This is not to say that this interval of time was a total loss to the nation; far from it. It is as if men’s faculties had been charged to an extraordinary pitch, and that whatever they did for good or ill was done in a superlative degree. So it is not surprising to find that in the midst of civil strife and ruthless deeds, Icelandic literature came to a blossoming never equalled in the history of the country.

Thus, if the Sturlunga Age wrote the blackest page in the annals of Ultima Thule, it also wrote one of the brightest. In addition to that, individuals displayed great nobility of character, and there were those who preferred to die rather than betray their leaders.

Inasmuch as another chapter in this series is devoted entirely to Snorri Sturluson,* the literary genius of the period, it is not the intention here to dwell upon the literature but rather to endeavour to deal with public affairs and events, and to outline the chief factors which laid the Republic of Iceland prostrate at the feet of the kings of Norway. Snorri is not thereby excluded, for until his death in 1241, he was the main manipulator among the ambitious chieftains in the vortex of civic turmoil. Indeed, so aggressive and turbulent a part did the family of Snorri play that the era takes its name from his father, Hvamm’s Sturla, and has come down the centuries as a synonym for conflict.

The more ambitious of this family clan spared no one in their rise to power. Þórður Kakali, a nephew of Snorri, fought his way to the overlordship of almost the whole of Iceland and to the domination of the Althing; he grew so arrogant that none dared stand against him. Another nephew, the aggressive Sturla Sighvatsson, was ruthlessly forcing his way up when he was killed in battle in 1238. Steinvör, a niece, ranks as the outstanding woman of her time, and the only one strong enough to earn a place as one of the formidable personages. Sturla Þórðarson, the great historian, and Þorgils Skarði, the traitor, were of the same strain.

Snorri himself was avaricious, possibly because he saw more clearly than most men that wealth meant power with which to buy a certain amount of security. He was shrewd and thrifty, tireless and resourceful, and eventually became the richest man in the country. The means by which he gathered his wealth and strengthened his position were often devious, but he did avoid bloodshed as much as possible.

The period was one of violence and sudden death in which the soil of Iceland was watered by the blood of her sons, good and bad alike. Few were able to remain neutral. Four or five leading families contended among themselves for the mastery of the country, trampling roughshod over law and order. There were extortions from those who were weaker; feuds between rival chieftains; dissensions between members of the same clan; reprisals and ambushes; on occasion, households were sacked and looted and helpless people wounded or slain; and incendiary fires destroyed the homes and lives of many. Even churchmen fought on the slightest pretexts, and in their excommunications, called down the wrath of God on their enemies.

Moral standards were obviously low; some say much below the level of the Viking Age. It is only fair, however, to point out that the Vikings went abroad and worked off their surplus energy and satisfied their ambitions in raids on other countries where they robbed and killed, burned and destroyed property, seized people and looted sanctuaries. Obviously, such conduct was neither so glorious nor so pleasing when it was directed against their neighbours at home.

Without a doubt, homelife had also deteriorated. The so-called best men had mistresses (sometimes more than one at a time), whose children they openly acknowledged. Snorri Sturluson had several of both. Gissur Þorvaldsson, who at the end of the period of civil strife became an earl and the governor of Iceland, married his companion, Gróa, only alter they had two sons grown to manhood. On her death he sent for a former mistress who resumed her position with him.

Some of the main causes of both the turbulence and the turpitude undoubtedly lay outside the country. The kings of Norway had long had their eye on the little northern republic and were determined to add it to their domains. This they preferred to do by guile rather than by costly wars. In addition, the Roman Catholic Church was engaged at this time in extending its power by undermining the authority of rulers in various European countries; Iceland, although it lay on the rim of the Arctic, was not being overlooked. As a result, ambitious Icelandic chieftains were eventually dancing like puppets on the strings pulled by these two designing forces from without. When it seemed advantageous, the strings were pulled in unison, the one aiding the other.

Norway, with which Iceland had always been closely linked by trade and by travel, had been in the throes of civil strife for a whole century, during which the great nobles resisted their kings and fought each other by turns. In general, oppression and internal disorder characterized this period over most of Europe; hence Iceland was simply conforming to the prevailing fashion.

It was a time-honoured custom for prominent Icelandic men to go abroad, especially to Norway. At the beginning of the thirteenth century this practice was at its height and a steady stream of leading chiefs, particularly the young ones, sailed away each year. They went to see the outside world and to trade, to try their skill at arms in the service of foreign earls and kings, and perhaps, to enjoy the pleasures and preferments of court life.

So consistently were the Icelanders honoured by Norwegian rulers that it may well have been part of a deep-laid scheme to contrive through them to gain control of their republic. They sometimes stayed at the Norwegian court for years, often followed the kings to battle and at times became their officially recognized courtiers; they learned intrigue and came to like the fleshpots of palace-life.

These travellers were welcomed back home, where they set up establishments which, in lavish living and loose morals, were patterned after those of their noble associates abroad. The account says they drank deeply and that their feasting and banqueting would go on for days. Frequently valuable gifts were pressed upon guests at departure. To admit that any of this was a strain on one’s resources meant loss of prestige, so it is quite possible that many lawless acts stemmed from the need to finance this display of magnificence.

Thus, the training which the young men of Iceland received from the kings of Norway and the tastes which they acquired in the outside world played a definite part in undermining the wholesomeness of life in the homeland. They were the leaders who set the standard for others. It was one of haughty arrogance and glittering display, together with a hospitality which, in open-handed lavishness, has never been equalled.

A serious defect in the judicature of the Icelandic commonwealth contributed its share to its downfall, a fact that is sometimes overlooked. This was the complete lack of provision for enforcing the findings and judgments of the courts. They left the carrying out of the sentence to the sense of honour in the guilty, to the community at large, and to the family clan of the injured party. Such a system invited lawlessness, gave rise to feuds, and frequently wrought fresh deeds of injustice. Early Iceland had an admirable code of laws, but was without either the authority or the machinery for its enforcement.

Still another cause for disunity was the traffic in chieftaincies (Goðorð) which, by the end of the twelfth century, was tending constantly toward the concentration of power in the hands of a few families. In the beginning a man owned only one chieftaincy, which was regarded as a sacred trust. It made him the leader of his community in all matters, spiritual as well as temporal. In addition to prestige, it provided the chieftain (Goði) with a following for war, and with votes in the Althing, together with certain revenues.

In time, and as ambitions mounted, men began to see the goðorðs as stepping-stones to power and wealth. Under the law, they were the private property of the individual chieftains and could be sold, willed or bartered by them to whomsoever they pleased. If additional chieftaincies could not be bought from the owners, there were other means of acquiring them. Snorri Sturluson’s first wife brought him a chieftaincy which he refused to relinquish when they separated. The strong sometimes forced the weaker to leave the country in order to take over their holdings and rank.

Eventually, excessive power in the hands of the few put to rout the principles of justice and right. Robber chieftains flourished, whose methods equalled in violence even those of the modern gangsters. Such a man was Þorvaldur Vatnsfirðingur, the head of one of the strong family clans. He appropriated, by force and treachery, whatever he could. When he sought the help of Hrafn á Eyri, a benevolent and unselfish neighbour, to overrun and rob Loftur á Mýrum. Hrafn not only refused to participate but sheltered Loftur in his own home.

Hrafn was wealthy and wellborn, had travelled widely, even as far as Rome, and had been accorded many honours and the friendship of foreign rulers. Tall and handsome, he excelled in physical prowess; he was well versed in law and medicine, a good speaker, a fair poet, a skillful smith and a generous host. All might gather at his board, and his abilities were employed without charge for the good of his neighbours.

This excellent man who should have been immune from violence, was made the object of three deadly attacks by Þorvaldur, who came in the night with armed followers. Timely warnings and support from outside frustrated the first two attempts. Hrafn’s friends were all for killing Þorvaldur, but this he would not allow. He set food before the would-be assassins and lent them mounts on which to ride away.

Þorvaldur and his men subsequently bore false witness against Hrafn, one of the few instances on record of perversion of the truth, and in a third assault, this time on a sleeping household, they wantonly murdered their benefactor.

Hrafn had laid down his arms in good faith on Þorvaldur’s promise of mercy, when he was ruthlessly cut down. Two of Hrafn’s men also had their feet chopped off by way of reprisal. This practice of maiming the vanquished, although it was looked upon with disapproval, persisted over a long period. The nation was shocked at the wicked destruction of so fine a man, yet Þorvaldur incurred as a punishment a sentence of exile of only three years, provided he went to the Pope at Rome for absolution.

Forgiveness for his sins he no doubt obtained, for the story says he married Þórdís, a daughter of Snorri Sturluson, a few years later. He was lending his support to his father-in-law against Sturla Sighvatsson, when the sons of Hrafn cooped him up and burned him to death in revenge for their father. Thereafter, the sons of Þorvaldur took up the challenge, and so the feud progressed.

The dealings of Hrafn and Þorvaldur have been briefly introduced here in order to illustrate the two extremes of character found in the Sturlunga Age, and also to show how feuds originated and spread.

To this ferment within may be added the masterly game played by Norwegian kings, especially Hakon the Old, of pitting Icelandic leaders against each other, arousing suspicion and jealousy among them and dividing them into factions. Hákon’s skillful plan to destroy the unity of Iceland reached its peak before the middle of the thirteenth century, when the country was aflame with the hatreds and jealousies of the leading families.

The rulers of Norway had long had an excellent ally in the Roman Catholic Church. The spiritual welfare of Iceland was in the hands of two bishops with seats at Skálholt in the south and Hólar in the north. When one see fell vacant, the legislative body (Lögrétta) and the remaining bishop filled the vacancy. The church was wealthy, and the stewardship of her possessions meant access to authority and honors, hence the incumbents were usually members of the ruling families.

In violation of the law, Kolbeinn Tumason, an aggressive and rapacious northern chieftain, managed to have his house-priest, Guðmundur, elected Bishop of Hólar, without reference to the proper authorities, in the belief that he would have a willing confederate in looting the see. The men who should have upheld the law and ousted the priestling, sidestepped the issue rather than become involved with Kolbeinn, an evasion of duty which was to have dire consequences, for Guðmundur was fated to do the country a greater disservice than any other single man in its history.

The usurpers soon fell out, for Hólar could not brook two masters. The bishop went abroad to be consecrated by the Archbishop of Norway, where he must have become thoroughly impregnated with the idea that henceforth his duty was to the Church of Rome rather than to his native land.

On his return, Guðmundur introduced into Iceland one of the most effective methods used by the Roman Church for creating dissension in a country and splitting it into factions in order to pave the way for future domination. This was done by the insistence that the church alone, and not the courts, had the right to try the clergy for misdemeanors, no matter what offence they committed.

The bishop’s quarrels with Kolbeinn and later with other leaders over this very issue opened the way for the Church of Rome to assume authority in Iceland. Through Guðmundur’s quarrels also arose the practice of appealing to Norwegian rulers for judgment in disputes between Icelandic men. The first instance occurred in 1230, when King Hákon and Earl Skúli commanded all Icelandic chieftains involved in the quarrels of Guðmundur to appear before them.

At first, the summonses were ignored and the leaders paid them little heed, yet they constituted an implication that Iceland was not competent to control her own affairs. From then on, both the King and the Catholic Church continued to meddle increasingly in Icelandic matters. They had gained the needed foothold.

Bishop Guðmundur kept bobbing up for many years, and finally proved the Nemesis of Kolbeinn Tumason, whom he destroyed in battle. At another time, and obviously to curtail his trouble-making propensities and especially the appeals to Hákon, three great chieftains, with Snorri Sturluson in the lead, attacked the Bishop at Hólar with a force of 840 men and took him prisoner.

Of the persons who played major parts in this historical drama, Snorri Sturluson, the writer, is undoubtedly the greatest, taking all his various contributions into account. At the age of thirty-six, he had become the Speaker-at-law (lögsögumaður), serving two long terms, from 1214-1218 and 1222-1232. His wealth and prestige made him the most powerful man of the times, and his statesmanship and his dexterous use of men and opportunities are unique, though not always disinterested.

Snorri’s interests were many and his capacity for work and his zest for living were phenomenal. He headed numerous private enterprises including the operation of several extensive farms; he governed his broad domain and numerous followers and arbitrated successfully many a menacing dispute, while he avoided open warfare with consummate skill. He gave fourteen years to the highest office of his country and spent years abroad, and, notwithstanding the many heavy demands on his time and his energy, he produced literary works that have earned him undying fame as Iceland’s most brilliant and gifted son.

With head high, Snorri held his own against Hákon of Norway and was perhaps the only Icelandic chieftain to sense the trickery behind the royal blandishments. If proof were needed of Snorri’s complete loyalty to the Icelandic Republic, it lies in the fact that Hákon ordered him to be slain, or else to be brought to Norway a captive. It should, furthermore, be remembered that Snorri was killed in 1241, more than twenty years before the loss of Iceland’s independence, and that the schemes of the Norwegian king somehow miscarried as long as Snorri lived.

It is significant of the insecurity of the Sturlunga Age that Snorri’s death was plotted by his two former sons-in-law, Gissur Þorvaldsson and Kolbeinn the Young, though Gissur alone carried out the attack. It was done at the direct and open instigation of Hákon, who thus used Snorri’s enemies to encompass his downfall.

After the murder of Snorri, the two plotters shared power for a time. Hákon redoubled his efforts and through the church managed to have Norwegian bishops, instead of Icelandic, occupy Hólar and Skálholt. They served his interests by adding fuel to the fires of discord already flaming high. Leading chieftains continued to kill each other off, and to carry their quarrels to the King of Norway for judgment. Those who opposed his will or refused to be his tools, Hákon held in durance, sometimes for many years, sometimes for the rest of their lives as in the case of Þórður Kakali. These men were held on false charges of treason, their estates in Iceland and their chieftaincies were declared forfeit to the King, and their enemies at home used to help him to enforce his claim. The more chieftaincies the King acquired the greater grew his hold on Iceland.

One of the Icelanders held in durance for many years was the King’s own kinsman, Gissur Þorvaldsson, the man who had been successfully employed to eliminate Snorri. The career of Gissur in Iceland had been a turbulent one. Three of his sons and his wife, Gróa, had perished when his enemies made a funeral pyre of his home, and he himself narrowly escaped death by spending the night in a vat of ice-cold whey.

Like many others, Gissur had spent his early years at the court of Hákon and had been a close favourite. In 1252, the King made him his personal agent in Iceland with instruction for advancing his claims. While Gissur made a show of serving the interests of Hákon, he spent his time mostly in strengthening his own position, and eventually this led to his recall to Norway in disgrace.

The next agent tried out was Þorgils Skarði, the only leader of the Sturlunga Age who seems to have had no qualms about selling out his country. By this time, leaders and chieftains had been killed off in the feuds to such an extent that the great family clans, which might still have resisted, were without heads and disunited. The country was weary of bloodshed and of the demands of warring factions.

Women on the whole played a minor role and were for the most part helpless pawns in the grim game of their men-folk. It is therefore, refreshing to find that it was a woman who stepped into the breach in the hour of need. She was Steinvör, chatelaine of Keldur, and niece of Snorri. Based on a charge of treason, the King had just laid claim to the estates and the chieftaincies of her brother, Þórður Kakali, who, under royal detention, had died in exile. Þorgils Skarði, as Hákon’s agent, stood ready to take over the administration.

Steinvör stoutly refused to give up any of the vast inheritance, which was rightfully hers, and transferred it all to the name of her son-in-law. While the son-in-law was unpopular and failed to draw the support she had hoped for, he managed to achieve the murder of Þorgils, which afforded some respite.

Hákon, left without a direct representative in Iceland, broke the stalemate by once again making use of his kinsman, Gissur Þorrvaldsson, whom he had held in durance and disfavour for five years. At his own insistence, Gissur was created an earl to make him more attractive as a substitute for the King in Iceland.

On arrival, Gissur, in the King’s name, laid claim to three-quarters of the country. He put on the display of a royal court and at least thirty men of rank became his courtiers and swore loyalty to Hákon. When this had been accomplished, Gissur rested on his oars. Hence it is thought by many that he had never intended to hand his country over to Hakon, but only to make use of the King’s mandate to further his own ambitions.

Be that as it may, Hákon was getting old and weary of the tardy progress of his campaign. He would brook no further dallying. In 1260, he sent special emissaries with letters direct to the Althing, setting out his right to collect taxes. This matter was not presented by Gissur in the manner stipulated and so provoked Hákon that he began to court Gissur’s enemies once more. From then on, possibly as the only alternative to personal disaster, Gissur served Hákon with diligence and the progress of events lead steadily in the direction of surrender.

Gissur was persuasive and the country was weary of wars and turmoil and almost ready to compromise on anything which offered a solution. The farmers of Iceland who were free men with votes in the Althing, had been thinking for a long time that the conflicts of their leaders had been taking too serious a toll of them, not only in dead and wounded, but also in their time, which they needed if they were to make a livelihood.

Rival chieftains frequently demanded allegiance of the same farmers who sometimes paid with their lives for keeping their pledged word. Thus, Kálfur Guttormsson and his son were brutally slain in 1240 by Kolbeinn the Young for their loyalty to their friend Sighvatur. Farmers were forced to resort to hiding out with their families and livestock to escape being pressed into service by contending leaders.

So, finally, the votes of the farmers began to be recorded in the Althing in favor of Hákon. By 1263, under coercion and steady pressure, Gissur had forced, in the Althing, the acceptance of a treaty making Iceland subject to the kings of Norway. This treaty is known to modern times as The Ancient Covenant.

Under it the Icelanders agreed to pay a tax to the King and such other parliamentary fees as appeared in the Lawbook of Iceland; to perform the duties of subjects as long as the King faithfully kept the stipulations imposed on him; there were to be no summonses abroad of Icelandic men unless so agreed in the Althing; they were to have their own lawmen and sheriffs, these to be drawn from the leading families; property of Icelanders was to be restored in Norway to the rightful heirs or their agents; six ocean-going vessels were to be sent to the ports of Iceland each year; to men of Iceland were to be accorded their full former honours in Norway, and Icelandic law was to prevail in Iceland. In addition, the agreement declared that Iceland wished to be governed by an earl as long as he remained loyal to the King and kept the peace. Lastly, the whole treaty was to be null and void if the King or his heirs failed to keep their side of the bargain.

In 1264, the Althing ratified the agreement as binding on the whole country.

Thus, the Sturlunga Age, which imparted to the Icelandic language a new polish and brilliance, forged the ball and chain with which Icelandic freedom was fated to hobble for centuries to come.

*This earlier lecture, “Snorri Sturluson” by Rev. H.E. Johnson, was published in Lögberg-Heimskringla on October 15, 2018.