‘And did the plan work?’
My father-in-law let out the self-satisfied grunt of a storyteller who knows he has his audience on tenterhooks. ‘It nearly did,’ he said. ‘A servant woman saw the whole affair. She saw Grettir stop, then sit down on the ground and start fiddling with the head of the spear. Apparently he was removing the pin which holds the spear head to the shaft. If he missed his throw, he didn’t want
Oxenmight pulling the spear out of the ground and using it against him. But when Grettir threw the spear at Oxenmight the head came off too early and the spear went harmlessly astray. That left Grettir armed with his sword and a small shield against the grown man and the youth. Oxenmight did not get his name for nothing, so it seemed that the odds were now against Grettir.’
‘I’ve heard that Grettir is not the sort of man to back off from a fight,’ I said.
‘He didn’t. Grettir went up to Oxenmight and the two men started to circle one another, holding their swords. Oxenmight’s lad saw his chance to slip around behind Grettir and bury the axe in his spine. He was just about to make his stroke when Grettir lifted up his sword to hack at Oxenmight and saw the lad out of the corner of his eye. Instead of bringing the sword forwards, he kept swinging it up and over and brought it down back-handed on the boy’s head. The blow split the lad’s skull like a turnip. Meanwhile his father had seen his opening and rushed forward, but Grettir deflected his sword blow with his shield, and then took a cut at his opponent. That Grettir is so strong that his sword smashed right through Oxenmight’s shield as if it was made of straw, and struck his opponent in the neck. Killed him on the spot. Grettir returned immediately to his mother’s house and announced to her that he had avenged the death of her oldest son Atli. She was delighted and told Grettir that he was a worthy member of her family, but that he had better be careful as Oxenmight’s people would be sure to seek retribution.’
‘Where’s Grettir now?’ I asked, trying not to seem too interested.
‘Can’t be sure,’ Audun answered. ‘He went over to see Snorri Godi and asked if he could stay there, but Snorri turned him down. There’s a rumour that Grettir is hiding out with one of the farmers over in Westfiords.’
Later my obnoxious father-in-law informed me that Grettir had surfaced on the moors, living rough and keeping himself fed by making raids on the local farmsteads or sheepstealing. He was moving from place to place, usually alone but sometimes in the company of one or two other outlaws.
It was not until the spring that I met Grettir again and then completely unexpectedly. I was on my way to visit Thrand when I encountered a large group of farmers, about twenty of them. From their manner I saw at once that they were very excited, and to my surprise I saw Grettir among them. He was in the middle of the group, being led along on a rope with his hands tied behind his back.
‘Can you tell me what’s going on?’ I asked the farmer at the head of the group.
‘It’s Grettir the Strong. We finally caught him,’ said one of the farmers, a big, red-faced man dressed in homespun clothes. He was looking very pleased with himself. ‘One of our shepherds reported seeing him on the moors, and we got together and stalked him. We had been suffering from his raids and he had got overconfident. He was asleep when we found him, and we managed to get close enough to overpower him, though a couple of us got badly bruised in the scuffle.’
‘So where are you taking him?’ I asked.
‘We can’t decide,’ said the farmer. ‘No one wants to take charge of him until we can bring him before our local chieftain for judgement. He’s too strong and violent, and he would be a menace if kept captive.’
I glanced over at Grettir. He was standing, with his hands still bound behind his back and looking stone-faced. He did not acknowledge that he knew me. The rest of the farmers had halted and were continuing with what was obviously a long-running argument, whether to hand Grettir over to Thorir of Gard for the reward or to the local chieftain for a trial.
‘Let’s hang him here and now,’ said one of the captors. Judging by the bruise on his face, he was one of the men whom Grettir had hit during the capture. ‘That way, we can take the corpse to Thorir of Gard and claim the reward.’ There was a murmur of agreement from some of his companions, though the rest were looking doubtful. In a few moments they would reach a decision and there would be no chance to influence them.
‘I want to speak up for Grettir,’ I called out. ‘I sailed with him last year, and if he hadn’t been on board our ship would have foundered. He saved my life and the lives of the rest of the crew. He’s not a common criminal and he was convicted at the Althing without a chance to defend himself. If any of you have suffered from his robberies, I promise I will make good the loss.’ Then I had an inspiration. ‘It will be to your credit if you are generous enough to spare his life. People will talk about how magnanimous you were and remember the deed. I suggest that you make Grettir swear that he will move away from this district, and not prey on you any more. And that he’ll not take his revenge on any one of you. He’s a man of honour and will keep his word.’
It was the mention of honour and fame that swayed them. In every farmer, however humble, there lurked a shred of that same sense of honour and thirst for fame that Grettir had expressed to me. There was a general muttering as they discussed my proposal. It became clear that they were relieved that they would not have the dirty work of taking the outlaw’s life. Finally — after a long and awkward pause - their spokesman accepted my suggestion.
‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘If Grettir clears off and agrees never to trouble us again, we’ll let him go.’ Looking at Grettir, he asked, ‘Do you give us your word?’
Grettir nodded.
Someone untied Grettir’s bonds, loosening the knots cautiously and then stood back.
Grettir rubbed his wrists and then walked across to embrace me. ‘Thank you, sworn brother,’ he said. Then he stepped aside from the path and struck out across the moor.
Grettir kept his word to the farmers. He never came back into the district, but stayed away and made his home in a cave on the far side of the moor. For my part, the revelation that I was Grettir’s sworn brother put an end to my quiet life. Some of my neighbours now looked at me with curiosity, others gave me a wide berth, and Gunnhildr flew into a rage. When she heard what had happened, she confronted me. Not only was I an unbeliever, she shrilled, I was consorting with the worst sort of criminals. Grettir was the spawn of the devil, a creature of Satan. He was twisted and evil. She had heard that he was a warlock, in touch with demons and ghouls.
Accustomed to my wife’s ready grievances, I said nothing, and was vaguely relieved when she announced that she would in future live with her parents, and that if I continued my friendship with Grettir she would seriously consider a divorce.
My promise to pay compensation to the farmers Grettir had robbed contributed significantly to Gunnhildr’s anger. The truth was that I could not afford the reparations. I was penniless and little more than a tenant for my father-in-law. Gunnhildr was very much her father’s daughter, so prising money out of her grasp in order to pay the farmers was nigh impossible. It was useless to ask if she would let me use any of our joint property to settle the farmers’ claims, and the only item of value which I had ever owned - the fire ruby - was now Gunnhildr’s mundur, and no longer mine, even as surety for a loan. For a few days after my encounter with Grettir I was hopeful that his victims would not hold me to my promise, and I would see nothing more of them. But though the farmers had an appetite for honour and renown, they were still peasants at heart and they valued hard cash. A succession of men showed up at my door, claiming that they had been robbed by my sworn brother and asking for recompense. One said he had been held up on the roadway and his horse stolen from him; another that valuable clothing had been stripped from him at knife point; several claimed that Grettir had rustled their sheep and cattle. Of course there was no way of knowing whether their claims were genuine. The sheep and cattle might have wandered off on their own, and I was fairly sure that the values the owners put on their losses were often exaggerated. But I had appealed to their sense of honour when obtaining Grettir’s freedom and, after taking such a high-minded stance, I was hardly in a position to quibble over the precise cost of their claims. I found myself faced with a sum that I had no hope of paying off.
Thrand, of course, had heard what had happened. On my next visit to his house, he noticed that I looked distracted and asked the reason. When I told him that I was worried about my debts, he merely asked, ‘How much is it that you owe?’
‘A little less than seven marks in all,’ I said.
He walked across to his bed where it stood against the wall, reached underneath and pulled out a small, locked chest. Placing it on the table between us, he produced a key. When he threw back the lid, I found myself looking at a sight I had last seen when I had worked for Brithmaer the moneyer. The strong box was two-thirds full of silver. Very little was in coin. I saw bits and fragments of jewellery, segments of silver tores, broken pieces of silver plate, half a silver brooch, several flattened finger rings. They were jumbled together where Thrand had tossed them casually into his hoard chest. From my days as a novice monk I recognised part of a silver altar cross, and — with a little lurch of my heart — I saw a piece of jewellery inscribed with the same sinuous writing that had been on the silver coins of Aelfgifu’s favourite necklace.
‘You know how to use this, I imagine,’ Thrand asked, picking something out from the clutter. At first sight I thought it was one of the metal styluses that I had used in my writing lessons in the monastery. But Thrand was searching for two more items. When he put them together I recognised a weighing scale, similar to the ones that Brithmaer had used, but smaller and constructed so that it could be dismantled, suitable for a traveller.
‘Here,’ Thrand said. ‘Hold these.’
He sifted through his hoard, picking out the pieces for me to weigh as I told him how much I owed to each farmer. Once or twice, when he could not find a piece of silver that matched the sum, he took out his sword, laid a larger piece of silver on the table, and chopped off the correct weight. ‘That’s how we did it in the old days,’ he commented, ‘when we divided up the spoils. No bothering with coins; a mark of silver is just as good by weight as when it is stamped with a king’s head.’ Sometimes more so, I thought, remembering Brithmaer’s forgeries.
I was tactful enough not to ask Thrand where he had acquired his treasure and said only, ‘I give you my word that I will repay your generosity when I have the chance.’
In reply he said, ‘This is a gift, Thorgils. It does me no good locked away here in a box,’ and he quoted the Havamal again:
‘If wealth a man has won for himself
Let him never suffer in need
Oft he saves for a foe what he plans for a friend
For much goes worse than we wish.’
When I had paid off the last of Grettir’s victims, I decided it was time to pay a visit to my sworn brother. I had no idea where to find him, so I set off across the moors in the direction that he had taken when I had saved him from the angry farmers. As it turned out, Grettir saw me coming from a distance away. He had made his lair in a cave on high ground, from where he could keep a watch for the approach of strangers, and he came down the hillside to greet me. He led me back to his cave, the two of us scrambling up a near-vertical rock face to reach his home. He had hung a grey blanket across the entrance, the colour matching the rock so that you did not realise that the cave was there until you were a few paces away. Inside were a fireplace, a place to sleep, where he had laid out his leather sleeping sack, and a store of dried food. He took his drinking water from a small rill that drained at the foot of the cliff. When I commented on a pile of fist-sized rocks that he had stacked near the entrance of the cave, he explained that he had collected them to use as missiles. ‘If anyone tries to storm the cave,’ he said, ‘there’s only one approach, and that is straight up the cliff. I can keep them at bay for hours.’