Sverre The Cook's Son And The Birchlegs
In the year 1177 those people in Norway who loved a joke must have
laughed to their hearts' content, when the tidings reached them that the
son of a cook, followed by seventy ragged and half armed men, had set out
to win the throne of the kingdom. Surely a more extraordinary and
laughable enterprise was never undertaken, and the most remarkable thing
about it was that it succeeded. A few years of desperate adventures and
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hard fighting raised the cook's son to the throne, and those who had
laughed at his temerity were now glad to hail him as their king. How
Sverre the adventurer won the crown is a tale full of adventure and amply
worth the telling.
No common man was Sverre and no common woman was his mother Gunhild, a
cook in the kitchen of King Sigurd Mouth. Not handsome was she, but quick
of wit and bright of brain. If the king had had his way the boy would
have had a very short life, for he bade the mother to kill her child as
soon as it should be born. Instead of consenting to this cruel mandate,
she fled from the palace to a ship, which took her to the Faroe Islands,
and here her son was born. She was then serving as milkmaid to Bishop
Mathias.
The little Sverre began his life with an adventure. When he was a few
months old a man named Unas came from Norway to the islands, a smith or
comb-maker by profession. But Gunhild suspected him of being a spy sent
by King Sigurd to kill her son, and she hid the boy in a cavern, which is
still called Sverre's Cave. He acted like a spy, for he followed her to
the cave, found where she had hidden the child, and threatened to kill it
unless she would marry him. Gunhild had no love for this dangerous
stranger, but she dearly loved her little son, and with much reluctance
she consented to marry Unas to save the babe's life.
Such was the first event in the life of the later King Sverre. The
new-married pair went back to Norway, for King Sigurd had died, but when
the boy was five years old they returned to the Faroes, for Bishop
Mathias was now dead, and Roe, the brother of Unas, had been made bishop
in his stead.
The little fellow was made to believe that he was the son of Unas, and as
he grew up Bishop Roe took a great fancy to him, for he showed himself to
be very bright and intelligent. There was no boy in the island his equal,
so the good bishop had him educated for the priesthood and when he was
old enough had him ordained in the lowest priestly grade.
This was much against the wish of Gunhild, his mother, who had higher
hopes for his future, and when he proudly told her that he was now a
priest, and hoped some day to become a bishop, or even a cardinal, she
burst into tears.
"Why do you weep, mother?" he asked in surprise. "I do not know why you
should hear of my honor with sorrow."
"Oh, my son," she cried, "this is but a small honor compared to that to
which you were born. I have not told you of the great station that is
yours by right, but must now say that you are not the son of my husband
Unas, but of King Sigurd of Norway, and you have as good a claim as any
man living to the throne."
This surprising revelation destroyed Sverre's peace of mind. All his
ambition to rise in the priesthood was gone, the crown of a kingdom
seemed to float in the air before him, and his thoughts by day and his
dreams by night were fixed on that shining goal. The great hopes in his
mind kept sleep from his eyes and after days of mental unrest he felt
that life was worthless to him if his high ambition were not fulfilled.
"Since I am born heir to the crown," he said to his mother, "I have as
much right to it as any man, and I will strive at any cost to win it. I
stake my life on this cast, for without it life to me has lost all its
joy."
Magnus, the king then on the throne, was not of royal birth. He was the
son of Erling Skakke, a great and ambitious nobleman, who had killed
every descendant of the royal house he could find to make his own son
king. Of the boy who was destined to dispute his claim, the cook's son on
the Faroes, he knew nothing, and when the bright youth landed in Norway,
whether he had gone in spite of the protests of Bishop Roe, not a soul in
the kingdom dreamed that a new claimant for the throne was in the realm.
No one was likely to learn from Sverre until his plans were ripe. He was
too shrewd and cautious for that. He wanted to feel the sentiment of the
people, and was disappointed to find them all well satisfied with their
king. Full of humor and a good talker, everybody he met was pleased with
him, and when he talked with the men-at-arms of Erling Skakke they told
him all they knew about the state of affairs. They were quite won over by
this lively priest from the Faroes. He even made the acquaintance of
Erling Skakke himself and got a thorough idea of his character.
The cunning adventurer was feeling his way and found things not at all to
his liking. To attempt, alone and with an empty pocket, to drive a
favorite monarch from the throne, seemed the act of madness. But the
ambitious youth had dreamed his dream of royal state and had no fancy for
returning to a humble priesthood on the bleak Faroes.
In Sweden, across the border, dwelt Earl Birger, who had married a sister
of King Sigurd Mouth. To him Sverre went, told who he was, and begged for
aid. The earl looked on him as an imposter and would have nothing to do
with him. Then he sought Folkvid the Lawman, with whom lived his
half-sister Cecilia, and told him the same story. Folkvid received him
more graciously, but he had no power to make him king. But the rumor
that a son of the late King Sigurd was in the land got abroad, and soon
made its way to the ears of a band of rebels who hated the king.
Here we must go back a step. All the people of Norway were not content
with the new king. From time to time pretenders to the throne arose,
hornets whom Magnus and his father Erling had some trouble in destroying.
They had their following, and the malcontents gathered at last around
Eystein Meyla (Little Girl), who professed to be the grandson of a former
king. But all this last of the pretenders was able to do was to roam
about in the wilderness, keeping himself and his followers from starving
by robbing the people. They were in so desperate a state that they had to
use birch-bark for shoes, and the peasants in derision called them
Birkebeiner, or Birchlegs. Though little better than highwaymen, they
were sturdy and daring and had some success, but finally were badly
beaten by the king and their leader slain. They might have never been
heard of again had not the greatest of the pretenders just then came to
Norway.
The rumor that a son of King Sigurd Mouth was in the land reached the
ears of the handful of Birchlegs remaining and, learning where Sverre
was, they sought him and begged him to be their chief. He looked at them,
and seeing what dirty and ragged vagabonds they were, he told them that
he had no fancy for being their leader, that there was no link of
connection between them and him but poverty, and advised them, if they
wanted a chief, to seek one of Earl Birger's sons, who, like himself,
were of royal descent.
The beggarly troop took his advice, but the earl's son would have nothing
to do with them. By way of a joke he told them to go back to Sverre and
threaten to kill him if he would not be their leader. They did so, using
persuasions and possibly threats, and Sverre, seeing no hope of success
among the great, finally consented to become the leader of this ragged
band of brigands. Such was his first definite step on the road to the
throne.
In this humble fashion, the ambitious young prince, then about
twenty-four years old, with empty hands and pockets and seventy ragged
followers, began his desperate strife for the throne of Norway.
From Vermeland, where his enterprise began, he led his forlorn seventy
southward toward Viken, his party rolling on like a snowball and growing
in size on its way, until it swelled to four hundred and twenty men. In
spite of his protest, these vagabonds proclaimed him king and touched his
sword to indicate their allegiance. But their devotion to his cause was
not great, for when he forbade them to rob and plunder the peasants most
of them left him. To test the remainder, he ordered them back to
Vermeland and before they reached that region only the original seventy
remained.
Desperate was now the position of the youthful adventurer. He had
declared himself a claimant for the throne and any one had the right to
kill him. The peasants hated his robber band and he could get none to
join him. They would rather have killed them all and thus earned the
king's favor.
Had young Sverre been a man of common mind his enterprise must now have
reached its end. But he was a man of wonderful mental resources, daring,
indefatigable, capable of bearing the most extreme reverses and rescuing
himself from the most perilous situations. Followed by his faithful
seventy, he wandered through the pathless mountain wilderness, hopeful
and resourceful. His courage was unfailing. Often they had to live on
bark and frozen berries, which were dug up from under the snow. At times
some of his men, worn out with hunger and exposure, would drop lifeless
on their barren paths; at times he had to sleep under his shield, as his
only protection from the falling snow; but his heart kept stout through
it all, and he chided those who talked of ending their misfortunes by
suicide.
As an example of his courage and endurance and his care of his men, we
may tell the following anecdote. Once in his wanderings he came to a
large mountain lake which had to be crossed. It could only be done on
rafts, and the men were so exhausted that it proved desperate work to
fell trees and build the necessary rafts. In time they were all
despatched, Sverre boarding the last, which was so heavily laden that the
water rose above his ankles.
One man was still on the shore, so utterly worn out that he had to crawl
to the water's edge and beg to be taken on, lest he should perish. The
others grumbled, but Sverre would not listen to their complaints but
bade them to take the man on. With his extra weight the raft sank till
the water reached their knees. Though the raft threatened to go to the
bottom Sverre kept a resolute face. A great fallen pine on the other side
made a bridge up which the men clambered to safety, Sverre being the last
to leave the raft. Scarcely had he done so when the watersoaked logs
sank. The men looked on this as a miracle and believed more fully than
ever that he would win.
Now came the first success in his marvellous career. He had one hundred
and twenty men on reaching the goal of his terrible journey, but here
eighty men more joined him and with these two hundred followers he
successfully faced a force of fourteen hundred which had been sent
against him. With a native genius for warfare he baffled his enemies at
every point, avoiding their onset, falling upon them at unexpected
points, forcing them to scatter into separate detachments in the pursuit,
then falling on and beating these detachments in succession. While he
kept aware of their plans and movements, they never knew where to look
for him, and in a short time the peasant army was beaten and dispersed.
This striking success gave new courage and hope to the Birchlegs and they
came in numbers to the place to which Sverre had summoned a body of
twelve representatives from the province of Troendelag. These met and
proclaimed him king of Norway. It was now the summer of 1177.
The Birchlegs were hasty in supposing the beating of fourteen hundred
peasants would bring success to their cause. Erling Skakke was still
alive and active, and on hearing of the exploits of this new leader of
rebels in the north, he got together a large fleet and sailed northward
to deal with him.
The new-proclaimed king was too wary to meet this powerful force and he
sought refuge in the mountains again, leaving to Erling the dominion of
the coast. And now, for two years, Sverre and his men led a precarious
life, wandering hither and thither through the mountain wilderness and
suffering the severest privations. He was like a Robin Hood of the
Norwegian mountains, loving to play practical jokes on the peasants, such
as appearing with his hungry horde at their Yuletide feasts and making
way with the good cheer they had provided for themselves. He was obliged
to forage in the valleys, but he took pity on the poor and more than once
made the great suffer for acts of oppression.
Everywhere he was hated as a desperate brigand; some believed him to be
the devil himself. Naughty children were scared with the threat that the
terrible Sverre would take them, and laundresses, beating their clothes
at the river's brink, devoutly wished that Sverre's head was under the
stone. Yet his undaunted resolution, his fights with the king's soldiers,
his skirmishes with the peasants, and his boldness and daring in all
situations, won him a degree of admiration even among those who feared
and hated him.
Thus for two years his adventurous career went on. Then came an event
that turned the tide in his favor. Erling was still pursuing him and in
June, 1179, was in the coast town of Nidaros, his son, Magnus, with him.
In the harbor lay the fleet. The earl and the king were feasting with
their followers when word was brought them that the Birchlegs were
approaching.
"I wish it was true," said the earl. "I should like nothing better than
to meet that hound Sverre. But there will be no such good luck to-night,
for I am told that the rascals have gone back to the mountains. You can
go to bed in safety, for Sverre will not dare to trouble us when we are
on the watch for him."
To bed they went, sleeping heavily from their potations, and down on them
came Sverre, who, as usual, was well informed about their situation.
"Now is your time to fight bravely, and repay yourselves for your
sufferings," he said to his men. "A fine victory lies before us. I shall
promise you this. Any one of you who can prove that he has slain a
liegeman shall be made a liegeman himself, and each of you shall be given
the title and dignity of the man you have slain."
Thus encouraged, the poorly-armed adventurers rushed down the hills into
the town. One sturdy fellow who carried only a club was asked where his
weapons were.
"They are down in the town," he said. "The earl's men have them now. We
are going there to get them."
This they did. As they came on the warriors, hastily alarmed and heavy
with their drunken sleep, flocked staggering into the streets, to be met
with sword and lance. The confusion was great and the king had much
trouble in rallying his men. Many chieftains advised flight to the ships,
but the stout-hearted Erling was not ready for that.
"It might be best," he said, "but I can't bear the thought of that
brigand priest putting himself in my son's place."
Leading his men outside the city, he awaited the attack. It came in
haste, the Birchlegs falling furiously upon the much greater force before
them. In the onset the earl was killed and his men were put to flight.
The king, as he fled by, saw the bloody face of his father lying under
the stars. He stooped and kissed him, saying:
"We shall meet again, father, in the day of joy." Then he was borne away
in the stream of flight.
This decisive victory turned the tide of the war. The death of Erling
removed Sverre's greatest opponent. King Magnus was no match for the
priest-king, and the rebel force grew until the contest assumed the shape
of civil war. Sverre no longer led a band of wanderers, but was the
leader of an army.
This was not the ordinary army recruited from the settled classes of
society, but an army made up of the lower stratum of the people, now
first demanding their share of the good things of life. Fierce and unruly
as they were, Sverre knew how to control and discipline them. He kept his
promise, as far as was possible, to reward his men with the honors of
those they had slain, but charged them with the maintenance of law and
order, punishing all who disobeyed his commands. This he could safely do,
for they worshipped him. They had shared peril and suffering together,
had lived as comrades, but through it all he had kept his authority
intact and demanded obedience. Birchlegs they still called themselves,
for they had grown proud of the title, and they named their opponents
Heklungs, from the story that some of them had robbed a beggar woman
whose money was wrapped in a cloak (hekl).
For six years afterwards the war for dominion in Norway continued, the
star of King Sverre steadily rising. In 1180 Magnus attacked his opponent
with an army much larger than that of Sverre, but was utterly routed; and
an army of peasants that came on afterwards, to kill the "devil's
priest," met with the same ill success.
Magnus now took refuge in Denmark, abandoning Norway to his rival, and
from there he came year after year to continue the contest. In a naval
battle in 1181, in which Sverre had less than half the number of ships of
his opponent, his star seemed likely to set. The Birchlegs were not good
at sea fighting and the Heklungs were pressing them steadily back, when
Sverre sprang into the hottest of the fight, without a shield and with
darts and javelins hurtling around him, and in stirring tones sang the
Latin hymn, "Alma chorus domini."
This hymn seemed to turn the tide of victory. Magnus, storming furiously
forward at that moment, was wounded in the wrist as he was boarding a
hostile ship. The pain caused him to pause and, his feet slipping on the
blood-stained deck, he fell headlong backward, a glad shout of victory
coming from the Birchlegs who saw him fall.
Orm, one of King Magnus's captains, demanded what had happened.
"The king is killed," he was told.
"Then the fate of the realm is decided," he cried.
Cutting the ropes that held the ships together, he took to flight,
followed by others and breaking the line of battle. Leaping to his feet,
Magnus called out that he was not hurt and implored them not to flee from
certain victory. But the terror and confusion were too great, and Sverre
took quick advantage of the opportunity, capturing a number of ships and
putting the others to flight.
The final battle in this contest for a throne came in 1184. It was one in
which Sverre was in imminent danger of a fatal end to his career. Usually
not easily surprised, he was now taken unawares. He had sailed up the
Nore fiord with a few ships and a small force of men, to punish some
parties who had killed his prefect. Magnus, afloat with twenty-six ships
and over three thousand men, learned of this and pursued his enemy into
the fiord.
Sverre was caught in a trap. Not until he saw the hostile ships bearing
down upon him had he a suspicion of danger. Escape was impossible. Great
cliffs bounded the watery canon. He had but fourteen ships and not half
his opponent's force of men. The Heklungs were sure that victory was in
their hands. But when Sverre and his Birchlegs dashed forward and
attacked them with berseker fury their confidence turned to doubt. Soon
it began to appear that victory was to be on the other side. Before the
furious onset the Heklungs fell in numbers. Many in panic leaped into the
sea and were drowned, King Magnus among them. Till mid-night the hot
contest continued, by which hour half the king's force were slain and all
the ships captured. The drowned corpse of King Magnus was not found until
two days after the battle, when it was taken to Bergen and buried with
royal ceremony. His death ended the contest and Sverre was unquestioned
king of the whole land.
Shall we briefly conclude the story of King Sverre's reign? For twenty
years it continued, the most of these years of war, for rebellion broke
out in a dozen quarters and only the incessant vigilance and activity of
a great king and great soldier enabled him to keep his throne and his
life.
After all his wars and perils, he died in his bed, March 9, 1202, worn
out by his long life of toil and strain. Never before had Norway so noble
and able a king; never since has it seen his equal. A man was he of small
frame but indomitable soul, of marvellous presence of mind and fertility
in resources; a man firm but kindly and humane; a king with a
clear-sighted policy and an admirable power of controlling men and
winning their attachment. Never through all its history has Norway known
another monarch so admirable in many ways as Sverre, the cook's son.