Honour is All

by Marianne Whiting

  ‘I think that’s King Eirik’s banner over there and the Archbishop’s. You can just make out the black raven and there next to it the cross. Look, Sigrid, some of them are moving up to attack the shieldwall!’

  I watched, awestruck, as the scene played out in front of me. Shieldwalls I was familiar with, I had been part of one at Legburthwaite but I had never seen it from a distance. Here I could see the wall of interlocking shields held by warriors armed with swords and axes. Others stood immediately behind them with long spears, some crouching with their spears sticking out above and beneath the shieldwall. Then the warriors with axes and swords ready to step in and fill the gaps left by fallen comrades. Further back more spears but also the shorter javelins and smaller axes for throwing and piles of rock to sling at the enemy and at the very back the archers ready to send arrows like rain from the sky. It seemed impregnable. But there was a way to break it though. And down there in front of me I saw how it worked.

  Warriors formed a square with shields at the sides and also on top to form a good shelter against arrows and spears. They approached the shieldwall at a good pace. From inside the box of shields their voices took up the war cry: Feed the raven! For Jorvik! Feed the raven! For Eirik! Their axes and swords beat against their shields.

  The shieldwall answered in kind. But they had to stand and watch the enemy close in. Even from a distance I could see men being sick. Some in the rear lines gave in to their fear and took a step or two back.

  The attackers moved forward through a shower if arrows. Some penetrated the shield- roof but the gaps after the fallen were immediately filled as others stepped up. Then the square changed. The warriors in the middle walked faster than those on the sides. They drew in front to form a blunt wedge and as the men behind pressed ahead the sheer force of them opened up a breach in the wall.

  ‘A pig’s snout,’ I said. ‘Just look at that.’

  ‘Varg told us about those,’ said Unn. ‘I always wanted to see one. Oh, look now the rest follow.’

  Stabbing with spears, slicing through flesh with swords and hewing around them with the long handled battle axes warriors flowed like a human river trampling enemies and friends alike to get through the shieldwall. Then some turned left and others right to attack the warriors at the rear of the shieldwall. There they fought the young, the inexperienced and those whose task it was to throw and shoot. They were not the strong warriors. Most of them were sent into a state of panic and the army broke into fragments.

  ‘And there, there…’ Unn called out. Her breathing quickened and I sensed her trembling.

  ‘No Unn, we’re going back. This is not our fight.’

  ‘I think it is, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. Look there, at the front of the snout, look!’

  I saw it then, the wolf’s head. I went cold. Ragnar was here, leading the attack on the shieldwall. A screech made me look up. I scanned the sky above the battle and there among the gathering carrion birds, a Peregrine falcon circled, rising and falling. Gunnhild, watching and doing her magic to ensure Eirik’s victory. Would she be able to sense that I was here? It made no difference. I nodded to Unn.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  We came across the fallen and the injured. They were the ones from the rear of the shieldwall and their wounds came from projectiles; arrows, spears, axes and stones thrown from a considerable distance but still deadly. Women and other camp followers helped them to safety. They didn’t even look at us. I picked up an abandoned helmet and nodded to Unn to do the same. We hitched up our skirts and let our cloaks lie where they fell.

  ‘Shields?’ said Unn.

  ‘Wait till we know who’s who in this fight.’ My hands shook as I stuffed some wet grass under my new helmet. It was not pleasant but kept it from sliding round. We arrived at the outskirts of the battle itself. Still we went unnoticed. Everyone here was intent on his own attack and defence. But now a tall warrior retracted his sword from the body of his slain enemy and looked around. His eyes widened, then narrowed into angry slits. He walked towards us.

  ‘Women,’ he snarled. ‘Abominations.’

  ‘Two against one isn’t fair,’ said Unn and went to meet him. I followed, ready to cover her back. He’d heard and hesitated, not long but long enough for Unn’s blade to take a slice out of his sword arm. He squealed and stepped back. Unn followed and with her blade already on a downward trajectory caught his calf. The sound of metal told us he wore leg-irons. The man rallied and growling his anger thrust his shield at her. Too late. She had swung round and, coming at him from behind, got close enough to find the gap above his mailshirt. The spurt of warm blood hit her in the face and I stepped up to defend her until she could wipe her eyes. I didn’t need to. Her adversary lay slumped on the ground breathing his last.

  ‘Before you say,’ said Unn, ‘I had noticed where he was bare of armrings and vulnerable.’ She grinned. I couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Varg taught you well.’ It was a relief to be there in the middle of the fighting. It was the end, not of worry, but of uncertainty. I had found Ragnar. I knew where he would be.

  ‘Come,’ I said to Unn and we set off towards the heaviest part of the fighting.

  We found a couple of shields in the colours we hoped were carried by Eirik’s men. Malcolm’s and Anlaf Cuaran’s shieldwall was broken but not defeated. Where Eirik’s forces had fought their way through was now complete chaos with hardly room to swing an axe. The noise was deafening; men grunted with effort, swore in anger, cried out in pain. Axes thudded against shields and swords rang out as they danced with each other. The smell of sweat and fear mixed with that of fresh blood soaking into the trampled grass. I felt excitement bubbling up inside me and didn’t register the high-pitched scream that should have told me Unn needed reining in. It was too late anyway. From now on all anyone in that crush could do was to kill or get killed.

  And I killed; first a youngster who shouldn’t have been there but at the back of the shieldwall where his sling might have been some good sending stones to harass the enemy, then an old warrior whose stamina didn’t match his experience. He fought well but tired soon. In a different place I would have spared him out of respect for the fighter he once was but here there was no time to exact terms of surrender.

  Bodies lay treacherously where I needed a firm foothold, wounded got in my way as they tried to crawl to safety. Dragonclaw sang her deadly song, bathed in blood slicing and cutting. So far so easy.

  Then I reached the centre of the fighting. Warriors from the front-lines roared their bloodlust. Two hirds each under the banner of a chieftain laid in to each other. One banner I didn’t recognise, the other was only too familiar: Ragnar’s wolf snarling with sharp teeth ready to attack. The banner fluttered in the wind and told me he was alive, he was fighting. Here there had been no time to form a shieldwall. It was one to one combat and it was fierce. I had time to cut the tendons at the back of the legs of three warriors before their anguished cries alerted their comrades to my presence. I was charged by a snarling fighter in mailshirt and a heavy helmet that covered most of his face. I angled my shield and took his spear on it. The point split the wood and the warrior pulled on the shaft to reel me in like a fish caught on a line. I resisted and then let go. I was surprised that it worked so easily and as he fell backwards I let Dragonclaw find her way under his tunic and into his groin. I found a discarded shield on the ground. Then I looked round for my next opponent.

  My senses were sharpened, the red mist of battle fury made it all seem easy. Dragonclaw did her work, it felt, without my help. The face of one warrior merged with that of the next and the next. Time ceased to have any meaning. Then in a flash of terrifying clarity a huge fighter, his features etched into my mind for eternity; red plaits, no helmet, no mailshirt, no shield, arms heavy with rings earned in battle. He bore down on me snarling, spittle flying round his mouth in white flecks, eyes burning with battle madness. I had no time to take my stance. His double edged axe crashed down on my borr
owed shield. It splintered as if made of thin ice. I dropped it and tried moving aside before he had time to raise his axe again. One of my feet was trapped by the body of my last enemy. I pulled it free but it gave the berserker time to swing his axe at me. I leapt back just out of his reach, then as he followed through I took a stride forward intending to drive Dragonclaw into his exposed side. I tripped on a tangle of heather and fell forward. That saved me. He had swung round full circle and the axe would have cut me in two. Instead it knocked off my helmet. I had landed on top of Dragonclaw and rolled off to the side. With an awkward backwards thrust I cut his leg. He didn’t even notice. I scrambled out of the way of his next blow and the axe head landed next to me with the edge embedded in the ground. Still on my knees I raised Dragonclaw and drove her into his leg until it struck hard bone. He pulled his axe free and lifted it. I got up and with an upward thrust drove my blade into his armpit. He lowered his arms, the axe dropped to the ground but before I had time to back off he grabbed my tunic and drew me close. I gagged on the reek of his body and tried to pull loose. He growled, opened his mouth and sank his teeth into my shoulder. Just one inch to the side and he would have opened my neck and drunk my life’s blood. As it was he lifted me clean off the ground before his legs buckled and he toppled over. He pulled me down with him. I landed draped across his chest his jaws still clamped around my shoulder. He shuddered, kicked a few times and lay still. I had to draw my knife and prize his mouth open to free myself from his teeth.

  I was spent. Trembling with fatigue I rolled off the body of the berserker. I pulled at Dragonclaw but the man was no more willing to let her go than he’d been to let me escape from his jaws. I noticed the noise around me had died down. Horns sounded, short, repeated blasts. The fighting ceased. A few still fought to finish their last single combat. Most walked away though many remained on the ground exhausted or injured waiting for someone to help them.

  ‘That’s one hell of a love-bite you’ve got there, Shieldmaiden. Now what have I said about tumbling with other men?’ Ragnar, tired, covered in blood but alive and grinning. He pulled me up and held me. I clung to him sobbing with relief. He laughed softly.

  ‘Thought you’d come and help, did you? Well, it worked. We have the victory. Your uncle will be pleased.’ Someone behind Ragnar shouted. It sounded like a warning. But the fighting was over and I was safe in Ragnar’s embrace. I felt him start. Then a sharp pain as the spear that pierced his heart dug in just below my shoulder.

  We fell together. That’s how I’d always imagined it: dying together on the battlefield. I closed my eyes. Then I opened them again. I was still alive.

  ‘Ragnar,’ I whispered. Then I said it louder. ‘Ragnar!’ Someone removed the spear and Ragnar’s blood mixed with mine. They moved his lifeless body aside and helped me sit up. I looked at the impossible. I opened my mouth to scream but it came out as a whisper.

  ‘Ragnar.’

  I heard others calling out in disbelief and anger.

  ‘He’s dead!’

  ‘No, no, he can’t be.’ I shook my head. Because how could he be alive and laughing one instant and dead the next? I stroked his face. I bent over and kissed his unresponsive lips. Time stopped.

  I came to and it wasn’t a bad dream.

  Strong hands pulled me up. My legs didn’t carry me and I leaned heavily on Orm and Cerdic.

  ‘Stand up Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter,’ said Orm. ‘You must greet the men. Please, they need you.’ I shook my head and moaned:

  ‘Nooo, leave me alone.’

  ‘Sigrid listen. You must speak to them. You must be strong. For Ragnar, for the men, for all of us, please.’ His voice broke. For Ragnar, I thought. It’s too late. Ragnar is dead. I made to kneel by his body again. Orm and Cerdic pulled me back. The pain in my shoulders made me wince. I closed my eyes. I saw Ragnar’s face, not as he looked lying there at my feet but as he looked when we were young; eyes laughing, daring me to embrace life. Yes, he’d want me to be strong. I must try to pull myself together. The effort made me sob like an abandoned child but I managed to straighten up. Ragnar’s hird crowded round me, waiting. Some wiped their eyes. Next to me Cerdic Flatnose sobbed without trying to hide his tears.

  ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, we have fought and feasted with Ragnar Sweinson a long time,’ he said. ‘He was a true leader and chieftain. There’s none of us can take over. None except for you. Will you accept us, will you receive our allegiance?’ I looked around in confusion. There weren’t many of them left. Ragnar had set off from home with about a score of karls and others were to join him on the way. But in front of me I saw no more than nine. Some sat nursing injuries, some stood looking at me. Were they asking me to become their chieftain? But how could I? One of them should step up. I turned to Orm. He shook his head.

  ‘I’m poor and too young. This is not my time.’

  ‘We have talked it over,’ said Cerdic, ‘and those of us who are left have all agreed we trust you to be our leader.’

  This was wrong. The sky should fall down, the earth should split open and bleed. Instead I stood here in front of Ragnar’s hird, stood where he should be standing. I couldn’t hold back a keening. Orm put his hand on my arm.

  ‘Sigrid, as your friend and kinsman I know this is hard for you. But we are cast adrift; we are lost without Ragnar Sweinson. We have formed strong bonds and would stay together but we need a chieftain. A chieftain worthy of replacing him.’

  ‘It should be Kveldulf,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes and when the time is right you will hand over to him, but until then you should be our chieftain.’

  All I wanted was to be left alone with my grief, to be allowed to cry and rage at the unfairness of my loss. But the men kept looking at me. Of course I knew what Ragnar would have wanted, would have expected. I thought of my mother when she stood by my father’s lifeless body, calm and in control. I saw now how that calm had been her tribute to my father’s courage. Somewhere inside me I too must find that strength. In the murmur of the wind I thought I could hear Ragnar’s voice: ‘Come now Shieldmaiden, you know what you have to do.’ I straightened my shoulders and drew a deep breath.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I shall lead you. You shall all join my household and I shall be your chieftain for as long as you want to follow.’ Orm handed me Ragnar’s banner, torn and dirty but with the wolf defiantly baring its teeth. The men cheered and lined up. One by one they offered me their swords and swore allegiance. Orm and Cerdic swore the binding oath to serve me till death. I tried to dissuade them but they would have it so.

  In the gathering darkness I lay on my side, my body curled in on my pain and loss. Cerdic had washed my spear-wound with boiled water and bound it. It was in the fleshy area between the shoulder and the breast. It was no deeper than the teeth-marks from the berserker and it hurt a lot less. It would still impede my ability to use Dragonclaw. A fire burned and I rested on a bed of heather under a shelter made from cloaks my karls had draped over a framework of spears. But all their efforts to make me comfortable were in vain. My body did not matter, pain was beside the point. Ragnar was gone. Nothing could make that right.

  Ansgar and Nanna arrived. They half carried half dragged Unn’s bloodied, lifeless body between them.

  ‘Good thing I knew Ragnar Sweinson’s banner,’ said Ansgar. ‘We found the poor child at least three leagues away.’ I sat up and cried out:

  ‘Oh no, Unn!’ Ansgar shook his head.

  ‘She’s alive,’ he said, ‘but I have never known such a deep sleep. We cannot rouse her. Young Nanna claims that it is the sleep of one possessed after the madness has left. But I don’t believe Unn is possessed. After all, she’s just a girl.’ A couple of the hird sniggered at this but nobody said anything to put Ansgar right.

  ‘Where’s North Wind?’

  ‘Over there,’ said Ansgar and nodded in the direction behind my shelter. ‘Your two stallions would not let us lay a hand on them but when we rode away on the other two they fol
lowed. They must have understood we were looking for you. Remarkable beasts. Not very friendly but very loyal.’

  Ansgar uncovered my spear-wound and both he and Nanna declared it healthy. I pointed out that the bite from the berserker on the opposite shoulder burned and throbbed.

  ‘This is not good,’ said Nanna. ‘Bits of your tunic have got caught in it. I must try to pull them out.’ She opened the little bundle she wore tied to her belt and rummaged round until she found a pair of tweezers. She put the ends into the fire before digging into my wound. I put my sleeve into my mouth and bit hard against the searing pain.

  ‘I’m sorry Mistress Sigrid,’ she whispered. ‘I know I’m hurting you. The men are looking away. You can cry if you need to.’ That was the last I heard before I passed out.

  I woke. It was dark. On my left side the teeth marks felt like someone was hitting me rhythmically with a hammer. I shivered and had a raging thirst. Someone put wood on the fire. I tried to sit up.

  ‘Here, drink,’ said a voice. Blissfully cold water was put to my lips. I drank and looked up.

  ‘Olvir,’ I croaked. He smiled but his face showed that he was worried.

  ‘I heard you had been in the battle. It took me along time to find you. Sigrid, you’re in the grip of a fever. I need herbs and I don’t know where to get any. Ansgar and Nanna have gone to search for them.’

  ‘Ragnar,’ I whispered and immediately choked on my tears. Olvir held me gently. I could see he’d been crying.

  ‘Ragnar was the best foster-father anyone could ever wish for,’ he said. ‘We have put his body in a shallow pit to save him from the foxes and crows. As soon as you’re strong enough we shall have a funeral-ale in his honour.’ I nodded and he helped me lie down again.

  I woke. Ragnar sat next to me. His face was serious, tired and grey. The rings in his mailshirt were clogged up with blood; it had run down his chest soaking the edge of his tunic and his trousers. So much blood. I reached out to touch his face and he was warm. His hand was gentle as he stroked my hair. He looked sad.