She's going on fourteen now, Tota is. I could perhaps manage to send home a mess of fish once in a while, said Torfi Torfason. This was an evening early in November, snow had fallen on the woods, the swamps were frozen over. They spoke no more of their parting. Jon Sigurdsson grinned out into the room, and the calendar girl with the wide-brimmed hat laid her blessing upon the sleeping children.
Their son was Ulf, who later became a marshal to King Harold Sigurdsson, and had for wife Jorunn, the daughter of Thorberg. Their son was Jon, father of Erlend the Laggard, the father of Archbishop Egstein. Olaf had proclaimed that the blood-suit should be taken into court at Thorness Thing.
A man just landed stood on the beach gesticulating, and calling in an unknown tongue to the bystanders, who laughed at him, and seemed inclined to misuse him. Hereward galloped down the beach. "Out of the way, villains! Why man, you are a Norseman!" "Is the Earl dead?" "And Harold Sigurdsson!" Hereward sat silent, appalled. For Tosti he cared not.
He at once sent men aboard to learn to whom the beautiful galley belonged, and they were met by a tall and handsome man, who said that he had been sent by Harold Sigurdsson, the uncle of King Magnus, to learn how the king would receive him. Magnus, who was then nineteen years old, sent word that he would gladly welcome his uncle and hoped to find in him a good friend.
Torfi hung the picture of Jon Sigurdsson on one wall, and on another his wife hung a calendar with a picture of a girl in a wide-brimmed hat. The neighbours were helpful to them in building their cabin, making ditches, and in other ways.
But Harold Sigurdsson, Harold Hardraade, Harold the Viking, Harold the Varanger, Harold the Lionslayer, Harold of Constantinople, the bravest among champions, the wisest among kings, the cunningest among minstrels, the darling of the Vikings of the North; the one man whom Hereward had taken for his pattern and his ideal, the one man under whose banner he would have been proud to fight the earth seemed empty, if Harold Hardraade were gone.
Harold offered him quarter, offered him his earldom, they say: even in the midst of battle; but he would not take it. He said he was the Sigurdsson's man now, and true man he would be!" "Harold offered him? what art babbling about? Who fought you?" "Harold Godwinsson, the king." "Where?" "At Stanford Brigg, by York Town." "Harold Godwinsson slew Harold Sigurdsson? After this wolves may eat lions!"