This story about the Ornes (Urnes) family and Hothead Sven is an excerpt from the “Hothead Sven Saga,” a historical fiction story I’m writing about these early ancestors.
Sven ran his calloused, thick fingers through his thinning hair. His bloodshot eyes peered up at the bar-covered window in his small, dark cell. The first light of dawn was visible behind the mountains that rose high above Hauklandstølen. A few lights dotted the landscape as the residents of Moi began to stir and prepare for the day many had dreaded to see arrive.
Sven turned away from the lights and retreated into the darkness of the room. The thick log walls and heavy wood door captured the chill of early autumn and the small room was cold and damp. His large body shivered as a chill shot through it. They would come to get him as soon as the sun appeared over the mountains.
A wave of despair swept over him and he sank slowly onto the straw-covered, wood bed along one side of the room. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his large hands as tears rolled down his weathered face and disappeared in his bushy, gray beard.
Sleep had not been possible this night as he thought about his life and what awaited him at dawn. He didn’t want to die. He lay back on the hard bed and covered his eyes with his large, muscular forearm, trying to block out the light of the coming dawn and the fate that awaited him.
Me in the same jail where Hothead Sven was held, wearing the handcuffs he once wore.
His thoughts drifted back to younger, happier days when he roamed the hills and mountains surrounding their small farm at Skåland, and later at Steinberg, in southwestern Norway. The mountains rose up from the waters edge on the west and east. He wished he could see that beautiful lake again, where his father had taught him how to handle a boat and fish. A stone-lined path from the Skjerpe farm went up into those mountains where the Østrem and Mageland farms were located. To the south the lake narrowed before joining the sea on the southern coast of Norway.
Sven Pedersen Skåland was born in 1575, the oldest son of Peder Atlaksen Steinberg and Berete Iversdatter Skåland. Their small farm, just south of Moi, was located near the shore of Skålandsvika, a small inlet that emptied into Lundevatnet, one of the largest lakes in the area. In earlier days, Sven’s ancestors had pushed their Viking boats into the water at Skålandsvika, waved goodbye to their families, and sailed the fifteen miles downstream to where it emptied into the sea near Flekkefjord.
When Sven was a young boy he sat and listened in wide-eyed wonder as the old men told tales of Viking exploits that had been passed down from generation to generation. Each telling of the tales became grander, in direct proportion to the amount of ale that had been consumed.
Sven could still see and hear his grandfather, Atlak Steinberg, as he sat on the heavy bench by the old wood table in their small house and told the stories on long winter nights.
Grandfather Atlak leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. Strands from his long, shaggy beard fell into his large ale bowl in front of him. The bowl with dragon heads had been hand carved by Atlak’s grandfather, Ståle. Atlak used the dragons as handles when he drank from the old ale bowl. He pushed the bowl out of the way and ran his fingers through his soggy beard, then licked the ale from his fingers. A slight smile creased his lips. “No sense in wasting good ale,” he said. “Now, did I ever tell you about old Gaut One-Eye’s family?”
Before anyone could protest and say they had heard it at least a hundred times before, Atlak began the story again. Sven’s father, Peder, rolled his eyes, leaned back against the log wall, and crossed his muscular arms across his chest. “Here we go again.” Young Sven listened intently to his every word, even though he’d heard many of the stories before.
“This story was told to me by my father and he heard it from his father before him. It took place a long time ago when our grandfathers were still sailing in Viking ships and took part in the Great Civil War of Norway between the Birkebeiners and the Baglers.”
The death of King Sigurd ‘The Crusader’ in 1130 set off the war. It lasted 110 years until 1240. There was fighting among many different groups and chieftains wanting control of Norway. During that time the clergy of the Catholic Church sided with the Aristocracy and together they ruthlessly gained control over lesser kings, chieftains, and their followers.”
The Church took much control of the country when they introduced a mandatory tax called ‘Peter’s Pence’. People who couldn’t pay lost their property. By 1500, only 100 years ago, the Catholic Church owned nearly half the land in Norway.”
Atlak continued his story. “Our Grandfather, Gaut of Ornes allied himself with King Magnus Erlingson and the Church, and became one of the most powerful families in Norway at the time. The Ornes family was also known as Urnes. The Urnes Stave Church had been built by them on their farm. Gaut also owned land at Mel and Ænes. We’ll forgive him now for siding with the rich folks. His grandsons would eventually see the light and join the Birkebeiners.”
Gaut’s son, Jon Gautsson, the father of Gaut ‘One-Eye’ Jonsson, became the skipper of King Magnus’ ship. He led the King’s army into battle with King Magnus fighting by his side.”
Fed up with the Aristocracy and Church taking their property, plus higher and higher taxes, a group was organized by the farmers and common people and led by Sverre Sigurdsson Prest. They were called the ‘Birkebeiner’, which means ‘Birchlegs’, because they were sometimes forced to wrap their feet in birch bark for want of shoes. It’s against this group that Grandfather Jon Gautsson fought, as he led King Magnus Erlingson’s forces.”
There’s a story that Sverre is also our grandfather that involves an illegitimate granddaughter of King Håkon Håkonson, but that’s a story for another day.”
Peder shook his head and relit his pipe as his father rambled on, often getting sidetracked on another story, much like a ship sailing up a tributary of the main fjord and then having to backtrack to get on course again. But regardless of his story wandering all over the place, Sven knew Grandfather Atlak was coming to the exciting part of the story. As he sat on the floor near his grandfather, he leaned forward to catch his every word.
Atlak continued. “On the 15th day of June, 1184, King Magnus, along with Grandfather Jon Gautsson, led twenty-four ships and 3,000 men against King Sverre and his Birkebeiners, who had fourteen ships and 2,000 men. Jon’s brother, Munan Gautsson, also commanded a ship in the battle. They met in a great battle at Fimreite in Norefjord, a narrow arm of the Sognefjord. Stories are told of a fierce battle that began in the afternoon and lasted until midnight.”
Grandfather Jon had his ship in the lead as they closed with Sverre’s forces. Ships rammed into opposing ships and a fierce fight began. Grandfather led the charge, swinging his great sword as they boarded the Birkebeiner ships. Broad axes were planted in the chests of the enemy as the battle raged. Grandfather was a great warrior and had survived many battles in his day. Many Birkebeiners fell under his mighty blows. The Birkebeiners were also tough and fought hard, and Sverre was a great leader. The tide of battle turned against King Magnus and Grandfather. A Birkebeiner ship came alongside of Grandfathers’ and tied on. A violent battle began as the two ships battled each other with swords, spears and broad axes. Another Birkebeiner ship came along the other side. Now they had to do battle with both crews as the Birchlegs jumped into their ship. Grandfather fought hard, slaying many of the Birchlegs until a sword pierced his chest. He slumped to the deck of the ship. King Magnus realized the battle was lost. Rather than suffer the humiliation of being captured and tortured, he jumped overboard so that he might enter the halls of Valhalla as a fighter. The coat of mail he wore pulled him under and he drowned. He was only eight and twenty years.“
At that point Grandfather Jon struggled to his feet and with his sword, struck a man who was boarding their ship. Grandfather was struck again and the blow knocked him into the water, saving his life. The night was full upon them at that point and it was very dark in the water. As Grandfather struggled to stay above water, another ship almost ran him over. He realized it was one of his own ships and yelled for help. They pulled him from the water and laid him in the boat with the other wounded and dead. With their King and leader dead, along with many of their fellow warriors, they gave up the fight. What was left of their force broke contact and retreated. Many great warriors entered the halls of Valhalla that day, including grandfather’s brother, Munan. Twenty-one hundred and sixty men, nearly half of the 5,000 men who took part in the battle died that day. It’s said that if you sit on the shores of the Sognfjord at midnight, when the wind sweeps down the fjord, you can still hear the long mournful moans of all the men who died in the battle that night.”
Atlak leaned back, let out a big sigh, and lifted his ale bowl to his lips. He took a long drink, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, and continued his story.
“It was thought that Grandfather Jon also perished in the fighting, but he was taken home severely wounded and prepared to die. But he was tough and after many days of suffering he began to get stronger and survived. That was good for us Sven, or we wouldn’t be here. His son, Gaut ‘One-Eye’ Jonsson was born three years later.”
After the defeat and death of King Magnus, Sverre became King of Norway. Before that time, the Ænes family had been living at Ornes for centuries. They were a powerful Chieftain family, but, because they had been supporting the forces opposed to Sverre and his Birkebeiners, they lost their land at Ornes. Jon and the rest of his family moved farther south to Mel and Ænes, property also owned by their family.”
King Sverre knew he needed the support of the powerful Ornes families if he wanted to keep control of Norway. The war was still going on as pockets of resistance from the Church and their rich friends continued to fight against him. He allowed the Ornes family to keep their property at Mel and Ænes and invited them to join him as Birkebeiners.”
Atlak stopped and took another drink of ale.
“Peder said, “Father, you fill Sven with such wild tales, he won’t know what to believe. If we were descended from nobility would we be living like this, barely able to raise enough food among the damn rocks on these mountains to keep ourselves fed? What kind of bullshit is this you teach him? I teach him how to farm and fish. At least that will put food in his mouth. You fill him with nothing but words and stories that have nothing to do with us today. It’s all in the past and should be left there. We have no need for it.”
Atlak rose from his seat and straightened his bent, frail body as best he could. Pointing a bony finger at his son, he admonished him. “That’s no way to speak to your father! Bullshit you say! Lies you say! Are you calling your grandfathers liars too? Your own grandfathers, whose blood flows through your body and gives you life. These Sagas have been passed down from generation to generation. Thank the gods that Sven is interested in the stories.”
“The stories cause nothing but trouble,” Peder said. He pointed at Sven. “Look at him. He sits there in wide-eyed wonder as you spin your tales of the Sagas as skillfully as a spider weaves his web. You draw him in and he gets caught in that web. Mark my words, it will only lead to more trouble. Sven almost killed one of his friends playing war games because of the damn stories you tell.”
“Father, I was just protecting myself,” Sven protested.
“At least Sven’s not afraid to stand up for himself,” Atlak said. “Nobody’s going to push him around. Too bad you didn’t have some of his fire. Maybe if you did, you’d have a farm that produced more than rocks!”
Peder’s face turned red as he clenched his fists. He wanted to lash out and strike his old father, but he didn’t say a word. He rose quickly from his chair and headed out the door, slamming it behind him. ‘Damn you,’ he thought as he headed up a mountain trail to cool off. ‘Age hasn’t softened his edges at all. There’s no sense trying to argue or reason with him. Everything’s always been his way and he becomes angry if anyone disagrees. Now I worry that Sven is just like his grandfather. He has that same explosive temper. That temper and all those damn stories about fighting and war are going to lead to nothing but trouble.”
As Sven sat alone in the jail at Moi, waiting for dawn to arrive, he remembered how his father and grandfather had argued. It was true that the stories of the fighting between the Birkebeiners and the Baglers had made an impression on him and had fueled his imagination. In that imaginary world Sven was fighting alongside Sverre as one of the Birkebeiners.
He remembered the day he had stood on the shores of the Norfjord where his ancestors had fought in the great battle that was the turning point of the Norwegian Civil War. He was certain he’d heard the mournful moans of the dead in the wind. He wished he were back there again.
Unfortunately, he would never see it again. “Hothead” Sven now sat waiting for the dawn to arrive. He would soon be joining his ancestors.
Visit me in the Heritage Tent at Westby Syttende Mai on May 18th and 19th. Maybe I’ll tell you what happened to Hothead Sven.
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This has been quite an interesting read; I too am a descendant of Sven Skåland, through his daughter Marit, the wife of Haskuld Salveson Hamre. I would be interested in any more information you have concerning this area of Norway and additional possible familial connections. Thanks!
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