Blood Feud

By R. Hyslop

Iceland (984-985) Ethelwulf and his followers land in Iceland and immediately become involved in a blood-feud arising from a horse-fight. Both sides need to collect supporters for judgement before the Althing. For the newcomers that may involving challenging a witch, digging up peat or spontaneous fights. Several characters are those appearing in the Sagas dating from the Middle Ages. In the end the Wanderer & his followers go into exile – with a witch’s curse upon them.
With extensive factual End-Notes
Part 4 of a nine part series set in the 10th century Viking world. Here the background is a violent society with legal formalities masking violent rivalries’ This version includes a new chapter not in the printed edition (Part 1 of the 2nd volume of the printed ‘The Wanderer’).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Hyslop
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9780993438936

R. Hyslop

I am a retired teacher, absorbed by History since I learned to read. I graduated in History from King's College, London in 1963, specialising in Medieval History. I wrote 'The Wanderer' trilogy at odd times 1992-2008 when I self-published it. The main effort came with the research. For more details see under 'Bob Hyslop'.

Book preview

‘BLOOD FEUD’

(The Wanderer Part 4: Iceland 984-985)

By R. Hyslop

Published in Great Britain 2008. 2015

(previously as Part 1 of ‘Viking’ the second of ‘The Wanderer’ Trilogy)

by Cuthan Books ( http://www.cuthanbooks.co.uk/)

Copyright R. Hyslop

The right of R. Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN: 9780993438936

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover illustrations: an ægishjálmr - a pagan symbol of power

Much of this work rests on the traditions of Iceland, most notably the following sources: ‘Njal’s Saga’, ‘Laxdaela Saga’, 'Eyrbyggja Saga', ‘Egil’s Saga’ and ‘Heimskringla’. All readily available in translation.

As elsewhere in ‘The Wanderer’ the introductory passages are mainly drawn from the rich vein of Anglo-Saxon poetry and other similar material.

Throughout the novel the Swedish Sea is used instead of the Baltic Sea.

To my family and friends who have encouraged me, knowingly or not, for so many years

Table Of Contents

The Story So Far

CHAPTER 1. The Egilsskard Horse-Fight

CHAPTER 2. Words From The Wise

CHAPTER 3. Witchery

CHAPTER 4. Tormented

CHAPTER 5. Spring Harvest

CHAPTER 6. Settling Accounts

Iceland Afterword

Map of Iceland

Family Tree of Ethelwulf of Arne

About the Author

Endnotes for ‘Blood Feud

(Before accessing End-Notes please NOTE your return point as you will be taken to SET points in that long section (228 entries). Then scroll down to the relevant End-Note.

For example, in the TEXT click on [62] & you’ll go to a SET point in End-Notes. Scroll down to End-Note 62 & read it.

To RETURN use OR enter [62] in the file’s FIND Process (it may produce several so check you have the right 62), & you’re back where you were in the TEXT.)

About the author

&&&

The Story So Far

Ethelwulf, Thane of Arne in Dorset witnessed the murder of King Edward at Corfe in 979 and narrowly escaped with his life. Blamed for the murder as a ‘Wolf’s Head’ (outlaw) he was hunted by the agents of the Queen but collected a band, including his cousins (Edwine and Morkere). With the help of his mother, he planned escape from England but she was murdered, his estate confiscated and he had to fight his way out of Poole harbour, killing Haakon Skaathi, the chief assassin of the King.

Ethelwulf went to Jersey, then under the rule of the Normans. Quickly he became involved in the various intrigues on the island, such as a disputed monastic election and the murder of a leading citizen. He was seized by the authorities for shipment back to England but managed to escape.

Ethelwulf the Wanderer travelled to Ireland, then divided into numerous kingships and the scene of a struggle between the native Gaels and Viking intruders. He was employed by a local ruler but fell out with him, had an affair with the most powerful woman on the island (Gormflath) but fell out with her, and generally made enemies on all sides. However, he did acquire a loyal follower in Gunnar, a skilled axe-man. He and his followers were expelled from Ireland and sailed for Iceland.

&&&

CHAPTER 1. The Egilsskard Horse-Fight

‘Let our sword’s flashing

Blow break down the shield;

Battering the edge

Till enemy bleeds.

Let’s taunt the pale wretch.

Then, throwing him down,

Shut his mouth with steel

As food for vultures.’ (‘Egil’s Saga’ 64) [adapted])

'Alsvid' had - somehow - staggered its way across the north Atlantic and reached the shores of Iceland. Edwy had intended to make land-fall somewhere in the East Fjords but nature chose otherwise. Just as the vessel came in sight of land a fierce easterly blew up which drove ‘Alsvid’ westwards for the best part of a day and night. To abandon the sail in the midst of such seas was not to be recommended; better to try and harness what force was there, as long as they weren’t driven so far west as to almost collide with the Midgard Serpent.[1] When the storm at last blew itself out and Edwy was able to guide the vessel to land, it was the unknown creeks of the Western Fjords which offered haven.

Hjalti Squat-Nose was anxious to slip over the side in the small boat as soon as the vessel was anchored and explore the immediate neighbourhood. Although he didn’t recognise the area he knew he’d soon discover somebody ready to reveal where they were. Meanwhile the sail was reefed and the mast lowered. Ethelwulf did not intend risking being blown out of their haven. He guessed this would be their last chance of landfall before they were pitched into the unknown. If the locals proved hostile they’d just have to row out of danger’s reach before they hoisted the sail and went on their way.

Hjalti found the shoreline more welcoming as he approached what appeared to be a river. It was good to escape the seas with too vivid memories of harsh winds buffeting 'Alsvid's sail as they drove westwards, its crew clinging to anything to stop themselves being torn overboard by waves which periodically engulfed the gunwales. He may have suffered then but now he felt back home - even if he didn't recognise where he was.

Suddenly he saw a figure on the bank, fiddling with what he took to be some kind of fishing line.

Where am I? Hjalti yelled, and immediately recognised the stupidity of the question.

Who are you to ask 'Where am I'? shouted back the stranger, making little bother about offering assistance.

Hjalti curbed his temper, thinking how if he'd been on land with an axe in his hand, the churl wouldn’t have dared give such an answer. By now he could see the man had the homespun outfit of a small farmer or labourer. He tried a smile.

I’m from a ship blown from where we intended to land!

Your accent tells me you’re an Easterner - and we don't much like Easterners around here!

Where is 'around here'? persisted Hjalti, feeling his mouth was about to crack from the effort of maintaining a smile.

Why everyone knows Snaefellness, was the answer, as if Hjalti should immediately place himself among the class of imbeciles whose brief lives were made up with begging for food or trifles to help them survive.

Now Hjalti knew exactly where they’d landed. He knew men from the West Fjord area of Iceland, far more populous and developed, considered themselves superior to men from the East. Personally he’d never visited this area before and was sure that was also true of Hrapp the Soft-Voiced. When you’re an Easterner anxious to leave your homeland you naturally travel eastwards toward Norway or Ireland. There’s no point in giving anybody the chance of catching up with you by staying too close to home.

He thanked the stranger before carefully turning the boat round and heading back the way he’d come. He noticed almost immediately the peasant abandoned his fishing-line and slipped away into the interior. Oh well, thought Hjalti, we can expect the locals soon.

&&&

It didn’t take long for Hjalti to return with a smile on his face, this time genuine, indicating that, wherever they were couldn’t be too bad. They’d reached somewhere in Snaefellness - probably Hraunhaven; not unwelcome except both Icelanders in the crew had origins on the opposite side of the island. So Hjalti Squat-Nose, trying to exploit the authority given by such a prompt return, argued any stay in that area should be brief, stressing his kinsmen would guarantee the crew of ‘Alsvid’ a welcome to wipe away any memories of mistreatment in Ireland. Hrapp the Soft-Voiced laughed, bellowing out Hjalti's mother would certainly be pleased to see her little boy home again as, doubtless, her farm had stayed unploughed for the three years he'd been in Ireland. Hjalti glared at his fellow-Icelander and said nothing, half-aware what had been spoken in jest might well be true. He’d heard his elder brother, Thorolf Grimsson, had been killed nearly one year earlier but had delayed in Ireland, remembering how he’d felt when Thorolf refused to buy him out of any share in the farm after their father, Grim, had died of sickness over three years before. Of course, if his mother had begged him to stay he’d have done so but the hatchet-faced offspring of Einar Gerdasson had held her peace, content to let whatever the Norns [2] had planned come to pass. So, with no word to either mother or brother, he’d slipped away to sea three years ago. At first, despite the troubles experienced in Ireland he’d found life better than what would have been his lot as the quasi-servant of his elder brother; later, however, he’d begun to feel drawn to his old home. At first, pride stopped him finding his way back to his mother, whispering the kinsmen of Einar Gerdasson would have slipped their way somehow into his inheritance. Later he’d felt a twinge of alarm at the challenges of life facing a lonely widow on an isolated farm near Horna Fjord.

Hjalti was determined to leave the company, as long as Ethelwulf would pay him whatever share was due from their ventures in Ireland. At first he’d considered asking Hrapp the Soft-Voiced to accompany him, knowing the Easterner had no family, but then wondered whether, if the man had been driven into outlawry, it ‘d be wise to ask him to journey east.

It wasn’t easy for the crew to transfer the camping equipment on to the shore, and then almost immediately they’d been confronted by half-a-dozen peasants and slaves armed with spears and clearly determined to drive off any would-be pirate. Hjalti recognised among them the unfriendly peasant who didn't like Easterners, but kept his mouth shut. Ethelwulf called out to a lean man who was obviously their leader, denying they meant any harm.

.... For we’re strangers from Ireland, he added, driven off-course by winds. He paused as, after hours of shouting encouragement to his crew being driven before the storm, his voice sounded feeble and he hesitated about giving such an unwelcome impression. I’m Ethelwulf of Arne from the land of the Saxons.

I’m Ketil Egilsson, replied the man, pulling down the cloak he’d used to mask much of his features from the sharp wind rising again. Though hereabouts I’m more usually known as Ketil Clubfoot! He seemed to will Ethelwulf to stare at his feet and, not completely surprised, Ethelwulf saw there appeared nothing wrong with either of them; certainly, with a deformed foot, the man wouldn’t have been so ready to offer such a name.

I see men here have just the same style of humour as we were accustomed to meet among the Gaels, laughed the Wanderer and Ketil Club-Foot grinned.

So you’ve come from that wretched land. I’ve heard, thanks to the leadership of Brian Boru, Vikings aren’t finding it so profitable to serve within that country.

It’s true Brian isn’t the best of chieftains to meet on a dark day, replied Ethelwulf, but with each step he generates a dozen enemies and so there’s still plenty of work for a warrior there.

Ketil made a quick signal to his men and they relaxed. He explained Ethelwulf had anchored his vessel in not quite the best of places because, with shifting winds and currents, the longship might work its way loose. However, but a little way to the west they’d come to the head of a small creek, amply suited to act as haven for such a craft. They could stay there as long as they liked in perfect safety because the surrounding land was all his and he could see they were honourable men. He looked carefully at the crew and the longship as if checking that assessment was sound. Finally, he added that, by striking inland from their new anchorage, they’d quickly come upon his farm, called Bakki, where he could offer them both food and shelter. Their arrival coincided with a gathering of locals about to set off to a festival promising fine entertainment.

For I can see, he concluded, although serviceable warriors, you don’t appear men of evil intent.

Some would say you’re too trusting, intervened Edwine, surprised at such open-handed welcome to strangers.

Ketil laughingly replied, It’s nothing compared to the generosity of Geirrid of Borgardale![3] With no further explanation, he turned and vanished as quickly as he’d appeared. Ethelwulf realised how Ketil had earned the nickname of 'Clubfoot'.

&&&

Bakki proved to be a substantial farm with a large central structure and several outhouses, largely consisting of blocks of lava, supplemented by chunks of good turf. Apart from uprights and lintels timber was little employed. The central house was nearly thirty yards long with a central fireplace and a private room for Ketil and his wife, Hallgerd, to the north. The main area was used as both kitchen and dining room, with sleeping provision for honoured guests. The absence of windows meant the interior was very dark.

Hallgerd was most welcoming. She was rather short, somewhat square, with the air of an efficient housewife. By her side were the children - Hallgrim (a lean, surly-looking youth of ten years) and Gerda (a delicate six-year-old with intense blue eyes). All three were lined up for presentation by Ketil and were greeted warmly by Ethelwulf, his cousins and Gunnar, all of whom had been provided with accommodation within the main house itself. The rest of the crew were housed in the outbuildings. Naturally, Ethelwulf placed a guard on the longship; he’d learned how hard it was to tell the genuine friend from a man waiting to turn traitor when it suited.

For some reason a strange attraction immediately developed between Hallgrim and Gunnar. The lad seemed fixated by the size of the war-axe which Gunnar carried as usual in a sling over his shoulders. Gunnar noticed the interest and was clearly flattered. Perhaps he remembered his own boyhood when he’d been drawn to axe-men passing by the household of his father. Anyway, it wasn’t long before the lad was showing off his skill with an axe to the Gall-Gael. Of course, the weapon the lad flourished was a mere light axe but his movements showed that fine sense of timing and space essential to anyone specialising in such a weapon. Before the evening closed Gunnar unslung his own weapon and was mesmerising the lad with movements which had made him a figure of dread on the battlefields of his native land.

Hallgerd fussed over her guests, anxious they should recover as quickly as possible from the rigours of the storm. A slave girl, quickly produced from nowhere, was soon busy serving out bread and ale to the crew, while fending off the attentions of men missing the soft flesh of Gael maidens. Hallgerd smiled at both their temerity and the way her slave skilfully dodged such attentions without giving offence. It would have been different if the girl was a member of the family, or even free, but she’d been snatched at an age when scarcely able to recall the features of her mother.

Ketil had good reason to offer hospitality to a company of warriors chancing to land in the neighbourhood. In two days’ time he’d be travelling to a feast at Egilsskard where he might well come across neighbours apparently anxious to pick a quarrel, almost as a way of flattering themselves. He could rely on the support of neighbours if he clashed with any man from the lands bordering Breida Fjord or from farms beyond the Rang River. However, if he quarrelled with someone from closer at hand he might find himself without proper backing. Quite often anybody might call on armed men ready to use violence to back up his arguments; a man without such support just had to back down. Ketil promised himself (and Hallgerd) he’d not be the first one to turn to violence but he knew it wasn’t true. Only two years before he’d been forced to pay compensation to Egil Kambisson when he’d pitched him into the river for daring to deny Ketil' s ancestors hadn’t accompanied Ingolf Arnarsson[4]when he first landed in the west.

My ancestor, Hrolf Grimsson, came with Ingolf Arnarsson to this land. The other leader, Leif Hrodmarsson, was a quarrelsome man who’d gone his own way soon after crossing the seas from their homes in Norway. He then briefly described the original landing of refugees from the expanding power of Harald Fairhair.[5] Satisfied his guests now had a better idea of the origins of his homeland, and an appreciation of the role of his own family in its history, Ketil paused to concentrate on his eating. At length he remembered he’d been told how his ancestor had come to Iceland in search of a peaceful life. Suddenly he frowned and looked at Ethelwulf.

Unfortunately, he explained, as he tackled what remained of a chicken placed before him, "the whole land seems filled with men who, terrified they’d be considered any the less by their fellows, are keen to settle the slightest dispute in blood. Such men include Skarp-Hedin of Bergthorsknoll, Gunnar of Hlidarend,[6] and Thorgrim Kjallaksson."[7]

But, interrupted Hjalti, with Hrapp invited to sit at the main table, the Althing is masterly in limiting the effect of such violence -

Unless it involves someone they’re forced to turn into an outlaw! snapped Hrapp and Ethelwulf grinned at his cousins sitting opposite as he remembered their own period as outlaws in Dorset five years before.[8] Anyone could be proclaimed an outlaw if the law could not or dare not arrest such an individual and punish him in a manner employed against others. He wondered if Hrapp had been an outlaw, knowing that, since first encountering the rather surly Icelander at Waterford two years before,[9] there’d been little reason to ask questions about his background.

What is this 'Althing'? was the simple, and polite, question which came from the lips of Morkere.

It’s our assembly - our way of trying to curb the blood-lust of some or secure justice for others, answered Ketil. It meets every year and has proved most successful.

From that Ketil turned to asking his guests questions, always polite but frequently probing; Ethelwulf knew how Ketil was carefully noting each answer, building up a pattern to assess honesty. His greatest problem, as always, was to explain his original outlawry; here Ethelwulf lied, declaring he’d killed the man who’d murdered a member of his family. The Icelander nodded, accepting the responsibilities of the blood feud and merely asking if the whole affair had been conducted according to the rules of holmgangr.[10] Ethelwulf ignored the unknown term and said the fight had been a struggle between an escaping murderer and a vengeful youth; he felt that described his drowning of Osric.[11]

The farmer was interested in what had been happening in Ireland as some local men had travelled to Limerick - and most hadn’t returned. Jersey, however, proved of no interest, partly as squabbles among Christian monks was of no concern for a pagan![12]

Meanwhile the crew of 'Alsvid' devoured the first proper meal they’d enjoyed for weeks. Ketil had slaughtered a couple of lambs, as well as conjuring up some of the best ale his grateful guests declared they’d ever drunk.

Midway through the meal another guest, introduced as the foster child of Ketil’s aunt, an old man called Geir Asmundsson, rose to his feet. After banging the pommel of his knife against the board for silence his narrow voice, in a whisper reaching every corner of the hall, began the tale of how the world began.

In the beginning Surt ruled his kingdom with fire while, to the north, hung the darkness of Niflheim. In between such contrasts sat a void styled Ginnungagap, besieged by the ice-blocks of its northern neighbour and preserved by the warmth drifting up from Muspell. From out of this mix of ice and fire was shaped a Frost giant, Ymir, from whose sweat came Bor and his spouse. These were suckled by a cow formed from the thawing ice and multiplied. From such seed came Odin and Vili and Ve who, united in their hatred of Ymir, killed the Frost Giant and from his corpse shaped the world, making hills from his bones and rivers from his blood and, finally from his skull the sky itself. Next from Muspell they grabbed sparks, transforming such into the stars.

The earth was ringed by a terrible ocean and carved into realms for different creatures. In Jotunheim was set up an enclosed home for the giants; outside in Midgard, from two trees were created the first man, called Ask, and woman called Embla. From the giants Odin took a giantess called Night and her child called Day and placed them in the sky in perpetual circuit; from the humans Odin seized two children, named Sun and Moon, setting them in place alongside Day and Night. From the maggots eating at the remains of Ymir Odin created dwarves so the three great races, giants, men and dwarves were set upon this earth.

Finally, the offspring of Bor established Asgard, linked to Midgard by a rainbow called Bifrost. It’s a wonderful world of palaces and gardens, a fitting home for the twelve gods and their helpers. There heroes will go, to feast and fight in Valhalla as the beloved of Odin.

Above all this soars Yggdrasil, the eternal tree of life. On this tree sit an eagle and a hawk, up and down it scampers a squirrel, while a deer and a dragon feast on it; but it is not consumed for, alone in creation, it will live for ever.

With that the hall erupted into a roar of pleasure and everything capable of a sound was used to register approval. As the noise slowly died away it was Morkere who quietly rose to his feet, with a strange smile on his lips, and began the tale of God’s creation of the world until he made Adam and Eve. Here Morkere suddenly stopped, knowing that to carry on would provoke so much debate the good humour of the occasion would evaporate. His speech was greeted with applause, although less than that granted to Geir. Morkere wasn’t displeased, knowing most of the guests were pagans, more used to tales of Odin and the creatures of Asgard. However, he was delighted to receive quiet congratulations from both his cousin and his twin. That was enough.

Now the guests attacked the meal with renewed vigour and while they ate Ketil explained what were the plans for the coming days. He said a festival was being held in the district as a celebration of the first landing of their forefathers on Iceland. The high-point of the event he promised would be the series of horse-fights. He was sure his own stallion, Frost Mane,[13] would beat any challenger, adding last year no horse could rival him and, since then, Frost Mane had grown even stronger.

At this a neighbour, previously introduced as Thorvald Thrandsson, laughed loudly and, between belches, offered a correction. That’s because, Ketil, last year only the men of this district entered their horses. This year, I’ve heard, men from neighbouring districts will be there - and some of them possess champions of their own!

Ketil scowled but remembered Thorvald was his guest and had spoken not from malice but to describe to strangers what was happening in the district. Of course, Thorvald really wanted to show how much gossip and news he’d mastered since his return from Norway two months before. Thorvald's father, Thrand, had been such a man, laughed at as 'Half-Crone' by some men behind his back. However, one day Bjorn, Hrapp's son, had dared repeat the jibe to Thorvald's face. The farmer had said nothing, but bent down and picking up a chopping block hurled it straight in the face of Bjorn. As he did so he shouted, Here’s something else to get your teeth around! Bjorn lost no less than four of his teeth and was felled by the missile. He was dragged off by his friends and never came near Thorvald again. Indeed, from that day on his speech was so garbled he eventually went to sea, never to return home.

Thorvald speaks the truth, Ketil confessed, but I still reckon Frost Mane can out-fight any other stallion. He paused and scanned the faces of his guests. Naturally I’d expect any sitting at my table to share that view.

Even at the risk of their silver, whispered Thorvald to Edwy who merely nodded, observing the keen eyes of their host upon him. Ethelwulf said he hoped they’d be welcome at the feast, especially as they might be staying in Iceland for some time and would need to know whatever men thought important.

Ketil nodded. Yes, Ethelwulf, he grunted. Nowhere would be better than the feast at Egilsskard to see how men value horses - or, indeed, each other!

Now you know why Ketil is so eager for you to accompany him to Egilsskard! laughed another neighbour, Ari Vermundsson from Oxl.

Your weapons won’t grow rusty if matters grow hot! added Thorvald, and he grinned at Ethelwulf. The Wanderer wasn’t sure whether a visit to Egilsskard would be the best way to spend the next few days. He certainly wouldn’t hesitate to fight for pay but had no desire to create enemies in a new land. Unfortunately, now he couldn’t back-out of attending the feast, but was certain Thorvald was taking malicious pleasure in his dilemma.

Nor will you miss warriors whose deeds have become the stuff of tales! added a small farmer, Steinthor of Kamb, in a narrow voice possessing a distinctly unpleasant sound. Even so, there was general laughter at the comment and at least three guests, in different parts of the room, took upon themselves the task of describing such men to the strangers.

Skarp-Hedin, the eldest son of Njal of Bergthorsknoll, said Ketil, isn’t easily mistaken for another man. His sharp features make him appear ugly but he has the manner of a warrior.[14] He smiled. But, you’ll not really miss him because of the doom which shrouds him[15] and discourages others from enjoying his company.

Ethelwulf laughed and nodded in the direction of Gunnar guffawing over some comment by Steinthor Osvifsson. We’ve one of our company who also lacks a cheery air and so enjoys a more solitary life[16]He remembered how much the Gall-Gael had been overwhelmed by the death of his betrothed but a year before, for weeks men had avoided Gunnar’s company, unwilling to risk their necks against his axe.

So the meal continued and when sleep prevented further tackling of the food Ketil ensured slaves ushered the strangers to an isolated building where they slept in peace until late the next morning.

&&&

Two days later Ketil headed a sizable company as he joined the festival at Egilsskard. In fact, only twenty of the strangers accompanied him, the remainder staying close to their vessel. Ethelwulf realised he’d been too trusting, accepting the hospitality of Ketil without setting sentries; Ireland had taught him the atmosphere of feasts could prove disastrous. As yet he wasn’t even certain about the men of the district, aware many might view the arrival of strangers as a threat demanding a pre-emptive strike. Certainly any longship manned by Icelanders appearing off Poole Harbour would have caused several of his boyhood neighbours to assemble a force to drive them off to the Isle of Wight.

The exiled Thane of Arne was surprised at how many booths had already been erected by earlier arrivals; Ketil dismissed whatever concerns might have entered the Wanderer’s mind by declaring his slaves were dealing with such problems. Now he led the company into the large open area standing in front of the nearest booths. Immediately most of the group dispersed, knowing such a large body of warriors might well attract hostile comment from other visitors. Meanwhile Ketil invited Ethelwulf to examine some men outside a large, dark-grey pavilion about thirty yards away.

Is that Skarp-Hedin? asked the Wanderer as he noticed a tall, brown-haired warrior leaning nonchalantly on a staff while he surveyed his surroundings. Even from that distance he could see the warrior's teeth were somewhat oddly-aligned, giving his whole expression a rather ghoulish appearance. Next to him stood another man, flaxen-haired with a handsome, open face; if anything he looked the finer warrior, with a fine sword hanging from an elaborate baldric over his shoulder.

Yes, answered Ketil, And the man next to him is perhaps even more dangerous, for that is Gunnar of Hlidarend who has the ability to attract enemies on all sides without the least effort.

A useful skill if one wants to be the stuff of poetry, smiled Morkere, eyeing up the man with renewed interest. Suddenly he noticed his appraisal was being returned as Gunnar didn’t seem pleased at being the subject of such scrutiny. Morkere dropped his eyes but not before Gunnar strode in their direction.

Greetings, Ketil Egilsson, began Gunnar with a surprising warmth in his smile. However, the warmth vanished as he turned his gaze upon Morkere. I didn’t realise you’d be bringing guests unknown to me. Ethelwulf saw Skarp-Hedin detach himself from two other guests trying to engage him in conversation and saunter in their direction. It was Morkere who broke the tension.

Forgive me, Gunnar Hamundarsson, he