According to Guthrunarhvot (literally, “The Inciting by Guthrun”), Guthrun attempted to drown herself in the sea after she killed Attila. But instead of dying, she was carried by the waves to the kindgom of Jonaker. Later, when Svanhild, Guthrun’s daughter by Sigurth, was promised in marriage to King Jormunrekk and then killed by him, Guthrun incited her sons by Jonaker to avenge Svanhild, and had a funeral pyre kindled for herself. As usual, the prose introduction is from the manuscript.
Guthrun walked to the ocean after she killed Attila, and then she went out into the waves and wanted to kill herself, but she could not drown. She was brought by the waves over the fjord to the lands of King Jonaker, and he married her; their sons were Sorli, Erp, and Hamthir. Svanhild, Guthrun’s daughter by Sigurth, also grew up there, and she was promised to the mighty king Jormunrekk. One of Jormunrekk’s advisors was Bikki, who advised the king’s son, Randver, to have his way with the bride. Bikki then told this to the king. The king had Randver hanged, and Svanhild trampled to death by horses. When Guthrun learned of this, she spoke to her sons.
I HEARD the worst news, awful words spoken in heavy sorrow, when grim Guthrun incited her sons with bitter words to seek vengeance:
“Why are you sitting here, sleeping away your lives? Why are you not too sad to chat happily like this? You know that Jormunrekk took your sister, as young as she was, and had her trampled to pieces by horses, some black, some white, some gray, some tame, some Gothic, on a common road.
“You boys are not like my brother Gunnar, you are not as brave as Hogni was. The two of you would avenge her, if you had the bravery of my brothers, or the courage of the Hunnish kings.”
Then the brave Hamthir spoke: “You did not praise Hogni’s courage when your brothers woke Sigurth from his last sleep, when your blue-and-white striped bed sheets turned red in your husband’s blood.
“You achieved vengeance for both of your brothers in an awful, cruel way when you murdered your sons. Had they lived, I think we could all have avenged our sister on Jormunrekk.
“But bring us the armor of the Hunnish kings! You have challenged us to seek a battle.”
Guthrun, laughing, gave her sons the treasures of kings which she kept in her room. She brought her sons long coats of chainmail. They boldly set themselves in their saddles.
Then the brave Hamthir spoke: “I will never again come back from battle and return to Gothic lands, except as a fallen corpse. Mother, you’ll drink at the funeral for us all, for your sons and Svanhild alike.”
Guthrun, daughter of Gjuki, went weeping, and sat on the road in sorrow. She counted, with tear-streaked cheeks, the many varieties of her life’s sorrows:
“I’ve had three homes, three hearths, three husbands who took me home. And of all of them, Sigurth was the best, the one who was killed by my own brothers.
“I was made to forget my heavy sorrows, but nonetheless I was greatly offended when my brothers married me to Attila.
“I called to my bold young sons in secret. I never did any worse evil than when I cut off the heads of my own heirs.
“I walked to the sea, I hated the Norns, I wanted to throw off what they had in store for me. But the high waves lifted me, never drowning me, took me to a new land where I lived yet longer.
“So for the third time I shared the bridal bed with a king. But I liked it better the first time. I had his children, I gave birth to his heirs, boys to inherit after Jonaker.
“Lady-servants sat around Svanhild, and I loved her most of all my children. Svanhild seemed to me like a beautiful ray of sunlight come into my home.
“I gave her gold and precious clothes, before I sent her as a wife to King Jormunrekk, and of all my sorrows the very worst is when I think of Svanhild’s fine hair trampled into the mud under horses’ hooves.
“And my bitterest memory is of when my brothers robbed Sigurth of victory, and killed him in our bed. And my grimmest is the memory of Gunnar bitten to death by shimmering-scaled serpents, and my most painful is the memory of Hogni, that boldest of kings, with his heart cut out while he still lived.
“I remember so much grief. Oh, Sigurth, mount up on your white horse! Ride to me here on swift-footed Grani! I sit here without a daughter or daughter-in-law who could comfort me with good gifts.
“Do you remember, Sigurth, what we said to one another, sitting together, the two of us, on the bed we shared? My brave husband, we swore that either you would come back to me from Hel, or else I would join you there.
“Now, noble men, build a high funeral pyre out of oak wood, stoke it till the flames reach the sky! Let fire burn my sob-wracked chest, let flame melt the sorrows that choke my heart.
“Let any noble man think his bad luck is better, let any well-bred lady say her sorrows aren’t so bad, when they have heard all my misfortune told!”