The Northmen in Britain

by Eleanor Hull

Then Hoskuld noticed that right across the back of the booth there was a curtain drawn; when the man drew the curtain, Hoskuld saw that there were twelve women seated behind it in a line across the booth. Gilli said that Hoskuld might examine the women if he chose. Then Hoskuld looked carefully at them, and he saw one woman seated on the outskirts of the tent, a little apart from the rest, very poor and ill-clad, but, so far as he could judge, fair to look upon. Then he asked: “What is the price of this woman if I should wish to buy her?” “Three silver pieces must be weighed out to me for that woman,” Gilli replied. “It seems to me,” said Hoskuld, “that you charge highly for this woman, for that is the price of three.” “Choose any of the other women,” said Gilli, “and you shall have them at the price of one silver mark; but this bondswoman I value more highly than the other eleven.” “I must see,” said Hoskuld, “how much silver I have in the purse in my belt; take you the scales while I search my purse and see what I have to spend.”

Then Gilli said: “As you seem to wish to have this woman, Hoskuld, I will deal frankly with you in the matter. There is a great drawback to her which I wish to let you know about before the bargain is struck between us.” Hoskuld was surprised, and he asked what it was. “The woman,” said Gilli, “is dumb. I have tried in every way to persuade her to talk, but not a word have I ever got out of her, and sure I am that she knows not how to speak.” “Bring out the scales, nevertheless,” said Hoskuld, “and weigh my purse, that we may see how much silver is in it.” Then the silver was poured out, and it came to just three marks. “Now,” said Hoskuld, “our bargain is concluded, for the marks are yours, and I will have the woman. I take it that you have behaved honestly in this affair, and have had no wish to deceive me therein.” When he brought her home, Hoskuld said to her: “The clothes Gilli the Rich gave you do not appear to be very grand, though it is true that it was more of a business for him to dress twelve women than for me to dress one.” With that he opened a chest and took out some fine women’s clothes and gave them to her; and when she was dressed every one was surprised to see how fair and noble she looked in her handsome array. She was still quite young, for she had been taken prisoner of war and carried away to Europe when she was only fifteen winters old, and it was remarked by all that she was of high birth and breeding, and that, in spite of her want of speech, she was no fool.

When Hoskuld brought his slave home to Iceland, Jorunn, his wife, asked the name of the girl whom he had brought with him. “You will think I am mocking you,” said Hoskuld, “when I tell you that I do not know her name.” “In that you must be deceiving me,” said Jorunn; “for it is impossible that you have been all this time with this girl without inquiring even her name.” So Hoskuld told her the truth, that the girl was deaf and dumb, and he prayed that she might be kindly treated, more especially on that account. Jorunn said she had no mind to ill-use her, least of all if she was dumb. But nevertheless she treated the poor girl with disdain, and made a waiting-maid of her, and one day it is told that while Melkorka (for that was the woman’s name) was aiding her mistress to undress, Jorunn seized the stockings that were lying on the floor and smote her about the head. Melkorka got angry at this, and Hoskuld had to come in and part them. He soon saw that the mistress and maid could not live happily together, therefore he prepared to send Melkorka away to a dwelling he had bought for her up in Salmon-river-dale, on the waste land south of the Salmon River. And all the time the desolate girl, either from pride and despair or because she could speak no language but her native tongue, kept up the illusion that she was deaf and dumb. Neither kind nor unkind treatment could force her to open her lips.

There came a time when Melkorka had a son, a very beautiful boy, who at two years old could run about and talk like boys of four. And Hoskuld often visited the two, for he was proud of the boy, and he named him Olaf. Early one morning, as Hoskuld had gone out to look about his manor, the weather being fine, and the sun but little risen in the sky and shining brightly, it happened that he heard some voices of people talking: so he went down to where a little brook ran past the home-field slope, and he saw two people there whom he recognized as the boy Olaf and his mother; then he discovered for the first time that she was not speechless, for she was talking a great deal to her son.

It was in Irish that she was talking. Then Hoskuld went to her and asked her name, and said it was useless to try and hide it any longer. They sat down together on the edge of the field, and she told him of her birth and history, that her name was Melkorka, and that she was daughter of a king in Ireland. Hoskuld said that she had kept silence far too long about such an illustrious descent. From that time forward Jorunn grew more bitter against the girl, but Hoskuld sheltered her, and brought her everything she needed. And Olaf grew up into a noble youth, superior to other men, both on account of his beauty and courtesy. Among the things his mother taught him was a perfect knowledge of her native tongue, which was destined to stand him in good stead in later days.

At the age of seven years Olaf was taken in fosterage by a wealthy childless man, named Thord, who bound himself to leave Olaf all his money. At twelve years the lad already began to ride to the annual Thing meeting, though men from other countrysides considered it a great errand to go; and they wondered at the splendid way he was made. So handsome and distinguished was he even then, and so particular about his war-gear and raiment, that Hoskuld playfully nicknamed him “the Peacock,” and this name stuck to him, so that he is known in Icelandic story as Olaf Pa, or the Peacock. When Olaf was a man of eighteen winters Melkorka told him that she had all along set her mind upon his going to Ireland, to find out her relatives there. “Here,” said she, “you are but the son of a slave-woman, but my father is Myrkjartan [Murtough], king amongst the Irish, and it would be easy for you to betake you on board the ship that is now in harbour at Bord-Eye and sail in her to Ireland.” Melkorka even determined, partly to gain money for her son’s journey and partly to spite Hoskuld, whom she had never forgiven for having bought her as a slave, to marry a man who had long wished to wed her, but for whom she had no affection. He gladly provided all that Olaf required for his voyage in return for Melkorka’s hand, and Olaf made him ready to go. Before he left, Melkorka gave him a great gold finger-ring, saying, “This gift my father gave me for a teething-gift, and I know he will recognize it when he sees it.” She also put into his hands a knife and a belt, and bade him give them to her old foster-nurse. “I am sure,” she said, “they will not doubt these tokens.” And still further Melkorka spake: “I have fitted you out for home as best I know how, and taught you to speak Irish, so that it will make no difference to you where you come ashore in Ireland.” After that they parted.

There arose a fair wind when Olaf got on board, and they sailed straightway out to sea. On the way they visited Norway, and so well did King Harald think of Olaf that he would fain have had him stay there at his Court, but after a while he set forth the object of his journey, and the King would not delay him, but gave him a ship well fitted out, and bade him come again to him on his return. They met unfavourable weather through the summer, with plentiful fogs and little wind, and what there was contrary, and they drifted wide of their mark, until on those on board fell sea-bewilderment, so that they sailed for days and nights, none of them knowing whither they were steering. One night the watchman leapt up and bade them all awake, for he said there was land in sight, and so close that they came near to striking upon it. The steersman was for clearing away from the land if they could; but Olaf said: “That is no good way out of our plight, for I see reefs astern. Let down the sail at once, until daylight comes, and then we can discover what land it is.” Then they cast anchor, and they touched bottom at once. During the night all on board disputed as to what land they could have come to; but when daylight arose they recognized that it was a desolate part of the Irish coast, far from any town; and Orn the steersman said: “I think the place we have arrived at is not good; it is far from any harbour or market-town where we should be received in peace; here we are left high and dry, like sticklebacks, and according to the Irish law it is likely they will claim our merchandise as a lawful prize, seeing that we are near the shore; for they consider as flotsam ships that are farther from the ebb of the tide than ours.” But Olaf advised them to tow out their boat to a deeper pool in the sea that he had noticed during the ebb tide, and then no harm would happen to them. Hardly had they done so than all the people of the neighbourhood came crowding down to the shore, for the news spread of the drifting in of a Norwegian vessel close to the land. Two of the Irish pushed out in a boat and demanded who they were, and bade them, according to the law of the country, to give up their goods. But Olaf’s knowledge of Irish stood him in good stead, for he answered them in their own tongue that such laws held good only for those who had no interpreter with them, and that they were not come to plunder, but as peaceful men. The Irish, not satisfied with this, raised a great war-cry, and waded out to try to drag the ship in-shore, the water being no deeper for most of the way than up to their arm-pits, or to the belts of those who were tallest. But just where the ship was anchored the pool was so deep that they could not get a footing. Olaf bade his crew fetch out their weapons and range themselves in battle-line from stem to stern, their shields hung upon the bulwarks, and overlapping all along the ship’s sides, and a spear-point thrust out below each shield.

Then Olaf, clad in gold-inlaid helmet and coat of mail, his barbed spear in his hand and his gold-hilted sword at his side, walked forward to the prow; before him was his red shield, chased with a lion all in gold. So threatening did things look that fear shot through the hearts of the Irish, and they thought that it would not be so easy a matter to master the booty as they had imagined. They changed their minds, and now thought that it was but the herald of one of those warlike incursions of which they had had such frequent and terrible experience. They turned back, and sent with all haste to the King, who happened to be but a short way off, feasting in the neighbourhood. This King, who rode down speedily with a large company of followers, looking a party of the bravest, proved to be Murtough, or Myrkjartan, Olaf’s grandfather. He was a valiant-looking prince, and the two companies, Icelanders and Irish, must have made a brave sight as they stood opposite to each other, one on the ship and the other on the shore, divided only by a narrow strip of shallow water. The shipmates of Olaf grew hushed when they saw so large a body of fighting-men, for they deemed that here were great odds to deal with. But Olaf put them in heart, saying, “Our affairs are in a good way; for the shouts of the Irish are not against us, but in greeting to Murtough, their king.” Then they rode so near the ship that each could hear what the other said. The King asked who was master of the ship, and whence they had put to sea, and whose men they were. Then he asked searchingly about Olaf’s kindred, for he found that this man was of haughty bearing, and would not answer any further than the King asked. Olaf answered: “Let it be known to you that we ran our ship afloat from the coast of Norway, and that these men with me are of high birth and of the bodyguard of King Harald, lord of Norway. As for my own race, I have, sire, to tell you this, that my father lives in Iceland, and is named Hoskuld, a man of good birth; but as for my mother’s kindred, I think it likely that they are better known to you than to myself. For my mother is Melkorka, and it has been told me of a truth that she is your daughter, O King. And it is this that has driven me forth on this long journey, to know the truth of the matter, and to me it is of great import what answer you have to make to me.” At that the King grew silent, and hesitated long, consulting with his counsellors; for though it was clearly seen that Olaf was a high-born man, and that he spoke the best of Irish, the King doubted whether his story could be true. But he stood up, and offered peace and friendship to those that were in the ship. “But as to what you tell me, Olaf, we will talk further of that.” After this they pushed forth their gangways to the shore, and Olaf and his company went on land; and the Irish marvelled to see such warrior-looking men. Olaf greeted the King, taking off his helmet and bowing before him, and the King welcomed him gladly. They fell then to talking, and Olaf pleaded his case in a long and frank speech, and when he had done he took from his finger the ring that his mother had given him at parting, and held it out toward the King, saying: “This ring, King, you gave to Melkorka as a teething-gift.” The King took the ring and looked at it, and his face grew red, and then he said: “True enough are the tokens, and none the less notable to me is it that you have so many features of your mother’s family, so that by those alone you might easily be recognized, and because of these things I will, in sooth, Olaf, acknowledge your kinship before all these men, and ask you to my Court with all your following; but the honour of you all will depend on what worth as a man I find you to be when I try you further.” Then the King commanded that riding-horses should be given to them, and they left some of the crew to guard the ship, while they rode on together to Dublin.

Men thought it great tidings that the King should be journeying to Dublin with the son of his daughter, who had been carried off in war when she was only fifteen winters old. But most startled of all at the news was the foster-mother of Melkorka, who was bed-ridden, both from heavy sickness and because of her great age; yet without even a staff to support her she arose from her bed and walked to meet Olaf.

The King said to Olaf: “Here is come Melkorka’s foster-mother, and she will wish to hear all you can tell her about your mother’s life.” Olaf took the old woman in his arms and set her on his knee and told her all the news; he put into her hands the knife and the belt that Melkorka had sent, so that the aged woman recognized the gifts, and wept for joy. “It is easy to see,” she said, “that Melkorka’s son is one of high mettle, and no wonder, seeing what stock he comes of.” And with joy the old dame seemed to grow strong and well, and was in good spirits all the winter.