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It's funny to think that if Hrafn did write this he's basically insulting Þorolfr. It's not a good idea to insult a king, even if it is all "legal" with a flyting. Þorlofr has quite the temper.
I wonder why Hrafn would even write this, Þorolfr doesn't seem like the type to want to remember his failures. Unless this was recorded in Hrafn's private journal? But then, who compiled these poems? Why is a private journal entry included with the rest of the set?
This makes me think someone else wrote this poem, or at least edited it. Maybe someone Hrafn knew found his journal after his death. Hrafn is one of the older members on Þorolfr's council. And so far I don't think we've gotten much info on his personal life. His only friend (that we know of) is King Þorolfr. Could the king have written this after Hrafn's death to remember his old friend?
The mystery and speculation surrounding these poems in both of your AARs has been a real treat! It's almost as big a mystery as (spoilers for this AAR) King Hrœrker's murder.
It's funny to think that if Hrafn did write this he's basically insulting Þorolfr. It's not a good idea to insult a king, even if it is all "legal" with a flyting. Þorlofr has quite the temper.
Indeed, Þorolfr has a temper and we have seen flashes of it in the past.
A flyting was definitely a way to level the field for Hrafn although he wasn't the one who started it, as usual!
A prose version of this tale will follow in a few weeks which should answer some questions and may reveal more about why what appears to be Tryggve's poem ended up interpreted this way.
I wonder why Hrafn would even write this, Þorolfr doesn't seem like the type to want to remember his failures. Unless this was recorded in Hrafn's private journal? But then, who compiled these poems? Why is a private journal entry included with the rest of the set?
Excellent questions. This comes from an era where writing was basically runes on bark or runes in stone or runes in wood or runes on ivory. Paper or vellum was not something easily found in the north. So no private journals here. I think the questions about whether Tryggve actually wrote this or if this is the way Tryggve would have told the story are quite valid. From what I have read, these are the questions the academics wrestle with along with what is lost (or gained) in the translation into English. As this starts in the oral tradition and what is transposed is in English from a thousand years later can we truly believe it is an accurate version?
This makes me think someone else wrote this poem, or at least edited it. Maybe someone Hrafn knew found his journal after his death. Hrafn is one of the older members on Þorolfr's council. And so far I don't think we've gotten much info on his personal life. His only friend (that we know of) is King Þorolfr. Could the king have written this after Hrafn's death to remember his old friend?
Answers to some of those questions coming with the next installment which will include some rhymes but won't be a poem exactly and won't be our usual style either. Another short experiment coming next week if all holds in my schedule. Some answers will be provided then and more in the prose chapter that will follow eventually. I'm glad you are thinking deeply about this. Your questions are insightful.
The mystery and speculation surrounding these poems in both of your AARs has been a real treat! It's almost as big a mystery as (spoilers for this AAR) King Hrœrker's murder.
Aah, but these mysteries are more academic in nature. I did want to reflect how the academic literature on these points seems to be moving around in a murky spot due to the lack of a lot of written works from certain eras. The archaeological record is helpful but it seems those who study the Norse are coming up with new wrinkles as they study the clues. All of the mysteries of the north are yet to be unlocked. Glad you are enjoying that theme.
The full "Lost Seasons of the Danes" Soundtrack can be heard here.
(Chief Tryggve “The Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr confronts a brown bear during a hunt as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.)
(Editorial Context: The recent discovery of this song has further fueled the academic controversy surrounding ancient Norse skald Chief Tryggve Flod of Burgundaholmr. This skald was often called by his nickname "The Moaner." Researchers in Iceland found the transcription of the song tucked away in a tome from the 11th Century and initial tests say the paper used in the transcription by an anonymous author seems to also come from that century. The song clearly credits Chief Tryggve as the author of the controversial epic The Ytra Söguskrá.That series of poems has been uncovered, part by part, in different areas of Scandinavia in the past few centuries. However, some academic experts continue to doubt that Chief Tryggve is the author of the entire series of poems, given the gap of more than 300 years between when this song was composed and when it was finally committed to paper. Some of those doubters point to the fifth part in the series of poems as being clearly written after Tryggve's time. Some academics say this song is the proof that the entire poetic series is not a hoax, as some had theorized. Others say this does build credibility for the series of poems as being authentic yet they still doubt it is the work of one author. Some skeptics continue to believe the series and this song were composed by those playing an elaborate academic joke. The footnotes to the transcription also claim that the song was popular during the 8th and 9th Centuries. No author is attributed with writing this song.)
(The images included in this chapter are all from accounts linked to @Chac1 where he holds the copyright. They are primarily from Bing, including the Lost Seasons of the Danes logo.)
But who will take his place on the council? And who will replace him as court skald? Could they have written this song? Or was it invented entirely in the 11th century by the anonymous author?
Again, part of me thinks Þorolfr, in mourning, could be the author. Or maybe his cousin-priestess, Margareta? Or perhaps Gyrið?
Depending on how supernatural the world of this AAR is, maybe it's a gift from the Aesir, given to them by Tryggve.
Thanks @jak7139 for your support. Very much appreciated. Not sure if the readers like all the poetry and now even an attempt at a song in this AAR. We will return briefly to our usual format next week, I hope. But more songs and poetry are ahead. That is just how this part of story is shaping up.
Yes. Pretty hard not to have a heroic death when you are brave enough to fight a bear. (A few more details about that are likely in the next chapter.... And now this makes me think of that scene in The Revenant!)
But who will take his place on the council? And who will replace him as court skald? Could they have written this song? Or was it invented entirely in the 11th century by the anonymous author?
Some of those questions are important as the plot moves forward.
As for the 11th Century, even if it was invented, it seems Tryggve and the stories he told were worthy of Sagas or remembrance if they lasted 300 years.
I realize academics spend entire careers debating these details, but from my end, if it is a good tale, maybe it doesn't matter. (Not to say I don't care about authors getting their due credit. I do care about that.)
Well, this is always going to be the least supernatural of my AARs on these topics. However the belief system of the era embraced the Æsir so, of course, this is a gift from them. Who says Tryggve and Odin didn't reach out from Valhalla to inspire a skald, whether in Tryggve's time or in the 11th Century? (Or even now?)
Thanks for your support @Lord Durham . Yes, I will miss the old skald too, but it is likely the king who will miss him most. Although, Tryggve's legacy will prove problematic.
Drinking mead in Valhalla and beating Odin in a flyting (or trying), now that sounds like the afterlife to me!
(Next chapter coming in a day or so... stay tuned....)
Chapter XX Þrándr’s Demand (King Þorolfr’s Partial Reign 790)
The full "Lost Seasons of the Danes" Soundtrack can be heard here.
(“Why have you deserted my cause, nephew?” Þrándr Skjöldung asked. “Uncle, how can I support you as you sink into madness?” King Þorolfr replied. This image of King Þorolfr, on the right, and his uncle, Þrándr was created with the Playground AI platform, the Stable Diffusion 1.5 image generator, and Playground AI’s editor, Canvas.)
Who would have thought that a poem would be the undoing of a mighty king?
But a poem is what started King Þorolfr’s troubles as the year 790 closed out and the season bent toward winter.
The poem was never intended to be recited or released publicly but that is what happened, inevitably.
The unfortunate series of events began with King Þorolfr, in an unusually surly mood and already a cup or two of mead into the wind, deciding to attend a dinner of the Ulfheðnar in an alehouse to celebrate their victories of the summer. At the dinner, the king spotted the legendary Hrafn Ytra, the man who had been such a bane to his family’s efforts to expand in Noregr (Norway). Hrafn was now the Steward of Sygnafylki, and he was in the king’s capital for two reasons: to visit his son Þorsteinn and hear of his successful military exploits; but also to secretly recruit warriors from the Ulfheðnar who might want to fight to defend his independent Norwegian province in exchange for land and other favors. As a member of the Ulfheðnar, and a beserker warrior, Hrafn was welcome at their meeting. He was probably the second most famous warrior of the era, just behind Jarl Sigurd “Ring” af Munsö of Finland, who was also there to celebrate. Hrafn’s fame came from the various poems and songs composed about his adventures. But not in a mood to welcome foreigners, the king had challenged Hrafn to a flyting.
Chief Tryggve “the Moaner” Flod of Burgundaholmr was also a member of the Ulfheðnar, although he had not gone campaigning with the rest. As the Court Skald of Denmark, he was eager to hear of their victories so he could write something about the latest Danish success. Instead, he came away with memories of the king’s defeat in the verbal sparring contest.
Immediately, these lines of his poem formed in his mind, based upon Hrafn’s insult that cast the king’s masculinity and his bedchamber performance into doubt:
Tryggve was the king’s best friend and biggest supporter, but the flyting was one of those moments that he couldn’t stay away from as a poet and recorder of events. His creative side overwhelmed his feelings of loyalty and he composed the poem in his mind, never intending to perform it publicly. He returned to Burgundaholmr from the capital, playing with the verses and composing the rest of the poem based upon those two lines, feeling like he was compelled to tell the tale of the verbal showdown.
In early October, Tryggve and a few members of his family, along with a few other key members of his community of Burgundaholmr decided to cross the Baltic strait for a hunting trip in the province of Skåne. After a bit too much ale on those nights around the campfire, Tryggve tried out the poem on those in his small hunting party and it was well received, with much laughter and hooting. Tryggve’s son Ofeig asked his father to repeat the poem over several nights. Ofeig certainly thought the poem was one of his father’s best creations, but his request for repetition was so he could memorize it himself for his own purposes.
That was the same fateful hunting trip when Tryggve came across a bear, and defended his comrades, most of whom fled when they saw the beast. Ironically, the bear’s slaying of Tryggve became a popular song of the time, another important cultural artifact attached to the court’s skald.
After his father’s funeral, Ofeig began reciting the poem in alehouses in Burgundaholmr and Skåne. He even took a trip to the capital for a week to purposefully drink in the alehouses and recite the poem, which always produced a positive and rowdy response. Ofeig adjusted some of the lines, skewing the poem to be even more critical of the king. Some of Ofeig’s actions were driven by the grief of losing his father. But he decided that the poem was the beginning of his revenge against Gyrið, the king’s consort. Certainly, she was not even mentioned in the poem, but anything that cast a shadow on the king’s household would eventually bring trouble to her doorstep, Ofeig reasoned. He also had his suspicions that the king was behind the death of his hero, Froði Kráka too, and so why not help spread the tale of what actually happened at that flyting? Ofeig knew it wasn’t like spreading lies. In his mind, he was telling a wider truth, and if the king paid the price for that, then he certainly had it coming. The drinking and the poetry reading helped Ofeig work through his grief, but it was just the beginning of the king’s woes.
Members of the Ulfheðnar were already spreading the story of the flyting they had witnessed themselves. Those rumors began circulating among the alehouses in the capital and elsewhere that were favorite spots of the warrior clan. The rumors helped propel the poem to popularity, each reinforcing the other among the commoners who heard them. Soon, the king’s alleged impotence and failure with women became the top item of conversation, as the kingdom buckled down and prepared for another long winter. By December, the gossip had even reached the king’s uncle Þrándr, who requested a meeting with the king.
“How are you feeling, uncle?”
The king asked this to begin the session, after his standard greeting and blessing. The two men were meeting in the king’s drafty private meeting room. Both were wrapped in blankets.
“I am in a woeful state, and not solely due to my illness. I still have many political connections throughout the kingdom. Some who still bother to visit me during this vexing period. And their news has vexed me all the more.”
“Well, I understand you are vexed, who wouldn’t be in your condition....”
The king began to say but his uncle cut him off.
“What do you mean, my condition? That kind of condescending tone is not appreciated.”
Þrándr raised his voice.
“I didn’t mean to inflame you further,” the king said this with a flat tone. Then he got up and went to the door. He opened it and asked the guards there to bring some mulled wine.
“I’m asking for some mulled cherry wine. That should smooth out all of our edges.”
The king then returned to his chair, but his uncle was now glaring at him.
“I don’t need my edges smoothed.”
Þrándr said this angrily.
“I have come here to confront you about your abandonment.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, uncle.”
The king said this with a worried tone.
“Is this anger because of your condition?”
“There you go again with the condescending remarks.”
Þrándr spat as he balled one of his hands into a fist. The 60-year-old royal was reddening in the face as his anger rose.
“Why have you deserted my cause, nephew? Why am I no longer your choice as heir? Why am I no longer your regent?”
After the blót, despite his brother’s suspicious actions and attempts to seed dissent in the kingdom, the king had informed the council of chiefs that he was now in agreement with them that Prince Magni should be his heir. He had done this when his uncle was still bed-ridden and grappling with great pox, a disease that seemed to come and go in cycles of decline. Although he was no longer bed-ridden, the pox was still slowly destroying Þrándr’s mind.
“Perhaps you don’t remember, but I told you of this months ago,but you were sick and…”
“I am well enough to call you out about your actions today!”
Þrándr shouted this.
“Uncle, how can I support you as you sink into madness?”
The king asked with sincerity.
“I was one of the few supporting you for many years. Unfortunately, your time has passed.”
“I am stronger every day. You will see. I will show you. I am not confined to bed any longer. I am out and strong. You will see.”
“Yes, strong enough to run around in the courtyard outside the longhouse and bark at the moon naked.”
The king heaved out a great sigh.
“I don’t remember any such incident. Stop making up nonsense about me!”
“And there was the time you stripped at dinner, stood on the table and said your skin was on fire while you danced about.”
The king recounted this calmly without raising his voice.
Þrándr was now yelling.
“Uncle, please don’t make me tell the story of what you did to that poor serving woman and the mess we had to clean up in your home afterward.”
The king said this sternly.
Þrándr calmed suddenly and he leaned out of his chair stretching his neck toward the king.
“Did she survive?”
“Oh yes, but what you did to her was foul.”
The king shook his head.
“I don’t even want the words to pass my lips, your actions were so foul.”
“Well, if she lived, who cares?”
Þrándr cackled this out of his mouth and then started laughing uncontrollably.
“Uncle, if you are going to be this way then we will have to end this session.”
The king said this with a serious tone.
“This is not really a conversation but just you ranting.”
“You replaced me! I was cheated!”
Þrándr continued shouting.
“By all rights, I should be the king. This should be my private room. I am as fit as you to be king.”
“Unfortunately, I disagree, and I held you as an ally for as long as I could. At least, I made your daughter the regent. Your side of the family is still represented. I have tried to mend the rift that my father created. Please give me some credit.”
Just then there was a knock at the door. The king waved his hand temporily silencing his uncle and then he issued a command.
“Enter.”
In walked a servant with a bucket of mulled cherry wine which she sat on the serving table. She ladled out two cups and handed them to the king and Þrándr and then she left.
An ornately carved bucket full of mulled cherry wine and two wooden cups of the wine as imagined by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.
“Thank you for not continuing your rant in front of the servants.”
The king began again as he sipped the warm fruit wine.
“You are a drunkard and I am getting better. The court’s doctor will say I am cured soon.”
The king said this with sincerity.
“But uncle there is no cure for what ails you.”
“More lies!”
Þrándr shouted and he threw his cup to the ground, splashing both their blankets with warm fruit wine.
“Oh, what a mess you have made.”
The king said this with some disgust.
“If you keep carrying on like this we will have to end this meeting.”
“Do you know it is such an insult to have you put my daughter in my place.”
Þrándr was seething and he was now clenching both of his hands into fists.
“I am a prince of this kingdom! A prince! But no one calls me prince now. No one. And you replaced me with a woman and your crippled brother. What insults you have hurled at your uncle. What little respect you have.”
“Those actions were not done out of disrespect. I have treated you well all along.”
“Oh, you are just like my brother. You know when to use your nicest words to make me feel welcome but you have shoved a knife in my back. Your actions are the real insults. I don’t need to explain why.”
As Þrándr said this, his tone was still angry, but the volume of his voice was coming down.
“You are as unpredictable as this meeting. That is why you can’t be king and that is why you can’t be regent. And to be accurate, you were never regent, so your daughter did not replace you. I did that to keep your wing of the family in a position of power. I did that out of respect, just like appointing Margareta as Seeress was respectful to you and your side.”
“I see your shifty ways.”
Þrándr’s voice dropped now to a sly hiss.
“You were trying to placate me but it hasn’t worked. I see you now. You are just a drunken shadow of my brother.”
“That is your madness talking. I know I have done right by you and we will continue to find ways to comfort you in these trying times.”
The king leaned back in his chair, trying to ignore the spilled wine and sipped from his cup.
“Trying times, indeed. Have you heard the poem they are repeating about you in the kingdom? Have you heard the stories of the Ulfheðnar about your failed flyting with Hrafn Ytra?”
“Yes, word has reached me.”
The king shook his head.
“Those are alehouse antics. They will pass. They always do.”
“The king, wounded in his reputation’s plight. His union with Queen Gerðr Refr yet without respite.”
Þrándr recited a stanza of the poem.
“Two years passed, but no child to inherit his fame. His marital woes whispered, casting shadows on his name. You see, I am not so mad that I can’t memorize a bit of this powerful poem.”
The king shook his head and furrowed his brow. This was the first time he had heard actual lines from the poem and he realized they were a vicious personal attack on him and his inability to produce a potential heir with the queen. Now, he was being belittled by his subjects. His stomach churned and he was losing his craving for the wine, but he sipped onward.
“You know, I was there that first night with you and the queen.”
Þrándr said with a devious edge to his voice.
“Yes, what of it?”
“You may say I am ranting and raving, but my mind remembers.”
Þrándr chuckled with a wicked undertone.
“Your little twig refused to harden into a real branch. At least, at first. Remember, I am well connected. I may not be loved but I can get the ear of just about anyone I want in the kingdom. Wouldn’t they like to hear a story about that first night? In the current climate, how would that be received? Maybe there would even be a new poem about the barren queen and the impotent king. Just something that would work as a sequel to that stanza I already recited.”
“You don’t scare me.”
The king said this, but he was bluffing. He was not scared about his reputation. He had weathered other storms. But he was concerned about the queen, just as he felt they were starting to make progress. Certainly, it had taken two years to get to this point, but her visit in the summer had pointed in a positive direction. If only they could have more time to work out their differences, the king wished. He wondered if she had heard the poem yet, and how all of these rumors would affect them going forward.
The king got up from his chair and discarded the stained and soiled blanket. He took his cup to the serving table and plopped down near the warm bucket of mulled wine. His uncle got up and joined him at the serving table, also leaving his blanket behind on the floor.
“Don’t run away from me, nephew.”
Þrándr hissed this out like a snake.
“You know I could ruin you.”
“The rantings of a madman.”
The king shook his head.
“Who is going to believe you?”
“Everyone!”
Þrándr said this firmly.
“What do you have to show for two years of bedding the queen? Or your concubine for that matter? You have no children. Without children, you have no argument. My view wins. The barren queen. That will make a great sequel to this new poem. I could pay a skald to write it. I might not have to start the rumor myself.”
“I can’t believe you would be so cruel.”
Þrándr’s blackmail against the king is revealed in the game.
“You could stop me. But if a witness from your wedding night came forward casting doubt that the nuptials were ever consummated that would certainly wag tongues. Who knows what else they will say about you? Impotent? Not a real man? Perhaps someone who prefers other men? You see where this is heading?”
The king said this with an edge in his voice.
“But I am not going to give you my vote as heir. And I am not going to make you regent. I can’t in good conscience give you any post of responsibility.”
“I don’t want that any more despite your insults. I want gold.”
“How much?”
The king said this with a hollow tone as he stared forward, not really looking at his uncle but focused somewhere in a far off distance. Everything seemed to be slowing down to a crawl in his consciousness. He felt like he was floating. His stomach flopped one way and then another, making him feel queasy.
“One fifth. One fifth of the national treasury.”
“A fifth!”
The king tried to hold back his gasp.
“That is fair. I no longer have titles. My father, The Wartooth whose image hangs on your wall would agree I was cheated. No land. No titles. And no one ever calls me prince. Not even my wife!”
Þrándr’s voice was rising again.
“So give me a slice of the national treasury and we will call it even. And I will not complain further about the lack of wisdom of the council of chiefs or what this kingdom owes me, the first-born son whose kingdom was stolen.”
His uncle got up and walked to the door. He turned just before exiting and called out.
“You have my price. I expect word tomorrow, or my rumor campaign will roll forward. Don’t drink too much trying to figure out how to beat me. Pay up and your worries will be over. At least with me.”
Then his uncle opened the door and started cackling. The old man laughed wickedly while he skipped his way through the longhouse on his way back to his home.
The king sat at the table thinking for many minutes before getting up with a sigh. He called out to the serving woman down the hall, outside his meeting room. He told her that there was a mess inside that needed cleaning. Then he turned and headed to his bedchamber, down the hallway. He wanted to think more about his predicament and likely drink more about it too. But he knew in his heart, even then, that he would pay his uncle. What disturbed him the most, beyond being forced into a corner by the blackmail demand, was the fact he was unsure if he would ever get the chance to get any revenge on the slowly dying madman.
(The images included in this chapter are all from accounts linked to @Chac1 where he holds the copyright. They are primarily from Playground AI, but some are from Bing, including the Lost Seasons of the Danes logo. The LunaPic image editor was used to alter some images.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return in a week or so.)
After a bit too much ale on those nights around the campfire, Tryggve tried out the poem on those in his small hunting party and it was well received, with much laughter and hooting.
The poem is popular now. But in the present its validity is doubted enough to become academic debate. What changed? A campaign of suppression by Þorolfr or Queen Gerðr, perhaps?
He was not scared about his reputation. He had weathered other storms. But he was concerned about the queen, just as he felt they were starting to make progress. Certainly, it had taken two years to get to this point, but her visit in the summer had pointed in a positive direction. If only they could have more time to work out their differences, the king wished.
Unfortunately, I don't think life will give Þorolfr infinite time. He needs to do the best with what he has.
The scene between Þorolfr and Þrándr was quite sad. Þrándr's mind is slipping, and the Danes don't have enough of an understanding about mental health to assist. Instead we just have the two men arguing and at an impasse.
Feels good to have a full chapter out for folks after a quarter or more away. Felt a bit out of practice in assembling this one but trying to get back in the groove.
Indeed, it seems the Council of Chiefs had some wisdom in skipping over Þrándr . His lustful brother was the correct choice although King Þorolfr continues to react or perhaps over-react to problems leftover from his father's reign while not dealing with his own issues.
Yes, alcohol definitely fuels some of what we see in this AAR. What the king does while the queen is hundreds of miles away is no doubt his business and she doesn't need to know. At least, I think that's his reasoning.
Let's see if this older but maybe not wiser king will allow us to further explore his character in these comments.
The poem is popular now. But in the present its validity is doubted enough to become academic debate. What changed? A campaign of suppression by Þorolfr or Queen Gerðr, perhaps?
Now, that is a great idea, Jak. I had actually chalked it up to time. Rare that folks read poetry it seems these days, let alone remember poetry from more than a thousand years ago. I think the fact that the poem as rendered in this AAR is in English tends to discredit its authenticity. However, I do think that it is completely believable that someone who spoke English translated the gist of what once was a popular Norse poem and gave it a rhyming scheme in English.
From what I know of the queen, I wouldn't put it past her.
I see we have roused the younger queen from her slumbers. But I do wonder what the older queen will do about these matters. Something to consider for later chapters. But as she reminds us we must press on. Attention is already flagging.
The scene between Þorolfr and Þrándr was quite sad. Þrándr's mind is slipping, and the Danes don't have enough of an understanding about mental health to assist. Instead we just have the two men arguing and at an impasse.
Jak, thanks for picking up on one of my thoughts underpinning this chapter. Given the mental health issues the game gives characters, how would these challenges play out?
Yes, I agree. Quite sad really. And no doubt there is more sadness ahead. Let's see if readers will hang in to deal with that.
I liked the reference to the flyting. It's nice to see such bits of Norse culture. Did the king know that he was competing in a flyting, though? What makes the king's words about Hrafn daring to dwell among warriors a call for a challenge of words?
Why hasn't King Þorolfr attempted to get revenge on Hrafn for this insult to his manliness? He isn't known to be calm when insulted. Should Hrafn be watching his back?
RIP Tryggve. He died bravely.
Of course, given what was written in The Lost Saga, Tryggve's views might not have been... in accordance with the king's.
Why does Ofeig dislike the queen again?
Þrándr is an issue. At least he doesn't want the regency. Why did he give up on that? Did he see that the king had a point?
I like the poetry, but it's always good to return to the original format.
It was also nice to see Sigurd af Munso referenced.
Thanks for your support @HistoryDude . Glad to see you back reading and commenting in this AAR. Now, that you have the wider sweep of what is going on in this AAR, bolstered by the lore of TheLost Saga, it should give you and others greater insights into the culture and beliefs of the time. You are actually one of the folks a long time ago who asked good questions that inspired this particular theme with the poetry (as you have deployed a poetry-driven AAR too) and a lot of what was included in the Lost Saga.
Indeed he is, although he has certainly suffered quite a bit too. A full telling of his tale is up ahead, or at least most of his tale. As you and others have questions, time to paint more of the picture with prose.
I liked the reference to the flyting. It's nice to see such bits of Norse culture. Did the king know that he was competing in a flyting, though? What makes the king's words about Hrafn daring to dwell among warriors a call for a challenge of words?
These good questions are one of the reasons I think a prose chapter will be necessary to fill in some of the answers. (Although more rhyming will be coming in the next installment.)
Actually, this was a game event where the king chooses to challenge Hrafn at the warrior lodge. Indeed he knew what he was doing and didn't make a good choice. I chalk that up to hubris and too much drink. And then there's his xenophobia. Hrafn is from Norway. I think as we have well established, the king really thinks in a tribal fashion, as he was raised that way. The concept of a Danish nation is still rather new and of course he takes the view that the Danes are superior. That too is fairly well established. Finally, I think the king's weak opening that Hrafn, a Norwegian outsider, isn't worthy to dine with the best Danish warriors falls flat and the members of the warrior lodge likely agreed. Hrafn is one of the most widely known warriors in Scandinavia. Although the king had bested him in a raid (something I have skipped over here because it involves more poetry and I think folks have mostly had their fill) the king should really had known better and if he was going to insult him, then he should have chosen something else.
Why hasn't King Þorolfr attempted to get revenge on Hrafn for this insult to his manliness? He isn't known to be calm when insulted. Should Hrafn be watching his back?
Good points. Hrafn was smart enough not only to win the flyting but also realize his vulnerable position. As noted in the verse, he worked to make peace with the king. More answers as to the king's reaction will be coming a bit later.
Indeed, Tryggve was brave in many ways including brave enough to tell the truth. And that truth was quite inconvenient for his friend and sponsor, the king. But this is where mystery shrouds the answer somewhat due to the oral tradition of the time. How much of this poem, that was never intended to be passed down, was altered by Ofeig or others for that matter?
Well, Ofeig has an issue not with the queen but with the king's concubine, Gyrið. This was explored in two earlier chapters. As mentioned in passing in this chapter, Ofeig had his suspicions that the king was behind the death of his hero, Froði Kráka. He suspects Gyrið poisoned him and he confronted her about it at the blót.
Well, there's Ofeig now, giving us a bit of a flashback.
Hard to know what is propelling Þrándr now. He is definitely unpredictable and as seen here, dangerous to the king's reputation. From my perspective, due to his mental illness, he doesn't always apply reason to his demands.
Well, as if to prove my point.... Never mind. Not worth upsetting him more, especially when he's lost his temper.
Jarl Sigurd has always been one of the major characters of this AAR. His role is going to continue to grow for a variety of reasons.
And as for the poetry, yes, I hear you and others (silently) sending me this message. I hope folks will indulge me with that for a time or two more but the regular format is returning as I find more time. Thanks as always for the great questions and comments. They catalyze many ideas.
That was the same fateful hunting trip when Tryggve came across a bear, and defended his comrades, most of whom fled when they saw the beast. Ironically, the bear’s slaying of Tryggve became a popular song of the time, another important cultural artifact attached to the court’s skald.
But he decided that the poem was the beginning of his revenge against Gyrið, the king’s consort. Certainly, she was not even mentioned in the poem, but anything that cast a shadow on the king’s household would eventually bring trouble to her doorstep, Ofeig reasoned.
More calumny! As was ever the case, the lack of an heir of his own line causes a range of problems. Magni as heir!? That must stick in the king’s craw!
Feels good to have a full chapter out for folks after a quarter or more away. Felt a bit out of practice in assembling this one but trying to get back in the groove.
Thanks for working to catch up with the reading @Bullfilter . Unfortunately, I remain behind in many sub-forums but try to stay current at least in the CK realm. Good to have one of the original readers and commentators back for more.
I can't say I am back yet. Still feel behind. Perhaps in a few weeks with a few more chapters posted I will start to feel it. Hopefully your return will be easier.
Yes. Tryggve died just the way the song says he did: mauled by a bear. You can imagine my head was swimming a bit as the king loses a flyting and the next event I get is the court skald dies. I tried to replicate that quickness here. Then the crazy uncle comes with his blackmail demand. Seemed ready made to write about.
Settle down Þrándr the Old, please. Of course, I would not steer Bullfilter wrong.
The king is entering a phase where the fog of war will be thicker for a variety of reasons, perhaps the largest being that he has started drinking a lot again. From the reactions here, I may have to build this up a bit more as we go along.
Ofeig will become more dangerous as we go along. He will pop in and out as necessary, so don't expect him constantly. That may be his true skill. As any good enemy who doesn't have much power, I expect him to run a guerrilla campaign.
More calumny! As was ever the case, the lack of an heir of his own line causes a range of problems. Magni as heir!? That must stick in the king’s craw!
Yes, I think many readers are ready for that. More rhyming coming soon, then we will stick mostly to prose going forward. Thanks for reading and your support.
Good to see you and the crew back in business. Pretty well all of my questions have been addressed, so the only thing I'll comment on is how the King managed to keep his cool during what was really a very unpleasant and provoking conversation, regardless of the personal attachments. Even more so with drink involved.
Thanks to you too, @Lord Durham for making the trek back into these electronic pages. Good to have you here.
You do ask a pertinent question: what restrained the king?
These meetings of the Ulfheðnar, the warrior lodge, were very new to me for this play-through as I had not played CK2 with all the DLC before. These are the sessions where the king's father got his nickname ("the Girl-armed) when he lost an arm wrestling contest and where the king won the drinking contest. These were completely new to me as a player. As a writer, I have to believe the king symbolically takes off his crown during such gatherings and becomes part of the berserker clan, one among equals. (And yes, we both know kings didn't wear their crowns everywhere. Crowns were primarily for ceremonies.) Why else would a king put up with such?
My visualization of the politics of that era is that you want to keep the best fighters on your side, so the kings allowed themselves to become part of such contests and indeed flytings so they were not judged as too aloof and pretentious. The Sagas and the game both speak of attracting the best warriors in this time before knights. Keeping the warrior lodge happy and obeying its customs seems a check on the king, even if it means becoming vulnerable to its members. In this case, the king chose not be to a sore loser.
Hrafn's diplomacy as the winner also went a long way to assuage the king's feelings. We will shade in a bit more of this in a later chapter.
The full "Lost Seasons of the Danes" Soundtrack can be heard here.
This 8th Century Gothic woodcut shows celebrations at an alehouse, where one of the popular songs at the time was called “The Barren Land.” This image was created by the DALL·E image generator provided via Bing.
>>> WARNING: This post includes a political song that may offend some with its lewd and sometimes rude lyrics. <<<
(Editorial Context: With the events of Chapter XX now revealed, best that we share this song with our faithful readers. No tune made its way to us through time. However, the lyrics of this song were recorded in an 11th Century document that was eventually found by academics in a scholarly archive in Iceland. According to the notes of the transcription, this was supposedly a popular song in alehouses in the Kingdom of Denmark in the 8th and 9th Centuries. As might be gleaned from the song's lyrics, the transcriber's notes tell us it found its greatest popularity in Norway, lands recently conquered and acquired by the Danes. The songwriter remains anonymous.)
(The images included in this chapter are all from accounts linked to @Chac1 where he holds the copyright. They are primarily from Bing, including the Lost Seasons of the Danes logo.)
(Lost Seasons of the Danes will return in a week or so.)
