Háskóli Íslands Student Conference on the Medieval North 2.0

Theme

Stirring up trouble: Antagonists, Outlaws, Troublemakers, & Rebels

Abstract

Medieval alchemists, despite great optimism and strenuous efforts, never achieved their dream of transmuting base metals into gold. Yet near the end of the twelfth century, the Icelandic abbot Karl Jónsson wrote of a transformation equally dramatic and almost as unlikely: how an obscure outlaw-priest from the Faroe Islands successfully fashioned himself into the king of Norway. Sverrisaga chronicles the contentious ascent of Sverrir Sigurðarson, arguably the most disruptive troublemaker in Norwegian history, given his central role in Norway’s civil wars. This paper uses Sverrir’s narrative to evaluate the process by which an individual is transformed from one social status into another—in this case, from renegade to sole ruler of his country.

Medieval texts featuring saints, bishops and kings often depict their subjects as divinely predestined for office, or instead attribute their change in status to a single decisive event such as a battle or coronation ceremony. This tendency can obscure the many cumulative factors underlying and contributing to the transformation. I argue that Sverrir’s metamorphosis was neither predetermined nor instantaneous, but instead the result of a multifaceted process beginning in his youth and continuing throughout his contested reign. I propose a more fluid and expansive set of criteria by which personal transformation may be recognised and understood. The paper is part of a larger dissertation that uses the same criteria to assess other twelfth-century narratives of individuals in the process of becoming bishops or kings. Through this approach, I hope to lay a foundation for broader research into the ways in which individuals have redefined themselves, moved up and down the social order and in so doing, contributed incrementally to political and ecclesiastical changes in the medieval Scandinavian world.

From Renegade to Ruler: Personal Transformation and Self-Fashioning in Sverrisaga

Yesterday, we heard two excellent presentations that were essentially about transformation. The first was from Simon Hauke, who traced the evolution of Hildr's character through several different versions of Hjaðningavig. The second was from Vitor Fortuna, who looked at the radical transformation of the whole concept of vikingr across several centuries and cultures.

I'm also interested in transformation, but in a very different sense: Rather than looking at how characters and cultures are transformed through the re-telling of a story, I look at how story-tellers perceived and wrote about transformation that happened in the lives of their subjects. Personal transformation, or metamorphosis.

There were many different types of personal transformation happening in the medieval North: children were becoming adults, apprentices were becoming masters, pagans were becoming Christians, soldiers were becoming crusaders, rural peasants were becoming urban peasants, just to name a few.

I'm going to focus on one, very limited type of personal transformation: Becoming a king. It has the advantage of being well-represented in saga narratives, and there would seem to be pretty clear, obvious signs of transformation—if people call you King so-and-so, at some point prior to that they called you Prince, or "my Lord," or they just didn't call you at all.

So... How does one get to be king?

If you've watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail, you know at least two possibilities: "The Lady of the Lake," says King Arthur to the grimy peasant, "her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite, held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence, that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur—that is why I am your king!"

So, in other words pre-destination? Perhaps heredity? A ceremony involving the bestowing of a sword, or even a crown?

The cheeky peasant retorts to the king, "Strange women lying in ponds distributin’ swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony!"

Perhaps one becomes king through consensus? By election? Or through a popular uprising?

All of these methods are attested in saga literature, but taken in isolation, they only paint a limited (and limiting) picture of the transformation. So instead, I take a case study approach, looking for common threads and patterns across narratives about becoming a king in 12th century Scandinavia.

What I have found is that becoming a king (according to those who tell the king's story) is a process that unfolds over time, often beginning in the formative experiences of childhood or young adulthood. It is a cumulative and reiterative process, something that must be intentionally sought and strived for. It is hardly ever a foregone conclusion.

Even after a climactic coronation ceremony, the transformative process continues and must be reinforced, defended, and disseminated. Because as the sagas often indicate, it is entirely possible to "un-become" a king.

Sverrissaga is in many respects an ideal case study—it tells the story of Sverrir Sigurðarson, an obscure 12th century priest from the Faroe Islands who somehow winds up becoming the King of Norway. That's quite a transformation, and it plays out across 182 chapters.

While Sverrir is an actual, historical king of Norway, I'm far more interested in how his transformation is portrayed than how it actually happened. And in part, that's because Sverrir himself may be regarded as a co-author of the saga, along with Abbot Karl Jónsson of Þingeyrar abbey here in Iceland.

In the introduction to the saga, Abbot Karl tells his readers that Sverrir himself commissioned the saga, oversaw it, and decided what should be written.

So in addition to being a narrative of personal transformation, Sverrissaga is a supreme example of medieval self-fashioning: The narrator and the “narratee” collaborating to transform the image the latter by writing (and likely transforming) the narrative of his own transformation process.

And since this is a conference about antagonists, outlaws, troublemakers, and rebels, it's also worth mentioning that Sverrir is all of these things, from chapter one (where as a youth he strikes another man, quarrels about it with the authorities, then narrowly escapes seizure by hiding in an oven) right up through his dying moments, when he insults the archbishop, challenges his excommunication, and asks to be placed on the throne one more time, so he can prove his detractors wrong even in death.

In short, Sverrir remains a renegade throughout his life—no transformation there. But somehow along the way he does become a ruler, something he was not before. That transformative process, and the way in which it is narrated, is what we’ll turn back to now.

I mentioned previously that I look for consistent threads and patterns across narratives of becoming. They tend fall into four broad categories:

1. Transformative Experiences & Relationships (people & pivotal moments)

2. Acquisition of Resources (material & non-material—human resources, allies, skills, reputation)

3. Formal Recognition (ceremony & ritual, symbols, external/internal)

4. Cycle of Innovation (Innovation, expansion, consolidation, setback)

The pattern is loosely sequential as well as reiterative—meaning that an emerging ruler will move progressively through each phase, but with some expected overlap of categories and occasional revisiting of previous ones.

I’m going to briefly walk you through the four categories, giving just one or two examples from each, in order to give a sense of how the pattern can be a useful tool for describing and thinking about the process of transformation.

Transformative Experiences & Relationships (people and pivotal moments)

I already related how in the very first chapter, young Sverrir strikes a man, argues with the authorities, and hides in an oven. There are different lenses through which we might interpret this episode:

In a literary sense, this could be foreshadowing, giving us a preview of how Sverrir will pursue the throne (fighting, arguing, and hiding).

If we use an apologetic lens, we might view this as an attempt to explain why Sverrir was not well-suited to be a priest—and yet still fit to be a king.

But if we view this episode instead through the lens of “becoming” it is a transformative experience—one which shapes Sverrir’s attitudes toward authority figures, in which he recognizes his ability to evade them, and discovers that he has a preference to be the one wielding authority, not the one receiving it.

This pivotal moment serves to derail the protagonist’s path—the path to priesthood—and instead puts him on a new path—the path to rulership.

Acquisition of Resources (material & non-material—human resources, allies, skills, reputation)

As you might imagine, it takes a lot of resources to become a king. But not always the resources we might expect. An army of soldiers or a mountain of wealth are nice, if you've got them, but Sverrir does not. When he first meets the birkibeinar here is how he describes himself to them:

"I am also not fit for any planning, being a man who was born on a lone skerry and far from other lands. I have also seen little of other people's customs before now, when I came to your land, and much less do I know how to wage war or defend land. I am fit for nothing, unknown to all men. I also do not know about my lineage, and all are ignorant of it except for what I alone can tell."

So basically, he's good for nothing, knows nothing, has nothing, and comes from nothing. And he becomes the leader of the birkibeinar, who have no shoes (as their name implies).

But what he does have is a priestly education: He can read. He can think critically. He can speak eloquently and persuasively. He can cast his story and his mission in terms of biblical proportions—and quite literally does. It is on the basis of this acquired skill alone that Sverrir builds and acquires all of his other resources. Or so he (and the narrative) would have us believe. If you are self-fashioning your story, the lower you set the initial bar the more remarkable the transformation will seem in the end.

Formal Recognition (ceremony & ritual, symbols, external/internal)

We tend to think of ceremony and ritual as the defining "moment" where transformation happens. The problem for Sverrir is that in the 12th century, these rituals are in flux, and mean different things to different people.

He undergoes the traditional kingly ritual of sverðtaka—the making and receiving of oaths in the presence of swords—but he does this while most of the country still has no idea who he is.

He is elected king at various regional assemblies, but not in quick succession. He goes on the eriksgata—the processional journey of a new king through his lands—but it doesn't stick, and in some places, he has to do it over and over again.

He is crowned at a coronation ceremony, but this is years after he has defeated his last significant rival, and long after the other rituals mentioned before.

None of these can be pointed to as the definitive "moment" when Sverrir becomes a king. But taken cumulatively, they all serve as important markers of an ongoing transformation that is never quite complete. Even his dying wish is an act of enthronement designed to send a message, "See? I am king...right? Come on, guys! Aren't I? Have I finally convinced you?"

Cycle of Innovation (innovation, expansion, consolidation, setback)

Sverrir is innovative on many fronts, and his innovations are often creative responses to profound setbacks. Nowhere is this cycle more evident than in his tortured relationship with the church:

In the first half of the saga, Sverrir attempts to CONSOLIDATE his leadership and authority over the church through appointment of priests and by directly challenging the Archbishop, resulting in the Archbishop’s retreat to Denmark. In Denmark, the Archbishop secures Sverrir’s excommunication, calling into question his legitimacy and leadership over the church. This is obviously a SETBACK for Sverrir.

Sverrir responds creatively, relying on recent INNOVATIONS in documentary diplomacy (the writing, sending and reading public reading of letters to and from the papal curia) to dispute his excommunication in the churches and reframe it to his political advantage.

Having effectively countered the setback, Sverrir next appoints his personal chaplain as a bishop, and coerces him to lead a coronation ceremony. The coronation itself is quite innovative for its time—it is only the third such ceremony in medieval Scandinavia. For Sverrir, the coronation represents an EXPANSION of his claims to legitimacy (his previous claims having relied primarily on more traditional ceremonies), and functions to further CONSOLIDATE his authority over the church within Norway.

Conclusion

This last category, perhaps more than the other three, demonstrates how kingship is represented in story as something adaptive, and not something permanently achieved. It must be re-imagined, re-enacted, and re-negotiated. It is a continual process of becoming—beginning when the narrative begins, and ending only when the narrative ends.

This narrative, in particular, blurs the lines between personal transformation and literary transformation: In commissioning his own saga, Sverrir doesn't just tell us how he became king—he subtly shapes and fashions our perception of what that transformation should look like.

And in this, he reveals the importance... and the impermanence... and maybe the impertinence... of both the narrative and of the becoming.