The Endowing of Askr and Embla, and Its Reverberations in the Poetry of Egill Skallagrímsson

Abstract

Among the accounts of cosmic beginnings in the eddic poem Vǫluspá and in Snorri Sturluson's Gylfaginning is the quickening to life of the first humans, named Askr and Embla, generally understood as “ash tree” and “elm” (or “vine”), from logs encountered by the gods along the seashore. The poetic and prose recensions are in broad agreement as to events and to the endowment of what may be understood as quintessentially human properties. The myth is contained in two stanzas in Vǫluspá (at least one introductory or transitional stanza may be missing):Unz þrír kvómu ór því liðiǫflgir ok ástkir æsir at húsi,fundu á landi lítt megandi,Ask ok Emblu ørlǫglausa.Ǫnd þau né áttu, óð þau né hǫfðu,lá né læti né litu góða;ǫnd gaf Óðinn, óð gaf Hœnir,lá gaf Lóðurr oc litu góða.1Carolyne Larrington translates:Until three gods, strong and loving,came out of that company;they found on land, capable of little,Ash and Embla, lacking in fate.Breath they had not, spirit they had not,blood nor bearing nor fresh complexions;breath gave Odin, spirit gave Hœnir,blood gave Lodur, and fresh complexions.(Poetic Edda 2014, 6)Snorri's version of the beginning of human life under divine aegis employs parallelism to a lesser extent, although the vital properties are mostly more neatly captured in individual monosyllables rather than in phrases.From his own edition, Anthony Faulkes translates: Then spoke Gangleri: “A great deal it seems to me they had achieved when earth and heaven were made and sun and stars were put in position and days were separated—and where did the people come from who inhabit the world?”Then High replied: “As Bor's sons walked along the sea shore, they came across two logs and created people out of them. The first gave breath and life, the second consciousness and movement, the third a face, speech and hearing and sight; they gave them clothes and names. The man was called Ask, the woman Embla, and from them were produced the mankind to whom the dwelling place under Midgard was given.” (Snorri Sturluson 1987, 13)The most recent examination of the story of Askr and Embla is by Anatoly Liberman in the context of a lengthy study of the name of Óðinn, the methodology of which is based in etymology (Liberman 2016, 48–9). He recalls generally accepted identifications of the key vocabulary of the Vǫluspá version but shows less concern for what superficially appears a transparent myth. In his summary of prior scholarship, “litt megandi” is rendered as “of little power” and “ørlǫglausa” as “unfated” (however this is to be understood). Of the bequeathed properties, ǫnd is “breath” or “life,” litr is “color,” and óðr is “voice.” It is immediately apparent how divergent this set is from Larrington's translations (breath, spirit, bearing, and fresh complexions). Liberman questions the relevance of mainstream interpretations of the event of becoming human. His own equivalences are considerably bolder and, he would surely judge, more essentialist. He accepts “breath” for ǫnd but offers “genitals” as the signification of litr, as if the capacity to continue the species were its defining property (but is surely possessed by all animate matter). Liberman finds the gloss “voice” for óðr to be “strained” and prefers “poetry.” He then turns to the lesser-known gods Hœnir and Lóðurr, who might be thought to embody the properties with which they endow the wave- and rock-smoothed logs. Liberman, like North (1991, 44) calls attention to the fact that óðr is everywhere associated with Óðinn—but not here. Other pointed scholarly remarks cited by Liberman are the interpretation of “ørlǫglausa” as “childless” and referring only to Embla (supporting Josefsson 2001) and the understanding of óðr as “mobility,” concurring with Holtsmark (1950) and Josefsson (2001). As distinct from the objectives of the present study, myth as distinct from the etymology of key terms is not Liberman's main concern.Several important studies of the myth go unmentioned by Liberman and are now passed in review with an eye to defining more closely the properties with which the three gods endow Askr and Embla. Samplonius (2016) proposes the least conventional interpretation: Askr and Embla reflect Adam and Eve, and, as logs, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Medieval theories of the influence of the planets are also in play, with Hœnir and Lóðurr representing the Morning Star and Saturn, respectively, and thereby good and evil. The gods’ gifts are then to be resumed as the power of discernment of right and wrong. Previously without fates, mankind is now responsible for its deeds. Clunies Ross (2022) sees a traditional mythologem that involves “the epiphany of an anthropomorphic deity on the beach” (182). The humanizing endowments are not central to this discussion and are subsumed under the heading of “creative act.” Clunies Ross (1994) also mentions the oft-noted commonalities with the creative account in Rígsþula, in which Heimdallr assumes full responsibility for the establishment of social classes—something very different from the defining characteristics of human life. On the basis of comparative evidence, chiefly Iranian, Hultgård (2014) argues that Askr and Embla were already living trees when encountered by the gods, that is, animate but not sentient in a conventional sense. Josefsson (2001) sees a fire-stick spun in a wooden socket as the image of active human sexuality and the basis for the myth, yet the evidence points to propagation only as a result of the other basic human features. Quinn (2006, 55) summarizes the endowments as “aspects of the powers of life” before turning to the determining of individual lives and fates by the Norns after birth.Henning Kure (2002) addresses the complex of problems associated with Askr and Embla from one of Egill Skallagrímsson's lausavísur, where he boasts of encounters in which he defeated large numbers of armed opponents—eight, eleven at a time. We return to this poetry below. In a closely reasoned argument that synthesizes earlier research, Kure sets out three stages in Old Norse anthropogony: first, the fabrication of wooden figures by the dwarves (“mannlíkun,” Vǫluspá, Eddukvæði2014, 294, st. 10), what we might call blanks, in ash and elm; second, the animation of these mannequins by Óðinn, Hœnir, and Lóðurr; third, the assignment of individual destinies—length of life and manner of death as occurs in all human life—by the nornir (sts. 19–20). Humankind is born to mortality. The refinement over three phases is from inanimate but organic matter, through essential and common human properties, to individual fates. Although the mention comes later in the poem than the fabrication by the dwarves, three females from among the jǫtnar seem involved here (st. 8). As intermediaries, perhaps providing the craftsmen with the raw material, they may also account for the marine passage of the wooden figures from the dwarves to the attention of the gods, as Suttungr does in the myth of the creation and eventual theft of the mead of poetry, in which the dwarves play a comparable role. In this cosmic economy, the dwarves are responsible for manufacture, the giants for supply and/or transportation, the gods for the local uploading of “software,” and the Norns for distribution.An important question to be addressed is whether the formal organization of the humanizing properties, for example, in Snorri two qualities from the first god, two from the second, and—as a merism—four from the third, is reflected in a coherent set of traditionally recognized human qualities, even in their hierarchized sequence, which has a more evident reflection in the sequence of divine interveners. To be sought here is what was once somewhat disparagingly called a folk taxonomy. To expand the field of vision, it is worth mentioning how a contemporary scholar, Neil Price, whose recent book (2020) incorporates a reference to Askr and Embla in its title, imagines the Norse mentalité as shaped by belief in four conceptual entities: hamr, “shape”; hugr, “personality, temperament, character, mind”; hamingja, the personification of individual luck; and fylgja, the fetch or follower who oversees family and individual fortunes.2 The human properties that will concurrently be in play are implicit in only the first two of these, and destiny, which might be glimpsed behind the mythic account's ørlǫglaus, appears as an outcome determined in large part by forces exterior to the individual, as overseen by the nornir. We note that in both the endowments of the original humans and in the life careers of their descendants, there is no mention of cultural capital. This is all nature, with no consideration of nurture, which, from a Norse-centric perspective, was doubtless seen as homogenous and normative.The discussion turns now to the set—if set it be—of endowments awarded the wooden blanks that will become Askr and Embla. Each faculty must be examined in terms of the designation, its etymology, and other usage; compatibility within the set or subset; and general congruence with what we know of the Old Norse worldview. Summaries from the best-known English translations of the Poetic Edda and Snorri's Edda will give a further sense of the generally understood nature of the qualities with which the first humans were endowed, but these literary translations do not, of course, offer much in the way of commentary on individual terms, sequence, or consideration of the interlocking nature of human properties. Snorri will be considered first, not by virtue of the text's age, but because we may expect a rational and reflective approach on his part, not necessarily historical accuracy in individual cases of pre-Christian terminology, and a concern for non-duplication and overall coherence. There is general agreement that ǫnd is “breath” and lif is “life” (Faulkes in Snorri Sturluson 1987; < Proto-Gmc *anadan-, “breath, spirit,” and < Proto-Gmc, *lība-, “life; body”; Kroonen 2010, s.vv.).3 Respiration, by virtue of its position in the sequence, would seem to be singled out as the prime marker of animate matter, while líf, “life,” is its fuller consequence. But there is no assurance that the hierarchy that seems apparent in the list as a whole is observed in the subsets, the gifts of individual gods. “Consciousness’ (Faulkes) for vit (nominal derivative of Proto-Gmc *witan- “to know,” Kroonen 2010, s.v.), now a term of modern neuroscience, seems anachronistic in the historical circumstances. Here, it seems that it is not so much awareness of a personal existence in reality that is meant as intellect and its practical and commonsensical applications (“intelligence” is suggestive of IQs and perhaps inactive, unapplied mental ability). Faulkes glosses hrœring with “movement,” but the articulated skeleton seems to come later. “Purposefulness” captures the meaning in this specific context, that is, a mental attitude, not physical movement. This notion recurs below in connection with the Vǫluspá text, in which the adjective ørlǫglaus, generally rendered as “without destinies,” is met. This is not so much a teleological objective, the reason why humans might be created, as the capacity to envisage and achieve goals, with overtones of will. The third subset of qualities is ásjóna, “face”; málit, “speech”; and heyrn, “hearing”; in the view of Faulkes (etymologies are undebated). These are less problematic than the foregoing, as the sequence moves from essentials, to the inner life, and then to life in the world and sensory perception of it. “Form” is to be preferred to “face” for ásjóna, since it is more comprehensive and less suggestive of social status or, more narrowly, facial features. Interestingly, speech, the capacity to communicate with other humans, is listed before hearing and sight, which may be thought to also serve as proxies for other sensory faculties such as smell, touch, and so on. My understanding of the essential human properties conferred by the gods on Askr and Embla is then: life, intellect, purposefulness, form, speech, hearing, and sight. As has often been observed, we know too little of Óðinn's two companions and their divine competencies to link them in a knowing way to the attributes they confer. It has been suggested that Loðurr may be Loki, and this is not unreasonable, but there is no hint of such negative emotions as resentment or hatred, or character traits such as guile and cunning, or other no less human capacities. Snorri's treatment of the myth is relatively cool and clinical, as befits his encyclopedic interests, with each property covered by a single term and no poetic flourishes. No effort to hint at the Adam and Eve story of Christianity is apparent.The briefer account in Vǫluspá is in general agreement with Snorri's list. First to be addressed is the absence of certain properties in the figures. They are called “lítt megandi,” “capable of little” (Poetic Edda 2014, 6); “lacking vigor” (Elder Edda 2011, 7); “hardly capable” (Kure 2006, 70); “(of) little power” (Hultgård 2014, 58). The understatement is typical Norse rhetoric, since they are entirely without life. “Of little strength” is proposed here and is to be understood as including the inner life of mind and emotion. “Without destinies” as the interpretation of the accompanying epithet “ørlǫglausa” is literal enough, but the hypothetical paradigm that would defer the gifting of individual fates to a later moment under the ægis of the Norns suggests that at this point, it is not the totality of a life and its outcomes that is indicated but rather the situation of the carved logs in their immediate context. “Without purpose” captures the lack of significance of the logs, their irrelevance, with no hint of what may become of them once vivified and humanized. The text continues with a simple rhetorical device: the effigies lack a property, a god gives them that property. But the parallelism is not exact, in no small part due, one may assume, to the formal demands of the verses. A slight amplification, seen overall, occurs in the third bequest. The poem states that the future Askr and Embla lacked both lá and læti, but only the first of these deficiencies is redressed in the second god's grant. Larrington translates “blood” and “bearing” for the deficiency, “blood” for its remedy; Orchard has “warmth” and “motion”; Kure has “no pulse nor gesture”; Hultgård has “blood, voice.” We return to these concepts after the discussion of the initial endowments. First among these is ǫnd, undeniably “breath,” but a curious attribute to be conferred by Óðinn, who is otherwise associated with Hœnir's gift, óðr. The latter is a culturally fraught term, the object of considerable scholarly comment. While etymology does not determine semantic destiny, it is useful to recall that the reconstructed Proto-Indo-European root underlying the form is *u̯āt-, which Pokorny identifies as signifying “possession” (Pokorny 1959, s.v. “u̯āt-” [1], “psychically aroused, possessed”; according to Kroonen 2010, < Proto-Gmc *wōda-, although his gloss, “delirious,” is too narrow). In reflexes descended from this PIE root (Proto-Indo-European), a wide variety of mental and emotional states is indicated, seemingly the outcome of possession from an unspecified source: English wod, “mad”; Old Irish uaith, “seer, diviner”; perhaps Latin vates, “ib.” (possibly a loan from Gaulish); and in Old Norse, óðr, strikingly both “(battle) fury, rage” and “poetic creation,” hence, “poetry” and “poem.” Óðinn is the presiding deity for these heightened mental situations. Óðr might be clinically defined as “receptivity to psychic stimulus and arousal,” but a handier term is clearly needed. “Inspiration” might serve but competes with simple physical “breath” in this context. “Spirit” in the sense of spiritedness is another option but should not suggest any notion of selfhood or soul. A radical solution is provisionally proposed: “psyche” in its older meanings.In the translators’ treatment of lá and læti, there is little concern for duplication or semantic overlapping (Larrington has “blood” and “bearing”; Orchard has “warmth” and “motion”; Kure has “pulse”; and Hultgård has “blood”). Lá is a variant of læ in the sense of “craft” or “skills” (de Vries 1959, s.v. læ, “benehmen, behavior”); “aptitude” is offered here to designate this latent state. Since læti is paired with lá/læ among pre-animation deficiencies but is not mentioned again when the human properties are transferred, it seems complementary to “skill” and may be tentatively rendered as “conventional behavior, sociability” (cf. Cleasby, Vigfusson, and Craigie 1957; “manner”). Disagreement also attends scholarly interpretation of litu goða: Larrington: “fresh complexions”; Orchard: “healthy looks”; Kure: “healthy looks”; Hultgård: “good appearance”; Liberman: “genitals.” A majority of scholars identify the term in question as litr, “color, complexion, external appearance.” Liberman sees liðr, and interprets it as “penis.” But the principal meaning here is “joint” or “part of the body” (< Proto-Gmc *liþu- “member, body,” Kroonen 2010 s.v.). Kinship was figured as a set of articulated joints, as evidenced by Old Norse kné, “knee” but also “degree of kinship” (cf. Latin genu/genus). What is meant in Vǫluspá, it is contended, is a functioning, articulated body, with overtones of reproduction and lineage, thus movement in both space and time. It is then not the capacity for sexual congress that is intended but its outcomes. Let us stay with “articulated body” as a proxy for this rich association. As with Snorri, the movement in the poem is from within—the inner life—to without—perception of the external world and (future) interaction with other humans. At this point, it should be emphasized that it is not simply a serviceable and readable translation that is sought here but some deeper insight into the Old Norse thought world. Inevitably, the arguments over identification “pull” in the direction of concepts that are familiar to us moderns, while also seeking to remedy the inadvertent trivialization of the endowments seen in earlier translations, often derivative of largely context-free dictionary entries. To summarize, the human properties given Askr and Embla in Vǫluspá are then breath, psyche, aptitudes, social behavior, and good physiques (with sexual competency).4 The match with Snorri (life, intellect, purpose, form, speech, hearing, and sight) is good as concerns fundamentals, but less exact for complementary properties, which nonetheless trend toward a social dimension lacking in Snorri. A number of qualifiers must attend these still tentative identifications and any conclusions that might be drawn from them. What appeared a puzzling folk taxonomy may now be read as a neat set of faculties, coherent and comprehensible from a modern perspective. Apparently subsumed in these basic gifts are the capacity for, for example, emotions, memory, curiosity, loyalty, love, charity, and the like, even the capacity for religious belief or awe before the gods. Noteworthy is the fact that, at this moment of inception, no fundamental distinction is made between man and woman, save what is implied by the gendered names. As in the reference to humankind as descendants of Askr and Embla, the listing is forward-looking. After the assignment of destinies, a next step is to create a structure of status. This is done in the poem Rígsþula (Schjødt 2021), foreseen in the bestowal of names and clothes, the former looking back to initial material nature, the latter to social convention. As in much of Old Norse cosmology, the elaboration of the universe is largely through transformation rather than creation ex nihilo; thus, the first humans are made from the tried and true material of wood. The frequent interpretation of the setting for this transformation as the seashore is supported by the recognized liminal situation of the shore, uniting the cosmic entities of sky, sea, and land, and often the scene of dynamic interactions. The shore might also be the expected “delivery point” of the blanks, if dwarves and giants are involved.Discussion returns now to the names Askr and Embla, speculation as to how they are meaningful in the context of human endowments, and how at least one skald drew on this myth and these names in his verse. The occasional verse by Egill Skallagrímsson that was examined by Kure (2002, 161) comes at a point in the saga when Egill is well-settled in Iceland but has vivid memories of fairly recent viking expeditions to continental Europe.Bǫrðumz einn við viij.,en við ellifu tysuarSua fingum val vargivarð ek einn bani þeiraskiptum hart af heiptumhlífar skelfiknífumlét ek af emblu askielld valbasta kastað.5Kure translates:Sloges jeg ene mod viii (otte)og mod elleve to gange;sådan produceredes faldne til ulven,blev jeg ene deres bane.Vi udvekslede hårdt af heftighedværn med skælve-knive;lod jeg af emblas askvalbånds ild kastet.(I fought alone against eightand twice against eleven;this yielded slain men for wolves,I was their bane.We developed duress from violence,Defense with shivering blades;I let Embla's ashCast the sword hilt's [?] fire.)6Numerous complementary observations may be added to the summary of Kure's argument. In addition to difficulties of interpretation posed by the apparent Askr/Embla juxtaposition, other rare vocabulary is met in the stanza, for example, valbǫst. In the valkyrie Sigrdrífa's injunction to Sigurðr to incise runes on his sword (Sigrdrífumál, in Eddukvæði 2014, st. 6), the term accompanies those for the blade and hilt. The valbǫst, on the other hand, has not been satisfactorily identified. Kure (2002, 162) calls it a heiti for “sword”; Falk (1914, 30–1) thought the name referenced the leather grip of the hilt. Although the form val- has numerous homonyms, and val-r, “the slain” has always suggested itself here, we may turn instead to the adjective val-r meaning “rounded” (Cleasby, Vigfusson, and Craigie 1957, s.v. valr). The second element may be traced to Proto-Indo-European *bheuHs- with a meaning “to swell.”7 The signification of valbǫst would then be “swollen, rounded object.” This very neatly describes the pommel of a medieval sword. It should not be forgotten that the pommel could be used in offense, on a return stroke to the head or body. Yet in the poetic and perhaps even everyday context, it could not fail to call up echoes of valr, “the slain.” Skelfiknífum poses a challenge of a different kind. Is this a functional designation for a specific arm, or figurative language, that is, is the shivering a phenomenon of the sword or its effect, or is this flickering, intended to evoke the movement of, and light effects on, the blade? We return to this crux in the context of weapon types in the discussion below.From the manuscript he follows, Kure emends the ermar of the second helming to Emblu, on the assumption that the Askr/Embla couple is being named (another manuscript has emlu). Whatever the apparent distance between Embla and álm, Kure takes the reference to be to the tree species elm, Old Norse álmr, and it is then a parallel to askr, “ash.”8 Historically, the elm was, like the ash, of great practical value. The wood is tough but flexible, with a complex grain; it takes steaming, shaping, and nails and rivets well (s.v. “Elm”).9 It was used in the fabrication of household objects and as shafts for weapons and tools. Important for Kure's identification but not mentioned by him is that elm is water-resistant. It was used not only for watering troughs and vessels but would also be effective in the form of a scabbard or sheath for a sword as a means to prevent corrosion. In fact, since pottery finds are rare at early medieval Scandinavian archaeological sites, it has been concluded that there was no local production (Ashby 2019, 54). But artifacts for preparing and storing food, for storage and transport were necessary, and elm, because of these properties—in particular, water-resistance—would have been a suitable candidate for the materia of fabrication. Askr as “sword” (otherwise richly attested in Old Norse poetic language, and, because of its general shape, “man”) and embla as “scabbard” are then the identifications with which Kure concludes. The male/female complementarity of the first humans is also retained in the sexual imagery of sword and sheath as penis and vagina. Unmentioned by Kure in this regard is Steingerðr's wry comment in Kormáks saga. At the idea of leaving her second husband, Þorkell tinteinn, for Kormákr, she questions why she (figuring herself as sheath) should want to replace one knife with another: “Steingerðr kvazk ekki skyldu kaupa um knífa” (Kormáks saga1939, 298), an image not too distant from Kure's gendered speculation.Kure's solution—scabbard and sword—is attractive and would sit well with Egill's usual fighting mode in Iceland when facing his social equals in single combat. But the narrative mode is now a different one: the Icelander abroad. Combat with sword and shield also raises difficulties when we consider the practical circumstances of early medieval warfare, both in pitched battle and in encounters between a single fighter and a large group of opponents. The historical background to Egill's commemorative poem is his encounters with groups of eight and eleven men in which he kills them all. This is very unlikely with only a shield and sword or axe, because he would not have been able to protect his back from the crowd of foes nor keep them at a distance while engaging them one at a time. Another weapon was most likely involved. It has often been observed that the poems preserved in the sagas, rather than simply being a kind of artistic commentary on events, may actually be the literary source and motor of the fictionalized events of the prose. The topic of the lausavísa, Egill facing a superior number of opponents, is introduced in the saga in the account of a viking raid undertaken with his friend Arinbjǫrn to Frisia. After their landing, the peasants living in the settlements in the marshes flee, with Egill and his troop in pursuit. The Frisians retreat over simple wooden bridges across the numerous dykes that drain the marshes and mark the field boundaries, then withdraw the logs. Only Egill has the strength and skill to jump across the waterway. But then the fleeing Frisians turn back against him. He kills all eleven, although no details are given. On his return to the beached ships, he discovers that his way is blocked by a crowd of armed peasants. The saga continues: Ok er Egill kom ofan ok hann sá, hvat títt var, þá rann hann at sem snarast, þar sem múginn stóð; hafði hann kesjuna fyrir sér ok tók hana tveimr hǫndum, en kastaði skildinum á bak sér. Hann lagði fram kesjunni, ok stǫkk frá allt, þat er fyrir stóð, ok gafsk honum svá rúm fram í gegnum fylkingina; sótti hann svá ofan til manna sinna; þóttust þeir hafa hann ór helju heimtan. (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar1933, 218)(And when Egill came down and and saw what the situation was, he ran toward the crowd at full tilt; he had his halberd in front of him and grasped it with both hands, throwing his shield onto his back. He lunged forward with his halberd at everyone who stood before him and he made his way through the host. Then he headed down toward his men, who thought he had come back from the dead.)The weapon here identified as a halberd is called kesja in Norse (etymology unknown; de Vries 1959, s.v.). On a somewhat later trip through the Eiðaskóg of Värmland, Egill and his men are described as equipped with slashing and thrusting weapons: “hǫggvápn ok lagvápn” (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 235). This seems more plausibly pole arms than swords and shields, which are usually named outright. Here, Egill has an adventure similar to that in Frisia, dispatching a total of eight men, although the cut and thrust of the conflict is again not detailed: “en ekki er at segja frá hǫggva viðskiptum” (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, chap. 75, p. 236). In an immediately following incident, Egill again faces eleven opponents, killing them all. This time, there is no detail on his weapon, which may be assumed to be the halberd that has served him so well.Before trying to determine its exact features, it is of interest to note Egill's use of a kesja in the Battle of Vin Moor in England. Þórólfr and Egill are fighting as mercenaries under King Athelstan, and their weaponry is explicitly stated before the first engagement: Þórólfr var svá búinn, at hann hafði skjǫld víðan ok þykkvan, hjálm á hǫfði allsterkan, gyrðr sverði því, er hann kallaði Lang, mikit vápn ok gott; kesju hafði hann í hendi; fjǫðrin var tveggja álna lǫng ok sleginn fram broddr ferstrendr, en upp var fjǫðrin breið, falrinn bæði langr ok digr, skaptit var eigi hæra en taka mátti hendi til fals ok furðuliga digrt; járnteinn var í falnum ok skaftit allt járnvafit; þau spjót váru kǫlluð brynþvarar. (Egils saga Skallgrímssonar 1933, 136)(Þórólfr was so equipped that he had a broad, thick shield and a sturdy helmet on his head, and was girded with a sword that he called Long, a large and trusty weapon. He carried a thrusting spear in his hand. Its blade was two ells [40 inches–50 inches] long and had four [sharpened] sides; it was forged to a point at one end but thick at the shaft end. The socket was both long and strong while the shaft was no longer up to the socket than a man's forearm and was exceptionally strong. There was an iron spike projecting from [one side of] the socket and the shaft was completely wound round with iron. Such spears were known as “mail-scrapers.”)10This is then a fairly compact weapon (measuring about 60 inches overall), practical in the close quarters of the pitched battle at Vin Moor that was preceded by negotiations as to procedure and even had the battlefield staked out with hazel rods to ensure concentrat