When he got to Finland, Sumbli asked if they could bargain instead of fighting. Gram went to his hall. There he saw his daughter Signy and fell head over heels. He offered peace if he could have her.
But then a stiffly rowed ship brought news from home. While Gram was gone, Svipdag had taken a fleet across the Skagerrak and down the Kattegat. He was harrying throughout Denmark. Gram must needs hasten back. As he sailed near, the Norsemen withdrew, leaving slain folk, burnt homes, and looted burghs. They had also carried off his sister and a daughter he had by Gro.
Yet rather than seek revenge at once, he left as soon as he could for Finland and Signy. Awaiting no trouble, he told most of his earlier following to stay behind, look after their kin and ward the land. With three ships bearing warriors and gifts he beat his way slowly back up the gulf against foul winds and heavy seas.
When at last he reached tis goal, he found more bad tiding. Sumbli had no liking for him nor faith in him. Already before he first came, word had gone back and forth across the water about giving Signy to the Saxon king Henrik. When Gram had hurried off, Sumbli sent after this man, who was swift to heed. The wedding feast was now ready.
Gram’s icy stillness was more frightening than even his outspoken wrath. He had too few spears with him to make a straightforward onslaught. Instead he donned shabby clothes, put on a hooded cloak that shadowed his face, and went on foot to Sumbli’s hall. At such a merry time, strangers were welcome. One or two guards did ask him if he brought anything. He answered that he was skilled in the healing arts. While the – hall filled with guests and the mead horns came forth, he hunkered down among other lowly folk. As everybody grew drunk, he worked his way toward the high seat where Henrik sat with Sumbli, the bride across from them among her women. Once in reach, he whipped a sword from beneath his cloak and slew Henrik in one blow.
No other man had gone in armed at this hallowed time. Gram hewed a path over the hall, snatched Signy up in his left arm, and cut his way onward to a door. Off into the gathering dusk he ran, got to his ships, And put to sea.
Next year after harvest he raised a host and steered for Norway to avenge his daughter, sister, and kingdom. He found more foemen than he had looked for. With anger in their own hearts, the Saxons had listened to what Svipdag’s messengers asked of them and sent warriors to stand at his side. Gram fell in a battle where the Danes suffered sore loss. Svipdag busked himself to go win kingship over them.
Signy had not been glad when Gram reaved her away. She yearned back to Finland. Yet she had lately borne a son, Hadding, and did not wish the bairn slain in his crib. Wherever she went with him, she feared Svipdag’s killers would follow. Therefore she sent him secretly off to Braki, as his half brother had openly been sent, in hopes that the chieftain could somehow save him.
All this and more did Gudorm know. He might have passed it on to Hadding when the younger boy came to speech. But by then Gudorm was no longer there.
IV
A wind out of the north bore tidings of oncoming winter. Rain slanted before it, mingled with sleet. Bare boughs tossed and creaked above sere meadows. Stubblefields were becoming mires. Now and then the eye caught sight of a farmstead, huddled into itself, but it was soon lost again in the gray.
A log road stayed passable. Four horses drew a wain along it. Their breath smoked white. The wain was big, decked over, richly carved and painted. Gripping beasts entwined with each other along the sides; faces gaped and scowled on the hubs, as if the bumps and groans of their wheels were threats they uttered; iron rang against free-swinging iron—all to frighten off drows and other uncanny beings. Queen Gro sat there, together with four serving women. They were well clad against the cold, in furs and heavy cloth. Likewise were the score of guardsmen who rode ahead and behind, but water tumbled off their helmets and ran down their spearshafts.
Shadowy at first, then high and dark, a stockade showed forth before them. Crows had long since picked clean the heads of illdoers which King Gram had staked on top, though hair still clung to a few. Warriors at the gate took hold of weapons and bade the newcomers halt. When they heard who it was, they let the troop through and a man sped to bring word of these guests.
Here wheels and hoofs banged over cobblestones. Buildings crowded close around. Most were small, wattle-and-daub with turf roofs from which smoke drifted low along the peaks. They were stables, workshops, storehouses, homes for lesser folk. Noise rang: speech, footfalls, hammering, lowing, cackling, bleating. Smells of fire, cookery, beasts, dung, and wet woolen coats hung heavy. Pigs, dogs, barnyard fowl wandered free. Men, women, and children peered from doorways as the queen passed. Some fingers drew signs in the air.
Highest in the thorp stood a hall. Timbered and shingled, two back-stepped stories rose with dragon figures at every gable end. Around the upper floor ran a covered gallery. At the back were a cookhouse and a bower where women could spin and weave. Here, not far from the fisher and trader town Haven on the Sound, was one of the best of the dwellings Skjold had built for himself around Denmark.
Gro’s wain stopped at the front door. Grooms took over the horses while she and her men stepped down and went inside past more
