Poets behaving badly

If you’re a medieval king and you’ve invited a poet to dinner, I’d make sure you’ve got something ready to give him. A meal may get him through the performance, but he’s expecting cattle, gold or perhaps a fine cloak, and you really do want him to leave with a good opinion of you. He’s the person who can tell everybody how brave and generous you are, or make sure they hear that you’re the meanest man ever to sit at the head of a table. And in Gaelic tradition, upsetting him could leave you with more than a damaged reputation.

A justified poem of blame was believed capable of bringing blemishes out on a ruler’s face. That’s awkward enough at the best of times, but if your physical perfection is bound up with your fitness to be king, a poet who can give you spots is somebody you need to take seriously. One tale gets considerably worse. The poet Caíar dies of shame after being outperformed, by a rival and the rock beneath him boils and bursts, sending a splinter into his rival eye and shattering his head. You might prefer the more manageable problem faced by Aonghas of Islay, whose poet reminds him that inheriting his father’s cattle and horses also means inheriting his father’s unpaid obligation. There you are, taking possession of the estate, and somebody turns up with an overdue invoice in verse.

Over in the Norse stories, Egill Skallagrímsson has to make his poetry pay rather more urgently. According to Egils saga, he falls into the hands of Eiríkr Bloodaxe at York, which is unfortunate because the king is his enemy and intends to have him killed. With execution expected in the morning, Egill spends the night composing a poem praising the man who wants his head, then performs it before the court. It works, and he gets to leave with the part of his anatomy that gives Head Ransom its name. Gunnlaug Serpent-Tongue has a better day when King Æthelred gives him a scarlet cloak lined with expensive fur. You’d much rather be choosing what to wear with your reward than hoping your reward is permission to keep breathing.

Of course, once poets have that much confidence in what they’re owed, somebody is going to make fun of them. In the Gaelic tale The Circuit of Ireland, a whole company pushes a king’s hospitality until its chief ends up being attacked by the monstrous cat Irusán. Norse stories give us poets whose insults can get them into trouble almost as quickly as a clever performance can get them out of it. So when you picture a king listening politely to a poem, remember what both men have at stake. The poet needs his reward, the king needs his good name, and everyone else at the table gets to watch them work out the price.

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