Paradise Reclaimed by Halldór Laxness Read Free Book Online Page B

out the horses which the king was to ride on his way back to the capital. A crowd of farmers had gathered round to see how good the horses were and how they performed. Among them was Steinar of Hlíðar, holding by the bridle his aforementioned white horse, Krapi. When he had watched the royal grooms putting the horses through their paces for a while and seen what they could do, he led his own mount away and headed for the huge marquee where the king was at table with his courtiers and the sheriffs of Iceland. Steinar greeted the sentries and asked to see the king. They were reluctant to pay any heed to this stranger’s request, but finally it was brought to the attention of one of the officials in attendance to the king. This man asked Steinar why he wanted to see the king; Steinar replied that he had urgent business with him—he had a gift to present to him. After a while the courtier returned to say that the king never accepted gifts from individual commoners, but that Steinar was to be permitted to come inside and pay his respects to the king while he was at table.
    Inside the marquee sat a crowd of gold-braided men of rank, some of them drinking beer. There was a rich aroma of cigars, which the gentry held glowing between their teeth, emitting thick plumes of smoke. There were Icelandic as well as Danish notables there, and it was only to be expected that some of them should look askance when a plain farmer without official recognition came walking in.
    Steinar of Hlíðar doffed his battered cap at the entrance to the marquee, and smoothed down what little was left of his hair. He made no attempt to straighten his shoulders or stick out his chest; his walk was a clumsy trundle, like that of all farmers, but there was no suggestion from his bearing that he thought himself more humble than anyone present. He looked as if nothing came more naturally to him than meeting kings; nor was he there on any commonplace mission.
    He made straight for the king. Then he bowed to him courteously, but not too low. The famous men who sat nearby forgot to carry food to their lips. A sudden silence descended on the marquee. And now when Steinar of Hlíðar stood facing royalty, he once again smoothed his hair down across his brow; then he began to speak, addressing the king as befitted a good Icelandic farmer in the sagas:
    “My name is Steinar Steinsson, from Hlíðar in Steinahlíðar,” he said. “I bid the king welcome to Iceland. We are of the same kin, according to the genealogy which Bjarni Guðmundsson of Fuglavík prepared for my grandfather. I am of Jutland origin, descended from King Harald hilditönn, who fought the battle of Brávellir.”*
    “I beg your Majesty’s indulgence,” said one of the notables in Danish, edging his way in front of Steinar and bowing to the king. “I am this man’s sheriff,” he said, “and it is not with my consent that he comes barging in on you like this, sire.”
    “We are pleased to hear what this man has to say,” said the king, “if you would interpret for us.”
    Sheriff Benediktsson spoke up at once and said that this man had bidden the king welcome, with the observation that they were distant kinsmen. “I crave your Majesty’s pardon that our farmers all speak like this,” he said. “They cannot help it. The sagas are their lifeblood.”
    King Kristian replied, “This has just about convinced me that most kings would find it does not pay to argue genealogies with farmers here in Iceland. Has this gentleman anything else to say to us?”
    Steinar Steinsson continued his address:
    “Since I have heard, my dear and excellent king, that we have much in common as regards lineage and standing (for you, I understand, are a farmer from down south in Gotaland), I wish to proffer you the thanks of my district for giving us what is already ours, namely, permission to walk upright here in Iceland. No one can receive a better gift from those in power over him than permission to be