The Story of Norway

by Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen

This was the end of the "man-measuring"; and both kings were very wroth.

Several other incidents are recorded, which show that Sigurd's jealousy of his brother would, at length, have brought about a breach of the peace, if death had not suddenly made an end of their intercourse. Eystein died at the age of thirty-three, August 29, 1122. The youngest brother, Olaf, had died (1115) before he reached manhood, and Sigurd was accordingly the sole ruler in the land. He was now free from the restraint, which Eystein's pacific disposition had imposed upon him, and he presently availed himself of his liberty to make a crusade into the Swedish province Smaaland, where paganism yet lingered (1123). He attacked the town of Kalmar, from which incident the war has been called the Kalmar War. Whether he succeeded in converting the pagans is not known; nor are any other results of the crusade recorded. After his return from this campaign, a great calamity befell him. Once, it is told, when he was in his bath, he called out, that there was a fish in the bath-tub, and ran about trying to catch it. It was the first symptom of the insanity which darkened the remaining years of his life. He was often sane for long periods; but, at times, he would sit and brood with wildly rolling eyes, or break out into paroxysms of wrath. Once, on the day of Pentecost, when his madness came upon him, he took a precious book,[A] which he had brought with him from Constantinople, and, gazing gloomily at Queen Malmfrid, who was sitting at his side, said: "How many things can change in a man's lifetime! When I returned to my country, I owned two things which seemed to me most precious,—this book and the queen. Now the one seems only more worthless than the other. The queen does not know how hideous she is; for a goat's horn is sticking out of her head. * * * And this book here is good for nothing."

[A] A codex written in letters of gold, containing probably a portion of the Bible.

Then he rose, gave the queen a slap, and flung the book into the fire. But in the same instant, a young taper-bearer, named Ottar Birting, jumped forward, snatched the book from the flames, and stepped fearlessly before the king. "Different it is now, my lord," he said, "from the time, when thou didst sail with pomp and splendor to Norway, and all thy friends hastened with joy to meet thee. * * * Now the days of sorrow have come upon us; for to this glorious feast many of thy friends have come, but they cannot be glad because of thy sad condition. Be now so kind, good my lord, to accept this advice. Rejoice by thy gentleness first the queen, whom thou hast so sorely offended, and then all thy chieftains, thy men-at-arms, thy friends, and thy servants."

"How darest thou, ugly, low-born tenant's son, give me counsel?" cried the king, springing up and drawing his sword.

All the guests expected, in the next moment, to see Ottar's head roll on the floor. But Ottar stood, gazing calmly into the king's face, and did not stir from the spot. Then Sigurd suddenly stayed his hand and let the sword fall gently upon his shoulder. He rebuked his liegemen, for not having protested against his insane acts, and thanked the youth for his courage.

"Go, therefore, Ottar," he finished; "and take thy seat among the liegemen. Thou shalt no more wait upon any one."

Ottar Birting became in later years a man of great fame and authority.

It may have been due to the unsoundness of his mind that Sigurd, in the last years of his life committed an act, which, however generous it may seem, was scarcely politically defensible. In the year 1129, a young Irishman named Harold Gilchrist arrived in Norway and declared that he was a son of Magnus Barefoot. It was known that King Magnus had had a mistress in Ireland, and during his last battle he is said to have recited a verse about an Irish girl, whom he loved above all others. It is therefore probable that Harold Gilchrist was, or at least believed himself to be, heir to the throne of Norway. He went to King Sigurd, who listened to his story, and allowed him to prove the truth of his statement by submitting to the ordeal by fire. He walked over the red-hot ploughshares and endured the test successfully. It was the priests who had charge of such ordeals, and it was believed that they had the result in their power. Harold Gilchrist, or Gille, as the Norsemen called him, was now acknowledged by the king as his brother, on condition that he should make no claim to the government, as long as Sigurd or his son Magnus was alive. It was, however, no easy task for the king to secure for the long-necked, thin-legged, and lanky Irishman the respect which was due to a member of the royal family. In the first place Harold's appearance was against him, and in the second place, he stammered and could scarcely make himself understood in Norwegian. The king's son, Magnus, hated and ridiculed him, and among the liegemen there were many who believed him to be an unscrupulous adventurer. A few years before his death, Sigurd put away Queen Malmfrid, disregarding the warning of Bishop Magne, and married a beautiful and high-born woman, named Cecilia. He did not long survive this marriage. Many of his friends urged him, for the good of his soul, to dissolve it. But the fascination, which Cecilia exercised over him, was so great, that he could not bear the thought of losing her. At last, when he was taken ill, she herself suggested a separation.

"I did not know that thou, too, didst despise me like the rest," he answered sadly. His face flushed purple, and he turned away from her. His illness now took a turn for the worse, and on March 26, 1130, he died, forty years old. Dissipations had undermined his health, and his insanity had long unfitted him for the cares of government. For all that, there seems to be a halo about his name, partly on account of his early fame, and partly because of the good crops and commercial prosperity which prevailed during his reign. He seemed to the people a grand figure, and, in spite of his great faults, every inch a king. What may have contributed more than any thing else to endear his memory to later generations was the evil times that broke over the land at his death. He seemed himself to have a foreboding of this, when he said: