Lögberg-Heimskringla - 21.10.1994, Blaðsíða 5

Lögberg-Heimskringla • Föstudagur 21. október 1994 • 5
and drinking horns and sil-
ver cups went the round
brimming with ale. The hall
was filled with laughter and
the hum of friendly voices
when Kollr stood up from
his seat and beat his sword
upon his shield. Immediately
voices were lowered while
Kollr announced that the
bard Kormákr would now
deliver a lay composed in
honour of the married cou-
ple.
Kormákr, who had been
sitting in his seat with his
head in his hands, now
stepped forward. Holding his
harp in one hand, occasion-
ally striking a note when
wishing to emphasize a
point, he recited his poem in
a ringing voice. It was a flow-
ery eulogy of the valour and
worth of Grímkell and the
charm of his bride. Not a
sound was heard during the
recital, but when the last
word was spoken an enthusi-
astic applause broke forth
augmented by the pounding
of weapons on shields.
The tumult subsided when
Grímkell rose from his high
seat and graciously thanked
the bard for his song, hold-
ing out to him on the point
of his sword a valuable gold
ring as a reward for his trib-
ute.
The chorus of laughter
and talk rose again, but
stopped abruptly when a
strange apparition whirled
the whole length of the hall,
then came to a stop in front
of Grímkell’s high seat. It
was Sigmundr, the beggar,
turning cartwheels, dressed
in a yellow jester’s garment.
“How did he get here?”
muttered Little Grímr to
himself, uneasily. “The last I
saw of him, he was at Broad
Acres.”
Sigmundr, his face flushed
and his eyes popping, was
obviously drunk. He struck a
mocking posture in front of
Grímkell and shouted in a
thin falsetto tone, “And,
now, proud bridegroom,
here’s a message and a trib-
ute from your worthy broth-
er-in-law, Torfi! Listen, one
and all!
Deep loathing I share
with my sister fair
For an old man’s hearth-
stone bound.
Grímkell is coid, he wor-
ships butgold
Blue-black his heart like
Heil.”
A deep silence greeted
Sigmundr’s speech. Every-
body had heard the ditty
before as it had been passed
along from mouth to mouth
since Torfi spoke it. But
most felt the description fit-
ted Torfi better than it did
Grímkell. Only Grímkell and
a few others had never heard
it. He gave a low command
Grímkeirs Story^ c««íd
Þingvellir, Lake Þingvallavatn and Almannagjá.
to Þórólfr, his faithful page
and handed him his long
spear.
“On your knees, you
scum!” Þórólfr hissed
through clenched teeth.
Trembling, Sigmundr
dropped on all fours. Þórólfr
thrust the spear through the
loose garments at his rear,
and carried him writhing and
screaming half the length of
the hall. Then, the door
being open, threw him out
into the night.
Loud bursts of merriment
greeted Þórólfr when he
returned to his place near
Grímkell’s high seat, and
loudest of all laughed the
bridegroom. But those who
knew him best noticed that
his eyes did not laugh, they
were hot and angry; nor did
they seek those of his bride,
whose cheeks had gone crim-
son, then deathly pale at the
incident.
The wedding festivities
went on for three days. There
were games of skill and rid-
ing during the day, while the
evenings were spent feasting
iiirnB»iBiiTiwri»iii——aB»a————————
in the great hall, enlivened by
story-telling, reciting of the
old historic poems, and the
drinking of mead and ale.
Although Grímkell was a
genial host and saw to it that
his guests lacked for nothing,
the general feeling was that
Torfi’s insult had gone deep.
Grímkell and Kollr parted
good friends. Grímkell gave
him costly presents and
spoke of future friendship.
He also sent a friendly mes-
sage to Valbrandr.
Signý rose early to say
farewell to her friends.
Strangely, she did not wish to
go back with them. She was
feeling that she might come
to lilce living here with this
grave, somewhat silent hus-
band. Afterwards, she walked
slowly down to the lake and
sat down on a roclc near the
shore.
She had not been sitting
there long when she heard a
murmur of voices. Listening,
she decided they must come
from a well below the bank
where she was sitting.
Standing up, she was about
to move away when she was
joined by Grímkell. He had
seen her walk down to the
lake, and the thought that
she might be lonely for her
friends was intolerable to
him.
Now she seemed flustered
at his coming. Then he too
heard the voices that seemed
to be coming closer.
“I thought you were here
alone,” he said.
“So did I,” answered
Signý.
Sigmundr’s piercing voice
seemed to rise out of the
ground at their feet. “And I
tell you that she is Torfi’s sis-
ter more than she is
Grímkell’s wife.”
Sigmundr’s thin, screechy
voice was sharp as a poi-
soned dagger thrust. It
seemed to have entered
Grímkell’s heart. His face
was white and frozen as he
walked to the edge of the
bank and spurned a big rock
with his foot till it went over
the brink and slid thundering
down the other side. Looking
at Signý, he said in an icy,
ironic tone, “I’m sorry to
have interrupted your meet-
ing with your brother’s
hireling.” Then he turned on
his heel and strode towards
the manor.
Signý stood still as if
turned to stone. Whatever
else that had left in its wake,
she knew it had crushed her
chance at happiness. The hol-
low echoes were still shaking
the air when Sigmundr came
scrambling over the bank;
his ratty face was pale with
fright and his red hair stand-
ing on end. He was followed
by his wife carrying a scream-
ing child.
“It just missed us! Who
threw it!” shouted Sigmundr.
That brought Signý back to
life. “Too bad it missed you!”
she shouted back. With icy
scorn she looked at the
dishevelled trio, then gather-
ing her mantle closer as if
cold, followed slowly in the
wake of her outraged hus-
band, while Sigmundr shook
his fist after them shouting
unheard and unheeded curses.
Continued next issue.