wishing to appear similarly deficient in forces, Sven ordered the men of Viborg, who were ignorant of horsemanship, to enter the fray on foot, and some he distributed among the bowmen and slingers. The latter’s weapons were to be light catapults and volleys of stones. Very close to them, on either side, he attached mounted troops, who were shortly to press down on their opponents from the rear. It was principally Valdemar who invented this military strategy, since, for all his physical lack of maturity, his mind was extremely powerful and active. He had instructed Sven to pit infantry against infantry and get his cavalry to fall upon the enemy’s flanks and rear. From their preparations Cnut guessed his opponents’ plan for a twin formation and determined that he would deny them the opportunity of a surprise attack; to remove this facility and prevent his troops being encircled from behind, he judged it imperative to launch an assault; he therefore led his whole company against the massed enemy footsoldiers and subdued them almost in their entirety as they put up widespread and varying resistance. Yet this act of bravado did not dispel his danger, for Sven sent his divided cavalry dashing round his foes on either flank; Cnut’s men were hemmed in and harassed by this split offensive, while the horses which had been stationed behind his front line for fear they and their riders should gallop away had fallen into panic. When their leader perceived this, he set his forward ranks of soldiers obliquely and, taking the brunt of his drive away from Sven’s infantry, transferred it to the other army’s horsemen. He had found it necessary to turn his soldiers’ faces towards those assailing them from the rear. But because Sven had little trust in his means of defence and dreaded the risks posed by his horses, he set about vexing his adversaries by fighting them at an angle, not joining battle with them in full formation and not giving them a chance to engage properly, but, by deluding them with indecisive combat, made sure they were overcome by heat and weariness; his hardest onslaught was levelled against those who straggled some distance from the main phalanx of troops and exposed themselves rather recklessly to the perils they must keep at bay. Tormented by the enemy’s various sallies and mangled amidst the repeated onrushes and indirect strikes of Sven’s followers, his foes’ strength finally ran out, and they reached such a state of bodily fatigue that, contrary to all recognized comportment in warfare, they stopped to sit down, even during the ferment of the struggle. Because they had the capacity neither to flee nor to fight, as they cast their eyes round anxiously for some safe haven they reckoned their most reliable scheme would be to put themselves in orderly array and make gradually for the town whose inhabitants they had not long ago sent packing, with the idea of using these enemy homes as a refuge. Accordingly, keeping in strict line, they marched off in that direction, having designated certain men to guard their backs and ward off their antagonists while they retreated. Very often an unavoidable situation lends this kind of self-reliance. At this point a man named Barke, one of Sven’s most alert warriors, found himself completely surrounded by his opponents, and with astonishing bravery faced a swarming multitude of soldiers single-handed. Finally, with eyes half-blinded by sweat, he thrust away his shield and, having planted both hands on his battleaxe, wrought indiscriminate slaughter by striking at friend and foe alike and sparing none who came anywhere within reach. Witnessing his plight, Valdemar, for whom long association with Barke had brought close intimacy, was excited by the memory of their old affection and galloped full-tilt towards him in a desire to assist his comrade in such desperate circumstances. Believing him to be an aggressor, Barke drew back his blade to assault the fellow who was bearing down on him. But Valdemar was too quick for him and anticipated the blow by grabbing it from him. Only the haft struck him violently on the shoulder before the steel fell to the ground. Encompassed by all those weapons and all those foes, Valdemar only managed with a great effort to save the man as he strove steadfastly to oppose him. However, in the end, after a long struggle he wrested Barke away, despite his unwillingness, and restored him to safety. As soon as he saw that it was his dearest friend who had performed this beneficial capture and dragged him through the mélée, he said he was glad to accept his help, but would prefer not to receive it if it were merely to make a crude spectacle of himself, trailing behind a horse’s rump like some prisoner. On Cnut’s side some made an immediate escape, a portion sought hiding in the town, while a few went tearing through the middle of its streets. Their leader himself bolted on horseback down the narrowest alleyways. His soldiers who had fled to the town were rounded up and put into one of the houses, where they were held captive. When King Sven entered to inspect them, Elias, bishop of Ribe, looking round at all the inmates, said that the monarch should imitate a gardener, who encourages growth in the useful plants but rids his plots of harmful weeds. His words were certainly harsh on the surface, but anyone who cares to ponder more deeply would have to admit that he chose them with special care. Although his message was short, he spoke aptly. If Sven had taken heed of him, without question he would have laid to rest all his rival’s self-confidence. Even though he could have taken revenge on his captives on the score of the damage they had inflicted on him, he was in fact swayed by his natural scruples to pronounce a gentler sentence; the majority were given the possibility of ransom, and others, after being received into his allegiance either with an oath or backed by guarantees, were not allowed to suffer capital punishment. Only a couple were ordered to be executed, both endowed with unique criminal records, the one through leading a life of vicious robbery, the other for entrapping and murdering in his sleep a man to whom he owed the highest favours; neither was disciplined for his actions in war, but each for his nefarious conduct. A large number of the above, forgetful that they had been granted their lives, overlooked the kindness bestowed by their enemy and once more sought to join Cnut’s entourage, feeling their old loyalty more precious to them than their new one. Cnut, however, journeying from Alborg to Lödöse, stayed for a while as an exile with his stepfather, Sverker. The latter’s marriage to Cnut’s mother had come about after Magnus’s murder. At that time Danish affairs were in a tattered, fragmented state indeed, since, while civil war was raging within, the country was plagued by piratical raids from outside. In order to repel these, Sven waged war on the whole of Wendish territory, but with greater frequency than triumph. His fury and impetuosity were notable in these battles, but his perseverance less so. When he had to think about withdrawal, it was his wont to regain the shore so impatiently that his return appeared tantamount to flight. Nor did he concern himself with his soldiers’ welfare, provided he had rushed to board his vessel first. This spineless behaviour on the king’s part instilled such boldness into the Wends that they regularly crushed his troops as they were tracing their route home. In order to make it a safer retreat for himself, Sven built a ring of earthworks round Viborg, which till then had lacked fortifications, and fitted it out at great expense. Despite Cnut’s being initially welcome to his stepfather in Sweden, after a short time he began to be considered a burden, with the result that he had to put up for sale all the estates he had owned in that region to provide himself with food. There is no race readier to take in outcasts, and none that rejects them more easily. Now Sverker’s son, Jon, was an extremely vigorous lad, though not over-polite, and he retold the tale of Cnut’s battles and flight in a derisive poem, a mock-heroic ballad which aroused the shamefaced man’s sense of guilt. So that he might steep their guest in disgrace and humiliation, Jon started to jeer at him, to ridicule his fortunes, and to upbraid him for his cowardice and the regrettable occurrences of the war, while he spattered jests and bantering turns of phrase. Exasperated by these taunts, Cnut purchased a ship and provisions and, placing great trust in his uncles and relatives on his mother’s side, escaped to Poland. Nevertheless these folk imagined that, reliant on his maternal connections, he was aiming at partnership in the kingdom, and, although they received him in every other place, they would not let him be admitted to any fortified locations. In the end they looked at him from beneath somewhat uneasy brows, stigmatizing an innocent man when they owed him the regard of kinship. This fear was increased by their recent expulsion of their elder brother. After such a grudging reception, where, as I told you, he was not permitted to enter any of their cities, he went over to visit Henry, duke of Saxony. As Cnut again had less luck with him than he had hoped, he next approached Hartwig, archbishop of Hamburg, a person hostile to the Danes, owing to their removal, long before, from the jurisdiction of his archiepiscopate. Because Hartwig treated him with the utmost consideration, whereby at long last Cnut managed to obtain support for his campaigning, he sent a secret mission to test the loyalty of his soldiers back at home. The reply came that they would all be prepared to switch to his side at a moment’s notice and would transfer the fealty given to Sven back to their former lord. His mind eased by their promise, Cnut entered Jutland with a body of foreign troops. Neither Sven’s philanthropy towards his followers, nor their affection for the hostages they had given, nor qualms over perjury stood in their way when it came to carrying their banners back to Cnut. Once Sven had been informed of his arrival, doubtful of his own strength, he resolved to withstand siege in Viborg, a town which he had recently improved with defence works. Here, so as to meet the drain on his resources, he removed by plunder the goods of those citizens who had gone over to Cnut, and collected revenue through his depredations. However, Cnut, who in view of the outcome in his last battle and because he feared unlucky places lacked the confidence to storm the city, pitched camp a good distance from the walls; he was happy to wait until, as days turned into weeks, his competitor was harrowed by lack of food and either seized the chance of an unseemly, hasty departure or of an ill-considered engagement. Cnut’s trustful assumption spelt victory for Sven. It was at this time that Brune, a man who had accompanied Cnut from Saxony, was either bribed on the instigation of Sven, with whom he had an old association, or became weary with boredom at the unduly protracted war, so that, having somehow been granted permission, he left for Ribe with a few companions. After Sven had exhausted his personal means owing to the high cost of staying in the city, and could see no facility for dragging out hostilities longer, he decided he had to take a dangerous risk and, by making a forced march silently during the night, hastened to the enemy’s camp, where he burst in unannounced as they were intent on their early morning devotions. Smitten by sudden terror, each according to his inclination made it his business either to resort to flight or his weapons. A stream flowed between the two armies, full of hidden depths, which could only be traversed by a single ford; this was unknown to Sven’s followers, but an earlier reconnaissance of the area had revealed it to Cnut’s men. The brook was small and at one time insignificant, yet it has now achieved renown from that famous conflict! The assailants, uninformed about the place, went for the impassable points of the channel and, as their horses plunged headlong, paid for their incautious attack. Once they had proved how perilous it was and since the chasms prevented a close encounter, they threatened their foe from a distance, taking up the combat with slings and spears. Next the Saxons, who were desperate to display their courage, leapt on horseback into the shallows, for they would not let the site inhibit action. As soon as Valdemar noticed that you could ride through the stream at the one spot, he turned his bridle in that direction to try to stop the enemy coming across; galloping to encounter them head on, he displayed excellent practice in soldiery as he dashed his lance against one of them and shivered it to pieces. On the other hand, when he rode into the water he was met by four spears at once, which caused his mount to drop back on its haunches; yet he himself was such an expert horseman that he managed not to lose his seat. A fifth spear, which fixed itself between his forehead and helmet, he wrenched by the shaft, broke it, and tore it away. Freed from these harassments, he spurred on his steed, and with a small number of others passed over the ford; to prevent the crossing becoming restricted for those behind, he removed himself to some distance from the bank, and once there, forming a battle line, threw himself into the fight. In addition, with a small band of helpers he kept back the entire enemy throng until every one of his fellow-soldiers had passed over the ford, and so without the slightest doubt became the architect of Sven’s victory. As soon as the latter lent his aid, Cnut’s adherents were sent scattering, for they had imbibed a strong fear from the previous battles and, unable to dismiss the recollection of these, were never anything but dejected and subdued in spirit. Defeat had so broken the morale of Cnut’s supporters that they had lost most of their manliness, and were now incapable of putting up any steadfast resistance against the foe; with too great a capacity for alarm, their wills had grown blunted and they were continually disposed to run away. For the Saxons, however, military action was more of an everyday occurrence, so that they kept their horses on the move and, by charging repeatedly, treated their vanquishers with insolence; they regulated their flight in such a manner that they appeared to be in full control of an ordered and disciplined retreat. The most courageous of this company, Folrad, fell in that skirmish; he could find no one to take him prisoner, even though he made constant pleas to be captured after being struck down. The remainder, cravenly fleeing while it was still day, remained at night in the town, where they were intercepted by their pursuers and put to death at an inn. The winners had proclaimed that they would spare none of their conquered opponents, partly through their hatred of the Saxons, partly because they had proved that those they had taken during the last war and who had been given the chance to ransom themselves were now their antagonists for a second time. Cnut sought refuge in Saxony. After he had made his escape, since the inhabitants of Ribe, who had learnt the details of it from travellers, wished to give greater pleasure to the victor, they immediately laid hold of Brune so that he could be produced for a swift trial by Sven. But when Brune had been brought before him, the latter treated him for a while in a somewhat friendly fashion and a little later, after giving him presents, allowed him to depart. This behaviour at first evoked distrust of Brune among his fellow-countrymen and soon afterwards gave rise to his downfall and destruction; for there were kinsmen of the slain warriors who imagined that he had been bribed by Sven and had undermined his comrades’ safety by giving them very bad advice; they made surmises about his perfidy on the evidence of his having shunned the war, believing that the king’s generosity was nothing but a reward for his knavery. Once they had fixed a date when he should stand trial for his treachery, they then witnessed the power of their accusations sidestepped in the face of his extremely stout defence; and as they could not overcome him in court, they laid violent hands on him in an ambush. Now that Sven was seemingly relieved of personal dangers, he put his mind to repelling threats to the nation. He established many defences for the country people at coastal stations that were protected by nature, and set about building two fortresses alongside the straits, one in Funen, the second in Zealand, which would fill marauders with dread but at the same time provide a place of shelter for the natives of those regions. Nevertheless, both are reported to have been destroyed by the Wends. Sven fought with great bravery against them on Funen. In hacking down their forces, the majority of his soldiers’ hands were so chafed by their swords that the skin between their fingers turned red with blood. On account of the incessant raids from buccaneers at that period, a pirating venture was started at Roskilde under the leadership of Vedeman, which observed the following customs and procedures: if any vessels looked more suitable for privateering, these men had the power to commandeer them without the owner’s consent, provided they later gave him as rent an eighth of any booty they won. Whenever they were going to embark on a voyage, they used to lament the sins of their past life to a priest; as soon as they had performed the penance laid on them by the Church, they would receive Holy Communion at the altar as if they were shortly to die, reckoning that everything would work out quite successfully if they had appeased God with the proper rituals before they set off to fight. Carrying meagre provisions for their journey, they avoided an excessive load and tackle, happy to take simple armour and food and conveying nothing with them which would slow their progress. Their lives contained many night watches, much frugality. They would snatch rest while seated at another’s side, still leaning against their oar handles. As often as they sailed close in to land, it was their habit to entrust an initial survey of the territory to their scouts, in case they should happen to encounter anything unknown or unforeseen there. Should the wind blow them to an island, they would put in, but not before they had sent an exploration team to scan the positions sheltered from storms, since foreign fleets usually appreciate calm havens. Frequently they clashed with adversaries, yet in every encounter they gained an easy and virtually bloodless victory. Spoils were shared equally, in such a way that the helmsman accepted the same amount as an ordinary rower. If they discovered any Christians held captive when they had gained mastery over a naval force, they used to present each with a cloak and send them off to their homes, so great was the feeling they had for their fellowcountrymen! They captured eighty-two pirate ships at different times and places, though they never possessed a squadron of more than twenty-two vessels themselves. When they ran out of funds, they would collect levies from the townsfolk, who by way of recompense would receive half their booty. This devotion to piracy began, as I said, at Roskilde, but from the heart of the city it filtered through even to the peasants, so that the rovers gathered recruits from well nigh every area of Zealand. In the beginning activity was restricted and slight, but after a little while it swelled to huge proportions, and nowhere did their endeavours grow any more relaxed till peace had been restored to our country. Meanwhile Cnut made his way with a handful of companions in exile to North Friesland, a region which is also part of Denmark. This province is rich in agricultural land and teeming with cattle. Nonetheless, being low-lying and bordering the Ocean as it does, the effect is that every so often the waves wash over it. The whole coast is fringed by a dyke to prevent the sea bursting in, for if it chances to break through, the meadows are inundated and villages and crops submerged. No one locality stands naturally higher than another. Frequently the waters tear up complete fields and dump them elsewhere, for possession by the owners of the precincts to which they have been transferred, while the original site has turned into a lagoon. The floods produce a corresponding fertility, whereby grass grows luxuriantly over the soil. Salt can be decocted from the baked clods. During winter the earth is continuously covered by the tide and the plains display a lake-like appearance, with the result that Nature has made it quite doubtful which part of the physical world a field belongs to; in one season you may sail over it, at another it is suitable for ploughing. The natives have a savage disposition, are nimble, and despise heavy, cumbersome armour; they carry shields and throw spears in battle. Their fields are surrounded by ditches, which the men vault over on short poles. As for their houses, these are raised high on banks of turf. Their name and language associate them with the Frisians and prove they stem from that race; fortune had it that, as they were seeking fresh homes, this district presented itself, and, whereas it was originally a soggy fen, they made the ground firm through long cultivation. Later the governance of the province began to fall under the authority of our kings. It so happened that Cnut begged aid from these people, and, after he had undertaken to allow some remission in their normal tax burden, they were all ready to give him their goodwill and support. Made eager by his promise, with thoughts focused on the niggardly reward, the Frisians submitted themselves to weighty, massive toil. Initially they built a walled fortification in which to harbour him, next to the River Milde. So little did his large military enterprise cost him. xiv. T H E HI ST OR Y OF T HE D A N E S IO . Immediately Sven heard rumours of Cnut’s return, he formed the Jutlanders into cavalry detachments and enlisted a fleet from the Zealanders and Scanians. From this he removed a number of ships at Schleswig and had them dragged overland as far as the River Eider, to make sure that this territory did not offer an escape route to his enemies. But his undertaking proved more a waste of energy than an advantage. From there he marched with his troops to the recently erected stronghold. Situated as it was between bog and river, this site was better fortified by Nature than by human labour; the Milde flowed past it, its waters gliding gently along narrow channels. Because of the limited room for manoeuvre the king was unable to surround the bastion with his army, and therefore pitched camp in a suitable area where there was plenty of space. Then cutting down thickets available from a wood very close by, he commanded his men to construct hurdles, which, when the time was ripe, they could use as bridges to traverse the swamps. As this was occurring, some of the Frisian youth, either chafing against delay, or with their sprightly dispositions longing to show off their valour, agile as always, leapt over the river which ran between the two bases; with the idea of provoking the opposition, they roamed about and assailed their enemies from a distance. Now some of Sven’s men were not slow to meet their challenge. Quite a number from each army entered this contest, both sides determined to hurl back the threat to their soldiers, neither of them able and willing to watch the hazards of their common situation impassively. The fighting gradually increased its intensity, and everyone’s minds were so unanimously concentrated on it that complete and total victory seemed to depend on this preliminary skirmish. Seeing this fracas, Peder Thorstenson, one who was privy to all King Sven’s secrets and who was well acquainted with the Frisians’ rash behaviour, straightway instructed the troops to arm themselves and stand ready and waiting in the camp. Unaware of this, the whole body of Frisians suddenly hurtled across the stream, believing that the king was in his quarters and unprepared for them. The entire band rushed in, more boldly than wisely, thirsting to overpower their unexpectant foe. But the moment Sven’s militia made an equally energetic counter-attack, they flew back to the marshland familiar to them. Sven’s horsemen soon managed to get across this terrain quite simply by laying down the wattles they had made to form bridges and, once they were on the other side, chased the fugitives with might and main. Another means by which they contrived to speed their progress was the sword: they wreaked such carnage among their fleeing opponents that the stream was paved with corpses, which soon enabled the victors to ride over it. After the Frisians had been routed, Cnut slipped away on horseback with a few companions to share his exile; those who did not succeed in escaping sought shelter in the stronghold. Imagining that Cnut was within the fortress, Sven assailed the inmates as aggressively as he knew how, hoping that by apprehending Their leader he would put a final stop to the war. He exchanged fresh warriors for the wounded, ordered men who had been relaxing to take the place of those who were weary, allowed no interval between day and night in the battle, and ensured there was unremitting pressure to prevent his adversaries taking a break as a respite from their tiredness. The recent slaughter of their prisoners gave an additional incentive to The besieged, for none had any hope of pardon from a conqueror whom they had vexed so often. The king opposing them was afraid that, if he slackened his offensive and did not shortly gain the stronghold, the Frisians would come to the rescue of their beleaguered friends; in consequence he conducted the work of combat with even more persistence. Thus fear lent obstinacy to both bands of contestants. Not satisfied with grappling in the light, they extended their strife into the period of darkness. The engagement was still in the balance when, as it chanced, shouts were raised nearby, and, thinking the Frisians were pressing upon them, Valdemar hastened with his standards to the point where he heard the clamour; deceived by the uncertainty of the gloom, he bore down on his colleagues, who fought back tooth and nail. So it was that this valiant general, misled by conditions at that hour, inflicted death and devastation on those he was resolved to help. The occupants of the garrison, drained by the incessant pounding and their unalleviated fatigue, with no replenishments for their struggle and granted not a single moment to recover their strength or treat their wounds, despaired of their situation and capitulated to the monarch. Then they discovered that Sven’s integrity and forbearance were quite beyond anything they had anticipated. On that occasion the king revealed a unique proof of his sense of duty by his behaviour towards Plov, the assassin of Erik, lie had no desire to claim satisfaction from his father’s murderer, being inclined to give more due to the practice of surrender than to the barbs of vengeance. The rest, too, were not punished with death or captivity but were sent away unransomed, after Sven had stated that their obedience and their hate were all the same to him; as far as he was concerned, no success could ever be expected from men who had so constantly changed their loyalty and oath of allegiance. Once released, they accepted banishment at their commander’s side. Cnut’s followers had so much regard for him that no reversal of his fortune ever provoked disaffection in any of them. The Frisians paid the ruler a fine of two thousand pounds and submitted hostages. Afterwards, goaded by shame at their flight or prompted by the stupidity of their characters, they begged Valdemar to petition the king and ask him to renew the war against them under these terms: that if he were victorious, he should receive the same sum as the one previously agreed, but if he were vanquished, he should allow them the amount of remission from their former tribute which Cnut had promised them. Shrewdly measuring the suppliants’ hotheadedness against the indeterminate outcome of battle, Valdemar checked the sheer craziness of their words with wholesome advice of his own, stressing how very foolish it would be for the losers to demand of the winner that he should expose them again to the disastrous situations of conflict. In the meantime Cnut went to Germany and importuned Frederick, who not long before had assumed control of the Holy Roman Empire, with entreaties for help, undertaking to put his country and its governorship in his fief. The emperor, whose natural cunning and passion to enlarge his dominion were boundless, greedy to bring another’s wide realms under his own sway, reminded Sven that they were old friends and companions-in-arms; promising him an increase in prestige, under the pretext of fondness for Sven Frederick sent an invitation to a conference with him, pointing out that, although he was possessed with an extraordinary desire to visit him, the high grandeur of Roman sovereignty stopped him from travelling to see the Danish king. In fact Sven as a young man had entered the household of the emperor Conrad to become thoroughly acquainted with the military arts, and there for some time had fulfilled the role of Frederick’s comrade; the latter, who had not yet risen to public eminence, matched Sven in age and aptitude. So, attended by an elegant retinue, he carried out Frederick’s instructions, not because he believed the lies of this highly deceptive man, or wished to deprive his competitor of his place of refuge, but because, known to the Germans so far only by his reputation, he wanted to submit himself to their gaze also and show himself in person to the admirers of his renown. He acquired no small honour at the imperial court through the sumptuousness of his escort and his display of pomp, so that amazement at his excellence drew the eyes of all Germany towards him. When Sven entered Merseburg, :> which was swarming with Teutonic noblemen, he was at first received deferentially by the emperor; but soon, being harassed with all manner of accusations, he discovered that Frederick’s reliability did not live up to his promises. Then, eventually, stipulations of this nature were produced: he himself would serve as the emperor’s liegeman, while Cnut, disclaiming any pretensions to the Danish crown, would become Sven’s vassal, for which he would receive Zealand as his due fief. If Sven refused, the imperial might would be put at Cnut’s disposal and Frederick would be obliged to send him to I Denmark with a force ready for action, which would anticipate Sven’s return and perhaps even attack him immediately on his arrival. Recognizing that in this intimidating situation he would either have to risk his neck or acquiesce, Sven pretended to comply, but excepted from the terms of the agreement his father’s estates, which covered a large area of Zealand, treating these as his private property; otherwise he would have no opportunity of breaking the contract once he reached home. Because this was customary in German law, the proviso was easily granted. But since, in all this, Cnut had little trust in the bargain, he earnestly requested Valdemar, who had come with Sven, to stand surety for him, believing that the safest guarantee of his claims would be the young man’s honesty and complete trustworthiness. Certainly he thought that no one else in the king’s retinue would keep such an alert and steadfast watch on his behalf. Valdemar, aware of Sven’s duplicity, perceived that his affirmations in this compact were delusive and undependable, and stubbornly refused to back Cnut, in case he, Valdemar, should let another’s disgrace rebound on him. Finally, under pressure from Sven, he agreed with reluctance and displeasure to give his pledge for Cnut, but to start with declared that, if Sven infringed the pact, he would go over to the other’s side. Once the conditions had been approved by both parties, they went their ways. As soon as Sven had returned to his realm having gained an associate instead of a rival, he instantly sent back letters which condemned the emperor’s faith with a direct charge of deceit and overturned the covenant they had entered into by a refusal to serve him; he emphasized that he had been falsely drawn into agreeing with demands to which no Danish monarch had ever before submitted. Moreover, when Cnut sought his rights, Sven averred that he had merely been granted the management of the province, and that he himself had dissociated the royal domains from the rest of the agreement. Cheated of his part in the bond, Cnut urged Valdemar to honour his guarantee. The latter considered it equally reprehensible to forsake the king or to renege on his sponsorship, for his view was that in either case he would be hazarding his reputation; he therefore chose to alter rather than destroy the covenant, determined that, since the sovereign thought Zealand essential to his supplies, he should allot another fief to Cnut in its stead, yielding the same ample proceeds, no less spacious in area, and just as valuable in the dignity it bestowed. The king gave his approval to these terms and, appointing Cnut to a triple governorship, awarded him special fiefs in Jutland, Zealand, and Scania, since he judged that the other would wield less genuine power if his sphere of rule was carved up between different regions. Cnut once more begged Valdemar to stand surety for him in this proceeding. Although the latter resisted in the same way as before, Sven, eager to reach an agreement, forced him to pledge security a second time, affirming that if he himself ever opposed the contract, he would not take his or Cnut’s withdrawal badly. Relying on Valdemar’s assurance, Cnut was delighted to take advantage of the conditions set. Accordingly Sven, as though he were now freed from apprehension of war, lapsed into arrogance and, feeling that the customs of his native land were not sufficiently cultivated but somewhat rustic and uncouth, spurned and altered Danish behaviour by seeking refinement from his near neighbours and aping German manners. He adopted Saxon costume and, to ensure that he encountered no hostility in doing so, led his soldiers to show partiality for a similar style of uniform, while in his disgust for provincial habits he furnished his palace with a cortege of sleekly groomed minions. Not content with that, he dispensed with homely ways of dining, adopted foreign modes of table etiquette, and at his feasts taught the attendants to conduct themselves with more polished ceremony. Not only did Sven introduce a new level of elegance, he propounded urbane practices in eating and drinking. The same kind of enthusiasm was to be seen in the replacement of his retinue and enrolment of fresh escorts. Marks of distinction were removed from the aristocracy and conferred upon actors, stately and eminent individuals were banished from his side and a ménage of scandalous effeminates substituted in their place; by casting off personages of greater consequence and promoting men of lesser breed he simply wished to exhibit the extraordinary plenitude of his power, and make those he had enriched attribute their good fortune to the ruler’s generosity, not to anything conferred by their birth. Sven’s extravagance of behaviour was also accompanied by avarice. Whenever the deaths occurred of people whose property he had enlarged, he assigned their remunerative legacies to himself, and turned to fleecing orphans of their possessions after their parents’ decease. He reckoned it no crime to impoverish the children of those whose efforts had brought wealth to his kingdom. After he had repented of his kindness, the very soldiers he had previously enriched were reduced to a state of abject poverty. Again, driven by the ravenous appetites of his huge train of followers, he started to demand severer provincial levies and contributions from the peasantry. In this way, as he pandered to his warriors’ excesses, he lost the sympathy of the commons. Furthermore, in disputes, where hitherto there had been dependence on a sacred oath, he rejected the proper legal forms in favour of wrestling contests and athletic victories; a judicial decision, which required rational scrutiny, was now founded purely on exertions of the body. So that there should be nothing to add to his contemptuousness, Sven considered it beneath his exalted rank to speak at a meeting from a public platform. For this reason, despising plain addresses face to face with ordinary folk, he used to take up lofty stations from which he could deliver judgement from on high to the people beneath. In the frequent squabbles he had with the archbishop of Lund he enjoyed success more often than failure. toAt this time, when Karl, regional governor of Halland, had gone away from his province, Jon Sverkerson, enticed by the report of their surpassing beauty, seized the former’s wife and his widowed sister so that he could have sexual intercourse with them, and carried them off as far as Sweden. The story goes that, having subjected them to this abuse, he would summon each in turn to satisfy his lust on alternate nights, defiling these noble, modest ladies with the most filthy abominations; no respect for the matron’s marriage bed or for the young woman’s chaste widowhood quelled him from giving rein to his passionate pleasure-seeking. In the end, when his father and people cursed a crime of such colossal audacity, he sent both women back home. As if it were a communal disgrace Sven resolved to avenge this outrage on the whole Swedish realm, for he judged that public shame could only be obliterated by taking up arms against the whole population. But because he was going to marry a girl to whom he had lately been betrothed, the daughter of Conrad, a margrave of Saxony, the preparations for his wedding prevented him and, since that personal union was closer to his heart than collective revenge, he kept back his army. The ordinary people mistakenly alleged it was the fault of his bride-to-be that Sven had been seduced into foreign habits and put the blame for his introduction of newfangled customs on her recommendationsDuring this period Nicholas, a cardinal in the city of Rome, having crossed the North Sea from Britain, granted independence to Norway, hitherto subservient to the jurisdiction of Lund, and distinguished it with the title of an archbishopric. He wished to enact a similar enterprise in Sweden, too, through his powers as papal legate, but since the Swedes and Götar were unable to agree on a city and personage suitable for such an important function and contended for the privilege, he denied them this honour, considering that a nation which could still behave in such a crude, uncivilized way over a religious matter did not deserve one of the highest Christian offices. After looking at the appearance of the season and thinking how dangerous and frightening it would be to sail back over the Ocean in winter, he concluded that the route via Denmark would be the most appropriate one for his return journey; he also decided to offer a soothing benefaction to allay the offence caused by his advancement of Norway. So, approaching Eskil by means of envoys, he promised to award him new, greater authority than he had previously lost, explaining that he would compensate for the deprivation of Norway, now it had been snatched away from him, by the gift of the Swedish primacy. Eskil leapt at the proposal and eagerly entreated the legate to give him an interview. As soon as Nicholas arrived, he committed to his care the insignia of the future Swedish archbishop, to be given to the one on whom the Swedes and Götar agreed by a united vote. As well as this, he established that, once the pallium had been conferred by the Curia, whoever became elected as high pontiffs of Sweden should be consecrated by the primate of Lund and ever afterwards pay respectful allegiance to that see. He assured him that the granting of this prerogative would receive official approval from the papacy, a matter that was subsequently effected without the least effort. After his return to Rome, Eugenius died and Nicholas was chosen to replace him as pope; thus as patron of public worship he accomplished what he had consented to as a private representative of Church diplomacy. This custom, confirmed by the usage of posterity, still follows its ancient course, having been observed right up to the present day. Now that this business was settled, before leaving Denmark Nicholas employed a cardinal’s energies to the task of turning Sven back from his scheme, the war he was designing against Sweden, by putting forward the various snags: the difficulty of the terrain, the poverty of that kingdom, and the fruitlessness of any victory. Such a military undertaking would be gigantic and bring scant reward, since even before he could engage with his enemies, he would have to battle against huge, towering escarpments. When they had vanquished the foe, the conquerors would only be able to seize contemptible plunder, a paltry gain. Finally, as Nicholas’s wise counsel could not overcome the ruler’s stubborn obstinacy, he satirized his obtuseness in a very droll comparison, saying that Sven was trying to imitate a spider; after it had spun the strands of its web by voiding its entrails at the risk of its own life, what did it catch?— nothing but stinking beetles and other worthless creatures. By his illustration he drew a clear likeness between the king and the spider, his troops and the web, victory and hunting for prey. In this manner he showed the voracious leader that he was being seduced by a pointless campaign, draining himself of strength in his greed for petty returns. Respecting Nicholas’s rank rather than his advice, Sven supplied his guest with necessities and at his departure conducted him to the very borders of his land, after which he once more recalled to mind his passion for the war he had meditated of old; for it was more a yearning to possess Sweden that fired him, not so much vexation over the affront he had received or the provocation of shame. This was the most wonderful chance, he thought, of invading Sweden, when Sverker had grown old and unfit to fight, and animosity had lately sprung up between him and the people, because Jon had been murdered by peasants as he was addressing them in public. The Danish monarch cherished such firm hopes of success that, even before his operations had begun, he was parcelling out the claims to Swedish provinces among his warriors as if they were prizes of war. Two of his noblemen, who on hearing reports of a particular Swedish girl had been gripped by competitive desire, fell into violent disagreement and quarrelling. Thinking it right to keep her hand as a favour at his own disposal, Sven promised that as soon as the country had been won, she should wed the one who had displayed greater courage. This pledge led to a mighty contest of valour between the amorous rivals. So confident were the Danes that they would have the running of Sweden. In the meantime Sverker, terrified of conflict, dispatched one ambassador after another to Sven in the interests of peace, but no conditions he could offer had sufficient power to achieve his object. Therefore, seeing that he was wearing himself out to no avail, he neither presented himself for combat, nor made ready for war, nor planned a campaign, but set off for secret, distant regions, entrusting the struggle in its entirety to his Swedish subjects. So that he might avoid having to negotiate the twists and turns of the most difficult tracks, Sven held back his war machine and waited for winter, when he could look for a more direct passage across frozen marshlands. Gaining the help of winter, Sven chose the more convenient routes and, intent on booty, attacked Finnveden, ransacking and burning as he went. The inhabitants came to meet him in supplication, ready to surrender themselves and their country; besides being content to offer no resistance, they even brought provisions and submissively treated him like a guest. Next he entered Várend. Here the natives received him neither with resistance nor capitulation; he spread fire and sword indiscriminately, while men and women fled in all directions to seek the inaccessible wastes. But now mountainous drifts of snow had invested almost all the countryside and the ferocity of the cold was such that, when women put their babies to their breasts, the infants’ limbs were so numbed by the icy temperature that they expired even while they sucked the nourishing milk; the mothers, not far from suffering a similar fate themselves, would fondle the corpses of their offspring in a dying embrace. As the Danes, too, were persecuted by the merciless climate, they did not spend their nights in camp or observe sentry duty, but some protected themselves by braziers, some under roofs; their fears were not due to the violence of weapons but of the weather, seeing that everyone shunned the elements more than the enemy. Until they could make the Danish king agree to show them some courtesy, the men of Várend were keen to intercept his advance; chopping down woods, they blocked a narrow gorge, through which Sven was going to march, with piles of tree trunks. The pass was hemmed in by such vast sweeps of surrounding cliff that it could not he bypassed without an extensive detour. The moment that the king, in the middle of dinner, heard about this piece of daring, unable to brook any delay he overturned the table and rushed to his steed, ordering his soldiers to accompany him; he rode pell-mell to those rocks, full of indignation that his ventures could be hindered in their progress by a miserable roadblock erected by country folk. When a man named Niels asked him if he wouldn’t stop being so angry and examine more carefully the rather risky situation he was in, Sven told his questioner that all husbands were a very faint-hearted race, joking about Niels’s marriage, for he had embarked on this military expedition the day after his wedding. The fellow, enraged by the disdainful rejection of his cautionary words, intimated that he would shortly execute a deed beyond Sven’s daring; reciprocating the dishonourable charge levelled against him, he retaliated by casting back the reproach of timidity. This speech, proceeding as it did from anger, presaged his own quickly approaching end. When they came to the ravine, the soldiers slipped down from their horses and, though they were only lightly armed, began to assail the mass of tree trunks, for their impatience to have the business over and done with made them scornful of hazards; meanwhile the natives who had gathered to man the barricade loudly clamoured for a truce. Niels was desperately anxious to erase the insult he had received from the king by some performance of outstanding merit and to reflect the image of a he-man rather than an adoring husband; he tried to scale the edifice of stout logs, clambering resolutely towards danger, but the peasants, standing on top of the pile as if defending a bastion, put a finish to him with a spear through the head. When the other Danes made a similar attempt, they were beaten back with stones and stakes. Because darkness was coming on and he was beginning to think better of his over-hasty assault, Sven drew back and, having given the signal for retreat, pitched his camp not far from the rampart, determined to pursue the conflict at next light with heavier forces and equipment. However, during the night his foes resolved to disperse, and since by morning all the defenders had vanished he was able to journey onwards untroubled. Afterwards he accepted the allegiance of the Varenders, whose confidence to resist had deserted them. As soon as Sven realized that most events were falling out according to his wishes, he felt uplifted by these proofs of his good fortune and decided that he would overrun the whole of Sweden. But the bitter temperatures and the weakness of the horses, occasioned by rough roads and shortage of fodder, inhibited further progress. Then those cavalrymen who had been reduced to marching on foot piled their knapsacks on the backs of their fellow-soldiers’ mounts and, driving the laden animals before them, slunk off home without the king’s knowledge. Once he eventually detected these men’s stealthy departure, he forestalled any more secret disappearances by giving them leave to return; immediately after that he altered course and made a beeline for Scania. For this reason Karl, along with Cnut, his brother, trustfully imagined that, since they had taken hostages, he could expect a safe and unimpeded journey back to his province; nevertheless, before he had quite reached the borders of Halland, he was offered entertainment by the inhabitants of Finnveden, who hid their treachery beneath a cloak of hospitality, and there he spent most of the night in prolonged carousal. Well filled with drink, he and his comrades, who were completely fuddled, all took themselves off to bed in a barn that had been emptied of corn. When their breathing indicated a deeper level of sleep, the local people shot the bolts on the double doors from outside and hurled firebrands on to the roof. Not until the greater part of the building was ablaze and had almost collapsed into ashes did the ferocious heat galvanize the inmates, whose faculties were still drugged with wine. Finally, assailed by the scorch of the approaching flames, they were desperate to break out of the doors, even before they dressed, but at the same time discovered that these had been barred externally. While the conflagration closed on them within, the enemy without forbade their exit. But present anguish eased their fear of the consequences, so that the threat of the peril at their backs was considered harsher than the danger before them. The result was that the Danes, preferring to be overpowered by blades sooner than a bonfire, struggled all the more vigorously until they shattered the fastenings that had been thrust in front of the doors; in escaping one of the hazards they deliberately rushed into another. Some boys of excellent quality, relatives of Karl whom he had therefore admitted to his circle of dependants, were drowned naked beneath the icy waters of the Nissa without compunction for their age, and so in this barbaric sport received their death and burial in the same river bed. This was how the toil of a massive expedition ran to waste through the deceit of a few yokels. After a while the populace of Scania, in disagreement with their chiefs, gathered for a meeting and withdrew with their weapons to Arnedal. If at any time the common folk of that region thought they had been saddled with unbearable impositions, they would oppose these injustices by popular violence. So keenly was liberty sought when the people’s subjection was considered intolerable that everybody seized arms. The monarch, scared that this revolt would proceed to more serious national uprisings, crossed over to Scania from Zealand in order to quell it and, reliant on his squad of militia, came to the peasants’ assembly. He remained weaponless himself, but was accompanied by armed knights, because he wished to create an impression of being anxious about exerting force, not of planning to use it. When the mob spontaneously fell back, he walked into the encircling crowd, only to be met with a shower of disagreeable complaints; as shouting rose to a crescendo among the masses, he found it impossible to argue his case or even to gain an opportunity of speaking. The moment he stretched his right hand out to the public in order to entreat silence, he was greeted with a thick volley of stones. This was the extent to which the fury of disorder had flared up into scorn for royal authority. A man named Toke Signeson, who was equally superior in birth and eloquence and enjoyed the king’s intimate friendship, dashed into the midst of the throng and, after securing quiet from everyone, subdued the ignorant hubbub of the assembly with the command of an educated voice; he managed his performance so well that he indiscernibly defended the interests of the governing class, while apparently giving clear protection to the commons. Once the countrymen had gone back to their firesides, the king, reacting to such an odious affront with the utmost annoyance and vexation, set a number of Scanian villages on fire and pillaged almost the whole region, as if it were guilty of high treason. From the instigators of the rebellion he took either their lives or their property, reckoning that seditious men ought to be punished with poverty or death. Even though Toke’s serviceable speech had benefited the king, and his helpful tongue had enabled the king to evade the people’s anger, Toke was still not left unscathed, since Sven alleged that he had incited the rabble against him by his covert recommendations. Roused to a savage, insane anger, he rated the objects of his dislike and affection equally. This onslaught by Sven restored Cnut’s confident hope of effecting a revolution, but the bond between Sven and Valdemar put a particular curb on his making the attempt. He perceived that any hatred felt towards the ruler was balanced by everyone’s partiality for his general, and the crimes of the one, in his estimation, were cancelled out by the other’s virtues. Cnut’s advisers thought that before disturbing Sven’s tranquillity they should estrange him from his colleague, and considered that harmony between Valdemar and Cnut could best be effected by a marriage alliance. With a view to accomplishing this match they purposely set about praising extravagantly to Valdemar the beauty of Sophie, Cnut’s half-sister born of the same mother. Valdemar, however, declared lhat the maiden’s lack of means was an obstacle to his contemplating union with her, for in having a Russian father she was heiress to no possessions in Denmark. Although he privately bowed to the persuasions of Cnut’s adherents, he pretended to be more a shunner of the girl’s indigence than an admirer of her looks. Therefore only after Cnut had promised a third of all his inheritance as her dowry did Valdemar accept her in betrothal, whereupon he entrusted her upbringing to a matron called Bodil, until such time as she should be ripe for escorting to the marriage bed. In this way the two men’s neglected blood tie, which had long been damaged by destructive animosities, was repaired, and their dispositions towards one another were now so blameless that the character of their new relationship was not stained by one spot of the old enmity they or their fathers had cherished. The more genuine their mutual amity, the more suspect it was in the eyes of the sovereign. But while secretly on his guard against them, he was afraid of openly annoying them, aware that the majority of his forces had gone over to Valdemar, on whose fortunes they were quite sure their own depended. Consequently, though he found fault with the fealty of both men, he hid his suspicions in case he betrayed his aggressive feelings. They, on the other hand, were not unaware of the royal dissimulation and, after obtaining permission to travel abroad on the pretext of going to visit their estates in Sweden, approached its monarch, Sverker. In reality their purpose was to request the hand of his daughter for Cnut. Sverker welcomed their coming with such a display of goodwill that, passing over his own children, he proposed to name the two Danes his heirs, thus hoping to establish a paternal affinity with them. This wish was implanted in him either by his own sons’ idleness or the nobility of the eminent suitor. When they returned to Denmark, their king detested them more than ever for this closer intimacy with his enemy. Cnut then departed for Jutland, and while Valdemar was calling at Ringsted, Sven eagerly went after him; immediately they met he harassed Valdemar with protracted insults about his disloyalty and treachery. When the latter denied it, Sven handed him a letter supposedly presented to him by his friends, but actually concocted by himself and intentionally lacking any signature, which reported the league that Valdemar and Cnut had entered into with Sverker. Though Valdemar’s temper was normally roused very seldom, he was incensed beyond measure by this fabrication, and did not hesitate to let his tongue pour out an overflowing stream of bitter invective against his accuser. Throwing the reproach of treachery back in Sven’s face, he no longer bothered to refute the king, but launched recriminations at him, bawling that all the reward he received for his illustrious and fatiguing deeds was to have piffling lies cast at him. The sovereign was so stirred by the lack of restraint in his reply that Valdemar would have been taken into custody, if the soldiery had not refused to participate in his arrest, since their respect and approbation were stronger for him than they were for Sven. Continuing his complaints later in Jutland about the king’s wrongful treatment of him, Valdemar elicited severe hostility towards Sven. From there he and Cnut withdrew to Zealand with a huge fleet drawn from the whole of Jutland, not because Valdemar had a mind to undertake war against the king, but because he was trying to secure a new compact and make Sven’s dealings with him more dependable and trustworthy. When Sven, with his armed retinue, encountered him at the seaport of Sundby, they held discussion for a whole day on how they might reach agreement. Once they had finally made their peace, the sovereign returned to Roskilde about midnight. In the meantime there came a report that the Wends had mounted an invasion and advanced on the eastern flanks of Zealand with a navy of unprecedented size. As they had already devastated the terrain, they now passed over all the places that had been stripped of plunder and decided to make an unexpected assault on Roskilde. For this reason they totally abstained from lighting fires, so that no trace of smoke would betray their presence. The fact that their scouts had told them the city was quiet and that the king had set off to distant parts increased their daring. Furnished with this information, they accordingly left the rural areas untouched, and aimed at Roskilde with great eagerness. A few of them with speedier horses had reached the outlying districts and almost arrived at the perimeter of the town. The king, who was now appreciatively catching up on the sleep he had lost during his wakeful stretch of the night, received news of the serious crisis when it was quite late to make provision for it. The first of the Danes to confront the enemy, thanks to a swifter steed, was Radulf, an exceedingly skilful cavalryman. Since he was on his own, his military exercises stood him in good stead, as he now dodged his adversaries, now gave chase to them. Whenever he galloped off into the uncultivated countryside, it was awkward for him to halt his career in that direction owing to the bulkiness of his armour; the Wends, on the other hand, being unencumbered by any such weight, were aided by the greater freedom and agility of their horses. Observing this, and pinning his hopes more on his mount’s strength lhan its fleetness of foot, he began deliberately to guide it into the cultivated fields. The Wends’ nags, which were deficient in stamina, stumbled among the corn stalks, unable to keep up with Radulf’s immensely powerful charger. As long as it was a test of physique rather than a race between their steeds, he could not be seized by the foes pressing at his heels, for the thick crops hampered the progress of the inferior beasts more than that of the robust animal. Asked who he was, lie answered, ‘A merchant’. On their demanding to know what sort of merchandise he carried, his reply was, ‘Weapons, which I generally exchange for horses’; and the one he was riding, he added, had come into his hands through trading. When they enquired whether the king was present in Roskilde, he said yes. After they objected that Sven had recently left the city to confer with his kinsmen, Radulf affirmed that this was certainly true, but he had since returned. However, as his response did not tally with their spies’ assertions, they imagined he was lying. For this reason Radulf thought it best to speak the truth about the king’s situation, because, if his words were genuine, he believed his enemies were bound to suppose the opposite. While this exchange was taking place, the king’s horsemen joined Radulf, each according to his speed in arming himself and his dexterity; from there they retired to form a close-knit squadron and would have instantly made a strike against the foe had not Radulf, eyeing their sparse company, thought it necessary to await reinforcement from their comrades. Their continual success in war prompted I hem to such strong assurance of victory. On the opposing side the Wends recalled their companions from pillaging and lined them logether in formation. As soon as Radulf realized from signs of raised dust that the king was almost with them, he joined battle, confident of imminent support. Although the Wends fell back as their infantry were butchered, their cavalry, massing in a cluster away from the rest, first turned tail as if it were their intention, but soon, when Sven threatened their rear and they spied the small numbers of his knights, wheeled round and put our men to flight. Radulf then interrupted his slaughter of the foot soldiers to attack these cavalry with his own squadron and this time forced them to beat an unfeigned, breakneck retreat. Nevertheless he withdrew from pursuing them very far because their horses could outstrip his, so that, mingling with the royal troop, he turned his sword back on the enemy infantry. Yet the fugitives still cherished such a passion for spoil that, even as they sped away, they stripped the skins from the carcasses of some rams they had killed. What greed we must presume was locked in those hearts, when amid the utmost peril, after flinging away their weapons, they could not bear to relinquish this contemptible booty, a worthless hindrance to their retreat, by which they thought to better themselves! A very few of them got away to the beaches, whence they made for their ships by swimming through the hazardous waves. Soon others, desiring even more frantically to escape, entered the waters in blind terror, and perished indiscriminately, throwing away those lives in the sea which they had striven to save from the enemy. Meanwhile the Wendish cavalry rushed forward from a place of concealment as though they might attempt to snatch victory from the king’s hands by craft. At the moment when the Danes imagined the end of the battle had come, the fighting was renewed. The Wends, defeated by the valour of our soldiers, desperately took to flight; so anxious were they to remove themselves out of sword reach and to safety, that in their womanish panic they rode their horses headlong over the sheer cliffs by the coast to end their existence and give up the ghost among the rocks in an ugly cascade of bodies, even though they had shrunk from shedding their lives courageously on the field of battle. Owing to the wholesale destruction of these sailors the remaining oarsmen were scarcely equal to the task of rowing their ships clear of the shore. During this period the sea rovers had free rein, so that from Vendsyssel right down to the Eider all the villages on the eastern side of Jutland were emptied of inhabitants and the land remained uncultivated. The eastern and southern regions of Zealand lay dormant, unoccupied and waste with neglect. For in the absence of peasants, brigands had made these their homeland. Pirate raids had left nothing in Funen beyond a scattering of country-dwellers. Falster, restricted in area more than in courage, compensated for the drawback of its smallness by the bravery of the islanders, since it knew no yoke of tribute and held off the foe either by treaty or its own strength. Lolland, however, though it exceeded Falster in size, sought peace through payments. Everywhere else desolation reigned. No reliance could be placed on weapons or on strongholds; the winding inlets of the sea were barricaded with very tall poles and stakes to stop the entrance of buccaneers. Observing that his fatherland, tottering and on the brink of collapse, could not defend itself with its own troops against the privateers, the king reckoned that to counter the Wends he should acquire the aid of Duke Henry, whose power at that time was remarkable, by offering him a fee. Having promised him a payment of fifteen hundred pounds in silver, he made up the sum from public contributions. But Henry’s friendship was not particularly profitable, being more of the kind that can be bought and sold; after pocketing the money, he showed by his behaviour that his word was hardly to be relied on, either because he would not or could not fulfil it. As the king, therefore, had not obtained a truce, he heaped misery on his country with this dishonour, even while he was looking to pursue its best interests. The affair unleashed the people’s anger all the more bitterly against him, for they considered it shameful that a state of peace should be sought with rich gifts instead of arms, and that the commonwealth should be cheated through its ruler’s weakness. So, having despaired of any relief from these evils, Sven turned his attention from repelling the threats of piracy to being on continual guard against his citizens; renewing his suspicions, he bent his thoughts to attacking Valdemar, as if, after removing one of his bugbears, he would be able to tackle the remaining worry more easily. Since he believed the matter might be effected more appropriately by guile than by warfare, he repeated the visit to his father-inlaw, as if to make enquiries about his wife’s dowry; Valdemar was enrolled as one of his chosen companions to follow him in this expedition, because it did not feel safe to leave him at home and Sven was keen to hand him over to Conrad so that he could be kept in prison. When this deceit was revealed to Valdemar in letters from several of his friends, on the monarch’s arrival at Schleswig Valdemar reproached him openly with accusations of dishonesty, and reminded him of the sturdy acts of loyalty that he had performed on his behalf. Upon Sven’s denial of any hard-hearted intentions towards Valdemar, the latter showed him the writings he had received, albeit with the names of the informants deleted. Then he asked the king to recall how he had produced a crack corps of fighting-men for him, how he had received fearful wounds on the front of his body while battling for him, and how Sven had always obtained a greater share of victories with his aid; for these illustrious services, Valdemar complained, he had been repaid with falsehood and intrigue in lieu of gratitude. None the less he guaranteed to escort his sovereign, declaring that Sven would be aware, if he carried out his subterfuge, that it would be his wickedness, and not his cunning, which had worked its purpose on Valdemar. On his side Sven attempted to alleviate his distrust by complete duplicity, for he could not be induced to abandon his treachery despite such valuable loyalty. Persevering irrevocably in his design, he arrived at Stade, where he was received at the home of Hartwig, archbishop of Bremen. When Sven was unable to persuade the primate to respond to his request for a guide to lead them the rest of the way, he forced Valdemar, who he knew was on very close terms with Hartwig, to renew his pleas. The archbishop then summoned Valdemar secretly to reveal the falsity of the king’s purposes, and admitted that he was deliberately refusing his demand because he could perceive that it spelt danger for Valdemar. However, so that he might appear to be giving Sven some satisfaction, pretending he wielded little authority, Hartwig suggested that he beg Henry for someone to conduct them, seeing that the duke was pre-eminent in power and rank, but that this proposal should be entrusted to a messenger from himself as well as to envoys from Sven and Valdemar. Henry listened to these emissaries and because he understood the king’s guile and wanted to do the best he could for Valdemar, sent an answer to Sven that his demand was pointless in view of the fact that he might more conveniently obtain it from his own father-in-law. Then, taking Valdemar’s representative aside, he informed him how injurious such a petition would be to the master who sent him, and declared that unless Valdemar returned, he would suffer the ultimate agony at Conrad’s hands. So it was that Sven’s messenger approached Conrad, after sending off his two associates, and announced that the king was suspicious of certain relatives, who, having long been at odds with each other, had been brought into agreement by a recent marriage alliance. One of these had been summoned under false pretences to join his retinue, and now Sven was anxious for Conrad to keep him in chains for fear he should start a rebellion. Furthermore, Conrad must supply him with a guide to enable him to proceed farther on his journey. When Conrad enquired how Sven came to be accompanied by a rival, the man affirmed that Valdemar had put his trust in the king. Then Conrad cursed Sven’s plan, saying that he himself, an old man, would be acting discreditably if he allowed himself the sort of behaviour he had avoided when he was young. Surely it was odious for an elderly fellow to change from being an upstanding leader into a promoter of treachery, and in his final years to bring upon himself a stigma which he had hitherto shunned. He would rather see his sonin-law and daughter, together with the grandson she had produced, nailed to a cross than mar his reputation for honesty and integrity, preserved for so many years, by a dishonourable deed in his later old age, and to abet another’s deceitful intention by fostering it with such nefarious partiality. But at the end he added that if his son-in-law dispensed with his chicanery and openly attacked the persons he feared, then he would be at Sven’s side to give him support. As soon as the messenger delivered Conrad’s words to him, Sven was steeped in humiliation, and because he was refused anyone to direct him along the remainder of his route, went back to his kingdom. After a brief series of delays, while Cnut and Valdemar were detained in Viborg, Sven crossed secretly from Zealand to arrive on I'unen, trusting that in this way he could surprise and capture them. When his stratagem was discovered, he sent word to each that he had come to have a talk with them, not to arrest them; they must cast aside their wrongly conceived suspicions. However, as they had had advance disclosure of his evil project, once they had observed the king’s purposes with regard to them and derived no happy expectalions now from his promise, they appropriated the royal title to themselves with the backing of the Jutlanders. After that the sovereign gathered his soldiers together at his royal residence in Odense (for it happened that he had broken his journey there) and began to question them closely, now individually, now all together, asking them with what constancy they were willing to engage in the war ahead. Although they were prompt to answer, Sven was not satisfied with a simple undertaking, but pressed them to swear an oath of loyalty. On the introduction of the holy relics, Sune left the palace by himself, either on account of his old devotion to Valdemar or because he was excited by personal vexation over the injustices he had suffered. Others were dispatched to recall him and demanded to know his reason for such a precipitate departure. When they asked him to return, he complained about the seizure of his family estate. The king gave his word that it would be restored. Sune commented that this righteous behaviour had come somewhat late, and said that he had now no intention of enjoying at a time of misfortune what he had been cheated of when he was in happier circumstances. He felt no qualms about going over independently to join the stronger side and for this reason followed his judicious plan of abandoning a monarch who had treated him so badly. With an eye to his father’s and grandfather’s friendship for Valdemar, he found an honourable pretext for his desertion and directed his course to the opposing camp. After Sven had confirmed his followers’ allegiance and made his way back to Zealand, he was shortly attacked by his challengers, who had borrowed the Jutlanders’ fleet. The king, happening at that time to be situated in Roskilde, summoned Eskil, the archbishop we have often had cause to mention, along with an escort of Scanians. As soon as these had presented themselves, Sven enquired of Peder Thorstenson, an adviser in all his resolutions, what resolves he should take to meet the present situation. The story goes that on one occasion, when the king was seeking advice on how he might govern in safety, Peder told him he should either woo the knights and the commoners with lavish favours, so that he might proceed against his rivals with greater security, or that he should at least transfer his endeavours from courting those sections of society to satisfying his kinsmen; these he should allow to be the real rulers, while he himself must be content merely with the appearance of sovereignty. I f he chose neither of these solutions, Peder informed him, there was no possibility that his reign would be anything more than brief. But Sven did not meet the wholesome precepts of his wise reply with the rational appraisal they deserved, and took these very profitable reminders as the ravings of a madman. A beneficial judgement cannot penetrate a mind that is clouded by wrath. Unable to contain the anger which possessed him, he swore that, as long as one shield was available to him, he would oppose Peder with il. Peder answered: ‘I’ve always carried my shield on your behalf, but Pm afraid you may very soon need every single shield you can lay hands on.’ The king, believing he had spoken out of greed for gain, asked whether he hadn’t consumed enough yet. The reply came that he had indeed eaten his fill, but was anxious in case a full stomach might induce indigestion. When the king again wanted to learn how he should act, Peder instructed him to depart for Scania; there the troops were more dependable, whereas in Zealand he had fewer friends than enemies. Apart from that the Jutlanders would not be quite as ready to pursue him there, seeing that the memory of the battle of Fodevig still gave them tremors. But if these enemies reached Scania first, they would recruit the assistance of its populace against him and, if Sven omitted to target them, he should have no doubt that they would forsake him for the opposition. Sven said he might judge the other’s words differently if Peder were not hoping that Valdemar, whose illegitimate son he was educating, would spare his home. If, however, they yielded their country to the foe, no privileges of special friendship would suffice to protect other men’s property. Having thus rejected someone eise’s good sense and clung to his own powers of judgement, Sven determined to wait for his foes at Roskilde. As food stocks began to run down, he put several royal villages up for sale, in order to obtain the cost of provisions. At length when the proceeds from a good deal of land had been exhausted, and The king seemed on the point of disbanding his troops, who had become a burden owing to the excessive outlay they entailed, Eskil, preparing to desert his ruler, concocted a device that would turn danger to his advantage. First he secretly bargained with Sven’s adversaries for abundant remuneration if he went over to their cause. Soon afterwards, approaching the king with the men from his own region, he grumbled about the lack of sustenance; he begged him to get rid of those he was incapable of feeding, especially if they were likely to infringe the laws of duty and kinship should they march into battle against fellow-citizens and relatives who had been enlisted on the opposing side. When he had delivered these opinions, which gave a kind of rationale for defection, he left the palace with the Scanian contingent, while Sven added a parting threat, that he deserved to pay lor his withdrawal by losing his head. But this rage of the king’s was dispelled by the more level view of his advisers, who forbade him to augur the coming war with a sinful and sacrilegious act. Now that the majority of his warriors had melted away, the monarch, contemplating flight, proceeded briskly with the remnant of his forces towards Falster, though even his supporters were at a loss to know what his intention was in repairing to a locality so remote from any city. When the soldiers realized that Sven had set his thoughts on escape, they pleaded with him not to let himself be vanquished without a fight, and promised victory if he would go back. They also asked him to be aware that they were his men-at-arms, who time after time had overcome huge multitudes of their opponents with their own modest band; he must not be apprehensive about their small numbers, considering that he had so often seen them triumphant in his undertakings. On top of that it was the ultimate degradation to entrust his fortunes to flight sooner than warfare and voluntarily to make the potential victims the victors, rendered more powerful by another’s fear than by their own strength. They then advised him neither to emerge as a craven betrayer of his soldiery after being an energetic ruler, nor to allow so many of his successes to be sullied by one disgraceful attempt to flee. Nevertheless, unable to deflect him from his dogged purpose, they harried him with loud and bitter reproaches. Not satisfied with criticizing his unseemly trek, they even added their insults and curses. Next they decided to go and fight the enemy, fortifying one another with mutual encouragements: they forecast that their foe’s massed legions, rushing forward negligently and at random in their desire to catch up with their opponents, and adopting a loose formation, could easily be intercepted by a small body of men. Moreover, they had a good supply of weapons and horses, and the absence of one timid leader had never dealt bad luck to a company of their strength. So they engendered firm courage in each other’s breasts, longing to compensate for the slur of the king’s infamy with their pugnacious spirit. But when after long expectation the enemy had not yet come into sight, Peder advised them to consider their safety by breaking ranks, insisting that it was infernally stupid to engage in battle without a general. The Jutlanders, in fact, believing that Sven’s retreat was strategic, reckoned they must advance quite slowly for fear of ambush. Then because the Zealanders were native to that region, these gave the rest of their fellow-soldiers guidance and provisions, so that no one in this battalion experienced disaster on his return home. The majority of them subsequently changed sides in the interests of a peaceful existence, and swore allegiance to the two kings, who sought their friendship along with their obedience. Ulf and Thorbjørn, however, whose loyalty to Sven was tried and tested, thought this kind of pardon a shameful business; arrested in their own houses, they were delivered into the custody of King Sverker, preferring to devote their lives to exile rather than surrender them to the foe. Souls of such admirable steadfastness were resolved that they would enjoy more glory in chains than freedom if they transferred to the other party. Sven, however, remained continuously in exile for a space of three years at the home of his father-in-law until, when the latter had died, he gave pledges to Henry, duke of Saxony, promising him a large sum if he could restore him to his Danish kingdom. After agreeing to the fee, the duke advanced with all his best troops as far as the earthwork which they call Dannevirke, and was enabled to pass through it by bribing the gatekeeper, the cost of which, having besieged Schleswig, he extorted from its citizens. Then Hart wig, archbishop of Bremen, who was deputy leader of the expedition under Henry, declared that the man who had opened the gate had deserved not only the money he had bargained for, but simultaneous hanging, so that people might see the traitor and the reward of treachery on the same gallows and be instilled with dread at the thought of performing a similar deed. It was here that Sven plundered a foreign fleet and paid the soldiers with goods pillaged from the Russians. By this action he not only drove away many hundreds of future arrivals, but also reduced a distinguished trading city to a mean, cramped settlement. When the Saxons traversed the countryside, now abandoned by its inhabitants, and met with no resistance, they fell violently upon it, and behaved with less restraint the farther they went. The southern Jutlanders, fearful because of their sparse numbers, sneaked away to the northern region, where the population was denser, and under the guise of flight started to prepare for war; having previously guaranteed their support lor Sven, they now denied their assistance to one who had surrounded himself with forces from abroad, not wishing to give the appearance of having helped a foreign contingent attack their own country. At about the same time King Sverker was murdered by the groom of the bedchamber as he slept at night. The powers above avenged this outrage with as much speed as justice, for shortly afterwards Magnus, who in his secret lust for the throne had been behind the servant’s perpetration of the crime, paid for his wicked scheming with his life; this occurred during a fight with Sverker’s son, Karl, for robbing him of his father, although Magnus was longing to deprive him of the realm, too. That event forced Cnut to visit the more northerly parts of Sweden in order to comfort his mother. In the meanwhile Valdemar, receiving a report in Zealand of the German attack, set off with all speed to Jutland, but sent back Absalon, his foster-brother of much the same age, to hasten the advent of Cnut, who was returning from Sweden in his rear. Valdemar’s presence counted for so much among the Jutlanders that he brought confidence to the brave and roused the timid and sluggish to take up arms for their fatherland. Because he had long ago become related to a Saxon nobleman named Henry through the marriage of a kinswoman, Valdemar privately dispatched intermediaries to beg him, for the sake of their old friendship, to urge his allies to advance and use every means he could to prevent Duke Henry from going back home; at the same time he announced that he would shortly appear on the scene with his army. This fine self-assurance came to Valdemar through the numbers and eagerness of his soldiery. Cnut, recalled from Sweden by news of the turmoil, entered Zealand with a picked body of men, intent on aiming at once for Jutland. Nevertheless he was prevented from making the crossing when a colossal storm blew up and his warriors, galled by the delay this caused, pretended Valdemar had concluded a treaty with their adversaries, a piece of news they reckoned had just been learnt from one of the peasants. On hearing this false rumour, Cnut reprimanded them with the observation that their ungrateful souls were a discredit to them, seeing that they had so little that was decent to say about a man who had exposed his person to a public threat; if they did not want to honour him with the praise which was his due, he urged them at least to curb their tongues from disparaging him unwarrantably. Esbern alone, grandchild of Skjalm the White through his son and an intimate of Valdemar from their being brought up and spending their boyhood together, declared that he was willing to cross the straits and would bring back to Cnut a description of events in Jutland. His voyage, as brisk as it was perilous, was accomplished successfully, for with the amazing battle put up by his oarsmen (like a struggle against the whole universe) he overcame the unleashed fury of the elements. In the meantime the Saxons heard reports that the entire strength of Jutland had united with Valdemar, and the enemy host was so vast that it could not be encountered without risk of disaster. Their general was stunned by this information and because he knew that Henry’s association with Valdemar was one of great familiarity through the claims of their kinship, he insisted on asking him in a mock-facetious manner where on earth the princeling was wiling away his time. When the other answered that Valdemar looked around for hidey-holes and barren wastes, the duke, feeling that Henry was prevaricating, switched from sham joking to a serious, careful interrogation. Faced with the lord’s persistent refusal to disclose these secrets, his leader begged and pleaded by the loyalty he owed to the Holy Roman Empire that he should, with his knowledge, give some prior indication of the foe’s preparations and speak openly about anything which he could see menacing his fellowcountrymen. Swayed by this appeal, Henry maintained the truth of the report, and said that there was a war on hand the like of which they had never yet experienced, one which its survivors would never tire of communicating in their reminiscences. Henry’s assertion struck everyone with dismay. But when he was asked his advice on whether they should await their enemies, he tried to raise all their spirits with manly encouragements to fight; in this way he divided his good faith between his friend’s requests and the duke’s authority, so that he neither disregarded the former’s instructions nor jeopardized the latter’s safety by keeping quiet. However, because of widespread anxiety such a scheme was rejected and the army, in its longing to return, found an excuse in the season of the year. Owing to the lack of fish and the fact that they had no desire to infringe the established fast that was appointed in the coming spring, the soldiers laid a bounden duty on themselves to go back home; with total insincerity they put forward the pretext that there was a scarcity of suitable foods, glossing over their cowardly inclinations with the name of religion. The method of their departure made this as clear as day. The route which had taken them a whole six months to cover on their way there was now traversed again in three days, for in their burning haste they left a good many of their packs and a good deal of their baggage behind. It was at this point that Esbern returned with an accurate report of the situation to dismiss Cnut’s forebodings, which had wrapped him in the deepest worries of uncertainty. Shortly after this the Wendish forces inflicted such brutal devastation on Funen that, if its inhabitants had met with another similar calamity, they would have remained totally devoid of agriculture and their condition would have been not so much distressed as utterly hopeless. Yet Sven, not satisfied with having approached the Saxons as a suppliant once already, again sped to Henry and with the help of the Wends, who were under the duke’s sovereignty, made the effort to travel to his native land. As soon as Sven had crossed with their fleet to Funen, to the joy of its citizens he turned to the city of Odense, intending to guard his life against countless antagonists with the aid of a few adherents. He promised his supporters that the Wends would guarantee their tranquillity and freedom. So, whether their consideration was to obtain a peaceful life for themselves or to pay respect to his royal dignity, the islanders displayed such ardent concern to view and honour him that a crowd of men and women rushed to his assistance from every quarter, reckoning it an excellent thing to retrieve the shattered fortunes of the king in the face of those who wielded supreme power. When they heard of these developments, Valdemar and Cnut brought together all the rest of the realm’s troops on land and sea to strike against Funen. The great multitude of these forces would easily have obliterated the meagre detachment from Funen, had not Valdemar, pitying this remnant, believed it necessary to have some mercy on the island’s unfortunate circumstances; he feared that if he exhausted this residue of the populace following the damage of fresh destruction, he might seem to have harmed his own country more I han he had the enemy. Considering it therefore preferable to tolerate a rival who threatened his overthrow rather than break an enfeebled limb of his homeland, he suspended hostilities in favour of a conference. At Valdemar’s instigation action turned into discussion, during which it was agreed that Sven should go off to Lolland with his enlisted bodyguard and there pass the time virtually alone, until full unanimity could be found between himself and the other two leaders on the question of peace. The next day Valdemar made his way to Odense in order to cleanse himself properly, but Cnut dared not enter the bathhouse with him for fear they might be walking into a trap; Sven, who wished to cultivate Valdemar’s friendship, received him with a religious procession, bringing sacred objects to their meeting. Admitting none of Valdemar’s escorts apart from Absalon, Sven next led him into the church of St Alban. Then, sitting down in the chancel, Sven said: ‘A perverse fortune has long grudged me a share of your friendship, Valdemar, though I’ve always felt well disposed towards you, and my father not only took revenge on your father’s assassin, but embarked on war with his own uncle, taking up arms with total loyalty to protect your life from extinction, when you had been set down amongst murderous bands without anyone to defend you. After him the younger Erik swiftly secured care of you and of the kingdom, for he had no desire to see my father’s purpose fail, since he had long served under him. I came to be the third guard of your childhood, and you may be sure that I exerted myself to keep you safe no less than my predecessors had. Even before you were fully grown I resorted to arms on your behalf against the man whose trustworthiness and company you so much admire at present. And if I hadn’t been rather lucky in my early endeavours, you would have suffered undeservedly at the hands of Magnus’s son. He would certainly not have allowed you to be second to him, if he hadn’t feared me as a third. As long as I live I shall be preserving your life against his stratagems; when I die, it will mean the end of your days as well as mine. I should feel all the more assured in having recourse to your strength, the more I knew that it owed its existence to my support. And now, confident of your esteem, I establish you as the arbitrator in the settlement of his peace with me; after enduring so much tribulation among foreigners, I shall be satisfied with whatever lot you assign to me, since I should prefer to dwell as a needy private citizen within the confines of my homeland than be condemned to exile once more. I believe too that when you have taken all the individual facts more justly into account, you would consider it a matter of reproach to honour the son of your father’s murderer, not the son of his avenger.’. As Sven was repeating these and similar affirmations, Valdemar did not hesitate to interrupt him: ‘You’re wasting your time if you go on trying to shatter the sympathy between Cnut and myself; he was unconnected with the mischief perpetrated by his father and in any case has performed the proper actions to expiate that deed some time ago. As to my having been no longer prepared to serve under you, hold your treachery responsible for that, not my fickleness. When I was a travelling companion of yours abroad, didn’t you once determine to commit me to prison, where I could be put to death by your father-in-law? However, the margrave’s integrity outweighed your vicious behaviour; otherwise I should have disappeared, to perish in chains. How many times did you make a guileful attempt on my life, how many times on Cnut’s, eager to strike us down with your deceitful schemes and enterprises? How will you bear us as equals, when you couldn’t tolerate us as your men-at-arms? None the less, rather than appear to spurn you as a kinsman with these reproofs, at my own risk I’ll try to restore your fortunes, though I’m persuaded more by pity for your circumstances than by a naive belief in your promises. Should you repay this kindness with foul play and dishonesty, don’t imagine you’ve cheated our innocence by your guile; it will just mean that our probity and sense of duty have given scope for danger.’ Then Sven, inventing words of deception, denied his intention to act in bad faith and vowed that he would aspire to their friendship with conscientiousness and sincerity, especially since there was no evidence that he had his own or his children’s interests at heart. In fact he was burdened by this illness of his and could scarcely hope to last out the year. Nor had he any sons for whom he had to provide a kingdom. What, then, could he gain from a breach of faith but blame and disgrace? He’d rather be the recipient of melancholy fortunes, however severe, than cause the deepest dishonour to his reputation, spread an infamous memory of himself throughout the whole world, and acquire a brief enjoyment of rule at the cost of an everlasting blot on his name. As soon as Valdemar had departed, Sven himself retired to Lolland. Here, dissatisfied with the small number of his attendants, he daily recruited fresh bodyguards and, by making large additions to his retinue, awaited the date of the conference with greater security in proportion to his strength, meaning, so it seemed, to conclude peace with his rivals on equal terms. At the pre-appointed time Cnut and Valdemar sailed to Lolland with all the Danish nobility. Because his visits to Sven were generally made on a friendly basis, Valdemar then went to see him with a few followers, though Cnut never ceased to distrust the king and to denounce his supposed honesty. Since the latter believed that Cnut had come as well, he secretly instigated some of his men to stage a brawl, turn everything to uproar and strife, and with their swords do violence to both his competitors. However, once he saw that Valdemar had arrived without his companion, he withdrew his scheme, reckoning that there would be little benefit in putting down one without the other. Though Valdemar realized that a trap had been set, he pretended ignorance and, when Sven asked him to come for an informal talk the following day, irritated by his fulsome obsequiousness, Valdemar insisted that he would only attend if each of them arrived alone. His own physique was such that he would never hesitate to engage man to man with anyone. The soldiers were therefore commanded to remain at a distance while the two spoke together and arranged to call a meeting for the morrow. Whether he trusted their kinship or was eager to veil his deceit, with Cnut’s consent Sven passed the making of the decision about the terms of their agreement to Valdemar, stressing that he would be satisfied with whatever conditions the other judged fit. So Valdemar, resolving that he and they should use the royal title, divided the whole compass of the realm into three: as one portion he partitioned off the whole extent of Jutland, as abundant in its number of inhabitants as in its wide expanses; Zealand and Funen comprised another, while his third allocation contained Scania and its adjoining regions. Since the power of selection as well as that of division lay with him, Valdemar granted himself first preference, Sven the second, and took the initiative by opting for Jutland. Then Sven, whose turn it was next, demanded Scania, for he had no wish to receive the middle ground between his co-rivals. So the islands, a smaller share, disregarded by the other two in their choice, fell to Cnut. Confirmation of this contract was settled by an oath, so that fear of sacrilege would discourage dishonesty. Next they stretched their hands towards heaven and called on the Creator of the universe to heed their covenant; not content with establishing the pledge of peace by human consultation, at the same time they beseeched God to preside over their compact and take revenge if it were violated. Bishops, too, were called in to add their strictures by directing a threat of excommunication on any who broke the pact. It was also agreed that they should mutually deliver up informers, to ensure that their sincerity might not be injured by dark lies and the soundness of their alliance shaken. As soon as these arrangements had been made, with Valdemar at his side Cnut went on ahead to Zealand, of which he had now been given possession; it was his wish to extend hospitality to Sven, who was to follow shortly afterwards. Discovering the next day that the latter had been received at Ringsted, Cnut, anxious to maintain his good faith, proceeded to meet him, but on the way met the abbot of Ringsted monastery escorted by a German knight, Radulf; according to the abbot, Sven had been informed that Cnut was approaching with a large force of armed warriors. Deriving caution from his suspicions Cnut took this information as proof of the other’s falsity, and after avoiding Sven made his way to the assembly, which, as it happened, was taking place that day, thronged with milling crowds of people. On the other hand, Valdemar’s belief in Sven weighed more heavily with him than his distrust, and therefore he sought him out, being more faithful than careful because of his reliance on the agreement. Troops of royal soldiers were standing ready with their weapons, with orders to murder Cnut and Valdemar, provided they appeared on the scene together. When he realized that the former was absent, Sven called off his liegemen and greeted the newcomer very effusively. When asked why his retinue were carrying arms when there was no threat of danger, he told Valdemar of the rumour he had heard. But though the other censured him with a good many reproaches for his falsehood, Sven still utterly disguised his thoughts and kept his plans and purposes well hidden. Then, at the invitation of Cnut, who had the authority to entertain guests there, Sven moved on to Roskilde, where they spent the night in sport and revelry, till at dawn he went with one or two attendants to the village where Thorbjørn lived, not far from the city, pulled by affection for his small daughter who was being brought up there and whom he loved to see. The tale goes that on this occasion Thorbjørn’s wife declared herself astonished that Sven had been reduced to such a humble situation and could bear to be thought satisfied with a third portion of all that he had once controlled. Her words, stemming from righteous indignation, worked on Sven as a strong incentive to crime. As evening drew near, Cnut sent messengers to summon him to dinner. Thorbjørn greeted them with exceptional friendliness and when they enquired how it was that the king had been delayed, he asserted that Sven’s lateness had been due to an attack of vertigo, induced by the smoke and steam of the bathhouse. Sven however, wanting to give an excuse for keeping them waiting, said he had been frolicking with his small daughter, having given way to her childish coaxings. The questioners were struck by the discrepancy between these two explanations. At their instigation he returned to the city, where he was welcomed and invited to take a seat with a colleague on either side, apparently a mark of respect for his seniority. Once the tables had been moved away after the feast and everywhere slender goblets were being passed round from hand to hand, the good humour of the gathering increased and Sven called for a game of backgammon, boasting of his consummate skill at this pastime, a type of relaxation he had always been particularly fond of during his period of banishment. His words, which had the air of bravado, were in fact a sour recollection of his adversity. Nevertheless, as a suitable board was not to be found, they could not devote any time to this diversion. Amid their other recreations a German minstrel sang about Sven’s flight and exile, and cast a variety of insults at him by turning his slurs into a ballad. When the fellow was sharply rebuked by the guests for his tactlessness, Sven concealed his annoyance and bade the musician sing again more freely about his misfortunes, avowing that he was very happy to recall his turns of ill fate now that his troubles were over. As twilight crept on and lamps were brought in according to custom, one of Sven’s soldiers, Detlev, who had slipped away from the feast a little earlier, returned to the palace and silently let his eyes and thoughts rove about for an opportunity to commit the outrage. After he had stood there for a short while like someone in a stunned daze, Cnut spread his mantle on the floor and asked the man to sit next to him. Thanking him for such a proud honour, Detlev, however, departed from the room but, coming back immediately, gave a slight nod to summon Sven. As the latter remained unaware of so covert a gesture, Cnut told him that Detlev had called him over. When he rose, the soldier whispered briefly in his ear and afterwards all Sven’s adherents joined them in conversation, but with their heads bent together in a circle so that the substance of their talk should not be overheard by anyone farther away. Then Cnut, perhaps scenting treachery, sought out Valdemar, threw his arms round him and kissed him. However, when the recipient asked him why he had given this sign of affection, an act so inconsistent with his normal habits, he would not disclose the reason. In the meanwhile, leaving his warriors behind in the hall, Sven made his way through a back door to his bedroom preceded by a manservant carrying a light. It was not very long before his accomplices drew their swords on Cnut and Valdemar. Yet the latter, leaping swiftly from his chair, wrapped a cloak round his fist and not only parried the blades aimed at his head, but, while Detlev was rushing at him fiercely, flung him to the ground with a blow to the chest. Nevertheless, as they collapsed to the floor together, Valdemar was severely wounded in the thigh. Even so, when he first scrambled to his feet, he was oblivious of the gash he had received and, bursting through his crowding opponents, bounded out through the doors; someone who encountered him in a dark corridor tried to hold him back by grabbing at the fringes of his sword belt, but they were torn away. While this was occurring and others were opening the shutters so that mistakes made in the darkness should not hinder their wrongdoing, Detlev jumped up from the floor and stabbed Cnut in the forehead, as the other’s right hand was trying to fend off his sword. Absalon, thinking he was Valdemar, caught him up in his arms while he still breathed, and clasped to his bosom the head streaming with blood, choosing amid the clash of weapons to tend the king, as long as his panting breast showed some signs of life, in preference to seeking his own preservation. At length he realized from his attire that this was Cnut he was holding, and felt a mingling of joy with his sorrow. A man of supreme bravery, Døbik, tried to avenge the monarch’s death on its perpetrators, but was struck down in the attempt. A rush was made with drawn swords at those who had moved near to the doors, but no one could be clearly discerned in the deep gloom, since the onset of night had made it difficult to distinguish friend from foe. For this reason Konstantin, closest of Cnut’s friends, not wishing to be prevented from getting away, softly asked Absalon, in whose warm embrace Cnut had now expired, to approach one of the entrances, so that he himself might have a better chance of escape through the other; Absalon complied, but Konstantin, gliding away by himself, was intercepted and killed by the men who had stationed themselves near the doors. However, Absalon, after inclining more to the man’s request than to his own safety, moved Cnut’s body reverently to one side, then without concern for danger walked ahead towards the armed warriors and scorned to divulge his name in answer to their barrage of questions. So, aided by his firm resolution and silence, he gained an exit unmolested by his enemies. When he met him in the centre of the bridge, Radulf not only cursed the authors of such a foul crime, but also reviled those who were party to it, at the same time declaring himself a complete stranger to any complicity. Absalon was furiously pursued by a certain Peder Thenja, but this man departed after hurling derisive threats at him. Yet as soon as Absalon reached the southern gate of the cloister which surrounds the cathedral of the Trinity, his advance was forestalled by a hostile band of Sven’s henchmen. While his head was encircled by a cluster of swords, a number of others happened to appear on the scene, one of whom rescued Absalon by loyally interposing his weapon and his person, and having warned one individual who was eager to stab Absalon in the chest that he would incur punishment if he did not refrain, secured his safe deliverance and escape. Absalon, too, had dodged his assailant with a timely swerve of his body, so that the point only pierced the shirt he wore, right next to his side. In this way Fate preserved the future pillar of our fatherland, unwilling to let the hope of I )enmark’s restoration disappear completely. Once he had left that place he travelled overnight to a village called Ramsø; when he arrived there unaccompanied, the king’s steward was dumbfounded, but the report of what had occurred at Roskilde almost finished him. Supplied by this servant with a fresher steed, he first visited his sister, now married to a man named Peder, and secondly his mother. As soon as the latter learnt of Cnut’s murder and Valdemar’s serious wound, she drew more grief from the calamities suffered by these two than joy at her son’s safety. In the meantime Valdemar, eager to continue his life, through the fortuitous companionship of only two of his men was able to pursue the way that his weak thigh had denied him. Though he was disabled by his wound, compelling necessity lent him the stamina to walk. Such power has fear of mind to diminish pain in the body. Next he was mounted on a horse with the assistance of his followers, and was led by a chance fate to the very village where Absalon had preceded him a short while before to announce Valdemar’s fortunes. After the bailiff had informed him of the prelate’s recent departure to his mother’s, Valdemar hurried after him, helped by guides who were thoroughly acquainted with the countryside. In this way force of circumstance, which hardens us to human frailties, gave him strength despite his physical infirmity. Once the wound had been treated and his thigh bandaged, he spent the rest of the night there. At daybreak Sven gathered the townsfolk together and complained that his rivals had made a treacherous attempt on him during the night; he showed them his cloak, which he had slashed for the purpose, labelled Cnut and Valdemar desecrators of hospitality, perjurers, brigands, and murderers of their kin, rendered thanks to God for having repelled the villainy of both by causing one of their deaths, and begged help against the survivor. But because his deceit had been so transparent, no one gave any credence to his claims. He then ordered all the ships on the island to be holed so that Valdemar would have no opportunity of escaping by sea, and also set about meticulously combing the tracts of waste land, to which he believed his foe had stolen. For this reason Valdemar, depending on only three comrades, avoided the forest retreats and unapproachable marsh regions; instead he wandered through sparse glades, guessing that such locations were safer in being less suspected by his enemy. Esbern, with several others, was sent a long distance away to flatter country, where he could reveal himself from time to time in the open fields under the guise of Valdemar. At his direction, also, a good many men would make their numbers visible in various places, to suggest that royalty was passing through that area. When Valdemar finally decided to make his way to Jutland, he asked a carpenter friend of his to refit a ship for him to sail over in; but the man, fearing retribution from Sven, told Valdemar that he must appear to use constraint, as if getting the work out of him by force. Esbern accordingly entered his workshop, which was filled with a throng of peasants, and first of all tried to induce him to do it by feigning a request. When the other refused the task of repair, he laid hands on him, bound him and carried him off; as soon as he had been marched away, the man provided his skills. In this fashion by pretending to be the injured party, he performed a useful service for his friend, yet profitably contrived to remain unpunished by Sven. Later, after Esbern had presented him with tackle and provisions, Valdemar set out on a night voyage with his followers but, when a storm suddenly broke, encountered seas of remarkable ferocity. The soldiers themselves, drenched with the spray of gigantic billows, were gripped by such freezing cold that every single limb was numbed and they were unable to haul the sail round to assist their navigation. Apart from that, such violent rain beat on the yardarm that it snapped and fell into the waves, and the ship was weighed down with as much water from the clouds as from the sea. The steersman left everything to the surge, abandoned his guidance and, baffled as to which way he should turn the prow, merely waited for the wind to take command. The sky, coruscating with repeated lightning flashes against the blackness, boomed with massive claps of thunder. Eventually, amid the excessive raging of the tempest they lost course and were driven on to an island; because the anchor was incapable of holding it, they dragged their ship out of the breakers and fastened it tightly by twisting the branches of surrounding trees into the oar holes to prevent it sliding back and being battered to pieces. That same night saw the destruction of the Wendish fleet, for when they had put in to the coast of Halland, their fifteen hundred vessels were wrecked. All who reached the shore alive faced death by the sword. At first light, after Esbern had supplied provisions for the journey and the warriors had amply regained their strength, Valdemar sailed to Jutland over a tranquil sea. As soon as he had proceeded to Viborg, he spoke before the assembly about Sven’s guile and plunged everyone into dejection by retelling the lamentable story of his own misfortunes. The display of his wound won just as much pity as belief in his declarations. So, you would have been unsure whether the blow had brought him a greater portion of bad or good. Now that he had heard tell of Valdemar’s escape, Sven patched up the ships which he had previously damaged and made preparations to mount a campaign against Jutland. It was at this point that Absalon’s mother and sister performed an outstanding feat, an activity worthy of men; in order to postpone the king’s crossing, they saw to it that the ships in which he intended to make the passage had their timbers split apart during the hours of darkness. Sven was delayed for some time while they were being refitted, and when their restoration was complete he had travelled no farther than Funen before Valdemar, believing that he should meet his rival sooner rather than later, resolved to bar him from the nearest entries into Jutland. Realizing this, Sven retreated to Zealand, where he gathered together by proclamation his own people and those of Scania, mingling his personal troops with a public levy. Meanwhile Valdemar, feeling uneasy about the indeterminate outcome of war, sought Viborg once more; there he got married, partly to gain more easily the allegiance of those who had served under Cnut, partly to save the very beautiful woman to whom he was betrothed from the possibility of being deflowered by the enemy. Subsequently, after ordering an expeditionary force to assemble, he journeyed to Randers, having it in mind to invade Zealand with his soldiery because it provided a refuge for Sven. In fact many of Sven’s warriors, loathing him for his inhuman wickedness, joined Valdemar, thinking it wrong to attend someone guilty of such a foul deed with the comfort of their military support. Since, however, Sven considered it a nobler action to wage hostilities rather than be their target, because he was unable to confine his expansive spirit within the bounds of a single island, fetching vessels from Funen and Zealand, made a landing in Jutland; after bidding them moor in the channel of the River Djursa, he went on to Viborg with the most able of his knights, relying on the doubtful fidelity of the townspeople. Immediately Valdemar learnt of this from someone who had abandoned the king, he gathered auxiliaries with all possible speed and sent naval forces under Sakse and Juris to rout out their adversaries’ fleet. The Zealanders, swayed by the influence of these commanders, sailed back home, thinking they should pay more heed to the persuasions of their kinsfolk than to the monarch’s authority and preferring to desert him rather than be the opponents of these two men. The people of Funen, nevertheless, with whom regard for the sovereign weighed more than respect for private citizens, spurned their advice and paid for it with a trouncing; once they were overpowered they fled, which they had refused to do as long as they remained unharmed. Sven was more disconcerted by this incident than by any of his other calamities. After this Esbern was told to find out the enemy’s plans; when he had reached a spot close to Viborg with the intention of carrying out his surveillance, he observed Sven’s army in his path as it accompanied the king on his way to Randers. Wishing his reconnaissance to be as brave as it was thorough, with his lance he vigorously attacked some stragglers who were riding ahead in his direction and, displaying a soldier’s valour, dashed them to the ground. Gaining possession of their horses, he managed with the help of his attendants to lead these animals away along lonely tracks. As Sven’s troops then believed that their adversaries’ forces were in the vicinity, they speedily donned their armour, climbed on to their best steeds, and prepared themselves for battle. However, once they had traversed a hilly stretch of country and gained a vantage point commanding the plain, they perceived only Esbern, whereupon they sent their fastest riders to chase him. Nevertheless, confident of his swift horse, Esbern made off at a gallop and put such a distance between them that from time to time he was able to dismount and think about relaxing. When his pursuers saw that their eagerness to capture him was of no avail, they shouted to him in the distance, promising their good faith and desiring to have a talk with him. Esbern replied that he had no thought of entering into conference with them, because when it was late in the day, their word of honour had a tendency to slip; with this witty retort he reproached the treachery they had committed at Roskilde. Only one of them, Peder Thenja, did he allow to come nearer after accepting his guarantees, on the strength of their old friendship; while Peder asked him a number of questions about Valdemar, the remainder, purposely riding full tilt towards one another, were intending to waylay him during this pretence of practising their horsemanship. Esbern then asked Peder to discover what his companions’ intentions were. The other, afraid that his own credibility must be shaken by the dishonesty of his fellow-soldiers, turned his lance round and cried that he would run any man through who made an attack on Esbern. But the latter forestalled their deceit by suddenly retreating along a narrow bypath and crossing a bridge, and in the meantime thwarted the spears aimed at his side by interposing his own weapon. After he had repeatedly bestowed on them abuse appropriate to their knavery, he withdrew some way off, where he chanced to run into certain comrades-in-arms, whom he informed about the foe’s pursuit of him; first asking them to hide in the bushes bordering the road, he then promptly leapt from his horse. Those who were bent on his capture had not yet abandoned this hope and headed towards him with determination. Catching sight of them in the distance, he jumped on his horse and, intentionally striking his heels into its flanks time after time, made as if it were a tremendous labour to continue his course. Since the men following him imagined there was a chance of taking him, they began to spur on their steeds all the more eagerly, putting still greater effort into hunting him down; they must undoubtedly have been caught by their enemies, had not one of the ambushers, bored with waiting and overzealous to attack, broken out of hiding too quickly. As they all believed this one man’s forward dash signalled that they were being subjected to a surprise assault, they retreated hastily back to their comrades, thanks more to another person’s impatience than their own prudence. So, if Esbern had not been let down by his companions’ lack of judgement, he would have cunningly taken revenge on his adversaries for their faithlessness. When Valdemar had been informed by him of the enemy’s proximity, because he was not yet confident of having sufficient strength to join battle, he gave orders that the bridge, which provided a connection with a country town, should be partly chopped down so that their foes could not pass over it. In this way the river lent him reliable protection for his militia and a timely breathing space to gather strength. Though Sven had no means of crossing the water and Valdemar felt no desire to encounter him, the most enterprising of the young soldiers, infringing their orders, occupied what was left of the bridge and, by contending with spears and other missiles, displayed strong proofs of their valour. Because the location forbade them to meet their opponents, their sportiveness and youthful spirits found an outlet in a rather less harmful form of battle. After the daily increase in the numbers of his troops had finally given Valdemar the confidence to wage war, he went across the stream at a different point, resolved to assail the foe. On the night preceding the day of fighting, he gave instructions that the horses should stand bridled and be entirely kept from grazing, so that they should not be heavy through overeating and therefore run sluggishly. On the other hand, as Sven’s camp contained standing corn within its hounds, he commanded that his horses be refreshed without stint from the rich crops, unaware that the load on their stomachs would slow down their advance. When Valdemar had disposed his army in line of battle and was marching forward, on his flank he caught sight of a company with weapons and standards glittering. After supposing initially that the newcomers were hostile, he learnt from scouts that I here was no reason to fear them for they were on his own side. Absorbing them into his own ranks, he drove towards his adversaries with even greater assurance. His troops were now so augmented that not even a tenth of his soldiers could see the rows of their banners. Then those whom Sven had stationed as lookouts returned to inform him that their opponents possessed overwhelming numbers; he must lire out this host before he could properly withstand them, but as the d;iy wore on, the size of their forces would substantially diminish. ii). This sound advice, very acceptable to Sven, was dismissed by The rash words of Age Christiernson. He claimed that the king would either fight or must otherwise be deserted by his soldiery; they h.ul no wish to save their skins if it meant leaving their property to be commandeered by the enemy without retaliation, for this was more precious to them than their own lives. In addition he told him to remember how many times he had won a great and glorious victory wilh a small band. If Sven cared to measure his men’s spirits instead of their numbers, he must certainly have derived more assurance from these few than dread from the huge swarms of the enemy. Moreover, their opponents’ ranks should be despised rather than liMrcd, made up, as they were, not of sturdy warriors, but of an dimmed rabble. With this exhortation he dissuaded the king from a M'osible scheme and pushed him into accepting a ruinous one. On Valdemar’s side the younger recruits, who constituted the right flank of the battle line, had been provided with dark-grey tunics. Because their dress looked extraordinarily like metal, Sven’s troops imagined that they had been equipped with corselets of various types, and therefore deployed a square of their own battalion to confront this section. When, however, they saw their eyes had been deceived, they transferred their attack away from this front towards the prince’s squadron. It is also worth mentioning a tradition that such thick flocks of ravens flew amongst Valdemar’s ranks that many crashed against the soldiers’ raised lances and were spitted. Through the midst of the lines rode a bard singing a defamatory song about Sven’s murderous treachery, and by desperately urging Valdemar’s forces to vengeance roused them for battle. Nevertheless a fence which encircled a cornfield intervened to stop the two sides engaging; since neither band of cavalry was bold enough to jump this obstacle owing to the jutting points of the stakes, Valdemar’s infantry started to dismantle the barrier and so allowed hostilities to begin. Here with little trouble they defeated Sven’s troops, who struggled to escape with some difficulty. Their horses, still weighed down by their previous night’s meal, did not have the power to cover the ground with any perseverance, for the heaviness of their clogged stomachs quickly made them tired. Sven’s leading captain, after dismounting and turning to face the enemy, tried to rally his comrades, now scattered in flight, to join battle; at length, as he could see no assistance forthcoming from any quarter, he planted his flag in t he earth and clung to it with his left hand, while with his right he cut to pieces anyone who came close. Finally, having distinguished himself remarkably in combat, he was rushed and overwhelmed beneath the force of the crowd which seethed round him. Sven, fleeing with a handful of his men, happened to reach a boggy area where his horse’s hooves were immersed in the sinking tnud, and he therefore attempted to scramble along on foot. But even (hen the mire would not bear his weight, so that he threw away his weapons too. At last, despite the fact that he leant on the shoulders of his followers, he was overcome by complete exhaustion, and, telling his companions to make their escape, sat down at the roots of a tree. lis strength was so far gone that he was incapable of proceeding one more step, even with the aid of others’ support. A member of his retinue, believing that he could face no unhappier calamity than abandoning his master through cowardice, died at his sovereign’s feet when he was attacked by peasants, who arrived there scenting plunder. After they had taken Sven prisoner and asked his name, he professed to be the king’s secretary. Eventually, once he had been recognized, they seated him on a horse in deference to his royalty, and, whether prompted by fear or hope, he then demanded to be shown into Valdemar’s presence. Yet while he was making this request, one of the countrymen, making a dash at him, cut off his head with an axe. His corpse was not honoured with the expense of a funeral, but given a humble burial under the supervision of the common people. During the fight Ulf had been captured and delivered into custody at Viborg; only Esbern lodged a plea against his punishment, but Cnut’s soldiery put him to death, reckoning that their general’s ghost must be appeased with his blood. When Detlev was also imprisoned and dragged off to the rack, he first of all proceeded to furnish his captors with excuses for his crime; by the end, once he realized that his entreaties were useless, he proved so girlish that he seemed to shed his masculinity and could not restrain his tears; his wails revealed a woman’s spirit enclosed within a man’s body. In this way he was first punished with humiliation, then with death, paying double satisfaction to the shade of the prince he had killed. On the other hand, since Magnus, the son of the younger Erik by a mistress, had championed Sven’s cause, with more passion than justification, he believed after he had been caught that he would suffer the ultimate fate; however, he experienced something which exceeded all his wishes, a gracious clemency from his vanquisher. As soon as he was led before Valdemar by his captors, the other not only granted him his life, out of consideration for their family connection, but also increased his public honour and authority; though it was more than enough to have let him go unscathed, he even added his generosity, for he did not want it to appear that he had played the uncompromising avenger and given way to wrath before the claims of kinship. So, even if Magnus’s wrongdoing deserved retribution, their relationship granted his preservation. Respecting consanguinity in an opponent no less than loyalty and obedience in his own adherents, he rewarded an adversary just as he would have done his friends. Buris, loo, who was united with Valdemar by ties of blood as well as being a kindred spirit and dutiful follower, was given wealth and preferment for having performed sterling service on his behalf against Sven. Buris’s brother, Cnut, had recently been promoted by Valdemar to the elevation of a governorship with equal liberality. It was at this time that those who had been military associates of Cnut, not as yet satisfied with their foes’ destruction, approached the king in a body, beseeching him to let them pursue as outlaws the men who had advised Sven to kill Cnut. They were even keener to see Thorbjørn brought to book than they were the rest, though Thorbjørn himself denied having had anything to do with that foul play when the instigators of Cnut’s murder were present at the battle of Randers bridge, and he cursed its agents with utmost vehemence. Nevertheless the king, afraid that if he punished so many noblemen of his own race with banishment, he would be supplying Cnut and Buris, whose allegiance was suspected of wavering, with the weapons of the outcasts against himself, preferred to pardon the guilty sooner lhan help his rivals. Finally, subdued by the persistence of this pressure group and not wanting to seem rather slack in exacting vengeance on Cnut’s slayers, he promised to proscribe those they had singled out for him; the only way they would be restored to their fatherland was if their recall was requested by the same individuals whose determination had driven them away from home. He knew that l he human mind easily switches from dislike to partiality and in the majority of cases men’s feelings follow the different changes in events, for we never find such attitudes so harsh that time or circumstance cannot soften them. Having been prevailed on to employ these people as useful soldiers instead of chastising them, he pardoned the rest of this crowd, and the further he recognized they were from being party to that seditious assassination, the more he revealed himself closer to offering them friendship. After matters had been settled in this fashion, Valdemar desired to make a good beginning to his reign by conducting energetic military operations; in order therefore to retaliate against violence and restore his fatherland, which for all these years had been tormented by pirate raids, with almost a third of its area constantly reduced to waste and desolation, he took the state navy and sailed to Masnedø, intending to wage war on the Wends. But while he was stirring the enthusiasm of the common people at a meeting, the elders, who customarily spoke from the platform, told him that it would not be safe for the fleet to put out, for his troops had insufficient supplies and the enemy were already aware of Valdemar’s purposes. To watch for the right opportunity, then, the expedition needed to be postponed until better means of handling affairs presented themselves. It was the height of imprudence to test their chances against a foe who was on the lookout and already fortified with arms. Not only that, but the flower of Danish manhood were collected together so completely in that fleet that, if these found themselves in a dangerous situation, the Wends could undoubtedly overmaster their country by dint of a single victory. Should the result turn out to be far from their wishes, would not their homeland be utterly destroyed with their deaths? "There was very little reason why they should devote the strength of so many nobles to one battle, considering that they would carry away scant glory if they inflicted defeat, and maximum disgrace in suffering defeat. The votes of the whole assembly showed they agreed with this judgement. So, compelled by its decision to call off the campaign, the king abandoned his proposal sooner than he felt inclined to. When Valdemar returned to his vessel, Absalon, mocking his lord’s inaction to his face, criticized this conduct with no little humour. A fter he had enquired the reason for disbanding the expedition and the king had replied that it was to prevent so many brave souls being exposed to peril, Absalon rejoined: ‘Then you should pursue your undertaking with the cowardly and contemptible; that way you’ll either win with credit or must be worsted without much loss, seeing that the extermination of riffraff can’t be considered anything to worry about.’ 'This young man of elegant wit redirected his displeasure by rebuking Valdemar’s inertia under the semblance of a joke. Such an amusing pleasantry amounted to tacit reproof of the king. During this same period Asser, bishop of Roskilde, departed I his life, but in choosing his successor, the people’s decision was at (»dds with that of the clergy. At the same time, too, the guilds of the Roskilde populace fell at variance and the community was filled with murders among the rival factions; strangers were either killed or expelled from the city, and the fraternity of native inhabitants was not satisfied with crushing members of the immigrant association, but also let loose its insane, tumultuous behaviour on the controller of the royal mint by razing his house flat and plundering all his possessions. AI l his the king, sharply incensed with the townsfolk for flouting his sovereignty, was relying on a large band recruited from the provinces to destroy the city, when deputies were sent to intercede with him and begged him not to use against his own countrymen weapons which should have been borne on behalf of his country; consequently he allowed the citizens to remain unmolested on their agreeing to pay a fine. Now in a calm mood Valdemar at once entered Roskilde and went into the presbytery belonging to the priests who served the cathedral of the Trinity, where he meant to give his backing to their votes in the choice of a new bishop. Although he appeared qualified to exercise certain rights in a church which had been founded and endowed by his ancestors, he said that he would not attempt to infringe their prerogatives with illegal steps or violation of usage; he knew that under ecclesiastical law it was stipulated that the clergy’s special powers of election should not be subject to any royal directive. His presence would in no way inhibit the electors from abiding by their independent judgements when they voted. The clergy then acknowledged his just and scrupulous conduct with expressions of deepest gratitude and came away from the meeting of the chapter to make their choice with some care. They had been considering the merits of three men, all of proven reputation, and added a fourth, Absalon, on account of his excellent character, intent on taking the most able of this group; then Valdemar ordered each individual priest record his preference secretly on a separate strip of a rolled parchment, because he reckoned that the election would be more genuine if each man revealed his wish first in writing, then verbally. 'The result was that all their signatures concurred in one decision, and was decreed that Absalon should hold the supreme office. No sooner was he elected bishop than he began to act as much like a sea rover as a spiritual father, for he thought little of protecting l he Church within, if he allowed it to be endangered from without. I hiving off the enemies of the state religion is just as important a part of priestly duties as safeguarding its ceremonies. So, in order to defend his country with stronger surveillance, Absalon continually kept watch over the seas, and, since most of the bishops’ quarters had been levelled with the ground, at times he would find a place to stay in the leafy woods. Yet a humble dwelling such as this raised up the ruined homes of his native land. The Zealanders perceived how beneficial was the aid of his eloquence; by its tempering effect local assemblies, which were disputatious to the point of breeding violence and brawls, were induced by his guidance to a more peaceful frame of mind, and so embellished was his fluent oratory that he forced people who had considered him lifeless and inarticulate to condemn themselves for their stupidity. Nor did he believe it a huge task to cleave the furrows of the frozen waves with his vessels in winter, since he was keen that at no time of year should appropriate vigilance be relinquished or his outstanding sense of duty towards his homeland be seen to yield to compelling pressures. He was a parent as much as a pontiff of his country, striking for his brilliant combination of soldiering and priesthood. His first encounter with the Wends took place at the village of lloeslunde on the day before Palm Sunday. As soon as their invasion had been reported, Absalon, provided only with the eighteen soldiers who made up his retinue, battled against the troops from twenty-four ships, a contest as successful as it was dangerous. After a large number of the horsemen on the opposing side had been routed, he laid low almost all their infantry. Yet in a clash as hazardous as this he lost just one of his own men, a handsome victory which marked an auspicious beginning to his episcopal and military careers. A few of the enemy, cravenly jettisoning their weapons and booty so that they might make an easier getaway, were preserved by a forest on the edge of the fields. In this year it is related that the town of Arhus suffered savage raids from pirates. At the same time the Falster community, with their small population, were protecting themselves behind the communal defence works against an enormous Wendish fleet, when one of the king’s butlers, who had been dispatched to that province so that he could attend to other business affairs, happened to be caught in the general siege; one of the provincials, criticizing the sloth of the king’s attendants, is said to have stated that previous kings had normally worn their spurs on their heels, but this one wore his on his toes. Stung by the recognition of his indolence, the butler, interpreting this quip maliciously, forced it on the king’s ears in a reprehensible manner, for what was meant as a rebuke to himself was twisted into an insult to the throne. Then the butler inflamed the king’s already exasperated mind by another, no less serious, accusation against the Falstrings, since it was his desire to punish the forcefulness of one hasty tongue by their universal destruction. He fastened the nefarious crime of treason on them, as though it was their habit to pass to the Wends information about every scheme which the Danes devised against them; elaborating into a felony the friendship which from time to time the Falstrings had adopted towards the foe in order to win safety for themselves, he imputed to treachery the compliance which they rendered out of fear rather than liking. It had been their custom to keep under guard prisoners entrusted to them by the Wends and, induced by terror, not kindness, on a number of occasions they had given advance warning of their country’s offensives by conveying a message to the enemy, presumably so that they might at least secure their preservation by a favour, when they were too weak to be able to safeguard it otherwise. Misled by his baleful insistence, the king resolved to wreak total devastation with the sword on what was left of Falster, and believed that to achieve his aim he would need only the cooperation of Zealand. Absalon was given instructions to command the levies from The eastern part of that island, while Valdemar decided to lead those from the western half himself, intending to transport his army across from every port in large and small ships. Now the Zealanders had been at violent loggerheads with the Falstrings for a considerable time so that, wishing to compensate for the injuries they had received by banding together under arms, they anticipated his orders by assisting him of their own accord, delighted that King Valdemar would be Their general and the instigator of war against their rivals. But impetuous Fortune stepped in with a favourable antidote to this mistake of his, caused by the butler’s evil promptings. At the point when the ruler wanted to start off on his journey equipped with large forces, he was gripped by a sudden fever at Ringsted and sent word for Absalon to dismiss his troops and come speedily to him. In I his way the king’s health was given a shaking at exactly the right moment to counteract his destructive project. Heaven sent the infirmity to keep Valdemar blameless, just as much as for the deliverance of an innocent people. Besides, must it not be admitted that the Danish realm would have been in a disgraceful, wretched condition, if it were being attacked by the enemy from outside, and by The king’s armies from within? Who can be in any doubt that the divine will ensured that the future restorer of his country would not overthrow the kingdom, which he was about to snatch from the hands ol his foes, when he was almost at the very outset of his glorious career? It was certainly preferable for the one who held the reins of his fatherland to be enveloped by a severe malady rather than become involved in a very serious crime. As his illness raged more violently each day, Absalon never ceased to watch and pray for the monarch’s delivery. Eventually, when he seemed filled with total despair of ever finding a remedy and saw that the sole remaining hope was the power of God, he approached the sick man in a state of extreme anxiety so that he might offer up prayers on his behalf and try to appease the Deity; robed in his priestly vestments he carried out the sacred rites according to custom, then offered him the sacrament, made ready with the prescribed words, and presented the host for the invalid to taste, even though he was almost at death’s door. Restored by these ministrations, Valdemar, after breaking out in a sudden sweat, regained his state of good health. The prelate, however, still uncertain about the king’s recovery and made weary by his distress, all at once started to lose his own vitality and, if a ray of help had not shone from heaven, the promise of such great talent would have died at its very birth. But the alteration in his own health could not stop him from accomplishing his sovereign’s cure, and what he had done while fit, he continued to perform when he was sick. Believing that Valdemar’s improved condition could be made worse by mournful news, he forbade anyone to tell the king about his own physical state, in case his lord’s mind was suddenly plunged into gloom and he suffered a relapse with the return of his earlier infection. Nevertheless Absalon’s well-being was re-established, whereupon both paid grateful thanks to the Almighty for His wholesome admonition and for interrupting the baleful scheme; they were overtaken by shame, repented their mistake, and rejoiced that the outcome of that planned wickedness had been removed through God’s beneficial chastisement. Now that a more salutary way of thinking possessed their minds, they bent their energies away from imperilling their countrymen towards a continued harassment of the enemy. The monarch was then given the benefit of their experienced advice by Absalon, Peder, Sune, and Esbern, his principal counsellors, under whose guidance he adopted the idea of launching a campaign against the enemy with an army that was rapidly mobile rather than large, and of attacking unexpectedly rather than with a plainly visible fleet; it is a much easier business to assault someone who is unprepared and not forewarned, and in any case the profitable instructions of the nobility are very often resisted as a matter of course by the determination of the powerful masses, with whom fear of the Wendish name held more force than the king’s ordinance. Consequently Valdemar admitted very few persons to be party to his intentions, for he knew that any act of war must be conducted through the people’s strength, but planned in private; and because he had no qualms about the Zealanders’ allegiance to him, he preferred to take personal command of a navy drawn from Scania. Although he was not yet completely well, Valdemar put the Scanians gathered at Lund in a flurry with his announcement of the expedition, so that Archbishop Eskil, to whom the rest had alloted the task of spokesman, declared that the ships were not ready to carry out such a sudden command. However, the king replied that those who obeyed would be rewarded with his favour, but those who refrained, with his anger; when he claimed to be so filled with eagerness for this project that, in preference to abandoning his campaign, he would set out with only a single vessel, Eskil, understanding the indubitable strength of his resolve, not only approved of his purposes but, roundly condemning those who did not rally round their sovereign, received Valdemar on his own ship at his own cost. The fact that expeditions had now been discontinued for a considerable period meant that the ruler had been deprived of his personal vessel. The men of Lolland and Falster were bidden to join the fleet last, in case, being informed a long way ahead, they surreptitiously gave the Wends notice of the operation which had been ordered. As soon as the fleet reached Landøre, the king, eager to inspect his army, decided to deploy his troops over the plain, so that by bringing all the forces under his gaze, he might see whether it appeared safe to wage a contest using that number. A fairly long sandbank, cut off from the mainland coast by shoals, forms a natural harbour of winding channels for craft, but is so low that it is only visible when the liilc goes out, and vanishes when it comes in; the shallow entrance encloses quite a wide expanse of water, where the waves conceal hidden depths. But as all Danish kings had normally shunned this spot because they entertained a crazy, groundless delusion that it was untrustworthy and as good as fatal, Valdemar examined his whole military provision very closely at the nearest port, introducing men to train the raw recruits in patterns of warfare, so that he could measure his strength with true confidence when he observed his troops, and not assess it in blind speculation. During the period of idleness while these instructors were giving their attention to a fourteen-day review of this military body, the majority of the stores had been consumed and there was a shortage. When they emerged from harbour, they enjoyed a calm voyage right across the sea. Nevertheless in order to make a secret, surprise landing, they preferred to pursue the journey with oars rather than sails; Absalon was sent ahead with seven ships to carry out a detailed search for easy access to the coast of Rugen. They determined on an attempt to set fire to the town of Arkona, famous for its ancient worship of an idol, before the citizens were aware of it, and to overwhelm unexpectedly all those who were bent on seeking ihc god’s protection; the fortifications would be left unmanned and only made fast with bolts and bars, for the inhabitants used to reckon there was little need of human guardianship while it remained defended by the unsleeping presence of the deity. When the fleet had been drawn together and arranged in formation, it totalled two hundred and sixty vessels. Absalon had almost reached Rügen in pursuit of his reconnaisance, when he was informed by his sailors that the royal vessel had suddenly exchanged oars for sail; wondering why the remainder of the fleet were advancing in like manner, seeing that shortly before they had agreed not to unfurl the sails so that their passage might be unperceived, he first realized that the others were disregarding their joint resolution; then, since his colleagues were not sticking to their plan, in utter perplexity he shifted his course last of all and steered, more sad than willing, to join the king where he had sought anchorage in the harbour of Møn. Because he was left without comrades in this enterprise, he dejectedly turned his prow from the crossing he had set out on, disgusted by this neglect of an excellent chance to accomplish their task, at a time when the clement weather and the soldiers’ eagerness were both favourable to the venture. As he disembarked, Absalon was met by Peder, Sune, and Esbern, all of whom the king regularly consulted in his plans, and they too uttered worried complaints about such a dishonourable departure by Valdemar from what had been a noble and profitable scheme. Finally, after the monarch had summoned them to meet him, he noticed their gloom and, amazed at their expressions, declared he had thought it right to redirect his course to the island, rather than prolong this late, ill-timed voyage; he would put everything into operation more conveniently the next morning, because, he said, the day was more appropriate for work, the night for rest. Since none of his friends gave reply, astonished and nettled by their silence, he demanded that they disclose their feelings. The others asked Absalon to reveal the views they had aired in mutual discussion. Thereupon he began: ‘What is so strange if our throats seem blocked and our voices have become slow and hesitant, when they are sunk beneath an enormous weight of distress and choked by secret sickness of mind? Seeing your situation veer towards disgrace, our hearts are steeped in private grief. You are exchanging your power of authority for submission, are obeying those whom you should have issued with commands, and have spurned the most practical advice by following the suggestions of men for whom it is all one whether the progress of your affairs is glorious or degrading. Since the time when you began to rule without associate or rival, a second campaign is currently being mounted, whose abandonment appears just as distasteful as the first one. After rejecting the most golden opportunity, now I hat we have only meagre remnants of our supplies we seek to excuse useless detours from our route by calling them a return, and wish our cowardice to be understood as necessity, even though no obstacles force I themselves on us. Did you imagine our fatherland was to be avenged by I his kind of activity and your reign initiated by such tricks? If it so happens that your voyage has been cut off by a ferocious sea, what is left for us but to make our way home ingloriously under the compelling demands of our shortages, and be dogged by hideous insults about our unmanly souls?’ Spurred by his vexation and his trust in their friendship, he was carried away and did not shrink from delivering these and similar words of harshest bitterness in the king’s hearing. Despite the fact that the monarch had been passionately incensed at the frankness of his speech, not wishing it to look as though he were blatantly cold-shouldering his admonisher, even while his face betrayed the extent of his anger, with characteristic restraint he switched to an easy, acceptable reply; he said there were a good many witnesses to his exploits, and even if his own courage had not yet equalled the bishop’s, Absalon had achieved no deed so brave that he could not match it with his own feats hitherto. Without letting the other speak further, he was rowed back to his ship, while Absalon made , final remark that there was no reason at all for Valdemar to lose his temper with someone who offered him constructive criticism, since it is rather more desirable to be given advice openly by one’s friends than be disparaged behind one’s back with biting, caustic insults. During the following night the seas were whipped into a fury and became so tempestuous that neither harbour nor anchors could secure the royal fleet and prevent it from being dispersed and scattered over the deep. Yet in no way did the navy become any more negligent as it battled on for four days under the same weather conditions. These events considerably softened the king’s anger, which had flared up against Absalon. He was loth to admit aloud the sound ideas he had now taken to heart, for embarrassment made him hide the perceptions which his mind had grasped so late in the day. Meanwhile, without having conferred with any of his friends, the next day he approached these men as they happened to be standing on the shore and, forbidding II is retainers to come nearer, declared that his agitated feelings, even though he wanted to conceal them, had been betrayed by certain signs of wrath on his countenance; and there was little wonder, he said, for when someone asks advice, he should rightfully be met with good counsel, not abuse. However, they had spoken some words, more judicious than seasonable, which, had they uttered them three days before that, could have forestalled considerable trouble and its causes. A mentor exercises his function too belatedly when he addresses a question rather offhandedly while it is being debated, and pursues it conscientiously after the matter has been dealt with. Wishing to rectify what is irremediable is a mistake akin to madness. It had been no use, I hen, coming at him with clamorous reproaches, since past events could not be put right and in general a perturbed brain does not make for rational judgement. It would have been impossible for human beings to forecast the savagery of the coming tempest without divine warnings and he had no doubt that it constituted a punishment for their crimes. Therefore neither their ignorance of Nature nor the severity of this unexpected scarcity should be counted as their fault. It was now right and proper for them to forget past discontents and refocus their minds and energies on deliberations that were appropriate to present circumstances. He would rather end his life with a glorious departure than terminate this campaign with a humiliating retreat homewards. Then Peder, pursuing the same line as Absalon but with a rather milder form of guidance, told him that it was not suitable for any king to listen to the trusty voices of his friends with hostile ears; brilliant and famous men had often met a disastrous death as the penalty for scorning wholesome advice. One must catch a breeze while it stays favourable, since its very nature is to waver and change direction unpredictably. They had to hold on therefore until this mighty storm abated to a point where the oarsmen could tolerate the weather conditions. There were still enough provisions left for three days, and they could yet strike at the enemy after a short sea crossing. And if their present food stocks ran out, new supplies must be demanded with weapons. So, as soon as they saw that the waves were manageable enough for rowing, they should quickly bring the dispersed fleet together and push forward to their projected attack with all rowers pulling concurrently. The entire voyage would be completed more briskly, the more uniformly they proceeded. Praising his counsellor, the monarch assigned Absalon the duty of observing the gales in order to inform him the moment he perceived they would allow the oarsmen to get to work. Absalon eagerly complied with the order which he had fashioned with his own suggestions, and the following night, when the wind had perceptibly relaxed its onslaught, rejoicing at their fortune, he went straight to the king before daybreak, after mass was over; he announced that the turbulence had partially subsided and that it would certainly permit them to sail on; navigation would be possible but hard and its fulfilment would definitely pose severe problems for the rowers. On King Valdemar’s reply that they must force an end to their delays, Absalon facetiously put in a rejoinder that they would be applying their efforts wonderfully well if, now half their journey was accomplished, they returned to the point where they had originally weighed anchor. The impudence of his retort, even though it seemed to carry more sting than a joke should, gave the king a strong incentive to engage in acts of valour. Nevertheless the bishop did not escape his mocking wit, when his sovereign added that if he himself went home, he would be able to learn from Absalon what was being done among the Wends. At first the fleet travelled cheerfully and briskly on its voyage and the rowers were full of confidence; for whereas the winds swept down on the open sea uncurbed, along the adjacent shores with their indentations the strength of the breeze could not impart any roughness to the secluded waves, since the intercepting walls of this coastal stretch everywhere prevented the waters from flowing towards them more rapidly. Yet when the ships began to direct their course towards The high seas, they were met by an almost unendurable assault from The gales. In case it should appear that he was not endorsing his stout reminders with reasonable exertions, fortified by a noble sense of shame, the prelate himself struggled to row with dogged persistence, as though he were competing against the laws of Nature and, by inspiring the king to rival his courage, compelled him to accompany his endeavours. In this way their progress over the sea was slow, clumsy, and, indeed, almost impossible, with the lame efforts of the oars pitted against the raging of the ocean. Driven by the violent opposition of the seas and enveloped by a huge agglomeration of advancing billows, amid the unbelievably grim tumult of the heavens the seams of the royal vessel were almost split apart, and she started to break up. Observing this, the king, eager to be I a ken aboard a safer craft, so that he might escape peril and complete his voyage, gave orders for the vessel of Ingemar the Scanian to pull closer; I hen, snatching a sword with his right hand and a banner with his left, he took a flying leap on to the other boat, as bold as it was successful, and commanded its sailors to row with greater vigour and speed. Eskil, who with stubborn courage had for some time been attempting to follow his lord and was closely contemplating the king’s determination rather than the unsound state of his own ship, was forced to retreat, partly because he heard Valdemar’s voice restraining him, partly owing to the sheer, pressing danger of the situation. When they saw him act in this way, a number of cowards were prompted to take this opportunity of falling back by pretending to make the same mistake. This feigned error should not have counted in their defence, for it was probably clear from the evidence of the banner which the king had carried across that he had only changed ship and not his route. A few, too, unwillingly quit their shattered vessels since, once their timbers became insecure at the joints, these men could not stand up to the wild inrush of the sea. Those who Mead lastly pursued their way made it their business to eat and row at the same time, so that they could continue to preserve the necessary physical strength not to break off from their toil; in their right hands they held their oars, food in their left, making sure that not even a brief respite from rowing should impede the progress of their voyage. A small contingent of the fleet, under Absalon’s command, striving more energetically than the rest for gallantry and renown, gained superiority over that remarkably savage storm by an unbelievable struggle with Their oars, traversing the aggressivee deep with their tireless vessel till, just before dawn they put in at the island of Hiddensee, having overcome even the privations they had suffered. Then, resolved to leave nothing unexplored, Absalon assigned the task of reconnaissance to Vedeman, who was distinguished for his piratical exploits, and learnt from him that the harbours of Rügen were empty of enemy ships and the natives were not fearing attack from any foe. The fact that no anxiety was shown by the herdsmen whose cattle were straying on the shore made the Danes confident (hat the inhabitants were unprepared. The king’s crossing had been delayed owing to the fatigue of his oarsmen, but as soon as he gained The harbour, he immediately boarded Absalon’s ship and, worn out by fatigue and sleeplessness, surrendered his body to sleep. When the remainder who had survived the sea journey with him were counted, I hey made up the crews of a mere sixty vessels. After that, two Hallanders, of nobler birth than spirit, thinking their scanty numbers exposed them to certain danger, came to seek out Absalon in the boat they shared and said they needed to speak urgently with the king; and when they heard that Valdemar was resting and asleep, they desired the bishop to rouse him quickly. Absalon answered that there was no question of rudely interrupting the king’s restorative slumbers, but stated that he would lei Valdemar know their message. At this, pleading their pounded vessel, the dearth of provisions, and the long distance home, they declared that the best chance for sailing with following breezes was there and then, since the headwinds which had obstructed their advance could render the return easy when they were blowing astern, for this reason they preferred to take advantage of them now, instead of fighting a hopeless, futile campaign and dying in a rotting ship or from deadly famine. Absalon told them that they must not only alter their contemptible plan in favour of goodly intentions, but conceal this scheme of theirs under a respectable silence, to save themselves being exposed to vituperation; if such dishonourable talk reached others’ ears it would brand them with the irredeemable stigma of cowardice.
He stressed that they were glossing over the timidity that stemmed from their weak, womanish hearts by fabricating pretended reasons lor it, and informed them that it would be easy to repair the ships, and possible without very much trouble to acquire copious additions to their stocks from the plunder that lay available everywhere about I hem. But they would ruin their characters and reputations with a most serious offence, he said, if they shamelessly took it upon themselves to abandon the king in enemy territory when he had such small numbers alongside him. One of the Hallanders put in that there was still some royal business waiting for him to do at home, which had to be dispatched with utmost speed. For his part Absalon, unable to dispel the man’s insincerity with coaxing, was eager to disrupt it with threats, and so added that any who broke up the expedition by pandering to their own whim rather than respecting the sovereign’s wishes were not merely liable by their country’s laws to have their goods confiscated, but to be deprived of life and breath. Yet not even with an intimation of this risk could he toughen their pusillanimity, calm their agitation, and stop them from catching in their sails the wind that favoured Their voyage. Even as they were making their departure, the bishop went on sending curses and abuse after them, couched in terms of the most heart-felt bitterness. When the king had been woken and Absalon had apprised him of this incident, Valdemar swore he would inflict punishment on such thick-skinned, rascally deserters. Afterwards, when they had disembarked on to the island, the monarch summoned the ships’ captains and urged them to tell him what their plan of action should be. Several of them, he said, thought it would profit them to go home, seeing that they could not assail their foes without hazard. He maintained that he could sympathize with this plan, were it not that such a return would prove a grave embarrassment to their country and a strong incentive to their adversaries. The Rugians would discover the presence of the Danish expeditionary force from traces of their camp and attribute their secretive withdrawal to pure fearfulness. This was why he preferred to lay himself open to danger, not disgrace, and there was nothing on earth that would make him turn his prows round without first having challenged their enemies. Apart from that, they would be matching the craven conduct of those men who had absconded on the grounds of their vessels’ supposed frailness, if they did not surpass in courage people they had outstripped in endurance and, after an . hortive voyage, made for home. Then Vedeman, after his recent observation of Rügen and its unprepared state, recommended that the Danes bring up their forces to Us coast, for if the residents were unconscious of their presence, they could get away with plundering and slaughtering, but if the Rugians were forewarned, they could return quickly without an engagement. He maintained that they would be able to gauge which of these two courses to adopt by the habits of the ploughmen: once they had completed the first half of a day’s work, it was their custom to lie down to sleep, so that they could come back to their labours with greater vigour. But repose normally steals up on individuals only if I hey are free from anxiety and secured by deep composure; if the Danes discovered that none of them were sleeping, it should be taken as a sign I hat these folk were very much on their guard. Valdemar remarked that Vedeman’s suggestions were more in line with a pirate’s occupation than in harmony with his own eminence as a king. History had never recorded the rout of any Danish ruler by the Wends, and he was certainly not going to be the first to besmirch the royal honour with this scandalous type of behaviour. Next Gnemer, a man from Falster, whether acting on his own initiative or persuaded by the king’s fortunes, although on other occasions he was considered more active than intelligent, by his practical encouragement dismissed everyone’s deep uncertainty as they wavered between opposite inclinations, and drew the assembly, unclear what scheme to adopt, to his own way of thinking, since, he declared, it would be a piece of foolhardiness for a meagre troop such as I heirs to engage with a huge body of opponents. However, the district of Barth, separated from Rügen by a narrow strait, would be very easy to ravage because of its small area, whatever its state of preparation. Finally he bade the king take to his bed for some rest; sleep would restore his strength, depleted as it was by wakeful nights, and also his mind, worn by cares, so that he could bring his fleet to land in the evening when it would be possible to rush in with less warning. I le also told the ships to disperse and as they were on the point of entering the narrow river, full of shallows, to complete their journey by rowing silently, so that the sound of splashing oars did not dispel the inhabitants’ peace of mind and, where the shoals were of uncertain depth, their vessels did not run aground on the mud and have to remain lodged there for some time. He undertook to carry out all other explorations himself. The king, enthusiastically following his scheme, signalled to his men to hoist sail in the evening and invested the river which was their goal. So that it might be penetrated more readily, he gave an order to progress with the ships lashed together in groups of three, to make certain they did not all become entangled in the narrow stretches of water and thus slow down their speed. Gnemer, after watching for a chance to fall upon the natives, drew alongside Valdemar in his vessel, bringing with him several local watchmen he had intercepted. The king was delighted by this and at daybreak, having marched through the woods, burst upon the fields and villages all the more incisively because he had been concealed; with this sudden onset he crushed the countrymen, who were still fuddle-headed after their untroubled sleep. A good many of them, arrested by the thundering din of the cavalry, imagined that their country’s leaders were coming. However, this illusion of theirs was demolished when they found spears suddenly thrust into their bodies. A number of them poked their heads out of doors to enquire whether Kazimar or Bugislav was arriving. Their own deaths supplied an answer to the question. When the bishop, after taking a detachment of troops on a different route, had occupied a remote tract of that region, he reached a point where a vast swamp separated him from the king’s far-off squadron. Rather uncertain about Valdemar’s course, he hit on the bright idea of not allowing the villages he had sacked to be set alight. Tinally, a long way away, he caught sight of blazes started by the king and, proclaiming that he himself had the power to act in a similar manner, immediately threw firebrands on to the roofs and in this way made sure the success of his invasion was announced to his comrades by the spread of flames across the countryside. Once they reckoned I hey had done their fill of ransacking, Absalon traced the way back with his followers to the ships, and though his and Valdemar’s paths had taken them an immense distance from each other, they revealed their tracks by reciprocal fire and smoke, so that they should not appear to have striven to return unseen and one to have anticipated the other through over-impulsive haste. In the meantime Skjalm, known as the Bearded, left on duty to watch over the fleet, brought the vessels back to the sea, bearing in mind that the enemy might row to that point before them and blockade the river mouth. When the Rugians sought to make an attack on him with their navy, he transferred the fleet’s guards to a lew of the boats, choosing to confront the foe with a handful of welldefended ships in preference to a large flotilla. As soon as Skjalm sailed straight at them, they turned tail, but, in case he came back rather late for taking his fellow-soldiers on board when they returned, he gave up chasing the fugitives and withdrew to the harbour. Molested a second time, he resisted his attackers with the same resolution as before. Though his foes tried again and again, he kept on opposing their repeated provocations and overcame them on each occasion. Harassed by the persistence of their assaults more than their severity, he made suitable retaliation, bearing hard on his adversaries. Meanwhile, when the king arrived at the coast, he was not a little surprised to find Skjalm absent and the ships without sentinels. At length Valdemar, with the rest of the troops, proceeded with him on his return from action; spreading sail, he pursued the Rugians, who had resorted to their oars as an aid to flight. But the enemy were helped by a head start and the speed of their rowing, so that the king could only vex them by his threat from the rear and not by capturing (hem. Then, catching sight of the captain of one of his vessels nearby, who had advanced towards the bow of his ship in a show of bravery, Valdemar shouted words of high praise across to him, declaring finally that whatever wage was paid to a courageous man was money spent admirably and deservedly. At last, held back when the wind veered round, he reversed direction and equalled the distance he had Iraversed under sail by letting the oars serve his need. Nevertheless, the rowing was as difficult as the sailing had been straightforward. While the Danes struggled to steer their way against adverse seas, the Wends, who knew the topography of the area clearly, took a short cut by cleaving a stretch of the deep unknown to our men, and suddenly transformed their flight into an ambush. When Absalon spied them shooting out via the waters of concealed bays, although his I cl low-captains accelerated their progress in consternation, he preferred not to precede them but to follow closely in their wake, intent on safeguarding the rear of the foregoing fleet by watching over them with a high sense of his duty. I am embarrassed to have to relate what follows: the majority of the Danes, regarding a sense of shame as less important, forsook the king, even though they could perceive the enemy ready to fall on them, and had the nerve to crowd on sail. Valdemar, left with only a very few vessels, felt more displeasure with these runaways than he did towards the foe. Noticing then that even the warrior he had spoken well of shortly beforehand, when this man had been standing at his prow, was now extending his reduced sail by adding more canvas so that he might scud along faster, he altered his commendation to reproach, swearing that the affection he had bestowed on timorous fellows had been squandered foolishly. It is no easy matter to identify the quality of true, reliable courage except in a situation of desperate danger. The bolting sailors could not be resummoned, either by shouting, or by signals, or by any other kind of appeal, so firmly had panic blocked everyone’s ears. When the king called for a short halt in rowing and asked all those present what their best line of action ought to be, everyone hesitated till Absalon urged him to make towards the island of Hiddensee, where they must await a following breeze. But Peder, not without declaring his reasons, said this should be avoided, since, as long as the high winds prevailed, there seemed to be little hope of return or of any supplement for their fleet, while the Wends would be recruiting daily additions to the forces ranged against them. They ought therefore to spread their sails and aim for uniform progress in their voyage; the ships with a greater turn of speed should furl some of their canvas and wait for the slower craft, and in this way, by rules of partnership, they must escort in a convoy those they surpassed in swiftness. So, Absalon’s vigorous instigation gave way to Peder’s eminent discretion. Each one’s ideas were consistent with his age: the former proposed schemes that suited a young man’s mind, the latter put forward suggestions which accorded with his grey hairs. Now that the whole Danish fleet had shrunk in this fashion to a paltry seven vessels, the Wends, relying on their throng of ships and scorning the sparse numbers of their foe, rushed in upon them, rowing full tilt and bellowing with shrill voices. Yet they handled the engagement with greater vehemence than boldness. For immediately they felt our arrows, they did not dare move their oars any closer. Shortly after this they began to beat first their necks, then their shields, with the flat of their drawn swords, believing that this mode of intimidation would strike terror into Danish hearts. Next, accompanying their rowing with loud roars, they raised their cacophonous din far and wide. But this charge was no better than the last; as soon as they encountered the Danes’ missiles, they fell back, and at once began to pull in the opposite direction. They tried to terrify their opponents yet a third time with their weaponry: with water they began to soak their shields, which had been in contact with the salt sea, and to stretch these by kneeling on them, so that they could use them to fight with, just as if there was no doubt of their doing battle with our warriors. Then, at the very last, roused by their greed for booty or a strong sense of humiliation, they drove their vessels even more furiously at the Danes. This display initially appeared as fierce as it eventually turned out to be meaningless. Just as before, frightened by the attack of our darts, they no longer continued to harry our small band, whose steadfastness had remained undefeated, even though they could see that the Danish challenge constituted a huge disparagement to them. The king had just gained sight of his homeland when the breeze gradually dropped and the boat’s motion forward became snail-like and sluggish, with the result that although the sails were fully spread, he awaited daylight in virtually the same spot he had reached when night fell; and since the west winds had deserted him, he had his ships propelled forwards by oars. At length he met Eskil, boarded his boat, and came back to Scania. Those who had most recently attended him were conveyed to parts of Zealand. After this Peder, longing to play a trick on Rane, a man of very fluent speech, and make fun of his clumsy cunning, set not only his bound captives but his oarsmen, too, on the raised deck of his vessel, so that he could exaggerate his parade of spoils by exhibiting what appeared to be his prisoners. When Rane saw him sailing past in his galley, wanting to pretend that his own ship was splitting, he chid his rowers bitterly and ordered them to bail out water from the hold. When one of them replied that they had emptied out the bilge water only three days earlier, Peder exclaimed: ‘Your oarsmen don’t know the proper answers to give you.’ Then Rane, sticking his head out, caught sight of a few sailors inside Peder’s boat straining at the oars, but a large group of young men unoccupied; believing these were war prizes, and feeling disconsolate at the thought of his own inactivity, he declared that he had not enjoyed the same kind of good fortune as Peder because, hindered by the threat of foundering, he had been unable to take part in the campaign. During the autumn the king had made an attack on the territory bordering the city of Arkona at the head of a band largely composed of Zealanders and Scanians, with a few Jutlanders; but when they had seized immense plunder and were returning to the coast, the men of Rligen, eager to surround our army surreptitiously from the rear as it was on its way back to the ships and prepared to embark, crossed to the island from the mainland with massive forces. During that same time there rose a heavy mist, which draped the sky with thick darkness. The Danes, enveloped in this bewildering haze and doubtful of their route, were forced to halt for a while. I am prepared to believe that a kind fate had intervened to make these weather conditions favour their coming victory. And now, because the opacity of the cloud would not allow the Wends to see ahead, they wandered in the gloom till they were drawn to a point where they had almost stumbled into the midst of their enemy, when suddenly the sun dispersed the fog, and you might have observed the armies almost confronting one another. Then Prislav, who had previously come as a refugee from the Wendish region, galloped forward on his horse to report that the barbarians were close by, now was offered the chance for the battle they had been praying for, and, he urged, they must all try to live up to the Danish reputation for invincible courage. The king answered that their opponents would encounter men who would be glad to meet their fate rather than flee. So immediately they sighted their adversaries, carried away by a sudden passion for combat, the Danish troops began to rush at them without waiting to form ranks, contrary to normal fighting practice. But victory came as soon as they attacked, with the Wends running ahead of them to escape any conflict. While dashing forwards, two royal Wendish warriors crashed into one another as their steeds unfortunately collided, with the result that each was dislodged and thrown to earth. When the king’s horse tripped over them he was pitched to the ground and his left elbow, boring a hole through his shield, dug deep into the soil. Although Absalon wanted to dismount so that he could pull him up, Valdemar gave a gesture signalling him not to halt, for he reckoned his tumble would be counted a happy one if only he could be uplifted by the enemy’s destruction. In the event the accident gave a happier forecast than the sight of it would suggest. For the king’s fall presaged the foe’s collapse; the barbarians were conquered without an engagement and were crushed with no loss to the Danes. In their fervour the majority of the Wends once again sought The creek over which they had crossed and in the waters lost the lives I hey were trying to preserve; indeed, just as great a number perished beneath the waves as by the sword. Some, to gain greater safety from l heir enemies, deliberately ducked below the tide as far as their mouths. Yet this subterfuge gave them no sort of help in hiding from the Danes, who descended into the same shallows in order to exterminate them. The rest had been destroyed under water, but one of them, who had gripped a hidden rock firmly with his feet, could be seen to have survived the slaughter of his comrades; as the I )anish soldiers were hesitating to go down and dispatch him through Their fear of the depth, Absalon cried: ‘This fellow’s not so tall, men, that your height can’t match his. And he’s not planted himself in a Hood where he can stand more easily than we can.’ Absalon’s brother, Esbern, took his words as an exhortation, and, though he had no doubt that the Wend had the support of a concealed rock, set the authority of his brother’s wish before his own safety; while the others kept refusing, he entered the waters stained with the enemies’ blood, wearing all his armour. But after he had hurled his spear into the barbarian and wanted to regain the shore, the waves swirled round his head, so that he was swept into the depths and went under; if his fellow-warriors had not been there to lend aid, he would have drowned. Oluf, eager to drag him out of the waves, spurred his horse into that deep stretch, grabbed him by the arm and tried to haul him up, but was almost flung headfirst out of his saddle. As he saw death staring him in the face and felt his own preservation more important than another’s, he abandoned his attempt to take care of his friend and looked to his own interest. A man named Niels tried to follow suit and did not restrain himself from urging his horse forward and riding into the flood, though with more bravery than success. In fact, confronted by the same kind of danger as before, he changed his mind and gave up the effort. In this way Esbern was bereft of help from the knights, but, as it turned out, reached safety through the exertions of the footsoldiers. When he had been restored to land, the onlookers believed him dead, since the brine which had flowed into his lungs had encroached on his breathing. Finally, after his comrades had been shaking his body for some time, he began to spew up the sea water. Once freed of this load, he had the strength to raise his eyes, but not to speak. The bystanders then tended him by applying a compress of clothing to his torso, which was numb with cold. This warmed him through until he could not only move his eyes, but recovered the use of his voice. Nevertheless all that day he remained so lifeless that his face scarcely lost the features of a corpse. I am convinced that the valour of another Danish knight should not be consigned to oblivion: unaccompanied by any of his associates, he had pursued the fugitive barbarians with greater enthusiasm than wariness, till, having ceased flight, they demanded that he surrender himself as their prisoner; spurning this request, however, he leapt from his horse, since he preferred to struggle to the death rather than admit defeat and survive. So, as long as a large horde of his foes strove to crush him, he slew anyone who came within reach and, battling away without a sign of fear, eventually, covered in glorious wounds, sank on top of the bodies he had piled up. In consequence he not only made countless men share his fate, but also left the survivors dumbfounded at the sight of his bravery. I le accomplished so much by his outstanding courage that after this The Wends dared not engage in armed combat with Danish troops. The following year, while the Danes were preparing their campaign, the people of Rügen, having lost the confidence to underlake warfare owing to the recent disaster they had suffered, designated a certain Dombor, an extraordinarily gifted speaker, to treat for peace on their behalf. After welcoming him, Absalon turned over this enemy’s ship to his own use in the campaign, but made sure that accommodation and expenses were provided for its crew until he returned to Denmark; when he went to where the royal fleet was assembling, he took Dombor with him. According to the mutual custom of the Rugians and the Danes, it was proper to detain the enemy ambassadors, received at the time the expedition was being mounted, right up to the point of its homecoming, in case they went back to their countrymen to report on these foreign affairs and fulfil the duties of spies, not of a legation. However, uninterrupted bad weather delayed the navy’s departure, and during this period the Jutlanders, because of dwindling food supplies, seemed intent on abandoning the campaign, until the Zealanders and Scanians helped out their shortage by a generous outlay of rations, wishing not to be deprived of a large section of their forces because of a wicked and frustrating scarcity. Yet though the inhabitants of Funen had more than enough provisions, I hey contributed not even the smallest fraction towards alleviating the wants of their confederates. Noting all this, despite the fact that he had earlier supplicated for peace, Dombor now offered it only on equal terms. Beyond that, he asked Absalon to act as go-between with the king. When the bishop requested that he should back up his proposal with a clear assurance, Dombor declared that he would pledge himself by throwing a pebble into the water. If barbarians intended to make a covenant, they followed the ritual of casting a pebble into the waves and prayed that if they went against the agreement, they would be lost, like the sunken stone. For his part Absalon demanded hostages, telling him that in serious negotiations the spurious falsehoods of pagan belief were not acceptable, but Dombor was in no way discouraged from his bold claim for the mutual exchange of hostages. This Absalon felt to be intolerable and stressed that the people of Rügen in the past had not only been accustomed to send over hostages to Denmark, but money and reinforcements for the fleet as well; the Danes had no recollection of ever granting anything of this sort or of repaying them in such a manner. Then Dombor said to Absalon: ‘If your good sense is as strong as you reckon, you’ll accept ungrudgingly what I have to suggest and make sure you secure it firmly in your memory. When anyone acts in a sensible manner, he gives particular consideration to three periods of time: he devotes less attention to two of these, but observes the nature of the third more closely than the others. He remembers the past, looks forward to the future, and examines the present. The foolish individual, on the other hand, between his expectations for the future and his recollection of the past usually neglects present opportunities and lets slip what he holds in his hands. In this way even you, enmeshed in pointless tangles of anxiety, call to mind scenes of the past and are preoccupied with future events, showing such conscientious concern that you can’t look to those things set within your grasp or floating before your eyes. As you direct your thoughts back to the recollection of a previous era, you measure the future by the yardstick of that happiness, and gather hope from your reminiscences, missing what the current period has to offer. I admit that at one time the Danes gained ascendancy over our people, but now kindly Fortune exhibits to our side the same flattering partiality with which she would once honour yours, and has brought our circumstances to this height of felicity which at a certain stage your own national affairs had reached. At the moment we surpass you in strength and success as much as you once did us, so that under the guidance of Fate we’ve advanced to the point to which the growing prosperity of Denmark had formerly risen. But while you rashly aggrandize yourself with wishful thinking, you pass over new situations, recently arisen, in your foolish pretence that these are still the old days, and try to urge me into accepting stipulations which, as things look at present, you yourselves should have offered rather than demanded of us. Your lands, wretchedly battered by our armed forces, lie waste and neglected, destitute of cultivation; our widespread regions are scarcely large enough to feed the myriads they have produced, and yet, though you perceive that we’re everywhere more powerful, you scorn to regard us not just as your superiors, but even as your equals. It will be fair to invite us to pay you tribute on the day when you’ve finally matched our fortunes with your own successes, and when you see us doomed to the evils which now oppress you.’ So spoke Dombor. Absalon, however, hiding the exasperation that had risen within him, listened to his words with few replies, and then reported what he had heard to the king. Nevertheless, the persistent raging of the seas obstructed the voyage and put an end to the expedition. Although the king’s earlier attacks on the Wends had yielded satisfactory results, observing that this assault against them would require greater labour than he could accomplish with his own powers, he urged the duke of Saxony to combine arms and soldiery with him on the promise of huge recompense. The other, attracted by the prospect of gaining enormous profit and by the hope of acquiring control of his neighbours, engaged himself to be a partner in the enterprise. Now the Norwegian king, in warmest recognition of their friendship, had earlier presented Valdemar with a dragon-shaped ship. This vessel, fashioned with rare skill, Absalon was asked to furnish with oarsmen from Roskilde, and to navigate her as far as the Danes’ meeting point; when, however, he was delayed beyond his wish at the port of Isøre by less than favourable winds, his bitterest complaint was that, while the remainder were setting out on the expedition, it seemed he would arrive at the location too late, for it was his custom at other times to leave the rest behind through the speed of his preparations and readiness to sail early. As he was lying in the stern at night, his mind lulled by weariness and a sense of shame, he saw in his dreams that calmness was going to reign over the sea. He thought himself beckoned by a man and, after he had set foot on shore, that he strolled with Tyge, bishop of Børglum, for some while, and was told by him to concentrate keenly, grasp what he heard, and commit it firmly to memory. Next Tyge repeated once, twice, and then a third time an antiphon which it was customary to chant during the ceremony each Christmas Eve, and bade him listen attentively to the words he sang. Once awake, Absalon brought back to mind so vividly the scenes he had witnessed, that he believed it had been no dream, but a real occurrence; and since he recalled that in his sleep he had been assured assistance with his departure on the next day, he presumed the hope of a comfortable voyage was so certain that, embarking in a rowing boat, even though the storm had not yet abated in the least, he issued commands for his men to be quick to raise the mast of the royal ship, which was captained by Astrad, and then hastened to eat. As he was dining, Astrad came in to inform him that the storm had diminished and to ask him what steps it would be best to take. The order was given that after the ship’s mast had been erected, he should make his way there and then through the straits of Isefjorden and, as soon as they had passed them, sail round the island of Zealand in the direction the wind was blowing them. While he was hurrying to carry out these instructions, the expeditionary fleet, which, as luck would have it, had put in to harbour together, was rejoicing at the sudden onset of calm and, longing eagerly to set off, was preparing to unfurl canvas. Nevertheless, the result of their actions did not correspond with the vigour they put into them; becoming a sport for the wayward bluster of the winds, they headed this way and that, now east, now west, and the constantly veering gusts cheated the sailors of their desired course. You might have thought it God’s plan not to allow Absalon to journey on his own, or make slower progress than the rest. This was also clearly confirmed on his arrival: as he came up to the other ships, all the delusive mists evaporated, a steady breeze settled on the ocean, and the following wind which sprang up remained so reliable that, where previously they had pursued a wavering tack with sails shifting, they immediately enjoyed fine conditions and an orderly voyage. In this way, out of consideration for Absalon, the universe provided the clement weather it had grudged the rest. As he also perceived that the craft entrusted to him by Valdemar had been given a pounding when the tempest had risen to its height, and that it ran a very close risk of foundering, he at once had it hauled up on to the beach and refitted it with the timbers needed to hold it together, so that it was restored from a torn, almost shattered, wreck to its former durability. However, the points of its prow and stern he decked with golden spikes to make it look more elegant in its progress. The king was received on board at Masnedø and made for the province of Poel, attended by his navy. So, with separate forces, but working to a common end, the Danes invaded one side of Wendish territory, while the Germans harassed the other, and from time to time the two armies were able to catch sight of one another. When a number of the duke’s followers happened to stray somewhat far afield in their search for food, the Wends attacked them in an ambush and slaughtered them; but the German cavalry sought to avenge this new outrage with a skilful stroke of audacity: they hid their cuirasses and other military attire with which they had been protecting their bodies with a camouflage of dirty, everyday clothes, and began to reap corn as though they were foragers; as soon as the Wends under their commander, Niklot, dashed out of hiding to overwhelm them, the Germans leapt swiftly onto their steeds, exchanged sickles for swords, and cut them down. Niklot’s head was sheered off, fixed to a spear, and brought into camp, to provide a gratifying spectacle for the gaze of both armies. When the news was brought during dinner to Niklot’s son, Prislav, who, owing to his love of Christian worship and his hatred for heathen superstition had been driven from his country and had crossed over to Denmark, for a while he withdrew his hand from the food and with it supported his bowed head; then he declared that it was right and proper for one who scorned God to provide such an example by his death and, summoning his mind back from its reflections, displayed his usual cheerfulness of expression and thoughts to his fellow-diners. He was a man of great stoicism, but even greater awareness of his devotion to the Deity. He could not count as his parent one whom he knew to be a challenger of our common faith. It would therefore be difficult to assess whether his strong spirit or his pious utterance was the finer. With less than normal sentiment towards his native land, with his leadership and inducements he compelled it to become the prey of two peoples. After a few days’ interval Valdemar approached Duke Henry to have a talk with him and, accompanied only by Absalon, was conducted into Henry’s tent, where he was given a feast, at which a large flock of noblemen performed the role of servants. Though the banquet contained a brilliant variety of many different dishes, there was rather more splendour in the attendance than in the feast itself, and particular regard was paid to ostentation at the expense of enjoyment. Valdemar’s retinue were entertained at tables that were set apart. When on his return Valdemar, troubled by recent turns of events, proclaimed that his mind was eager to ascertain where he might be able to meet Henry in order to discuss essential business with him, and that he needed an astute man to settle this matter, some made out that their horses were lame, others that their mounts needed more attention to their hooves. All concealed their dread with cunning excuses, for none dared undertake so perilous a mission; but as Absalon happened to be coming out of the forest, where he had been cutting wood, a favourite leisure occupation of his, and was asked whether he would be willing as an envoy to represent the king’s interests, he promised to go. After he had been told to choose select companions, he took mostly relatives and others with whom he had family connections, believing that the trustworthiness of kinsmen was preferable to that of outsiders. With them also was Prislav, the son of Niklot, who had been the most powerful among the Wendish chieftains; because Prislav had married Valdemar’s sister and been admitted to the discipline of Christian worship, he had long since been banished from his father’s sight as though he had been weaving a plot against him, and now he guaranteed to act as a guide along the projected route owing to his reliable knowledge of the region. Because of his tested loyalty and his connection by marriage, the king had granted him the ownership of a large number of beautiful Danish islands. Absalon made his journey, spoke to the duke, and was asked to stay overnight with him, but answered that King Valdemar was troubled with unease as he awaited his vassals and must not be allowed further anxiety by the introduction of a longer delay. Apart from that, he affirmed, the fleet had no anchorage and was exposed to the shock of the winds from every quarter. When he had given the reasons for his haste and they had mounted their steeds towards nightfall ready for departure, a nobly born Saxon took it upon himself to address the duke, complaining that, if the Danish ambassadors departed with so few attendants, they would be liable to come to grief; and he ventured to rebuke Henry quite forcibly for letting this small band of important men leave his presence unaccompanied, beset as they were by so many hazards. The envoys were recalled and offered the assistance of an escort; but Absalon was as firm in refusing a bodyguard as he had been in rejecting the polite offer of their staying the night, since he thought it more praiseworthy to trust his own and his comrades’ safety to uncertain chances than to be protected by foreign weapons. As soon as he had ridden a little way from the tents, Prislav told them all to draw in their reins and said: ‘If we’d had to see this business through under my guidance, we shouldn’t have shrunk from supplying our inadequate troop with accompanying reinforcements. To have a surplus of numbers in the face of dangers is a proof of conscientiousness, not a sign of fear. Bravery is all the more commendable, the less it’s allied with stupidity; but the valour that is lent stamina by foolhardiness deserves censure. Nonetheless, it would now be quite disgraceful to demand the provision we scorned to accept when it was offered a short while ago. All that remains, then, is to count reliance on our hearts and strength as our only way to safety, and for us to derive the surest hope from our desperate situation. So, we must try to live up to the high standards of the Danish race and Danish honour, and strive with all our energies to ensure either that victory allows our homecoming, or that a glorious death provides us with a memorial of everlasting renown. There’s little doubt at all that the horses’ hoofprints have informed the enemy of our transit, and there’s no less certainty that they’ll lie in wait for the return of those whose arrival they discerned from the evidence of this well-trodden path. Yet it’s better you should die, my fellows, than be captured. Should we be taken prisoner, your savage end will fulfil the penalty for the killing of my father, as if we were his actual murderers, and my brothers will offer your blood as a sacrifice to their sire’s ghost by subjecting you to the harshest rigours of torture. It’s rather more satisfactory to yield your lives as a result of your own courage than survive to undergo a wretched punishment from others’ ferocity. I’ve ventured to give this advice not in fear for my personal danger, bur rather bearing in mind my affection for you, because I originate from a family which no Wend was ever daring enough to assail. By our almighty and most beneficent father and by the name of Denmark, famous throughout all nations, I beg and call upon you not to set feebleness and faint-heartedness before courage and self-confidence.’ These were Prislav’s words. His speech was promptly received with a happy shout of universal approval, causing him to affirm that he had no qualms about their winning through, for the men’s ardour had boded well, particularly since the sight of any Wendish offensive was usually more terrifying than its effect. In this march they ought to follow a special formation: the young men who were lightly armed and mounted should occupy a central position among the troops, who in this way could form a guard to protect them on all sides. Their military squadrons, divided into two companies, must provide mutual cover and defence; certainly the view of twin platoons might well undermine their enemies’ spirits. Moreover, he instructed them to set up a loud noise as they marched and to sing a medley of rowdy songs, imitating the assurance generally felt by a huge crowd of people. His scheme paid off: they were led through to the port where their fleet lay at rest, undisturbed by any attacks; here the monarch, worried like any other waiting person, was suffering gloom and anxiety for the long-delayed envoys, and only by reading works of piety could he assuage the misery he had caused himself by sending off his liegemen on such a rash errand. The minute he learnt of their return, he quickly let himself succumb to the allurement of sleep, which had been deferred through his despondency. From there they sailed off as far as the River Goderak. Its entrance, full of shallows, could on no account accommodate large vessels, but in the normal run of things only allowed access to light craft. For this reason King Valdemar found a mooring for his ship by dropping anchor close to the mouth, seeing that the meagreness of the stream would not admit its great draught. A more manageable flotilla, one which could take the depth of the channel, attempted the tight bends of the river under Absalon’s command. Under his direction they reached the spot where the waters spread out to give the impression of a massive lake. The natives had blocked off its narrow opening with numerous boats to stop their foe getting through. In their eagerness to disperse them and ignorant of the depth, our people made errors of judgement through their inexperience of piloting those stretches, and ran their vessels aground in the shallows. When they saw that the water was not sufficiently deep and they wanted to launch their ships afresh into more navigable reaches, because there was less scope for rowing they jumped down into the shoals on every side, fitted their hands into the oar holes, and let their physical strength do the work of oars. Using their ships as if they were ramparts, the Wends hurled missiles down on the Danes. Not content with assailing them by this method, they came leaping down themselves into the shallows, looking for a place where they could grapple with the Danes at close quarters. Even so, our men opposed them so vigorously that they scrambled back to their ships as fast as they had left them. A pair of Prislav’s vessels reached the lake ahead of the others. However, such swarms of those who had been standing in the shoals sprang onto one of these that its sides were completely buckled and it split down the middle. As they piled on board impetuously, the weight of these large numbers cracked the centre of the boat. Once the Danish fleet sailed up, the barbarians fled and their abandoned ships were captured. The villages adjoining the bank were also burnt to the ground. While Absalon was returning by night, the king was still unable to sleep and, as he lay awake, suffered torment over his bishop’s prolonged absence. He welcomed Absalon with joy and, having sent his war galley home because its huge size apparently made it unwieldy to handle, he transferred to a somewhat smaller vessel; in it he journeyed down to the lake, where he furnished Sune with twin ships and dispatched him on a plundering venture to the distant confines of the marshlands. Valdemar had no trouble sending Rostock up in flames, a town which its cowardly citizens had deserted. He also consigned to the fire an effigy which that race in its pagan superstition honoured with religious rites as though it were a deity from heaven. Subsequently, when Henry arrived with his army to engage in talks, Sune conducted him across a bridge built for the purpose. During this same period Niklot’s other son, Pribislav, appeared on the farther bank and, when he caught sight of Prislav travelling in the same vessel as Bernhard, whose hand was reputed to have slain Niklot, he lashed his brother with abuse, upbraiding him for his disloyalty in having the gall to be on friendly terms with his father’s assassin. For his part Prislav retorted that Bernhard had done him a favour in depriving him of a godless father; and he had no wish to be counted the son of a parent who was well known to have been exceedingly wicked. In the meantime, while these events were happening, a sudden report came through that a fleet from Rügen and Pomerania, determined to blockade the Danes on the river, had assembled by previous agreement. Therefore Valdemar, warned by Henry that he needed to escape if he did not wish to be imprisoned in a tight corner, immediately left that stream behind him. Since as yet there were no indications to confirm the story about the convergence of Wendish forces, roused by suspicions of a stratagem, he decided to counter the foe’s guile with his own. In fact, they had gathered in obscure creeks along the shores, seeking an opportunity to harry the king’s fleet if he ravaged the countryside. With a view to drawing them out under pretence of giving them an opening, Valdemar assigned to a man named Magnus the task of setting ablaze the coastal villages and ordered his soldiery to hide themselves inside the ships, knowing full well that the Wends would believe the arson was being conducted by the entire army and so would make an attempt to spring their trap on the Danes all the sooner. His supposition corresponded closely to the enemy’s plans. While Magnus was setting fire to the towns, the Rugians, believing all the Danish forces were occupied with this project, in their excitement seized the courage to put their scheme into operation, imagining they would find their adversaries’ fleet bare of defenders. They were, however, encountered somewhat too prematurely by soldiers who were unaware of the king’s command, and the Wends’ enthusiasm for assault unexpectedly turned to flight. The remainder of the Danish navy, frantically pursuing them with mighty pulls at their oars, found they could not keep up with the speed of their foes’ rowing. And when the Danes mitigated the heat with canopies to relieve their fatigue, the archbishop of Lund, coming up to the contingent who were occupying the harbour, spied the sunshades stretched over the ships when it was almost midday, and accused them all of idleness: ‘Are we enjoying burying our bodies in these graves, comrades, when we should be exercising our spirits?’ His question filled the soldiers with shame for taking their ease in the daytime and taught the king, in the grip of his lethargy, to arouse the dormant energies of his militia. He, too, moderately affronted at the archbishop’s words, yet forcibly reminded of his sluggishness by this legitimate rebuke, quickly replied that it was possible to quit these graves and, after sweeping aside the awnings, immediately made haste to set foot on enemy soil. After this they carried off spoils from the southern tracts of Rügen for two days, and from there sailed to Walung. When an attack by the Rugians was reported, under the gaze of his fellow soldiers one of the Danes broke off a section of his spear so that it would be less cumbersome to wield in the battle line; the rest followed his example, piling the butts in one spot, where they built a great heap within a short space of time. Meanwhile, however, the inclinations of the enemy were moving rapidly towards peace and away from war. In order to negotiate this, Dombor was directed to parley with the Danes. Since they had departed to their ships, he lit a fire on the beach, a signal to show that he had come as a spokesman. Nevertheless Absalon forbade anyone to receive him on their vessel, in case the Danes might also appear to be aiming at a mutual reconciliation of the sort he had come to plead for. So Dombor, denied a boat by anyone else, had to sail to the fleet in his own and, applying to Absalon through an interpreter, begged him to act as peacemaker between the king and the people of Rugen, promising hostages to show their compliance. Absalon, on the other hand, behaved as if he had no idea what Dombor’s plea was about, and instead of an answer listed the Danish islands which had had to be abandoned, reminding the Wend bitterly of how he had pointed to their destitute state in his recent remonstrance. Realizing from the interpreter that he was receiving far from satisfactory replies to his appeal, Dombor said: ‘There’s good reason, most blessed of bishops, for the fact that in asking for an intercessor we choose your help rather than anyone else’s. At this time it’s more suitable for us to have recourse to your name and fame with our entreaties, because we once relied on the assistance of your grandfather to win agreement with the Danes. And we were happy to accede to his pleasure as if we were following royal decrees. Since no son of his survives, we stretch our hands as suppliants to the knees of his grandson, for we don’t want it to seem that we’ve been seeking aid outside the line of the family we’ve approached in the past. But we’ve certainly been just as purposeful in bypassing your brother, even though he’s your senior. It’s your reputation, not your years, not the prerogative of age, but the distinctions of high office that win you the privilege of authority. Before you all polluted your country’s peace with civil wars, we Wends showed unflinching faithfulness to Danish sovereignty. But when factious opinions began to spread in your state and you started to arm people who had designs on the kingdom, we eventually became more anxious for our own freedom than concerned with another folk’s domestic rivalries, and chose to sever our connection with Denmark before abandoning our national duty. In making war on you, what else have we tried to do but offer you a reason for ending your disagreements and enable you to discover the need for mutual harmony when there was the prospect of encountering our weapons? In this way we turned the axe blades dripping with your citizens’ blood against ourselves, preferring to see you fight foreigners instead of destroying your own fatherland. We acted as your foes in outward appearance, but in reality as your friends, and under pretence of enmity played an affectionate role towards you. The pirate raids we carried out arose from our amicable feelings, whereby we sought not so much to plunder your possessions as to ally you with one another. Indeed, it’s again due to us that you’ve been pulled back from your aberrant purposes and internecine struggles, so that you ought properly to thank those who’ve contrived this great boon for you. Well then, now that you Danes have all reached a congenial understanding with one another, why are we the only ones not allowed to step inside the gates of your confederacy, those gates whose bolts we shot back to throw the entrance open? Why is the wisdom of our actions, a wholesome corrective of your transgressions, valued so little and perceived so ungratefully by men famous for their discernment?’. He had already ended, but as Absalon was still reckoning up the Danish provinces that had been ravaged, Dombor continued: ‘Nothing’s been done to make you repel people who need your protection, and refuse that benign sympathy which no suppliant ever found difficulty in obtaining. If you reject us, we’ll repeatedly fall prostrate before you, imitating the persistence of young children who, the more severely they’re beaten and tormented by their angry mother, press forward all the more eagerly to slip into her lap. If, however, you believe you’ve exacted too mild a punishment from us, you’ll be able to glut your rage by inflicting on us all the calamities you please, without fear of retaliation. Though our fields are laid waste, our villages burnt down, our towns destroyed, and our population decimated, we’ll confront you with prayers, not arms, aspiring to seek pardon instead of fighting you. If you thirst for our blood, we’ll voluntarily present our throats for your swords to cut. If you aim to make us slaves, what more can we offer than our surrender? Yet whose mind is so fierce that he wouldn’t be ready to spare any who proposed surrendering themselves? Wanting to gain something by one’s exertions is the very height of madness, if it could be acquired by remaining idle. I know it occurs to you that in our earlier conversation I counted the devastation of your homeland as a disgrace to you, and I’m also aware that you’re being so persevering in your estimate of those wasted areas because you’re unwilling to treat for peace before your forces have brought about the same total amongst us. For some time I’ve employed prudent admonitions foolishly, carefully teaching you the functions of an opponent contrary to our interests, and not realizing that as an instructor I’d such an attentive audience. It would have been preferable if I’d talked pure childish nonsense. I’m now sorry to have spoken words which will also have vexed you to listen to. If, however, at that time I presented to your ears any arguments worthy of your grasping, listen, too, with similar reasonable judgement to the message I’ll now utter, taking my current demonstrations in the same spirit as you did when you received the proofs in my earlier address to you. Inasmuch as you Danes wreak greater carnage on us, it will leave a smaller number of subjects to serve in your army. What else do you accomplish by inflicting destruction on us than weakening your vitals and draining them of strength? Nonetheless, if you consider that even yet we’ve been insufficiently punished, send us to be trampled down in the front line against your foes, so that by our deaths you’ll derive abundant revenge, or, if we defeat them, you’ll still have us rebels beneath your yoke. Conquered, we’ll induce little grief in your minds, conquering we’ll bring you a great deal of joy; either outcome will satisfy your success rate. Besides that, if you persist in molesting us with your troops, the chances are that you may pay for our slaughter by the loss of one of your number whose life won’t easily be compensated for by the subjugation of all Rugen.’ As this advice appealed to him, Absalon fulfilled the wishes of the Rugians with his entreaties to the king. After accepting hostages Valdemar returned home. At about the same time a dispute sprang up among the cardinals about the Roman papacy, and the votes of the provinces were given for different candidates. France lent its support to Alexander, while, at the emperor’s instigation, Germany followed Octavian’s adherents. However, there was more justice in the French allegiance, which was in closer accord with Christian duty. When reports of this spread through Denmark, the primate of Lund, who had participated in the campaign just described, did not wish to have anyone embezzle the money he had deposited abroad, while this religious ferment was seething; he therefore arranged for his assistants to bring back the sum he had laid by in France. As one of these, a monk by vocation, was taking food at the town of Stade, he needed a cup, but as a wooden one happened not to be available, he laid hold of a golden goblet which he had in his keeping and finished his dinner in a more lavish, but hardly safe, style. His action gave incitement to those who had provided him with lodging and instilled in them a secret passion to rob him. They observed that he must be privy to even more wealth, when they saw him enhancing his personal meal with this superb cup. Nevertheless their respect for a guest made them afraid to pursue the crime openly, for they considered it wicked to infringe the sacred laws of hospitality within the portals of their dwelling; they therefore trailed him to Holstein, where they relieved him of his baggage. Eskil learnt about this event while he was returning from the expedition and pestered the king to recover the treasure, since he believed that the monarch’s authority would persuade the thieves to restore it. Considering that at this stage bargaining would be more effective than begging, the archbishop gave his word that, provided it was regained through Valdemar’s efforts, his sovereign would receive a share of the money as a reward; Eskil was also more pressing in these demands for his cooperation, because he perceived that the king was somewhat slow in assenting to his request. Valdemar, worn out by his incessant applications, promised to do something, but reluctantly, for the robber’s identity was apparently uncertain and the money would be hard to locate. But he reckoned that the search would be quicker if it had been purloined by men of means and not by mean men. Consequently he told the archbishop to come with him to Schleswig. It so chanced that while Valdemar was among friends he jokingly made fun of the ostentation displayed by the loser of the treasure when he drank from the golden vessel; there were some in the company who interpreted the king’s words perversely, believing he had ridiculed Eskil in a speech of veiled sarcasm. It was through their misrepresentation that Eskil was induced to forsake his amity with the king; such lunacy broke out in him that he imagined Valdemar had appropriated the riches he had lost and asserted that his sovereign was an accessory to the pillage inflicted on him. The strength of the madness that had taken hold of him was made apparent in his loud denunciations of the king, which were all untrue. The result was that you could not tell whether the archbishop’s insanity or the ruler’s patience was the greater, for one of them kept up reproaches which stemmed from the most loathsome suspicions against a man of unimpeachable honour, whereas the other, with an pure, unblemished conscience, disclosed his anger more slowly than he should against this calumniator of his innocence. While all this was happening, Okke, who in being infected by an earlier schism had been force to relinquish his episcopate, after winning the king’s approval had usurped the bishopric of Schleswig, as though this noble office had been conferred on him by Octavian, and committed sacrilege by acting as its director. When Eskil was in the middle of conducting divine service, in his zeal for the rightful Catholic cause he excommunicated Okke and all his hangers-on, a move which greatly roused the king. As the dispute between the latter and Eskil had gradually developed into a jealous hatred, the archbishop summoned Absalon to Zealand and bemoaned the fact that his complaint to the king had been not only spurned, but even made the subject of derision. Valdemar’s conscience, he said, was far from clear in the affair of the vanished money, and it was within his power to have it restored, providing the will was there. Moreover, he had joined in corrupt collusion with Okke, an associate of the schismatic group, and by cultivating an alliance with him was providing damnable assistance to the opponents of a peaceful Church; this was why he, Eskil, was inflamed with an all-consuming desire to take up arms against Valdemar. Time and again he had performed comparable acts of boldness and was more used to controlling monarchs than humouring them. Apart from that, he himself was very adequately supplied with well-wishers who would give quite considerable help towards such a venture. Fearing to reprove the judgement of so powerful a man directly, Absalon tempered his role of critic, and met Eskil’s ungovernable delusion with a mild reproof, declaring that the king’s honesty in no way deserved such ugly aspersions and, after bringing together all the reasons for his innocence, confirmed that his conscience was totally remote from any discreditable suspicion. On the other hand, he showed him that Valdemar’s support of Okke must be ascribed not to his hatred of the true Church party but to Eskil’s quarrel with him. In addition, if he embarked on a contest, he would observe that those he hoped might abet his cause would turn out to be his foes. In unpropitious circumstances people often showed no true consistency in preserving their friendships. Absalon begged to be given an ambassadorial function, so that he might try to avert the risks of disunion by arranging some accommodation between him and the king. Eskil saw little profit in such good advice and instruction, and pestered Absalon with enquiries as to whether he was prepared to back him in this business; he was not asking him to become an adviser in his affairs but a partner in war, and was not putting this in a questioning spirit but one of entreaty. Absalon weighed the exalted rank of the primate against his own affection for the king and replied: ‘Since the obligation of my oath has long made me owe you my loyalty, I prefer to reprove your naivety with genuine advice rather than deceive you with agreeable phrases, so that, if conditions slide towards calamity, it may not seem that I gave empty guarantees. M y actual promise doesn’t oblige me to bow my neck so submissively that I must endure casting aside the dues of amity and attacking my deeply affectionate master, to whom I’m bound to render the tribute of faithfulness and fellowship. Again, for a long time it wasn’t difficult to challenge kings who were vying with one another for supreme power; but it’s foolhardiness to level force against this personage, who controls the realm without competition. If we assail him with our common strength, we’ll experience the perils to our common cost. In the current situation you, who’ve often undertaken similar risks, can make your attempts with less blame, whereas my villainy, having no defence or excuse to lean on, would deserve more vigorous condemnation, in that, if I shattered the bonds of comradeship in this way, I’d be repaying the deepest kindness with the most infamous audacity.’ Eskil was transported into a supreme outburst of shrill fury by Absalon’s wise and handsome responses and, importuning him by his sacred oath of obedience, asked if he would consent to carry his demands to the king. Absalon agreed to carry his demands, but declined to be the bearer of Valdemar’s answers, since he had no wish to be seen as an instigator of enmity between distinguished men. Having rather grudgingly entrusted him to undertake the mission, Eskil attached to it the abbot from the monastery of Esrum, Gerhard, who was to see whether Absalon proved a dependable conveyor of EskiPs injunctions. In fact the bitterness of these prescriptions was so intense that they might have not only increased animosity, but ruptured friendships through their malevolence. As far as he was at liberty to do so, Absalon tried to take the edge off this disagreeableness, and checked the offensive sentiments of EskiPs demands by substituting pleasant, soothing expressions. But as soon as the king heard what the delegation had to say, he fell into an unparallelled rage and replied that it had been EskiPs habit to drink the blood of former rulers, and he was now thirsting for his; in the same vein, employing terms of outright harshness, he made sure that Eskil was notified on many points in return. When he had learnt this from Gerhard, Eskil exchanged irritability for fear, so that, although he had earlier been consumed by fury, now the same degree of terror stole upon him. In order to escape harm he made his way to a remote area of Várend, anxious to seek preservation by withdrawal, not by war. Next the king made a siege attempt on the stronghold which had been built by Eskil on an islet in Ledre lake; it was certainly hard to capture, because Nature had helped to fortify it and it had been well enough equipped with supplies. Its defenders, whose spirits were weaker than their ramparts, were anxious to surrender and thereby prevent Valdemar capturing the position by assault; accordingly they promised that, if Eskil did not conclude peace with the king forthwith, they would deliver as hostage the primate’s grandson, who was being educated at Esrum, and would hand over the fortress. The king agreed to these terms and, taking the youth, raised the siege. When the report of this reached Eskil, he replied that there was greater concern in his mind for the stronghold than for any grandsons, and he would definitely not set their lives before its safety. As a consequence the king renewed the siege and built another fort, which would enable him to threaten the beleaguered inmates more closely; since he was not permitted to vent his wrath on his absent foe, he sharpened his efforts to express his vehement rage against those who were protecting the garrison in EskiPs name. His greatest hope of subjugating the fortress lay in the help that would be given in winter by the ice, which would provide an approach denied him by the unfrozen waters. Meanwhile a little-known young man was secretly instigated by some individuals or other to forge a letter, signed and sealed as though it were sent by Eskil; this he presented to Gerhard, telling him that he must deliver it to the men besieged in the castle. Harbouring no suspicion of underhand dealing, Gerhard had one of his friends convey it promptly into the fortress. Its contents read to the effect that love of his grandson held a stronger grip on Eskil than sympathy for the stronghold, so that the soldiers would be doing him no favour if they stuck doggedly to their concern for this sorry resistance while they allowed the life of such a nobly born youth to be exposed to danger; for this reason he commanded them to forestall his death by a hasty surrender. The former instruction, in which he saw fit to put the defence of the bastion before his grandchild’s safekeeping, had been directed as a consequence of his anger, not from mature consideration. After reading through the letter, the inmates pondered over this scheme for freeing the hostage. It is uncertain who the author of this fabrication was, but several found their suspicions pointing towards the king. While this was taking place, the monarch raised a lofty tree trunk and, bringing his hostage up beside it, pretended that he would hang the lad in retribution for the fortress’s holding out against him. Apprised of this, Gerhard walked in procession to the king with a company from his own religious house, imploring him in wailing tones to let him enter the castle and to postpone the boy’s execution until he returned. Valdemar, representing himself as favouring a cruelty that was quite foreign to his nature, eventually yielded to their request, but made it clear in advance that unless he became master of the stronghold, the hostage would perish. Gathering together the inhabitants of the castle, Gerhard enquired closely about the orders they had received in the letter. When he found that they had been told to show regard for the boy’s life by capitulating, he urged them to comply, with the result that, as soon as they had reached an agreement that they and their possessions would remain unscathed, the occupants handed over the evacuated fortress to the king. In this way the innocent minds of the monks were hoodwinked and this brought an end to the fighting. It was reported that Eskil had never ever been more vexed than when he heard this news. Later, however, he returned to Scania, after having sent envoys to seek peace, and, changing his mind with the same rapidity as when he fell away from his friendly relations with the king, he now rushed to recover them. He transgressed divine sanction by delivering back into royal control lands which the kind and pious disposition of earlier monarchs had granted to holy churches. Once this hardly lawful action had been perpetrated, later kings continued to enjoy these same rights of possession. Afterwards, wishing to steer clear of any taint from the schism, Eskil undertook a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, thinking it better to suffer exile from his home than be out of sympathy with the Church of Rome and banned from its doors. During the same period Christian, still in private life before his election to the archbishopric of Mainz, went to Denmark as if on a diplomatic mission, so that by his inducements he might put pressure on that country to ally itself with Octavian’s faction. Nevertheless, although his excessively cringing advances to some degree won the sovereign’s connivance, Eskil’s ears remained deaf to his approaches. Meanwhile Niels Rasseson, recently appointed governor of Schleswig, had become furiously hostile to its bishop, Esbern, and, in an attack which was extreme in its boldness, deprived the prelate’s celebrated estate of its most handsome building. But when he had given orders for waggons to cart away the timber, he was killed by soldiers who were intent on stopping the removal of Esbern. Afraid of being punished for this deed, the bishop avoided reprisal by pretending that he was going off to exile himself at the court of Rome. However, while he was staying in Saxony, he fell critically ill. When Okke learnt of this, referring to Octavian’s authority he once again obtained Esbern’s see, which at one time he had taken illegal possession of under the assumed title of bishop. After these events, Valdemar, accompanied by the Rugians according to their agreement, laid the fortress of Wolgast under siege. Although this was situated in Wendish territory, it remained separate from the overall jurisdiction and was ruled by its own chiefs. Its inmates called on Bugislav, prince of Pomerania, to assist them, but he was looking for peaceful rather than warlike measures. On their behalf he reached a settlement with the king on these terms: they must render obedience to Valdemar and also keep in check the pirates who were wont to sail out of their river estuary, confirming this agreement by surrendering hostages. At that point a quarrel happened to arise between the men of Rügen, who had been summoned to the meeting, and Bernhard, a son of Count Henry; because he had married the king’s niece, Bernhard had followed Valdemar with two vessels. When he asked them why they thought it unnecessary to court the favour of the famous duke of Saxony, they answered that they felt no high regard for the Saxon race; he retorted that it would not be long before they found out the duke’s strength. Then a number, snapping their fingers at the power of this prince whom he rated so highly, criticized Bernhard’s interrogation and poured scorn on his threats. When the king had calmed down this dispute, Maske, a man pre-eminent in birth and influence among the Rugians, blind, but clear-sighted in the keenness of his intellect, and as lively as he was long-lived, said: ‘It’s usual for rather mettlesome and temperamental horses to pull more strongly at the rein, the more tightly you hold them back. This is why you must slacken the Saxons’ reins; otherwise, if you strain at them too hard, they might snap. These people are well aware of our strength, just as we are of theirs.’ Once this speech had been made known to the duke, it became a seedbed of strife between him and King Valdemar. During the same period an embassy from the schismatics made a bid for Danish support, after inventing arguments to prove justice was on their side. Doubtful about their claims, the king dispatched his secretary to the Emperor Frederick to try to discover the truth; his name was Ralph, a Briton by birth, but his tongue was readier than his wits. The emperor received him with the appearance of highest respect and Octavian paid him no less honour, so that between these two there was a kind of competition in wooing him and a contest in showing him favours. However, ( )ctavian, to whom a unanimity of unfair votes had given a shadow of authority, outstripped the emperor in the politeness of his flattery, even though he seemed also to surpass Frederick in eminence. Octavian provided Ralph with a priest to recite holy prayers with him each day, thus making sure that he and another celebrant could conduct the divine office with sufficient ceremony. Nor was he satisfied with bestowing kindnesses on him, but mingled these courtesies with marks of indulgence. For instance, he allowed Ralph the use of his ring when the latter said mass, granting an emblem of the episcopal order to a person of somewhat lowlier rank. So it was that you could not tell whether the giver or the receiver of (his distinction displayed the higher degree of ludicrous folly. When he had listened to Ralph’s communication, the emperor declared that he was upset by a situation in which Christendom was divided, but would not give strong approval to one or the other faction until he heard a public decree from the Church; only then would he back the party which had won the approbation of universal opinion. Recently he had assembled a council of dignitaries from the whole of Italy to look into this matter. Octavian, trusting in the rightness of his position, had laid his case humbly before the entire Church for its decision, whereas Roland, his conscience blunted by perverseness, had not only remained stubbornly aloof, but also affirmed that he was too important a figure to be obliged to obey someone or other’s judgement. In order to settle this dispute finally, said the emperor, it was necessary for the kings of each country to be there with him, so that they could unite their endeavours in examining a religious problem which concerned everyone. Almost all these monarchs had extended their help to the opposite side, while none of them had joined with him to offer their endorsements. For this reason he very much desired to discuss matters with the Danish king, that wisest of rulers; he would be most willing to entrust the guidance of his own party to Valdemar’s discretion, for his capacity of mind and the sanctity of his descent demanded that he should act as arbiter in such a weighty affair. Furthermore, it must be considered what a great deed of piety the king would be performing, if by his acute discernment he could ensure the salvation of thousands of souls who were still vacillating and uncertain what decision to make. On top of all I his, were Valdemar to undertake a fatiguing journey in so religious a cause, he, Frederick, would reward his pains with one of the Italian provinces together with control over all the Wends. With these incitements the emperor made advances to Ralph, and included no fewer exhortations in letters which he gave him to deliver in Denmark. After he had returned from Germany, Ralph reported the abundance of affection felt by Frederick and Octavian towards Valdemar. Acknowledging this affirmation of friendship more readily than was sensible, the king did not long to concern himself with the interests of Christianity so much as to ascertain the behaviour of foreign peoples, and therefore found himself wishing to visit the emperor. At that time a certain Bernard, Octavian’s legate, set off for Denmark, looking eagerly for the votes of its bishops. However, he was welcomed by only a few and, after having sent letters all over the country, pretended to call a conference, so that he might bring everyone over to his own way of thinking. Nevertheless, when this was held, there was such thin attendance that it attracted greater ridicule than praise. After he had been sent away, the king in Schleswig, won by the very strong inducements of the emperor, disclosed his plan to Absalon, who was keeping watch over the islands, and asked him to be his companion on the journey. Absalon then condemned Frederick’s unreliability and slyness, declaring that one must not accept his deceitful promises with any firm expectation. Besides, it was impossible to be treated as his intimate without profaning the Christian faith, because he was a more ardent defender of the schismatic party than there was any warrant for. Absalon recalled that he himself was short of provisions and also unequal to the hardships of extensive travel. The king replied that as long as he personally had a sufficiency of supplies, Absalon would not go short. But the bishop stressed that, however plentiful the supplies were, nothing even then would make him indifferent to the safety of his own soul. In reply the king gave witness that he was no less preoccupied with his own spiritual welfare, and for this reason was particularly anxious to enjoy his company; if it were really justified, he might withdraw from any relationship with Octavian’s party, relying on Absalon’s help. Since the other still kept refusing to go on the journey and said he could never communicate with the enemies of the common faith, the king earnestly declared that until now he had cherished Absalon beyond all others; if he were now deprived of the bishop’s aid, he, Valdemar, would never again expect any advantage from him. Absalon, concluding then that he had been charged with the defect of ingratitude, answered: ‘No physical dangers can ever induce me to abandon my friendship for you; but when it turns on matters of the soul, it’s right to set fear of God before that of humankind. Yet though I perceive disasters encircling us, to prevent your soul stepping away into error I shan’t hesitate to involve my own in these perils.’ After this the king took him as a companion and also enlisted men of good family and high character in his entourage, that is to say, Sune und Esbern from Zealand, Tage and Esger from Funen. Of his relatives he enrolled only Buris, in case he should try to promote national changes during their absence. Moreover, there were several others from Jutland he could choose from to share his expedition. When the band arrived at the Eider, they were met by an unknown knight belonging to Adolf, count of Holstein; being asked whether he had come to escort them, he replied that his master was waiting nearby for them to cross, so that he could lend them this assistance. Although his attendants advised him not to put any trust in the knight’s direction, the king, depending on him as he would a straightforward guide, was the first to ride across the bridge, for in his keenness to pursue his journey he scorned fear just as much as he did their warnings. The others accompanied him, preferring to forsake their convictions sooner than abandon their sovereign. As they were moving on a little, Adolf met them and, after saluting the king, welcomed him with very kind words and a friendly expression. Since the count did not feel that his meeting with Valdemar was pleasing, but irksome, to the king because of their old grudges, he decided to invite him to stay at the town of Itzehoe at his own expense, wishing to soften his resentment by pliancy. But when the king rejected his offer, Adolf decreed that no one was to sell him his requirements. However, though the Danes were providing their own food, Adolf had excellent meals prepared and brought in by his servants; so then the Danes were overcome with embarrassment and were forced into accepting his liberality. Finally, asked whether he could give Valdemar safe conduct, Adolf affirmed that he certainly could as far as Bremen. When they had crossed over the Elbe and were riding hard towards Bremen, Esbern, observing the foolishness of their journey and seriously considering what a fruitless expedition they were pursuing, unknown to the rest gathered together his brother Absalon and other scions of the Danish aristocracy notable for their common sense; he begged them to stop the king from completing the itinerary he had so hurriedly embarked on, especially as he would be finishing it without a guide, a scheme too dangerous for him to be allowed to carry out. Absalon, reckoning it would be vain to attempt this, said that the king would never retreat from his plan; the adviser would not only be wasting his efforts, but would also come to realize how much dislike is usually earned by honest advice when it is offered to persistent delusion. Then Esbern answered: ‘Even if I knew beforehand that I should immediately pay the most dire penalty for these dissuasions, which, to my way of thinking, bear on the king’s safety, I shouldn’t allow myself to shroud them in silence. Make sure you are at my side and, if you withhold your tongues, at least give ear when I put my suggestions to him. When integrity appears in danger, I’d certainly rather incur the displeasure of my sovereign through profitable counsel than attract his friendliness with empty servilities. In such circumstances it’s better to be the object of anger after ministering reproof than win gratitude through cringing flattery.’ Although Absalon understood that Esbern was no more tractable than the king and saw that neither could be deflected from his resolve, he nonetheless partnered his brother when they went to see Valdemar, hoping to soften any wrath his words might excite in the monarch; all the rest believed it prudent not even to put in an appearance. Once they were before him, Esbern professed himself amazed at the impetuosity with which the king was launching upon such a long trek without any guide and with every intention of trusting his own as well as his country’s preservation to none but Frederick and his treacherous heart. He yearned, it seemed, to bring the unhampered necks of his people, who had never been in the habit of paying allegiance to foreigners, under the wretched yoke of the Germans in loathsome, humiliating slavery. What could be more stupid than to rush forward in order to yield himself voluntarily when there were no risks threatening, and to exchange maximum freedom for utter thraldom, not to speak of choosing to rule over his kingdom by request rather than by predominance? This was why the emperor, when he had brought Denmark under his sway, would wonder how he could have vanquished so stout a nation with promises, even before he could make a bid for it with his troops. The king generally expressed his wrath briefly, for it was his manner to utter few words when he was agitated: ‘Even though you’re so distressed by fear that you daren’t attend me on my way,’ he said, ‘you certainly won’t make me share your panic. Accompanied more closely by my courage than by my retinue, I’ll carry out my intention without you; nothing can persuade me to accept the shocking proposals that rise from your cowardice.’ Thus Esbern’s wholesome precepts were dismissed by Valdemar’s hasty impulsiveness. If only he had been willing to follow Esbern’s salutary prompting, he would not have had to demean himself by stretching out his hands in supplication to the emperor. This shows how far true and reasonable assessment deserts the man who is carried off course by an attack of foolhardiness. On entering Bremen they were received by the archbishop of that city, a person well versed in all points of gracious behaviour and remarkable for his compassion and generosity, who favoured them with his hospitality and gave them numerous attentions. When he was pressed on the subject of providing a guide, he answered that it was proper for him to supply the king with an escort, not merely guidance. With a view to their visiting the imperial court in greater security a large number of Saxon noblemen also joined the royal company, uniting themselves so closely that they were thought to belong to the flock of Danish retinue. As the size of Valdemar’s entourage grew, the citizens became terrified when they saw a throng which looked to them like a hostile army; with their wives and children they came into the cathedral to seek protection in the sanctuary of that holy edifice. As soon as he discovered this, the king sent along deputies to allay the people’s consternation by announcing that he intended no violence, and to order the buying of his provisions. After he had arrived in the city of Metz, the townsfolk pushed up the price of their wares with an eye to the great influx of newcomers; Valdemar complained of this injustice to the council with the effect that essentials were sold to him and his troop for a reasonable sum. As word spread of his uprightness and honesty, German mothers brought their infants to present to him when he approached, believing that the royal touch, like some gift of heaven, would confer healthier natural growth and prove a favourable omen for their nurture and upbringing. The peasants were no less superstitious, for they offered him their seedcorn for sowing; if he scattered it with his right hand, they thought, it would yield a larger crop. When Valdemar entered the court, Henry, duke of Saxony, gave up a major portion of his camp to him on his arrival as a recollection of their old fellowship and paid for the king’s entertainment out of his own pocket. The next day Absalon was sent with Ralph to the emperor and, because Frederick was rather unskilled in the Latin tongue, Absalon proceeded with his instructions using the archbishop of Cologne as his interpreter. The emperor, however, began by blaming the king’s slowness and the delay it had caused, maintaining that he had behaved badly in not arriving before now, and, he claimed, Valdemar owed him services because he held his realm by courtesy of the Holy Roman Empire. Then Absalon affirmed that it would have accorded well with imperial honesty to have pointed this out to the king preferably before he had embarked on the travels which Frederick’s exaggerated promises had pushed him into. The emperor feigned astonishment and asked who had conveyed such promises to Valdemar. Absalon, indicating Ralph, said: ‘This is the man who inveigled the innocent king with your false promises, which Valdemar was too quick to believe in.’ As his companion did not dare try to refute Frederick’s denial, the bishop set out every item of the emperor’s guarantees. But since the other disclaimed it all, Absalon demanded he should supply the king with someone to conduct him back to Denmark. Frederick replied that he would not go to any more trouble over Valdemar’s return than he had with his coming. A delegation from the king was treated in similar fashion the following day. Realizing the situation, the king was cast down with remorse on account of the timely warnings he had spurned, and declared that even though he perceived the sword’s point touching his own throat, he would rather submit to the steel himself than let his country bow to slavery. While the monarch seethed with anger and was busily searching for some means of help, Absalon declared that his sovereign need feel no more anxiety where he was than in his own land, and avowed that he had discovered a way to freedom. Valdemar must pretend to go off hunting and ride fairly frequently across the bridge that divided the French kingdom from Germany; when this habit had overcome suspicion, he should eventually make for one of the nearest French towns with the better part of his retinue, for there could be no doubt that the king of France would send him back to his homeland in greater style. But the accomplishment of his plan was nipped in the bud by the emperor’s cunning. Fearing to exert force on the king, because he was unable to win Valdemar’s fealty by pressure he tried to buy it with a favour. He made all the German princes swear under compulsion of an oath that they would lay the territory of the Wends under Valdemar’s dominion. If they carried this out less than adequately, he swore to effect it personally the moment he returned from Italy; by this stratagem he enticed the king to offer him both hands and agree to comply with his wishes. But Valdemar was not obliged to attend court as princes normally did, nor lead an army to defend the Holy Roman Empire, and he was allowed to give only the semblance of homage, not the actuality. The son who next succeeded to his crown would be free to reject the stipulations binding his father, so that this submission should not be inherited and extend to include the whole Danish race. The fact that the sovereign power of the British king had bowed to French control in a similar kind of obedience seemed to diminish the shame of this servitude. Later Octavian summoned a council at which he tried to assert, with more eloquence than truth, the lawfulness of the votes which had enabled him to attain the papacy; Roland, on the other hand, he affirmed, had refused this public honour when it had been offered, but seized on it when he had been barred from it, and whereas he, Octavian, was presenting his case for collective examination by the bishops, Roland feared the judgement of discerning ecclesiastics, since he was conscious of his own impiety. Octavian also enhanced their clerical dignity by establishing liberal ordinances so that he might win over the bishops’ minds, for he had decided that he would not be summoned to the papal throne if the dispute could not first be settled by a declaration from them. At the end of Octavian’s speech, the emperor informed the council that he had invited the kings from the provinces to attend a debate meant to put an end to this argument, and he would consider it wrong to resist their decision. But they had not appeared, because they wished to cause affront to the Holy Roman Empire in their election of a supreme pontiff, aiming as they did to manage the rights of another state according to their own authorization. After this Rainald, archbishop of Cologne, began to plead the cause of religion, and proceeded to show with proofs what a heavy injustice the thoughtless provincial kings were doing to the emperor in attacking his fair-minded policies. Imagine Frederick wanting to end with his own voice a quarrel over a bishopric which had arisen in one of their states; they would no doubt consider it a serious insult, and yet they were now trying to implement a similar decision concerning the city of Rome. He believed his statement supported by such a sound logical defence that he repeated his oration three times altogether, speaking now in Latin, now in French, now in German. Yet however much his address drew the assent of his own people, he deprived himself of Danish approbation just as much. So, once the bishops had given their assent, Octavian, who had endowed himself with the misleading name of Victor, had candles lit and was apparently about to pronounce excommunication on Alexander and his supporters. Absalon urged Valdemar not to take part in his criminal sacrilege, whereupon the king left the meeting; adopting the true judgement of the opposing faction, he preferred to disregard the present delusory Curia in favour of the rightful one elsewhere. Absalon went out after him, but when Octavian asked the bishop to remain, the other let him know that there was no law which could stop him following in the steps of the man with whom he had come as companion; this reply released him from that detestable synod of bishops and ensured that he did not slip into schismatic error. The next day Octavian undertook the spurious annointment of Live, bishop-elect of Odense, despite Absalon’s forceful prohibition. From there the Danish party withdrew to the town of Bcsan on. When fodder was not available in that place for their horses and the king complained because he was given no chance of buying any, the emperor ordered his marshal to procure the Danes’ requirements. This individual, taking their attendants out with him, quickly indicated a village in the distance where they could take what they needed. However, when, without carrying weapons and ignorant of local custom, they demanded provender for their steeds from the inhabitants, they found their requests beaten back with arrows and spears; therefore, abandoning entreaties, they set about fighting. They had already taken possession of the village when they saw smoke beginning to spread above a wide area, and realized that firebrands had been applied to other settlements; concluding that they were entitled to take similar action, the Danes promptly finished off their raid with a blaze. Even so, the incident filled the king with profound distress. After some days had elapsed, the emperor enquired in the assembly what kind of punishment he should inflict on the citizens of Mainz for murdering their own archbishop; at this point Valdemar, repeating his original complaint, asked for assistance in buying foodstuffs, now that his horses had run out of corn. The emperor nevertheless gave him to understand that the region lying round them was part of the estate inherited by his wife and said there was no reason why the king should try to buy goods when it would have been quite legitimate to pursue them by force. For his part Valdemar, crying out that he was a monarch, not a brigand, said he would certainly not look to robbery for his supplies or condone among foreigners a deed he would have considered iniquitous at home. Although such coercion might have appeared excusable under those compelling circumstances, he could not bring himself to use that permission, in case he should contaminate natural Danish restraint and fairness with the harshness common abroad. All the German princes clapped loudly in acknowledgement of his rectitude, glancing at each other with mutual wonder, and pronounced those subjects fortunate indeed who lived under the rule of such an upright man. This praise afforded tacit condemnation of their own conduct. When the king had been given leave to go, Henry began pressing Frederick to see to the expenses of Valdemar’s return; he should not send him away without the enjoyment of imperial hospitality, in view of the fact that the king’s homeland was always a general place of welcome for new arrivals. The emperor gave his word readily, but did little to fulfil it. The archbishop of Mainz, however, set an example of kindness, offering even greater proof than his promises by subsidizing the king’s journey with the costs of two nights’ lodging. There was clear evidence of friendliness in Henry, too, for he furnished Valdemar with ample provisions. But Ludwig, landgrave of Thuringia, was not only devoid of generosity, but chock-full of avarice, and by shameless appeals manipulated the king into giving him his horse as a present. Afterwards Count Adolf of Holstein, who had first become a friend of Valdemar’s through the agency of Absalon and soon been made his knight by giving his solemn oath of fealty, satisfied his first duty of allegiance with the courtesies of hospitality. So it came about that the rejoicing hearts of his citizens greeted the longed-for occasion of Valdemar’s homecoming, the father of their country, once he had travelled safely back to Denmark. This was a noteworthy year, for during its course Sophie gave birth to his son, Cnut, who received the sacrament of baptism at the appointed time of his christening, with Bishop Absalon officiating. The performance of this religious ceremony was graced by the presence of Guttorm, the Swedish jarl, head of a delegation which had come to escort back to their land Valdemar’s niece, who was betrothed to Karl, king of that same people. During this period it happened that Norwegian legates had approached the Danish king, beseeching him to attack the usurpers of Norway and so make a bid for its rule; its government had been marred by civil wars and torn apart by the hideous despotism of tyrants, so that it had now become feeble and close to ruin. As foreign affairs are linked with our own at this point, I hope the reader will not consider it tedious if I gave a cursory account of events in Norway. Sigurd, a man of surpassing courage, after many outstanding feats of war was intercepted by his enemy, Harald of Ireland; while he was being taken in a vessel to be drowned in the deep, he plied the oarsmen with a quantity of drink which he had bought for the purpose, as though he meant to precede his death with funeral celebrations. When they were all in merry mood, he asked to be allowed to steer the ship as a last boon. Once this was granted, he urged the sailors to row harder, and, when he saw that they were scudding along like the wind, throwing the tiller overboard, he leapt headlong into the waves; before their speeding craft could change course, he had regained the shore. That was how he was preserved by his sharp wits and his foes’ stupidity, and was snatched from the peril intended for him; later, when Harald had stealthily slipped away from camp at night for an amorous interlude, Sigurd sprang a surprise and knifed him as he lay in the arms of his mistress, so that he took proper revenge on the other man for his own capture and for robbing Magnus of his kingdom and his sight. Then, in order to secure a pretext for war, he immediately withdrew Magnus from his monastic cloister and although the latter had been deprived of his male organs, Sigurd forced him to assume a manly role; he decided to raise the king’s sunken fortunes and reinstate him on his old pinnacle of the realm, for, if he were backed by the prestige and name of such a figure, he could undertake hostilities against Harald’s offspring. Relying therefore on Magnus’s title and authority, he waged a naval battle with Harald’s three sons, Inge, Sigurd, and Eystein, who were aspiring to the throne their father had held. Although a portion of his allies were cut down during the fight and the remainder fled, he defended his ship single-handed against his foes for some while with a courage that was unbelievable and superior to ordinary human powers. Finally, when a large number of his opponents had been laid low and the massed crowd of survivors were rushing from every direction to overwhelm this one man, trusting to his unique swimming ability, Sigurd consigned himself to the ocean, despite the fact that the winter season was close at hand and he was clad in armour; striking out beneath the waters which he had sprayed with his enemies’ blood, he made it difficult to decide which was greater, the proof of bravery he had exhibited on board or the demonstration of athleticism he displayed in the sea. In order to swim away more freely he stripped off his body-protecting corselet and all his other armour beneath the waves, but when at length he emerged from the tide to draw breath he was indicated to his foes by one of his servants who knew him by his clothing; suspecting that his tunic had given him away, he peeled it off as once again he hid below the surface. But when even this did not enable him to escape his betrayer’s vigilance, he eventually divested himself of the last stitch of clothing. Yet he still had not managed to cheat the informer, so that after finding that he was the only one left of all his comrades and having perceived that every bold and cunning trick he had employed was futile, Sigurd at last pretended to be dead and stayed drifting in the deep for quite a long time, leaving those who were waiting to catch him unsure whether or not he was alive. When finally he was obliged to take in air above water, since all human beings must breathe, he chanced to grab the rudder of one of the ships and, clinging tenaciously with both arms, hung there silently for a considerable time. His steadfast soul would have attempted further escape tactics, had the fierce cold of winter not numbed his body and drained it of strength. In the end, when someone who had been gazing more intently at the ocean pointed in his direction, he was detected and caught, and, once caught, was bound and dragged off to the assembly to be condemned under the sentence of his enemies. However, as no priest could be brought to hear him confess his sins, he divulged them in the permitted manner to those standing nearby, after stating that in repentance he would carry out whatever penance they decided on, for he was well aware that if no priestly assistance was available, he was allowed to refer his transgressions to the examination of laymen. He also reminded them that he was the child of Magnus, whom Harald the Irishman had claimed as his father. Even amid the torments to which they subjected him, he never deviated from the noble spirit of Magnus. First he was scourged and then each limb was pounded with hammer blows, presumably to see that every section of his body received its punishment; yet not a groan, not a sigh escaped him, not a pleading or mournful sound did he utter, nor in fact did he betray any sign of pain, but as if reciting the psalms in ;i quiet moment, while he was repeating holy prayers and pronouncing The ritual phrases, he finally gave up the ghost. Surely the disciples of religion would be blessed, if they all encountered death in the same frame of mind as this warrior embraced it. Perhaps he was treacherous, perhaps he marred his country’s peace and brought war upon its citizens, but even so his foes should have granted him a reprieve for his valour. Men, however, who were intent on retribution were mindful to avenge their grievances sooner than respect the signs of another’s heroism. Not satisfied with venting their rage on the living man, as if they were not sufficiently appeased by his end they shortly afterwards nailed his corpse to a gibbet, pursuing his death with the same barbarity as when they had tortured his animate spirit, and believing they would have achieved nothing if after all they had restrained their savage hands from his ghost and its relicts. Magnus, on the other hand, perished in the very battle which Sigurd had fought under his authority. Bereft first of his eyes, then of life, one might consider him to have twice dispensed with the light of day. Afterwards supreme power devolved on Harald’s sons. Of these Inge alone was born from a legitimate marriage, one of his brothers being the son of a Norwegian, the other of an Irish mistress, both of whom he surpassed as much in refinements of behaviour as he did in birth. He was supremely well endowed with all the features that do a person credit, while one of his brothers, in the general opinion, was besmirched with the stains of avarice, the other filled with foul lust. Nevertheless, during his babyhood his nurse had carelessly chanced to let him fall from her bosom, so that he struck the ground in such a way as to fracture his spine and he passed the rest of his life burdened with a hump. Certainly you might have thought the attractiveness of this man’s superb mind vitiated by the mockery of his physical deformity, and could not have told whether the favour he had received from Fortune or the disgrace he felt weighed the heavier. It so happened that followers of Inge fell into a brawl with Sigurd’s retainers in the town of Bergen; one of their comrades was cut down by these retainers, a crime for which they urgently demanded satisfaction, so that, whipped into a savage, tumultuous frenzy, amid a violent fracas they assailed not only the killers but Sigurd himself; forcing him to take refuge in a church, they first battered down the barriers of the sanctuary, and then seized and slaughtered him, ostensibly for murder, but actually to avenge the humiliation caused by his previous debauchment of their wives. When Eystein received news of this event from persons he encountered while sailing to Bergen with his fleet, he was keener to seek out than to avoid his brother, and so advanced to meet him despite the circumstances. However, once he realized that he was being denied his due portion of the kingdom, he departed after merely saying a few words, with a countenance expressing loyalty, but frightened that he might perish in the same fashion as his dead brother, and preferred to make his disappearance sooner than offer himself up to the perpetrators of the recent felony. Sigurd’s assassins, not yet content with their earlier offence, judged Eystein a rival to Inge and compelled him to alter flight aboard ship to escape over land; nevertheless his obese frame meant that he proceeded rather slowly, with the result that they intercepted him on foot near the coast and butchered him, for they hoped that by removing two claimants to a share in the realm, they might win themselves an increase in status and wages from the survivor. Their villainous appetites, hungry for the destruction of such mighty leaders and scarcely glutted by this double killing, were afterwards punished by Håkon, who sought vengeance for the murder of his father, Sigurd. Since the destiny of three men had been gathered into Inge alone by violence and foul play, Amund Simonsson, Filip and several more men of high purpose could not bear to see the realm continue secure and uncontested in the hands of one who had procured it partly by his own and partly through others’ criminality. A number also thought it unbecoming that the ungodly behaviour of his housecarls should have won the independent position of ruler for a person who bore such grotesque bodily features. For these reasons, electing the Håkon I have just mentioned leader of their faction and gracing his apprenticeship with the name of king, they declared war on Inge and, as though they meant to avenge the ghosts of Sigurd and Eystein, frequently entered into engagements with their adversaries. However, taking their protégé with them, they finally dispersed to Sweden, devitalized by a long succession of battles. Inge gave eager chase to his foes off the shores of Zealand, and when the majority of them steered towards the woodlands edging the sea, through envoys he urged Absalon to ensure that those who had sought shelter in the coastal forests were apprehended. But the bishop, estimating that this suited neither his honour nor his authority, took little heed of his request. ii. As winter approached, those who had run for safety with Håkon began to shape a course for their homeland once more; believing their fortunes would change with their location, after joining combat on the wintry ice and calling into play their wits no less than their strength, they annihilated Gregorius with all his troops; this man had held the highest position next to the king, and his readiness to fight or give advice made him the fulcrum on which Inge’s expectations and confidence rested. Amidst the struggle Inge’s opponents drew their enemies to a portion of the ice whose solidity they had undermined by cutting holes in it during the night, and forced them to plumb the depths. With their deaths Inge laid aside the greatest portion of his hopes, shattered as much in spirit as he was in power, and predicted that the destruction of his most loyal supporter, Gregorius, would be fatal to himself. At last, renewing the conflict while the waters were still congealed, he tested his luck on the ice with no greater success than Gregorius. He had chosen a site for battle on the frozen sea, but as he was feeling delighted at its hardness, which made it like a firm plain, he was slaughtered along with almost all his troops, even though they outnumbered the enemy’s forces; thus he paid for the murders of his kinsmen, whether he had committed them himself or merely sanctioned them, and so made atonement to his brothers’ shades. In this war, the largest and bloodiest that Norway had ever witnessed, almost the entire royal stock which had formed the pillar of that kingdom was lost. One survivor of this disaster was Erling; he sailed to Jutland with his son, Magnus, who was still a very small child, but closely related to Valdemar on his mother’s side, and there he lived in a position of highest favour with the king, receiving abundant expenses for his exile and very generous means of provision. Meanwhile a man named Sigurd, being due to a reward for his bravery, was created jarl by Håkon, an event which gave rise to the fiercest jealousy from Sigurd’s fellow-soldiers; the appointment would have caused a major insurrection owing to the others’ resentment had not Erling arrived back suddenly from Denmark, and after putting an end to struggles between internal factions, occasioned new employment for his enemies. This occurred when he at once proceeded to name as king the son I have referred to, since the boy was associated with the ancient kings of Norway through his maternal line; with this move Håkon was assured of a rival and Inge of an avenger. When as a result revolution was afoot, after Håkon had been deserted by Sigurd because he had refused to reimburse him for his outlay in the war, the former was killed in a armed encounter with Magnus. Sigurd then slipped away to Sweden, but in a few days’ time returned to his own country, where he was dispatched by Erling’s soldiery. So it turned out that, through having refused to shed his life honourably in the line of battle, he laid it down in a mean, unrecognized death. However, those of Håkon’s warriors who had survived, kindled partly by their desire for rebellion, partly by envy of their adversaries’ good fortune, adopted as their ruler the foster-son of a certain Markus, a lad of most excellent promise. But when they essayed their chances, they had no more luck than in the previous combat. Crushed by Erling in the fray and deprived both of their victory and of their ruler, they fled to King Karl of Sweden, imploring him to be their military leader, for he too appeared to share some family connection with the Norwegian monarchs. Led on for some time by his ready promises, they came to realize that he was more anxious to preserve his own realm than to appropriate another’s, so that they eventually sent emissaries to entreat Valdemar’s help. At last they came to Denmark themselves, drawn by his more genial replies. When the sovereign had received them as suppliants and, having been promised a claim to Norway, saw how assiduously they importuned him, he considered it folly to undertake such a heavy war commitment solely at the instigation of envoys, and first tested the sentiments of its people by sending agents over in secret. Once he discovered that popular feeling concurred with the Norwegian legates’ reports, he organized an expedition forthwith. As soon as he heard news of this, Erling put as much distance between them as he could and aimed for the remotest tract of Norway, believing it safer to escape to the most distant region of the country lhan to protect its nearer frontiers with his army. He had fitted out just a few ships, but these were swift and better equipped for flight than for an engagement. In the event Erling’s supporters found Valdemar’s arrival frightening, but for their opponents it was gratifying. When Valdemar called his friends to a consultation, some advised him to set all other considerations aside and pursue his foes posthaste, while others suggested he should first court the goodwill of the people and draw reinforcements from their numbers. The decision to proceed slowly overcame the plan for speedy action. So it was that Valdemar toured a large area of that territory to his advantage, for he was welcomed by the commons with great enthusiasm; when he reached the town of Sarpsborg, he assumed the royal title, which the citizens of the Vik had resolved to confer on him, and there held an assembly of the populace, in which the speeches underlined the closest alliance between them. If only Valdemar had disregarded these other purposes and directed his efforts to hunting down his enemies, there can be no doubt that he would have annexed Norway to the Danish kingdom. From there he sailed to the town of Tønsberg, where a small band of Erling’s more zealous adherents had tried to save themselves by fleeing to a high pinnacle of rock; preferring Christian compassion to ferocity, he would not allow the township to be burnt, in case the holy churches, interspersed among the private dwellings, should be consumed in the general conflagration. None of the bishops, whose influence was at that period strong in Norway, could bring themsleves to approach Valdemar, which I would certainly imagine was more for the sake of their fatherland than on Erling’s behalf. None the less, Orm, who was known as ‘King’s Brother’, sought out Valdemar and promised him allegiance, provided it did not interfere with the loyalty he had dedicated to Magnus. Resources finally ran out with the passage of time and owing to the scarcity of food the king caused the expedition to return to Denmark; a host of Norwegians who had gone over to him departed with Valdemar for fear of reprisals, and for a long while were maintained in exile by a certain amount of funding from the king and some from their leadersAfter this the king discovered there had been a revolt among the eastern Wends, who had risen up assured of their own strength; having agreed on a military partnership with Henry, duke of Saxony, in order that their alliance might be welded more stably together he approved the engagement of Henry’s daughter, born of a wife whom he had later divorced, to his son Cnut, even though the latter was not yet one year old and she was still in her cradle. Henry therefore gathered an army, with equipment for fighting land battles, while Valdemar himself embarked with his naval forces; when the Danish king arrived at Rugen, he asked Absalon to see that auxiliary troops were levied from among the inhabitants, who had sought to cultivate his friendship but were not above suspicion. To make sure that he was not too late in his rendezvous with Henry and so failed to fulfil his promise, he then steered a course at top speed towards the River Peene. Though Absalon’s pact with the people of Rügen till now depended only on the security of a few hostages, he attended their assembly, where at his reception he was allotted the seat of highest honour amongst them; while he was putting forward the commands he had been delegated to deliver, and explaining his mission through an interpreter to those ignorant of the Danish tongue, it so happened that a youth from Rügen pretended with a Wend’s cunning that he wanted to buy a horse belonging to a Danish warrior, and after mounting it as though intending to try out its paces, tried to gallop off. As soon as news of the theft had been brought to Absalon, he announced it to the assembly, upon which the whole mass of people, judging that one man’s dishonesty had brought their trustworthiness into disrepute, gave way to an almost mad rush and flew in all directions in their frantic dash to overtake the culprit. While Absalon’s companions were astounded to the point of fear and bewilderment at this unexpected stampede by the crowd, a few of the Rugians who were related by marriage to the young man, swayed more by personal affection than public shame, threw themselves in supplication at the bishop’s feet, guaranteeing that they would see the horse restored if only he would call the assembly back from its purposes. As Absalon pitied their mingled tears and appeals, he sent men to quieten the populace, and, calming their dismay in this fashion, subdued the riot; the horse was at once returned, but the bishop cursed his soldier for the obtuse way he had let the robber hoodwink him through laziness and stupidity. Then, once Tetislav, king of that nation, had promised to supply extra ships for the Danish fleet, Absalon hurried after his king. In the meantime Henry sent ahead with a detachment of his finest troops Count Adolf of Holstein, Henry of Ratzeburg, and Gunzelin, count of Schwerin, a municipality which had recently been brought under their control by the Saxons and had received the rights and status of a city; with them also went a certain Reinhold, a man of ignoble birth, more distinguished for his deeds than by his family, and this group had the task of preparing an easy advance for Henry. When the Wends learnt, partly by report, partly from proofs, that these foreigners had entered their territory, they preferred to clash with this contingent of their foe rather than attack their complete body, believing that much of the enemy’s power would drainuaway if they could destroy their advance party. While they were on the march to crush their adversaries, striving their utmost and blazing with ardour, they spied a demon, of dreadful appearance, hanging in the air over their heads. Nevertheless, fortified by this apparition as if by the arrival of a heaven-sent leader and taking it as a portent of success, they suddenly plunged into their opponents’ camp and slaughtered them before the Saxons could arm themselves. Adolf and Reinhold were killed at the very entrance to the camp, paying with their life’s blood the cost of not attending to sensible military precautions. After these two had been cut down in the first bout of carnage, Gunzelin and Henry, slipping through the middle of the invading bands, snatched up the standards and raked together the remnants of their fleeing comrades; at length, boldly assaulting the foe, who were preoccupied with plundering, they turned flight into victory. In this way, though they had broached battle without preparation, the Saxons’ valour left one guessing whether they had dealt or received greater harm. When Duke Henry was informed of this event, he was enraged by the massacre of his men, a reasonable reaction on his part, and intent on exacting vengeance, hurried with all the speed he could muster to lay siege to the town of Demmin. The moment he found mil that its inhabitants had burnt it down of their own accord, he gave orders that what was left of its walls should be razed to the ground, to make certain that its every defence was demolished. And as he was not permitted to vent his anger on human beings, he had the stronghold of Giitzkow, similarly abandoned by its terrified citizens, put to the torch, as though he would wreak punishment on dumb objects. The people of Wolgast followed the example of their neighbours, the destruction of whose localities filled them with panic, and deserted their township by secretly crossing the river with their wives and children, content to leave only their houses, now emptied of contents, to the savagery of the foe. The king, after taking this town of theirs with little effort, furnished it with a garrison and resources, and handed it over to the care of Vedeman, the pirate. The inhabitants of Osna also derived more fear from the fate of the other strongholds than confidence from their own ramparts, so that they looked to their interests on the model of nearby municipalities, whose alarm they repeated; again they forsook and burnt down their city to prevent the enemy occupying it, since they would rather give up their homes to the flames than to the foe. Then the king broke down the bridge, which was seen to cut the river into two halves, and removed all the other obstacles to navigation before moving on towards the settlement at Stolpe, where he also later met the duke. Valdemar wanted to prevent Wolgast from being abandoned as readily as it had been captured and so being delivered back to their enemies after his departure; therefore, believing that, once the Danes in particular held rule over it, they would maintain sway over the Wends permanently, he decided to create Absalon, Buris, and Sven, at that time the eminent bishop of Arhus, governors of that township; with them he associated his son Christoffer, so that the others would feel greater assurance of his own help. When these four were told to conscript friends and relatives to participate in their duties, only the Zealanders pledged themselves to cooperate in assisting Absalon, whereas the others could find neither the disposition nor partners to counter the massive dangers that loomed; yet the whole fleet had determined to share its stock of food with them and as a public duty to carry the corn from the neighbourhood into their granaries; orders were in fact issued that the army should do the reaping, and the harvest be given over to the use of those remaining behind. Then, having had his scheme thwarted, since there was neither the chance of fighting nor any truce with the enemy, the king hit on a subtle and ingenious idea to force his opponents to adopt one or other of these courses. He gave secret instructions to Absalon that he should make the oarsmen toil hard to gather up all the stakes that were fixed in the stream, together with every other hindrance to navigation, for he intended to pass right through with the whole fleet. When at last the waters were cleared of obstacles and the navy had proceeded to a stretch where the channel was narrower, many Danes were wounded at close quarters by Wends riding along either bank. Peder Elivson, being a gallant soul, could not stand this bold impudence from the enemy and with his rowers immediately leapt overboard to drive his foes vigorously before him and compel them to quit the river’s edge. In the end, because his cowardly comrades left him to it, he ensured that they sailed through unscathed at the price of his own death. This enabled the king not merely to advance without anxiety, but to allow Henry and all his troops to cross over on boats lashed tightly together, as if across a bridge. As soon as they realized this, the Wends, dreading the overthrow of their remaining strongholds and eager to forestall this threat, offered hostages to Valdemar for the armistice they had hitherto spurned, for they declared that they would never give these to Henry under any circumstances. The king, however, considering it would be underhand to conclude terms with the enemy without his military partner, sent Thorbjørn to inform Henry what conditions their adversaries were putting forward. When Henry affirmed that he would gladly accept any provisions Valdemar agreed on, the latter made a pact with the foe that the territories of Wolgast should be divided between three overlords, Tetislav, Kazimar, and Prislav, son of Niklot; the mouths of the River Peene should be blocked against the buccaneers who had constantly been trying to seize booty from the Danes; and Henry should retain undisputed possession of the Wendish fortresses he had occupied. Following Henry’s departure, Kazimar’s associates, sharply resenting this league with outsiders but not daring to use force against them, harassed the Rugians with constant pillaging and, after reducing them through brigandage to the level of destitution and famine, compelled them to vacate the stronghold which they held in common. They also allowed latitude for piracy and in a variety of ways broke the treaty that had been struck. Later the men of Rügen, after being given an assurance by Henry, professed open hostility towards the Danes, so that the king found his ally just as treacherous as his enemies were fickle; he then mounted a spring campaign against the territory round Arkona and sent it up in flames. From there he steered a course to the harbour which its inhabitants call Por. Reckoning he should attack the Rugians piecemeal because he had no wish to join battle with them en masse, he instructed Absalon to sail ahead of him by night to Ziudra. To make sure he followed immediately in Absalon’s wake, Valdemar told the sentinels they must watch closely the time of the bishop’s departure. However, since they put the pleasure of sleep before their orders, Absalon went ahead unaccompanied by the king and not only ravaged Ziudra but the fields and adjacent villages too, partly by fire, partly by the sword. There were two of his knights who had earlier engaged in a dispute as to which of them was the bolder; pursuing this rivalry in courage, they were charging along with equal vigour to achieve some military feat, when they chanced to catch sight of some of their foes who had been driven to seek escape in rowing-boats over a lake; more concerned to overtake them than to notice the hazard to themselves, in case one of them should happen to outstrip the other in bravery, they both spurred on their steeds regardless of their lives and rode them into the deeps, where, forgetting they were wearing armour, they sank under its weight and were drowned. In this way the water punished their rashness, at one and the same time supplying death and a grave to these warriors, who raced to their doom more intent on glory than on self-preservation. In the meantime Absalon traversed the province, looting and burning as he went until, having decided to retrace his steps to the ships, carrying massive plunder and rich spoils he descried a large squadron of the enemy at his heels; it was now his wish to make an intentional retreat to the farther side of two fords, which were rather awkward to wade, so that by simulating panic he could draw on his foes, enmesh them eventually in the snares of that locality and overwhelm them. When the Wends had effected a straightforward crossing of the first shallows, they stopped at the second, unsure how they were going to return. Almost at that very moment two footsoldiers from Zealand, who were shouldering a large bundle of booty and had mistaken their direction, nearly stumbled into the thick of the Wendish force. When these Danes were assailed by two of the enemy’s cavalry, despite the fact that it would have been easy for them to slip safely across the ford, they did not want to let it seem as if cowardice had prompted their withdrawal and chose instead to oppose their adversaries rather than join their friends, believing it disgraceful to be surpassed in daring by an equivalent number of antagonists. So that they would be less encumbered, they halted and threw down the load before unsheathing their swords. Fortune granted them the safety which their perseverance and valour deserved, for seeing that neither of the horsemen dared venture nearer, they resumed their burden and pursued the path they had started out on. When the Wends next time had sent two pairs of knights to crush them, the Zealanders repulsed their attack with equal resolution. Their actions drew the admiration of foes and fellow-countrymen alike, filling the former with deep shame, while the latter hovered between fear and joy. Finally, assaulted by six riders, they stood firm with the same unflinching spirit, giving the impression of taunting the enemy’s faint-heartedness with their wholly intrepid souls. Absalon of course quickly thought to lend backing to their pluck and self-reliance. He sent over by way of reinforcements as many of his own knights as he observed their opponents had launched in fight. The Wends for their part vied with them by assisting the small body of their combatants with dozens of warriors. As the number of support troops grew at much the same rate on each side and the horsemen encountered one another from opposite quarters as if they were taking part in a tournament, the entire squadron of Zealanders dashed forward to meet their foes, for they could not bear to watch them flaunt their insolence any more. Because the fords lay across the Wends’ escape route, the Danes could not press very far after them, and so slaughtered more of their horses than they did their men. Afterwards, when the Danes turned round to go back to their ships, they ran into a line of their own oarsmen who had equipped themselves with both weapons and standards, and whose bravery had induced them to bring aid to their comrades, after a random report had informed them of the situation. Certainly they shared the honour of victory with Absalon, since they spontaneously offered themselves as his companions in valour. Meanwhile the king, having been alerted by an overdue word from the sentries, through his frantic haste made up for the delay he had suffered in not sailing earlier. As soon as he sighted the Zealanders, he would have liked to put in to seek booty, but was informed by Absalon that there were no enemy spoils left for plundering; Valdemar congratulated him warmly on the fact that on their own initiative such a small band had acquitted themselves as dynamically as if their monarch had been present. After he had harried other stretches of the island with fire and sword, he departed from Rügen for home. Returning once more with his navy near the beginning of autumn, he devoted his intial energies to devastating the fields, so that, once the crops had been destroyed, the islanders would be denied the wherewithal to defend their strongholds. When he had reached the fortress of Arkona with his troops in spread formation, the townsfolk, confident of their strength, issued from the city’s single gate and came forward to meet him, reluctant to have their brave hearts confined within the walls. Valdemar tried to lure them farther away from the ramparts by having the Danes retreat deliberately, but after he perceived the Rugians more cautious than he had hoped, he attacked and forced them to make for the town again. Nevertheless he held back from the gate, in case his men’s steeds should be pierced by javelins. Then Niels, a knight from Zealand of outstanding physique and manliness, hurled a spear through the gateway and laid dead one of those foes who were putting up resistance at the threshold; promptly wheeling his horse round, he rode off unharmed. Thorbjørn, who must be counted one of the foremost knights of Zealand, tried to emulate his deed with comparable boldness, but without comparable luck, for when he had aimed his lance at a knot of his adversaries and wounded one of them, in attempting to return he pulled his horse round, only to be hit so hard with a stone that streams of blood gushed from his head. This brought on a long-lasting physical infirmity and it was a difficult task for him to regain eventual health. Again there was Buris, who, striving to match the lustre of his birth with notable feats of valour, had fallen upon the defenders of the gate with no less audacity than the others, when he received such a harsh blow on the skull from a rock that he almost slid lifeless from his mount. His limp body was rescued by the intervention of his friends; otherwise his enemies would have destroyed him. So it came about that the Rugians believed they had no prospect at all of combating safely outside the walls, in view of the fact that they felt the presence of the enemy so unrelenting even while they stayed within. From there the whole fleet withdrew to the Jasmund district. Since Absalon throve on account of his courage and his supreme skill in the art of war, he would usually lead the foremost troop as the army approached its target and accompany the rear squadron as it returned; his companions were always those young Danes who were most disposed to aim for booty or renown, while the king’s habit was simply to advance gradually with the more solid element of his forces, the ^serious, disciplined warriors. As the Danes were nowhere given any opportunity for action, they covered a large extent of that territory, till eventually Valdemar gave his band of cavalry leave to disperse for pillaging and retained only the handful left as his bodyguard. Then he heard a chance report that some of his followers had been hemmed in and it was said they were unable to break out unassisted; Valdemar did not wait till his soldiers were recalled before going off to save those in distress, nor did he let the small number of his comrades act as an excuse against seeking out the surrounded company; ordering the standard-bearer to raise the banner, he immediately made his way with a heart full of self-confidence to the place where they had been encircled, gathering to his side those knights, now sick of plundering, who came when they saw the signs of his urgent progress. Valdemar’s confidence was so high that he believed speed rather than his fellow-soldiers would provide the better answer. When the Zealanders, who were penned inside a gorge amid harsh terrain, got wind of his arrival, trusting to his forthcoming aid they started to launch strikes against the beleaguering foe, since they did not wish to give the impression of averting the peril with anyone’s courage but their own. So the Wends melted away, escaping over ground that was partly firm, partly marsh; Eskil, a knight of the very noblest spirit and family, despite being weighed down very heavily with his armour, was pursuing on foot across a boggy expanse an unarmed adversary, who was tearing away at full speed; although the Wend’s feet pressed down into the soft slime, Eskil did not sink into the filthy morass under his load of armour, but raced on to achieve an easy success. Indeed, once he had seized the barbarian and taken off his head, he then returned to solid land without having even gathered muddy stains on his soles. This exploit truly deserves our pious awe, for it had been achieved not simply by fleetness of foot, but by God’s grace, and we should reckon it more the effect of a heavenly miracle than the result of human powers. Later, after the soldiers had set their hands to firing all the villages in that neighbourhood, they extended their burning in a farreaching raid right to Cape Göhren. It was then that the Rugians found their expectations of deriving help from the Saxons cheated, so that, after offering four hostages, they sought peace from the king by payment on the island of Strela. In their concern over the unpleasant, dangerous disturbances and other difficult circumstances which the state of Denmark was suffering, the nobles resolved to decree royal honours to Cnut, Valdemar’s son, in order that they might recognize him as his father’s present colleague in authority as well as the future holder of his crown; in this way these lords would have a personage whose rank and title they could have recourse to if Fortune should bring about a change in the matter of the king’s life. Valdemar, delighted with their foresight and consideration, backed their judgement, for he estimated that sharing the sovereign power with one of his own blood constituted not a loss of privilege, but an enrichment to his reputation, and in an address to the leading citizens he obtained their agreement to confer the designation of royalty on his son. The entire army also gave their assent to this proposal, and only Buris, influenced either by a secret design on the throne or by the unusualness of the arrangement, voiced minimal support for their decision. As he felt that he had incurred the king’s suspicion on this account, he stressed that his reticence did not spring from resentment, but was a testament to his affection, since there was no record of the Danish realm having been shared amicably by more than one claimant and frequent experience in ancient times had shown that war had arisen between father and son over supreme rule. Yet he would certainly not have preserved silence, had he previously been aware of Valdemar’s wishes; he had only kept quiet because he had had no foreknowledge of the situation either from the king or from his friends. However, Buris’s justification for his reserve caused the monarch to conceal his anger instead of displaying it. - - When the campaign was over, this same man was ordered, along with all the rest of the Danish lords gathered at Roskilde, to follow the accustomed ritual which would make him Cnut’s vassal; while the others obeyed the edict, Buris refused to comply and by so doing provoked strong suspicion that he aspired to absolute power. Even so, he continued to defend this rejection of the command with cleverly devised arguments, declaring that as long as the person lived to whom he had first pledged his loyal service, he would not soldier for anyone else, nor could be induced to transfer his old allegiance to someone new, nor would he commit an offence repugnant both to honour and to the custom of his fatherland; no Dane was used to being held under a divided obligation to two masters, for it was only the Saxons who underwent this type of servitude through their greed for pay; if war broke out between the two who shared the obedience of one follower, the soldier who worked for both would be unable to preserve his fealty to each, should he aid this one or that. The king maintained an unruffled insincerity by concealing his wrath beneath mild replies and a calm expression. While Buris was accompanying the king on his way to Halland, Valdemar quietly indicated to him his supposition that the other was framing a plot against him. In order to escape this surmise, Buris promised he would carry out his sovereign’s orders, provided Valdemar were willing to enlarge Buris’s sway by bestowing further gifts of land on him, saying that, just as the monarch was keen to make hereditary a throne which had hitherto been subject to the vicissitudes of election, so he should also grant only slightly lower privileges to the children of his relatives, lesser powers which should be enjoyed by right of succession. Therefore, with Absalon’s help, after having bargained for a choice portion of Jutland, he allowed himself to pay homage to Cnut, but in no measure did he recover the king’s firm friendship, since the royal ire was so persistent that, once aflame, it could not be totally extinguished. As spring approached, the leadership of a separate expedition against the Wends was entrusted to Absalon, Christoffer, and Magnus, for the eastern Danes together with the men of Funen had brought together a fleet by themselves; command of the Scanians was given to Christoffer, but the overall decisions rested with Absalon. When they had attacked the province of Tribsees, Christoffer, being the youngest, was allocated the middle station in the battalion between Absalon’s and Magnus’s troops, to ensure that the ruler’s blood relation should be enclosed on the flanks by loyal adherents. The firing of villages was so thorough that, still desolate of cultivation anywhere, the same places even now bear witness by their appearance to the huge extent of that earlier conflagration. As it came to the time for marching back to the ships, Absalon was keeping an eye on the rearguard when the enemy’s arrival was announced, and although the vehemence of the cold was so devastating that it was out of the question to recall the van, attended only by a mere forty horsemen he essayed the enemy before tackling the river crossing, where his path of return lay. As soon as he had sent them packing, he withdrew to the stream at a leisurely pace. Having erected a bridge to pass over it, he was loathe to dismantle the construction once it was at his back, for he had no desire to leave any apparent traces of alarm behind him. When he reached the coast, however, he discovered that the navy had put in at a different harbour. Such was the ferocity of the winter frost that the sailors buried their horses, half-dead with cold, in holes they had dug in the ground; not one man in the entire army might be found who could apply both hands at once to his essential tasks. In that area their mattocks uncovered a horde of snakes, a sight which occasioned more amazement than fear, for the incredibly low temperature had numbed the creatures’ strength and vital spirits. At that time the Scanians gained permission to depart by taking advantage of the favourable breezes, but they were soon prevented from following their route once these winds turned against them, till finally, when the whole fleet experienced a benign change in the weather, they sailed home to their country accompanied by the men from Zealand and Funen. Afterwards the king engaged Peder and Selgren as tutors for Christoffer, to equip his early manhood with wisdom-filled teachings that would draw him to the pursuit of upright conduct. The next summer Valdemar renewed his campaign, because the citizens of Wolgast had infringed the stipulations of their treaty twice over: they had robbed and expelled from their town the Rugians with whom they had shared a fortress and they had also allowed pirates free access to the estuary of the River Peene. While the king was aiming a blow at the Liutizians, a letter arrived from Henry warning Valdemar to beware of a plot being hatched by a relation who might well be striving to gain the kingdom; he was suggesting that Buris had concocted a plan with the Norwegians to overthrow him, and since these same confederates had promised to waylay the monarch when the expedition returned, Buris had it in mind to seize either the sovereign himself or his royal title. The surest proof of this conspiracy would be if the Norwegian fleet intercepted his expeditionary force as it was returning from the Wendish territories. At almost the same moment he received a letter from some Norwegians which gave a similar indication of treason. As soon as the king had revealed the business to a few of his advisers, but holding back the names of the informants, his distrust was deepened and further credence given to the letter when Tyge, bishop of Vendsyssel, expressed his own confirmation, telling how Buris had forced his troops tolswear they would proceed with whatever action he himself initiated. Valdemar nevertheless kept the matter concealed and, after sailing rapidly to the locality known as Ostrusna, destroyed that province’s possessions before moving back with his whole fleet to Vordingborg. Buris was summoned there with the other nobles of the realm and Valdemar, disclosing what he had heard about the former’s stratagems, pinned a charge of treachery on him. When the other denied ever having devised any such scheme against him, the king directed him to remain in his presence until they received corroboration of the reports; then, and only then, if things fell out contrary to their information, he would be able to leave unscathed. For his part Buris retorted that nothing could be more senseless than for Valdemar to base a judgement that affected his life on the uncertain evidence of events. This reply not only left the monarch but also his counsellors unconvinced. Buris was not even allowed to see his oarsmen again, but was compelled to travel with the king to the castle of Søborg, where he was delivered into mild but secure custody. Meanwhile Erling and Buris’s brother, Orm, arrived with a naval force and easily vanquished the Jutlanders’ fleet, which they discovered on the Djursa without its captains aboard; after they had captured Buris’s own ship they immediately hastened to the settlement known as Copenhagen. But Absalon met them there with his Zealanders and stopped them even from setting foot on land. When he learnt that the Norwegians placed strong reliance on their archery, he advanced to the shore escorted by fifteen foot soldiers, in order to issue them with a challenge, in which he deliberately offered himself as a target for their arrows; clearly he was eager to demonstrate how little regard he had for their extraordinary self-assurance. The Norwegians therefore lowered themselves into skiffs so that they could approach nearer to the sea’s edge, but the unsteadiness of these boats prevented them from aiming properly and hitting their mark. As a result their shafts fell harmlessly, some on to the strand, some into the waves. Now that their skill had been robbed of its purpose, our people laughed the Norwegians to scorn, and they sought their larger vessels again, covered with immense shame. Later, after pledges had been given and received, they held a non-hostile conference with Absalon. Although he told them to stay longer with him and take their ease, they would not consent to do so until the bishop had put in his word that he had no intention of setting a trap for them in the meantime, either on land or at sea. When their dealings were at an end, the participants went their separate ways, having agreed that each side would meet again on the following day with an equal number of their comrades, all similarly armed. But when Erling presented himself with one retainer too many, Absalon looked round the circle and said: ‘I’m astonished, Erling, that a person of your advanced years, who’ve so often found yourself in serious situations, don’t match your wisdom with your age. When you came near in your rowing-boat, and we were there seated on our horses, we could have overborne you without effort, had we so pleased; why then did you appear today with more attendants than were stipulated, and so provide our stronger party with an opportunity to break the truce and imperil your life? If our promises didn’t hold good, you’d have paid the price of death for dissolving our compact.’ Then Erling, gazing round at his companions in mingled fear and humiliation, saw that Absalon’s declaration was true and began to malign one of his followers for seizing upon the task of escort without being asked. Having cast about some while for words to excuse his conduct, Erling begged leave for his soldiers to search out some marshy waters where they might slake their parched throats. He considered it no small favour when this permission was granted, and after that was quick to make an immediate departure for his homeland, glad that he had managed to save his skin and be quit of those Danish regions. Once his experience of events had confirmed Valdemar’s belief in a plot, he gave orders for Buris to be held in chains, as one who was guilty of high treason. In the meanwhile Erling effected a wellordered landing with his fleet at the tip of Zealand, but while he was making his way back from holy mass, which he had attended in accordance with his normal religious practice, Absalon’s knights took a secret route and burst upon Erling’s comrades as they wandered about, dealing them unexpected destruction. He was given no less bold a welcome by the Hallanders, and at the River Nissa before making his getaway he was despoiled of one ship and its entire crew of rowers. During that same year Absalon, wishing to beat down piracy, laid new foundations for a fortress on an island off the mainland, and thanks to this small defence gave enormous protection to his fatherland. In consequence the freebooters regarded the site with misgivings and the inhabitants were able to sail the adjacent seas without harassment. The capricious reliability of the Germans stopped Danish valour from taking a quick revenge on the Norwegians for their outrage. When in his dread of the Danes Bugislav fled to Henry and swore his allegiance, the latter thought little of rescinding the alliance he had formed with the king, as though it were an absurd and discreditable bond. In addition, when Henry came to the River Krempe for consultation with Valdemar, he complained that, without having made any charge before him against Bugislav, his own vassal, the king was challenging this prince to war; if Valdemar considered his actions criminal, then he should assault him with accusations before doing so with arms. On his side Valdemar stated that no regard for any authority would hinder his freedom to repay with corresponding damage the wrongs he had received. Since their dispute continued unresolved, this conference put an end to their league. I shall briefly mention here the words of a Saxon knight that are worthy of recall. Because during his chance attendance at the talks between the duke and the king he noticed that their voices sounded rather lukewarm when they discussed the topic of a campaign, his comment was: ‘I’ve some remarks to make to the present company concerning my lord, Henry, but if I knew that he was within earshot, I should prefer to hold my tongue instead of speaking out. When he was orphaned and his relatives wrongfully deprived him of his inheritance, no one at first wished to come to his protection; but while the rest turned their backs, four of his friends (of whom I was one), stirred by consideration of his father’s merits, chose to assist the boy in his childhood by acting as guardians. They were strongly alert to his welfare and development both in their prayers and in their services. Finally, as they had little confidence in human aid, they presented him before the altar and, pronouncing a sacred vow, confirmed that if heavenly mercy enabled Henry to attain his father’s status, as long as he lived he would make good the favour conferred on him, by his enmity towards pagan stock. God, approving of the vow, soon enlisted on his behalf the patronage of that noble prince, Conrad. Through his agency Henry became heir to his father’s estates, but although the men who’d taken the vow never shirked their duty to exhort him, both avarice and sloth prompted him to cease prosecuting war against the Wends, and he looked without gratitude upon the generosity he’d enjoyed. Those who had pronounced the vow were very concerned to fulfil their role of guides; one of them, in the final stages of life, had been granted access with other advisers to the duke’s private counsels, but would continually fall into the habit of snoring; as soon as he had been woken, those seated around would ask him his opinion on the current business, and with his mind retaining a stronger recollection of the past vow than of their present concerns, he would reply: ‘An army must be led against the Wends.’ What immeasurable steadfastness! Even in his declining years he could not forget his commitment! Would anyone in his right senses have believed these words of scrupulous advice were the ramblings of a senile mind? I’m afraid the man most dear to my heart, by spurning the devoutness of his friends is likely to come tumbling down in sheer disgrace from the highest pinnacle of prosperity to the lowly condition of a private citizen. During my service as a soldier in this war we undertook to fight long ago, I’ve received three wounds on the front of my body. If I’d added two more to these in following the same campaign, on the day of the Last Judgment my bold eyes would have ventured to look upon the same number of wounds received by Christ!’ His speech foretold Henry’s temporal ruin and the eternal reward of his own bravery. Very soon after going to Scania, the king received a false report of an invasion by the Saxons, and honoured a levy of Scanian cavalry with his own leadership; he also commanded the Zealanders to set sail and, having travelled to Slagelse and called Absalon from the port of Hylleminde, he pressed him into a lengthy discussion on what actions were needful. Valdemar went on to indicate that he had been vexed by believing stories with too little truth in them and sent home the expedition, seeing that it had been assembled on the basis of spurious information. Now Absalon included in his household an Icelander named Arnold, who, either by his sharp wits or shrewd guesswork, very often discovered with a remarkable gift of prophecy matters which related to his own or his friends’ affairs. Nor was he less knowledgeable about the past than in his predictions, being an expert in the skilful recounting of history. When Absalon had taken him as a companion on the above-mentioned expedition to provide himself with amusement, Arnold had forecast that the bishop would shortly engage in a battle with pirates, but declared himself extremely surprised as to why he would not be taking part himself in the forthcoming struggle, especially since he had decided never to relinquish his attendance on Absalon. Since the king desired to hear him tell of historical feats, Arnold was asked to take his rest when Absalon was on the point of departure, but the Icelander opposed this with persistent entreaties and never ceased his request until Valdemar promised to make sure that he sent him off after Absalon at dawn. of the six ships which were escorting the prelate, three had withdrawn into the farther winding inlets, where their crews could gather firewood more conveniently; however, these vessels were suddenly denied return when the ebb tide stranded them on the swampy mud, while Absalon remained outside the entrance to the bay with the three others. As he was chanting the psalms in the holy ceremony of matins together with his secretary, a confused uproar was heard in the distance, the nature of which Absalon asked his fellow-singer to investigate. When the other reported that he could discern nine longships, Absalon had no doubt that they were pirates, and loudly rebuked his oarsmen because they were still busy snoring. As soon as the rowers leapt to their feet in a complete daze, covering their bodies with their armour instead of clothing, Absalon urged them to assail the enemy with all speed, for now their foes were observed to be so close that they were able to batter the Danes with volleys of stones. Snapping the anchor cables to cut short any delay, Absalon’s vessel thrust out its oars. Fancying they could easily instil fear into our men and petrify their minds with uncouth yells, these Wends began to set up a huge roaring clamour. But when they perceived their efforts were futile, they scattered in different directions, and one of their ships was captured with all its crew«- Even the retreats of Bjørne Wood did not help them in their scramble for safety, since the peasants took it upon themselves to comb it thoroughly. At this time Esbern, working on the town of Kalundborg, gave it the protection of a new fortification and made it a port free from the depredations of pirates. Esbern, Ingvar, and Oluf together chose to ally themselves with Absalon, as they too plied the trade of privateering inexhaustibly. During this period the Danish nation, encompassed all about with stressful dangers, was assailed by her neighbours’ frequent stratagems, on one side by the Norwegians, on the other by the Wends and Saxons, who were all trying to contrive her ruin. As a result she did not trust herself to sustain a bold encounter with any of her adversaries, fearing that while she thrust back one, she would be pressed hard by a second. Roused by the desperate straits of the fatherland, Gottschalk, who was regarded as a close ally by the Wends owing to his fluency in their language, the kindly disposition of his father towards them, and because he himself had for some time lived amongst them, secretly hinted to Absalon that he had found a clever method of suddenly converting them from friends to foes of the Saxons. He explained how he wanted to go off to Wendish country not under the guise of ambassador, but purely as if to demonstrate his goodwill, pretending that, prompted by personal affection, he wished to impart useful advice to his sympathizers. He would trap these credulous opponents in his subtle snares of falsehoods, and make them seek amity with the Danes, after they had thrown off the lordship of the Saxons. He said it was the character of that nation which particularly induced him to undertake this mission, since most of them were inclined to be impulsive and would carry out all their activities with more enthusiasm than discretion. Believing that individual cunning sometimes has the advantage over communal force, Absalon praised Gottschalk’s diligence, but warned him to be careful not to make any false promises on the Danes’ behalf, for he was anxious for the integrity of his country to be seen as blameless and was mindful that, packed as Denmark was with valiant men, it ought to practise warfare with weapons, not fabrications. Gottschalk first approached the Pomeranians, telling them that he was there because he had been deeply touched by recollection of their old friendship and by his love for the whole Wendish people; he wished to hold them back, for he had noted the way they believed certain factors advantageous which were actually dangerous. They ought to realize how they had accepted the yoke of an injurious tyranny and were prepared to give allegiance to those who yearned to strip them eventually of their homeland. Whatever breadth of territory the Saxons took from the Wends they immediately settled and cultivated; not satisfied with booty or fame, and greedy to extend their empire, they confirmed their gains of victory by constant occupation. This was the reason why they had deprived Niklot of his life, Pribislav of his country, and why they had surrounded Ratzeburg, Illow, and wSchwerin with ramparts and ditches, with a view to the complete destruction of the Wends. The Danes, however, had different aims when they waged war, and did not strive to grasp their foes’ lands, but only desired the commerce gained by a reciprocal peace treaty, since they were bent more on guarding their own acres than appropriating another’s. Above all they should exert themselves to rid their motherland of Saxon garrisons and, once all this German rabble had been tipped out of the realm, join in fellowship with the Danes, who they could not doubt were hostile to the Saxons; in this fashion they would at last deck their country with the advantages of everlasting freedom. Influenced by these counsels, the Pomeranians overran the localities held by the Saxons within the Wendish domains; although the other strongholds remained in Saxon hands through the courage of their defenders, the Wends captured Illow and acknowledged the suzerainty of the Danish king, so that they would not seem to lack a leader. Gottschalk thus sowed enmity to separate the two powerful races who were a threat to the Danes, and by his conscientious fabric of lies saved our homeland from the impending danger of her neighbours’ troops, to whom it was exposed on every quarter. When the fame of his exploit foreran Gottschalk’s return, the king was filled with admiration, but after Absalon had told him who was responsible for the scheme, he praised its originator even more extravagantly. Henry now sought to restore his rejected friendship with the king, for without it he could not keep the Wends at bay; Henry of Ratzeburg and the bishop of Lübeck were burdened with the mission of proposing a marria’ge between the duke’s younger daughter and Valdemar’s son, for the elder girl, to whom he had previously been betrothed, had died of an illness. The same envoys were instructed to promise Valdemar an early meeting with the duke in the province of Bramnæs, so that he could ratify the offer. When the king had set out on the instigation of the two legates, he encountered Gunzelin, who excused the duke’s absence on the grounds of his suffering from illhealth, and guaranteed that Henry would speedily join him at the Kider. When the duke eventually arrived there, he fulfilled his assurances and, sharing the same wishes, they agreed to launch a military offensive against the Wends. But while Henry made his way to I )emmin, the king set out for Wolgast, where, leaving aside an assault on the town, he and his troops swarmed over the surrounding countryside. Once more he set the town of Osna alight, though little rebuilding had taken place there after its recent devastation. Making for various points in the locality, he laid them waste in the same manner. Because the Wends could not depend on their strength, they appeased each of their adversaries with coin and hostages. After this operation the king, released from a large portion of his anxieties, began to reflect upon a war against Norway, for up to this moment such a design had been interrupted by Wendish concerns. Consequently, at the outset of spring he followed up his plan with a plentiful supply of Danish soldiers and, since the inhabitants of the Vik showed very strong partiality towards him, he not only had free access there, but a joyful welcome too. He delivered a speech to them more like a leader than a foe, exchanging arms for orations. Being so pleased with their friendly inclinations, he forgot about his opponents and, by advancing at a slow, leisurely pace, gave Erling an amazing amount of time to muster his forces. The huge size of Valdemar’s army drew delighted stares from the people of the Vik. The Danish navy also sailed out unimpeded, watched with glad eyes by the populace. In their wonder at this host of Danes many folk were drawn to the fjord through which the ships had to pass in succession, and so that they might get a better idea of the number of vessels, they thronged the heights, eager to gaze at the sight rather than cause any harm. The citizens of Tønsberg, not to be outdone in revering the king, received him in their district and paid their respects with a most distinguished procession, crowning their attendance on him with a religious ceremony. Erling’s soldiery had scorned the king’s previous arrival, confident of their fortresses situated in that area, but this time were on their guard and made off in a different direction. When he came to the top of a hill, the king was astonished to survey on the summit of a precipice a defensive position which he acknowledged impregnable, for there nature surpassed man’s handiwork. Word came in the meantime that Erling had lined the narrow stretches of an inlet, which was suitable for the Danes to navigate, with a great many ballistas, so that he could prevent their sailing through, for he trusted more to the awkwardness of the terrain than his own power when it came to confrontation with the enemy. Therefore the king, cursing the waste of time occasioned by his leisurely progress, called his friends and gave them a rousing exhortation to hurry; he stressed that they must redeem the shameful sin of delay by concentrating their efforts on speed, because it seemed they had frittered away the days uselessly, and their supplies were now as good as consumed through inactivity and idleness. The leading men received this pronouncement with different attitudes, and the commanders bandied about various opinions as to what they might do: some urged that the cavalry should disembark in order to dislodge the men directing the ballistas and that the ships which lay in the line of fire should move out of the channel; others said it was foolhardy to allow a large fleet to sail through such a narrow strait, and discouraged it. Some reckoned that they should circumvent the enemy via a more open expanse of water and then send their forces in to occupy the area. If they did so, Erling, discovering himself forced to fight or flee, would shortly abandon the defensive position he had taken up. Others again, scoffing at their immediate fear of a nonattendant peril, told the rest they ought not to set up a debate before the situation had been more closely investigated. They emphasized the need to advance quickly and instructed the rest to cut short the delay caused by their tranquil voyage. Amid all their varied judgements, a certain Niels Okse, a man of more eminent family than worth, said he was astonished that rational beings, born on illustrious soil, should have chosen to leave the bosom of such a supremely attractive homeland so that they could tramp through miles of uncultivated wastes, especially where they met with nothing but craggy rocks and impassable cliffs. They had reached such a pitch of madness that they deemed the most extreme hardships the highestpleasures. If the king should happen to conquer Norway, he would experience more fatigue from each kingdom than enjoyment from one. Moreover, with their rations failing, if already pressed by want they were to extend this sea journey farther, the supplies would certainly not be adequate for their return. The silence that greeted this seemed to express approval, even though his words were more timorous than wise. Absalon, however, in his estimate of the speech took a different line from the rest of the company and, after dismissing his comrades, alone with Valdemar began to criticize him keenly: why had the king silently accepted Niels’s sentiments when they demanded the sternest censure, and why had he not ventured to condemn them with answers of utter contempt? Niels’s remarks, which might have appeared derisive, were actually a very sharp stimulus to division. Had Valdemar condemned this follower as useless and said that everything would be better accomplished if Niels left the ruler’s escort rather than stayed in it, the others would have been embarrassed by the disgrace of that one individual, and would maintain silence, dreading a similar reproach themselves. As it was, because the king agreed, or seemed to agree, with his ideas and did not publicly discomfit him with taunts of faintheartedness, it would not be long before a great many, led on by this unrestrained sample of presumptuousness, would all be shouting out the same kind of warnings. It turned out exactly as he had forecast: since the commanders had wholeheartedly put their desire to return before a wish to advance, even though they did not dare follow this up with open entreaties, they secretly fired the common soldiers with covert incentives and equipped them with subversive designs. Some of these who were more audacious and impudent, having discovered that Absalon was away, hurled stones at his ship, giving as their reason his pig-headedness in prolonging the expedition. But they were soon intercepted by the rowers, who, though they were outnumbered, made the rebels turn tail. However, the king did not proceed against these idiots with the punishment they deserved, for he considered they had been hurt more than enough by their disgraceful rout. From there he set sail for Portør, famous for the outstanding victory won there by Sigurd, in other words, where he is reported to have subdued a vast fleet with only three ships. Here a number of Jutlanders, swept along by the wicked advocacy of their captains, held a meeting at which they demanded with vehement shouts that the expedition be called off. Soldiers in unfamiliar garb were sent to apprehend them, and for some while these sat at their gathering, but remained anonymous. Finally, recognized by some of the bystanders, they discarded the clothes they had put on as a disguise and, seizing the ringleaders of the mutiny, dragged them away with their necks twisted. When they had been hauled off to the ships, the king sentenced them to a severe flogging and, to make their punishment harsher, had them plunged in turn beneath the waves; after they had been pulled out, they had renewed lashes inflicted on them. Later they pushed on to the region where, at this period of the summer solstice, they perceived that the nights were unusually bright and so like day that there seemed very little difference between them; during the night hours the light provided by the sun made it so easy to see that you could even read tiny writing. It was there that the Jutland notables, goaded by fear or impatience, approached the king with a plain admonition that he must return to his country, telling him that he had to disband his expeditionary force, because it was running out of food supplies; next year, if he were still of the same mind, they could come back, not by way of the Vik region, with its extended, winding fjords, but by a short, direct sea route from the borders of Vendsyssel. The private soldiers, grumbling about the food shortage, also supported these views, so much so that there was not a single commoner who did not cry out for a swift homecoming to relieve the lack of provisions. With the shouts of the mob dinning like this in his ears, the king had no alternative but to retreat from his purpose and offer a decision to cancel the expedition. But being unwilling to relieve his enemies of every disadvantage, he took away the finest vessels to be found in all Norway and so enriched his fatherland with a foreign navy. Thus, through the impatience of certain Jutlanders, hope of a major conquest was undermined, for if due persistence in this venture had been there, the Norwegian state would have remained in Danish hands. The aristocracy of Norway, who had attended the king on his arrival, omitted to accompany him on his return, since they were ashamed to abandon their country. While these events were taking place, because the king had been preoccupied with activities too far distant, the inhabitants of Rügen, gaining self-confidence, staged a rebellion. Since at the end of winter these folk became aware that Valdemar was planning a campaign against them, they secretly instigated someone of striking intelligence and accomplished fluency to undermine the king’s proposal with his excellent skills in flattery. Nevertheless, when he found himself quite unable to achieve this, he was reluctant that his own return should precede their enemy’s arrival, in case he should incur suspicion by dissuading the citizens from war, or prove to be their ruin by urging them to resist. He therefore entreated Absalon to allow him to accompany the expedition until such time as his fellowislanders requested his advice, because men of dull understanding are usually better content with recommendations they have asked for than with those offered to them. The king attacked Rugen at various points, but, whereas he found sources of booty everywhere, nowhere could he discover an occasion for battle, so that, drawn on by a craving to shed blood, he mounted a siege offensive against the town of Arkona. This fortress was situated high up on the peak of a promontory and was protected to the east, south, and north by natural rather than man-made defences; these cliffs looked like ramparts, whose summit exceeded the trajectory of an arrow shot from a crossbow. Their faces were also washed all round by the sea, but to the west the place was enclosed by a wall fifty cubits tall, whose lower half was formed of earth, while timbers interspersed with sods constituted the upper section. On the north side gushed the waters of a spring, to which the townsfolk had access by virtue of a shielded path. At one time Erik had forcibly blocked off their use of this, putting just as much hard pressure on the besieged citizens through thirst as with his armaments. In the middle of the city was a level space, on which could be seen a wooden temple of fine craftsmanship, inspiring reverence not only for the splendour of its decoration, but also because of the religious authority attaching to the idol set up there. Elaborate carvings glinted over the whole exterior circuit of the building, varied figures and shapes wrought with crude, primitive artistry. A single door gave admittance. The temple itself was enclosed by two surrounding screens, one inside the other; the outer one was solid and topped with a red roof, while the inner consisted, not of walls, but of bright curtains, hanging between four pillars, and was only linked with the outer structure by the roof and a few ceiling panels. Within the shrine stood a huge effigy, its size surpassing the height of any human figure, and it was amazing to look upon in that it possessed four heads and necks, two of which looked over its chest, two over its back. They were so arranged that, before and behind, one head appeared to direct its gaze to the right, the other to the left. They were fashioned with shaved beards and cropped hair, so that you would have thought the sculptor had tried hard to imitate the Rügen style of head adornment. In its right hand the idol carried a horn embellished with various types of metal, into which the priest who was versed in the god’s rituals would once a year pour wine, and from the appearance of the liquid would predict the degree of plenty in the coming year. The left arm was bow-shaped, for the artist had shown it bent back into the statue’s side. The god was represented with a tunic extending to its shins; these were made from a different species of wood and were attached at the knees, with the join so well hidden that the point of connection could scarcely be detected except by minute scrutiny. The feet were to be seen touching the floor, but the base on which they stood was hidden beneath ground level. Not far away the deity’s bridle and saddle were on view, together with a great many of its divine accoutrements. People’s astonishment at these was enhanced by the sight of a remarkably large sword, whose scabbard and hilt, quite apart from the exceptional beauty of the engraving, were set off by the silver sheen of their surface. Its attendant worship was observed in this manner: once every year, after the crops had been harvested and when beasts had been offered as sacrificial victims, a milling throng from the whole island celebrated a ritual feast at the front of the temple to pay reverence to this idol. On the day before he was obliged to perform the sacred ceremony, its priest, conspicuous for his lengthy hair and beard, which went counter to common fashion in that land, used to take a broom and meticulously sweep out the sanctuary, where only he was allowed to enter; yet he had to be careful not to exhale within this part of the temple; each time he needed to breathe in or out he must run to the door, I suppose to avoid contaminating the god’s presence by contact with the air from human lungs. The next day, while the populace kept watch in front of the doors, the priest would intently examine the drinking-vessel, which he had taken down from the statue, and if the quantity of fluid there had at all diminished, he concluded that it pointed to scarcity in the following year. Once he had perceived this, he would give orders for some of the latest crops to be stored away against the future. However, should he have observed no decrease in its usual level of fullness, he foretold a coming season of agricultural fertility. As a consequence of the omen he used to advise the people to avail themselves of the present year’s resources, sometimes more sparingly, sometimes more lavishly, as the case might be. Then, having poured away the old wine as a libation at the image’s feet, he filled the empty receptacle with the new vintage and, going through the motions of offering the god a drink, paid homage to the statue; afterwards, pronouncing a solemn formula, he begged prosperity for himself and his country, and increases in wealth and victories for its citizens. As soon as this was ended, he put the vessel to his lips and with great speed drained it in one uninterrupted draught, whereupon he replenished it with wine and restored the horn to the idol’s right hand. A round cake baked with honey was also brought as an offering, of such vast proportions that it almost matched the height of a man. Placing it halfway between himself and the crowd, he would ask whether he was visible to the islanders. When they answered that he was, the priest expressed the hope that they would not be able to see him in twelve months’ time. By this manner of request he was not asking for his own or the people’s deaths, but for an increase in the harvest to come. Immediately after that in the name of the effigy he greeted the multitude assembled there, further urging them to complete their obeisance to this god by scrupulously carrying out the ceremonial rites, and guaranteed that they could absolutely depend on land and sea victories as a reward for their piety. Once these procedures were accomplished, they passed the rest of the day consuming a sumptuous banquet, turning the sacrificial feast into an entertainment in which they gratified their stomachs, and .making the victims consecrated to the god serve their own self-indulgence. At this festive meal it was thought devout to abandon all temperance, but wicked to observe one’s normal decorum. In adoration of this idol each male and female offered annually the present of a coin. A third of all spoils and booty was also allotted to it, just as though these had been gained and won with its assistance. This deity had three hundred horses assigned to it and the same number of votaries who rode to battle on them; all the profits acquired by these men, either through fighting or by theft, were submitted to the care of the priest; he melted down every weapon handle to make emblems of different kinds and various adornments for the temples, and consigned them to the inside of bolted chests, in which were stored many purple fabrics rotted with age, quite apart from vast sums of money. There too could be seen a huge number of public and private gifts, donated to accompany the anxious prayers of those petitioning for favours. This totem, then, to which all the Wends rendered adoration and tribute, was also honoured with offerings by neighbouring rulers with no regard for the violation of Christian principles. Among these others even Sven, king of Denmark, paid reverence to it, seeking to appease it with a choicely embellished goblet, and being prepared to yield his devotion to a foreign religion in preference to his native faith; for this sacrilege he later suffered the punishment of a miserable end. The god had other shrines, too, at a good many sites, and these were supervised by priests, not quite of equal rank with the first and wielding less power. Moreover, it had a claim to a particular white horse, the hairs of whose mane and tail it was considered impious to pluck out. Only the high priest had the right to feed and mount this animal, in case a more repeated use of the sacred creature should cause it to be held in less esteem. The people of Rügen believed that on its back Svantevit (that was the name they gave the idol) waged war against the opponents of his religion. Their major proof of this supposition was that, although it occupied its stall during the night, it frequently appeared bathed in sweat and splashed with mud in the morning, as if it had come back from hard exercise and had galloped over vast distances in its travels. Auguries of the following nature were also taken from this horse: when they had decided to prosecute war against some region, three sets of spears would be erected in front of the temple by servants; each set consisted of a pair of spears joined crosswise with the points thrust into the earth, and the same amount of space lay between each arrangement. At the time when they were thinking of conducting an enterprise against an enemy, a solemn prayer would first be offered, and then the priest would lead the horse in its trappings out from the forecourt; if it stepped over each formation of spears with the right hoof before the left, this was accepted as a favourable prediction for undertaking the war. Yet if the left even once preceded the right, the plan to attack that territory was altered, and their date of sailing was only fixed properly after they saw the horse take three paces in turn which made the creature’s advance auspicious. When they were about to tackle various other pieces of business, they would divine the prospects for their wishes from the first meeting they had with an animal. If the omens were pleasing, they cheerfully pursued the journey they had embarked on. But if these were gloomy, they turned round and sought their own homes once more. The practice of prophesying fate was by no means unfamiliar to them. Three splinters of wood, white on one side, black on the other, were thrown like lots into their laps; the white uppermost enabled them to recognize good fortune, the dark, bad luck. Not even women were without this type of skill. Sitting by the hearth, they used to draw random lines in the ashes without counting them. If their number turned out to be even, they supposed that it forecast agreeable circumstances; if odd, they reckoned they could expect adverse events. King Valdemar was eager to overthrow the religious rites of this city just as much as he wished to destroy its fortifications, and believed that by razing Arkona the heathen cult might be stamped out through the whole of Rligen. He was quite certain that as long as the idol remained it would be less easy to overcome the paganism of the inhabitants than their defences. So that he could take the place by storm all the more quickly, he set the entire army to the heavy labour of fetching a huge quantity of timber, suitable for building siege engines, from the nearby forests. While his engineers were bending their efforts to constructing these machines, Valdemar stated tljat it was useless for them to give their attention to such preparations, seeing that they were going to capture the city sooner than expected. Being asked what auspice had led him to understand this, he replied that his prediction stemmed particularly from the fact that, when Charlemagne had at one time taken Rligen by assault and commanded its inhabitants to pay tribute to St Vitus of Corvey, who had died an illustrious martyr’s death, the islanders, anxious to claim back freedom after their vanquisher’s decease, exchanged thraldom for superstition and erected within their community an effigy which they proposed to call St Vitus. With contempt for the monks of Corvey, they started to transfer the amount they gave in tribute to this native cult, maintaining that they were quite satisfied with their local Vitus and were not obliged to render homage to a foreign equivalent. Therefore, said Valdemar, because the citizens had admitted him in a shape no better than that of a monster, the real St Vitus would cause a humiliating demolition of the walls when the time of his festival came round. Surely the saint must rightly exact vengeance for that insult on men who had recalled his revered memory with such sacrilegious worship. Valdemar declared that he had come to this conclusion not through inferences taken from dreams or random occurrences, but entirely through the acuteness of his own presentiments. Everyone found his forecast more astounding than credible. Connection between Rügen and the island of Wittow, on which Arkona stands, is cut off by a narrow sea channel, which scarcely appears to reach the breadth of a river; to make sure that the people of Arkona were offered no reinforcements from that quarter, soldiers were dispatched to watch the crossing and to prevent the enemy coming over, while with the remainder of his troops Valdemar hastened to beleaguer the city, which he first put into effect by placing his siege engines near the rampart. Absalon, directed to apportion campsites to the various companies, measured the area between the seas on each side and carried out the required dispositions. In the meantime the townsfolk had built up a huge mound of turves in front of the city gate in order to give their foe smaller chance to attack it; from the operation of blocking the entrance with this heaped edifice of clods they derived such a measure of confidence that they only kept banners and standards to defend the tower situated above the gate. Among these was one known as Stanitza, conspicuous in its size and colour, to which the people of Rügen paid as much veneration as almost all the other deities were accorded for their majesty. Whenever the citizens displayed this ensign before them, they felt entitled to vent their rage against all things human and divine, and reckoned that in these circumstances they were allowed to do anything they pleased. In this way they would be able to devastate cities, dismantle altars, observe no difference between right and wrong, and destroy any home on Rügen by tearing it down or burning it to the ground; so addicted were they to this false belief that for them the power inherent in this paltry piece of cloth surpassed the efficacy of a king’s might. Those who were hurt because of the emblem accorded honour to it as though it were a sacred totem, returning service for injury, for severity obedience. Meanwhile Valdemar’s soldiers were pressing on with the assorted labours involved at the start of a siege, busying themselves with military concerns for their essential needs, some putting up stables, some erecting tents, while the king alleviated the excessive daytime heat by taking his ease in the shade; at the same time certain Danish lads, making impudent sallies, which, as it happened, brought them up to the ramparts, began to hurl pebbles at the defence works from their whirling slings. As the inhabitants of Arkona were more diverted than alarmed by the temperament of their assailants, they felt it demeaning to intercept their advances militantly, for they seemed rather like a game and made the citizens want to watch instead of repulsing them. Very soon some young men started to vie with the boys’ attempts, using similar provocations, till the townspeople relinquished the pleasure of observation and reluctantly resorted to fighting. Then our younger soldiers, too, abandoned the different duties they were engaged in and rushed to bring aid to their comrades, with the cavalry leading the way and taking the place of those juvenile sportsmen. Although the affair had begun with insignificant, almost ridiculous preliminaries, it advanced by leaps and bounds to transform the contest into a major event; slowly but surely the incitement of the youngsters’ frolic developed into a serious form of adult battle. Now it so chanced that, as the mass of sods settled down, the earth heaped up at the gate collapsed into the shape of a cavern or tunnel, and an immense gap yawned between the tower and the pile of turves. At that point a youthful fellow of excellent spirit, but otherwise unknown, saw this as an opportunity to contrive a feat, and begged his companions help him achieve it; if he could go in advance with their backing, he guaranteed that the storming of the city would follow as an immediate consequence and he would set them on the road to victory. When they asked how they could oblige him, he told them to plunge the points of their spears into the middle part of the heap of earth, so that he could climb up the shafts as if on the steps of a ladder; while he was raised up in this way and was aware of being protected on all sides by the cave like walls of the mound, which prevented the enemy from harming him, he demanded straw to build a fire. Asked whether he had any means of lighting it, he answered that he had equipped himself with iron and flints, after giving a reminder that, as soon as the blaze flared up, he needed to be caught by them in his descent. As they were looking about for fuel to start the fire, chance provided the material. As luck would have it, a cart was being driven past loaded with straw for the usual purposes. After commandeering the load, each soldier threw a truss over to the next and proferred them on their spear points to the young man, so that in a short time the open cavity was filled in, while the fact that the tower was deserted allowed him safe access. The townsfolk were deceived partly by their ignorance of what was going on, partly by the emptiness of the tower, whose extensive width also gave protection to the attackers at each side. Suddenly the tinder caught, the building began to go up in flames, and the one who had produced the conflagration slid to the ground into the arms of his comrades, having taken the first step towards victory. As soon as they glimpsed the smoke, the townsmen were flabbergasted at the unforeseen danger and dithered about, uncertain whether to combat fire or foe. Eventually collecting their wits, they rushed at the blaze with all their energies and, showing no concern for their adversaries, began to wage war on the flames; at the same time our troops were trying to prevent them extinguishing it, with the result that one side seemed possessed with a passion to stifle the furnace, the other equally wild to keep it alive. Finally, when the garrison had run out of water, they tried to douse the flames with milk, but the more frequently they poured this liquid over them the more fiercely they flared up. The whole process increased the blaze to an inferno. When he heard the uproar, the king left his camp to enjoy the spectacle and was at once smitten with astonishment at the occurrence; he was unsure whether or not the fire would be an important factor in the capture of the city, and pressed Absalon with questions about his best course of action. The bishop urged him not to get mixed up in youthful escapades or attempt anything suddenly without previously examining the situation, and began to make insistent request that Valdemar first allow him to reconnoitre and see if the fire could be a useful tool for taking possession of Arkona. Without hesitating over the investigation, he simply donned shield and helmet before approaching the gate, where he started to exhort the young men who were endeavouring to assault it to nurse the blaze instead. The fire, fed by the combustibles kindled everywhere, leapt higher and, nourished also by the oak doorposts and columns, devoured the wooden floor of the tower. It then seized hold of the roof, and reduced to ashes the flag specially associated with the idol and the other emblems of Arkona’s religion. As soon as the king heard of this event from Absalon’s mouth, he took the prelate’s advice and gave orders for his men to encircle the city. Meanwhile he hurriedly positioned his chair outside the camp so that he could sit and view the battle. At that moment a splendidly courageous young Danish warrior was struggling to scale the bulwarks before his fellow soldiers, uncommonly eager to win glory; then he received a fatal blow to the body but, as he collapsed, he bore himself in such a manner that he appeared to fall as though deliberately springing forward and had not been subjugated by death. His bravery left it doubtful whether he fought or perished the more nobly. The Pomeranians under their leaders Kazimar and Bugislav thought it an excellent occupation to engage in combat as the king was looking on, and gave a unique exhibition of valour in a singularly bold attack on the stronghold. Their distinguished efforts delighted Valdemar as he beheld them with gratified amazement. The majority of the town-dwellers, encompassed by a double peril, fell to earth either through being burnt or from being struck by the enemy’s missiles, and were unsure whether they should be more terrified of fire or foe. Some, disregarding safety, conducted their city’s defence so resolutely and stubbornly that they were overwhelmed by the concurrent downfall of the flaming ramparts and were thrown onto the pyre of their blazing walls, letting themselves be cremated in the general conflagration. Such deep affection was felt for their fortified home that they chose to share in its destruction and not survive it. When the inhabitants had despaired of their predicament and were close to death and annihilation, one of them shouted from the battlements at the top of his voice, asking if he might talk with Absalon. The bishop first ordered him to withdraw to the quietest area of the city, in other words, the district which lay farthest away from the noise and carnage, and then demanded to know what offer he had to make. The other, reinforcing the effect of his voice with hand gestures, begged for a remission in our military action, in order that the inhabitants might be given time to surrender. Absalon replied that there would be no relaxation in the onslaught unless the townsfolk simultaneously withdrew their efforts to stop the blaze. When the barbarian assented to this condition, Absalon at once presented to the king the entreaties he had received, whereupon Valdemar immediately recalled his captains from the fighting so that they could confer about the situation; Absalon added that they should accede to the infidel’s pleas, also pointing out that the later the citizens tried to calm the advance of the encroaching flames, the harder they would find the task. If they stopped trying to curb it, they would be ceding victory to the bonfire, even though their opponents remained at a distance. Our soldiers, on the other hand, though allowing themselves to remain inactive, would gain an advantage from The fire’s strength which they could not attain with their own, seeing I hat the fire was itself fighting in the Danes’ interests. Even if for the moment they desisted from the fray, they must not consider themselves idle; they were principally doing battle by means of outside assistance with no danger to themselves. After Absalon’s scheme had received approval, the king gave the townsfolk a pledge of security, with the following provisos: they should hand over their effigy together with all the treasure dedicated to it, free the Christian prisoners from their imprisonment, letting them go without ransom, and undertake to honour all the articles of the true faith according to Danish ritual. Furthermore, they must turn over all the lands and estates consecrated to their gods for the use of the Christian priesthood and, whenever circumstances demanded, must be ready to assist in any campaign launched by the Danes, so that, once given the summons, they would never show reluctance to accompany the king’s soldiery. Meanwhile every year they were to contribute pieces of silver for every single yoke of oxen they possessed, and yield the same number of hostages as a guarantee that they would abide by (hose terms. On hearing this decree, our people were suddenly kindled by The torches of mutiny and, avid for the spoils and blood of their foe, started to grumble loudly: if they were deprived of the rewards of their forthcoming victory, they would have carried away nothing from that debilitating struggle but wounds and bruises, and were not at liberty to lake the vengeance they wished on those they had come close to conquering, to compensate for the many injuries they had received; now they were obliged to give consideration, they muttered, to the welfare of those on whom, with a minimum of trouble, they could have exacted spectacular retaliation for all the booty wrested from them, all the devastation they had suffered on their own soil. Moreover, they threatened to forsake the king since, they maintained, he had not allowed them to capture the city and preferred a mean payment to a resounding victory. Annoyed by these buzzing criticisms, Valdemar took the commanding officers outside the camp, right away from the tumult, and enquired whether they would be better satisfied with the surrender or the sack of the town. When they in turn asked Absalon to state what he felt on this question, he declared firmly that the stronghold could undoubtedly be taken, but only at the expense of a long and costly siege. Though his aspirations, he said, were perversely interpreted by the common crowd, in giving beneficial advice he preferred to displease those who credited him with mischievous intentions, and not impair the safety of his friends by striving for a dubious advantage. Even if the fire, which had started more, it seemed, by a miracle from heaven than through any human agency, had almost turned to debris the upper section of the fortifications, composed of wattle, the solider structure of the lower portion would not yield to the flames, and on account of its height did not afford easy access to a hostile assault. Furthermore, the townsfolk would have repaired almost all the parts that had burnt down by reconstructing them with clay, and though the inhabitants to a certain extent were kept at bay by the violence of the blaze, they had been somewhat safeguarded by its help, since its fierce heat hindered our army’s attack no less than it did their defence. Besides, if the dwellers in Arkona were denied preservation, all the other towns on Rügen would make a virtue of necessity and turn on our troops all the more passionately inasmuch as they were resisting in desperation. But if they knew that the citizens had received our assurances of safety, the other towns would easily view their example as determining some protection for themselves. Therefore, as it might be considered more praiseworthy to encompass the storming of many strongholds on the one campaign rather than batter away doggedly at the siege of a single fortress, offers of surrender ought not to be snubbed. However, if the rest of his audience thought otherwise, they still should return their hostages unmolested, in case they might be judged as having treated these prisoners with less than genuine trustworthiness, or the Danish word be associated, contrary to custom, with any taint of unreliability. Archbishop Eskil made sure that Absalon’s views met with assenting voices, since he affirmed that the ordinary people should submit to their lords, not the lords to the people, and that it was wrong for the greater to yield to the will of the lesser. What more desirable conquest could anyone achieve— not just making the devotees of a pagan religion liable to tribute but making them bow to Christian worship? He suggested that the Danes also utilize the people of Arkona’s energies to combat their remaining adversaries rather than look eagerly for their slaughter; it was all the more laudable to bring an enemy to submission than to kill him, inasmuch as gentleness is recognized as far superior to harsh treatment. On top of that, it would be somewhat more fitting to take over the garrisons of many strongholds at the same time than to prefer the blockade of one to the appropriation of all. His line of argument swayed the captains and won them over to his and Absalon’s way of thinking. The king, too, was encouraged by their forceful advice, so that, patiently blocking his ears, he spurned the dangerous tongues of the mob. Once the soldiers had been sent away to attend to their bodies’ needs, Absalon assumed the charge of taking hostages, and accepted as pledges either children, or in some cases their parents, who were admitted as security for their offspring, but only until the next day. While the bishop was snatching some sleep during the early hours of the following night, loud shouts were heard from one of the heathen, who was calling for the services of Gottschalk, the man Absalon used as an interpreter with the Wends. Gottschalk, woken by his voice, shouted back to ask what report he was bringing. When the visitor had requested access to Absalon and been given permission to approach, the prelate went to meet him outside his tent, where they spoke through the translator; the other began earnestly to beseech the bishop to let him bring news of Arkona’s fortunes to the men of Karenz, so that he could urge them to forestall disaster without delay by concluding a similar kind of pact and thus ensure their own and their city’s safety; he promised that he would return the following day to disclose their wishes. In addition he declared that his name was Granza, son of Littog, and that he had been born in Karenz; he said he was not a citizen of Arkona here, but a stranger who had arrived against his will after being sent over with others as reinforcements. In case his statements should be taken as deceptive, he showed how he had been disabled by a wound in the arm, which rendered him useless for giving assistance to the townspeople. Since Absalon judged that a man so seriously injured could hardly contribute anything vital to the enemy’s power, and as he believed that it made little difference whether he incited his fellowcitizens to fight or surrender, he referred a decision on the man’s request to the king. Having woken up Valdemar there and then, he sought his opinion on the question. The monarch told Absalon to make up his own mind on the matter, whereupon the bishop gave the answer to the waiting heathen that Valdemar had granted everything apart from the three days’ armistice that had been sought, for he was anxious to ensure that the foe were not given this long period to refortify their city. He promised to allow him the duration of the following day, because he did not wish to send him off entirely without cover of a truce, and stated that unless he presented himself with all the chieftains of Rügen for a meeting at the agreed time on the shore which lay next to his hometown, there would be no further possibility of striking a pact. The next day Esbern and Sune, to whom the king had assigned the task of demolishing the idol, found themselves unable to wrest it from its position without the use of axes; they therefore first tore down the curtains which veiled the shrine, and then commanded their servants to deal swiftly with the business of hacking down the statue; however, they were careful to warn their men to exercise caution in dismantling such a huge bulk, lest they should be crushed by its weight and be thought to have suffered punishment from the malevolent deity. Meanwhile a massive throng of townsfolk ringed the temple, hoping that Svantevit would pursue the instigators of these outrages with his strong, supernatural retribution. The effigy, hewn off at the lower end of its shins, fell backwards against the nearby wall. Sune exhorted his helpers to smash down this wall so that they could haul out the image, but instructed them to be wary, since in their appetite for its destruction he did not want them to be too imperceptive of their own danger, exposing themselves negligently to the risk of being flattened by the falling staute. With a gigantic crash the idol tumbled to earth. The swathes of purple drapery which hðng about the sanctuary certainly glittered, but were so rotten with decay that they could not survive touching. The sanctum also contained the prodigious horns of wild animals, astonishing no less in themselves than in their ornamentation. A devil was seen departing from the inmost shrine in the guise of a black animal, until it disappeared abruptly from the gaze of the bystanders. The inhabitants were then ordered to cast ropes round the idol so that it could be carted out of the city, but their ingrained, superstitious fear was such that they dare not perform this action themselves; they therefore commanded their prisoners and the town’s foreign traders to drag it outside, considering it best for base creatures to expose themselves to the hazard of drawing divine wrath down on their heads. The inmates of Arkona were convinced that the sovereign power of the god, which they had always honoured with such devout worship, would wreak dire, instantaneous vengeance on its desecrators. It was then that different voices might be heard from among the citizens, some mourning the violence done to their deity, others greeting it with derision. Without doubt the more judicious members of the community were invested with deep shame when they realized how, like simpletons, they had been deceived in paying such senseless homage for so many years. When the totem had been lugged into the camp, it was met with astonishment by the assembled troops; nor did the captains allow themselves a proper chance of viewing it before the common soldiers had had their fill of gaping and then moved aside. The rest of the day was spent taking the hostages who had stayed in the town the day before. But the army commanders sent their chaplains into the city to exercise their priestly duties and accustom a people ignorant of the faith to Christian rites by instilling holy teaching into their profane understandings. As evening approached, all those who ran the cookhouse attacked the effigy with their cleavers and chopped it into small faggots and sticks suitable for their fires. I could have imagined the men of Rtigen at that stage being disgusted by their ancient idolatry, when they saw the divinity which they, their fathers, and grandfathers had regularly honoured with the most pious veneration disgracefully fed into the fire and watched it provide the service of cooking their enemies’ food. Afterwards our troops went about the double task of burning down the temple and building a church from the wood of their siege engines, thus transforming their instruments of war into an abode of peace. So the machines they had designed for crushing the bodies of their adversaries were now devoted to saving their souls. A day was also determined for the people of Rügen to hand over the treasure which had been dedicated to Svantevit as votive offerings. Once all this was finished, Absalon explained to the Danish military leaders the promise made by Granza of Karenz and they all judged that his offer should be put to the test; the prelate therefore departed at night with thirty ships, after the king had been advised to follow shortly before dawn. The inhabitants of Karenz were so terrorstricken at the news of Arkona’s fall that they reached the spot fixed by Absalon even before the appointed hour. There Granza, seated on horseback, shouted from a distance to enquire who was in charge of the fleet. As soon as he learnt that it was headed by Absalon, he made known his identity and informed the bishop that King Tetislav had come there with his brother, Jarimar, and all the higher nobility of Rugen. Having pledged their safety, Absalon received them aboard his ship, where, after they had agreed to surrender on exactly the same terms as the citizens of Arkona, he kept them continuously until Valdemar’s arrival. When the Danish sovereign consented to all the stipulations of the covenant, Absalon, taking Jarimar alone of all the Rügen aristocracy, proceeded to Karenz accompanied by Sven of Arhus; but to make sure that he should travel to that city in greater security, the remaining lords were inveigled to a feast by Esbern, brother of Absalon, who had given instructions that they were not to be released before his return. The prelate was attended solely by thirty men-atarms from his household, the majority of whom he sent back when the people of Karenz begged that his retinue should not start up any brawls in the town; then he speedily made his way there, better furnished with confidence than companions. The stronghold was encircled by a barrier of deep bogs and pools, so that the only approach to it lay through a hazardous, marshy ford; if anyone strayed from this and thoughtlessly left the true path, he must necessarily plunge into the swampy abyss. Those who had traversed the ford were confronted by a footway which stretched to the city, extending between the marsh and the ramparts and leading right up to the gate. The citizens of Karenz, wishing to make their surrender more striking, formed a company of six thousand men, who streamed out from the gates carrying their weapons; after planting the tips of their spears in the earth, they began Xo border the route along which it suited our people to advance, in lines facing one another. When Sven grew numb at this sight and asked Absalon what the enemy’s exodus spelt for them, the latter bade him have no fear, and explained that their emergence from the town arose from a keen desire to demonstrate obedience; if they had had it in mind to inflict harm, they could have executed their mischief more simply within the city walls. What supreme assurance, then, we should attribute to this man, who did not shrink from letting power over his life so readily be subject to the uncertain whim of an armed foe! Our warriors, also, strengthened by his example, did not waver in their expression or their ranks, but maintained a constantly steady pace, resting more hope merely in Absalon’s protection than fear of the massed enemy. When the Danes had crossed the ford and begun to march along the road leading up to the fortifications, the people of Karenz, who had flocked round them in their hundreds on either side, prostrated their bodies on the ground, as if they were paying the reverence due to their gods; on rising they started to trail the soldiers’ steps with friendly enthusiasm. As Absalon entered the city, the populace eagerly flowed out to welcome him, and he was received not so much as a diplomat pursuing his private negotiations as a facilitator of public peace. The town was famous for three very notable temples that had been built there, worth visiting for the splendour of their noble architecture; the authority attaching to the local deities had won them almost as much reverence as was commanded by the powerful god of the state among the citizens of Arkona. Now this locality, though empty in the time of peace, at that period stood crammed with numerous dwellings. These were three storeys high, the lowest one providing support for the weight of the middle and highest floors. Moreover, the houses were so tightly packed together that, were boulders to be hurled into the city from ballistas, they would never strike bare earth when they fell. In addition, such a fierce stench of filth pervaded every home in the community that it tormented their bodies no less than fear racked their minds. In view of these factors it was obvious to our army that the people of Karenz could not have resisted a siege; the Danes saw no reason to be any longer amazed at the inhabitants’ swift capitulation when they clearly perceived how confined they were forced to be. The largest shrine was surrounded by its own forecourt, but both spaces were enclosed with purple hangings instead of walls, while the roof gable rested only on pillars. Therefore our attendants tore down the curtains adorning the entrance area and eventually laid hands on the inner veils of the sanctuary. Once these had been removed, an idol made of oak, which they called Riigevit, lay open to the gaze from every quarter, wholly grotesque in its ugliness. For swallows, having built their nests beneath the features of its face, had piled the dirt of their droppings all over its chest. A fine deity, indeed, when its image was fouled so revoltingly by birds! Furthermore, in its head were set seven human faces, all contained under the surface of a single scalp. The sculptor had also provided the same number of real swords in scabbards, which hung on a belt at its side, while an eighth was held brandished in its right hand. The weapon had been inserted into its fist, to which an iron nail had clamped it with so firm a grip that it could not be wrenched away without severing the hand; this was the very pretext needed for lopping it off. In thickness the idol exceeded the width of a human frame, and its height was such that Absalon, standing on the toes of its feet, could hardly reach its chin with the small battle-axe he used to carry. The men of Karenz had believed this to be the god of war, as though it were endowed with the strength of Mars. Nothing about the effigy was pleasant to look at, for its lineaments were misshapen and repulsive because of the crude carving. Every citizen was possessed by sheer panic when our henchmen began to apply their hatchets to its lower legs. As soon as these had been cut through, the trunk fell, hitting the ground with a loud crash. Once the townsfolk beheld this sight, they scoffed at their god’s power and contemptuously forsook the object of their veneration. Not satisfied with its demolition, Absalon’s workforce now stretched their hands all the more eagerly towards the image of Porevit, worshipped in the temple close by. On it were implanted five heads, though it had been fashioned without weapons. After that effigy had been brought down, they assailed the sacred precinct of Porenut. Its statue displayed four faces and a fifth was inserted in its breast, with its left hand touching the forehead, its right the chin. Here again the attendants did good service, chopping at the figure with their axes until it toppled. Absalon then issued a proclamation that the citizens must burn these idols inside the city, but they immediately opposed his command with entreaties, begging him to take pity on their overcrowded city and not expose them to fire after he had spared their throats. If the flames crept to the surrounding area and caught hold of one of the huts, the dense concentration of buildings would undoubtedly cause the whole mass to go up in smoke. For this reason they were bidden to drag the statues out of the town, but for a long time the people resisted, continuing to plead religion as their excuse for defying the edict; they feared that the supernatural forces would exact vengeance and cause them to lose the use of those limbs they had employed to carry out the order. In the end Absalon taught them by his admonitions to make light of a god who had not power enough to rise to his own defence; once they had become confident of being immune from punishment, the citizens were quick to obey his directions. It is not surprising to find that they were afraid of the might exercised by those divinities, when they recalled how they had often chastised the people’s lustful behaviour. It was common for males of that town, if they were admitted to have intercourse with women, to get stuck like dogs; after lingering a while they found they were unable to prize themselves apart, and occasionally both parties were hoisted against each other on poles to provide a laughing-stock for the populace through the spectacle of their unwonted union. This unsavoury marvel made the people offer pious reverence to those despicable images, since they believed that a phenomenon wrought by devils’ magic had been accomplished through the influence of these gods. So that he might better show them that the idols deserved disdain, Sven made it his business to stand high on top of them while the men of Karenz were heaving them away. In so doing he added affront by increasing the weight and harassed the pullers as much with humiliation as with the extra burden, when they viewed their deities in residence lying beneath the feet of a foreign bishop. While Sven was indulging in these activities, Absalon returned to Karenz in the evening, after consecrating three burial grounds in the countryside near that city, and, once the idols had been destroyed, made his way to the ships in pitch darkness accompanied by Jarimar, whom he made dine with him. As a result of having spent three consecutive nights without rest, the prelate’s vision had been so impaired by sleeplessness that he almost lost the use of his sight. The following morning the clerics, along with those who personally celebrated the sacraments for the army leaders, first donned their sacerdotal vestments and then redeemed the people of that province by performing the rite of baptism. Likewise by constructing churches in a large number of localities, they exchanged the dens of an esoteric superstition for the edifices of public religion. On the same day as the conversions took place, time was found to receive the remaining hostages. During this period the chieftains of Pomerania, reckoning they should shrug off Tetislav’s rule and take control of Rügen and its affairs themselves as a reward for their military service, begged leave to depart and then abandoned friendship in favour of enmity. Later this defection brought about long-lasting variance and hostilities between these people and the Danes. Soon after our troops had cast off from the harbour in the evening, they put in at the island closest to the mainland. There the men of Rügen carried to the king seven chests, all equally large, filled to the brim with money dedicated to the majesty of their gods. As soon as this operation was completed, a decree was broadcast that the expedition should now sail home. Immediately on his return Absalon equipped new priests with the attire belonging to their station, and with provisions, too; having recalled the earlier nominees, he dispatched their successors to Rügen, wishing to ensure that they should not live at the expense of others and burden the people they were to instruct in the Holy Scriptures, because they had to be provided with life’s essentials. There was no shortage of miracles as they went about their work of preaching: by their beneficial prayers they restored to a fine healthy condition a good many folk who had been enfeebled by physical infirmities, a boon which, it seems, could have been granted by God more in the interest of winning belief among this race than for enhancing the holiness of the clergy. But if any spurned Christianity, these same priests would exact severe punishment by causing the ruin of their limbs in different ways, so that you might plainly believe the Almighty bestowed profit on those who embraced His worship, but vengeance on those who despised it. In Rügen, too, there occurred not long ago a celebrated marvel of a kind hitherto unheard of: a married woman against whom her husband had^levelled an unwarranted charge of adultery had brought forward her right hand to grasp a glowing plate of metal, so that she might clear her name of dishonour; suddenly the iron which she had been about to take hold of, as though shunning contact with her innocent hand, rose high into the air, regardless of its own weight; there it swung about, following the progress of the woman as she walked along until, when its flight must bring it before the altar, it fell to the ground of its own volition amid the awed wonder of the bystanders. This phenomenon not only freed the wife from disgrace but inclined the dispositions of the onlookers to deeper piety. She was certainly not rash in putting her chastity to the trial of such a precarious proof, since her conscience, sound and untainted, furnished her body and mind with certainty. After the capture of Rügen every corner of the Baltic was still polluted with the blemish of piracy and so the Danes prepared a clever scheme whereby, when the numbers of their fleet had been surveyed, every fourth ship was to keep watch for those sea robbers, as long as the seasons and conditions would allow it; in this way the continued vigilance of certain crews would relieve them of universal hardship. Our nation saw as great an advantage in the constant service performed by a few as in the divided employment of the entire navy. For this duty they decided to choose young bachelors in particular, so that nostalgia for the marriage bed should not dull men’s zest for warfare. Absalon and Christoffer were appointed as their commanders. Not content with searching the approaches to home waters, they also scoured the coasts of Rügen and the winding inlets of the Liutizians. At about the same period envoys of the king who had been dispatched to Rome to obtain permission for the canonization of his father and for paying sacred homage to his soul returned with a letter that met his wishes. Once he had been informed of this, Valdemar issued a proclamation summoning all the Danish nobility to Ringsted, where he arranged that he would institute divine honours for his parent and royal honours for his son at the festival of St John, which is held in midsummer; he believed that he himself would enjoy a notably large increase in fame, if on a single day he presented one of them with an altar, the other with a crown, the kingdom to the boy in his childhood while the common religion sanctified the other’s spirit. The monarch reckoned that nothing else in the world would afford him greater pleasure than to see his son endowed with the emblems of his own sovereignty while he himself was still alive. Besides this he gave orders that ships should be called away from a nearby base and should take up a distant station in order to strike all the more swiftly at certain pirates of thoroughgoing savagery, and that they should make their way home before the feast of St John, so that the crews could take part in the celebrations. As they were leaving, he also gave warning that they ought not to attack buccaneers of this kind hastily, for it was their custom to fight with more cunning than valour; when a hostile fleet appeared on the scene, their habit was to draw their vessels up on to the shore and then deliberately run and hide, giving their foes unrestricted opportunity to bear down on them, but then, immediately the pirates saw that the rowers, glowing with eagerness, had brought their ships to land at various points on the shore, they would suddenly burst out again from their cover, seize hold of the boats by thrusting their arms through the oar holes, and drag them up on to the beach; once they had done this, they first buried the sailors under a hail of stones and missiles, before they pierced the ships with their swords and put an end to their use with scores of apertures. Therefore although these villains gave the appearance of fleeing, it was unwise to pursue them too hotly, for their flight ought to be a cause for anxiety no less than an attack; when they turned their backs, one should not press after them too impetuously, but instead make for the shore, sailing in an orderly formation and come in to battle with them keeping together in a steady line. Those who acted in this fashion would be assured of a prompt victory, because these sea rovers fought without armour and with near-naked bodies, relying as a rule more on their cunning than their gear. Fired by his advice, they brought their vessels to Oland. Now though the Swedes and Danes were at loggerheads, the Danish warriors felt it best to spare this island, since they did not care to wreak destruction on Christians that was intended for heathens, choosing rather to honour the faith they shared than keep up hostilities between their realms. Here they learnt from the islanders that a combined gang of Kurlanders and Estlanders was carrying out its raids from a port not far away; forgetful of their king’s warning in their scorn for these foes, they aimed for the location which had been made known to them, each ship as fast as it could travel, and raced each other into the harbour. An Estland lookout vessel, once it had spied this, rowed off to the high seas, preferring to escape by a roundabout route sooner than convey intelligence of this sighting to its fleet of companions. When all the other pirates discovered the assault, they lugged their craft up on to the mainland and began to hide intentionally in the scrub of a neighbouring forest. Foolishly misunderstanding their ruse, Sven Skoling and Neils of Vendsyssel sped furiously with powerful strokes of their oars and jumped out onto the shore with all their rowers; here they were met by the barbarians, who had executed a sudden, crafty volte-face, and after a long and arduous struggle paid for their neglect of the king’s admonitions with death. While Tue the Tall and Esger, two of Absalon’s prominent knights, were desperate to bring them help, they joined in the fate of those whose lives they so much desired to shield. Magnus the Scanian, vexed more than frightened by these perils his comrades were facing, landed in a different area of the beach, but his encounter with the foe led to a similar result. As soon as the heathens had emptied all these ships of oarsmen, they hacked through their timbers with battleaxes and sank them in deep water. Christoffer gazed at this slaughter of Danish soldiers, but plied the oars to keep his vessel moving at only a moderate speed and held off from land. When, however, the ship was floating broadside to the shore, these adversaries pelted it with such a heavy barrage of rocks that the oarsmen were happy merely to protect their own persons without finding the power to attack others, and were no longer free to think of dealing, only of ducking blows. As soon as Esbern perceived this situation, loth that the royal blood should be seen as entrusted to his care for nothing, he made a beeline for the mainland and plunged straight into the volley of stones, so that, in interposing his own vessel, he saved the young man, taxed by dangers, from imminent doom. But with brute force the savage throng at once seized the hull, wounded the men stationed at the prow, and made sure they lost no time hauling the ship on to the strand. After Esbern had shot three bolts from his crossbow and seen them all miss their mark, he smashed the weapon which had proved so ineffective in his hands and walked, clad in armour, from poop to prow, where, for a considerable part of the day, with his amazing vigour of mind and body he held off unaided all those opponents. In the end he was so bruised by the stones and pounded by shafts that he even lost the use of his legs and, regaining the stern with some difficulty, sat down on the deck. He had now been abandoned by his fellows, who all except one had dived into the ocean under the pressure of fear; yet when he caught sight of the barbarians leaping into the ship, whose sides they had now breached with their axes, he did not forget his old courage but, gathering his energies yet again, took on these foes once, twice, and even a third time, until he routed them and hurled furiously back at them the missiles they had showered on him, turning to his own advantage what those others in their violence had directed towards his ruin. Finally, with deadened muscles and worn out by utter fatigue, he yielded to weakness rather than to the enemy, and had already begun to retreat step by step in order to recuperate his strength, when a rock struck him such a heavy blow on the head that he nearly collapsed lifeless just before reaching the stern. And when the pagans had climbed into the ship and a horde of them were rushing forward to cut him to pieces as he lay there, his sole remaining companion, finding his words unable to rouse the half-dead man, clasped Esbern with his right arm and pulled him upright; the mere sight of his standing figure was enough to drive back the mob of converging opponents. Their experience of his bravery had been such that his appearance no less than his strength filled them with panic. Once he had eventually returned to his senses, he wished to know why on earth his comrade was annoying him like this; but after he had learnt how the boat had filled with barbarians, regaining his former vitality, he beat them all back, made his way to the bows and briskly took up the fight until, his powers almost spent, he wanted to retreat to the mast, but again fell down semiconscious, and would have perished if Christoffer’s rowers had not rapidly taken him off the ship and saved his life. These events made the rest warier about landing. For this reason they exercised greater prudence and stood off, waging combat from a distance with their slings and spears. Since the approach of darkness seemed likely to inhibit any further attempts at action, the Danes held a discussion with a view to postponing conflict, but thought it wise for sentinels to keep watch, in case any ship belonging to the heathens slipped unobtrusively out of the harbour in the night and made its escape. Now that the pagans realized they were cooped in by such a large blockading fleet, hopelessness gave way to courage, and they began to consider flight no longer, but victory. Therefore, partly with their own and their adversaries’ vessels which they had commandeered, and to some extent with piles of logs and tree trunks from the forest, they built a fortification the size of a castle with two very restricted doorways, awkward narrow entries through which a person had to creep stooping as if they were back passages. The sides, too, which they had constructed out of ships’s timbers, they protected externally by sails rolled into numerous layers, copying as a means of defence the way textiles are stitched together. Apart from that, some people put their effort into cutting stakes and chopped away at the ends until they were sharp, others busied themselves gathering from the beach stones suitable for flinging; to make sure their spirits did not appear at all languid, they sang and danced like maenads to affect gladness, whereas the Danes passed that dreary night without uttering a sound. Then Luke, Christoffer’s secretary and a Briton by birth, poorly versed in letters, yet exceptionally learned in his knowledge of history, perceived the subdued hearts of our soldiers and, by shattering the gloomy, mournful silence with a ringing voice, brought cheerfulness in place of worry. By recalling the manliness of their ancestors his superb narrative skill excited our men to take revenge on their friends’ murderers; not only did he dispel their depression, but even put fresh resolution into all their hearts, and you would scarcely believe it if I told how much verve was instilled into the minds of our troops by this foreigner’s speech. As soon as daylight returned, a few were left behind to guard against any of the enemy sneaking off, while the rest disembarked on the shore a good way away from their opponents’ camp, so that in the preparatory stages they should not endure attacks if the foe unexpectedly appeared. Those who were better equipped with arms and armour were ordered to march in the front line and all the common soldiers were positioned behind them. The barbarians, however, did not descend from their fortress in battle order but in an uncoordinated fashion; raising ear-splitting yells, they began to shoot forward into the fray, believing that the Danes would be horror-struck by this violent hullabaloo and were bound to succumb at the first sharp encounter. In fact, such massive panic did spread in response to their shouting, that not merely terror but even flight resulted among those stationed in the rear ranks. But the enemy’s reception by the leading warriors was rather different from anything the barbarians anticipated, and they were forced to dash back to their encampment as hurriedly as they had left it. A good number of them were cut down, but only a single man on our side was hurt, Oluf, who had to be carried half-conscious back to the shore, sapped by huge loss of blood after his throat had been pierced by a shaft. Niels Stigson, a man of magnificent family as well as physique, was the first to force his way into the fort being defended by the heathens, but at the very entrance he soon met with a furious blow from a cudgel, which prostrated him. His brother, Age, keen to interpose his own body to protect him, received a terrible wound in the throat. But the rest, following the precedent of these brave individuals and finding a foothold to break in, made an even fiercer assault on their opponents, oblivious of every danger. Those who had been given responsibility for keeping watch now also arrived to lend them aid; others propped up masts, which enabled them to surmount the parapet of the fort and, zealous to assist their comrades, plunged into the enemy throng. The carnage wrought on those heathens was so extensive that out of all their host not one survivor was to be found who could report the disaster. Our countrymen, having shared out the booty and refitted the ships, buried their commoners on the spot, but salted the bodies of their noble colleagues so that they might have them transported back to the fatherland. When they entered Denmark, they discovered Valdemar at Ringsted in regal panoply, celebrating the festival amid a great concourse of the aristocracy; here in attendance was the archbishop of Lund, whose duty it was to officiate on this occasion, when the bones of Valdemar’s father were being consigned to the altar and the king’s son, Cnut, after being consecrated, was being handsomely enthroned in royal purple at the age of seven. When these ceremonies had taken place with the appropriate ritual, Helge, bishop of Oslo, and Stefan of Uppsala were sent by Erling to Valdemar; after ascending to an elevated position, they spoke graciously and sued for a truce on behalf of the Norwegians. They pointed out that peace should be granted on this of all days, on which the king had seen his son dignified with a crown and his sire with an altar; so much respect was allotted to their accomplished eloquence that Erling was promised an audience and a friendly discussion with the king. At Helge’s request, Esbern, although his injuries had not yet healed completely, was directed to proceed as an envoy to Erling, two other Norwegians, Erling and Ivar, being kept in the meantime with the king as hostages. At the assembly Erling gave Esbern many arrogant replies, but the latter responded with many bold retorts. He was detained at Erling’s house, while the other, with four ships, sailed to Zealand accompanied by Stefan of Uppsala to hold talks with Valdemar. Absalon was returning with a large fleet, after having recently escorted the king to Jutland, when he saw Erling arriving at the port of Isøre; telling his associates not to attempt any aggressive behaviour, for he did not want these newcomers to take fright, he calmly welcomed Erling from his voyage and, dismissing the greater part of his fleet, even conducted him to the king. When the Norwegian was greeted with rebukes at their first day’s talks, he lost hope of reaching an agreement, but entreated Absalon, using Stefan as an intermediary, to let him depart unharmed. The bishop told him not to feel any more alarm than if he were in his own native land, so that Erling again sought conference with the king and procured peace on fair terms. All the Norwegian lords were obliged to swear the same form of oath as Erling, who vowed faithfully that in the event of his son Magnus dying without any legitimate issue, he would attend to the upbringing of King Valdemar’s son, still a very small boy; this young Cnut would first become jarl of Norway and then heir to the kingdom. In addition, Erling was made the king’s vassal and guaranteed to fit out sixty Norwegian ships to accompany Valdemar, as often as circumstances demanded it. The contents of this covenant he later promulgated at an assembly back in Norway, where he commended the Danes’ honourable diplomacy. As Erling went off, Tue followed him in his own ship, so that he might escort Esbern back to Denmark. Through the liberality of the people, Esbern on the point of embarkation was heaped with bows and spears as presents to mark his departure. When he had reached Odsherred, he found out from his scouts that the king had set off on an expedition to Pomerania; asked whether they had seen any pirates recently, they gave him the information that near on forty vessels had put in at the island of Sejerø, but said they could not tell whether these were traders or a squadron of freebooters. Hearing this news, Esbern aimed to skirt past them by night without their knowledge, but paid too little heed to the phase of the moon; he had decided to avoid the land completely, giving it as wide a berth as possible, since he heartily wished to stay out of the pirates’ sight. Nevertheless, while he sought to avail himself of the darkness, he was suddenly betrayed by the brilliant moonlight. For the Wends, sighting his sail on that clear night, blocked with their flotilla the path his vessel would take. As soon as he observed this, Esbern exhorted his sailors to snatch up arms and stand at their stations wearing mail shirts; the remaining warriors he led to the bows and bade them fire their shafts at the enemy from each side of the vessel, so that, compelled to defend their own lives, the pirates would molest those of others with less vigour, lie also instructed them that, when their sails had brought them through the first barricade of enemy ships, under his leadership they should set up the same kind of defence at the stern as they had done in the prow; they must also take care that during the struggle no one but himself should venture to utter a syllable, so that their commander’s orders might be better heard. If he chanced to be killed, they must respect Tue’s authority; if Tue should die, it would be Esger’s turn to issue directions; if both were struck down, he said, then there would be precious little fighting left to do. At the point where Esbern eventually felt it desirable to don his hauberk, the helmsman was anxious to know how he could protect himself, since both his hands were taken up with the business of steering and neither was free to be employed in the needful task of self-defence. Straight away Esbern handed over the piece of armour which he had been about to put on, preferring to expose his own person to the enemy sooner than allow his helmsman to remain vulnerable. His action equipped one man’s body with steel, and revitalized the spirits of everyone, as he revealed how much he despised his opponents. They strove obediently and energetically to fulfil Esbern’s intentions, and after they had broken through the massed line of the foe’s fleet, they repulsed the first wave of attack by l heir Wendish pursuers with the power of their missiles. A second assault, carried out with somewhat greater determination, was staved off in a similar manner. By the third attempt the heathens, astonished at the sheer bravery of a solitary crew, shouted to ask what men they were battling against. Esbern answered that, because the pirates had no hope of seizing their prey, their enquiry into names had little relevance. Rearing his repartee, Erik Jurison, a man of distinguished lineage, but dull wits, whom, as it happened, the Wends were holding on board as a prisoner, cried out as loudly as he could that there was no possibility of their capturing Esbern. At his words they pronounced curses on one another if they failed to overpower this adversary and in a concerted effort they drove the beaks of their prows at the sides of their enemy’s ship in front of the mast. Amid this contest a great many of the Wends lost their lives, but not one of the Zealanders suffered harm. When the wind, which had given him no small help, appeared to slacken its previous force a little, Esbern’s men asked him whether they should lend support to their sail with oars, but he said no, since he did not want it to be thought that they were feeling nervous as they completed their voyage. When he realized that the barbarians had not given up but, strengthened in resolve, were constantly pressing hard on his tail, he was worried by their determination and asked whether a flint was available on board the ship; told that there was, he gave orders for someone to climb the mast and at the top to strike a flame from the flint. This shrewd move made the barbarians think he was summoning a fleet that was following in his wake and they desisted from further pursuit. Once he reckoned that their sail was out of the enemy’s view, the sailors lowered it before rowing back to their home port. Aided no less by his own ingenuity than his comrades’ toughness, he was given assistance partly by his courage, partly by his subtle brain. Meanwhile the king, his forces swelled by a navy from Rtigen, entered Pomerania though the Swina Channel; there he devastated the environs of Julin, though he left the town untouched. Next the royal fleet set out along the river joining Julin and Kammin, which starts as a single stream, but divides into two near its mouth. Their advance was made difficult by numerous obstructive dams set up by the fishermen. Moreover, the middle of the river was spanned by an extremely long bridge, near Julin’s city walls, which cut short the ships’ progress; these obstacles forced the Danes to encamp for the night on the near side of the bridge. The next morning King Valdemar went ashore and commanded that the bridge be demolished opposite the town at the southern bank, and with equal exertion the Zealanders set about dismantling the fishermen’s dams. The inhabitants of Julin, after slipping out in skiffs and passing by the bridge unobserved, tried desperately to drive away the Danes, but Absalon, who had disembarked at the same time as the king, appropriated ships belonging to others and brought them welcome aid. The shafts hurled at his shield fell away without effect, whilst his companions found that the spear points stuck in theirs. When Absalon’s own vessel, whose crew were absorbed by the spectacle at a distance, had drawn closer at the king’s instigation, the foe were repelled, a considerable portion of the bridge destroyed, and a way opened up for the remainder of the fleet to sail through. The townsfolk assaulted the Danish vessels from their rowing-boats as they passed, but Absalon and Sune launched their own dinghies at them, filled with archers, and there was a skirmish of unpredictable outcome, in which ihe occupants of the boats fought with various types of crossbow. Just as the inhabitants of Julin were able to take refuge in their town, so our men could resort to the ships. Eventually the skiffs of the townspeople fell back and allowed a clear passage to the fleet. While Sune was following up in the rear, he sent an arrow from his arbalest and picked off one of the men from Julin as he was clashing impudently to the bank; soon afterwards he struck down with a similar shot another fellow who was trying to come to his friend’s assistance. A second pair ran swiftly up, lifted the corpses onto their shoulders, and carried them away with all speed. This event provoked one of the townsmen to attack our side with bitter invective, as though his purpose was to avenge his comrades’ deaths with imprecations; Gottschalk declared that he was behaving insolently because he wished his violent torrent of abuse to earn him the gifts which he had seen conferred freely on the others. For when he had witnessed our soldiers turn two of their infantry into cavalrymen, this Juliner imagined that if the rest came close, they must be given horses in the same way. Gottschlak’s quip not only deflated the reviler’s sauciness, but also poured scorn on the effrontery of all the citizens. From there they came to the island of Gristow, where the king gave instructions that they should refain from incendiarism, for lie wanted to spare the corn that was essential for his horses’ fodder. Very soon after, when they had progressed downstream, they reached The town of Kammin; once the territory to the north of it had been laid waste with fire and sword, battle was joined on the bridge there. Crawling beneath it through shallows known only to them, the Wends thrust their spears right up through the cracks in an effort to inflict stealthy wounds on our soldiery. But in no time a mass of )anish boats repelled this cunning interference. The weakness of the bridge, ever on the point of collapse, was also a cause for concern, more so in fact than the enemy’s ferocity. For this reason the Danes withdrew their attack on the town and returned to Gristow. Here, with the whole army in a state of extreme uncertainty about the expedition’s return, they debated the subject, but were unsure which path to follow back to the sea. Since the Pomeranian Lake flows into the Baltic through three outlets, they decided to reject two of them, that is, the Peene and the Swina Channels, owing to the wearisome length of those routes, and opted to take the nearest exit, the one close to Kammin. However, there was a man named Gere, who, being well acquainted with the topography of that area, affirmed that this waterway was so shoal-ridden and of such untrustworthy depth that it could only be navigated at high tide. Absalon was dispatched with three ships to investigate matters, but was hindered by the proximity of a wild sea, and was therefore unable to take accurate soundings of the river bed. Where this river emerges from the lake, it flows out into a rather narrow channel and, as it progresses, increasing its breadth beyond that of an ordinary stream, forms or meets a vast marsh; but where it runs into the sea, it again resumes its earlier restricted width. Although the royal fleet should have waited until Absalon’s return, in their impatience to sail, the mariners forgot the warning they had been given and, putting haste before directions, rushed on to where the river branched; by taking pilotage into their own hands they found themselves in some very awkward stretches of that watercourse. As Christoffer was keeping guard behind, protecting the Danes’ rear, the Wendish ships attacked, and he had a hard time of it entering the river. Nevertheless, to some extent by his own energies and to some extent with the help of his associates, he fought off this particular assault. On that same day, when the king had mooted a plan to invade the province of Julin once more, Absalon during the first watch of the night sought out suitable landing places; noticing a firmer-looking piece of ground, he fixed stakes there and, as markers, knotted together reeds by the bank, so that at dawn the next day by locating these identifying signs he was able to indicate the access point on the shore where they could easily set down men and their horses. While he was engaged in a daytime sortie to capture booty in conjunction with Magnus Erikson, Absalon heard that his friend, who had been unwarily straying too far afield, had almost been cut off by the foe; though the king, bent on setting fire to villages, had sent him an order to return, Absalon put affection before obedience and, arriving at full speed with a band of followers, immediately rescued Magnus from a hazardous threat of death, for his partner had been pinned in a tight corner, partly by a naval force, partly by a cavalry detachment of his enemies. Immensely grateful for his help, Magnus admitted that he owed his safety to Absalon. He also gave profuse thanks to his deliverer and promised that, if he were called upon, he would lay down his life to ensure the other’s preservation. Absalon, however, conscious that in bringing such aid he had transgressed the king’s command, determined that he would regain his goodwill, which he had damaged through his own disregard, by laying spoils before him, since he was loth to receive a stern frown from Valdemar. He therefore issued orders for herds of cattle to be driven before him and for his prisoners to precede him into the camp; this sight softened the king’s gaze and he gave Absalon a sunnier look on his arrival. After he had learnt of Absalon’s achievements and viewed his booty, the bishop’s valour assuaged the anger evoked by his insubordination, and Valdemar was happy to greet his return merely with a light rebuke. When they had regained their ships, there was a debate with regard to putting out the fleet, on which there were two proposals. Some judged it best to open up the river’s narrow mouth, digging it out with mattocks to make it more easily passable, and by using navvies to widen the limited breadth at certain points; but because it was obvious the sea tide would sweep in quantities of sand to block the excavation, the project was not implemented. Others believed that, by laying rollers underneath, a united effort could be made to drag the ships through to the sea, while the cavalry mounted guard on cither bank. Only the Rugians, employing this technique, succeeded in bringing six light craft out, but as the remainder were heavily laden with cargo, it would have been simpler to take them to pieces than to haul them away. Thus despite the boundless enthusiasm of our troops to push forward, their prolonged labours to get outside the river mouth were futile, till the king recalled them and they grudgingly relinquished the attempt. So keenly was everyone, Absalon excepted, spurred on by his longing to use this outlet. The prelate, on the other hand, had discovered when he examined the waterway that the depth of its estuary would not admit the draught of their ships. In the meantime Kazimar, delighting in the clumsy withdrawal of our soldiery, fetched a fleet of fifty vessels to the entrance of the river in order to blockade it, considering that his adversaries had run out of luck and nothing was left for them but death or capture. He had two talented bowmen, Köne and Kirin, whom Henry, in his dislike for the Danes, had sent across to support the Wends. Bugislav also appeared with cavalry forces, after having dispatched more ships to assist his brother; yet he charged the people of Julin with cowardice, scorning them for not coming to blows with our army. These occurrences so cramped the hearts of the Jutlanders with fear that, surrounding Absalon as if they were at a public meeting, they had no scruples about openly attacking him with abuse, ascribing to his leadership the actions they had engaged in under the influence of their own impetuosity. On top of that they started to complain in womanish strains, almost with wails, that at one time a king’s resolves depended on the judgement of distinguished men, but were now based on the advice and opinions of every complete fool. The Danes, they said, had arrived at a situation where they must not anticipate any hope of return. All the people should put their backs into dragging a few ships clear, so that the king and his nobles could make their escape, and prevent Danish power and reputation from collapsing in ruins within a second. This tirade Absalon bore so patiently and with such equanimity that he seemed to shed none of his usual qualities of mind or expresssion, and contented himself only with reminding them not to pour out in the present instance a torrent of words which they would squirm to recall in the future. It so chanced that Skorre Vagnson came upon them directing all this criticism and at first could not clearly make out what topic they were dealing with amid the hubbub of people’s voices. But when the wrangling came to a halt and the din abated, he understood that it was Absalon whom the bystanders were tearing to pieces with their slanderous comments and said: ‘Fellow-soldiers, you’ve lost your wits, trampling on such a diligent, devout, and mighty individual with your foul, impudent abuse, as if he’d committed some crime or misdemeanour, and just like females hurling these cowardly, clamorous insults, which put you valiant warriors to shame. It’s wrong to set an unjust valuation on brave, vigorous labours. Under this very man’s captaincy we’ve marched in arms across parts of the world which our grandfathers never even had the opportunity to set eyes on. Our chiefs certainly have a legitimate right to command and we soldiers have a proper duty to follow them. For this reason it suits us to rely on our own energies, while at the same time we must be governed by others’ directions; we shouldn’t be defended as well as conducted by one and the same person. So it’s right for us to be thankful to someone who’s staked his fate so often for the sake of our profit and victory, under whose courageous guidance we’ve reached an urgent situation in which we can’t do other than safeguard his life with our weapons. It’s essential now for all those who want to regain their country and homes to perform a striking feat of manhood in the face of the enemy and win our return by deeds of honest worth. Who could doubt that these complaints of our common soldiers issue from wildly palpitating hearts? But (how pitiful!) what can be the reason why the confidence in so many honourable breasts has suddenly dwindled and been replaced by timidity? Why do we breed fear in ourselves with no one to agitate us, abandon hope and tremble where there is no danger? Our bodies are sound; they haven’t felt chains or whips. Our right hands brandish their swords and neither neediness nor disaster has at all sapped our strength. Come then, let’s accompany this largely unimpaired state of our fortunes with a tough firmness of mind! Let’s remember we aren’t tame girls, but seasoned men, in complete armour, and situated amongst virtually unarmed foes! Undoubtedly, even if our fleet had been destroyed by shipwreck or arson, there’d still have been nothing to prevent us charging through the enemy ranks on our steeds and making for our homeland once more. Stop bombarding the ears of this huge assembly with these nervous, craven, effeminate moans; rouse your spirits and reinvigorate the weakened sinews of your fortitude with that old assurance in your own capacities.’ He pressed these admonitions on them for some while, but did more to stop the mouths of the dissidents than rectify their ideas; yet his influence and exhortations quelled the squabbling, and his strong sense of duty and extraordinary nerve won him the supreme respect of his colleagues. In the meanwhile Kazimar, much excited by the possibility he saw of taking possession of our fleet, and wishing to mount a show of self-confidence, pitched a tent on the riverbank and arranged to drink his own and his warriors’ healths out of gold and silver wine goblets. This overweening pride afterwards turned to chagrin when he was put to flight. While all this was happening, Valdemar called the chiefs away from the operation of dragging the ships and, after they had refreshed their bodies, summoned them to a conference. When he saw that they had assembled in a large crowd on board his ship, he enquired what they believed would be his best course of action. As they ventured no reply, he expressed surprise at their reticence and bade them explain the reason. Then, while all the others remained tongue-tied, one of them remarked that the king ought to bring the youngsters into the council; it was their advice in particular that he normally followed, and therefore those he had chosen as the leaders should also be the ones to lead them back. Valdemar understood that these words were a stricture on his close relations with Absalon and he replied that it was not usual for valiant men to find fault with one another like women; on the contrary, where there was discussion about a public emergency, they ought to put an end to private feuds. If the person they were criticizing for his inexperience were asked his opinion, he would not stay silent, perplexed as to how he should answer; next, turning his eyes towards Absalon, he asked what recommendation he would give. The bishop stated that there was a plan of action in readiness, whenever it suited the king to pursue it; what seemed like hazards and hindrances to the others could easily be dispersed, and even the blockading navy or a cavalry attack would not be able to stop an exit lying open to the Danes at the point where they had made their entrance. Once he had disembarked with his cavalry on the mainland, the king must withdraw with them to the river mouth in order to protect his fleet; thither several vessels furnished with oarsmen in chain mail should precede the rest, one by one, and as soon as there was a large company of them, they should make inroads into the enemy fleet. When everyone else laughed and asked if he wanted to go first, he responded: ‘I don’t want my words to have seemed braver than my deeds. It’s appropriate for the inventors of bold schemes to give a practical demonstration with their hands of the proposals they advocate with their mouths.’ Delighted with his scheme, the king instructed that the ships and rowers Absalon requested should be fetched and, without more ado, proceeding to the bank amid a troop of horsemen, Valdemar hastened to the spot where the river entered the sea. When Kazimar spied him coming in the distance, he swiftly quitted his tent and rushed in alarm back to his fleet. The Danes then made a choice, picking out seven vessels, each equipped with armoured rowers. of these, two belonged to Absalon, while Esbern and Sune were in charge of another two; Thorbjørn, Oluf, and Peder Thorstenson commanded the remaining three. Having directed the rest of his squadron to form a line in his wake, Absalon took the lead in his ship, and, seeing that there was no obstruction, made his way into an unfamiliar branch of the stream, as a short-cut along his route; his other vessel however, owing to a miscalculation by the helmsman, suddenly ran aground on the shoals. Even so, the speed of rowing compensated for this departure from her true course, and the stern was propelled off the sands; the barbarian fleet at once scattered in various directions as though it had been whisked away by the winds. The Danes, greeting their flight with loud and joyful halloos, shouting in unconstrained gladness, declared that the cord fastening the wineskin had been cut; instead of Absalon’s detractors they now became his worshippers, fulsome in their gratitude, redeeming their insults with praises. But his mind was endowed with strong control and firmness, with the result that he thought little of being decked with the flattery of the fickle multitude, and behaved much the same in despising their compliments as he had in spurning their condemnations. This was all the trouble the Danes had in dispersing such a prodigious peril. Two Wendish vessels, relinquished by their terrified oarsmen, were taken by our troops at Gristow; a third, tied to piles standing in the water, was rescued with the help of their allies. After the king had ridden full gallop to Julin, Bugislav, engrossed in the repair of the bridge because he was very eager to enter the town, caught sight of the Danes, stopped work, and fled; so immediate was his panic that it made him forget his earlier arrogant bragging. The king, however, quickly restored the bridge, as if to bring the enemy’s labours to completion, and sent his horsemen across it to the southern bank; in this way the fleet would be relieved of its load and would move more easily along the stretches of the river obstructed by stakes. When Absalon had conducted the ships, sailing one behind the other, as far as this point, in an attempt to stop the people of Julin from attacking them, as was their habit, he boarded a longboat filled with archers and steered it to a place in mid-stream between the town and the fleet. But the townsfolk, paralysed by an excessive intake of fear, were drained of all military confidence, and in their desperation and distress hid themselves within the enclosure of their walls. Having passed successfully through the obstacles, the Danes had the horses brought back on board ship and the fleet was assembled in the harbour to give the exhausted rowers a rest. Once the anchors had been dropped, Absalon and Sune took up their stations as usual for the last watch; but as the wind veered round, becoming anxious that the vessels might be blown nearer to land and so be exposed to a night assault from cavalry, the pair pushed off in small boats and began to carry out a detailed survey in order to discover how far it was from the riverbank to the actual sea. Meanwhile one of the men from Julin, the worse for drink but accompanied by quite an elegant set of attendants, rode rather proudly up to the water’s edge and, addressing the Danes in an affable manner with Gottschalk acting as interpreter, promised to deliver hostages the next day to secure peace, with a request that the remainder of their possessions be spared and that the Danes hold back from plunder. But when he wished to withdraw, he swaggeringly spurred his horse in an effort to put on an impressive display, whereupon it suddenly stumbled and fell, pitching him to the ground with a violent thud, which left him stretched nearly lifeless. His retinue ran up swiftly and tried without success to raise him to a standing position, for he had had all his breath knocked out of him and apparently the severity of his fall had made him lose consciousness; when our archers started shooting at them, they left their master to be taken by the foe. He was at once tossed into the rowing-boat by Absalon’s servants and transported to the galley, where he eventually recovered his vision and powers of movement; however, believing that he had been set down amongst his own people, he tried to kiss and hug the folk who were seated by him. His misapprehension aroused the spectators’ mirth. In the meantime a false report spread, which reached the army, telling how their opponents in a keen effort to block our departure had invested Swinemiinde with a mass of ships. Nevertheless, the barbarian who had just been captured scotched any belief in this idea by condemning the rumour as untrue, and stated that his own thorough inspection of the Wendish force had shown him that it would not be able to compete with Danish strength. I f the combined Pomeranian and Polish troops had had to match swords with the Danes, even then he would prefer to back the Danish side in preference to its opponents, and could do so more safely. If, however, Saxon reinforcements had also joined the Poles and Wends when they were about to contend with the Danes, he did not know which company he would forecast as the more likely to win. His affirmation put new spirit into our men and made them ready to undertake the voyage in scorn of their enemies. Such a powerful dread had mesmerized the Wends that they did not even think it advisable to assail those who tagged along behind, as was their former custom. Peder Todde had split the timbers of his vessel when it collided with the stakes and had let his comrades’ ships depart without him while he repaired the damage, yet he spent the period of its refurbishment entirely unmolested, even though his craft was all alone; once the restoration was finished, still unharassed by anyone, he closed in on his companions and rejoined the fleet after sailing without harm or hindrance. To such an extent did the remnants of their earlier fear check the Wends’ brashness. Thus it came about that the expedition was brought to completion and its return was uneventful; the remainder of the year was given over to relaxation. During this interim period Kazimar and Bugislav, apprehensive of Danish might, subjected themselves to Duke Henry and made their realm a fiefdom of the Saxons, though hitherto they had stayed independent. So, while they stood in awe of one of their enemies, they bowed to the other’s yoke, and looking for support lost the privilege of their ancient freedom. Notwithstanding this, since Valdemar judged that the Wends were applying fruitlessly for Saxon help, he showed disdain for both foes and, having fitted out his fleet, made for Stettin, the oldest town in Pomerania. Absalon, who sailed at the front, had a pilot whose sympathies lay with the people of Stettin. By this man’s cunning the bishop was taken out of his way by a roundabout route along the River Oder, and whereas the others followed a straight, direct path, he arrived at the town in the rear instead of at the head of the fleet. Stettin is remarkable for the height of its towering ramparts, fortified as it is by nature as well as by human skill, so that it might be considered virtually impregnable. From this we have derived the popular saying about those who idly boast of being secure, that they are not protected by the defences of Stettin. With greater confidence than their powers justified, the Danes set themselves to take this place by assault, and after they perceived that part of the enclosing wall was combustible, they wove branches together to make smallish hurdles, which they carried before them like shields to fend off spears; trusting to these screens for their greater safety, they began to dig away under the rampart with picks, their intention being to spread fire without as much risk inside the recesses of their tunnels. In the meantime the king launched his attack and, in the absence of engines for assailing the walls, moved his circle of besiegers in. Only the bowmen and slingers found it possible to reach the lofty battlements with their missiles and the parapet was too high for the troops to gain access. There were, however, some young soldiers who, thirsting for renown, climbed to the top of the walls, safeguarded only by their shields. Others, scorning the defenders, went close up and pitched into the gates at ground level with their battleaxes; these men were less at risk than the more distant fighters, because such a thick barrage of weapons was hurled everywhere at the enemy that only those farther off could be seen or shot at by the town’s protectors. The result was that boldness won safety, cowardice spelt danger, and proximity gave greater immunity than remoteness. On the other side the rest of the town’s populace found themselves just as much under pressure from the Danish army as the defenders, for the missiles which flew over the pallisade surmounting the rampart struck at random. The factor that weighed most against the stronghold in the face of such multitudinous assailants was the relatively small number of those fighting to hold out, for they had no one who could bring helpful reinforcements in their martial struggle. The governor of the city was Vartislav, believed to be a blood relation of Bugislav and Kazimar. His mind had been allotted almost nothing in common with the temperaments of his fellowcitizens, but burned with such enthusiasm for extending and glorifying Christianity that you would have said he was neither born of Wendish stock nor tinged with barbarian characteristics; to recall his benighted country from its deluded worship and put forward an example whereby it might amend its self-deception, he had called from Denmark men who led a monastic existence, built an abbey for them on his estate, and enriched it with many handsome revenues. When his comrades were tired out from the battle and he realized that the city was close to capture, fearing the enemy’s ferocity he sought a truce so that he might offer surrender; as soon as he had been given a promise of safe-conduct, he was immediately lowered on a rope by friends who shared his fears and lost no time in making his way to the royal camp. When they saw this, the Danish common soldiers became less enthusiastic for combat and complained that the king was receiving money which they were paying for by risking their lives; his avarice was cheating them of both victory and plunder. Observing this, Valdemar very much desired to quash such reproaches and, circling the town on horseback, began to urge his forces to press on vigorously. But later, after they had toiled away laboriously, he discerned that it was a formidable, even pointless, undertaking to storm the stronghold, and therefore, returning to camp, he granted an audience to Vartislav. Touched by the man’s pleas, he allowed the townspeople the chance to surrender, after agreeing to accept hostages and a sum so vast that the whole Wendish nation could only discharge it with some difficulty; he also determined that the town should be wrested away from the control of the Wendish community, and that Vartislav should receive it as a fief by way of a royal gift. He therefore recalled his soldiery from the assault, would not allow Stettin to be captured and sacked, and ordered that his banner should be flown from the battlements to give notice that the capitulation had been accepted. There you could see arrows planted everywhere in the wall, from top to bottom, so that you might have imagined it a bed of reeds; our men plucked them out very readily and restored them to their quivers. Afterwards he retraced the route by which his ships had come, took Lubin, and then sailed back to Rugen; and because the islanders’ fishing season had arrived, for the common good it was resolved to set watch there with a third of the total fleet, in case their anxiety about foes in the neighbourhood should interfere with the people’s search for food. The king instructed Cnut Prislavson to command this squadron, but the other discourteously refused to carry out his bidding; he objected that he held no possessions in Denmark apart from the narrow confines of Lolland, and this was not worth so much that he was eager to run an undoubted risk merely to protect the Rugians. That job belonged more properly to bishops, who were the only individuals the king employed as his advisers; it was all the more unsuitable to pass it to him in that he occupied a place quite far removed from Valdemar’s inner circle. Infuriated by the young man’s cheeky reply, the monarch retorted that Cnut had been granted small fiefdoms because he deserved only small ones, and in future, if he himself had anything to do with it, Cnut would be shorn of honours, not rewarded with them. Nor should he think his sovereign’s intimacy with bishops a matter for reproach; it would be simple to find one of their number who would not decline to take the present task in hand personally and bring it to a close. Owing to Cnut’s rejection of his order, Valdemar summoned Absalon and revealed the young man’s answer; next he enquired of the prelate whether the ships that he must take command of had been made ready. For his part Absalon asked if this was a task that could appropriately be carried out by a bishop and then offered his own services quite warmly, affirming that it would be tantamount to desertion if, in his eagerness to get back to Denmark, he abandoned the king and left him exposed to dangers. At this excellent response Valdemar was effusive in his appreciation and said how much Absalon’s character differed from Cnut’s; the latter did not have the pluck to obey the order, while the former anticipated the instruction by spontaneously offering to perform it. On returning from the king, Absalon told his friends from Zealand not to be unenthusiastic in preparing the vessels which were going to stay behind, just because he was the one who must be their commanding officer. Thorbjørn, the first to answer, responded without hesitation, saying that he would stand by Absalon’s side, for he remembered how the prelate had once helped to restore him to his homeland when he had been in exile. Peder Thorstenson declared that he could only feel utter disgrace if he forsook Absalon, since he was intimately connected to him by kinship and by marriage. Sune owned that he, no less than the others, had a strong obligation to follow Absalon, because he was known to be very closely related to him. Esbern, the bishop’s only brother, confirmed that there was no need for Absalon to be deprived of his company either. Almost to a man the members of the Zealand fleet made the same kind of declaration. When he knew this, Valdemar expressed his gratitude to them, and to Absalon especially, because his sterling qualities had won for the monarch such willing cooperation from his subjects. So it was that, when he was left behind to watch the borders of Rügen after the king’s departure, he enabled the inhabitants to come and go free from molestation, but even more importantly secured an untroubled period of tranquillity for the Danes, since the Pomeranian fleet dared not overstep the boundaries of its home waters. Sven of Arhus with a reasonably-sized band of Jutlanders also volunteered to be a companion and associate of Absalon’s labours. During that time, Tetislav, prince of Rügen, arrived with his brother, Jarimar; after thanking Absalon, the prince very generously offered to supply adequate provisions for him and his crews while they kept guard, and requested that conscientious individuals from our force should be appointed to distribute them between the ships. But when the Jutlanders grabbed rations indiscriminately before they were shared out, Absalon refused to accept the Rugians’ liberality any further, apart from having the herring from the catch delivered to himself, because he had no wish to repay kindness with an affront. On his way home he dismissed the accompanying flotilla of Jutlanders at the island of Femø. Some of these, less wary than their fellows, were coasting the southern shores of Funen when they ran into pirates near the fortress established by Cnut Prislavson; they thereupon aimed to save their skins by escaping across country, and in their consternation felt it no disgrace to vacate their ships. The moment this story reached Absalon he flew into a rage and, after quickly collecting the fleet together, bent on carrying out a meticulous search, he combed the localities which he knew were particularly frequented by the sea rovers. Ceaselessly probing the obscure, winding inlets among the islands and the secluded corners of the seas, he discovered the pathetic remnants of the captured vessels and dismal traces of loot from them. These finds made Absalon even more desperate for revenge and, splitting up his fleet, he gave each detachment the task of scouring a separate area; he himself sailed back to Masnedø with the stronger Zealand squadron. By departing from the rest and going on ahead, Absalon had now moved out of sight of his colleagues’ ships, when, as it chanced, a man standing on the shore they were sailing towards waved his cap energetically in a way that suggested he wanted a talk with him. Absalon, believing this person had some important news to communicate and wishing to find out anything he himself was unaware of, furled his sail and rowed towards land in a longboat; but after recognizing the man from a distance, with his first words he condemned the fellow for his unreliability, for he had not apprised the bishop beforehand that a horde of Wendish rovers had recently put out to sea. This individual, in fact, had struck a bargain that he should be paid pounds a year in cash on the guarantee that he would bring notification to Absalon whenever four or more fast sailing vessels weighed anchor with the specific intention of launching a buccaneering raid on Denmark. The man had no other way of sustaining the integrity of his promise than to affirm that the pirates had already set out before he had entered into the agreement. When he had asked Absalon where he was bound for and learnt that it was his desire was to return home, he went on to point out that Absalon was disbanding the expedition at the very point when it should have been starting out. The Wends had now assembled a large navy to attack Denmark; but, he said, despite all the information he had gained, he was still uncertain about what regions of Denmark it intended to aim at. With his anxiety to have prior knowledge of where the enemy were going to pounce, Absalon was in a ferment of indecision, so that the spy promised he would make further investigation, having carefully enquired whereabouts he should carry his report back to. Absalon chose the cliff on Møn, and asked when he should send someone to meet him; the other set the limit at the sixth day. O ff he went without lingering for more than a moment and had disappeared from view before Absalon’s accompanying squadron put in. Disliking the presence of our Danish soldiers, he made it his business to melt away there and then, since he had no desire for his circumstances to become known, seeing that he would have to endure the punishment of death or banishment if it were discovered he had betrayed the schemes of his countrymen. But Absalon made no secret of the matter; when the remaining ships arrived, he announced to his comrades the intelligence he had received, but withheld his informant’s name, and stated that they were turning back home just at the time when it was more advisable to put out the fleet. No one else knew from whom he had obtained his facts and they were amazed at his considerable foreknowledge; he told them to consider two possible options: whether they preferred to repulse the approaching foe with an enlarged fleet or after assembling cavalry together. If they approved neither course of action, they should tell the dwellers in the coastal regions to leave their properties and retreat to safer areas, to prevent their being exposed to the barbarity of the pirates. The leading men were in general agreement as to their decision, believing it was neither practical to send cavalry to meet the enemy when their landing was unpredictable, nor laudable to evacuate to the interior the people who lived along the coast, and so they determined to fight a naval battle. The ships therefore returned to the ports with a view to swelling the size of the fleet, and the oarsmen, instructed to leave the rigged vessels, began to scurry round in every direction searching for supplies before a further campaign. Absalon rode off to Roskilde to attend to some business. However, on his return he was suddenly met by the cold of winter, which was so intense that it promptly covered the waters with a layer of ice; when the peasants of Zealand had collected food and were taking their waggons loaded with provisions back to the ships, such a mass of frozen mud clogged the wheels that nothing would make them turn. The tenacious frost had cemented the sludge to the wood as if it were some sort of glue. As a result the drivers had to abandon their carts and pile their loads on the backs of the animals that drew them, so that they themselves had the task of leading them on foot; and the congealed wetness of the slime added a weight to their leggings which was more than their shin bones could bear. As Absalon rode past he addressed them with words of commiseration, reminding them, however, that they were suffering these hardships for their country’s sake; they answered that it was an even greater misery to be a prisoner of the pirates, sitting amidships, and that they gained more pleasure than bitterness from their present toils. So, Absalon set off on his expedition and, as he drew near to Møn, found waiting to meet him a man he had recently sent to the cliff on that island to see what news there was from the Wend informant. There he learnt that the Wendish fleet had anchored in the harbour of Svoid with plans to attack Møn; they would send ashore lheir horsemen on the south side, and their infantry on the north, while their ships would sail into the twisting cove near Keldby; the Wends reckoned they should disperse their troops in this way to stop the islanders having any area they could escape to. Armed with this information, he considered it best to steer towards Koster, sailing unhurriedly and without turning aside before the enemy fleet had streamed into the narrow inlet according to their intended design; if he could come upon their navy by surprise, he was sure he would be able to attack the rest of the foe without any trouble, when there was no sea transport to allow them return. But the Wends moved rather slowly, and Absalon, marvelling at their delay, made for Falster, where he chose two ships out of the whole fleet, to whom he gave the responsibility of keeping a watch on enemy activities. One of these he ordered to be manned by Zealanders, the other by Falstrings, on condition that if by chance they were apprehended by their opponents, their ransom should be paid out of the purses of all the other crews. On hearing this, the man whom the Zealanders had appointed as helmsman of one of the two vessels declared that he would do his utmost to avoid having to agree to the favour of a ransom after the indignity of capture; he did not interject this statement because he was refusing the duty through cowardice, but because he was confident they could maintain an alert surveillance and took for granted they would remain safe. After Absalon had returned to Koster, a certain Gnemer put on a feast for the Falstrings and with the pleasures of the table held back the ship they should have been fitting out for reconnaissance purposes; indeed, concealing treachery under the cloak of goodheartedness, he fuddled everyone’s wits by plying them with an overabundance of liquor and rendered them virtually inert and quite unfit to accomplish Absalon’s sensible command. This Gnemer, led astray in his too-close dealings with the Wends, had made it his habit to reveal our national policies to them covertly; and during the same period he had served with the Zealand fleet, but in body rather than mind. Now, as they sailed out of Svold intending to raid Falster, they sent in advance to Gnemer’s home to enquire secretly about Danish moves. It was then that Gnemer, summoned by Absalon to the fleet, seemingly acted as lookout for his country, but in reality as its betrayer. The Wendish messengers learnt the requisite information from his servants and quickly reported these words to their associates. Their communication put paid to the project set in motion by The Wendish navy. In consequence they relinquished all their other plans and were content to sail as far as the strait known as Grønsund. On its shore stood a cross, raised by the pious ministrations of the inhabitants; the Wends set about cutting it down, believing that the spectacular overthrow of that wooden emblem would redound to their greater reputation as marauders. This sacrilegious indiscretion earned its punishment afterwards in their dishonourable flight and grievous shipwrecks. They would have caught the men of Falster napping, for these fellows were somewhat the worse for the previous evening’s drinking, had not the scout from Zealand slipped with difficulty between the enemy ships and startled the inebriates out of their sleep with his cries. This man let Absalon know of the enemy’s coming, so that the bishop directed Ingvar and Oluf, men of proven perspicacity, to go off in light craft from the island of Bogø and spy out their intentions. Immediately they had set off he grew too impatient to await their return, and therefore decided to follow in their wake, reckoning it even better to precede them than copy their movements, in case he had to linger rather a long while for their report and so carry everything out too sluggishly. He recalled that it was Wendish custom, when they were bringing in an armed force, to be fond of making forays just before dawn and then, after a swift completion of their activities, aim to beat a hasty retreat. Concerned not to be too late in his counter-attack, Absalon prepared his oarsmen in good time, ready to play the parts of scout and commander simultaneously. After catching sight of him at daybreak, the Wends turned all their poops towards his oncoming vessel and their prows in the direction of the high seas, as if they had thoughts of fleeing instead of fighting an engagement. And when the Zealanders’ ensign was unfurled, they sought rapid flight with a violent straining at their oars, displaying men’s physique but girlish souls. Absalon pressed after the fugitives with gusto and was only halted in his pursuit by the sudden outbreak of a tempest, which forced him to retire to Falster once more. The waves crashed together with such ferocity that every ship was tossed against another and they had a heavy struggle to prevent themselves being battered; every vessel alike took a nasty pounding, and our own folk would have drowned if they had not been quick to withdraw before the storm. The Wends found it impossible to battle with their oars against the raging billows and wanted to assist themselves by hoisting sail, but the tremendous gales capsized and sank their galleys. The surest indication of the trials they had undergone was shown by the numerous spars of pirate vessels, washed up on the coasts of our land. Two of their ships which stood firm against the waves through the capable strength of the rowers fell into the hands of Jarimar, prince of Rügen, who subsequently sent one over as a prize to Absalon, since he credited the capture of both to the bishop’s efforts. This all happened on the feast of St Nicholas, and it is through his protection that the Wendish army has never since dared to make a hostile assault on Denmark to this very day. And now our fighting force was on the point of returning, as they normally do in winter, when they were imprisoned by a sudden frost, which was so keen that ice instantly formed and spread over the surface of the reach where they had anchored for the night. Its solidity was such that a single blow was not enough to penetrate its thickness. Since the tremendous mass of ice was preventing them all leaving their moorings, they deliberately made provision for one vessel to precede and clear a channel for the rest to follow in procession. No one ship could manage to lead the way for very long, because the sharp edges of the ice fragments gnawed into the keels as though they were being hacked with a sword. For this reason they made sure that the vessels took turns to go first, sharing the work equally. So in the end, after sailing a lengthy distance through labyrinthine waters, they reached the open sea and from there each man found his way back to his own home. When stretches of time had been calculated, it turned out that Absalon had devoted all but three months of that current year to the business of plundering. The following summer Henry and the king held a discussion on the Eider about their common interests, at which the lords of each country also foregathered. When spring came round again, Christoffer, supported merely by the soldiery from his dukedom, made a successful raid on Bramnæs. As soon as this was accomplished, another sortie was immediately prepared on the king’s orders. Absalon and Christoffer were the first to come to Masnedø to serve as joint leaders of the expedition. As the king was rather slow to move, the two of them had decided to strike at Bramnæs once more, when Eskil arrived in the midst of a fine naval squadron from Scania. He had come back from Jerusalem a little while earlier and wore a beard long enough to testify to his pilgrimage to remote regions. Considering he would necessarily be blamed if he undertook any action without conferring with such an eminent man, Absalon revealed his purposes to him through Esbern. Highly commending his adventurousness, Eskil begged to be taken on as a colleague in his designs and prayed that, despite his grey hairs, he might be allowed just for once to have a shot at youthful enterprises. When he had chosen the most able of his Scanians, he followed the bishop promptly and, sailing abreast of the others, put in at Lolland. There were seven vessels from Rügen there, waiting to meet our own; and when they had weighed anchor during the night, Eskil demanded a skilled pilot from Absalon, because, he said, he was afraid of going off course. By taking this individual on board he enjoyed a successful voyage and followed the shortest route to the port they were heading for. However, the gloomy night sent Absalon astray, so that he sailed somewhat out of his true path, and indeed caused the Zealanders also to wander. The same unawareness betrayed the crews from Rügen and, as it chanced, they lit upon the spot near which the Bramnæsian fleet had assembled before going off on a pillaging foray. Ignorant of this, the Rugians mingled with our forces at first light and launched into this military venture at their side, leaving behind a few guards for their ships. But these were spotted by the people of Bramnæs, who looted them after the sentries had scattered in terror; not satisfied with ransacking them for booty, they hauled away two of the vessels, which were seen to be of superior construction. However, as soon as the watchmen of the Zealand squadron stopped them from taking these ships any farther off, the men of Bramnæs punctured them with their swords and sent them to the bottom. This province had only one stronghold, which the Danes found completely emptied, for the population did not dare trust it to protect them. Its abandonment was due partly to a shortage of defenders, partly to the lack of ramparts. The name given to it by its denizens was Oldenburg. Having no faith in their town walls, they had decamped with their wives and children, racing one another to a church situated outside the perimeter, for they felt that piety would offer them more reliable preservation than warfare and that they would evade peril in a home of peace. In consequence none of our soldiers would venture to lay hands on their goods, since there was the possibility that their lust for spoils might involve them in sacrilege, even though in the house of God it would not have been wicked to hunt after ill-gotten wealth; nor should the precepts of religion have acted as a support and cover for its disparagers. While Absalon remained for the time being under arms, Eskil, not wishing to neglect any element of his usual devotions, first of all took pains to say mass. His mind had conceived such utter scorn for his foes that when he was with the troops he wore a robe instead of chain mail. Meanwhile a man named Horne along with Markrad, whom Count Adolf of Holstein on his deathbed had left as guardian to his son, with harangues expressing a haughty contempt of the Danish forces had gathered together an enormous band of Wends and Saxons. At a moment when our men happened to be reclining on the ground as they were recovering breath for a while during a respite from the exertion of cavalry patrol, Eskil asserted that, being a person of his years, he was so bruised and buffeted that he could not even get astride his horse without a helping hand. Nevertheless, as soon as the foe appeared on the horizon, he leapt onto his steed faster than any stripling, in a fashion that would have made you imagine his physical stamina was not impaired in the slightest; so strongly does merit overmaster age. In this way someone who had been excusing himself with pleadings about his elderliness later enhanced it with actions that smacked more of youth; nothing but manliness could have impelled him to this concealment of manliness. - - It so happened at this time that a very small detachment of our army had chanced to separate themselves from the rest for the enjoyment of plundering, when a superior number of enemy soldiers appeared; the Danes held it disgraceful to run out of their reach, but, not having the courage to take them on in combat, stayed transfixed between fear and shame, awaiting their comrades’ arrival. Between them and the remainder of our troops flowed the muddy waters of a river that was only fordable in one spot. When his standard-bearer hung back, Absalon took the initiative and rode across to show those following the easy way to overcome this obstacle. Unaware of what was occurring, the enemy stood waiting with more complacency than circumspection, for a lofty hill intervened to hide the appearance of the Danish cavalry. As a result the band which had earlier become segregated from our main body, seeing their comrades so near, did not wait for their aid but charged spiritedly at the foe, because it might otherwise seem as if they had deferred an encounter owing to their own dread, but now aspired to it when they could rely on others’ strength. The Wends had been belittling the slender size of the Danish platoon when they caught sight of the larger troop, which had passed beyond the lower-lying terrain and was now surmounting the high ridges; they turned tail, routed without difficulty by those whose powers they had denigrated with their extremely insolent attitude and language. When arrogance is brought to a halt, it always becomes a prime target for derision. At this point some of our militia, if they overtook any escapers, were happy to dislodge them from their horses with the blunt end of their lances, since they were prepared, as an acknowledgement of their common faith, not to strike them down with the steel tip; they were concerned that an orgy of slaughter might be more harmful to the aggressor’s soul than profitable to his honour. I could believe that the recipients might have taken this sort of affront as a kindness. Next, when they had secured a vast haul, the Danes remained constantly on the shore for as long as it took to refit the Rugians’ vessels, which the men from Bramnæs had gashed open. In the meantime, while Duke Henry was occupied in Bavaria, all the Saxon counts, thirsting to prosecute a war on the Danes, which they believed could be finished o ff with very little trouble, began to muster a remarkably powerful army. While they were on the march, they heard from the fugitives they met that the Danes were not accustomed to fight their wars with crude peasant implements, but ran an efficient military machine, and their forbearance towards Christians was so remarkable that they preferred to aim thumps rather than weapons at the runaways. The troops from Bramnæs had been robbed of their horses, not their lives, when it would have been quite feasible for their foes to capture and kill them; and the sole architect of Danish success was the bishop of Zealand. The barons found this astonishing. One of these was Gunzelin, whose expert prowess in war had earned him preferential treatment as a friend of Duke Henry; consulted by the others on their current enterprise, he advised them to tackle Absalon on the coast, since it would not be a major undertaking to contend with the forces of a single island. When they questioned him again as to whether they could safely join battle with the ruler himself, he replied that not even Duke Henry could take that step without hazard. At these words they all had second thoughts, quaking at the fury of Danish might, but Gunzelin added that he had hit on an idea for a safer course of action. Since the entire resources of Denmark had been channelled into a campaign across the seas, if for the time being an armed attack were directed at parts of Schleswig, the Danes would suffer greater cost at home than they inflicted abroad. After listening to these words, Bernhard of Ratzeburg swore that he would not carry arms against a province which he possessed by privilege as a fief from the king. But even if Valdemar was conducting operations overseas, the gates of Schleswig were not so totally lacking in defenders that they lay wholly accessible to invaders; indeed, sixty thousand Danish soldiers had been set to guard them. Hearing these words, the Henry who was acting as deputy governor of the Saxon dukedom declared that it was folly for them to intend war against the Danes when the latter glowed with love of peace and their motherland and took up the sword against the most insubordinate slaves and foul brigands merely to repel outrage, not to wreak it. Since it is regarded as iniquitous to assail innocent people, he said, any who dared to defile his hands with the blood of such a lawabiding race deserved to suffer the torments of hell. With these dissuasions he won a decision to waive the expedition, seeing that all judged it best to forgo such a reprehensible form of campaign. For this reason Gunzelin, who had earned his position of exceptional intimacy with Duke Henry through heroic martial exploits, perceiving that his proposal had been condemned by his companions’ judgement, believed they ought to follow a policy of peace with our country, and therefore made overtures to Sune; when the latter showed that he was perfectly ready to accommodate his wishes, Gunzelin gained a postponement of war until Duke Henry’s return from Bavaria. Afterwards the king voyaged to Rügen and resolved to attack the district of Circipen. While he was thrusting in this direction, he came up against a vast, slimy bog, a prodigious hazard. Its surface, garbed with soft turf, was certainly luxuriant in its grass, but was so incapable of bearing a person’s tread that any who set foot on it were generally buried beneath it. The mire subsided totally, and they would slide down into the muddy abysses of that foul swamp. No alternative path offered itself to any who wanted to move forward. In order to alleviate the formidable prospect and avoid exhaustion, the Danish cavalrymen stripped off their arms and armour and loaded I hem on to their horses, which they then began to lead forward by the bridle. Whenever the beasts had been sucked too deeply into the mud, they hauled them upright, and when the guides found themselves sinking, they were supported by clinging to their steeds’ manes; the numerous streams which zigzagged in every direction across the marsh the Danes managed to pass over by means of withies plaited together to form wickerwork. On this occasion, in fact, certain men showed truly remarkable qualities: some of the knights strode forward, leading their mounts behind them and burdened with their armour and weapons, refusing to cast off the weight because they trusted their own nimbleness. Their conduct was all the more notable in that it was so unusual. The horses, however, trying urgently to lift their bodies after they had plunged into pits, sometimes even sent their leaders under with their hooves. The king himself was hoisted on to the shoulders of two of his warriors, having stripped himself down to his shirt, and even then he barely got through the soggy quagmire. Rarely ever have sturdy Danes exuded more sweat. Their amazement at seeing our men cross right over the bog brought colossal stupefaction to the enemy, with the result that they thought it unsafe to resist opponents who they saw had even vanquished nature. Once the army had overcome such a tremendous obstacle, they advanced in high spirits, just as if they had routed their foes. Next, when they had traversed immense forests, Valdemar descried a town surrounded by a navigable fen. This settlement was better defended by its natural moat than by human skill and a wall had only been built along the side which was touched by a bridge stretching from there to the mainland. As our force drew near, to prevent its access the chief of that stronghold, Otimar, swiftly had this bridge levelled with the water, so that only the remnants of its piles were left amid the waters. Our soldiers managed to obtain these to use as foundations for a new construction and, having brought stakes from a nearby village, by toiling away they gradually erected a direct route across the expanse flowing between. After Absalon had been sent with the larger part of the cavalry on a marauding mission, Valdemar, encouraged by the scanty bulwarks, set about an assault on this community and took the utmost trouble to collect any materials he observed suitable for rebuilding the bridge. Fearing the assemblage of this new structure, the townsfolk gathered timber from anywhere they could and raised a wooden tower, intending that it should act as a protective strong point to help ward off the enemy; relying on its defences, they promptly filled it with slingers and then began to attack our soldiers, who were more concerned to push on with their work than screen their persons. The Danes, for their part, began to combat them with arrows, but since they were unable to draw any nearer, they took their aim from a distance; Otimar was no less panic-stricken than his followers at the growth of the new bridge and, after crossing the lake in a boat, sought out the king; as he perceived the progress of our operations becoming either slacker or brisker, so his pleas for a truce were made at one time more sparingly, at another more pressingly, and he always formulated his phrases of submission according to the current state of the attack. At that point the soldiers’ performance of their task grew decidedly less keen, for they knew that if the fighting had to be called off, there would be no need to fit the bridge together. Such a mass of armed warriors had now moved on to it that there was not even room enough there to supply the materials needed in its construction. This host of men had been so eager to subdue their opponents that they had made the platform too confined for their labours. The huge quantity of piles could only be brought to the front by conveying them hand to hand over the troops’ heads. But this enforced activity did not prove useless, for the beams poised high in the air were no less effective in defending their bodies than for laying a causeway over the water. Those who had suffered wounds were transported back in the same way. Then the fabric of the bridge started to become sparser and more flimsy, since the soldiers’ enthusiasm was directed at increasing its length rather than maintaining its stability. And now they had almost brought it as far as the island when the enemy, depending partly on their resourcefulness, partly on their strength, intensified the battle by a new method of fighting: they reached down from the tower with scythes attached to the ends of spears, aimed them at our warriors’ shields, grabbed these firmly, and plucked them away from the Danish combatants. Sometimes, when the Danes struggled against this, they would give a more forceful tug, which jerked our men off the causeway and consigned them to the depths. If resistance to this mischief had not come in good time, the young Danes would almost all have fallen, after being bereft of their shields; but with the aid of a wooden hook one of our folk gained possession of a scythe which had been jabbed down at him, and, by attacking the rest of these implements in the same manner, robbed the foe of their benefit. At this stage the daylight was failing and the king, fearing what the impending night might bring, was unsure of the best course to adopt, for he was worried in case the town should not be taken for a long time and that at some point its inhabitants might set fire to the bridge. When he observed how circumstances were pressing on him, his thoughts gradually turned towards a consideration of Otimar’s entreaties, for he had no desire to withdraw from the siege like a defeated assailant and be covered with deep shame for his lack of enterprise. However, as soon as Absalon arrived on the scene with a large quantity of spoil, in an astonishing way he dispelled Valdemar’s mistaken, negative outlook by a shrewd scheme: he abominated any assent the king made to Otimar’s requests without his own knowledge, and after quietly drawing the interpreter on one side, Absalon urged the man to translate with the opposite meaning any proposals the infidel touched on with regard to a truce; he then armed himself, went down to the bridge and forced the soldiers, who thought he had come to stop the combat, to pursue their efforts with greater ardour, promising them the booty which would be theirs by right if they won. The men were pleased by his guarantee. Now, as soon as the work had been brought to completion, they not only seized a brisk foothold on the land, but even occupied the summit of the tower; this they approached up ladders, rung by rung, sent packing those they met, and, if any resisted, slaughtered them. it was at this stage that Herbord, a Danish knight, was searching for an easy route to get at his foes; as he did not wish to reach them too late owing to the frustrating narrowness of the bridge and the crowds of comrades blocking his way, he hit on a novel method of incursion. Without shedding any of his heavy armour he threw himself into the deep water and those he could not pass on foot he outstripped with his amazingly powerful strokes. Everyone else wanted to copy his feat, but this resulted in the soldiers flocking on to the bridge in such numbers that they caused its fragile structure suddenly to give way. Its collapse brought Absalon to grief, for he too hurtled off it along with the rest; nevertheless he was an accomplished swimmer and, although he was entirely clad in armour, did not merely emerge safely from the flood, but even rescued from the threat of death others who had no such skill. Meanwhile as the Wends had an insufficient number of boats to make their escape, they ventured to clim b into tubs, but as the circular shape of these vessels made them spin round, the pursuers were able to lay hold of their occupants; it was certainly an extraordinary method of crossing the water and they looked as pitiful to their own people as they were laughable to ours. Thus their unhappiness mingled with our ridicule. After the town had been won, the males were put to the sword and the females enslaved. There were some Danes who tried to impress on the king the idea of taking Otimar captive, but Valdemar was loth to sully the honour of his recent victory by the dishonest imprisonment of one man, so that he sent him away unharmed, choosing to spare his enemy in preference to injuring his own name. Afterwards, retreading his earlier path with the whole army, he first made his way to the ships and in a short time sailed home once again. The next summer, when he had returned from Bavaria, Henry held formal talks with the Danes on the Eider. On this occasion, owing to the gratifying success of his affairs, he behaved with such haughty arrogance that he refused to follow his previous habit and step beyond the middle of the bridge when he walked across to see the king, in case he should acknowledge that the sovereign he was coming to see surpassed him in rank; he utterly forgot that Valdemar wielded his authority through inheritance from his father and grandfather, while he himself had only stepped into the governorship of a dominion belonging to someone else. This exhibition of pride the king took with such forbearance and equanimity that when they had covered the same distance across the bridge towards each other, Valdemar came down to meet him m ore like an equal than Henry’s superior, since he believed it more respectable to match the conceit of this disdainful man with his own humility. Having a spirit endowed with mildness, he preferred to lower his exalted dignity and receive less of the respect his royalty merited rather than imitate the pattern of another’s pomposity and grow imperious himselfAfter a peace agreement had been reached with Henry, Absalon steered a course along by Stevns Klint, where along the shore he gathered light rocks, suitable for catapulting, and loaded them on his vessel; his purpose was to use them for the defence of the fortress which he had built at Copenhagen, a harbour accessible to all. When he had taken aboard this freight, he reached his stronghold on the following day. But while he was cleansing himself there in the baths, he heard some people talking outside, who made frequent references to a ship sailing towards them from the north. As he was sure it was a pirate vessel, he called for his clothes, even though his body was only half-washed; then he embarked on a ship he had left in the harbour with her sails spread, assembled the oarsmen by a trumpet-call, and had the vessel pointed out towards the high seas. Niels, the man in charge of Absalon’s retinue and his stables, was also there; he had found another ship, which had sunk to the bottom long ago because of the bad leaks in her, pumped out the bilge, and soon got her back into seaworthy condition. While Absalon raced under sail towards the pirates, Niels rowed in their direction. Once they noticed the pace of Absalon’s ship outdoing theirs, the pirate crew chose a clever method of deception to enable them to flee, and with lowered sail struggled against the wind with their oars. As they strove to do this, Niels’s vessel lay directly in their path. The buccaneers came straight at his galley but duped him through the amazing ingenuity of their captain: for when the two craft had almost collided, they sheered off and then, at a given order, all ran at the same moment to the side of their vessel away from the foe; consequently the opposite side rose up like a confronting wall, enabling them to avoid the arrows which rained on them from their enemies. In that way they tricked their adversaries, found an escape route, and aimed to retreat by this shrewd evasive manoeuvre. They were so desperate to get away that when a great spate of missiles showered on their vessel, even when their hands were pierced by arrows, they still did not relax their rowing efforts, although the points were still sticking in their flesh. This showed the extent to which their profound terror made them overlook the vexation of their wounds. There were even some who battled so strenuously against the waves that they expired at their oars. Others, their backs punctured by darts, gave greater attention to their ship’s progress than to plucking out the arrowheads from their own bodies. This was because their dread of more severe wounds had so effectively banished the pain of lesser injuries. For some time the outcome of a contest of speed between the rowers in each boat remained inconclusive, but eventually our own sailors overtook and seized their vessel. Then a number of them, not having the courage to wait for inevitable death from our blades, leapt into the sea and preferred to commit suicide instead of meeting their end at the hands of the enemy. It is generally the case that fear of one danger tosses the fainthearted headlong into another. The majority of those who had held back from plunging into the waves perished by the sword, though it would have seemed right to spare the ones who refused to share the inglorious fate of their comrades. Their heads, rent from their torsos, were set along the walls of Absalon’s fortress, fixed to the same poles which had been crowned with those of other freebooters lately captured by the Zealanders. This incident struck immense terror into the sea robbers; in fact, the harshness of that sight was extremely effective in stamping out brigandage. The Wendish captain, who had been taken along with a very few of his oarsmen, had conceived a deluded notion that he would be released, but when he had happened to catch a glimpse of the rotting heads belonging to his fellow-seamen, he had declared that he would do just the same to the Danes; as a result he was tortured to death in prison, not only having retribution meted out to him for his former privateering, but also by his destruction paying the penalty for his recent threats. During the same period Esbern and Vedeman spent a great deal of effort in voyaging so that they could keep a proper guard on their country; they had embarked on a busy raiding action when their four ships happened to run into seven swift pirate cruisers. It was then that Mirok, a buccaneer of proven valour, unhappy at having to confine the promptings of his manliness to the restricted area of his own vessel and confident of his own bravery while Vedeman’s ship was attacking his, jumped onto it by himself, and when the cowardly rowers gave way before him, found no one there to withstand him except Vedeman. Esbern, sailing past, was happy merely to laugh at him and did not bring himself either to harm his enemy or help his countryman, for he did not want to be seen to have lent aid to many men against one. Esbern continued onwards to capture Strumik, a notable paragon of valour. Mirok, however, could not be forced to withdraw before he was hemmed in by troops arriving in another ship. The victors accorded him so much respect and consideration that on his capture, although he deserved punishment, he received his freedom and they recognized his worth in preference to chastising his crimes. So, even if his ungodliness merited extermination, a reprieve was granted because of his resolute character. At the same time Eskil, worn out beyond his strength by labours in his homeland, turned his thoughts seriously to a quiet life; having with difficulty wrested from the king permission to travel, he sought out a renowned French monastery, Clairvaux, where he passed a peaceful existence as a private individual and exchanged the rugged society of his fatherland for an unforced, gentle sojourn abroad, bent on obtaining pleasanter enjoyment of the world with foreigners than he would have done among his fellow-countrymen. It was at this time, too, that the inhabitants of Wolgast, detesting the cramped space within their walls, began to extend the rather confined area of their town; nor were they even satisfied with increasing its size, but contrived new fortifications for its protection. They fixed stakes at regular intervals all round the ramparts to prevent their foes gaining entrance, blocked the shallows close to the city walls, and made the deeper stretches of the river inaccessible to ships by tipping huge rocks into them. Any other portions of the stream suitable for navigation they made impassable by heaping up stones and other forms of obstruction there. When the king, because of these barriers, could not gain access to the regions he was aiming for in his next expedition, he brought the fleet which he had launched against the Wends into Swinemunde, then attacked and set fire to the undefended houses of Julin and, redoubling the devastation of its buildings, destroyed the stronghold after its recent repopulation. Not only did Valdemar ravage the vicinity of Julin, but bypassing Kammin itself, desolated the land round it, in the belief that it would be quicker to effect and more ruinous to the enemy if he laid waste the fertile crops across the exposed countryside rather than battered away at their defensive bulwarks, which might hold out anyway. The people of Julin, observing that the fresh ruins of their city were incapable of withstanding a further siege, were as good as deprived of all strength; they had therefore abandoned their native soil and gone to seek shelter in Kammin, favouring others’ city walls in a situation where they had slender hope of finding security within their own. « At length our army was marched away from this territory to the district where the town of Osna lay. Shunning its walls, they invaded the surrounding tract, for they believed that the certainty of despoiling the fields was a more desirable strategy than the uncertainty of taking the city by siege, and calculated that it would be somewhat simpler and more effective to pursue scattered groups than bring pressure to bear on the well-defended inmates. Later, when they were pondering the shortest route to sail home, they envisaged that it would serve the common interest to open up the obstructed recesses of the nearby river, whose estuary, which at one time afforded a passage to shipping, was now choked by sand; if only a channel were dug, it could be restored to its old condition. But once the magnitude of this difficult task had been examined, the scheme was dashed, since the king thought it a miserable prospect to try to shovel a way through the huge mass of this embankment; he consequently forbade anyone to undertake the business, for it appeared to require more effort than was profitable. For this reason he once again made for Osna and erected siege engines alongside its walls, so that the appearance of an imaginary blockade might provoke surrender. But the townsfolk scoffed at his pretence and this put an end to the campaign. Now when the king began to prepare another expedition after the following spring, the very notice of it terrified his neighbours, and because the Wends could see that neither their own forces nor their foreign helpers were over-strong when it came to combating Danish arms, Pribislav was deputed to dissuade Denmark from war. After coming upon their fleet in full trim, he offered money in order to strike a pact, whereby he not only stopped it hoisting sail, but even negotiated a two-year truce. However, we did not impose the stipulations of our common faith on these heathens; although the majority of their chiefs acknowledged it, the ordinary people condemned the fellowship of our religion. Even those who were nominally rated Christians renounced this title in their way of life, violating any commitment to it by their actions. As Henry, who had now settled his affairs in Bavaria, was unable to support the Wends against Denmark during this period, he courted Valdemar’s friendship, though with less sincerity than cunning, and having first sought it via intermediaries, soon afterwards officially obtained it at their conference on the Eider. No lasting virtue helped to redeem his headstrong nature; and he never managed to preserve a permanent, unwavering alliance with our people. He considered lying a virtue, cultivated deception instead of moral principles, fostered trust by dissimulation, put expediency before honesty, and continually vexed us through his scandalous breaches of our partnership. In contrast our king was distinguished by striking rectitude of mind and unfailing constancy in all things. Why then should we be surprised to discover that no firm link of association or genuine bond of union could be formed between his virtues and Saxon unreliability? About this time a man named Sverre, son of a blacksmith, had renounced the office of priest, which he had exercised for some while in the Faeroes, and gone to Norway; there he had turned from the religious to the military profession, attracted by opportunity when a certain Eystein was overthrown by Erling. By chance he encountered Eystein’s troops as they were escaping through barren countryside, offered himself as their leader, and began to stage a rebellion against the victors. To avoid looking as if he did not come from a reputable family, he assumed a fictitious lineage and falsely claimed that his grandfather was Harald of Ireland and that Sigurd had been his parent. He also gave the latter name to his son, who hitherto had been called after Sverre’s father, Unas. T o obliterate all the details of his former fortunes and to spread the belief that his name repeated his great-grandfather’s, he had the nerve to appropriate the glory of his assumed line by honouring himself in a new style and so chose to be designated Magnus as proof of his descent. This utterly blatant falsehood, preserved by the misguided factiousness of his soldiery and the gullible favour of the mob, eventually brought the most bloodthirsty carnage and outright disaster into the whole of Norway. While he was still a private citizen Sverre had made his way to Birger, the Swedish jarl, and is reported to have given to the priest in whose house he had happened to enjoy hospitality the present of a stole, the distinctive vestment of a deacon, together with a book containing the sacerdotal rites. But I have no wish to dwell further on foreign topics, and shall bring my pen back to events at home; the domestic evils that arose in this period do not allow me to keep pursuing matters abroad any longer. Magnus Erikson, not satisfied with the rewards of his present circumstances, dared to concoct a plan to crush the king by guile, taking among several other accomplices in crime Cnut and Karl, who were related to Valdemar through their father, and whose maternal grandfather was Eskil; when Magnus had fought on Sven’s side and been captured by Valdemar at the battle of Grathe I icath, the monarch had not only spared his life but allowed him the privilege of intimate companionship and from the lot of an ordinary citizen had advanced him to a position of high eminence. Instead of the punishment he deserved, he enjoyed this great affection from his conqueror. His preparations for the plot were all the safer inasmuch as no one would have particularly believed in it; the fact that a web of treachery was being woven for him by this man could not easily enter the sovereign’s mind, remembering as he did how he had once granted Magnus’s preservation. After the conspiracy had long lain concealed, its discovery came about as follows. A number of Germans, members of Magnus’s retinue who were bound to his service and were privy to the intrigue, happened to be travelling through Holstein attending to their lord’s business concerns, when they were received and given hospitality by a hermit; unaware that the man’s bedroom was only separated from them by a party wall, they chatted to one another that night without much restraint, declaring themselves exceedingly astonished at the way the king still pursued his mortal life, surrounded as he was by so many deceitful machinations, which Magnus and the sons of Karl had contrived in their secret designs on his person. All these schemes, they said, devised against him without his knowledge, could not have misfired through the chance occurrences of human existence, but must have been thwarted by God’s constant support and protection. For Magnus, carrying just the sword and the spear he commonly used to attack wild beasts, had undertaken the duty of escorting Valdemar up to the point where he had to ford a particular stream on his way to Zealand, and there, with the other conspirators, Cnut was due to arrive at that very hour, equipped with similar weapons, since arms of this kind could not arouse suspicion in the hands of hunting attendants; Cnut, however, failed to meet him and Magnus had not the courage to attempt the villainy unaided by his accomplice, so that, without disclosing the least hint of his purpose, he bade the king farewell and went back home. Following Magnus’s departure Cnut encountered the monarch who had just crossed the ford and, confused by the disappearance of his crony, pretended that he had come to perform the function of a bodyguard. Nevertheless he was somewhat keener and more purposeful than Magnus in his resolution to carry out their plan, for he had decided that he would make an assault on the king, seeing that it was Valdemar’s habit to send his knights to sea ahead of him and wile away lime sitting on the beach amid a cluster of women before he was one of The last to embark; and Cnut would actually have perpetrated the crime, had not the king, without information or warning from any human agency but only moved by the tender solicitude of heaven, left his followers sooner than expected and hurried to board ship contrary to his custom. Karl had previously been sent over to Scania by the traitors to enlist the help of their friends in eradicating the king’s offspring, provided that his brother’s project had gone according to their wishes. None the less, Cnut had not wished to forgo his intentions even in these circumstances, because he hoped, by finding a more suitable opportunity in Scania, to accomplish there the scheme which had been attempted and frustrated on Funen; his aim was to make speed and anticipate Valdemar before his landing at Helsingborg so that, once the king had journeyed to Scania, he could do his best to take him off guard and assassinate him the moment he alighted from his boat, for he was well aware that, after a hard day at the chase, the ruler normally dismissed his advisers and crossed over to that spot at dusk in a small skiff. Yet Valdemar had evaded this stratagem, assisted by a freak of fate: as it chanced, the boat which was conveying the monarch was hit by an ice floe and knocked right off its course to the desired shore; he was met by a large squad of soldiers, who had been awaiting his arrival, and the efforts of this band to come to the king’s aid at a time of need had put paid to the conspirators’ ambush. So Cnut and Karl, their proposals now dashed twice, sent back to their billets the coats of mail they had worn beneath their tunics when they were intent on assailing Valdemar. Moreover, all the Germans were overcome with amazement that Valdemar, without having any inkling of the danger, could have escaped the sword of one particular conspirator, who was a very close friend of his; this man was often the king’s sole companion and driver when the monarch went off in a waggon to go bird-catching, and he had given his word that in the absence of the plot’s leaders he would execute the murder assignment with his own hand, after a bird had been caught and Valdemar, having stepped down from the waggon, was leaning forward engrossed in his effort to assist the hawk; nevertheless Fate had not granted the assassin leave to perform his promised role, even with such a ripe opportunity for him to pounce on the sovereign. From these miraculous occurrences they reckoned it was clearly not possible for the king to perish by mortal hand, since among all those deadly, hidden dangers it was no human activity but the attentiveness of heaven which guarded his life. This account by his guests, stemming from their astonishment at recent events, the hermit blessed as though it were some mysterious revelation delivered to him from above; as soon as the monastic provost came to visit him, he repeated the whole story from memory, telling him to travel to the king without delay and reveal these matters to him. Once the king had heard the tale and begun to corroborate the statements by comparing exact locations and times as well as the details of his own movements, he rejoiced to think that the Lord had rendered him no less succour in bringing the intrigue to light than He had supplied in foiling it. Ignorant of the disclosure, Karl, still bolstered by his old sense of security, approached Absalon counting on their ties of kinship and requested his support in a bid to obtain the gift of a province from the king; this might have been a cunning attempt to conceal his murderous plans or have been motivated by hopelessness of ever achieving them. When Absalon considerately went about fulfilling his relative’s wishes, Valdemar, hiding his knowledge of the treachery, guaranteed to pay Karl an allowance from the privy purse, until the chance came for him to bestow such a preferment. As soon as Valdemar had gone to Roskilde and heard mass as usual in the Church of the Supreme and Highest Trinity, he sent away his counsellors and gave instructions for Absalon to attend him. Immediately the bishop sat down with him, Valdemar summoned the witness and ordered him to relate his evidence once more. The provost was scared to speak out because he was apprehensive about the relationship between Absalon and Karl’s sons, and with a blushing face kept quiet for some time, filled with embarrassment. The king instantly guessed the reason for his silence and said: "Absalon’s loyalty releases you from this fear, since I’d have no doubt that his regard for my esteem outweighs any natural feelings he may have for his relations.’ His words gave the old man, whose voice was numbed by the perplexity and diffidence of his mind, the boldness to relate the facts openly, as he had been told to do. He therefore began his narration from when the treason was hatched and his report went on to give details of all its stages with proofs of its truth; he swore that it was not he but someone else who had acquired this knowledge and he himself had merely been asked to make sure that these particulars were passed on to his sovereign. Then the king bade him depart and, after heaving deep sighs, started to complain, man to man, that neither the obligations of kinship nor the deserts of kindness had ever been able to protect him from the wicked designs and assaults of his close connections. I f he began to tolerate their guile by pretending not to notice it, it could bring their treachery to fruition, since it was being spun assiduously by such powerful men and such intimate acquaintances of his; if, on the other hand, he was quick to exact punishment on individuals without trial, before their evildoing had received proper publicity, and if he took harsh measures against his rivals after certainty of their deceitful practices had been derived from a few sources, then it would appear as if he were liquidating innocent persons by trumping up charges against them; he would seem inflamed by his jealousy of true worth and to be mounting by various types of accusation to a general obliteration of his family, so that he would inevitably be judged the annihilator of his relatives and the curse of his kinsfolk. Consequently forbearance was hazardous, yet vengeance was infamous, if it were delivered too quickly. So he had no idea what sort of revenge to take, for speed would cause scandal and delay would bring danger. Nevertheless, he would prefer to run the risk of some perilous snare rather than make their evil deeds rebound on the originators’ heads, were it not that his death would spill over into the immediate ruin of others, for the lamentable slaughter of his children and friends would result, soon to be followed by civil war, the barbarous invasion of foreigners and the hideous devastation of their entire homeland. With frequent groans of distress the king rehearsed these and similar griefs before he told Absalon to reflect on what actions would serve him best. The prelate replied that the king’s assessment of the situation tallied exactly with his own conclusions and told Valdemar that he would lose just as much repute by suddenly lunging into retribution as he would if he postponed his own deliverance. Therefore he must leave the right of chastisement to the Divine Judge, for He was quite able to bring to public notice the sedition He had frustrated; but it was also true that a scheme in which a good many were involved could not remain hidden from ordinary people for very long. Then Absalon urged him to entrust his bodily protection more scrupulously to his usual escort, command them never to stand by him unarmed, and make sure he guarded his safety no less by nightly watches than through daytime attendance. In this way some of the plotters, sensing they had been betrayed, would be surprised into giving away evidence of their purposes. His advice was satisfying to Valdemar. As the king departed from Roskilde, Absalon, who kept him company, was entreated by Karl to act again as royal petitioner on his behalf, as he had done not long before. When Absalon complied, the king responded by saying that a person was seldom given thanks for a gift when its recipient was anxious to repay it by killing him. Also it was incredible how persistent deception and subtle pretence resided in the characters of certain individuals. None the less, the moment he came into Jutland he would extend his liberality to this artful warrior who, he had no doubt, was aiming to exert his sway of power, especially over the inhabitants of that region. The promise was acceptable to Karl, and, when it had been relayed to him by Absalon, he was quite profuse in his show of gratitude. His face took on a happy expression and he displayed extravagant joy, generated not so much by his delight at being granted the fief as by his anticipation of discharging the murder, for the king’s conscientious dissembling increased the man’s feelings of security. At the same time Eskil, K arl’s maternal grandfather, docked after a voyage from France and gave a reason for him and his brother Cnut to make their way to the city of Ribe. A certain Bent, their half-brother by their father and a mistress, was a member of the king’s retinue, but more brave than trustworthy; as Valdemar was breakfasting in the open air a few days after he had entered Funen, Bent, either impelled by his unwillingess to go on hiding the deception or excited by his passion to carry out the contemplated assassination, pushed aside his meal and, tightly clasping the knife which, as it happened, he had drawn out to use on his food, he drove it this way and that, brandishing and waving it equivocally in different directions, just as if he wanted to practise the relevant movements and teach himself beforehand how to strike blows. Now and again he hid the weapon in his bosom and would then extract it again and wind his fingers round it. In the meantime he constantly scrutinized the king with eyes which seemed to carry no less threat than his hand. These madman’s gestures caused Gertrud, who was betrothed to the king’s son, to burst into womanly tears, and she warned Valdemar to turn his gaze in that direction; summoning Niels, the seneschal who supervised the royal table, with the most surreptitious nods he could, the monarch told him in a whisper to look sideways at this strange pantomime being acted by Bent; he gave instructions that, when the tables had been removed after the feasting, Niels should stand closer to the king’s side than the rest, ready to intercept any foul play attempted by this knight. But the king’s stare and that of Bent’s fellow-soldiers, full of amazement, compelled him to return the knife to its sheath. My belief is that this internal agitation was planted in his breast by the Almighty, who was responsible both for discovering the villainy and for preventing its execution. Then Valdemar at last ruefully followed the advice of Absalon that he had disregarded: after calling the soldiers into his chamber (Bent also stood among them), he announced that he was bringing them unhappy news which would shock them considerably; it was a bitter thing to reveal but it would be fatal to hide it, and he was quite convinced that, when he had reported it to one and all, the announcement would jolt the minds of his friends, envelop them with sorrow, and strike resentment into their hearts all the more because they were linked to the sovereign by their reverence and ready affection. A ring of conspirators who were plotting his death had been brought to his attention, not by vague guesswork, but through sound information from accessories and unmistakable tokens of the truth, and the contrivers were men whom he had always specially entrusted to guard his safety. He did not want to reveal the names of these traitors, for he preferred to give criminals a breathing space to recover their senses rather than strike them down with impassioned charges. He next urged them to make sure that he was protected with even greater vigilance, that wherever he walked they must be sure never to accompany him without carrying their swords, and that in their duty as escorts, hitherto performed with a certain negligence, they should henceforth attend him with painstaking conscientiousness, fulfilling this with as much care as if each of them, while certain of his own integrity, found it necessary to doubt the reliability of everyone else. However, they must not imagine he thought they were all blackguards, for he knew that a great many of their company were quite prepared to face death for his sake, if the situation required it. Then the soldiers, vying with each other in loyalty, pressed loudly for the disclosure of the accomplices, promising that they would wreak vengeance on the heads of any who were falsehearted towards the king, and would spare none on the grounds of kinship or friendship; on the contrary, they would make any persons who thirsted for Valdemar’s blood suffer the consequences they deserved. In response their ruler said they should be satisfied to remain genuinely loyal to him and not demand further pieces of evidence. Thus his very restrained answer caused the warriors to drop their pleas, which arose from awareness of their own innocence. Bent, however, supposed that the other participants had betrayed their plot to the king and that with cunning ambiguities of deceit Valdemar was guaranteeing pardon for those whom he desired to catch unawares and destroy; leaving most of his military attire behind, he made his way to Jutland with all the speed he could muster, after sending off a message to Magnus, telling him that their league had been exposed. The gnawing guilt of his conscience did not allow Bent’s faithless mind to trust Valdemar’s pledges of clemency. Induced by these developments Magnus embarked for Lübeck the next night and from there sought to become one of Henry’s retainers. When Cnut and Karl received a similar communication from Bent, they left the city of Ribe quietly, boarded ship at Randers, and travelled to Birger, jarl of Götaland, counting on their blood relationship with him. To such an extent did the power of a wicked conscience agitate them with sudden terror and rob them of all composure. As a consequence of their departure, Eskil, complaining dejectedly of his own and his grandsons’ fate, was vexed by an extremely severe illness. Its intensity made his powers of speech grow so weak that eventually he had scarcely any voice. When Eskil came to visit the king at Viborg, Valdemar received him with a very kindly expression, since he had no desire to appear to place any suspicious significance on his arrival. The archbishop’s discretion matched the king’s self-control: he did not venture to plead as a suppliant on his grandsons’ behalf, since he would rather clear himself of any suggestion of treason and did not wish to be possibly considered a blameworthy associate of those he was anxious to save by his prayers; he believed it would be more judicious to let his silence remove surmise of his ill-will instead of attracting displeasure by craving mercy for the culprits. Nevertheless, once he had gone off to Scania, the timely perseverance of his doctors restored the strength of his disabled vocal cords; notwithstanding this, the fortunes of his grandsons, who were dearer to him than his own life, did not permit his mind, engulfed in a huge welter of anxieties, to remain exempt from sickness. It is so much easier to avoid physical than mental hazards. Magnus, however, feeling the disgrace of his offence and afraid to reveal the reason for his exile to Henry, asked only that the duke should heal the breach between the king and himself. The other, reckoning it would be unrighteous to reject the entreaties of an outcast, sent a letter to Valdemar, earnestly requesting relaxation of the disfavour he had conceived towards Magnus. The Danish king considered it better to respond to this through the person of an ambassador instead of by letter, and arranged to have Henrik, his master of the horse, sent to Saxony, because the man was tolerably conversant with the German tongue, and he would be able to lay accusations of treason against Magnus in front of the latter’s commander, Duke Henry. Hearing these denunciations, Magnus turned from shame to impudence: as stubbornly as possible he denied that the charges had anything to do with him and, as though to prove his innocence, offered to fight a duel, adopting hypocrisy with the same shrewdness he had displayed in working towards the crime. The envoy replied that he had not been sent to a foreign land only to be obliged to call Magnus to account with a sword, but to advise the accused to bring his case to the king’s judiciary and submit himself to the defence laid down by the laws of his country. The duke then enquired what kind of defence the Danish statutes assigned against this type of arraignment, and was told that the custom of purgation by red-hot iron still existed. After that, Magnus, asked by the duke whether he placed so much assurance in his own guiltlessness that he dared hope to be acquitted through the evidence given by such a test, said that this particular method was dubious and did not always show miraculous discrimination, considering that it would generally condemn the guiltless and clear offenders, so that the outcome of these trials was particularly haphazard. Divine authority was not moved by such a warm concern for human beings that it would force the natural order to give way to any prayers of such individuals. Many people mistrusted the knight’s reply. The duke then put a sharper question to him: what support could he expect from Henry, when he refused to disprove his blame for this monstrous felony by following the practices of his country? For some while Magnus was unsure what to do and hung back from answering. At last, prompted by uncertainty over prolonging his exile, he declared that he would voluntarily approach the king, provided he were given warrant that he would be safe from reprisal, whatever outcome his case yielded. In order to strengthen his confidence the marshal began to offer his pledged word, stating that by the established laws of his homeland a period of grace was granted to those convicted of a capital crime to enable them to flee the country, and it was considered wrong to inflict the penalty immediately. Magnus, however, spurned this proposal and affirmed that he was prepared to accept only Absalon’s assurances as a guarantee. As soon as the king had learnt this from his emissary, he sent a letter back to the duke, in which Magnus was promised the right to come and go under Absalon’s protection. So it transpired that Absalon accepted him as a guest even before news of his impending arrival had reached him from the king, for Magnus’s overenthusiastic haste caused him to outstrip the note which was meant to prepare the way for his coming. When a communication was eventually delivered from the king, Absalon made it his business to dispel the worries of his unexpected visitor by fully reassuring promises. Buoyed up by these, Magnus saw more prospects in Absalon’s assistance and accordingly felt less anxiety over his offence. As a result he shed the majority of his fears and did not linger before returning to his own home, where he started to get together the essential needs for his voyage to Jutland. He was told that he would be pleading his case in Arhus. However, when a dispatch containing his secrets was apprehended, it shook this firm sense of security: two letters of his carrying (reasonable instructions chanced to be intercepted by patrollers of the public highways. After Magnus had discovered that these missives had been brought to the king by travellers, he pretended that the seal he used for his signature had been carelessly mislaid by his personal secretary; he sought to sustain this lie not only by misleading his followers but also Absalon, eager to broadcast the idea that those who had discovered the seal had composed these counterfeit letters through their hatred of him. As the time for the judicial hearing drew near, Magnus, provided with two ships, was waiting to meet Absalon, who was attended by lords from Zealand and Scania. Coming up to him, Magnus, impelled by pricks of conscience, showed greater alarm than certainty, an anxiety that compared badly with the manliness of his past life; he swore that no exhortations would induce him to proceed to Jutland, saying he felt more dread of the king’s displeasure than support from the patronage of any individual. Again he put forward as a pretext the accidental loss of his seal, firmly asserting that the letters hostile to the king had been forged in his name by deceitful rivals, who had snatched the opportunity after stumbling on his device. But Absalon never stopped affirming that, even if a criminal confession were made by him, he had committed no misdeed that would prevent him departing unmolested; Magnus then voyaged alongside him, surrendering to his friend’s advice sooner than to his own misgivings. However, when Absalon presented him to the king at the village of Viby, the latter, who was surrounded by all the Danish aristocracy, would not allow Magnus to join him in the ceremonies of the table, in case he appeared to be setting aside his displeasure by treating the knight as a dinner guest. After Magnus had been summoned to trial the following day, the king first enumerated all his own kindnesses that had been conferred on him, and then started to accuse him of high treason, showing how this man had been eager to repay gentleness with regicide, an intention recently confirmed by his flight, which he had not been pressed into forcibly, since it had resulted solely from his guilty conscience. In reply Magnus attested that he had conceived the notion of quitting the scene, not because of some malpractice, but under the instigation of threatening news heard from Bent, and his purpose had been to consider more safely at a distance the reason for the king’s suspicion. Apart from that he professed to be astounded at the way the sovereign, led on by empty conjectures, could bear to proceed against him, a kinsman whom Valdemar had always treated with every privilege of friendship. Opposing this, Valdemar stressed that Magnus’s ingratitude was accentuated by his disregard of royal benevolence, and to prove his treachery brought into public view the letters containing his signature, mentioned earlier, one closed, the other patent; the monarch ordered that they should be handed round among the bishops present and carefully inspected to discover whether they really had been completed with a seal by Magnus. Everyone who scanned them denied their spuriousness and so Valdemar commanded they should be read aloud to the gathering. The open letter was addressed to the Scanians, unjustly vilifying the sovereign for his wholesale oppression and urging them all to take up arms against him: Magnus would be their leader in the reclamation of their liberty. The closed letter was dispatched to Cnut and Karl with the same signature as the previous one, instructing them to raise a rebellion in Scania and undertaking that Magnus would do likewise in Jutland; this would mean a shortage of troops on the king’s side, for they would stop reinforcements moving to his aid from the larger provinces of the realm. Now, when the letters had been read aloud completely, they expected Magnus to react with some response, yet he maintained silence, a proof of his fear. Not only that, but his mind had grown so numb that he even lost the power of speech and his perplexed countenance displayed signs of his inward confusion. The man’s reticence was noteworthy, and Absalon wisely intervened to make sure that it should not be taken as an admission of guilt; he indicated that it was hardly surprising if a person who was unsure how to defend himself against newly presented accusations was rather slow to give the well-thought-out reply expected of him; he therefore instructed Magnus to leave the meeting at once and to gather whatever friends he would like to discuss the affair with, so that he could prepare an answer. At his words Magnus gained new life and was inspired to hope that he might overturn the charge; accepting the adjournment for consultation, he called aside Absalon and T y ge, bishop of Vendsyssel. The latter had been very much liked by Magnus’s father, Erik, because of the services Tyge had rendered him as a deacon and this man had consequently been singled out from his retinue for appointment to a bishopric. His grateful remembrance of this elevation meant that he cherished a deep inbuilt affection for Magnus in his heart. With loud reproaches arising from his grief, Tyge strongly censured Magnus a long while for the monstrous crime he had planned, to which the other replied that the letters had been maliciously forged by others; but Tyge pointed out that this kind of justification was useless, since he could identify without a shadow of doubt not only the handwriting, but also the style which Magnus’s secretary, Lambert, always employed in penning letters. When Absalon backed up T yge’s declarations with expressions of agreement, Magnus was seized by such despair that he asked them in panic whether he might be allowed to make amends by a confession. Absalon answered that although confession might be a less risky course to take, he should not rush into it before the possibility of pardon had been discussed and investigated, and advised him to shed his consternation and boldly request, either in person or through a friend, the opportunity to extend the respite until the next day, so I hat with fortified spirits he might achieve a happier outcome. Having granted his plea, the king set out on the road in the evening, taking the band of nobles he had with him to the home of a very wealthy individual called Unne. On the way Magnus, still in a slate of great agitation, questioned Absalon closely to ask his opinion about what kind of defence might serve to meet the charges, and was I old there was no form which would be free from dishonour or ilanger. It was not practicable to refute an indictment supported by so much evidence, nor was it virtuous to refuse to clear himself; the result of confessing would be doubtful if there were no definite guarantee of pardon beforehand. In giving a truthful answer Absalon considered it more honest to deal with Magnus’s queries by claiming uncertainty rather than promise a specific outcome without warrant. Magnus next said that, if he could expect his confession to elicit forgiveness, he would faithfully reveal all the facts, upon which Absalon told him to impart without anxiety any secrets he wished, for he would see that not a whisper of these reached the king’s ears. When the other then became eager to disclose the whole sequence of the plot, Absalon would not allow him to relate his story, in case it should seem that he was hearing it by way of confession in his role of priest. He therefore persuaded Magnus to let him summon Sune and Ksbern, both of whom he knew were scrupulous in concealing confidential matters. Once these men had been admitted and had given their solemn assurance that without Absalon’s sanction they would not drop any hint of what must currently remain hidden, Magnus began to unfold the course of the plot from its outset and affirmed that he had been rightly singled out, along with those whose offence had been revealed and attested by their flight, and also disclosed with complete freedom several points concerning the king’s life that Valdemar had no inkling of: he asserted that Eskil Asserson and Christiern Svenson were party to this same mischief, and made it known that Asser, Christiern’s brother, who had been granted the second most important position after the archbishop in Lund Cathedral, had been aware of the plans for a conspiracy, even if he had not lent his approval to them. - - When they had completed their journey and a convenient moment for talk arrived, Absalon, accompanied by Sune and Esbern, asked the king to dismiss his other advisers for a short time and then suggested that Valdemar devote his attention to the conclusion of the case, seeing that it was thought neither useful for the plaintiff to bring charges, nor safe for the defendant to make a confession. I f Magnus went away uncondemned, it would lead a great many people to conclude that he was innocent; but if he confessed and were not pardoned, his ingenuousness would provide a warning for his associates to cover up their guilt. For these reasons, in a situation where it was inadvisable to bring testimony against him, they must endeavour to draw him to a voluntary confession. After the king had been won over to this idea and undertook to withhold the penalty in the event of a confession, at the assembly the following day Magnus was asked by Valdemar what decision he had come to about his answer; starting from the launch of the conspiracy and suppressing all reluctance, he gave an accurate account from first to last, in which he outlined the whole weaving of the intrigue and touched not only on his accomplices but also on the places and times of events; it was not human destiny, he declared, but God’s hand which had preserved the king amid all those mazes of tireless cunning, and nothing astounded him more than the fact that the interposition of a benevolent Fate had foiled the deceit devised with so much skill by his acquaintances and that sheer chance could have kept unharmed a man whom so many of his fellow-countrymen had aimed at with their guile. When he had uttered these words, he fell groaning at the king’s feet, his face crumpled in supplication. - - Out of respect for their old intimacy the king bade him rise, but reproached him for his ungrateful heart and condemned the way he had been steeped with a longing to ambush and destroy his monarch, one whose unremitting love he had known from infancy, who he must recall had not merely granted him his life at the time of the battle at Grathe Heath, but even allowed him added authority. He had not only waived punishment because of their kinship, but heaped generosity upon him; and Magnus, when he owed allegiance for such kindness, had repaid it with treason. He expressed astonishment that Magnus could have so scandalously forgotten the rewards he had conferred; moreover, not content with the formal confession he had already made, Valdemar kept on enquiring whether he could really have contemplated the treacherous overthrow of his sovereign. Magnus admitted that he had lacked neither the intention nor the weapons nor anything to further that hideous crime except God’s will. Pleased with the man’s forthright response, the king said that he assigned him pardon for his revelation, but was not restoring him to his close circle, lest the opportunity for friendship should prove a renewed instigation to duplicity. Valdemar also forbade him to hold secret communication with Cnut or Karl, warning him against any desire to resume his malevolent designs, after he had perceived that the heavenly powers opposed it so persistently. Magnus declared himself unworthy of further reprieve or assistance if he committed any such act, nor in such an event would he even venture to protect his life with entreaties. The king then commanded him to return to his seat and, now that Magnus’s case was settled, he at once levelled an extremely angry accusation against Christiern Svenson, who had happened to arrive there oblivious of the situation. As soon as he learnt that he had been betrayed by his partner’s disclosure, helpless to defend himself he confessed and obtained pardon; he did not just secure his life, but the safe retention of all his property, and was simply forced to pay the price of exile, to avoid a possible return to wrongdoing. Valdemar, typically restrained, was satisfied with outlawing this warrior, whose obvious guilt deserved the extreme penalty. When the council had thus finished its business, Magnus returned to Funen, while Valdemar proceeded to an island which teemed with herds of wild animals, for he wished to devote his leisure in royal fashion to the chase. Absalon and Asser were sent over there by Archbishop Eskil to see if they could obtain a pardon for his grandsons, a prospect which he took to be promising from the example of Magnus, but they found the king’s mind inflexible. Finally, when Valdemar demanded to know whether Asser had abetted the conspirators, he stated that he had been aware of their plans, but had been quite out of sympathy with them; he had not acted in this manner through hatred for the king, but because he would have felt shame at being an informer and have found it humiliating to betray their trust. This kind of admission was the reason why he later suffered a long banishment. Eskil took the monarch’s contempt for this deputation so badly that he contracted various diseases and spent the winter seriously ill. Once this season was over, Valdemar summoned the foremost citizens of Denmark and Sweden to grace the royal wedding of his son. After the nuptials had been celebrated, Eskil sought a private audience with Valdemar, during which he earnestly entreated him not to reveal too early a secret acknowledgement he wished to impart to him. Being told to expect the fulfilment of his request, Eskil said that for some time now he had nursed a desire to resign his archbishopric, since his impaired strength in old age rendered him unequal to such a heavy burden. He did not want to end his days in exalted office, but as an ordinary person, free from the cares of administration, and would like to exchange his former way of life for that of a monk. When the king, simulating affection in his speech, forbade this proposal, telling him that the ruler had no right to perform such an act without Rome’s authorization, Eskil gave him to understand that he had letters from the Pope not only permitting him to lay down his office, but to transfer its powers to the individual of his choice. In addition there was the fact that it was proper for him, as the official representative of Rome, to concern himself with finding a substitute, in order to ensure that the see should not remain without a successor. The king, starting to feel suspicious, believed from his words that he was aiming to select Asser as primate, and felt certain that, if Cnut and Karl were to attempt further knavery against him, they would receive strong backing from their grandfather; for some while Valdemar conversed with him in seemingly friendly fashion and in the end consented to his appeal, because, he said, he was unable to oppose the express decisions of the Pope, which established the guidelines for the state religion. Then Eskil, believing it important that a large company of bishops should congregate to solemnize his resignation from office, went on to beg the king, who was on the point of departure from the city, that when he returned at the end of a month, he might bring these prelates with him, for it would be an advantage if they played their part in the election of a new primate, as well as in his own abdication. However, this business ought to be kept completely quiet, since, were it known, someone might feel compelled to slip away through fear of being appointed. After the king had agreed to his request, Eskil went to a regular assembly of the people which had been fixed in the meantime, and reminded them of the great love he had shown for his flock in wielding his high authority, and how their general approbation and staunch attachment had requited his services to them. Yet it was now in his mind to give up his functions as archbishop, because he could see that their supervision did not suit The condition of his final years; he was therefore entrusting their care, which hitherto he had looked after in accordance with every pious duty, to God’s protection, and all who were engaged to him by their military oath he released from this tie of obligation; beyond all this he granted pardon for everyone else’s transgressions, just as he sought iheir indulgence for his own; and beseeching them all to favour his departure with tender wishes and to be vigilant in their prayers on his behalf, he promised to repay their esteem in equal measure. So pitifully did he speak before the assembly that he left the onlookers bathed in tears. After everybody had been dismissed, Eskil sent people with horses to meet Absalon on his return from Zealand, and prevailed on him to accept the hospitality of his own home. When Absalon asked him what had produced such grief among the populace, he replied that initially his old age and then the exile of his grandsons had caused him to feel aversion for his distinguished position and his country. Apart from that, there was his respect for the vow in which he had long since promised Bernard of Clairvaux that he would retire from the primacy of his own accord and would live a secluded life, devoid of honours. The next morning, when the provincial bishops I spoke of had gathered in the Cathedral Church of St Lawrence, Eskil ordered l he sacristy treasures to be brought out of the repository and laid out for their inspection, wishing to show openly how much he had added to the old adornment of the altars and the former sumptuousness of the holy ceremonials by his generosity and piety in recent times. After he had displayed these possessions, in a voice mingled with sighs he spoke of the huge fund of affection he had expended in labouring for the peace and stability of his congregation, and of how he had passed the whole length of his pontificate enveloped by many tribulations and perils. He had determined to lay down this office because he perceived that the immense weight of his years made him unfit to perform his duties any longer. The king took it upon himself to reply to his address and stressed that, although Eskil had frequently clashed with kings, he had admirably fulfilled his responsibilities as archbishop; however, this decision to resign did not accord with his own wishes, and one who had now reached such an advanced age should not be accused of bearing illwill any more. After that he instructed Eskil to acknowledge whether he was declining his pastoral duties on his own impulse or through pressure from the monarch. The primate then stretched his arms towards the altar and swore, calling those holy vessels to witness, that he had not been led to this pitch of resolution by his dislike for the sovereign or on account of any outrage or offence suffered at his hands, but through distaste for a glory that was bound to pass away and because of his earnest desire for one that was eternal. His answer pleased the king, who was anxious that the archbishop should make a truthful declaration in order that he himself might avoid the suspicion of unjust dealing. Valdemar then asked if he had ever refrained from wielding his royal severity and not punished those on whom Eskil had previously had cause to unleash his pontifical condemnation. When the other admitted that Valdemar had never behaved in such a way, the king said this had relieved him of a deep concern, for he had been worried that the sudden abdication of the archbishop would give rise among many to covert censure of their ruler. Next a letter was produced from the Pope, without whose assent the king said Eskil might never lay aside this high office, so that it could be read out again in public. It was stated there that whenever Lund sought remission from his labours as primate, the Roman pontiff had hitherto opposed it because he had known how essential his services were, but now, prevailed upon by his persistent entreaties, he had granted his consent to this request because of his age and constant sickness. After the monarch had stated that there was no resisting papal authority, Eskil rose from his throne, placed his crosier and ring, the chief emblems of high priesthood, on the altar and testified that the resignation of his employment was now completed. At his action the tears of the bystanders welled up in compassion, and the cathedral echoed with sighs which resembled the sound of a loud murmuring. Thereupon, because he had a thorough knowledge of the realm’s clergy, Eskil was asked by the king to look for a successor to take the chair he had left; approving of his adviser’s diligence, he revealed a further letter carrying papal authority, in which he was commissioned, in his capacity of legate, to choose another archbishop to assume his place. When this had been read through, he stated that he was transferring the power which the favour of Rome had conferred on him to those who had traditionally held the right of election; he preferred to yield up his own privilege spontaneously rather than trespass on that of others, and did not wish to give the appearance of stealing from the Church the freedom to exercise its customary prerogative, seeing that he had always been on the alert to preserve its sovereignty. They then begged him to disclose his mind and the king followed up the clergy’s request with similar entreaties in the name of the people, for whose interests he announced himself the spokesman; Eskil affirmed that in making a decision he wavered between his love for God and his love for humanity, since he might well displease the former by silence and the latter by speaking. He would anger the divine will if he omitted to mark out the one whom he knew was infinitely capable of such government; yet if he nominated the man who was expert in such tasks and had performed a prelate’s functions outstandingly elsewhere, not to speak of his regularly venturing on arduous feats for his country’s sake, he would abuse the goodwill of a friend and relative, who he did not doubt was reluctant to have this distinction conferred upon him. At this, everybody wondered what individual he might have fixed on and demanded only that he supply a definite name; to which Eskil replied: ‘I designate the bishop of Roskilde, known to me as a kinsman, to you by his reputation.’ Consequently, when many of I hem cried that the Church had been well advised, Absalon rose and answered that this was a greater burden than his shoulders should be expected to bear; naturally, he said, he could in no way be persuaded to abandon the Church, which he had begun to serve when Denmark was going through its most critical period; he had led it to a high point of fortune through the most wearying exertions of his mind and body, and had not only removed its foreign foe with his troops, but altered its ancient, inherited poverty by a fruitful increase in its wealth. Then those who had voting rights were upbraided by Eskil for hanging back so mutely; but as soon as he enquired to whom they wished to yield his own sphere of duty, they all proclaimed their selection in the same manner— for Absalon, and gave their assenting voices with such harmony that you would have found no discordant or uncertain note. Not content with using speech only, they seized him with their hands and tried to draw him forcibly to the throne I hey had conferred on him by word of mouth. Eskil was the first to lay his right hand on Absalon and this example seemed to lend the rest The assurance and boldness to do the same. They also began to sing together, as their custom was, and signified the notable concord of their choice with the beautiful chanting of a psalm. Loudly stamping their approbation, the people imitated the perfect reverence of the choir by singing a hymn, for they were eager to add some appreciative melody to the glorious tones of the clergy, thinking that when others were in full throat it would be churlish to remain silent. So with one voice the whole throng gave their hearts to approving his adoption. Absalon, however, using all his physical strength to oppose the crowd that was dragging him along, gave several of them a hearty shove and sent them toppling to the ground. As he resisted, the same folk also pulled off his vestments, and the singing could not be heard as it mingled with the din of the struggle, which had advanced to nothing less than a violent brawl. Tugged forward by the devout and impetuous mob towards the chair reserved for the high dignity of an archbishop, he would not allow himself to be placed in it, since he had not the least wish for anyone to believe he assented to their compulsion. In consequence, asked first by Eskil, and soon afterwards by Valdemar to accept the insignia of this exalted post offered him by heaven (for it would be undesirable for him to pour scorn in such a singular, unheard-of manner on the grandeur of the present-day Church), he gained a chance to speak and resorted to the practice of appealing to papal decision; just as they thought he was about to submit to their pleading, he brought in a strong safeguard for his resistance. Anyone else would have snatched at the distinguished privilege being handed to him and would have rushed acquisitively to lake the platform of this elevated priesthood! . Niels, the senior canon of Roskilde, did not hesitate to voice in similar words an appeal against the harsh treatment inflicted on his bishop. Thereupon Eskil, now somewhat more agitated, said that he would most certainly lend his support to those who had selected Absalon; the latter would observe whether his own desires or those of Eskil carried more weight in Rome. After that their attentions were directed to hearing mass, and, when this had been celebrated, Eskil gave instructions that Absalon should be responsible for bestowing The blessing; in urging him to take on this task, he desperately longed to make him consent to the election, and declared that it did not befit someone like himself, who had now discharged all the duties of a primate, to execute any more obligations which attached to that calling. Absalon responded that although Eskil had laid aside the mantle of archbishop, his powers as a legate still gave him the lawful authority to pronounce the blessing, and the duties which went with the topmost rank should not be delegated to persons of lower capacity. This modesty of Absalon’s forced the old man, so impatient to have his wish fulfilled, to remember his eminent position, which he was disregarding. Eskil also tried to undermine the other’s unremitting opposition by another kind of manipulation: he called Absalon away to his room, and when he could not bend him by prayers, fell on his knees and endeavoured to assail him with copious tears of entreaty. Devoid of success, he devised a third form of incentive to bring the mind of the archbishop-elect round to his own attitude, and in so doing left some uncertainty whether the efforts of the persuader or of the resister were more determined. Eskil’s own knights, distinguished by their numbers and standing, were sent by their master to Absalon so that they might bind themselves in fealty to him by a military oath. But Absalon rejected their vassalage, declaring that he would certainly not agree to assume any dignity that merited their services. Finally Eskil was conquered by his immovability and, reluctant I hat the furnishings he had resolved to leave to the Church should be deposited in some meaner location, took him to a concealed area of the vestry and insistently urged him at least to see fit to cast an eye on them. However, the man who had triumphed in the previous tests also showed a marvellous contempt for this piece of instigation, since there was little chance that a person who had spurned the bait of high honours would succumb to the provocation of covetousness. Because of this, Eskil, thought to have been incensed with rage, affirmed that he would bequeath less of his property for ecclesiastical and domestic use I han he had originally intended, and that some day Absalon would feel the loss caused by such pig-headed obstinacy as his. Afterwards he presented the king and Absalon each with a similar golden chalice. Apart from that he left none of his friends without some gift, because he wished to assemble magnificent records of his generosity among his countrymen. Afflicted by disabilities in various limbs and eventually having a certain area of his body spattered with the disease known as St Anthony’s fire, he hastened to make his departure, just as if this torturing punishment he had been assigned were a lot cast on him by heaven. When he quitted Scania, Absalon received him hospitably in his own castle and, after hearing him complain that such a piercing chill gripped his feet that he was unable to get to sleep at night, put next to the soles of Eskil’s feet a small receptacle perforated by many small holes with a hot brick inside it; this application of heat restored warmth to the frozen old man and allowed him repose. Eskil was all the more grateful for this kind treatment because it issued from the inventor’s affection, not from science or professional skill. When he had been conveyed to Schleswig accompanied by Absalon in his ship, Eskil refused to accept a silver goblet which the bishop offered as a present, saying that in future he would have no use for rare vessels. At the time he met the king on the bridge at Schleswig, he was so broken by physical infirmity that many thought the life had already gone out of him. At length he revived, crossed the water by boat, and fondly kissed those present; weeping himself amid the sorrowful voices of his friends, he found himself altogether incapable of riding on horseback and therefore was placed in a carriage, obtained for him by Absalon so that he could travel more comfortably. As he sobbed, a crowd of his acquaintances, never to see him again, tearfully attended his leavetaking as though it were a funeral. Later the king’s ambassadors were dispatched to Rome with men from Lund, their aim being to put pressure on Absalon. Arriving first at Clairvaux, they found Eskil there, who during that period enjoyed no small favour with the Curia, and received a letter from him to support their appeal. But the Apostolic See was importuned just as much by envoys from Absalon and the citizens of Roskilde, who with a quite contrary purpose strove against the election which the people of Lund were trying hard to have confirmed. In the meantime, when the nobility had been observing the celebration of Easter in Roskilde and holding a feast, at which everyone was in the highest good humour, the king was notified by Thord, governor of Lund, that someone called Thormer, Magnus’s messenger, had recently returned from Götaland, passing through Scania along such a quick route that he had escaped capture by his speed; in order to seize him they must install traps round the crossing of the Great Belt, for there was little doubt that the fellow was swiftly approaching it. After Magnus had been interrogated about this affair and he had endeavoured to protect himself by denial, the king promised that he might confess the business without danger. The other, employing utmost concealment, tried to lessen belief in the accusations by begging to be refused pardon any longer if details of this sort came to light. Valdemar, disinclined to trust his protestations, committed the task of surveillance to a certain Adolf, in that he lived by the shore of the Great Belt, a man of remarkable honesty and also in holy orders; the monarch indicated by means of servants sent to the priest how this emissary of Magnus might be recognized, by a description of the distinguishing features in his clothing and appearance. Once this had led to Thormer’s capture, he was brought before the king and questioned closely about the instructions of which he was the bearer; after protracted disavowals and evasions, through fear of examination under torture he betrayed the secrets entrusted to him and confessed that, in place of a letter, he was carrying a component of a wooden tablet, of the sort which according to Danish custom has between friends the force of a seal, and its other half was held by Cnut and Karl as a form of credential. The king was happy to punish his villainy by throwing him in chains and delivered him into the custody of Absalon. Then Valdemar made it his business to apprehend Magnus, inasmuch as he had proved treacherous towards him yet again and deserved retribution for his faithlessness; to do so Niels, his marshal, was employed, attended by assistant warriors from Funen, who had been given orders to follow him. Magnus’s bedroom was surrounded in the early hours of the night, when, forgetful of his earlier courage, he looked for safety in the shadows, not in weapons, so that he was discovered and dragged out from behind the curtains. You could not have told whether the capture itself or the demeaning circumstances of his capture made him more wretched. Brought face to face with the king, he was examined regarding his treasonous plot against Valdemar, but for some time maintained that these allegations had nothing to do with him. Eventually when his statements were refuted by the evidence of the prisoner and there were no more grounds for pretence available, he confessed openly to his crime. I am not sure if his spirit was shattered more by the disgrace or by his dread of reprisal. The king sent him to be guarded by Thorbjørn in the stronghold of Søborg, deciding that he would sentence him to imprisonment in preference to execution. At the same time Wendish pirates, after robbing Valdemar’s emissaries, captured a vessel loaded with gifts which were being sent to him by his father-in-law. When the monarch dispatched couriers to demand its return, the pirates gave a scornful reply. Rightly enraged by this insult, Valdemar urged Henry to league with him in taking revenge; because they had knowledge of the enemy’s territories, he also summoned the men of Rugen to join him in a military confederacy and, immediately they had sailed up the River Swina, made an incendiary attack on the town of Julin, which had been deserted by its fleeing inhabitants, while Henry invested Demmin. As soon as the latter realized that this assault would be difficult and the outcome might be uncertain, he dug a cross-channel to divert the river which ran between his camp and the walls, and made it flow past the town on a more distant course. Nevertheless, by doing so he provided the foe with the very best means of protecting their ramparts, and through his endeavours promoted its defence instead of his own attack. These efforts of his ensured that the siege lie had mounted in the summer was dishonourably raised in the autumn. His departure was followed by an accidental conflagration of the city, in which Fortune by her own energies gave the success she had not thought fit to grant those of the Saxons. Again Fortune, gazing on the Danes with a more indulgent eye, allowed their labours to send the town of Giitzkow up in flames and compelled its powerless inmates to take flight and wander terrified into regions covered with marshes. When he had discovered what had happened from the information volunteered by a man who had been taken prisoner with his younger brother, wife, and children, Absalon went on to ask him whether he would be prepared to earn his own and his family’s freedom by revealing the hiding-places of his fellow-citizens. The captive eagerly agreed to this bargain and promised that he would take land forces to encircle the fen they were looking for, while his brother would pilot those who intended to sail there; in this way the Wends would find themselves running now one way, now another, and nowhere would there be any opportunity to escape. This marsh, cut off from the upper river by a stretch where the stream narrowed, was only accessible to smaller vessels. While Absalon was using these to reach the area, the prisoner pretended to be unsure of the way and had to be forced by threats into directing them; when he contemplated leaping overboard, Absalon ordered that a noose should be put round his throat. Many of the Wends met the bishop unexpectedly as they were trying to escape in rowing-boats. The herds of cattle which they had driven between the marshes and the sea were commandeered by the Zealanders, but the prelate took care that they should be shared out among all the troops. This move won him more ill-will than praise among his fellow-warriors, who muttered that he had let only the men from Zealand seize booty which everyone had had the right to capture. After Absalon had emerged from these fens, some of the sailors who had rather biting tongues said jokingly that the guide deserved hanging, because when he should have been pointing out which direction they were to sail in, he feigned lack of knowledge and saw to it that those whom he had promised to lead were deceived by his simulated confusion. Taking their mockery seriously, the fellow thought he was marked out for the rope and, while he was going to get water from a lake as though to wash himself, he purposely hurled his body forwards and dived into the depths, choosing to forestall rather than await his doom. It remained doubtful whether he had drowned through his recklessness or had swum to safety below the surface. When he was once more disgorged by the waters, as usually happens, he was busy winding round his hands the cord attached to his neck, to prevent himself being hauled back. Sinking yet again, he filled the onlookers with the same puzzlement as before; but at last the argument as to what might have become of him was settled when they discovered his lifeless corpse. Our army had such a vast multitude of livestock they had taken (here that each day they had to employ drovers to herd them, but owing to the overall devastation of those regions there was little danger of these men running off; this desolation had been caused by the enormous violence of the fires, which had even deprived the swallows of the roofs they normally lived beneath, so that they built nests in which to hatch out their chicks on the ships’ rudders and prows, obtaining the benefit of homes from the enemy. Afterwards the king marched overland to seek talks with I lenry, who was caught up in the everlasting siege of Demmin, and lie left the undefended stronghold of Giitzkow wreathed in flames. I lis progress was checked when he was notified of the difficulties presented first by a particular river, remarkable for its depth, and secondly by the awkward terrain beyond it. From here Valdemar crossed into the province of Kammin, though, as he traversed it, he chose to lay waste the countryside more than to attack any of its fortifications; he only made a futile assault on the actual city of Kammin before managing to seize ships so that he could transport the herds he had laid hands on. This territory was so rich in cattle and so useful in supplying provisions, that it afforded our troops food and nourishment for two months. Envoys were then sent to Henry, who gave Valdemar instructions to put an end to the current military expedition, for he was intending very shortly to abandon his pointless siege. As soon as he had received these replies, the king ravaged all the intervening lands, some with the sword, some with fire, till, after total destruction of the foe’s possessions, he approached Wolgast. Immediately they caught sight of him, its inhabitants, under their leader Zulister, started to demolish the farthest section of their bridge in an attempt to stop any of their adversaries breaking into the town by that route. A few of our men, with the aid of their companions, succeeded in climbing up segments of the bridge as if they were the rungs of a ladder, but were »II lacked by foes who rushed forth in a sortie out of the town. Because nf l heir small numbers our soldiers were powerless to resist and all gilve way, with the exception of Hemming. $ . He was a lightly armed squire of Absalon’s, fully prepared to encounter risks and forever plunging himself into dangerous predicaments; while he was confronting his assailants, he took a short slep to the rear, tripped over the long sword that was fastened to his side and tumbled flat on his back. Yet his fall afforded him greater honour than inconvenience: amid the countless enemy spears which were being fiercely aimed at him, he was protected not so much by his own as by Fortune’s shield, and the moment he could rise to his knees, he drew his blade and laid into the shins of nearby opponents. When these were forced to withdraw for a short time, he jumped up ,I gain to his full height, and as his comrades, finally emboldened by shame, ran up to him, he obliged his attackers to beat a retreat back into the town. Returning to his own side, he was looked on as a marvel, since his body was found to be completely unscathed. Consequently they paid respect not merely to his bravery but also to his good luck. During this period the dispute over the Roman schism, fostered over the course of many years by the totally unyielding delusion of the Germans, backed by the emperor Frederick, now subsided, trodden beneath the feet of the true pontiff, Alexander, and the bond of Catholic unity drew together a divided Church. It was at this time, too, that the envoys dispatched by the king and the people of Lund, as well as those of Absalon, returned from Rome to spread joyful news throughout the country. Though their petitions had appeared to embrace entirely different and contradictory aims, I hey were received with such careful attention by the Pope that each side was delighted by the way that its wishes had been considered. Absalon was told that he must accept the archbishopric of Lund but was also allowed to take responsibility for Roskilde. In this way a twin ecclesiastical government fell to his jurisdiction and control, the one assigned to him by command, the other by permission. What singular and unprecedented bounty displayed by the Holy See! The pallium was conferred on its refuser, and the insignia which are usually bestowed with reluctance on those who seek them were forcibly pressed upon their rejector. Worthy shoulders to have such a magnificent burden laid upon them! The papal legate, Galandus, arrived and, after the clergy of Lund had been called over to Roskilde, he there not only read out a letter in Absalon’s presence which bade him acquiesce in his appointment, but also threatened to pronounce excommunication on him if he continued to resist, and thus made him bow to his electors and formally accept their pledges of obedience. Later, in Lund Cathedral, the legate awarded Absalon the pallium he had brought and on the following day witnessed him perform his religious duty, when he consecrated Omer, the bishopelect of Ribe. So, after carrying out his mission with the utmost reliability and thoroughness, Galandus journeyed back to Rome when winter was over.

Book fifteen
Later, as he had not yet taken his fill of revenge on those who had been plundering his possessions, the king decided to retaliate by launching a campaign. The inhabitants of northern Jutland were told to stay at home, but, while their southern neighbours were on their way, an immense gale blew up; Frederik, bishop of Schleswig, a model of high rectitude, catching an extraordinarily powerful south wind in his wide-spreading canvas, which made sailing well nigh impossible, perished with almost all his fellows when the vessel lost its rudder, an event which dashed the spirits of the fleet, once they had gathered, and the men bewailed his end deeply and bitterly. No less sad than his death was the fact that, though the corpses of his travelling companions were recovered naturally, his body alone, despite its being diligently sought, could not be located before Whit Sunday. On that day, when it was washed up on the coast of Zealand, you might have imagined it totally resistant to decay, since it was found to have neither an unpleasant smell nor an ugly appearance. I could have believed that its unimpaired condition was a divine proclamation of this man’s holiness. Equally to be revered was his wish that, after a vain search by his comrades, this feast day should be specially glorified by the discovery of his body, because it had been his custom to honour this occasion by a personally conducted ritual. At that time Absalon’s lamentation was remarkable, for he was mourning the loss of a bosom friend. Valdemar, meeting his troops on Falster, called an assembly of the leaders and told them that it was not his plan to challenge the enemy’s large forces with such a paltry band, seeing that on a military venture a king must inevitably win either maximum renown or maximum disgrace. For this reason he preferred to entrust supreme command of the expedition to Absalon and his own son, Cnut, who would return with a modicum of praise if they handled the affair successfully, but with only a small share of blame if things went badly. These two were prompt to obey his instructions and, aided also by as large a flotilla from Rügen as could be mustered at short notice, they sailed without interruption to Ostrusna, intent on attacking the foe with speed as much as with boldness. The invasion was such a well-concealed surprise that the majority of Wends were overwhelmed while still at home and unprepared; the Danes would have laid waste this region, which was entirely off-guard, had not a fire started by some of the more inept soldiers eventually betrayed their presence. There, as luck would have it, two Wends were making their escape in a boat when one of them was brought down by a spear thrown by Jarimar; the other yearned to avenge him, but as soon as he identified the Rugian chief as the object of his assault, he cast aside his weapon with misgiving and slipped away. So deep is the respect paid amongst these people to men of exalted rank. Meanwhile our vessels glided along the River Peene, where the sailors seized the horses they found pasturing before they moved on to Wolgast. Here, since the bridge had been smashed to pieces and the passage cleared of obstacles, the ships dropped anchor alongside the walls, while the townsfolk set hands to the ballistas, which were not yet prepared. The navy, preferring to take up time sailing rather than endure the tediousness of a siege, were so rambling and dispersed in their action that the enemy were left baffled and bewildered, not knowing for certain whereabouts they needed most protection. The Danish crews, avoiding those points at which foes confronted them, sought places free of resistance, and when the Wends made for those very places, would deliberately vacate them and transfer their soldiery to the areas that lacked defence. To ensure I hat there was no break in their activities it was decided that the infantry should spend their nights at the oars, their days sleeping, while the cavalry should balance their nightly rest with military exertions during daylight. Believing they could not counter this type of onset with armed warfare, and perceiving that their country’s devastation, which had been started through our soldiers’ mobility no less than their strength, could not be averted under their leadership, Bugislav and Kazimar adopted a scheme to buy peace, and would trade for friendship with people whose offensive they could not withstand. They approached the I )anes and, confessing that they were unable to cope with their might, pretended they did not consider the loss of their present territories much of a hardship, for they meant to arrange new settlements amid The spacious wilds of Pomerania. At this Niels of Falster collapsed into laughter, stating that this showed poor concern for their homeland, inasmuch as they were being compelled to yield their coastal regions to he Danes and the hinterland to the Poles, buffeted this way and that by lie armed bands of their neighbours. His words warned them to look to The safety of their country and so, after promising pounds in coin to Absalon, since he held authority over the expeditionary force, and the same amount to Cnut, they guaranteed the release of the envoys they had captured, together with a sum of , marks, to compensate for the pillage inflicted on our king. Absalon did not venture a reply straight away, but first drew aside the leaders and told them that the enemy were offering terms which, if accepted, would be welcomed by the Danes, yet detrimental to them; should they reject them, however, it would be a more appropriate, though not as popular a move; for if their king gained money, their countrymen peace, and the prisoners their freedom by such a pact, it would win them what was more like a favour than an advantage; on the other hand, it would be highly beneficial to treat these conditions as worthless and not back out of war. As it was, the Wends’ strength had been reduced to such slender proportions that if there were no truce, they would be compelled to sue for surrender. Nevertheless, Absalon said he left it to his followers to choose whether to settle for fighting or peace, since he had no wish for it to seem as if he had presumptuously followed his own schemes and disregarded the advice of others. The answer came that they were particularly inclined towards the option which could earn public acclaim. Forced to comply with his colleagues’ decision, Absalon told Esbern to rush ahead of him with the spectacular news of their achievements, for he did not want the unheralded swiftness of his return to strike the king with uneasy forebodings. However, bad storms held back Esbern close off the shore of Hiddensee island, and he did not find the right weather for sailing before Absalon, after laking hostages, was scudding towards him, blown by the same favourable wind. But Esbern executed his voyage all the more efficiently because he was keen to outstrip his brother. The king happened to sight their ships while he was out hunting and, astonished at the rapid speed of the more distant returning fleet, believed his followers had been put to flight. Nevertheless, learning the true situation from Esbern, his misconceived anxiety turned into an outpouring of joy, though he conceded that war would have been a more profitable outcome than peace. Giving this man, too, the warmest of receptions, Valdemar showed him courtesies that revealed his utmost delight. The next day he not only commended the members of the fleet in a fulsome speech, but even honoured them with kisses before they were sent away. Afterwards, while Valdemar was staying in Jutland, Cnut and Karl, having selected a company more notable for its presumption than its effectiveness, attacked Halland in a bid to chastise their fatherland for the exile they had earned by their own crime. But they were spurned by the scores of Hallanders they had hoped would support them, with the result that, preferring doom to retreat, they drew up their soldiery on the outskirts of the forest that separates I lalland and Götaland. Consequently, when the fortunes of battle filmed out miserably for them, they paid severely for making this attempt on their country. Cnut, after receiving repeated wounds, was lakcn prisoner by peasants and found himself sharing a jail with Magnus, gaining as a partner in punishment his accomplice in villainy. Karl, overcome by a lethal blow, strayed a short distance from the road, and laid down his tough spirit amid the soft foliage of the trees, happier ill death than his brother in being still alive. Valdemar, obtaining their inheritance by the law which sentences to loss of property those who are answerable to their homeland, acquired an unforeseen increase in his wealth. Karl’s rotting carcass, discovered later by dwellers in that area, was able to furnish proof that a person must not despise his own lot while coveting another’s elevated position. Later on, because he had refused to supply the emperor with an army against the Italians, Henry found Frederick’s severe displeasure likely to breed war; when he realized that the enormity of such a serious threat was too much for his capacities, he sent a succession of ambassadors summoning Valdemar to meet him and, whereas it had never previously been his habit to come more than halfway over the bridge, this time Henry crossed it completely to importune him with an urgent plea for help, appealing with all his energies to their mutual loyalty. In such a way does necessity dictate to pride, and arrogance is tamed by misfortune. The king replied that he was constrained by no bond of loyalty, but promised to stand by the friendship which had once united the two of them, provided Henry followed his advice. When the other was eager to know the nature of this advice, Valdemar said: ‘People think it a formidable task to attack an earthly emperor, but in fact it is much more perilous to provoke the Sovereign of Heaven, who at His pleasure and without any human assistance has the might to bring success or disaster to mortals.’ If Henry, who for some time had vexed God by his pillaging of property belonging to the bishops, would appease Him with suitable courtesies of restitution, he could mentally assume victory, otherwise any attempt at war would be foolhardy; were he and Valdemar to engage jointly in battle in the face of divine hostility, they would both surrender triumph to their foe. It would be quite certain that anyone who was bold enough to oppose the Almighty persistently would find his power frail and liable to crumble. Therefore, he, Valdemar, would not venture to offer military cooperation unless this sin were atoned, since he himself owed more allegiance to public religion than to personal amity. Henry then admitted that he had wrested away many of the bishops’ possessions for the purpose of enfeoffment, but if he were voluntarily to restore them, he would be reduced to the last stages of poverty; he proclaimed that he did not value these fellows with smooth-shaven pates so highly that he was prepared to go penniless and concede more to their rancour than to his own honour. None the less he begged Valdemar to keep quiet about this refusal, to ensure the fact that he had denied the duke his help was not bruited abroad. So, when the king had departed, Henry made pretence to his soldiers that Valdemar had promised him assistance, for he desired to fortify their spirits with this expectation, in case they should defect to the emperor. Once the Danes had returned from that locality, there occurred a portent, a strange and wonderful event to relate: one night a vast horde of mice came scurrying from the depths of the countryside with a lugubrious descant of squeaking and were drowned when they plunged of their own accord into the waters of the Schlei; their bodies, after being tossed hither and thither by the wind, could be seen the following morning strewn along the shore. It is difficult to be sure whether the local people took this more as a benefit or a marvel. That same night, too, as Absalon was sleeping, shrews gnawed his cast-off clothing to shreds, furnishing an undoubtedly true prediction of his future harassments. As soon as Absalon had gone back to Zealand, a message reached him that the situation in Scania was in turmoil, since the populace, at variance with their overlords, had unleashed a bout of civil insurrection against the royal tax collectors. One of these, Age, a man who held a distinguished commission, was shamefully handled in Lund by a ferocious assembly, full of audacity, so that he was close to being lorn to pieces at the hands of the mob, had he not escaped into St Lawrence’s Cathedral. The envoys said that these flames, fanned by Theextreme violence and madness of the crowd, could only be extinguished by Absalon, who would find it easier to suppress the aggression of a mounting rebellion than one which had reached its peak. For that reason he must proceed to Scania promptly, if he wanted to deal effectively with this troubled state of the king’s affairs. When Sune and Esbern were approached on this matter, they spoke out against his departure as forcibly as they could and tried to dissuade him from it; they told him they had discovered how in a secret plot concocted by their chiefs the common people had been incited to an uprising, which was aimed solely at putting Absalon in danger. Nevertheless the envoys from Scania protested that only Absalon’s presence could calm the situation, and so the archbishop replied that he would go, happen what may, and, if circumstances demanded it, would give his life in return for the outstanding benefits The king had conferred on him. Therefore sending ahead men to gather the leading figures of Scania for a meeting in the city of Lund, he gave his word that he would be there directly. Without lingering Absalon set off for that province and hastened to oppose the raging mob with his nobleman’s spirit and steadiness. The ordinary people, swept along on the violent billows of public riot, put forward complaints of their infringed civil rights in a rebellious form of legal accusation. But when Thord began to address the meeting, he was plagued with repeated hissing and hostile shouts, so that he was forced to give up the attempt. The other supporters of the king’s side were also refused the opportunity to speak, and Absalon’s was the only voice they were prepared to give ear to without causing any disturbance. However, as he became aware that the throng, bawling their empty-headed yells and arguments, were unsusceptible to sound advice, he felt they must be split up, and gave orders to the provincial assemblies that they should divide and foregather in three different places, at the same time proclaiming that he would remedy all the failures of their leaders. He then rebuked Thord for having given him untrustworthy directions when he had called him to the scene of a revolt which would be so very difficult to assuage; but the other maintained that the insanity of this aroused mob stemmed from drunkenness and that this was confirmed by the fact that some individuals at the meeting had been heard snoring. For this reason Absalon ought to speak to them in the countryside and not in the city, to guarantee that those characters bent on quaffing were not afforded a chance to be anything but sober. Absalon next addressed an assembly in southern Scania. Here he commanded that Peder Enarson, the royal governor, who had been abused with envious charges that were more bitter than accurate, should be welcomed and given the seat next to his own, in order to make him safer from this type of slander, and supplied the aid of his own respected proximity, so that no harsher scheme should be levelled against his friend. The next day was taken up with a thorough hearing of lawsuits, in which Absalon’s totally fair judgement resolved all aspects of their complaints; when the cases had been disentangled by legal precepts, the people were delighted with his mediation and were led to repay him with their thanks. After moving on from there, he was given the information, relayed by a local soldier, that the populace had been stirred up by a revolutionary proclamation and were going to devote themselves to a four-day meeting at Hvidkilde. Consquently, though he was accompanied by the most powerful men in Scania, the archbishop sent a messenger to call Thord also, to complete the number of his advisers, and informed him of everything this recent report had brought to his notice about the popular uprising. Thord tried to diminish his belief in the story with words aimed at removing his suspicions, affirming that there was no need to dread anything of I hat sort; but the rest counselled him to proceed fairly cautiously in the face of communal violence. So, because their opinions conflicted and they were hazy about the uncertain situation, they decided to go to the island of Søvde without hesitation, in order to investigate the slate of affairs. Then Absalon, having gained surer confirmation of the news he had received earlier, decided, since it did not appear that he could confront the rabble safely himself, that he would soothe their maddened excitement with the most authoritative promises of justice, after enlisting certain individuals to make advances to the gathering. Yet as soon as they perceived that the frightful raging of the crowd had thrown everything into turmoil and that, instilled with a more impudent boldness they were reviling the nobles with unrestrained freedom of language, the delegation, in keeping silent with regard to their instructions, added considerable fuel to the rebellion by paying greater attention to others’ lunacy than to the business of their own mission. Thus they cast doubt on whether they acted in this manner out of treachery or from fear. One of them, Peder Lange, a man of notable height, after having had some difficulty in obtaining leave to speak, stated that though he was Absalon’s warrior, he did not put deference to him before his esteem for the citizenry, for he considered the sovereignty of the people superior to the archiepiscopal office and owed less to his personal than to his public sentiments; in addition he would be more inclined to copy all the actions of the populace and would not now hesitate to defend their freedom even with weapons, seeing how stranded and how much at risk they were. The answer came from the assembly that the commons had been made fools of, inasmuch as Absalon and the nobility, whose custom it was to ransack ordinary folk, had purposely refrained from coming to meet them. After this speech had been cheered loudly and fervently by one and all, the crowd burst apart with a vast roar and, taking up arms, sped on all sides to their horses, determined to attack Absalon’s home. It did not occur to them as they dashed towards it that they were rushing to assault the house from which time and again they had experienced generosity. The younger envoys, adroitly dodging the missiles which came at them from every direction, swiftly reached Sovde to announce these developments. Stunned by the news, Absalon’s soldiers, all with different plans, cast around for ways of defending themselves: some, ranging The meadows, rounded up horses, others, collecting any waggons that happened to be available, blocked the ford which stretched in front of the island, shallows which Absalon later had protected with brickwork; others began to gather rocks suitable for hurling. A band of the older fighters urged their leader either to anticipate a siege or to get away once they had put down the first wave of assailants and before the arrival of a prodigious multitude which they could not cope with, but Absalon declared that he approved of neither aspect of their scheme, because he had insufficient supplies for a siege and was mindful that his role was fatherly rather than ferocious. He would not allow human blood to besmirch his endeavours for peace, which he had come there to establish, nor would he exchange the duties of a benevolent shepherd for the grim task of a slaughterer. No, he preferred to organize matters so that the first invaders should be beaten back harmlessly and with no bloodshed, for they could easily be routed seeing that they had no command to stabilize them. After his warriors had been forbidden to offer violence to any of the populace, Absalon, bearing a cross before him, set upon the vanguard where they had formed a line on top of a neighbouring hill, and compelled them to retreat into the nearest forest; capturing The instigator of the uprising, the soldiers, remembering their orders, stripped him of weapons and cloak, but contented themselves with a mere beating. One of our militia, carried into the tightly packed companies of the foe by a headstrong, rather frisky horse, was killed in a marshy spot where the commoners pressed in on him, though his fellow-soldiers were unaware of it. So Absalon, happy to have frustrated this peasant attack, found the coast clear for a return to the city while no enemy assault was impending, since they were sating the impetus of their wrath by greedily sacking the island. In this way the archbishop’s noble spirit, pursuing a design as placid as it was advantageous, setting tenderness above savagery, and concerned to spare his flock, set more honour and worth in harmlessness and moderation than in taking vengeance for the injuries he had suffered. The farther he withdrew from letting loose the sword, the more he deserved praise for his holiness. When those men arrived who had been dispatched to mollify the assembly, he reprehended them, grumbling because he had been drawn into this crisis in all innocence; he wondered why they had seen fit to send messages implying that all was safe, and so drag him, unprepared and unequipped as he was, into a situation involving such enormous trouble. When they said they had suspected nothing of the sort and put forward their imperceptiveness as an excuse for their blunder, Absalon told them to assess the best current scheme of action, so that they could amend their previous miscalculation by giving advice there and then. The reply came that, since they were furnished with neither arms nor reinforcements, it was essential for them to depart for home in order to obtain both these assets, and they would reappear the next day, once they were better provided. Meanwhile the archbishop should find some carefully chosen hiding place; anyone who takes account of his present circumstances escapes dishonour. Whether this proposal arose from their malicious natures or whether it was due to poverty of invention, let people judge who are not averse to learning about these men’s subsequent actions. Absalon replied that a more honourable course would be for him to visit his castle in Zealand, considering that he was so little accustomed to seeking hideouts. Loathing the disgrace of taking refuge in that way, he went off in a ship supplied by Thord. He believed that his illustriousness should not be confined in some dark hole, conscious that the splendour acquired through his dazzling achievements of bravery shone across the tracts of many lands. As soon as he had entered Zealand, Absalon received a letter bidding him proceed to Valdemar on the island of Samsø, where the king was indulging his passion for hunting; Absalon was told to come to him in order to deal with necessary affairs of state. There, accompanied by Sune and Esbern, the archbishop handled with due vigour certain matters that required their attention and eventually told the story of the revolt in Scania for the king to hear, the first to be bold enough to give news of the disturbances he had experienced. Although the monarch seethed with rage and threatened to torture the rebels, Absalon’s recommendations calmed him down and pulled back his determination; he persuaded the sovereign to postpose his desire for revenge and to issue a friendly invitation to the Scanian leaders. In addition, when these men were on their way to visit the king on Funen, Absalon did not shrink from offering them most generous hospitality. They asked the archbishop if he would petition Valdemar not to allow Sakse, Age, Sune, and Esbern, who had all been born outside Scania, to govern its affairs, and swore there would be an end to the insurrection, which had started solely through the presumptuousness of these four, if the ruler took the trouble to transfer to local inhabitants the administration which had been allocated to outsiders; Absalon replied that they grudged the king his authority, in view of the fact that they were exerting themselves to oppose his wishes in the granting of fiefs. He himself would rather contend with the fury of the rabble than allow an artful request to undermine the control of royal domains, established by usage over so many centuries. The Scanians then gave a haughtier reply than was warranted, warning that the whole frenzy of this revolt would rain down on his head. When they were asked by the king what the most effective means would be of settling this business in Scania, they told him that the only remedy needed to pacify the mutiny was a letter from Valdemar mingling severity with agreeableness and a certain measure of restraint. Goaded by their remarks, the king addressed a letter to the people of Scania which was loaded with threats and so added considerable fuel to the flames of communal outrage. The people, exasperated on account of Valdemar’s quite vehement reprimands, unleashed their wrath even more harshly in view of such an outspoken document, and took the step of formally abolishing all taxes that were due. They also proscribed the payment of episcopal tithes and declared that priests should marry. On top of that, rejecting the bishops’ ministry, they proclaimed that priestly rituals were good enough for them. So, attacking divine and human institutions alike, they combined scorn of royalty with violence to religion. The king, seeing that he was persisting in his threats to no purpose, decided he would conduct the business with arms and, once the harvest season was over, he sent his troops across and himself embarked for Helsingborg surrounded by huge numbers of ships, having given the command to Absalon to be among the last to land. There a large crowd of peasants, who had flocked to this favourable fishing ground, had filled the shore with a mass of huts. As soon as they spotted Absalon, letting their eager quest for food give way to their hatred of this man, they picked up stones from the beach or any others to hand and shied them at his approaching vessel, little recollecting that the person they were trying to drive from the bounds of Scania had made it safe for them to live anywhere in Denmark. Some, in their supreme disdain for Valdemar’s royal presence, left the king behind at the assembly and, running down to the seashore, intercepted the archbishop’s arrival with a similar affront. O thankless race of Scanians, who in your thoughtless insanity do not blush to repay him who donated so many of your benefits with insults instead of gratitude! Swept away by the most shameful passions, you endeavour to ban from your territories the ship of your pastor and parent, to whose aid you owe it that, after all the times you have suffered the barbarity of pirates, you can now sail far and wide without peril. You are now denying someone access to your shore whose warlike courage made sure that you yourselves were not evicted long ago from your homes on this same shore. Therefore you must stop reviling the magnificent favours of this great and honest man as if they were so many grievous crimes, and by a speedy inclination to repentance redress an error caused by your imperfect judgments! . The king had no patience to bear with such insolent audacity as I heirs. However, while he was boiling with anger and calling on his men to bring steeds and weapons, Sven, the bishop of Arhus, came forward to embrace him as he stood in the midst and beseeched him not to take any stern measures against the common people. One ran not be certain whether the motive for this attempt was a sense of duty or fear. Nevertheless, the king’s heart, which never ceased to glow with an undying affection for Absalon, was more heavily preoccupied with the dangers attending his friend’s arrival than the entreaties of the bishop clasping him. However, as soon as Valdemar went down to the coast, the countrymen who had been assaulting the archbishop’s vessel now pretended they had meant no harm at all and, retreating to their hovels, left Absalon in possession of the beach. Afterwards he and Valdemar conferred separately there with the Scanian soldiery. Those Scanians with whom the king was discussing a scheme for settling the rebellion warned him that he should send Absalon home, together with the other aliens who had been appointed to govern part of Scania, informing him that nothing would be more effective for suppressing the general furore than their absence; the insurrection had flared up not against the king but as a result of these individuals’ spiteful acts. The warriors from Jutland subscribed to this opinion. People have reckoned that the latter sought Absalon’s removal partly through their hatred of tithes, whose payment had only lately arisen in Scania and Zealand, and partly from nervousness, deriving from their memories of the battle at Fodevig. Absalon’s own knights, whose judgement was more honourable, condemned this belief, and said that they themselves had such forceful kinsmen, came of so vigorous a race, and wielded such powerful weapons that, recalcitrant and hostile though the commons were, they hoped they could conduct their lord and master safely and openly round all the regions of Scania without help from the king’s militia. But in order to pacify the populace the king took less heed of their lively encouragement than of the spiritless advice of the Ju tlanders and, summoning Absalon to one side, recalled how much unanimity of attitude there had always been between them. Their decisions had never been so conflicting, nor so hard and fast, that one of them would not ultimately be won over to the other’s point of view. Valdemar begged him to abandon his proposed journey into Scania; he must not consider it unseemly to retrace his route to Zealand, for on certain occasions he should opt for advantageous rather than attractive schemes. In reply Absalon, stressing that not even in this situation would he relinquish his long-standing habit of obedience, affirmed that he would comply with this arrangement, even though he knew his withdrawal was bound to be censured by many harsh, lying critics. The king, after thanking him profusely for his great self-control, asked Absalon to let him have his knights to enlarge his own bodyguard. The primate’s followers shed tears full of loyalty and affection as they declared it a day of supreme and everlasting shame for them; they had been dragged to this depth of dishonour by others’ cowardice, not their own, and instead of rendering due services of vassalage they must repay him with infamous desertion. Thus in profound dejection they left Absalon for their attendance on the king. Valdemar’s meetings with the peasantry proved awkward and disagreeable; everywhere these common folk came armed to plead their rights, wishing to display their feelings by their appearance. Each day they hurled unimaginable, false slanders at Absalon. And when they heard these, the Jutlanders abetted them with covert support and praise, favouring them with flattery, when they should have been chastising them with their swords. This odious truckling to the populace gave an enormous boost to their rebelliousness. When the king’s supplies had run out and he was about to leave Scania, he selected certain men chosen from the people to settle their differences with Absalon and these he ordered to sail across to that coast of Zealand which has taken its name from the town of Helsingborg. At his eventual meeting with the king, Absalon cleared himself of the charges with substantial proofs of his innocence, and demolished the whole fabric of lies with which he had been calumniated in his absence; he did it with such strong, abundant arguments that his accusers were forced to admit they were in the wrong and were moved to crave his forgiveness, so that from being his denouncers he made them his admirers. Everyone felt profound wonder at his eloquence, and indeed a great many who were there said that his speech was divinely inspired. Nevertheless, before the Scanian delegates left in order to refer all these points to the decision of their fellow-citizens, they let it be understood that they had no powers to resolve the issue without their countrymen’s consent. In fact, despite their loyal exhortations, the populace of Scania could not be induced to give up their insane revolt; no steps had been taken to pay tithes to meet the bishops’ needs, nor had these folk done anything to discharge their Christian duties. Absalon therefore intervened in the next sacerdotal council with a letter giving instructions that all the churches of Scania should have their doors bolted to punish such abominable, sacrilegious obstinacy. At the same time the commons, forewarned of this injunction, armed themselves and went off to a meeting in front of St Lawrence’s Cathedral. To this gathering the priests sent two men of their own calling, to explain the inflexibility of the archbishop’s ordinance, threatening to withhold their religious functions and stop the saying of mass, if the people persisted in their refusal to pay tithes. A pair of representatives were dispatched by the citizenry to issue corresponding threats to the clergy. The commons’ response was that the priests owed their sustenance to the populace, not to the archbishop, and were well aware that the laity’s charitable gifts furnished them with the essential needs of life. For this reason they must either attend to the holy rituals or quit the country for their ingratitude, and if they would not do either, they could expect not only to suffer confiscation of all their property, but also to have their limbs submitted to fierce torture. To this the clergy, totally unwavering in their answer, declared that they were neither terrified of death nor cared about poverty, and would never cease to carry out their prelate’s commands. Vanquished by such dutiful, staunch piety, the people changed their menaces to supplications, and begged to have the sentence postponed until it was possible for them to meet Absalon; they were afraid they might spark off civil war, if they aimed to discipline priests whose superior origin equalled their own. You see, when a mixture of outsiders and natives enacted the sacerdotal rites in Scania, a fuller and more proper respect was accorded to the local incumbents. As a result, individuals were sent, with the agreement of commons and clergy, to solicit an equitable truce before punishment fell on them. It was not hard to secure this concession from Absalon, who believed that one should incline more to mercy than to rigour. He rendered warm thanks to the brotherhood of priests for standing firm. None the less, the multitude, scorning his kindness, continued systematically with the public destruction of the buildings which housed the king’s and the archbishop’s warriors. As the period of Lenten fasting drew near, the king made for Scania by way of the Helsingborg crossing escorted by his bodyguard and soldiers from Zealand, since he was now disenchanted with his entourage from Funen and Jutland because of the incentives to revolt they had given over the years. Absalon made great haste to reach Lund, where by virtue of his archiepiscopal office he had to supervise the consecration of the holy oil; then, after relaxing with Valdemar for a day or two, he retired to the nearby countryside. Roused by a report of this, the inhabitants of northern Scania and Halland sent a stick round to everyone according to the custom of their race, and by this method of summons recruited an army; under pretence of desiring their freedom they invented a pretext for war. Such arrant madness had seized them that they hurried to engage in combat with the king, regarding it as no very serious matter to challenge the power of the supreme authority. Valdemar, moving back up from the south of the region, confronted them at Dysjøbro, and when Absalon asked if he would not prefer to use cudgels rather than swords, the king replied that he was having to war against men, not dogs. He was not therefore impelled by the incitement of rage or madness, but by his notable resolve to check the arrogance of those citizens and to strike a fear of showing similar presumption into all the rest; reckoning that he should assume a measure of savagery totally inimicable to him, the monarch laid aside forbearance for the time being and forced his naturally mild character to emulate deeds of cruelty. The action took place on the bridge with both sides striving to push across it first. For some time the fighting hung in the balance and the peasantry distinguished themselves in that battle. But Absalon’s cavalry, taking a short-cut through unsuspected shallows, broke through the Scanian line and won a surprise victory. Many ordinary folk were cut down there, while a large number met their end in the river; thus those who escaped the steel perished in the water. The rest saved their skins by taking to their heels. So, that execrable band, overthrown by God’s judgement, paid the consequences of their impious fury. On his return to Lund the king learnt that an armed mob was approaching from the eastern district and, having already conquered one army, he must now face another. Advised that he must be quick to stage a contest in order to forestall a general convergence of his enemies, he was nevertheless detained for some time by the townsfolk of Lund, who were demanding some relief of their taxes in lieu of pay for military service. Having been granted this request, they were happy to have marched out on to the nearest plain, but refused to accompany Valdemar any farther on the grounds of having to defend their city. This was the reason why the king was rather slow to engage with his foes. A crowd of militant peasants had taken up a position at Getinge Bridge. This senseless mob had heaped huge piles of stones there so as to deny access to the bridge. The king, however, crossed the river by a ford elsewhere and determined to put the issue to the sword. Yet the rabble were not so much terrified by the sight of the king’s weapons as by the ominous precedent of their comrades’ recent defeat. Sending certain individuals to entreat the ruler to retrace his steps back to the bridge, they promised to abandon their arms. Even so, the king was swayed particularly by Absalon, who in his restraint recommended that indiscriminate slaughter of these yokels was to be avoided. When Valdemar returned to the bridge, the fomenters of the rebellion, prostrating themselves, stretched out supplicatory hands towards him, and earnestly guaranteed to fulfil all their obligations as his servants. Because there was some doubt about their fidelity, they also reinforced their undertakings with an oath. Once this congregation of peasants had dispersed, the sovereign and his followers took the road back to Lund. Next, after completing a tour of Scania, Valdemar received hostages from the people. Though they were compliant in all other respects, the only thing they still refused to do was pay their tithes, and this even more obstinately. It was the king’s major concern to induce Absalon to remit them, and he told him to make absolutely sure he did not chance to suffer the same fate as once befell Cnut of Odense when he pressed for an extension of the tithe laws. The archbishop, holding that it would be as discreditable as it was sacrilegious to pare away any of the traditional rights of religion, affirmed all the more persistently that he would not comply; he declared that even if the king treated the commons’ attitude with indulgence, it would not stop him resolutely continuing to claim the tithe dues from them, although he would not try to enlist anyone to share the hazards with him. For this reason the king’s safest course would be to remain silent on the matter, in case he enmeshed himself in popular hatred by helping the Church. Valdemar respected such upright and manly steadfastness on Absalon’s part, and therefore asked, seeing that the other was unwilling to abolish the tithes, if he would postpone their enforcement; what fighting could not accomplish, diplomacy might achieve later. Absalon gave in to his plea, saying that he would not accept instead of tithes the archbishops’ former method of receiving revenue, for he did not want anyone to think that he was totally indifferent to the tithe laws. This discreet undertaking of Absalon’s healed the rebellion. Later on the emperor disclosed his supreme cunning in an attempt on the duke of Saxony, since in his hopes to subdue him Frederick depended just as much on his own wits as on his strength. Above all he tested his ingenuity on Valdemar, who he believed would be fairly sure to assist Henry. Accordingly he sent ambassadors to ask for the hands of two of the king’s daughters for his two sons, one of whom he had determined should succeed him on the throne, the other having been appointed duke of Swabia; his purpose was not really to seek reliable matches for his offspring, but to deprive his adversary of supportive allies, of whom Henry had many. I would not be certain whether this request smacked more of subtlety or of impertinence. Frederick felt no shame in approaching Valdemar with deceptive entreaties to join in kinship with him, even though he had once insidiously lured and trapped the king into agreeing to pay him homage. The Danish sovereign’s friends, seeing through Frederick’s deceit, told Valdemar that this proposal originated not in the emperor’s wish for the marriages but from his detestation of Henry. These persons who expounded the real motives behind Frederick’s shrewd move were only prevailed over by the purposefulness of the queen, who thought it a magnificent opportunity to link her own family to the emperor’s through matrimony. When the king asked how much would be required from him as dowry, the envoys answered that they had no idea and referred the matter to Frederick’s decision. The latter wrote back saying that the king should make it his business to travel to Lübeck, where the two of them could settle everything more conveniently. Valdemar acceded to his demand. Meanwhile the emperor exerted every sinew of his power to overwhelm Henry’s territories and accepted the surrender of the latter’s strongholds which were defecting to him everywhere. The reason for their desertion was not so much their love for Frederick as their loathing of the duke. Carried away by extreme good luck and a long series of successes, and having no inkling that a disastrous misadventure could attend someone at the peak of his fortune, lenry would habitually chafe the necks bowed beneath his despotism; his uncommonly ferocious oppression and unbearably harsh manner were as often as not just as vexatious to his own citizens as they were to his enemies. After losing his troops neither in war nor through some catastrophe, but by the betrayal and desertion of his soldiery, his only remaining hope lay in reserves from Holstein; therefore abandoning the town of Lübeck because he considered its walls offered him too little safety, he lost no time whatsoever in laying hold of ships, which took him deep into Stormarn, his farthest place of refuge and escape. Adolf, count of this province, had been reared from boyhood at Henry’s court and received lavish affection there, his fortunes increasing with his years, until he was eventually promoted to knighthood through Henry’s outstanding partiality and kindness; yet he made such vile restitution for his upbringing that he was the first among all the company of Henry’s warriors to pollute himself with the name of renegade. Afterwards, so that he might pass beyond the River Elbe, the emperor sent vessels filled with archers and slingers right down the course of that river. With equal energy a fleet was assembled by Henry, packed with a chosen body of warriors, to intercept the emperor’s passage. Nevertheless, immediately the duke’s sailors caught sight of the thronged vessels, terrified by the vast number, they forsook their purpose and fled, leaving Frederick to sail onwards. When he had begun to besiege the town of Lübeck, because he regarded the forces of the brothers, Bugislav and Kazimar, with some mistrust Frederick secretly sent envoys to them with the promise that he would increase the power and prestige of both, since they would be given the dukedoms of the provinces which hitherto they had controlled as underlings without any distinguished title. This guarantee of Frederick’s came as a joy to a pair who had so often been injured by Henry, nor did they perceive that, under the pretext of granting fiefdoms, the emperor was in effect holding out the demeaning yoke of servitude. In the meantime Valdemar embarked for Lübeck with a fleet more splendidly fitted than well armed; when he was met by German knights, who greeted his arrival with uncommon gratitude, he was asked to pursue his voyage midstream as far as he could, in order to leave only a fairly short distance between himself and the emperor. This he did until envoys the next day enquired if he wished the emperor to meet him in the course of his journey; he expressed a preference to travel right to Frederick’s camp, for he considered it unnecessary to trouble the ruler of the Holy Roman Empire over such a small matter. Frederick himself was no less adroit in staging Valdemar’s reception than the latter reasonable in seeking him out; for he accorded the king special respect, embracing and kissing him in a most civil manner, and shortly afterwards, clasping his right hand chivalrously, relieved him of his cloak and led him to the middle of the camp, where, like a herald, he ordered everyone to move out of Valdemar’s path. He also relinquished the tent which had collapsed owing to the excessive crush of all the people who were agog to feast their eyes on the Danish monarch, and made for an open field; here, in order to relieve the pressure of the crowd he extended his sceptre and, in as loud a voice as he could muster, commanded everyone to sit down on the spot where he stood. Valdemar, however, as much vying with him in graciousness as matching his self-restraint, told Frederick he would wait for his own chair, since he had no desire to be seen assuming the honour of the imperial throne, should he follow the other’s seating instruction. Persons of distinguished degree took their seats widely separate from one another, not in conformity with rank or any scheme, but wherever each had been thrown by the boisterous crush of the crowd, so that luck and not status apportioned their positions. There you could clearly hear the voices of Germans expressing amazement at the king’s appearance and height; and they had been seized with such a strong passion to catch a glimpse of him that, if they were sitting too low, they would clamber on to one another’s shoulders and crane their necks to stare at him. They kept saying that this was indeed a monarch, a lord, a man who deserved sovereignty, whereas the emperor was a mere princeling, a little fellow. So much did Valdemar’s noble physique command the high regard of these foreigners. I would hazard a belief that the emperor disguised his feelings about the soldiers’ chatter, not wishing to appear hurt by their praises of the king. After everyone had been marvelling at him for some time, a few courtiers were detailed to rise with him, and the emperor had them conduct him to the next tent with the same marks of politeness as had attended his arrival. There, putting aside serious talk, Frederick held Valdemar in pleasant, congenial conversation for a while, till towards evening he let him depart with young men from all over Germany at his side; it was planned that the king should reappear for a more purposeful discussion the following morning at a wood near the harbour. In the meanwhile Frederick told his sons to visit the king’s ship and linger there pretending to be playing a game, for he wanted his beloved children to indicate by their friendly sociability how much he appreciated Valdemar’s coming. At the agreed location he broached the subject of their weddings, demanding , marks as dowry for the elder boy and , for the younger. This requirement aroused misgivings in the Danish aristocracy, who reckoned that this request for girls who had not yet grown to marriageable age was a deceit. Valdemar decided that his resources were unequal to the larger sum, but promised the smaller, naming as his surety the king of Hungary, who was closely related to him. Added strength was given to this agreement by an oath, so that the tie of betrothal was enforced by a sacred pledge. Once these arrangements had been made, the king returned to the ships, the emperor to his camp. At this point, after receiving emissaries from the Wends, who would not risk sailing to meet the emperor for fear of Valdemar’s fleet, Frederick was rowed at daybreak in a longboat of the king’s to the latter’s vessel accompanied by a small number of soldiers and climbed aboard, to everyone’s surprise. Valdemar therefore brought together his army captains to take part in a conference, but Frederick made an exception of Jarimar, chief of the Rugians, and would not allow him to be summoned, though the previous day he had shown him a great many respectful attentions and even addressed him flatteringly as ‘king’, because he was aware that this man was extremely loyal to the Danes. Frederick then stated that there was something he was anxious to tell Valdemar in secret; on account of the reciprocal contract which was to take place between their families, he regarded the king not merely as a friend, but a like-minded partner. Frederick informed him I hat he had drawn the Wends with promises so that they might disable Henry, but once the latter had been subdued he had no inclination to carry out his guarantees, since he was conscious of having at one time given Valdemar an undertaking that the Wendish territories would be subjugated. He went on to beg the king to let him treat these lands as a liefdom for the moment, to be granted to the two brothers as twin lords, although this would be more for show than permanent. Immediately Henry had been destroyed, he would ensure that the region passed into Valdemar’s hands. The king agreed and sought a meeting on the following day; (here Frederick ceremonially handed over banners and named Hugislav and Kazimar dukes of the Wendish lands, thereby causing them to trade the ancient, hereditary freedom of their homeland for official titles that were colourful but meaningless. If only they had realized what a heavy burden they were taking on their backs by accepting these insignificant scraps of cloth, they would have chosen death before such a gift and opted to live the whole of the rest of their lives as private citizens. So, beneath the semblance of preferment they went off having involved themselves in the most disagreeable and shameful humiliation, taking back with them to their country a thraldom gilded over with the spurious trappings of distinction. There, too, Siegfried, a Thuringian of illustrious birth, was betrothed to one of Valdemar’s daughters, with the emperor’s agreement, and after being conveyed in the royal ship celebrated the sacred rites of marriage at Schleswig. Meanwhile, as the fortress which they had toiled to build by Swinemunde had been inundated by winter floods from the sea, the Wends gathered materials during the rest of the season and at the beginning of spring constructed two others in the same area; they believed that, if the River Pecne were blocked by the town of Wolgast, and Swina by garrisons on the coast, they themselves would be invincible. Apprised of this rather late in the day, Valdemar mustered his troops in order to obstruct their operations and put in at Grønsund, but not before he learnt from the Rugians that the strongholds had been completed and filled with guards. In particular, when he considered carefully the shortage of harbours, he was forced to abandon the idea of capturing the forts. Next, calling his son Cnut to him, along with Absalon, Sune, and Esbern, he told them that, because he thought it would be difficult to attack these castles, he preferred that the assault be conducted under someone else’s leadership rather than his own, in case his efforts did not turn out in accordance with his wishes and the glory of so many successful enterprises of the past was dimmed. For I his reason he assigned supervision of the offensive to Cnut and Absalon, first assuring them that less disgrace would be reflected on their homeland if they waged a fruitless battle than if he himself were unsuccessful; but if they won, they would gain no less renown than if King Valdemar had secured victory. Absalon promised to lead the Scanians and Zealanders, but refused to take command of the Jutlanders, since he knew they would he scornful of his authority, just as they would be of Cnut’s youth. Nor was his observation far wrong in its foresight. The king, strongly mused by his words, replied that he would go himself, even though he was unwell. In fact the stress and worry of his problems had brought on an illness, and he collapsed on his bed. His heart was tormented by conflicting emotions, eagerness for conquest on the one Imnd, despair of achieving it on the other. Next morning the leaders of the Jutlanders besought him to spare himself and pledged themselves to exercise his power even in his absence; when he had consented with difficulty and reluctance, Valdemar departed for the town of Vordingborg, after delivering overall control of the war to his son and his archbishop. While these two were detained in that same locality by a protracted, violent storm, the rebellious voices of the Jutlanders could be heard all along the shore, grumbling about the lack of supplies and food, and calling for their release from the campaign and from military service. Although Omer, bishop of Ribe, was a person graced by unusually brilliant powers of oratory as well as the dignity of his ecclesiastical office, he was unable to soothe down their complaints with his abundant displays of eloquence; finally therefore, believing that severity should supersede speech, he had one of the mutinous ringleaders seized and fettered as he was shouting too persistently outside the door of the bishop’s tent. This incident swelled the outcries of the mob and rekindled the revolt. So the nobles, fearing that the people, having spurned the king’s authority, might desert him, held a consultation and decided that Valdemar must dissolve the expedition voluntarily, believing they ought to anticipate a headstrong withdrawal of the army by pretending to grant this indulgent favour, since they did not want it to appear as if the campaign was being terminated under the people’s own direction rather than being rescinded at the king’s discretion; but if the common soldiers, snatching at the chance of returning home, put their own impulsive inclinations before their leader’s judgement, there could be a repetition of what is reported to have happened to St Cnut when he dealt punishment on his countrymen for disbanding their navy; in which case, as the king was now in the clutches of fever, if the present illness were to consume him, his son Cnut might well be deprived of his succession to the crown. Prompted by these considerations, Cnut called together the men of his fleet, gave them the right to return, and dismissed them, presenting this as a kindness because he had not the strength to withstand the people’s defiance. Thus, compelled by the danger of insurrection to abandon the war, he sailed to Vordingborg with Absalon, Esbern, and Sune to await the outcome of his parent’s fever. As Valdemar observed the returning sails through the open window of his bedroom, his astonishment at this event led to a simultaneous worsening of his malady and his grief. Yet he utterly concealed both these afflictions and, immediately his son entered with his advisers, the king received him with such a cheerful expression that everyone thought him almost free of sickness. In addition he said he felt the squeeze of pain very little, trying to hide his bodily harassment by his mental fortitude. However, he did not forget to make a faithful confession of his sins to Absalon, since he held that such religious discipline must precede the unpredictable moment of death; he judged that repentance comes too late in the day and is useless, if dislike of making amends and an immoderate clinging to one’s faults postpones it right to the very end of one’s life. Apart from that he bequeathed half his patrimony in his will, excluding what was due to the royal treasury, to institutions dedicated to monastic piety. Whereas all the rest cherished good hopes of his restoration to health, Sune alone, whether warned in a dream or having learnt through some other premonition, prophesied that this fever would prove fatal to the king; he therefore urged the others to give some attention to the way they should assist the son’s cause on his father’s departure. There would be such bitter sorrow at the monarch’s demise that it would then be impossible for any advice to be heeded. At the same time a certain Johannes, a holy abbot, arrived from Scania in response to their call, and although as a practitioner of medicine he was more brash than skilful, they put a great deal of trust in his help. When he had made a somewhat superficial diagnosis of the disease, he gave a firm rather than reliable assurance that the king would recover his health. First he took pains to reinvigorate the sovereign with food prepared according to his medicinal knowledge and later, after clearing everybody from the chamber, told him to have a sleep. Shortly afterwards Valdemar was discovered to have lost his voice, but when Johannes found his every limb bathed in sweat, he instructed them to cover him carefully and gave his opinion that a flow of perspiration of this sort was a glad and wholesome sign. If only Sune’s presentiment had been false instead of the doctor’s medical prognosis! His guarantee was followed by the king’s decease and furnished proof of how little confidence should be placed in the ability of physicians. When they entered his bedroom in the morning, his friends (bund that Valdemar’s corpse appeared very much as it had when he was breathing, and his face retained much of its former quality so that you would have noticed none of his features drawn into rigidity nor transformed by anguish, and his characteristic ruddy complexion seemed to give him the look of a living man. It even appeared uncertain whether he had passed away, since all his limbs still preserved their previous natural colouring. When his eventual pallor finally assured them of his death, his body was transferred to a bier and arrangements were made for it to be conveyed to Ringsted for the funeral. This lownship had a distinguished reputation not just for its antiquity, but because it held the honour of being his father’s burial place. To add to the general distress there came the pitiful lamentation of matrons, who met the cortège with dishevelled hair, saying that I hey were once again about to experience their original burden of slavery; the man was gone who had removed each individual citizen from bondage, who freed his fatherland from the dread of pirates, and who made coastal and inland dwelling places alike safe from invasion by brigands. As soon as they caught sight of Valdemar’s funeral procession the peasants dropped the rural labours on which they had been engaged and filled the countryside with similar wails. It also gave them pleasure to support his coffin on their shoulders, so that they could perform a last dignified service for him, but they moaned that with the king’s departure their country was overturned and that a universal death, or something even more melancholy than death, hung over their wretched heads. As Absalon was on the point of offering prayers for the welfare of Valdemar’s soul, unable to control his grief while he was uttering the solemn words, he could not restrain himself from sprinkling the altar with his tears, so that he scarcely had power enough to steady his voice and hands to complete the divine office. On top of that he was occupied with such great sorrow of mind and suddenly became afflicted with such a severe and dangerous infirmity, that the end of the mass almost coincided with that of his life. It might have seemed unbelievable that a personage as great as he could have been incapacitated by misery so intense and painful, had his affection for Valdemar not been so well known. But Fate, after one light of his country had been quenched, would not let the other perish; Wendish territory could not be brought beneath the heel of the Danes if they lacked a leader, and a nation which under such eminent generals had risen to a position of surpassing glory would have remained bereft of a defender. The altars, bedewed with the (ears he shed instead of prayers, gave no slight evidence of his spontaneous warm-heartedness towards the king. And I could imagine that the incense, made wet by his weeping, emitted a fragrance that was gratifying to the Lord.
Book sixteen.
As soon as Valdemar’s last rites had been completed and his royal body given the noblest of funerals, Cnut, on the advice of his counsellors, departed to Jutland with the haste that was needed to claim the kingdom and make it secure, and with the aim of engaging the allegiance of his father’s warriors. There was no need for him to solicit lor the title of king now, because he had formally acquired this at the time of his anointing. At the assembly in Viborg he found the populace well disposed towards him and later, in the gathering at Urne wood, after the unvoiced disaffection of certain individuals had been checked, the rest received him with similar goodwill. In this way, with the assent of his countrymen, he was made heir to the kingdom. Meanwhile the common folk of Scania, delighted that the king’s death had slackened the curb on their old capriciousness, resolved to levy punishment on their overlords for the defeat they had suffered at Dysjøbro, since these were the men who had bereft them of their relatives, their closest comforts. A fellow named Age Tubbeson applied a high-blazing torch to the citizens’ grievances with his totally rash declarations, and rekindled the embers of the Scanian revolt, which had previously been extinguished and were now almost buried. To stem this mischief Absalon crossed over to Scania and delivered an address more fearless than effective, for the assembly were consumed with hostility; as a result the common folk there abandoned him, seeking the promoters of their dissent, who had chosen a different location in which to harangue them. So brazenly defiant and headstrong were these ringleaders that, seated on horseback, they issued a proclamation instructing the whole Scanian populace to congregate once more at the same spot in a fortnight’s time carrying arms, ostensibly to safeguard their freedom. This development obliged Absalon to return to Zealand. His departure caused the onrush of the people’s ferocity to sweep forward with ever-growing heedlessness, to burst over the homes of Thord and Esbern, and to subject them first to pillage, then to flames. In the following days a large number of the Scanian nobility also had their houses burnt down. Certainly the heads of the faction, in order to predispose the people to even wilder conduct, made sure that their boldess was nourished by the property of their lords, and aimed to make their labour more cheerful and agreeable by sweetening it with plunder and continual rewards for their exertions. Many of the nobles, therefore, fearing from what had happened to their compeers that violence would be directed at their own establishments, put all their property in the charge of their friends. Soon, taking to sea in their ships, a number preferred to entrust themselves and their wealth to the waves rather than to their dwellings, while a certain proportion felt that it would be a comforting relief to seek exile and join Absalon. When the latter’s knights and those of Cnut perceived their own and their lords’ fortunes to be in distress, they decided that warfare must repel this outrage; consequently the instigators of the uprising, who had discovered at the time of their earlier insurrection that rebellion would come to nothing without a leader, called in from Sweden a man named Harald, of royal blood but blunt wits and halting speech; he was a character wholly unfit for rule, since neither Nature nor Fate had bestowed anything praiseworthy on him apart from his aristocratic birth. Therefore one cannot be sure whether the greater reproach lay with Sweden for having sent such a fellow or with Scania for having accepted him. The nobles were confounded and discouraged by this news and, as reports of the enemy’s arrival came and went, they pestered Absalon with anxious delegations, begging at one point that he should cross over and help them, at another telling him to remain with his troops where he was. For Harald had not as yet invaded Scanian territory. However, when he did attack it with soldiers of the Swedish king, Cnut, and of Birger, his jarl, as soon as there was expectation of a new leader the people flocked eagerly together and supplied him with an unbelievable mass of reinforcements. Relying on these, Harald threatened to demolish Lund, whose gates were barred against him. Hereupon several of the nobility, who had been drawn together by intermediaries and strengthened in resolve by robust mutual encouragement, pitched camp by the stream of Lummeå, though others of the royal militia pretended to be unaware of their stand and neglected to appear. These lords had been seized by such an ardent desire to fight that, despising dangers as utterly as they did the commoners, and having no regard for their own sparseness of numbers, they raced at the foe pell-mell, each as fast as his horse could carry him, undirected and without formation. In fact as they charged, they found the fierceness of the wind, which happened to be blowing in their faces, harsher than that of the foe they were assailing. For the huge force of the gale dashed away their shields as they galloped forward, and yet the peasants did not even have the courage in turn their chests towards their attackers. In this way the people’s battle front, more impressive for the multitude than the spirits of its combatants, surrendered a bloodless victory and as a result made it a matter of uncertainty whether they felt the peril or their disgrace the more keenly. In order to be better equipped for flight, with which I bey had anticipated any fighting, they did not scruple to discard their shields and throw away their burdensome weapons, since they had no confidence in how to handle them. After a portion of them had been hewn down and some taken prisoner, Harald made his way back to Sweden as a fugitive with Age, the man who had originally instigated his attempt on the kingdom. Nevertheless the citizens of Lund, their hearts in suspense over I be outcome of the clash, furnished aid to neither side, but waited to bestow their partiality on the victors. Immediately they saw the issue of the fray, they began to crow over the vanquished as though they themselves were the conquerors, making themselves partakers of others’ merits in their greed for praise and booty. Yet the common people were not content with openly aiming hostilities twice at their masters, but, after holding a meeting together, they were not unwilling to declare war a third time against those same opponents; their intention was to requite the pain of the blow they had suffered, which was mingled with the lunacy of the insurrection, by a general extermination of the magnates, and they therefore carried deep in their hearts this strong determination to challenge them, either because of the shame of their defeat or through lust for revenge. Neither deference to men of distinction nor the recollection of their own wounds could quell their desire for mutiny and to pursue their endeavours to that end. This hazard, looming close above the heads of all the Scanian nobility, was averted by the prompt arrival of Absalon and his Zealanders. With standards raised he entered the place designated for their assembly, and not only thwarted the tempestuous schemes of the populace, but also, through a most conscientious decree of judgement, restored to their earlier position of authority the laws which had been demolished by the wicked approbation of the commonalty. As for Harald, his preserving absence could not protect him from being condemned by the nobles. Undoubtedly I would have said this fellow was punished twice by the Scanians, once with their weapons and again by their judicial sentences. It is certainly hard to determine whether he was penalized more sternly by the sword or by their verdicts. The ordinary folk ventured no further opposition, but laid down their arms while completely hiding their sentiments; a peaceful assembly was convened, in which they rubbed shoulders with Absalon’s squadrons, and each individual lent his voice to the decisions, though their shouts were raised briskly rather than willingly. So, that horrifying, long-drawn-out rebellion closed at the same time as this meeting, and the people did not dare to carry on any longer with their destructive and insolent bid to overthrow the fraternity of their superiors. In the meantime Cnut, forced to travel from Jutland to Funen by the report that war had arisen in Scania, met and greeted Esbern, who had been sent over by his brother, Absalon, to announce the success won by the royalist side. Believing from the unexpected encounter that this man was the bearer of gloomy tidings, Cnut with faltering spirits and downcast expression feared to learn whatever information he had brought. After this, however, Esbern’s face, full of delight, prompted him to hope for better news and, once the king had been readily told the glad tale of his troops’ victory, he proceeded to Scania rejoicing. At first Cnut marked out Frosta as a region suitable to be sacked and burnt, and he would have devastated it accordingly, if Absalon, who had some attachment to it, had not intervened to stop him. By acting as mediator he ensured that these who had wronged the king in supporting Harald were only punished by the exaction of a fine. What boundless mercy, whereby his leniency allowed men who were obviously guilty to be released from the blame of an enormous crime for a trifling payment! This precedent encouraged the rest to hope for pardon, and following the archbishop’s amazingly kind gesture they experienced a similar mildness from the monarch. At this juncture Cnut displayed an outstanding example of his moderation, when he surrendered to the entreaties of this one friend the retribution which their universal transgression had earned. But how unjust it was for this excellent young prince to be tempted by the cunning of a foreign monarch! The emperor sent several embassies bidding him come to his court to solicit the inheritance of the friendship which had been extended to his father; when, however, his well-wishers stepped in to advise against this, Cnut wrote as polite a reply as he could, devising phrases to excuse himself on the grounds of his recent accession to the throne. Thus Frederick’s guile was carefully investigated by the king’s counsellors, for he was taking pains to entwine the son’s innocence in the same treacherous noose that he had once twisted round the gullible father. When the emperor answered in a letter packed with threats that he would snatch away the Danish kingdom and give it to someone else, Cnut was satisfied merely to write back saying that Frederick, before he seized his realm, must, of course, discover a person who was eager to hold Denmark as his fiefdom. The frankness of his response not only parried the emperor’s intimidations but also showed him what a great measure of confidence Cnut placed in his subjects’ affections. Seeing that his admonitions had not prevailed on the king, Frederick secretly enlisted the aid of Siegfried, Cnut’s brother in-law, and tried through the reinforcement of another man’s voice to persuade him to accept what the instigation of his letters was failing to achieve. Once Siegfried had come to Denmark, he held forth concerning the love he bore for the king on account of his marriage to Cnut’s sister, and also about the magnitude of the emperor’s forces; in I his way he reminded Absalon, Sune, and Esbern, the only intimates of the king who were admitted to the meeting, of the loyalty they owed Cnut as his mentors and the trust which his father had laid in Their dispositions; he entreated them not to act as enemies under the cloak of friendship by telling the young fellow assigned to their care, as yet immature in years and judgement, to undertake the encumbrance of a serious and insupportable war, which in the name of defending his freedom would strip him of his realm. Indeed, they must take care to shape him with wholesome precepts and should consider it no bad thing for him to join the entourage of the Holy Roman Emperor. Absalon replied that without question he would gladly proffer any beneficial advice to Cnut that he was aware of and that he wished the king to seek friendly relations with the emperor, provided his personal dignity and sovereignty were preserved intact. Valdemar, as a matter of fact, had given his allegiance and amity to Frederick and discovered that nothing could be more deceptive than his word and promises. Consequently Siegfried should understand that both Cnut and the emperor had an equal right to rule, and that the former controlled the helm of the Danish kingdom under no more restraint than the latter held that of the Holy Roman Empire. The angry Siegfried then hurled rejoinders, loaded with disdainful threats, but Absalon countered: ‘Do you measure Denmark by your own experiences, then, and imagine Frederick can take it with supreme ease whenever he wishes, just as he can Thuringia? Off you go, then, and announce to your emperor that the Danish monarch doesn’t mean to render even the smallest crumb of deference to his authority and name.’ M y own opinion is that Siegfried merited this kind of contempt, because he had the effrontery to carry out a mission so inimicable to Danish liberty, supplying his own warning and showing closer allegiance to a foreign despot than to his close kin. On hearing of this answer, Frederick, since he was unable to start a campaign, projected his wrath on the scornful king; he could only take revenge for Cnut’s disdain with his feelings instead of the sword. Even so he did not lose hope of possessing Denmark, since he thought that a revolt caused by domestic evils might be anticipated there, and trusted that a people split by civil war could be attacked with less risk to his own troops. Observing nevertheless that, after he had been seeking such an opportunity for some time, Fate still denied him it, in an endeavour to induce him to make war on the Danes, he started giving numerous presents and lavish promises to Bugislav, prince of the Wends; this man had lately inherited the country from his brother, Kazimar, who had died without issue. Bugislav yielded to his promptings with greater readiness than wisdom and, since he had not the audacity to propose war on Denmark plainly and openly, dredging up reasons for a quarrel, initially began to behave in a belligerent manner towards his uncle, Jarimar, lord of Rügen, putting his awe of the emperor’s warriors before the most intimate bonds of kinship. As soon as Cnut had been informed by Jarimar of this issue, he had ambassadors sent to Bugislav to enquire the cause for such sudden ill-usage of his relative. The Wendish prince swore that he had suffered no wrong from the king or the Danes, but was retaliating for an outrage dealt him by Jarimar; he earnestly requested that the dispute between them both should be referred through envoys from each party to a judicial enquiry held by the king, after the two sides had meanwhile laid down their weapons, and he demanded also that Cnut should be the architect of their mutual peace, for he wanted to affect a convincing candour with these counterfeit words of goodwill. So, as the king had no apprehension of a treacherous plot, a day and locality were appointed for the pleading of the case. After he had brought together a large group of the nobility on the island of Samsø, so that they could settle this business and also correct certain faults in the civil law, he there received the representatives of both parties. Their dispute was given a formal hearing, during which a number of charges were thrown at Jarimar with more eloquence than veracity, but the absence of the principals prevented any decision being made; Bugislav’s envoys then swore a voluntary oath affirming that their lord was prepared to appear himself as one of the participants in the present case as soon as Cnut should decree it. Thus the ambassadors, no less than the one who had dispatched them, bent their wiles to delude the king. Cnut, valuing their guarantees with more complacency than caution, quickly dismissed the council and withdrew to Jutland, since all the bravest individuals among the Scanians and Zealanders were grumbling about their too-quiet life in peacetime and complaining that amidst all this repose they were now running into slothfulness; their wills were being sapped through long indulgence in pleasures, whereas under King Valdemar it had been their custom to spin out almost the entire year in a wide variety of activities and different types of military service. The sinews of military vigour, they said, are dulled and enfeebled by ease, whereas employment tautens and invigorates them. For this reason a corporate decision was made to launch a pirating expedition against the Estlanders with a view to sharpening the edge of their valour. Meanwhile Bugislav, at the emperor’s instigation, not only provided himself with local troops from his native country, but also borrowed soldiers from a wide area around; beyond that he assembled against Rügen a fleet of vessels crammed with large quantities of war equipment. Believing that no hostile strength could oppose these forces, he ordered an envoy named Bugislav to go to Frederick and announce that his master had recruited a mighty army to attack Denmark; so large was it that he knew for certain Cnut would lose all courage to resist and capitulate to the Holy Roman power in the shortest possible time. Delighted by his undertaking, the emperor praised Bugislav and heaped imperial gifts on his ambassador. Jarimar, thunderstruck by this sudden, unforeseen rumour of war, sent a report to Absalon, who was then residing in Zealand, about the huge and imminent danger that was threatening the people of Rügen. The archbishop immediately stirred himself with all the haste that was needed to forestall an assault on his allies; he sent letters everywhere across Zealand giving instructions that every man of an age to wield arms must rally to the fleet. Associating smaller with larger craft, transport vessels with raiders, he even further allowed the habit of commandeering ships to ordinary folk and nobles without distinction. A similar injunction was issued to the islands encircling Zealand. However, orders were delivered to the people of Funen and Scania to arrive at the appointed harbour within six days; otherwise they need not bother themselves, for the preparations could brook no longer delay than that. These men who had been told to join the expedition were so ardent and anxious to obey that with astonishing keenness they vied with one another to meet the time set for them, or even to precede it. Nevertheless, although Cnut had received the message in Jutland, his remoteness coupled with the tight schedule for the rendezvous did not allow him to be a partner in Absalon’s project. Only six ships were sent over from Funen, fourteen from Scania, since the rest had been hindered by their slowness. Their remarkably small numbers might have appeared a cause for blame, had they not been able to plead the excuse of living so far away. Absalon’s fleet had entered the appointed bay on the eve of the feast of Pentecost. In order not to lose time or energy they made it their business to sail to I Hiddensee island the same day. There they were met by messengers from Rügen, who informed them that it would be necessary to wait till they could be certain at what point on their soil the enemy invasion was aimed. They had heard that Bugislav had landed on the island of Koos, which lay alongside Rügen. Yet though he was now almost on the verge of striking at hostile country, this prince did not restrain himself from flouting temperance and indulged in extensive bouts of drinking. In fact his soldiers were both nourished and vitiated by giving themselves up to feasting, with such excess that il seemed as if they had come to attend a banquet rather than a war. Nevertheless, when Absalon had yielded to the advice of these envoys, they returned the following day with information that Bugislav was about to disembark his troops opposite the island of Strela; so, even though dusk was approaching, after seizing his banner, the archbishop made for the shore as swiftly as possible in a small boat. Then by means of a herald he summoned a meeting of the captains and gave out as brief a message as possible to his warriors; hiking great pains with his exhortation he filled them with enthusiasm by mentioning that in his dreams he had seen figures picturing a definite victory. The sole response of his followers was that they were thirsting for battle; and if they encountered it, they said, they had no doubt they would win. Their passionate spirits were derived from a long familiarity with success and also from an inbred gallantry in their I hinish blood, so that they deserved to be able to depend on the prediction which was their rallying-cry. Because he was nervous of the undetermined route through straits whose depth was unknown, Absalon awaited the dawn and I hen, as he was on the point of setting sail, was held back for a time by the anchor, which had stuck too deeply in the mud. The result was I hat all the others left him behind in their boundless fervour to forge ahead. Nevertheless he did not consider it unseemly to be outstripped by his forces, since he saw this as attributable to his calling to arms more than to his belatedness. M y own view is that he was happy, and rightly so, to see that his men preferred to engage in this justifiable haste sooner than share his enforced delay. Once freed from the restriction, Absalon made up for his unprofitable tardiness with such rapid rowing that he almost overtook the leading vessels, and compensated for the accidental loss of time by his eagerness for the light. While this communal race was in midcareer, they were met by a ship dispatched from Rügen to tell them that they must pursue a more relaxed course, for because Bugislav was still occupying the island of Koos, the focus of his attack remained speculative. Jarimar loo, surrounded by his own native militia, was waiting for the foe to move off. For these reasons the archbishop gave up his concern for speed and turned inshore to Drigge. There a report came that their adversaries had gone home, but the descent of a chance fog had led the message-bearers to make a mistake. Our people were asked to sail to the port of Darsin, where, the envoys promised, they would be shielded by the Rugian army and would meet Jarimar, who wished to discuss the situation with them. But when they sailed to that locality, neither the prince nor any of his escorts could be found; therefore, because he was a fluent speaker of the Wendish tongue, they decided to send Niels of Falster to Jarimar in order to investigate the enemy’s withdrawal. On his departure Absalon took a rowing-boat to the shore so that he might devote his time to God’s worship, but a communication was suddenly received through one of Jarimar’s servants informing him that the Pomeranian fleet was drawing so close that, if there had not been a thick curtain of mist, it would have been visible in the near distance. Calling back those who were celebrating mass, he resolved to dedicate his offering to the Lord not with prayers but weapons and, eagerly alerting the fleet, guided it out into the open sea to confront Ms opponents. What kind of sacrifice could we imagine more pleasing I o The Almighty than the slaughter of blackguards? Even so, the Pomeranians’ plan was not so much an unheralded raid on enemy territory as to sail about hither and thither so as to play cat and mouse with the Rugian cavalry, who were anxious to defend their coastline. On sighting the Danish fleet, they believed that Borivoj, accompanied by the West Wends, had arrived to bring them aid, for the murky atmosphere would not allow them to discern the number and cut of our vessels. Nor did it enter their heads that Danes, whose geographical position was so far removed from the Wends’ homeland, could have voyaged to that region in such a narrow space of time, since their sentinels, much too unconcerned, were performing their watch duties with far less conscientiousness than they should. Hence Bugislav, thinking that the Rugian fleet was being directed against him, wished to encircle it with a hundred and fifty of his light warships; the remainder of his fleet he stationed as if in line of battle with anchors cast; between these and the mainland he moved the food transports, which were somewhat more impressive-looking than the raiding vessels; that was because he wanted to simulate the appearance of an armed multitude with a display of useless hulls. This facade caused Sune to imagine Bugislav had been lent German reinforcements. However, as the mist eventually thinned, Absalon, seeing merely small enemy boats passing him, said laughingly that not all of them would return home safely by any means. So, having stiffened the resolve of his comrades with strong encouragements, Absalon advanced against the enemy fleet, sailing at the forefront, just as he was foremost in authority. He was warned by Sune, who supposed their adversaries to be strengthened by German confederates, not to attack with over-precipitate haste, but to slacken the pace of rowing and instruct the soldiers to arm themselves; but Absalon answered that there must not be the slightest delay, since their foe was now hemmed into a corner where it could neither join battle without hazard, nor take flight unscathed. There was therefore nothing to stop him giving himself a speedy victory. Yet when Sune renewed his cautions, Absalon’s warriors began to encase their bodies in armour while several continued at the oars. Their preparations remained unnoticed by their opponents through the help of the fog, which was still dense and persistent. When, however, the young Danish manhood came to close quarters, unable to endure silence any more than waiting they raised their standards and did not restrain themselves from singing loudly to give expression to their vehement passion for combat. Absalon’s banner, which was never normally unfurled without putting his foes to flight, revealed the Danes’ presence to the Wends and simultaneously instilled in them a reluctance to engage. They then weighed anchor in the highest state of alarm, and began frenziedly to urge on their fleet, so that the distance they had sailed over a long stretch of time they now retraced in a small matter of hours. Countless Wends who had been held back from escape by the bulkiness of their vessels or the slow raising of their anchors chose to plunge into the depths and end their lives amid the waves instead of among weapons. You might have viewed their ships full, then empty, almost at the same moment. Yet those who had jumped overboard could still not be saved by swimming, since the currents from the abysses below caught fast hold of their submerged bodies. I low powerful must we reckon the strength of their terror, which, when they had absorbed excessive quantities of it, made them even unable to spare their own lives! Such a huge influx of men tried to flee for safety aboard eighteen of the vessels that these split and brought destruction to their shiploads. Few of them had any inclination to stay for the enemy. Indeed one man’s panic was so absurd that, in reacting strongly against his comrades’ example, he chose to fashion a halter in l he rigging and hang himself rather than submit to death at his adversaries’ hands. A good many Danes were at first astonished, but afterwards scoffed at his act; then seduced by the attraction of loot, they began to show greater laxity in closing with their foes. As he went by, Absalon cautioned them not to pursue plunder in preference to hounding their opponents; with a mere seven vessels he never stopped chasing virtually an entire navy of fugitives, truly full of that assurance with which he had so many times succeeded in viewing the backs of his foes. As they dispersed, the Pomeranians did not weigh up the slender number so much as the valour of their pursuers. The horde who manned a flotilla of something like one hundred ships, having no confidence that they could escape by sea, took to the land and there wandered weaponless and stupefied through wild, uninhabited bush. Jarimar’s ardent passion to protect his country made him, too, more eager for enemy blood than for spoils. By rowing at a furious rate those of high rank among the enemy, aboard thirty-five ships, managed to elude Absalon’s clutches. None the less, when they perceived that only seven vessels were pressing hard on their heels, they judged their flight not just dismal, but even a cause for shame, and so they twice made some effort to steady their pace, as though meaning to put up a fight. In response, although his friends begged him to wait for the rest of the fleet to arrive, Absalon in no way allowed his oarsmen to relax their energies, but continued to advance unwaveringly, swearing that he must take more advantage of his enemies’ agitation than the support of his brothers-in-arms. Realizing his determination, the Wends were totally drained of courage and put their consternation before disgrace, with the result that they started to clear their vessels of freight and made them swifter for getting away by pitching their arms and their horses into the deep sea. Then, striking the waves more sharply, they persisted in their hasty retreat until they took refuge in the River Peene. Absalon did not hang back in the slightest, but tailed them ceaselessly to that point before returning in the evening to his associates, who had been devoting themselves to plunder. None the less he could not bear even to share in these spoils, considering it handsome enough if he himself gained abundant renown, his soldiers copious booty. So it was that, out of ships, thirty-five made their escape, eighteen were destroyed, while the rest yielded to the authority of Danish power. That day, therefore, when the enemy navy was blinded by Absalon’s brilliance and was compelled either to make its getaway or suffer annihilation, brought an end to innumerable terrors and maritime perils, cleared the harbours of Zealand and the Baltic Sea of deadly pirate attacks, caused the savage ferocity of the barbarians to bow beneath the yoke and rendered our motherland mistress of the Wends, even though she was scarcely in possession of her own independence. A rare and effective kind of victory indeed, when it succeeded in utterly overthrowing the enemy’s total strength! Yet whereas for the Wends it entailed a welter of bloodshed, it cost the Danes nothing. Only four men from Rügen were lost, but whether from the allies’ or their foes’ missiles is not certain. The next day eighteen Scanian ships arrived on the scene, but Absalon, judging the crews by their willingness to come rather than their lateness, gave instructions that they should take a portion of the plunder along with the victors. Wishing to ascertain what plans the Wends then had in mind, he devised an ingenious scheme for spying: on the pretext that there had existed a good, long-standing association between them, he arranged for Bugislav, by means of ambassadors, to be charged with treachery, and demanded that he anticipate an outrageous affront to the king by a firm endeavour to appease him. In response Bugislav reconciled himself to pretending that no heavy disaster had been inflicted on him, to the extent that, praising his adviser’s kindness, he promised to follow his guidance. However, the ordinary Wendish people had had so much fear instilled into their hearts by their earlier flight that, on sighting the envoys’ ship, they did not blush to run away yet again. Later Absalon, believing it would be a fine thing to send a distinguished messenger who would forestall any hearsay about his achievements, arranged to send home Tage, who came from an illustrious Funen family, with Bugislav’s tent, which had fallen to him as his share; not only would he inform the king of the archbishop’s triumph, but would back his statements with the notable prize he bore. Absalon also employed Tage to urge his sovereign to mount an expedition which must precede harvest-time and thus prevent the Wendish powers from furnishing themselves with fresh troops. After collecting together an assembly of Jutlanders at Viborg, Cnut told Tage to do his duty and relate an appropriate account of Absalon’s successful action; in this way he could also utilize the news-bringer as the motivator of his campaign. By carrying out this design he developed in everyone’s mind a very strong incentive to launch a fleet. As soon as the emperor received a report of this decisive setback and learnt that the exploit had been achieved under Absalon’s sole leadership, he cast out of his thoughts all hope of possessing Denmark together with any confidence that he might assail it; thus he rejected his own forces as inadequate because he had accomplished so little by resorting to another’s. Absalon afterwards heard from his knights who were currently performing military service in Constantinople that the fame of his victory, travelling with unbelievable speed, had been noised abroad even in that city. The garnering of new crops assisted the enemy’s dwindling food stocks, for a delay in the king’s departure gave them a very welcome respite, during which they were able to provide corn for their townships. Galvanized by rumours of this Danish expedition, the people of Wolgast filled the deeper reaches of the River Peene with piles of rocks, so as to deny ships access to their city walls. But Absalon, keen to clear these sections of the river bed, did not hesitate to plunge his body into the waters in order to induce the young men to join him; by freeing as much of the stream from boulders as was sufficient to allow the fleet through, he brought it back to a navigable state, despite the fact that the townsfolk had been hurling missiles from their war machines with such precision that their shots raked those same stretches of the river with some accuracy. Even so, Absalon and his helpers removed the obstruction to make a passage and contrived an easy approach for his comrades to move up and besiege the city. Though the siege had begun, a forest of stakes below the waterline, planted to form a pallisade in front of the town, did not allow our vessels to pull in very close. The young Danes, eager to display their bravery and overcome this hindrance to an assault, once the ships had cleared the deep stretches did not hold back from descending into the water on foot and striding forward through the shallows. On their side the citizens started to fling spears down at the Danes not far beneath them, as well as using their ballistas to assail the ships, which lay at a greater distance; certainly you could imagine it would have been preferable for our men to evade rather than endure the brunt of those well-aimed volleys. The danger was critical, and it was a problem to avoid it as massive stones rained down on the crowding vessels, so that the Danes reckoned their relief lay either in (light, or crouching, or wary movements, rather than trusting to their armour to give any help in neutralizing the impacts. Making his way amidships, Absalon managed through continual ducking to evade the hard rocks slung by the catapults. A barbarian who had chanced to emerge from the fortifications recognized him from the emblem on his shield and pointed so that the shooters could aim at him. Asked by someone if he had noticed how the barbarian singled him out, the archbishop answered that the man felt a deep concern for him, simultaneously making fun of his enemy and the one who had warned him. In my opinion this willingness to joke about his perilous situation while encompassed by threats to his life bore the mark of a fearless mind. So much did pressure of circumstances give an absolutely sure proof of his unflinching courage. As the storming of the city had now ground to a halt, a new plan of attack was devised, Esbern’s invention: they arranged to have an unusually large vessel crammed with all manner of combustible materials, to be driven solely by the propulsion of the wind towards the walls, which were well suited to be set on fire. However, the boat struck a stake concealed beneath the surface and without any detriment to the townspeople burst into flames, destroying itself and its contents. So, the hope of inflicting an immense defeat was ruined by this paltry, wooden handicap and in a brief moment of good fortune our enemies’ lives were shielded from impending doom. Bugislav had been concocting schemes to avenge his own discreditable failures and pretended to be aspiring to a truce; consequently, having sent envoys to request a dialogue with Absalon, he came to the place appointed for their negotiations, attended by a large body of horsemen. When the archbishop arrived at the rendezvous with two ships, Bugislav begged him to step ashore on the grounds that a tent was better fitted to hold talks in than a vessel. /Vs Absalon was about to comply and was preparing to disembark, a man named Erling, who came from a distinguished Norwegian line, detained him with a story of a horrifying dream he had had and forecast that his companion would undoubtedly experience treachery if he entrusted his life to the foe. Absalon honoured his words as if they were a miraculous sign sent to him from heaven; and when Bugislav called to him, he replied that it was not appropriate for the greater to seek out the lesser, since, he maintained, a primate ranked higher than a general. So, by taunting the enemy with his powerlessness, he deprived him of an occasion for duplicity. After pleading that there was rather restricted room on a vessel, the Wend revealed his deceit by an abrupt departure. One who at other times had been in the habit of stepping onto Absalon’s vessel quite willingly, now, disturbed by a wicked conscience, shuddered at the thought of going aboard as though into an abode where one might meet death. Absalon was overjoyed that he had chosen to stake his life on a dream instead of entrusting it to an adversary, and went off to rejoin his fleet. Our troops, deciding that a general devastation of land should come before a single town’s destruction, had adopted a policy of laying waste the province; but while they were stuck fast in the narrow channel leading to the other side of the bridge, the townsfolk attacked them with a swarm of fast, light craft. Once these had been quickly beaten off through the efforts of bowmen dispatched by Absalon and Cnut, they repaired to firm soil, from which it would be easier for them to molest our fleet; from there they hurled shouts no less than javelins at our men, and began to abuse them with voluminous insults about their cowardice, just as if they had vanquished them already. Observing this, the remaining townspeople laid hands on the rowing-boats that were moored everywhere, and, having abandoned their defence of the city walls, made for the opposite bank with the idea of looting the shelters which the Danes had quitted. When our soldiers left these behind, they set fire to them, and the smoke rising from the flames made it impossible for the Wends to discern the king’s cavalry, who were waiting on land for our ships to pass by. As soon as the enemy, unprepared and terrified, found themselves charged by these knights, some fled to their skiffs, while others fell beneath the sword on the shore or met their end in the river water. Swimmers were shot dead by our archers, those in boats were capsized and reaped a well-earned punishment for their mockery of the Danes. In this fashion the people of Wolgast, who a little earlier had lorded it over our men with spurious jibes, now bewailed the wretched fates of the fellow-citizens who had been slaughtered before their eyes. Immediately the inhabitants of Osna heard tell of these activities, they speedily went about burning the houses situated outside the town, so that the enemy might not use them to set their municipal walls ablaze. So, they voluntarily robbed themselves of homes to win solid protection for their city, and by becoming poorer in dwellings they gained greater safety behind their ramparts. The countryside was left to the king and his pillagers. At Cnut’s decision Absalon was instructed to assault and take the territories round Julin and the strongholds on the River Swina; there the archbishop sent his brother, Esbern, ahead to Swinemunde; commanding the naval squadron assigned to him, he had orders to capture those fortresses, if Fate permitted, or to block their garrisons’ escape, until such time as Absalon himself came back from Julin. When Esbern arrived, he discovered their gates wide open, the defenders doubtless being on the run after a covert withdrawal before their foes could reach them. Roth forts were set on fire. Absalon learnt of this after he had himself demolished Julin and all its appurtenances, not only by descrying the smoke afar off, but also from the verification supplied by his reappearing comrades; he then made his way back to Cnut, glad that his brother’s labours had relieved him of a major area of concern. As the king became conscious that it would be hard for the Danes to capture any villages which harboured a store of useful necessities and they were merely burning down empty houses, he resolved to make his return, and whereas he had now been attacking abandoned homes containing no resources, when harvest-time was over he could ransack granaries packed with supplies. No less weary with the struggle involved in subjugating towns than he was tired of setting fire to deserted buildings, he proceeded to the River Swina with a view to leading his expedition away; he instructed that all the remaining burnt-out fortresses should be razed to the ground and, to ensure that all their defences were dismantled, even had the stones prized up from the foundations and cast into the sea, though his men could scarcely bear to touch them with their hands because they were still hot from the recent flames. As soon as this labour came to an end, so did the campaign. After Cnut had spent the autumn at home, he levied twelve thousand troops from Rügen, with whom he marched across the province of Tribsees, which was subject to his control. Afterwards, traversing the sunken marsh of Circipen in emulation of his father’s military exploit, he arrived at the stronghold of Lubchin. When he had passed this by, having set his sights on Demmin, he came upon a settlement which contained a surplus of liquor, for the barbarians there were feasting in utter composure, totally unconcerned about any arrival and assault by the enemy. We could imagine, then, the lack of restraint these people would indulge in during peacetime, seeing how they did not refrain from sapping their strength with the allurements of drunkenness even when the foe was on their doorstep! . Owing to the waste of time involved in such a long trek, the king shrank from his intention of assailing Demmin, with the result that our Danish band at this point turned back towards the ships and dispersed with the object of snatching loot and spreading flames everywhere. Though Cnut was satisfied to have kept only thirty companions with him, when he learnt through the report of a retainer of a rich village which was guarded by a large troop of barbarians he sent off Absalon, who then happened to be riding beneath his sovereign’s standard, to bring assistance to their comrades, escorted by half the attendant cavalry. Assuming command, the archbishop ordered his soldiers to march in loose order to disguise their fewness, so that they could present the image of a great throng with a column of haphazard appearance. On top of that he was concerned to launch a sally with more than usual abandon, to the end that their opponents might believe a larger squad of militia were following on behind them. When he had observed the companies of natives, who had deserted their village and encamped in the forest, Absalon saw that their force far outnumbered that of the Danes; since for this reason he wished it to appear that reinforcements were joining his comrades, he instructed several of his men to depart stealthily from their fellows, with orders to make their return immediately, without concealment, and he took care that this procedure was repeated a number of times. So it was believed that he was little by little receiving additional support; but as he had insufficient followers there to carry away their booty, he erected a huge bonfire and burnt all the treasures they had amassed from the village, thereby consigning to the flames everything he could not put to use, even though the people tending the blaze handled the destruction of so much wealth with aching hearts. This act accomplished, Absalon returned to the king. Having spent the night close to Lübchin and demolished what remained of the settlements, Cnut made the Rugians lay a causeway over the marsh which he had traversed with laborious effort; once he had retraced his path across it with next to no difficulty, he embarked and sailed to the port next to the River Peene. Although he was harassed by a persistent, savage tempest, Cnut rejected overtures for peace made by ambassadors on Bugislav’s behalf, yet, since his provisions were now running out, he was forced to call off his campaign. After passing the winter months in Denmark, Cnut returned by way of the River Swina with a large expeditionary force and devastated Gros win. Here Jarimar was proposing to inform the king of an enemy raid which he had detected from the sound of their trumpet-call, but Absalon forbade him to do this before their adversaries had actually come into view; the Rugian prince said he was beset by a double evil, for if some unlooked-for peril lit upon his allies and he remained silent, he could be condemned for negligence, whereas if he gave notice of it too early, he could be criticized for his timidity; a premature announcement appeared shameful, one that was too long delayed, remiss. Since his troops had not yet had their fill of plundering this province, Cnut whet their appetites with tales of Pomeranian riches, which by all accounts were remarkable and unimpaired. No one considered it a hardship to embark on such a distant military operation, even though it was predicted that they would have to endure grim conditions with shortage of food and trudging across solitary wastes, since a burning passion for booty lightened their dread of dangers. Rumour had it that the population were unwarlike and that strongholds and weapons were rare in that part of the world. And because our soldiers’ plans usually fell out according to their wishes, their hearts were fired with zeal to push on, nor did all their favourable experiences and triumphs in the past presage any disappointment for them in their current ambitions. None the less, as they journeyed on, provisions became insufficient and both horses and foot soldiers, laden with supplies, found their strength failing as the daily grind took its toll. These adversities made them retrace their steps and eventually sail back to Julin. Here Cnut thought up a scheme for attacking Kammin by stealth, since he preferred to make a covert rather than an open assault on it; led by men well acquainted with the area, he set out quickly on an exceedingly difficult itinerary through unknown, remote forests. Whereas the rest went astray, the Zealanders and Scanians, with Alexander, son of Absalon’s sister, carrying the standard and with Rugians as their guides, pursued a short, direct route as far as Kammin, which they would have captured, had they not lit fires and put the inhabitants on the alert. Bugislav, who then chanced to be staying in that town, reckoned he should rush out with Iris squadrons and charge our small troop; but Esbern, who had a shrewd knowledge and relevant experience of such matters, prevailed on the Danes to give ground deliberately in order to draw their opponents right away from the town, whereupon Bugislav for some time pressed hard on our soldiers’ backs; finally, realizing it was a trap, he called his disorderly rout back into line, reviling such a disgraceful exodus from the city with bitter curses. As soon as he perceived this, Esbern abandoned his pretence of flight and wheeled his standards round to face the foe, thereby causing Bugislav to tumble from his mount and, panic-stricken, to run for his life back inside the ramparts; not trusting to protect himself with arms or the swiftness of his steed, he thought to seek safety by speed of foot. Alexander, arriving at the gates with his banner, found no one to impede his progress, for our adversaries, trembling with fear of the foe, did not even have the nerve to defend the threshold of their city from harm. Satisfied with this meritorious achievement, the young Danes chose to withdraw gradually to their own ranks, for an appraisement of their meagre numbers overcame their temerity and stopped them from forcing themselves upon the city any further. When the king with the rest of his troops followed hard upon this advance by the young men, he dismounted close to the walls in order to make a fairly thoughtful inspection of the stronghold to see whether it could be stormed. As he resumed his saddle and encompassed the fortifications with his squadrons, certain priests of a religious order, with feet bare to signify the grief of their crushed and dejected spirits, arrived in ceremonial procession carrying their ecclesiastical emblems; after reminding Cnut of his father’s piety, on bended knees they entreated him to spare their churches, begging him not to set fire to sacred and secular dwellings indiscriminately, nor to unleash such ferocity on his enemies as to destroy the buildings of their communal worship, for in committing so foul a deed he would blemish all his own and his ancestors’ virtues. They added that Bugislav, too, requested friendly assurance and protection to allow him safe conduct to the king. Cnut replied that it was not his purpose to attack God, but men, and that in his intention to wage a just war he was averse to sacrilege. When they pointed out that were he to burn down that part of the municipality which was situated outside the walls of Kammin he would include in the general conflagration the churches which lay adjacent to people’s homes, their appeals assuaged his anger and he thought it better to let his enemies’ abodes remain unscathed sooner than do violence to divine and human precincts alike. Jubilant because he had delivered the town to them in response to their prayers, they affirmed their gratitude for his benevolence and departed in glad exultation, which they expressed in a chorus of hymn-singing. Once he had secured the safe conduct he had requested, Bugislav sought out Absalon and asked if he and Jarimar would come to meet him the following day, since he wished to employ the same men he had found amicable in so many talks as intermediaries for making peace with the king. Absalon suspected that his words were not truly dependable but meant to deceive, and so he refused to intervene to prevent the province being ravaged by fire, in case they should seem to have travelled so far under false pretences. Bugislav claimed that he owned no property himself outside the town walls, and implored Absalon to spare at least the holy edifices, including for their sake the buildings nearby. This favour was no sooner pleaded for than promised. The remainder of the day till dusk was then spent in the voracious wreckage of villages. Under pressure from the dangers that environed him, Bugislav kept his word to return at a stated time and, with Absalon and Jarimar giving him their hands, was conducted to the king, to whom he guaranteed to render a huge sum of money as a fine; however, he was not able to obtain terms of peace without accepting his princedom, which hitherto he had exercised through inheritance, by right of fief from the king’s hand, thus exchanging freedom for servitude; in his allegiance he must also match the tribute paid to Cnut by the people of Rügen. After confirming this agreement with the pledge of hostages, he bade farewell and returned with the same companions who had escorted him into the monarch’s presence. To ensure that Bugislav did not depart without being shown due respect, Absalon entertained him and his friends to a banquet; but in his overenthusiastic consumption of drink he became so helpless and fuddled that he was thought to be scarcely in his right mind. Drunkenness made him so forgetful of his lost sovereignty that instead of bewailing his subjection he proclaimed joy in his liberty. Since he had become paralysed through imbibing too much liquor, he was carried ashore and placed in a tent, at whose door Absalon ordered forty armed men to stand guard and spend the night keeping watch over him. It was the Danes’ custom to observe such scrupulousness in protecting their guests that they took as much care to attend to their safety as they did to their own. Later Bugislav, indebted to Absalon for his kindness, returned the thanks he owed for these services by directing Wendish sympathies towards the Danes. In the morning, once he had driven off sleep and clapped eyes on the sentinels, he praised Danish honesty with all his heart and bestowed on our people the most justified commendations, claiming that he felt more delight when he realized Absalon’s decency than resentment over the loss of his country. He was conveyed to the spot where his soldiers awaited him, and the next day, bringing with him the foremost Wendish noblemen, humbly threw himself on his knees at the king’s feet, with his wife and children at his side; he besought Cnut’s pardon for the long-standing rebellion and, after surrendering some hostages and promising more, he was not ashamed to accept as a dependant the governance which his father and grandfather had held with supreme power; what was his by inherited right he would now possess through another’s generous dispensation. Moved with pity for the prince, who had been brought to such a pitch of extremity, the king judged that he had now dealt Bugislav a heavy enough punishment and felt it preferable to grant him control over his realm rather than establish its use by the Danish crown; finally he raised the prostrate Bugislav to his feet. Cnut was no less affected by regard for his kinship with Bugislav’s sons through his mother. In this way jurisdiction over Wendish affairs, which had been denied Valdemar despite his continual efforts, was now assigned to Cnut with very little trouble, since his successful military venture had surpassed his father’s in its happy results. At that moment a massive swirl of cloud burst asunder, and shattering thunder crashes struck absolute terror into both races. Experts in divination reckoned that this was an omen auguring the downfall of the Wendish kingdom. Bugislav’s mind, preoccupied with the assurances he had given of his steadfastness, displayed until the very last day of his life an unshakable trustworthiness and a consciousness of the generosity he had received; so true was this that when he had been attacked by his last illness and was passing away on his bed, he summoned his friends and bound them by an oath to conduct his wife and children to the king, make him responsible for sharing the realm between the fatherless boys, ,md defend Cnut’s decision as if it were stipulated in their parent’s will; lie swore that he had no reservations about Danish reliability, seeing I hat he had many a time been given exceptional proofs of it, for this noble man recalled the great benefits the people of Rügen had gained by Their preservation of firm friendship with the Danes.