Thus runs the rede of Odin:
Cattle and Kindred, both must die;
And we ourselves will die as well;
But I know one thing that never dies,
The fair fame of him who earns it. Fame mattered if you were a Viking, and Egil Skallagrimson was made for fame. He was a study in contrasts; monstrously tall, monstrously strong, and monstrously ugly. And he was the greatest poet of his age.
His best friend was Arinbjorn the Hersir, the right-hand man of King Eirik Bloodaxe of Norway.
His worst enemy was King Eirik Bloodaxe of Norway - or, perhaps, the queen, Gunnhilda. She was a witch, a sorceress who could scent the winds of fate, and she hated Egil with an undying passion. The tale of their battle of wills could fill a saga - indeed, it
has filled a saga - and stretched over three generations.
They had slain his Uncle, over nothing but a vile slander; they'd robbed his wife of her inheritance by naming her the daughter of a slave; they'd sent armies and assassins to slay him.
He had defeated the armies, earning fame as a general. He'd slain the assassins and become a hero. He killed their son. And worst of all, he raised a scorn-pole, the worst insult imaginable; a direct slap at Eirik's renown.
Then there came a time of relative peace. Egil fled to Iceland where he built a family, a house and a Name, while Eirik tended to the matters of Kingship. Neither paid any thought to the other; but Fate was not yet done.
* * * * *It came to Egil that he was still a young man, with adventures still before him. The young King of England had once promised him two chests of silver. This seemed a good time to collect the debt, so he collected a crew and set sail.
Egil was a good sailor, but the winds heaved the waves into whitecaps and finally rose to a storm that foundered his ship on the shore of Northumbria, a Viking kingdom in what's now the north of England. This was a mixed blessing. They'd landed with no loss of life, and Egil knew the land; it had been the site of the victory that earned him his silver. They soon found out that Northumbria had a new ruler, however. Eirik Bloodaxe was no longer the King of Norway. He had been deposed. Now was the King of Northumbria, and made his court in the city of York just a few miles up the river.
Egil was a good sailor. And Egil was not a man who liked to run away - especially when the odds of actually getting away weren't particularly good. The only way out was through, so he marched upriver to the city of York and came to Arinbjorn's house that evening. He rapped on the door and when the Porter answered declared, "Ask your master if he would receive Egil Skallagrimson within the house or without."
The word came back, "Without."
When Arinbjorn returned, Egil told his tale and then asked for his friend's advice.
"Well Egil, since you have asked me I will tell you. My advice is this. Let us go to the King together and I will plead your case. I have been his man for many years and even followed him here to exile. It may be that he will grant me your life." Arinbjorn did not rely on gratitude alone, however. They collected a hundred of his strongest warriors to go with them, armed as if for war, and covered Egil up with a great cloak so that he could slouch down unseen among the men.
When they came to the royal Hall Eirik was stunned. "Arinbjorn! What brings you hear in such warlike state?"
"Sire, I beg a boon," said Arinbjorn.
"You have served us long and well. If it is right and proper we will do what we may. What is the boon?"
"I beg a life, your Majesty."
"A life? 'Tis a most unusual request, but . . ." Then the King paused as his wife leaned over to whisper in his ear. Gunnhilda was a witch - a prophetess, a seer who could scent the winds of fate. Her sleep had been poor for more than a week, and now suspicion filled her eyes as she bent toward the King.
Eirik snapped up when she finished. "Whose life?" he demanded. And then a troll loomed up from the crowd at the back of the hall. Eirik went white.
"
Egil Skallagrimson? You would ask for the life of Egil Skallagrimson in my court?!"
Gunnhilda cut him off with a scream. "Kill him! Kill him now, here, tonight. No words, no waiting, just kill him. Kill him, kill him, kill him!"
In the silence that followed Arinbjorn all but spat. "And what fame would that bring the to King? To kill a man who comes to his court unasked? Who begs nothing but the chance to present his case? And Egil has a case, as everyone hear knows well." Gunnhilda ground her teeth, but Arinbjorn continued.
"Besides, to slay a man at night is murder, not justice." And to this she could say nothing ground her teeth, for it was an ancient law beyond the power of any king.
Eirik paused. He glanced at his wife, and at Arinbjorn; at the hundred armed men; and at Egil Skallagrimson. "Very well," he finally said. "In the morning. You, Arinbjorn, shall ensure that Egil returns. But hear it now: there are no words - there is no coin - that will buy the life of Egil Skallagrimson in my court!"
* * * * * When they arrived back at the house Egil turned to his friend. "That certainly worked well," he said. "What do we do now?"
"Well Egil, since you have asked me I will tell you. I heard of a case in Sweden once, where a man who'd been condemned wrote a poem in praise of the King. The King felt that it so increased his fame that he would be shamed if he put the man to death, and so his life was spared. You are a poet, Egil. I suggest that you get to work."
Egil bowed his head. "Since I asked I will do as you suggest, Arinbjorn, but I have to tell you that these are words I never thought to speak."
The writing of the poem was an adventure in itself. Gunnhilda sent birds to sing in the rafters and wolves to cry by the door, and the wind swirled and howled all night. But Arinbjorn took up his sword and drove away the beasts, while the wind sank into the words. By the time that dawn arrived, Egil was ready.
* * * * * Arinbjorn escorted his friend to Eirik's court in the company of two hundred men, armed and armored for war. The King was waiting with eight hundred of his own. The hall was packed. There was barely enough space to breath, but a path opened wide as the pair came in.
Arinbjorn strode ahead. "Your Majesty, the facts of this matter are well known. Egil's uncle . . ."
Eirik cut him off. "You shut up. You have served us well, Arinbjorn, and you've been well rewarded. What happens now does not concern you. This is between Egil Skallagrimson and me."
Egil stepped into the stillness, pushed his friend aside, and began to speak.
By the end of the first verse, the hall fell utterly still; by the end of the second, every man there knew that this was the greatest poem ever made; by the fifth they realized that Eirik Bloodaxe was now immortal - and that Egil Skallagrimson had given it to him. And it went on, for twenty full verses, every one a hymn to the deeds, and glory, and the everlasting renown of Eirik Bloodaxe.
When it was done, no one spoke until Eirik finally managed to concede, "The poem was . . . well delivered." He paused again and then spat, "But there will be no peace between us Egil Skallagrimson. You've served us well, Arinbjorn; this once, his life is yours. But you, Egil, shall contrive your affairs so that we never meet again. I don't want to hear of you. I don't want to hear of your children. I don't want my children to hear of your children's children! Get out. Get out and never come back."
Egil got.
Escorted by Arinbjorn and all his men, he rode without pause to the safe lands of the King of England. There they stopped for a while, and Egil gave to his friend many rich gifts in thanks for his counsel. As they parted, though, he said these words: "You serve a niggard king, Arinbjorn. Anyone else would have showered me with gold for a poem such as that, and filled my hands with jewels. But this Eirik of yours? All he has to give is a head - and an ugly one at that. But a gift is a gift, and I suppose I'll have to keep it."
Arinbjorn laughed and said his farewells. They never again met in life.
* * * * *And that is the tale of "The Head Ransom", as it occurred in the year 952 A.D., when Egil Skallagrimson - for the first time in all the long history of the North - spoke a verse in rhyme.
