“Especially if he lost a tooth or two,” said another good farmer farther down the table, whose name was Black Grim of the Fell.
“For every time he bites a crust of bread, or gnaws a knuckle of sheep, he will be reminded of the incident.”
“That is true,” said a third, by name Uffe Club-Foot. “It was so with me when I lost my foot, the time I fell out with my neighbor, Thorvald of Langaled. Midway through our argument he aimed a blow at my leg, and I jumped too late. Long after the stump had healed and I had learned to walk with a wooden peg, I still felt tired and feeble, not only when I was standing but also when I was sitting down, and even in bed, as my woman can attest, for she was for a long time no better off than if she had been a widow. But when at last my luck changed, so that I saw Thorvald lying before me on his doorstep with my arrow in his throat, I took a great leap over him and all but broke my good leg, so full of vigor I suddenly found myself. And I have kept that vigor ever since.”
“It is not because of Father Willibald that my brother kills Christians,” said Ylva. “He has always hated them bitterly, especially since my father took their part and allowed himself to be baptized. He could not set eyes even on the blessed Bishop Poppo, who was the mildest of men, without mumbling against him; though more than that he dared not do as long as my father retained his power. But now, if reports are true, he kills bishops and priests of all ranks whenever he can lay his hand on them, and it will be a good thing if he does not live too long.”
“The life of evil men is often long,” said Father Willibald, “but it is not so long as the arm of God. They shall not escape his vengeance.”
Down at the end of one of the tables, where the young people were seated and the merriment was greatest, they were now beginning to make verses; and there on this evening a lampoon was composed which was sung along the border for many years afterwards, at feasts, threshings, and flax-strippings, and which came to be known as the “Ballad of King Sven.” It was a young man called Gisle, son to Black Grim, who began it. He was a shapely youth, dark-haired and fair-skinned; and although there was nothing wrong with his head, it was a remarkable thing with him that he was shy of women, though he was often observed to cast by no means hostile glances in the direction of one or another of them. All his family regarded this as a peculiar and disturbing thing, which even the wisest among them knew no cure for; and hitherto he had been sitting bashful and silent in his place, devoting himself solely to his food and drink, though it was well known that he had as ready a tongue as any young man there. Opposite him there sat a girl called Rannvi, a comely virgin with a snub nose and a dimple in her chin, such a woman as might easily cause a young man to cease his chatter; and ever and anon, from the time that he had taken his seat on the bench on the first day of the feast, he had cast stealthy glances toward her, but had not dared to address her and had become stiff with terror whenever it had so happened that their eyes had met. Once or twice she had gone so far as to chide him for his word-meanness, but without avail. Now, however, the good ale had given him better courage, and the story of King Sven’s humiliation at the hand of Father Willibald had made him laugh very loudly; and of a sudden he began to rock backwards and forwards on his bench, opened his mouth wide, and roared in a high voice:
“You challenged a priest,
And that was the least.
For he toppled you into
The mud, King Sven!”
“Here is something new!” cried those who sat nearest to him. “Gisle has turned poet. He is making a ballad about King Sven. But this is only half a verse. Let us hear the rest.”
Many of the guests now made suggestions how he might finish his poem, but it was no easy thing to find words of the right length and ending; and in the end it was Gisle himself who found the answer and completed his poem so that it might be sung to an old and well-known melody:
“You were always greedy for
More, King Sven!
You thought yourself greater than
Thor, King Sven!
But the priest threw a stone
And down with a groan
You fell on your face to the
Floor, King Sven!”
“He is a poet! He has written a whole poem!” cried those about him; and none cried with so loud a voice as Rannvi.
“Listen to the young people,” said the old ones higher up the table. “They have a poet there among them. Black Grim’s son has wrought a ballad about King Sven. Who would have thought such a thing possible? Has he inherited the gift from you, Grim? If not from you, then from whom, pray?”
“Let us all hear this poem,” said Orm.
So Gisle was called upon to declaim his verse aloud before the whole company. At first his voice trembled somewhat; but when he saw that his audience approved his work, and that Orm himself was nodding and smiling, his fear fell from him; and now he found himself able to meet Rannvi’s eyes without averting his own.
“I can write you more poems, and better,” he said to her proudly as he seated himself again.
Black Grim, Gisle’s father, sat beaming with pride and satisfaction. He said that he had often felt himself to have a talent for verse-making, in his younger days, but that something had always happened which had prevented him from putting his inspirations into words.
“All the same,” he said, “it is strange that he should have this gift; for he is folk-shy, especially when there are girls near him, though he would gladly have it otherwise.”
“Believe me, Grim,” said Ylva, “he will not need to be shy of them any more. Trust my word for that. For, now that he has shown himself to be a poet, as many as can find space to do so will hang themselves round his neck. My father, who was full of wisdom upon all subjects, often used to say that as flies swarm around food of any kind but abandon it as soon as they sniff the odor of the honey-pot, so is it with young women when they sense the presence of a poet.”
Orm sat staring into his ale-cup with an anxious expression on his face, deaf to what they were saying. Asa asked him if anything was on his mind, but he only mumbled abstractedly to himself and made no reply to her question.
“If I know him aright, he is composing a verse,” said Ylva. “He always wears that troubled look when the verse mood is upon him. It is a peculiar thing with poets that if there are two of them in the same room and one of them composes a verse, the other cannot rest until he has composed another which he thinks is better than his rival’s.”
Orm sat with his hands on his knees, rocking backwards and forwards on his bench, sighing deeply and mumbling cavernously to himself. At length, though, he found the words he wanted, gave two nods of relief, thumped his fist on the table for silence, and said:
“I hear you don’t think
Me your friend, King Sven!
They tell me you drink
To my end, King Sven!
Wouldst catch me off my guard?
God and my sharp-tongued sword
Caused you to blink,
Ay, and bend, King Sven!”
This was received with approbation by such of the company as were in a condition to appreciate the poem. Orm took a deep draught of his ale, and it could be seen that he was once again in excellent spirits.
“We have done well this evening,” he said, “for we have composed a poem that has given pleasure to us all, and that will undoubtedly displease King Sven. This is a remarkable coincidence, that two poets should be found at a single feast, for they seem to be somewhat thinly sown in these parts; and even if our quality is not fully commensurate, nevertheless you have acquitted yourself honorably, Gisle, and I shall therefore pledge you.”