Viking Arm Rings
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Arms rings are a popular choice of jewelry among the Norsemen. The most common style is made from gold and has a ring that goes around the forearm, with another one attached to it on top. There are also arm bands that go around the upper arms, or necklaces worn around the neck, but those were rarer in Norse culture than arm rings.
They could be made of precious metals such as silver or gold, or they could be made out of wood. In some cultures arm, rings would have been considered lucky charms because their owners might wear them to keep away evil spirits, or they’d believe the gods themselves had blessed them when they found them.
Many warriors wore them as part of their war gear, believing that by wearing an arm ring they would give their strength and luck to the battle ahead. If you’re looking for a piece of Viking jewelry to remind yourself of your ancestors’ history then this might be the right choice for you.
“I’m going back to Iceland,” Thorgrim said. “You can come with me if you like.”
Jarl Gunnar smiled at him. “No, thank you,” he replied. “If I ever wanted to live outside my own land I think I would choose Norway.”
Thorgrim laughed. “Norway? You mean that place where all the men look like giants?”
Gunnar laughed too. “And that’s just the women!” he exclaimed.
“Well, maybe we’ll see each other again someday,” Thorgrim said. He was leaving without saying goodbye. He had no reason to. He did not know what he meant to Gunnar. But his brother Harald was here now; there was no need for Thorgrim to stay any longer. It felt strange to leave after so short a time.
The day before Thorgrim left, Jarl Gunnar asked him to join him on a trip into the woods to collect wood for winter fuel. They went together, along with Gunnar’s son, Olaf. Their goal was to gather enough logs to make a pile big enough to last until spring.
It wasn’t something they could do quickly, or easily. To start off they walked about half a mile south toward the coast, cutting down trees wherever they saw fit. Then they carried these to their horses, who brought them to their destination, a clearing in the forest where they built up the firewood.
Each man cut and stacked as much wood as he thought he needed, keeping an eye on the others as well. Some felled a tree and left it behind, while others collected fallen branches, taking care not to damage the roots of nearby trees. A few minutes later someone else arrived at the site carrying another log. All of this work took several hours.
They worked hard but were careful not to injure themselves. Gunnar kept an eye on Olaf, making sure he didn’t get hurt, while Gunnar himself kept an eye on Olaf’s father, who was showing signs of fatigue. Even though they had begun as strangers, the two men seemed to have become friends during their short time together.
When they finally stopped working they sat down on a log and ate lunch. They drank ale and shared some food. As soon as they finished eating, however, Olaf asked his father to show him how to shoot arrows. His father obliged, drawing his bow and letting loose an arrow.
Olaf followed suit, sending his arrow flying straight for the center of the target. The boy’s aim was good. Gunnar watched Olaf carefully, wanting to make sure he used the proper technique. At times Olaf looked nervous as if he expected to miss, but his shot never wavered.
When Olaf finally missed he was disappointed. That only lasted for a moment. Then he picked up a second arrow. This time he sent his missile sailing through the air with even more confidence.
Gunnar sighed. “There must be a way to train that boy to hit the bullseye every time,” he muttered. He glanced at Thorgrim. “Maybe you could teach him something, eh? Or maybe you could teach him archery better than anyone else?”
Thorgrim nodded. “I’ve taught many a young lad,” he answered. “It should be easy enough to pass along some knowledge.”
Olaf grinned. “Then let us go,” he said.
In the distance, Thorgrim heard the sound of running water. Soon they came upon a small waterfall. They waded across a narrow stream and climbed up the far side, coming to a wide-open space with a pool surrounded by tall rocks.
There was a large rock that jutted out over the edge of the pool, giving rise to a natural shelf that allowed Olaf to stand safely above the water. On the opposite side of the pool, which was fed by the falling waters from the falls, there was a flat stone, perhaps twenty feet square, that served as a bench or a platform. In the center of the platform stood a single oak stump.
As soon as they reached the pool, Olaf began shooting arrows, first one then another. Many of them flew high. One struck a boulder in the middle of the pool, splashing its contents onto the water’s
surface. Others landed harmlessly in the water.
Olaf grew excited when he hit his mark, laughing and clapping his hands. Thorgrim watched him closely, trying to figure out what he might be doing wrong. At last, he realized what Olaf was missing: he was standing too close to his targets. If he stayed back farther, the angle between his body and the target would change, causing the arrow to fly differently.
So he moved back until he was standing ten yards away, still within range of his enemy, but further removed. Olaf adjusted his stance accordingly and fired. Two more arrows found their marks.
“That’s it,” Thorgrim told him. “You need to practice without moving your feet. Stay in place and keep your eyes fixed on your target. You’ll find that your shots will improve greatly.”
He made Olaf repeat the process again, adjusting his position so that each arrow landed within three feet of its intended victim. By now Olaf was grinning widely. He was having fun. And he was learning something new.
But he did not understand all the lessons being imparted. For example, why was he supposed to stop firing after five arrows? Why wasn’t he supposed to fire any longer than that?
After a dozen tries Olaf got frustrated. His next few arrows fell well short, landing among the trees behind them.
“We’re wasting our time!” he cried.
“Not so fast,” Thorgrim replied. “The idea is to learn to relax and focus. It’s not about hitting a perfect bulls-eye. Just hit the target.”
Olaf scowled at his father. “But I’m getting worse! What am I doing wrong?”
Thorgrim shook his head. “Keep practicing. We’ll see how you do in the morning.”
***
The next day the sun rose red in the east. Olaf was up early. He had slept like a babe, his mind full of images of the night before, the excitement of firing his bow at his father. He’d been surprised that his father had taken him seriously. After all, Olaf had always wanted to be just like him. Now he was going to have the chance.
They walked into town together. Olaf wore a leather jerkin and a tunic, both black. Both were brand new; the tunic had been sewn by a tailor who lived in the settlement. The man charged a fortune for such work, but Olaf paid it gladly. To look good he needed a clean set of clothes.
His hair was long, hanging halfway down his back. It took great effort for him to comb it back neatly. It never seemed to want to lie flat. Still, he managed it.
At the edge of town, the road split off in two different directions. Thorgrim pointed to the right and instructed Olaf to walk along the main street. That way, if he was seen, he would draw less attention. They turned left and continued on.
“This isn’t much of a village,” Olaf complained.
“No,” Thorgrim agreed. “Just a collection of buildings around a common area.”
Olaf frowned. “Why are we here, then? Where are we headed?”
Thorgrim shrugged. “Nowhere special. We’re looking for men, old men. Old Norsemen who can teach Olaf to speak the language.”
“What does that mean?” Olaf asked. “And where exactly are we going? Is this the whole reason I’m here?”
“Yes and no,” Thorgrim answered.
Olaf looked puzzled. “Are you telling me my father sent me all the way here only to learn a little bit of Norse?”
“I don’t know what your father thinks. Maybe he wants you to learn more than just a little bit. But that’s what I think.”
Olaf nodded. “All right. All right. Then let’s get started.”
It didn’t take long for Olaf to realize there was nothing to be learned from the handful of people who came and went through the small streets. Most of those who passed by were young boys, and children of families living nearby. A couple of older men strolled past, carrying bundles wrapped in blankets over their shoulders. One or two women carried baskets of bread. None spoke English.
Still, they were out walking. That meant they must have some sort of business. So when one of them paused, perhaps to tie a shoelace, Olaf waited patiently until they were far enough away that he could approach him with confidence.
“Excuse me,” he said. “My name is Olaf. Can you tell me if anyone is selling wool today?”
A woman glanced up at him, her dark eyes wide. She was pretty, Olaf thought. Not beautiful. Pretty. Her face was round and soft. She had a big smile and she smiled often. “Wool?” she repeated. “Oh yes. There’s a merchant here every other week. He comes with wagons full of sheep’s wool. You can buy as much as you want.”
“Thank you,” Olaf said. He thanked her several times and waved goodbye as she hurried on her way.
As soon as she disappeared down an alleyway Olaf stopped and stared at the buildings that surrounded them. Some of them held businesses. Others held homes. One was clearly a church. He wondered which god they worshipped. Probably Loki, Olaf decided.
He wasn’t sure why, but he felt certain that the gods of Norway belonged to Loki. If God wanted these people to worship Him, He should send missionaries to them, not bring them here as slaves.
He followed the main road. As he did, he saw signs painted on doors and shutters: JORGINVARSSON. OTHRIMSKELLING. RITA. A few others. At first, he thought it strange that so many places would use the same word for a given profession.
Perhaps everyone owned the same tools and the same types of merchandise. He dismissed that idea almost immediately. No. These were the names of the owners themselves. They were merchants. Everyone knew that. It was probably the most common occupation in Iceland.
His path led him past a smithy, a tavern, and another store. Soon he spotted the merchant himself. He stood outside the door of a building, talking to a customer. When Olaf approached, the merchant turned and gave him a quick wave. The customer noticed him too and nodded politely. Olaf bowed his head slightly in return.
The merchant was dressed like any other Norseman. His skin was pale, but the color of his beard made it obvious he was a Dane. The man’s nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken at least once. His cheeks were thick. He wore a hat with a veil. Behind it, his hair fell straight and black.
“Good morning!” he called out cheerfully. “How may I help you this fine day?”
Olaf took off his helmet and lifted the visor. “You can help us,” he replied. “We’re looking for a wool merchant.”
The merchant chuckled. “Well, that will certainly narrow things down! Come inside and we’ll see if we can find something suitable for you.”
They walked into a large room. Like many others, he’d seen thus far, its walls were covered in wooden panels nailed together. Two men sat behind a counter near the front door. Each was bent over, examining a piece of cloth. The merchant pointed toward the back of the shop. “There’s a lot of good stuff in the back. Good quality wool. And I’ve got some good fleeces, too. Better prices.”
“Let’s go look,” Olaf said.
They entered a larger space, filled with stacks of woven woolen fabrics. From the ceiling hung shelves laden with bolts of fabric. Other shelves held baskets of thread and needles, pins and scissors, knives, and other sundry items needed by seamstresses.
On the floor lay piles of yarn. Everywhere else, crates, barrels, boxes, sacks, and bins held bolts of wool. In some cases, they were tied in bundles. Elsewhere they were stacked neatly against each other, ready to be shipped to market.
Olaf moved closer to inspect them all. He picked up a bundle, holding it in both hands. It was heavy but surprisingly light. It smelled clean.
“This is what I’m looking for,” he announced. “It’s just the right size. And the color isn’t too bright. Just right.”
“I think it’s perfect,” the merchant agreed. “And very cheap. Only two silver pieces per pound. How about it? Would you like to take some home?”
Olaf considered for only a moment before nodding. “Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what we need. Let me pay you now and we can get started.”
The merchant pulled a small purse from under his countertop. He opened it and counted out five coins. Then he handed one to Olaf. The money changed hands quickly and without fuss.
“Come back anytime,” the merchant said. “I always have plenty of stock.”
***
Olaf returned to the street, carrying his purchases. Now that he could see properly again, he realized there was nothing remarkable about the merchant. Nothing unusual about his appearance or behavior. This was simply how business was conducted.
But he didn’t care. He was satisfied. He and his crew would soon make their fortune.
“Where do we keep our cargo?” he asked his shipmates.
Hakon, who had served aboard ships since he was old enough to walk, answered immediately. “On deck. Under sailcloth.”
“Good. We’ll load everything up there tonight then set sail early tomorrow morning. By midday, we’ll arrive at the nearest harbor. Once ashore, we’ll send word to my father’s friend. A ship should already be waiting for us.”
As Hakon relayed the plan to the others, Olaf wondered why the Danes had not attacked sooner. They must know the Irish king’s army was camped nearby. But they hadn’t struck yet. Why? Had they been waiting for reinforcements? Or maybe they intended to attack in force. If so, why wait until now?
The End