Fantasy literature uses
the word “saga” quite liberally, as if any story with wizards and battles qualifies.
Yet sagas refer properly to the old Icelandic sagas, a vast collection of
histories, tales, and legends dutifully recorded by Medieval scholars and
poets. Though most of these writers saw themselves as writing factual accounts
of the heroic past, they were quite willing to stretch the truth when
necessary; thus the legendary King Harald of Norway
King Harald’s Saga is a self-contained narrative which formed part of
the massive history of Norwegian kings known as the Heimskringla.
Written by the famous 12th century poet Snorri Sturluson, it records the
magnificent career of King Harald, who begins as a Viking mercenary in the
Byzantine army (which ended in his blinding the emperor, or so legend would
have it), his defection to Russia, and eventual quest for the throne of Norway.
Along the way he makes alliances, breaks alliances, fights battles, and makes
truces; yet
he always comes out on top
through a combination of cunning and bravado. Like many sagas, the story is
peppered with excerpts from traditional poetry, telling bits and pieces of the
story that would be familiar to contemporary readers. Some of these poems are
rumored to have been written by King Harald himself, which adds to the flavor
of the narrative. For example, after Harald lets one of his rivals die on the
battlefield, he composes this little ditty:
“Now I have caused the
deaths
Of thirteen of my enemies;
I kill without
compunction,
And remember all my
killings.
Treason must be scotched
By fair means or foul
Before it overwhelms me;
Oak-tress grow from
acorns.
A chilling song to sing by
the campfires, yet one that provides the true moral for Harald’s tale. He kills
gladly but not wantonly, and remembers each of his victims, knowing that the
trail of blood brings new vultures to the throne. In a world of uncertain
allies, treason is ever-present, and no one—not a father, brother, or wife—can
be trusted to keep your secrets (or watch your bed). Throughout the saga,
friends betray Harald and he betrays them in turn; indeed, he meets his death
at the hands of King Harold of England, who betrayed his oath with King William
of Normandy not to take the throne (in payment, William kills him in
turn). It’s a dark cycle of betrayal and revenge, yet the story never seems as
dark as all that: the sagas move along at a great clip, adding leavening doses
of humor and poetry before the tale sinks under its own murderous weight.
The Penguin classics
translation from 1966 by Magnus Magnusson and Hermann Palsson is a wonder: the
prose is spare, yet supple, full of poetic turns of phrase and brilliant
characterization. It reads like the best modern fiction, yet never sounds pulp:
in short, it reads like great literature that is very easy to read. Here’s an
example, a passage depicting the Battle of Fulford where Harald’s forces met
the English and led to his death:
“When King Harald saw that
the English flank was advancing down the dyke and was now opposite them, he
sounded the attack and urged his men forward, with his banner “Land Waster,”
carried in front. The Norwegian onslaught was so fierce that everything gave
way before it, and a great number of the English were killed. The English army
quickly broke into flight, some fleeing up the river, and others down the
river; but most of them fled into the swamp, where the dead piled up so thickly
that the Norwegians could cross the swamp dry-shod.”
It’s a grim yet exciting
image, seeing soldiers marching over the bodies—some still warm—of their foes
to reach the next flank. Yet before the story becomes too grim, we get a moment
of typical Icelandic humor: King Harald enjoys composing impromptu verses as he
goes along, and he dashes off a rhyme before leaping into battle. Yet he no
sooner writes one but reflects, “That was a poor verse; I shall have to make a
better one.” In the middle of a battle, he sits down to compose a new verse for
posterity—as if poetry is just as important as winning a war (and perhaps it is
at that!). The second poem is an improvement on the first, and proves
his epitaph, for he dies in the next foray. His final words?
We never kneel in
battle
Before the storm of
weapons
And crouch behind our
shields;
So the noble lady told
me.
She told me once to
carry
My head always high in
battle
Where swords seek to
shatter
The skulls of doomed
warriors.
Perhaps the most
fascinating part of King Harald’s Saga is that it tells history from the
other side: we get the Vikings account of the pivotal events of 1066 that ended
in the Battle of Hastings. It’s all too easy to forget that if King Harold had
been defeated by the Norwegians, King Harald would have been fighting William
the Conqueror for control of England
When Sturlusson wrote this
saga in the 12th century, these events were in the distant past—a glorious
world of strife and turmoil that could be casually enjoyed as history. As a
Christian, Sturulsson must have taken a guilty delight in a world that, though
technically Christian (the Norwegians had been recently converted in Harald’s
time), still lived by a pagan code of conduct, following the mandates of Thor
and Wierd (fate). In this way, the Icelandic sagas are also kin to Beowulf
in its mixing of Christian and pagan themes, though ultimately celebrating
the wonder of the pre-Christian world. Like us, Sturulsson was probably glad to
live in more civilized times, though in his heart of hearts, he lived on the
battlefield as a mail-clad, blood bathed heathen. I think most of us, in the
privacy of our rooms curled up with a favorite book of sagas, can easily
relate.
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