The Broken Sword

I

There was a man called Orm the Strong, a son of Ketil Asmundsson who was a yeoman in the north of Jutland. The folk of Ketil had dwelt there as long as men remembered, and held broad acres. The wife of Ketil was Asgard, who was a leman-child of Ragnar Hairybreeks. Thus Orm came of good stock, but as he was the fifth living son of his father he could look for no great inheritance.

Orm was a seafarer and spent most of his summers in viking. When he was still young, Ketil died. The oldest brother, Asmund, took over running the farm. This lasted until Orm, in his twentieth winter, went to him and said:

“Now you have been sitting here in Himmerland with the use of what is ours for some years. The rest of us want a share. Yet if we divide the grounds five ways, not to speak of dowering our sisters, we will sink to smallholders and none will remember us after we are dead.”

“That is true,” answered Asmund. “Best we work together.”

“I will not be fifth man at the rudder,” said Orm, “and so I make you this offer. Give me three ships with their gear and food stocks, and give whatever weapons are needed by those who will follow me, and I will find my own land and quit all claim on this.”

Asmund was well pleased, the more so when two of the brothers said they would go with Orm. Ere spring he had bought the longships and outfitted them, and found many of the younger and poorer men of the neighbourhood who would be glad to fare westward. In the first clear spell of weather that came, while the seas were still rough, Orm took his ships out of the Limfjord, and that was the last which Asmund saw of him.

The crews rowed swiftly north until they had left behind them the moors and deep woods under the high sky of Himmerland. Rounding the Skaw, they got a good wind and raised sail. With sternposts now turned to the home country, they likewise put up the dragon heads at the prows. It piped in the rigging, strokes foamed, seagulls mewed about the yardarm. Orm in his gladness made a stave:

By starting thus early, he reached England ahead of most vikings and had rich plundering. At the season’s end he laid over in Ireland. Indeed, he never again left the western isles, but spent his summers gathering booty and his winters trading some of that wealth for more ships.

At last, though, he came to wish for a home of his own. He joined his small fleet to the great one of Guthorm, whom the English called Guthrum. Following this lord ashore as well as at sea, he gained much; but he also lost much when King Alfred won the day at Ethandun. Orm and a number of his men were among those who cut their way out. Afterward he heard how Guthrum and the other surrounded Danes had been given their lives for taking baptism. Orm foresaw at least a measure of peace coming between his folk and Alfred’s. Then he would not have so free a pick of what was in England as he still did.

Therefore he went into what would later be called the Danelaw, looking for his home.

He found a green and fair freehold that reached back from a little bay where he could keep his ships. The Englander who dwelt there was a man of wealth and of some might, who would not sell. But Orm came back by night, ringed his house with men, and burned it. The owner, his brothers, and most of his carles died. It was said that the man’s mother, who was a witch, got free—for the burners let any women, children, and thralls who wished go out—and laid the curse on Orm that his eldest son should be fostered beyond the world of men, while Orm should in turn foster a wolf that would one day rend him.

With many Danish folk already dwelling thereabouts, the Englander’s remaining kin now dared do naught else than accept weregild and land—price from Orm, thus making the farm his in law. He raised a big new house and other buildings, and with the gold, the followers, and the fame he had, was soon reckoned a great chief.

When he had sat there a year, he felt it were well if he took a wife. He rode with many warriors to the English ealdorman Athelstane and asked for his daughter Ailfrida, who was said to be the fairest maiden in the kingdom.

Athelstane hemmed and hawed, but Ailfrida said to Orm’s face: “Never will I wed a heathen dog, nor indeed can I. And while you can maybe take me by force, you will have little joy of it—that I swear.”

She was slim and tender, with soft ruddy-brown hair and bright grey eyes, while Orm was a huge bulky man whose skin was reddened and mane nearly white from years of sun and sea. But he felt she was somehow the stronger, so after thinking for a while he said: “Now that I am in a land where folk worship the White Christ, it might be wise for me to handsel peace with him as well as his people. In truth, most of the Danes have done so. I will be baptized if you will wed me, Ailfrida.”

“That is no reason,” she cried.

“But think,” said Orm slyly, “if you do not wed me I will not be christened, and then, if we may trust the priests, my soul is lost. You will answer heavily to your God for losing a human soul.” He whispered to Athelstane, “Also, I will burn down this house and throw you off the sea-cliffs.”

“Aye, daughter, we dare not lose a human soul,” said Athelstane very quickly.

Ailfrida did not hold out much longer, for Orm was not an ill-looking or ill-behaved man in his way; besides, Athelstane’s house could use so strong and wealthy an ally. Thus Orm was christened, and soon afterward he wed Ailfrida and bore her home. They lived together contentedly enough, if not always peacefully.

No church was near; vikings had burned those that formerly were. At Ailfrida’s wish, Orm got a priest to come join the household, and for atonement of his sins planned to build the priest a new church. But being a careful man with no wish to offend any of the Powers, Orm continued offering to Thor in midwinter and to Frey in spring for peace and good harvests, as well as to Odin and Asir for luck at sea.

All that winter he and the priest quarrelled about this, and in spring, not long before Ailfrida’s child was born, he lost his temper and kicked the priest out the door and bade him begone, Ailfrida reproached her husband sharply for this, until he cried that he could stand no more woman-chatter and would have to flee it. Thus he left with his ships earlier than he had planned, and spent the summer harrying in Scotland and Ireland.

Scarce were his craft out of sight when Ailfrida was brought to her bed and gave birth. The child was a fine big boy who after Orm’s wish she called Valgard, a name old in that family. But now there was no priest to christen the child, and the nearest church lay a good two or three days’ journey away. She sent a thrall thither at once.

Meanwhile she was proud and glad of her son, and sang to him as her mother had to her—