Twelve egos sniffed around each other, nipping and swiping experimentally.
“Now, now, gentlemen,” said Snorri the Chief. As the neutrallest of the parties, he felt it fell to him to be foreman. “Let’s try not to add any more drama to this case than there already is.”
“Do you want banishment, or exile?” said Gudmund. “Or are we just kicking them out?”
“That never works.” Snorri shook his head. “That’s how we get outlaw sagas. Any of you want to see Skarphedin Njalsson starring in an outlaw saga?”
All heads shook vigorously.
“I didn’t think so,” said Snorri. “What I propose, and feel free to disagree, is that we set a new record for Hoskuld’s blood money.”
“Good idea,” agreed everyone.
“Who’ll name the sum?” asked Gizur.
Luckily, twelve was a reasonable number for a rock-paper-scissors contest, and Snorri, who got a bye, came out the winner.
“Triple compensation, six hundred ounces of silver. Too high, too low? We can adjust it.”
“It’s fine,” muttered everyone.
“And they have to pay up on the spot.”
“No one carries around six hundred ounces,” protested Gizur.
Gudmund nudged him. “Don’t you see what he’s playing at? He wants us all to chip in. Then we’ll be invested in this settlement working out.”
“I am absolutely investing in that,” said Hall, tossing his wallet onto the table. A shower of wallets followed, more than enough to top up what Njal could pay.
“All that’s left is to ring the bell,” said Snorri. “Hall, you make the announcement to the people.”
“Why does this always happen TO ME?” protested Hall.
“Relax, it’s just an announcement.”
Pushing the flashbacks deep down, Hall resignedly rang the bell. “EVERYONE,” he announced, to the people filing in. “Ahem. We’ve come to an agREEMENT – sorry – that Njal and his sons should pay SIX hundred ounces, payable IMMEDIiiiiately. The panel will contribute half.”
The communal sigh of relief shook the court, and Njal thanked him profusely, though Skarphedin stood by, silent, with a grin that seemed less joyful than the others’.
The Njalssons came up with a hundred ounces of silver between them, Njal had another hundred, the panel paid three, and other friends contributed enough to make up the total of six hundred. All was placed in a shining pile in the lobby of a nearby church.
“And I’ll just throw these in as extras.” Njal placed a frilly silk dressing-gown and a pair of boots on the pile, and went to his booth to wait.
“Everything’s gone according to plan,” he said sternly to his sons. “We’ve settled, we’re paying, we’ll be reconciled. “That goes double for you, Skarphedin.”
“Me?” Skarphedin put on an injured expression.
Hall had a similar conversation with Flosi, and then everyone filed back into the church, Skarphedin strategically placing himself on the organist’s bench.
“That seems to be the correct amount,” said Flosi evenly. “Well done.” He picked up the dressing-gown. “Who put this in? We asked for money, not bathrobes.”
No one answered, least of all Njal.
“Okay, fess up,” said Flosi, with a smirk. There was still no answer.
Flosi picked up the dressing-gown and flapped it around, suddenly deadly serious. “So no one knows, or no one dares?”
“It’s a guessing game,” snickered Skarphedin. “Pin the bathrobe on the defendant.”
“It’s unisex,” said Flosi ominously. “Red lace is one thing, but this here is unmanly. If you want me to spell it out, I suspect Babyface here. After all, it’s hard to tell if he’s a man or a woman.”
“How dare you!” snapped Skarphedin. “He’s clearly a man, since we exist.” Grabbing the offending robe, he ripped off his pants and threw them in Flosi’s face. “There you go, men’s clothing. Happy?”
“Why would I be happy about your old pants,” said Flosi, through gritted teeth.
“Because you turn into a woman every ninth night and get buggered by a troll. Get some pants on.”
There was a general gasp from the crowd.*
Flosi kicked the pile of silver in the general direction of the Njalssons. “Take your money and enjoy it while you’re still alive.”
The panel crowded round, creating a human barrier between the sides, and several chieftains began whispering to Flosi. He rebuffed them all.
“Let’s go home,” he snarled at the Sigfussons. “We have plans to make.”
Prosecutors and defendants stormed out in opposite directions, leaving a devastated Hall of Sida holding a frilly bathrobe.
“That was some really bad luck,” he said weakly.
“I’m not taking any of that money back,” said Gudmund suspiciously. “Seems unlucky.”
“Me neither,” agreed the other magnates.
“I may be no psychic, but something tells me we’ll need it at the next Thing,” said Snorri mildly. “Let’s hang onto it till then. Gizur, Hjalti?”
Putting on gloves, Gizur and Hjalti reluctantly scooped up the cursed cash and put it in their safes.
“That was the worst possible outcome,” said Njal, as they walked back to the booth. “Now we really are doomed.”
“What are you talking about?” said Skarphedin. “We’re immune from prosecution. Double price is right, or something, I’ve heard you talk about it.”
“This is worse,” said Njal. “And it’s ‘double family feud,’ which is exactly what we’re about to have.”
* Soon after this, the Skarphedin statute was passed. It forbade accusing a man of becoming a woman and getting buggered by trolls every ninth night, and sure enough, no one ever said that specific thing again.
Saxo Dramaticus 