Hegemonic Memory and Counter-Memory in Medieval Norway

Hegemonic Memory, Counter-Memory, and Struggles for Royal Power: The Rhetoric of
the Past in the Age of King Sverrir Sigurðsson of Norway

Author(s): Bjørn Bandlien
Source: Scandinavian Studies, Vol. 85, No. 3 (Fall 2013), pp. 355-377
Published by: University of Illinois Press on behalf of the Society for the Advancement
of Scandinavian Study
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5406/scanstud.85.3.0355
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Hegemonic Memory,
Counter-Memory,
and Struggles for Royal Power
The Rhetoric of the Past in the Age of King
Sverrir Sigurðsson of Norway
Bjørn Bandlien
Vestfold University College
P
erhaps the most memorable statement from the turbulent century
of civil wars in Norway is about forgetting. In his Latin chronicle
on Norwegian kings written 1177–1188, Theodoricus Monachus
stated that it was better to forget the chaos in Norway following the
death of Sigurðr jórsalafari in 1130:
Nos quoque hujus schedulæ hic finem facimus, indignum valde
judicantes memoriæ posterorum tradere scelera, homicidia, perjuria,
parricidia, sanctorum locorum contaminationes, Dei contemptum,
non minus religiosorum deprædationes quam totius plebis, mulierum
captivationes et ceteras abominationes, quas longum est enumerare.
(Storm 1880, 67)
[And here I too shall end this little document of mine, since I deem it
utterly unfitting to record for posterity the crimes, killings, perjuries,
parricides, desecrations of holy places, the contempt for God, the
plundering no less of the clergy than of the whole people, the abduc-
tions of women, and other abominations which it would take long to
enumerate.] (Theodoricus Monachus 1998, 53)
In his prologue to the chronicle, Theodoricus seems to be motivated to
rescue the history of the Norwegian kings from oblivion by recording
the few relics he has found on them (Hermann 2009, 289–90). The
statement at the end of his chronicle seems, on the other hand, to be
what has been termed “active forgetting” and seen as “a necessary and
356 Scandinavian Studies
constructive part of internal social transformations”1 (Assmann 2008,

97–8). Still, Theodoricus’s call to forget the recent history of Norway
functions most of all as a reminder of the bitter struggles between King
Magnús Erlingsson (1161–84) and the new contender for the throne,
Sverrir Sigurðsson (1177–1202). Sverrir eventually became sole ruler
after his victory over Magnús at the Battle at Fimreiti in 1184. At the
time Theodoricus was writing his chronicle, the situation was far from
stable, with several new claimants to a royal title. Even if the chronicle
was written after 1184, those who fought against Sverrir had at times
control over large parts of the country.2 At the same time, according
to the prologue to Sverris saga, Sverrir started to form his version of
his story for his present as well as posterity in cooperation with the
Icelandic monk Karl Jónsson.
Theodoricus’s project of writing only of the ancient kings has a certain
ring of nostalgia to it, holding up the past as something superior to his
present time. Gabrielle Spiegel’s observation on French chronicle writ-
ing is adequate also for Theodoricus: “the past becomes the repository
of . . . dreams and desires, both because it can offer up a consoling
image of what once was and is no longer, and because it contains the
elements by which to reopen the contest, to offer an alternative vision
to a now unpalatable present” (Spiegel 1997, 211–2).
Memory (and forgetting) has, since the classical studies of Maurice
Halbwachs, been seen as a social phenomenon, formed in the relation-
ships between people rather than just a phenomenon in an individual’s
brain. Social memory is both an expression of and active binding force
for group identity. At the same time, control of memory is linked to
power, as Paul Connerton has phrased it: “[C]ontrol of a society’s
memory largely conditions the hierarchy of power” (Connerton 1989, 1).
This might be most evident in the cases of social struggles, for example,
in situations of revolt and civil war: “Since memory is actually a very
important factor in struggle . . . if one controls people’s memory, one
controls their dynamism. And one also controls their experience, their
knowledge of previous struggles” (Foucault 1996, 124).
1. See also the formulation of Frederic Bartlett: “Remembering is not the re-excitation
of innumerable fixed, lifeless and fragmentary traces. It is an imaginative reconstruction,
or construction, built out of the relations of our attitude towards a whole active mass
of organised past reactions or experience” (1995, 231).
2. The “civil wars” of Norway have traditionally been dated to 1130–1240, that is, between
the death of Sigurðr jórsalafari and the death of Earl Skúli in 1240. On recent discussions
and re-interpretations of these struggles, see Bagge (2010); and Orning (2008).
Counter-Memory and Struggles for Power 357
This does not necessarily imply that there was only a single hege-
monic memory culture at a given time. Different groups, such as (in
the case of the late twelfth century) the Church, monasteries, traders,
courtiers, and different networks fighting for the throne, could all
use the same past in various ways and for different purposes. Among
these, some memorial discourses were more likely to be hegemonic
than others, depending on who was in power. My use of “hegemonic
memory” draws on the theory of power developed by the Marxist
thinker Antonio Gramsci. Gramsci emphasized the importance of the
elite’s power through culture and ideology, but also how the dominated
classes appropriate and accept them as meaningful. Hegemony was
used by Gramsci to indicate the fundamental outlook of the society,
but also the latent battle over the dominant ideology. In the words
of the sociologist Mike Donaldson:
Hegemony . . . is about the winning and holding of power and the
formation (and destruction) of social groups in that process. In this
sense, it is importantly about the ways in which the ruling class estab-
lishes and maintains its domination. The ability to impose a definition
of the situation, to set the terms in which events are understood and
issues discussed, to formulate ideals and define morality is an essential
part of this process. Hegemony involves persuasion of the greater part
of the population, particularly through the media, and the organiza-
tion of social institutions in ways that appear “natural,” “ordinary,”
“normal.” (Donaldson 1993, 645)
This is not to say that other memorial practices and communication
do not exist, but that they are subordinated or overshadowed by the
hegemonic culture supported by a regime. For Michel Foucault, a
memorial hegemony could be challenged by the insurrection of subju-
gated memories. These are the previously disqualified, but often “raw,”
memories of battles or struggles by the losers, that—especially if linked
to the historians’ searching for a new past—might resist the hegemonic
memory (Foucault 2003, 7–9). If the past is not accepted as fixed and
complete, if the “reading” of events in the present is to become part of
memory, there is also a potential for “the rewriting of the past as well
as the reimagining of the future” (Eng and Kazanjian 2003, 4). Such
potential might be activated in political struggles, local opposition to
a regime, and shifting power relations.3 As Gabrielle Spiegel puts it:
3. For an interesting discussion of how local, subjugated memorial cultures in India
opposed, and then got the upper hand over the colonial memory of events, see Legg
(2005).
“Against the canon, social reality always stands as a certain pressure, a

destabilizing force in cultural production” (1997, 211).
Did King Sverrir challenge and attempt to transform the hegemonic
cultural memory at the end of the twelfth century, especially the one
promoted by the circle around Magnús Erlingsson? Although the
mnemonic practices should communicate to the collective if they
should have an impact and importance in the political struggles,
there might be differences between Sverrir and Magnús that led to
changes in the uses of the past in Sverrir’s reign. Is there a shift from
one hegemony to another? Alternatively, we might ask if they more
or less are struggling within the same hegemonic culture of memory
and forgetting, variants of the same development toward a history
of the Norwegian kings struggling within the natural order of royal
power.4 If that is the case, how did King Sverrir write himself into the
history of Norwegian kings?
Revenging the Past

Shortly after the battle at Fimreiti in 1184, Sverrir initiated the writing
of his own saga. According to the prologue, Karl Jónsson, a monk
from the Benedictine monastery Þingeyri in northern Iceland, started
the work with Sverrir telling him what to write. This must have a con-
nection to the need King Sverrir felt he had to write down his own
history for posterity, presumably to counter his opponents’ version of
recent events, both in the ranks of powerful magnates and those loyal
to the Archbishops Eysteinn Erlendsson (1157–88) and Eiríkr Ívars-
son (1188–1205). However, the saga as a whole was hardly completed
long before the reign of Hákon Hákonsson (1217–63), the grandson
of Sverrir, when the Baglar and Birkibeinar seemed to have settled.
The life of Sverrir, allegedly the illegitimate son of king Sigurðr
munnr (1136–55), was truly worth a saga. He grew up in the Faroe
Isles as the son of a comb-maker and his Norwegian wife. Being raised
4. Richard Sennett states, in a comment on Durkheim’s sociology of memory: “[T]he
more varied the voices engaged in that common dialogue, the more likely the accuracy
of what would be recalled” (Sennett 1998, 12). In the words of Natalie Zemon-Davis:
[I]t’s better to identify a period not so much in terms of the things that people
deeply believe as in terms of the deep conflicts that divide people. That is, periods
and cultures are held together by a deeply shared common argument or uncer-
tainty. I think that is actually a much more helpful way of conceptualizing things
than saying that a given period is held together because everybody believes in x.
(quoted in Pallares-Burke 2002, 58)
and educated by his uncle Hrói, bishop of the Faroes, he was a priest
already in his twenties. After his mother had told him about his royal
ancestry, he went to Norway. He became a leader of the Birkibeinar,
a small band that opposed the present king Magnús Erlingsson. Seven
years later, Sverrir had defeated both Erlingr and Magnús, and as king,
he managed to defend himself against the authorities of the Church
and several new pretenders supported by the powerful Baglar-network.
Despite having a very troublesome and unstable reign, he died peace-
fully in his bed in 1202.
His turbulent life made him both stern enemies as well as loyal fol-
lowers. While his enemies would often call him a coward, a níðingr
to God and an apostate, he was, on his memorial plaque in Christ
Church in Bergen, remembered as a model ruler and an ornament
of faith and manhood (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 182). These
widely different interpretations of Sverrir make an important case of
how a marginalized pretender challenged the ideologies of kingship
and royal masculinity at the end of the twelfth century.
Some of the differences between Magnús Erlingsson and Sver-
rir are highlighted in the account of their negotiations in Bergen in
1181 (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 60). In an attempt to end the
struggles, sharing the kingdom was proposed. Sverrir promoted the
idea by referring to how Magnús inn góði had shared his kingdom with
Haraldr harðráði and how the sons of Magnús berfœttr had shared the
kingdom. Magnús Erlingsson referred instead to the mistrust and strife
among the kings, an argument that has similarities with Theodoricus’s
wish to forget recent events. For Magnús, co-regency was something
connected to the past, and something that had not worked in the past
and a tradition that should be laid to rest. His next level of argument
was that he had been crowned and had sworn an oath to protect the
land from anyone who wanted to break the peace. Sverrir’s arguments
are well known; he could not recall any king, neither in Christian
times nor in heathen times, who had not been a king’s son. Rather, he
appealed to the laws of St. Óláfr that did not open for succession through
daughters.5 Still, in the speeches of Magnús Erlingsson and Sverrir, the
past is used in a quite similar way. He claims to have no less cause than
Magnús to be angered; Magnús has lost many men and his father as
well, while Sverrir listed two handfuls of close relatives who have been
killed by Erlingr skakki and Magnús. Also in later speeches, Sverrir used
5. The same argument is repeated in Þorleifur Hauksson (2007, chap. 112). See also
Wanner (2006, 21–2) on the possible parallels to Snorri’s Magnúss saga Erlingssonar.
the rhetoric of revenge of past battles to goad his men to fight. This
must have been even more important in a setting like the meeting in
Bergen. The saga points out that the warriors of both kings sat down
to drink together, and many met old friends and family members that
they had not seen in a long time. Magnús even promotes the idea of
doing single combat with Sverrir to avoid more deaths, something that
Sverrir jokingly refuses—after all, what do they have warriors for, if not
to fight on their behalf? Only after a quarrel where the suffering and
killings of the recent past have been refreshed in the audience’s minds,
do the warriors return to their opposition to each other.
Sverrir also used the distant past more actively than Magnús to goad
his men to fight. At the siege of Túnsberg in 1201, he recalled ancient
tales of heroes:
Óhermannligt mál er slíkt, at kurra at konungi sínum, þó at þér þenið
eigi svá vombina sem verkmenn við þúst, ok ólíkur eru þér þeim er í
forneskju er sogur af gorvar er veittu svá þrátt umsátir at eyða fjándmon-
num sínum at fúnuðu klæðin af þeim, en þeir átu skálpana af sverðum
sínum ok yfirleðr af skóm sínum ok léttu aldri fyrri en þeir sigruðusk.
(Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 176, p. 273)
(It is unwarriorlike to grumble against the king because you don’t get
to fill your bellies like harvesters. And you are not like those men in
the ancient times of whom sagas are made, who beset their enemies
so steadfastly when they were to destroy their enemies that they never
lifted the siege until they had victory.)
This is similar to how the remembrance of heathen heroes is used in a
contemporary work on Danish-Norwegian crusaders who joined the
Third Crusade, written probably in Túnsberg by a Premonstratarian
monk, c. 1200. Here it is said that when the news of the fall of Jeru-
salem was told at the court of the king, Knútr VI, the magnate Esbern
Snare—brother of Archbishop Absalon of Lund, goaded the others at
the court to follow him to the Holy Land. Esbern reminded the other
retainers of the great Danish heroes of the heathen past who had put
terror in the hearts of men all over Europe. They had been motivated
by honor and fame alone—how much more should not Christians
fight a just war against heathens and the Devil? They were told to
forget internal struggles of the decaying court, and to be inspired by
the example of their ancestors (Gertz 1922, 465–7).
At the end of the siege, however, Sverris saga tells how Sverrir used
the past in a different way, to promote reconciliation with the Baglar.
After a siege for almost five months, the Baglar in Túnsberg were driven
to surrender out of hunger early in 1202. Among the Birkebeinar there
was a strong consensus for killing the surviving Baglar because of their
earlier misdeeds. Sverrir, however, argued strongly for giving them
grið, even if he himself had lost his half-brother during the fights and
had received many dishonoring defamations from the Baglar:
[E]n nú i vetr munu þér heyrt hafa at þeir hafa Sverri kallat bikkju eðr
meri ok morgum oðrum illum nofnum. Nú vil ek þat fyrirgefa þeim
fyrir Guðs sakir ok vænta þar á mót af honum fyrirgefningar þess er ek
hefir honum á móti gort. Eigu þér ekki síðr sálur en ek ok eigið þess
at minnask. Engi maðr mun kalla yðr at heldr bleyðimenn fyrir þessa
sok. (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 179, p. 277)
(and this winter you may have heard that they [the Baglar] have called
Sverrir “bitch” or “mare” and many other bad names. Now I want
to forgive them for the sake of God, and in return I hope for forgive-
ness from Him for all I have done against Him. You have souls no
less than I, and you should remember that. No man will call you soft
men because of this.)
“Bitch” and “mare” clearly had a biting sting in twelfth-century politics.
Although there are fewer known níð-poems in Norway after the time
of Haraldr harðráði, they were by no means unknown.6 At the siege
of Túnsberg, Sverris saga argues that while flight and fear might show
bleyði, the forgiveness to Christian men does not. Although we might
suspect that Sverrir was motivated by strategic considerations rather
than piety, the rhetoric he used to transform his warriors from avengers
to ethical warriors, who should reflect on the human condition and
salvation, reminds one more of the virtues more explicitly described
in Passio Olavi. Here Sverrir’s antagonist Archbishop Eysteinn had
praised the holy king for being an example in modesty, and for never
caring about other men’s mockery (Metcalfe 1881, chaps. 4, 6, 8). In
the contemporary Legendary saga of St. Óláfr, St. Óláfr gave grið to
his enemies if they asked for it, even though this might not have been
clever in a political sense (esp. Heinrichs et al. 1982, chaps. 21, 26).
6. Especially in Sverrir’s meetings with bishop Nikolás of Oslo, accusations of níð flour-
ished. In an amusing episode, Nikolás called Sverrir guðníðingr, probably alluding to his
abandonment of his ordination, and a traitor to God. But the goading did not work on
Sverrir: “Þat myndi mælt ef vit Nikolás berðimsk at þat væri greyja ágangr, er í hvárigum
er hugrinn” (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 131, p. 197) [If Nikolás and I would fight,
it would be said that it was bitches that fought, because neither of us is courageous].
He was hard against those who violated the will of God, but humbly
forgave misdeeds against him (Heinrichs et al. 1982, chap. 28). This
represented an alternative ethic in comparison to the Baglar who showed
a lack of respect for the warrior of St. Óláfr. The accusations implied
in níð could be ignored as long as he showed bravery in battles and
had success in fighting for the cause of St. Óláfr.
Remembering and Living with St. Óláfr

In the vision where Sverrir saw St. Óláfr fight against Magnús Erlingsson
and Erlingr skakki, he also saw himself as the saint’s standard-bearer
(Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 5). This is also the first time in the
saga that Sverrir is named Magnus, indicating that St. Óláfr had adopted
Sverrir as his new son. The name alluded to Magnús, the son of Óláfr
Haraldsson, but also meant “the great”—a name that Sverrir lived up
to, rather than Magnús Erlingsson. During his reign, Sverrir added
“Magnus” to his name on coins and his seal (Lönnroth 2006, 102–3).
From then on, there are several analogues in Sverris saga between
Sverrir’s career and the life of St. Óláfr as described in the Legendary
saga. Shortly after his dream, Sverrir managed to win the standard from
the ignorant peasants of Niðaróss (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap.
15). Sverrir followed the footsteps of St. Óláfr, first when he traveled
to Selja (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 6), the holy place where also
the saint had first stepped on Norwegian soil as a king (Heinrichs et al.
1982, chap. 19), and second when he, in a Gideon-like manner, trims
the number of followers from 300 to 80, according to who was faithful
and not only interested in raiding (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 11),
just as Óláfr had excluded all those who did not want to be baptized
before the battle of Stiklarstaðir (Heinrichs et al. 1982, chaps. 72, 73).
Before a battle against a great army of peasants, he used the same battle
cry that Óláfr allegedly had used on Stiklarstaðir: “Nú fram allir Krists
menn, kross menn ok ins helga Óláfs konungs.” (Þorleifur Hauksson
2007, chap. 163, p. 254) [Forward now all Christmen, Crossmen, and
the holy king Óláfr’s men].
Sverrir was God’s and St. Óláfr’s true warrior, an identity that in
Sverris saga not only is connected to being the highest under the sky
and victorious in battle, but also something that must be shown in
his conduct. These new mores can be seen in his willingness to give
peace to his enemies, his avoidance of women, and his aversion to
drunkenness (Bandlien 2005).
The saga stresses again and again that Sverrir gave peace (grið)
to those of his enemies who would receive it, and forgiveness and a
Christian funeral to those who had died.7 To bestow mercy might to
some extent have been a natural political weapon in twelfth-century
politics; those who were forgiven would owe the king their lives and
thus be loyal to him (Orning 2008). However, in Sverris saga such
bestowal of grið is legitimized by Sverrir’s special relationship and
devotion to St. Óláfr. After his first battle in 1177, he thanked God,
Virgin Mary, and St. Óláfr for being victorious “ok sýndi hann þat
með því at hann gaf hverjum grið, þeim er þess beiddi” (Þorleifur
Hauksson 2007, chap. 15, p. 26) [and he showed his gratefulness
when he gave grið for all those who asked for it]. This set the tone for
the following battles.8 The saga says he did not distinguish between
those who opposed him and those who remained passive, but those
who asked for forgiveness and those who did not. On one occasion,
he gave a peasant grið three times; only after being taken captive for
the fourth time is he killed (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 165).
The message of the episode is that Sverrir’s willingness to forgive a
Christian life is almost endless. But as with God, every man must ask
for forgiveness himself. This is the point of the incident when Sverrir
burns down the farms in a parish, but saves one farm because of the
prayer of a little boy: “engi myndi brenndr hafa verit í dag ef bœndr
hefði heima verit ok beitt griða, ok seg þeim svá. Ok engan skal nú
brenna heðan í frá” (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 169, p. 266)
[I would not have burnt any farm at all today, if the peasants had
stayed home and asked for grið. Tell them that. And there shall be
no more burning today].9 According to Sverris saga, those who did
not ask for forgiveness were fighting against God’s will and St. Óláfr’s
peace (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chaps. 136, 146, 169). The politics
and strategy of Sverrir may very well be interpreted as one based on
physical power, but was justified in a wider, religious sense.
7. Here, the struggle over the interpretation of what was masculine behavior is evi-
dent. Sverrir’s adversaries, especially Erlingr and Magnús, are depicted as much more
reluctant to give grið or a Christian funeral to fallen enemies, which becomes a sign of
immoral, uncontrolled behavior; see Ljungqvist (2008); Þorleifur Hauksson (2012).
8. See Þorleifur Hauksson (2007, chaps. 49, 77, 94, 109, 153, 165, 169, 179).
9. One is reminded of the story of the God who said to Abraham that Sodom and
Gomorrah would be saved if there were only ten righteous people there (Gen. 18:16–33).
For Sverrir, only the prayer of a little boy was enough. See also Þorleifur Hauksson (2007,
chap. 159) where Sverrir incites his men to kill all the Baglar they could find, even the
kindred of his men. Again, only those who would not hide had any hope of being saved.
This habit of giving grið to whomever asked for it functions as a

contrast to how his opponents wanted to see the dead bodies of the
Birkibeinar be eaten by dogs, wolves, and ravens.10 This recalls the
earlier skaldic poetry that praises the ruler for feeding these animals.
In Sverris saga this conventional discourse of the battlefield gets a new,
Christian significance, as an attribute of the unjust ruler who does not
possess Sverrir’s mercy and respect for any Christian soul. The closest
parallels are again found in the literature of Sverrir’s opponents in the
Church. In Passio Olavi, Archbishop Eysteinn had praised St. Óláfr
for being an example in modesty, and that he never cared about other
men’s mockery (Metcalfe 1881, chaps. 4, 6, 8). In the Legendary saga
Óláfr gave grið to his enemies who asked for it, even though many
could be expected to turn against him later (Heinrichs et al. 1982,
chaps. 21, 26). He was hard against those who violated the will of
God, but forgave misdeeds against him (Heinrichs et al. 1982, chap.
28). Forgiveness is in Sverris saga a Christian virtue, representing a
new ethic in contrast to the Baglar who then were positioned within
the old order, showing their lack of respect to the warrior of St. Óláfr.
The restricted use of women and drinking were also important in
Sverrir’s political rhetoric against the Church. According to Sverris
saga, it is Sverrir who represents the moral standards imposed by St.
Óláfr. According to the Legendary saga, the saintly king and his men
drank milk instead of mead because he did not want them to lose
their senses (Heinrichs et al. 1982, chap. 24). The image of the ascetic
warrior saint in the Legendary saga is in many respects similar to that
of Sverrir in Sverris saga. The purpose must have been to show that
Sverrir was morally superior to his rivals.11
The emphasis on the royal ideal of asceticism might be explained
by the contemporary ideals of military brotherhoods on the conti-
10. See Þorleifur Hauksson (2007, chaps. 47, 53, 62, 69, 86, 180). See also the episode
in the contemporary Profectio Danorum where the Danish crusaders mocked Sverrir,
not knowing that the king was among them in disguise. But Sverrir answered calmly to
the “foolish acts” by the Danes (Gertz 1922, chap. 12). It recalls the virtue mansuetudo,
which could imply forbearance concerning groundless defamation, often in a witty tone.
11. The story of Máni in Sverris saga seems to emphasize that Magnús Erlingsson
did not bother much with asceticism. Máni had been on a pilgrimage to Rome, and
on his way back to Iceland, he appeared at Magnús’s court as a poor man in ragged
clothing. He performed Útfarardrápa about Sigurðr jórsalafarir’s journey to the Holy
Land, but is mocked by two jongleurs, to the amusement of King Magnús. This might
be a critique of the courtliness and luxury of Magnús’s court, as well as his apparent
ignorance of the memory of Sigurðr’s crusade.
nent (Bandlien 2005, 2006). In the speeches after the fall of Magnús
Erlingsson, there are some references to Bernard of Clairvaux’s vision
of ideal knighthood in his praise for the Templars (De laude novae
militae). In his famous speech against drunkenness, Sverrir urged his
men to abstain from heavy drinking since it first would lead a man into
poverty, next to oblivion, then to a lust for what is wrong, especially
theft and seducing women, further, to stir up violence without a cause,
then to ruined health and a weak body, and in the final consequence,
to lose his soul by yearning for filthy deeds and forgetting God. He
then echoes Bernard’s praise of the Templars: “Hermenn skyldu vera
hógværir í friði sem lamb, en í ófriði ágjarnir sem león” (Þorleifur
Hauksson 2007, chap. 104, p. 160) [Warriors should be meek as lambs
in peacetime and fierce as lions in war].12
Sverrir is here connected to the rhetoric and identity of the pious
warrior fighting for the cause of Christ, although the fact that Sverrir’s
motto echoed Bernard’s words does not necessarily mean the he had
actually read this treatise on the Templars. There were many writers in
the twelfth century that used the same image of lambs and lions.13 Still,
the representation of Sverrir and the Birkibeinar is remarkably similar
to Bernard of Clairvaux’s depiction of the new knighthood. Through
his dictum, Sverrir connected himself to the idea of a Christian military
brotherhood. This image seems to have developed first in connection to
the cult of St. Óláfr at Niðaróss. However, in Sverris saga, Sverrir uses this
new image of the royal saint to present himself as the true descendant
of St. Óláfr, and thus the worthy protector of the saint’s kingdom.
This is also suggested by the name given to the first part of Sverris
saga. This is in the prologue called Grýla, a name that elsewhere—
and later in Icelandic folklore—referred to a troll-woman. The name
is probably derived from “terror,” proposing the wider meaning of
“terror-maker” (Bagge 1996, 58). Already in the first chapter, the saga
12. According to the contemporary chronicler William of Newburgh, this was also the
inscription on Sverrir’s seal: Suerus rex Magnus ferus ut leo mitis ut agnus. A seal matrix
was found some years ago in Tønsberg and has the inscription “verus testis ego, nuntia
vera tego” [true witness I am, true commandments I cover]. Odd Fjordholm (1973)
has convincingly argued that this was the seal of Sverrir. He noted that ferus could be
a pun on verus, and that both may allude to Sverus.
13. For other examples of the lion/lamb imagery, see Hermann Pálsson (1989, 67–8).
He omits, however, the reference to Bernard’s De laude. Contemporary images of mili-
tary brotherhood following a rule were especially popular in Scandinavia around 1200,
such as the law of Jómsvíkingar in Jómsvíkinga saga, Sven Aggesen’s Lex castrensis, or
Saxo’s Vederlagen; see Bandlien (2006); and Münster-Swendsen (2012).
tells about the terror evoked by Sverrir. While pregnant, his mother
dreamed that she was in labor and that her servant woman became
terrified of the fetus’s nature. It seemed like a big stone with the white,
sparkling quality of a glowing piece of iron that is blown on. Even his
mother feared the stone, but although she tried to wrap it in clothing,
terror emanated from it.
Soon after, in the vision that initiated his journey to Norway, Sver-
rir dreams that St. Óláfr himself fought against Magnús Erlingsson
and Erlingr skakki. This struck fear into his enemies’ minds. Such
a terror-inducing appearance is also found in the vision where the
prophet Samuel anointed Sverrir. The vision of Samuel made Sverrir
tremble, but Samuel himself explained that he will bring peace (Þor-
leifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 10). This combination of bringing both
fear and peace is just what Sverrir later claimed to have done for the
Norwegians (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 96).
This kind of terror might allude to the “terror-helmets” mentioned
in skaldic poems when kings put fear into their opponents’ breasts.
However, this kind of awe-striking is also mentioned in connection
with saints or holy kings with God on their side.14 In the Legendary
saga, we find the same idea connected to St. Óláfr. After his death at
Stiklarstaðir, St. Óláfr’s body had such an intensively bright and fright-
ening appearance that Þórir hundr almost became blind (Heinrichs
et al. 1982, chap. 86). Earlier in the Legendary saga, an angel appears
with supernatural and terror-inducing brightness when he warns a hea-
then chieftain against fighting Óláfr (Heinrichs et al. 1982, chap. 32).
These episodes both point at the fear holiness brought on heathens,
disbelievers, or enemies to the true king.
In this way, Sverris saga presents an ascetic ruler showing power
although avoiding sexual transgressions and superbia, using the memory
of St. Óláfr as it had been shaped at Niðaróss in the Passio Olavi and
especially in the Legendary saga. This mnemonic rhetoric was hardly
invented by Sverrir himself, but had developed at the establishment of
the Arcbhisopric of Niðaróss in 1152/53 and the coronation of Magnús
Erlingsson in 1163/64. In his letter of privilege to the church, Magnús
had sworn to protect St. Óláfr’s realm. As the saint’s knight he should
never show fear and yield to any of his enemies (Vandvik 1959, 60).
It is also at this time St. Óláfr is developed as a patron saint of war. In
Passio Olavi, Archbishop Eysteinn gives an account of the Varangian
14. For other examples, see Holm-Olsen (1953) and Lönnroth (2006).
troops who had fought with little success against the heathens. In their
peril, they vowed that they would build a Church in honor of the Virgin
Mary and St. Óláfr if they were granted victory. The saint appeared
at the battle and became the standard-bearer for the Christians. The
pagans, greatly outnumbering the Varangians, were struck by divine
terror and were defeated. The Greek Emperor then built a church in
honor of St. Óláfr and hung the saint’s legendary sword over the altar.
Gerd Wolfgang Weber interpreted this miracle in the light of crusad-
ing ideology, and proposed that St. Óláfr had become the guardian of
the military brotherhood at Byzantium in the first half of the twelfth
century. His sword functioned as a symbol of their power over the
evils of the heathens and the Devil. Weber draws on the poem Geisli,
performed by the skald and priest Einarr Skúlason in Niðaróss in 1153
in the presence of the three Norwegian kings and the archbishop,
where another miracle, omitted in Passio Olavi, also is mentioned.
Einarr told about the sword, owned by one of the Varangians, that
miraculously moved around during the nights. The Greek Emperor
learned about this and heard that the sword had been owned by St.
Óláfr and bought it (sts. 48–60). Of special interest is Einarr’s kenning
for the sword: gómsparra gylðis kindar—“the jaw-spike of the kin of
the Fenrisúlfr.”15 Weber argues that Fenrir in the twelfth century had
become a symbol of the Devil, a monstrous force that was now opposed
by Christian heroes rather than the heathen gods. Geisli thus establishes
the Norwegian church and the Norwegian saint as defensores pacis and
defensores Christianitatis (Weber 1997). Under the relic of St. Óláfr’s
sword, the Varangians became close to a Norse version of the knights
who had taken the Cross; they had become the militia Olavi.
Weber’s observation that the Varangians held St. Óláfr as a patron
of war seems credible when compared to other contemporary sources.
According to Einarr Skúlason and Heimskringla, the miracle was
transmitted to Norway through Eindriði ungi.16 He came back from
15. Geisli (st. 48, ll. 7–8); Clunies Ross (2007, 46).
16. Geisli (st. 45); Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (1941–51, III, 370–1). In Heimskringla, St.
Óláfr is said to have ridden on a white horse in front of the Varangians, but only the
king of the heathens was able to see him (Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson 1941–51, III, 372; cf.
Ármann Jakobsson and Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson 2011, I, 95). Before the battle at Stik-
lastaðir, Óláfr is said to have used a white horse (Heinrichs et al. 1982, chap. 75). It fell
and broke its legs, thus signaling the martyrdom of the king. At the battle against the
heathens, however, he has regained his horse. St. Óláfr is also riding a white horse in
the Beatus initial of the Carrow Psalter (c. 1250), and on the ivory travel altar (Christian
I’s altar), made in Norway c. 1300–10, depicting the king riding on a horse with a cross
on his shield ahead of the Varangians.
military service in Byzantium at the end of the 1140s, and a few years
later joined the crusade of Earl Rognvaldr, Earl of Orkney. If he had
not participated in the battle himself, Eindriði may have heard the
story of the relic of the sword in Constantinople. The legend of St.
Óláfr as a standard-bearer against heathens reflects a saint who prob-
ably appealed to both the Archbishop, Erlingr skakki, and Norwegian
warriors no less than to members of the Varangian guard.
Similar legends are found elsewhere, especially in connection with
battles against heathens. Theodoricus Monachus (chap. 24) emphasized
that St. Óláfr appeared before his son, Magnús goði, when he fought
against the heathen Wends at Hlýrskogsheiðr in 1043. According to
Heimskringla, Magnús used St. Óláfr’s battle-axe “Hel” on this occa-
sion, and it is later mentioned that this axe was placed beside the altar
in the Christ Church in Niðaróss.17 In Morkinskinna we also hear that
the belt of St. Óláfr was used to heal the wounds of the Saxon Duke
Ótta (Ordulf). This miracle was performed so that Ótta could help
king Magnús in the battle against the infidels (Ármann Jakobsson and
Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson 2011, I, 58–9).
An important development of St. Óláfr as a patron for righteous
war, not in Byzantium against heathens, but against opponents to the
elected king, was made during the reign of king Magnús Erlingsson,
supported by his father Erlingr skakki. Magnús Erlingsson had himself
sworn at his coronation to defend the realms of St. Óláfr against all
enemies. Magnús’ father, Erlingr skakki, had himself been on crusade
in the early 1150s and had seen both Byzantium and the Holy Land.
He was also clearly interpreting his fight against Sverrir—as against
any other usurper—as a kind of holy war. This is most clearly shown
by his claim that any man dying at the battlefield in defense of his son
Magnús would become a martyr before their blood cooled (Þorleifur
Hauksson 2007, chap. 38). This claim had been, according to Sverris
saga, authorized by Archbishop Eysteinn.
Erlingr skakki seemed to have practiced confessions for his warriors
before battles, similar to the way St. Óláfr is depicted in the Legend-
ary saga. St. Óláfr had refused to fight on Sundays, but when forced
to do this anyway, he made sure to attend mass first (Heinrichs et al.
1982, chap. 24). Before the battle at Stiklarstaðir, Óláfr excluded all
those who did not want to be baptized (Heinrichs et al. 1982, chaps.
17. Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson (1941–51, II, 367); Gudbrand Vigfusson and Dasent (1887,
178).
72, 73). Óláfr also made his men fast and go to confession before this
battle.18 By divine providence, the water Óláfr wanted to drink before
this final battle turned miraculously to wine; he thus received com-
munion from God himself (Heinrichs et al. 1982, chap. 75). Erlingr
skakki also used to sing Pater Noster and Kyrie Eleison before battles
(Bjarni Aðalbjarnarson 1941–51, III, 389) and had promised his men
martyrdom if they died fighting against the enemies of his son, the
anointed king (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 38). The battlefield
thus became holy ground, or a stage where the righteous warriors
fought against the enemies of St. Óláfr. What is added in Sverris saga
is the use of the landscape, and especially the wilderness where Sverrir
confronted and won over the Devil. Besides this, he positioned himself
as the true follower of St. Óláfr by being more ascetic in drinking and
clothing. In this way, Sverrir is portrayed as morally superior to Erlingr
skakki and King Magnús.
This indicates that the saga was directed not only to an audience of
warriors, but also to a learned group of readers. In this, Sverrir might
have had some influence himself. Sverrir was himself a priest, and it is
likely that he would use his theological knowledge to form a strong
and effective religious counter-rhetoric against his opponents in the
Church. In A Speech against the Bishops, one of his loyal clerics made
a broad attack on the Norwegian clergy; instead of functioning as
proper limbs on the kingdom’s body, they had become blind to the
truth. This is the language of the Church, redirected against the clergy.
Sverrir obviously managed to receive support from clerics, monks, and
some of the bishops, despite the excommunication laid upon those
who fraternized with him.
Sites of Holy and Marginal Memory

Sverris saga is arguably the Old Norse narrative where topography plays
an important part in the action. The uses of landscape and sites connected
to the memory of certain events was pointed out already by Maurice
Halbwachs in his pioneering study on “the legendary topography” of
18. A famous episode from the battle of Stiklastaðir is especially interesting. Þórmoðr
Kolbrúnarskald had been fasting nine Sundays, but eating meat on Fridays. The Friday
before the battle, he ate a little sausage (Heinrichs et al. 1982, chap. 74). At the battle, an
arrow wounded him. He drew out the arrow himself, and some meat with it (Heinrichs
et al. 1982, chap. 85). It is tempting to interpret this meat as the same he ate the Friday
before. Thus Þórmoðr could follow St. Óláfr to salvation without being polluted.
Palestine, connecting the holy sites to mnemonic practices over a long

time period, and at the same time showing how these sites could be
re-interpreted in shifting social and political contexts.19 In Sverris saga,
it works both to situate Sverrir within the history of Christianity and
to connect the landscape of Norway to the Holy Land. First, Sverrir
loaded his battles with religious symbols and discourse. As mentioned
above, he used the battle-cry of St. Óláfr. He also showed great esteem
for the Virgin Mary (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chaps. 15, 18, 20). His
great warship was dedicated to her, and Sverrir prayed for strength
and luck to all those who sailed with it (chap. 80). Relics were built
into the ship, and this later helped him in the battle at Fimreiti in 1184
(chap. 91). When the Kuflungar (followers of Jón Kuflung, a monk and
allegedly son of Magnús Erlingsson) later burnt it, the Holy Cross in
the church was sweating as a consequence (chap. 102). This ship can
be compared to the legendary sword Durendal, used by Roland in the
service of Charlemagne and containing a tooth of St. Peter, some blood
of St. Basil, hairs of St. Denis, and a piece of Mary’s clothing. Similar
to the famous sword, Maríusúðin was a floating reliquary designed for
battle against the enemies of St. Óláfr and his “son.”
Sverrir never went to the Holy Land, although he had intentions
to do so (chap. 9). Instead, he made the Holy Land come to him. He
built a castle in Niðaróss that was called Síon, a manifestation of the
analogue between Sverrir and David. This emphasized that Sverrir
indeed was chosen by God to rule Norway. Close by Síon was the hill
name Feginsbrekka (Hill of Grace), where Sverrir is said to have knelt
down in prayers (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 35). This place-name
is most likely a version of the famous Montjoie in the Holy Land, but
connected to the pilgrimage to St. Óláfr in Niðaróss. The name was
hardly an invention by Sverrir, but rather a reflection of the status of
St. Óláfr’s Church as one of the main pilgrimage centers. Still, by con-
necting the castle Síon to the relics and Church of St. Óláfr, Sverrir
emphasized his special connection to this religious center.
On the other hand, Sverrir is repeatedly presented like an ascetic
in the wilderness, while his opponents most often are found in cen-
tral places. This is especially evident in the first part of the saga. First
of all, he came from the remote Faroe Islands, the “outer skerries.”
19. Halbwachs (2008). Pierre Nora’s important work on les lieux de mémoire (sites
of memory) draws on Halbwachs, but at the same time connects the rise of lieux de
mémoire in the nineteenth century to the break with the pre-industrial past, when
memories were a part of a living tradition (les milieux des mémoire).
After coming to Norway, he repeatedly had to walk in deep, unknown

woods, suffering from cold and hunger (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007,
chaps. 7, 12, 18–20). This emphasis on the ascetic virtues of Sverrir
and the Birkibeinar in the margins of society is quite unique in a king’s
saga. The closest parallel is perhaps the tribulations Óláfr Tryggvason
experienced as a child.
However, Sverrir’s marginalization in his initial career as king con-
cerns more the voluntary tribulations he had to undergo. A traditional
vogue in medieval monasticism, from the time when Antony walked
into the Egyptian desert c. 270, was to avoid the temptations of urban
centers. The wilderness, on the other hand, was a place where demons
ruled. The desert, or any kind of wilderness, became the prime arena
for testing spiritual steadfastness and faith in God when facing the evil
forces outside civilization. In the twelfth century, living on the mar-
gins of civilization became revitalized through the Cistercian ideal of
renouncing all forms of luxury and splendor. Cistercians were above all
supposed to fight “well against their own vices and the enticements of
malign spirits” in the “place of horror and of vast wilderness.”20 From
this renouncement of the privileges of civilization, they could claim
the authority of calling people to penance.
According to Sverris saga, Sverrir and the Birkibeinar indeed meet
the forces of the Devil in the wilderness. On a hazardous journey from
Voss to Valdres, a terrible snowstorm fell upon them. They lost 120
horses with golden saddles, along with clothes and weapons, and for
eight days, they did not eat anything but snow. The situation became
so desperate and the men so tired that many considered suicide. Some
men wanted to jump off cliffs to end their sufferings, while others
thought it more proper to follow the example of brave men in the
past by turning weapons against themselves (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007,
chap. 19). Sverrir, however, thought that the temptations of commit-
ting suicide were merely the trappings of the Devil, and called suicide
a madman’s deed, and the kind of thing a man would do if he did not
control himself.21 They should instead repent their sins and beg for
20. Waddell (1999, chap. 17, p. 438). See also Constable (1996, 138–44).
21. “Ef þér gangið fyrir hamra ofan ok farið yðr sjálfir, þat er œrra manna tiltekja, þeira
er eigi kunnu fótum sínum forráð. En með því at þer vilið sjálfir vápn á berask, þat er
heiðinna manna siðr, þeira er eikki vita til Guðs” (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chap. 20,
p. 34) [If you leap from the cliffs and kill yourselves, then that is the act of madmen
who are not able to guide their own steps. And as to you wish to carry weapons against
yourselves, that is the custom of heathen men who do not know of God].
mercy with piety and humility. And then the weather cleared up so
that they were able to see their path. His spiritual persistence during
bodily trials when confronting the dangers of the wilderness is charac-
teristic of hagiography. Hermann Pálsson (1989, 61–2) suggested that
the “brave men in the past” who killed themselves may have derived
from the account of Rómverja saga, based on Lucan’s Pharsalia, where
Vultetius and his men committed suicide rather than being captured
by Caesar. Both Sverrir and Karl Jónsson would most likely have read
both Sallust’s and Lucan’s works, which Rómverja saga was based on
(Stoltz 2011). In this episode, the saga seems to employ the memory
of heroic warriors who were brave but not concerned with salvation.
This is theology for warriors, showing the difference between the
heathen Roman soldier and the Christian warrior following a strong
king. On the other hand, the story of the tribulations in the wilderness
as a marginalized site of power would have been familiar both for Karl
Jónsson, and also evident in other contemporary compositions from
Þingeyri (such as Odd Snorrason’s Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar). Sverrir
had close relations to the Cistercians, hearing mass there even though
he was excommunicated (Þorleifur Hauksson 2007, chaps. 134, 136).
Sverrir’s use of holy topography, however, was not wholly without
precedence. Erlingr skakki and Magnús seem to have initiated a program
of imitating the Holy Land. The painting of St. Óláfr in the Church of
the Nativity in Bethlehem is now reckoned to be a result of a donation
in the name of his wife Kristin, daughter of Sigurðr jórsalafari (Lidén
1999, 262–4). St. Óláfr’s Church in Túnsberg, built in the 1170s or early
1180s, showed another way that Erlingr and king Magnús connected
themselves with the symbolism of the Holy Land. Although the only
round Church in Norway, it was the largest in Scandinavia and was
modeled on the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The church was soon
given to the Premonstratensians, a monastic order that was popular in
the twelfth century and received many gifts from crusaders who made
penance (Slack 2001). It was also probably Erlingr or Magnús who
founded the Hospitaller house at Varna in Østfold (Svandal 2010).
One of the most important tasks for the houses of Hospitallers was to
collect money for the Hospital in Jerusalem.
Much space in the Passio Olavi is given to the description of hea-
thens, as well as a striking juxtaposition of geography, religion, and
character. The heathens in Norway were savage and stubborn, with
cold and fierce hearts. The passio places Norway as the region closest
to the ultimate North, that same North that Jeremiah had said that
every evil would come from (Metcalfe 1881, 67–8; Jer. 1:13–4). The
prophets had once promised that God finally would overturn the reign
of the “boaster” in the North and to build God’s city even in this cold
and dangerous wilderness.22
According to Archbishop Eysteinn in Passio Olavi, the tool for
building the city of God in the midst of evil was St. Óláfr. In this way,
Norway and the Holy Land were linked in a very physical way, with sites
that made the realm of St. Óláfr also filled with a sacred topography.
Against this, Sverrir had to change the perception of the topography
of Norway, already linked to the rule of the anointed defender of St.
Óláfr’s holy realm.
Conclusion
In a discussion of ideology and description of society in Sverris saga,
Sverre Bagge pointed out that even though a monk wrote the saga,
the saga was written for an audience consisting most probably of
warriors. Bagge concluded that “the portrait of Sverrir as a great
general and leader of men offers a better understanding of Sverrir’s
individuality and identity as presented in the saga, than do the idea
of God’s vocation and the references to David and sacred history”
(Bagge 1996, 65). It could, however, also be argued that it is impos-
sible to understand Sverrir’s identity without the many references to
sacred history (Ljungqvist 2006; Lönnroth 2006). To some degree,
the use of the past in Sverris saga was directed to an audience of war-
riors. The rhetoric of revenge made use of the recent history, giving
the motivation of Sverrir and his men as a just revenge for the killings
of their relatives. This is a different way of using the recent past than
Theodoricus or King Magnús Erlingsson, who seemed more skeptical
of making use of the history of Norwegian kings as a model for their
own lives. Shared rulership was, for example, something that was a
distant past that should not be repeated—it was more like a storehouse
for ancient deeds. Instead, Magnús’s reign was authorized by crowning
and anointment in cooperation with the Archbishopric, who placed
the new king as a defender of Christianity in the realm of St. Óláfr. But
22. See, on this theme, Skånland (1956). The same allusions are made in the sequence
Postquam calix Babylonis; the seething pot (ollam) of the North, mentioned by Jeremiah,
is no longer filled with evil but with the good oil (oleo) filled up by Óláfr; see Kraggerud
(2002, 108–11). In this sequence, the Northmen actually become God’s assistants against
the evil of the southerly city of Babylon, an allusion to Jeremiah 50.
as Archbishop Eysteinn claimed, this realm was on the borderland of

the heathens in the northern realms of Christianity, and as important
to defend as Jerusalem itself.
Divine vocation, Sverrir’s vision of St. Óláfr, and God’s interven-
tion are not just superficial elements of Sverris saga. Sverrir adhered
to the European ideology of just war and new notions of the proper
conduct of a warrior. Although the intended audience for the saga
may have been warriors, Sverris saga also seems to have been directed
at Sverrir’s clerical opponents, trying to convince them of Sverrir’s
superiority over Magnús as a defender of St. Óláfr’s realm. The saga
uses the re-definition of St. Óláfr from the mid-twelfth century, as a
leader of a military brotherhood with certain rules for warfare. This
image is especially evident in the contemporary Legendary saga, where
the presentation of St. Óláfr and Sverrir is very similar. Sverrir’s rela-
tionship to St. Óláfr is re-defined as not only an anointed defender
of the realm, but as an imitator of the holy king. Sverrir turned the
tables against Erlingr and Magnús and claimed that it was they who
fought rangliga vandræði (“unjust war”; Þorleifur Hauksson 2007,
chap. 38) against him. In order to convince the audience of this, Sver-
ris saga emphasized the moral superiority of Sverrir over Erlingr and
Magnús. Sverrir’s moderation in drinking, his bravery facing battles,
his willingness to give grið, as well as his sexual self-control, are virtues
used in the saga as signs of his sincerity and right intentions in warfare.
As Sverrir said in one of his speeches, he could not be called a leader
of the land if he was not able to control himself or his men (Þorleifur
Hauksson 2007, chap. 133). It may be true that nothing succeeds
like success in the case of Sverrir, but Sverris saga provides evidence
for stating that in twelfth-century politics, a new moral rhetoric was
needed to legitimize suitability for the throne. The other strategy was
to use Sverrir’s position as “the little and low man from the skerries”
who was exalted to the kingdom by the instigation of God and St.
Óláfr. When confronting tribulations and demons in the first part of
the saga, the wilderness is used to evoke the memory of a topography
and identity known from hagiography. When Sverrir used the castle
“Síon” outside Niðaróss, he and his followers were situated in a theo-
logically meaningful landscape that signaled his kingdom as an arena
of holy war and placed them in the context of military brotherhoods
elsewhere in Europe. Although these features of a king were unheard
of in a king in Norwegian history—and indeed were not emphasized
in Snorri’s depiction of Óláfr Haraldsson—Sverris saga used this new

image of St. Óláfr to show Sverrir’s suitability as a king.
In this way, Sverris saga shows an example of how a hegemonic
mnemonic culture could be challenged and countered in the twelfth
century. Such resistance was not accomplished by placing the story
into a new paradigm, but, to some degree, by using mnemonic prac-
tices that were already established in a better way, and by using sites
and images connected to the past in a new way to promote authority.
The hegemonic memory culture was not replaced by another one, but
rather extended and used in a different way in Sverris saga. Towards
this end, Sverrir saga itself was a success in shaping later memories
of King Sverrir as a successful king.
Works Cited
Ármann Jakobsson and Þórður Ingi Guðjónsson, eds. 2011. Morkinskinna. Íslenzk
fornrit 23–24. Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag.
Assmann, Aleida. 2008. “Canon and Archive.” In Cultural Memory Studies: An Interna-
tional and Interdisciplinary Handbook, edited by Astrid Erll and Ansgar Nünning,
97–107. Berlin: de Gruyter.
Bagge, Sverre. 1996. From Gang Leader to the Lord’s Anointed: Kingship in Sverris saga
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Hegemonic Memory and Counter-Memory in Medieval Norway

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