Sigurd Buesson was loudly acclaimed for his story, and everyone praised the good use he had made of his hair. They all discussed his story across the tables, admiring his good luck and that of Vagn; and Orm said to Sigurd: “There is much that is common knowledge in these parts which Toke and I are ignorant of, because we have been out of the country for so long a time. Where is Vagn now, and what happened to him after he escaped from the log with his life? From all that you say, his luck sounds to me greater than that of any other man I ever heard tell of.”
“That is so,” replied Sigurd, “nor does it stop halfway. We rose high in Jarl Erik’s favor, and after a while he sought out Thorkel Leira’s daughter, whom he found to be even more beautiful than he had imagined her; nor did she offer any objection to helping him to fulfill the remainder of his promise; so that now they are married, and are well contented. He is thinking of coming back to Bornholm with her, as soon as he can find the time to do so; but the last heard of him was that he was still in Norway and was complaining that it would be many months before he could return home. For he became master of so many fine houses when he married the girl, and of so many great estates attached to them, that it will be no swift matter to sell them for the prices they deserve to command; and it is not Vagn’s custom to sell things cheaply when he does not have to do so.”
Toke said: “There is one thing in your story that I cannot help wondering about. I mean, your father’s, Bue’s treasure-chest, which he took with him when he jumped overboard. Did you fish it up before you left Norway? Or did someone else get there before you? If it is still lying on the sea-bed, I know what I should do were I to go to Norway. I should drag the sea for that treasure-chest, for Bue’s silver must have been worth a great fortune.”
“They fished long for it,” said Sigurd, “not only the Norwegians, but also such of Bue’s men as survived. Many men dragged for it with grappling hooks, but they caught nothing; and one man from the Vik who dived down with a rope was never seen again. Then all of us concluded that Bue was such a Viking as would wish to keep his treasure with him on the sea-bed, and that he would have no mercy on any man who tried to take it from him; for he was a strong man, and he loved his wealth. Wise men know that those who dwell in the Great Halls are stronger than when they were alive; and this may also be true of Bue, though he does not dwell in the Great Halls but on the deep sea-bed beside his treasure-chest.”
“It is a pity that so much silver should be lost,” said Toke. “But, as you say, even the boldest of men would not willingly choose to be at the bottom of the sea with Broad Bue’s arms locked about his waist.”
So that evening drew to its close.
The next evening King Harald wanted to hear about Styrbjörn’s adventures among the Wends and Kures. Styrbjörn said that he was no story-teller; but an Icelander who was of his following took up the tale. His name was Björn Asbrandsson, and he was a famous warrior, besides being a great poet to boot, like all wanderers from Iceland. Although he was somewhat drunk, he managed to improvise some highly skillful verses in King Harald’s honor in a meter known as töglag. This was the latest and most difficult verse-form that the Icelandic poets had invented, and indeed his poem was so artfully contrived that little could be understood of its content. Everybody, however, listened with an appearance of understanding, for any man who could not understand poetry would be regarded as a poor specimen of a warrior; and King Harald praised the poem and gave the poet a gold ring. Toke plunged his head between his hands on the table and sighed disconsolately; this, he muttered, was real poetry, and he could see that he would never be able to succeed in writing the sort of verses that won gold rings.
The man from Iceland, whom some called Björn Champion-of-the-men-of-Breidifjord,2 and who had been a follower of Styrbjörn for two summers, then went on to tell them of Styrbjörn’s various campaigns and the notable things that had occurred during them. He was a fine talker and continued for several hours without anyone wearying of his story; and everybody knew that what he was telling them was the truth, since Styrbjörn himself was among his listeners. He gave them many examples of Styrbjörn’s boldness and of his great luck, and also spoke of the rich booty that his followers had won. Finally he concluded by reciting an ancient poem about Styrbjörn’s ancestors, beginning with the gods and ending with his uncle Erik, who was now reigning in Uppsala. To this poem he had himself added a final strophe, which ran as follows:
Northwards soon
To crave his birthright
Styrbjörn shall row
With a hundred keels.
His gallant men
With victory flaming
Shall make full merry
In Erik’s halls.
This was greeted with tremendous applause, and many of the diners jumped up on their benches to drink to Styrbjörn’s luck. Styrbjörn ordered a costly drinking-cup to be brought to him, and presented it to the poet, saying: “This is not your bardic crown, O Icelander; that shall be set upon your brow when I sit on my throne in Uppsala. There shall be wealth worth winning there for every man of my followers; for my uncle Erik is a thrifty man and has hoarded much that we can put to better use than by allowing it to tarnish in his coffers. When the spring buds open, I shall sail northwards to open those coffers, and any man who wishes to accompany me shall be welcome.”
Both among King Harald’s followers and among King Sven’s there were many whose blood was fired by this challenge, and who roared at once that they would keep him company; for the extent of King Erik’s wealth was famous throughout the north, besides which, Uppsala had not been plundered since the time of Ivar of the Broad Embrace. Jarl Sibbe of the Small Islands was drunk and was having difficulty in controlling both his head and his wine-cup, but he joined in the thunder of acclamation, roaring that he would bring five ships to row north with Styrbjörn, for, he said, he was now beginning to grow stiff and sleepy, and it was better for a man to die among warriors than upon straw like a cow. King Harald said that he was, alas, too old to take the field, and that he had to keep his soldiers at home to maintain peace in his kingdom; however, he would not stand in the way of his son, Sven, if the latter wished to ally his men and ships to Styrbjörn’s enterprise.
King Sven spat meditatively, took a swig from his cup, fingered his beard, and said that it would be difficult for him to spare either men or ships, since he could not neglect his obligations toward his own people, whom he could not leave a defenseless prey to the Saxons and Obotrites.
“I think it fairer,” he added, “that if any assistance be lent, it should be provided by my father; for now that he is old, his men have little to do but wait for the next mealtime and listen to the twittering of priests.”