Honour is All

by Marianne Whiting

  ‘You have to do this,’ he said.

  ‘But I don’t want to. I want to be with you.’

  ‘Not yet, Shieldmaiden. That spear was aimed at you.

  It was guided by an evil force. The sorceress wanted your life. The Valkyries put me there as your shield. Our son is in danger. You must find him. Now live well, fight well, my Love.’ He stood and took a step into the mist. I cried for him to stay. My voice echoed in the empty abyss of my despair.

  ‘Sigrid, Sigrid you’re dreaming. Wake up. You must try to be still or the wounds will open up again.’ Cold water on my forehead. Someone holding me down. Darkness.

  ‘You are your father’s daughter. You chose his life not mine. Now you must shoulder the responsibility. You have the strength to do that because you are my daughter too.’

  ‘Mother? Oh Mother!’ I called her but her face faded from my view. She had smiled though. I was sure of it, she had smiled.

  Voices. Whispers. Hurried instructions. A vile taste in my mouth.

  ‘Swallow Sigrid, this will lift the fever. Drink. Oh please, try.’ Was that Olvir? I coughed as the liquid went down the wrong way. ‘Sigrid please, for the children. You must get back to Thorstein, to Gudrun and Harald.’

  Kveldulf, I thought. I must find him. I must save him from Gunnhild. And I must tell him that I accept his choice as my mother accepted mine. I opened my mouth and drank.

  More voices. Different ones to before. Oh, I recognised these. I closed my eyes. These were not men I wished to speak with.

  ‘She’s my niece, she should be cared for in comfort. Have her brought to my camp.’

  ‘Your Royal Highness, your niece is not well enough to be moved. We can care for her here. Thanks to the herbs the Archbishop procured for us she’s improving but a move would kill her.’ Olvir always did have a way with words, I thought and kept my eyes closed. The last place I needed to be was with my uncle. The Archbishop rumbled something in Latin. Then he said:

  ‘As soon as she can be moved we shall arrange for a funeral mass to be held for Ragnar Sweinson.’ So then I knew. I had to get well quickly. I had to bury Ragnar before the Archbishop could get his hands on him. I heard horses moving away and opened my eyes. Olvir was ready with the foul mixture and this time I drank it greedily.

  The weather was warm for the time of year and the air was heavy with the stench of bodies. Foxes, crows and other eaters of the dead were feasting on the flesh of brave warriors who deserved better. I had responsibilities not just to myself and my family.

  ‘Cerdic, what has been done for my fallen hirdsmen? I should have held a funeral ale for them.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. The battlefield is lined with grave-mounds and the nights have been lit by many funeral pyres. We have done what’s right to those we could find.’

  ‘I thank you for that.’ Those you could find, I thought, that means those you could still recognise. I closed my eyes to hold back the tears as I remembered the cheerful and the quick tempered, the morose and the jokers. Many of them had helped my warrior women and my sons improve their swordskills. They had helped with harvests and slaughter. They had filled my hall with stories and bawdy songs. Cerdic patted my hand.

  ‘Ragnar has some of his hird with him still. They all died as they would have chosen, with honour.’

  Eirik and Wulfstan had established a court of sorts in a small village. Jarls and chieftains had joined them there. On the battlefield the smoke from hastily built funeral pyres drifted off. Now the camp-followers went and the looters, satisfied there were no more pickings, left the remains of those not important enough to warrant a burial to the foxes and the crows. Only then did we feel safe.

  I would have wanted Ragnar’s funeral rites to be so very different to what I was forced to accept. But I had no choice if I wanted to save him from a Christian burial. Six of the men carried Ragnar’s body on two interlinked shields. Olvir was one of them. Orm carried the wolf banner in front. I had been lifted onto North Wind and Unn led him by the bridle. The rest walked behind us. In the seclusion of a small grove two of the men had built a funeral pyre. When they laid my Ragnar on it I felt like my heart was torn from my breast and I could not hold back the scream that had grown inside me. It burst from me in a torrent of rage, despair and grief. Nobody tried to calm me. When I ran out of breath I slumped in the saddle and Olvir helped me dismount. One by one the men paid their respects to Ragnar. Some made the sign of the cross, others the sign to invoke Odin. Ansgar and Nanna prayed. I couldn’t be bothered to stop them and anyway how could it hurt?

  I put the torch to the wood. Flames leapt from the sides of the pyre and smoke rose to envelop Ragnar’s shape before rising and carrying him through the canopy to the grey skies. We stayed all night. Olvir and Unn sat with me and the others took it in turns to bring food and even a small skin of sour wine. The men drank toasts and told the stories of Ragnar’s courage. Those who were whole and could walk formed a circle and, moving to a slow rhythm, chanted his praise. It was not the lavish funeral of a great chieftain and mighty warrior but I felt Ragnar would approve.

  It took another two days before the ashes were cool enough to be gathered in a clay pot. Olvir had sent Ansgar away under the pretext that we needed more herbs. I allowed Nanna to stay. She was a Christian but used to our traditional ways. My wounds inflicted almost unbearable pain but I managed to carry Ragnar’s ashes to the grave the men had dug. It was at least eight ells long and wide and the depth was far greater than needed. I understood why when Orm led Ragnar’s horse down into the pit. He looked at me and I nodded. Of course Ragnar would need his horse. The large stallion was stunned and his neck opened. We didn’t collect the blood. This was no offering, the horse would need its blood on the other side. I set the urn at the head of the grave and arranged Ragnar’s shield and helmet, the fine saddle and bridle next to it. I unsheathed Bearkiller and tried to hold her high. My shoulders refused to work and Olvir stood next to me holding the sword as I chanted:

  ‘Ragnar Sweinson,

  Ragnar Nithingsbane to Norwegian men of Nidaros,

  The passing of many moons measured the years

  Bearkiller boldly slew for Brave Ragnar

  Time for your son to be trusted with the task

  To fight for homeland, family and farm

  To raise the banner of right and to risk all – for honour.’

  Then I put Bearkiller back into its fleece-lined bed. I put Ragnar’s second sword on top of the shield. It was as good a blade with a hilt inlaid in silver and a red stone on the pyramid-shaped pommel. It was not as old as Bearkiller, which Ragnar had wielded in Norway and which Kveldulf had admired as a child. I felt that Ragnar would want Kveldulf to have Bearkiller. The sword had not yet completed its work in this world. The men filled in the grave and sprinkled the last of the wine on it.

  I slept a dreamless sleep, helped by Olvir’s herbs. When I woke it was almost evening again. My gaze fell on Bearkiller. I must find my eldest son. I had to give him his inheritance and my blessing for his marriage to the daughter of my arch-enemy.

  ‘I don’t know where Kveldulf is, Sigrid,’ said Olvir. ‘If Nanna is right and he has joined Jarl Arnkeld, he must have been here. The Jarl took part in the battle. He is a supporter of King Eirik. Maybe they’re with him now.’

  ‘So we find Eirik. Are you free to come with me?’

  ‘I have Wulfstan’s leave to stay with you until you’re recovered but then he’ll be expecting me.’

  ‘Are you again his scout?’

  ‘Scribe, scout, spy, part of his household. We have continued our game of hnefatafel as well. It seems there’s nobody else capable of challenging him as hard as I do.’ He laughed and I felt soothed by his familiar presence.

  ‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘that we were here at the same time without knowing.’

  ‘There’s one who knew. Did you notice the Peregrine falcon among the gathering carrion birds?’ His smile died.

/>   ‘Are you sure she’s here? Maybe it’s not wise for you to go to Eirik in that case.’ I remembered when Gunnhild left Becklund how she had raised her fist and cursed me and my children.

  ‘I have to,’ I said. ‘I must find Kveldulf before she gets her claws into him.’

  I decided to approach King Eirik in style. He and Wulfstan would know by now that I had a hird. There was nothing but humiliation in trying to conceal anything only to be found out. I rode with Olvir and Unn next to me and Ansgar and Nanna behind us. Orm rode in front carrying Ragnar’s banner which was now mine. Cerdic led the men and behind them followed the gaggle of thralls and women who move with armies everywhere. The wolf banner fluttered in the breeze and we entered the royal camp unchallenged. Ansgar took Nanna to shelter in the small, half-ruined church. I hoped she would be safe, it was the best I could do for her.

  Eirik had taken up residence in the only hall in the village. He and Wulfstan sat on tall chairs on a podium surrounded by the most important of the Jarls. The farmer, reduced to a servant in his own home, brought them ale and bread. Warriors in full armour lined the walls. I looked along the rows of men for Kveldulf. He wasn’t there. Wulfstan looked careworn. I reflected he was getting on in age and had perhaps found the last few months a strain. I couldn’t stop myself looking for signs of Gudrun’s presence.

  ‘That’s Arnkeld,’ whispered Olvir. ‘The banner with a raven’s head. His men will be outside keeping guard.’

  Eirik was in deep conversation with a couple of the Jarls and didn’t seem to notice us but the Archbishop waved us towards him. He may not have looked in full vigour but there was nothing wrong with his voice as he called out:

  ‘Olvir, welcome back. I have need of you.’ Olvir bent his knee and kissed the proffered ring. I knelt too but, as always, ignored the ring.

  ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, I see you carry two swords and a banner that I recognise with sadness. Ragnar Sweinson was a great warrior and he played a heroic part in our victory. He deserves a good funeral mass. I trust you have brought his body that I can carry out the holy rites.’

  ‘My husband’s body was not in a good state, your Grace. We buried him before coming here.’ He knew, of course, that I lied. I steeled myself for the wrath I expected him to pour over me. But he didn’t. He just sighed.

  ‘A mass for his immortal soul to ease its path through purgatory. Yes, that will have to do. Perhaps at Ripon. Yes, I feel I should return there now. Ansgar can arrange the necessary. From there I shall go to King Aedred and negotiate a peace for the Kingdom of Jorvik and its new King.’ I didn’t like the way he looked at me – like he had plans for me too.

  Eirik received my obeisance with his usual lack of interest. I realised Gunnhild must have left or I would not have got away so easily. He studied my hird and obviously realised that they were not in a fit state for any further action.

  ‘Your husband’s men may return to their homes for now. I shall summon them when I next muster an army.’ I swallowed my comment that the hird would go nowhere without me.

  ‘I would ask a favour of you Uncle,’ I said. He started and looked uncomfortable. I realised that he thought I wanted money. That was good. He’d be pleased that I didn’t and that would make him more helpful. ‘My son, Kveldulf, is with one of your Jarls. I would like him to return home with me and take up his inheritance.’ I was right. Eirik smiled and in an instant procured Kveldulf’s release from his oath to Jarl Arnkeld. I couldn’t believe how easy it had been.

  My hird kept a respectful distance as I waited for Kveldulf outside the church. It stood in a grove with enough ancient oaks to make me feel a holy place had been appropriated by the new religion. It felt otherworldly but not in a bad way. It felt like a place where the new and old gods had come to an agreement and accepted each other’s presence. A place where the dead belonging to Odin, Thor and Frey, and to gods older than them, rested peacefully next to the dead belonging to the Christ God. I sat down on a moss-covered stone. Next to me a few early flowers on bilberry plants glowed pink and clusters of cowslips tried to remind me that spring had arrived.

  Daylight was no more than a memory resting in the cloudy skies. Everything was stillness. Bearkiller lay across my lap. My finger traced the pattern in the silver decorations on the sheath. After a while Kveldulf arrived. When he saw Bearkiller he went pale and his eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Far,’ he whispered. I swallowed but found myself without voice. And what was there to say that he hadn’t understood? My hands shook when I gave the mighty sword to my son. He took it and drew Bearkiller from its sheath. He looked at it for a long while then he held the blade high and said in a strong voice:

  ‘I pray to Odin and Thor for the courage to wield my father’s sword with the honour it deserves.’

  ‘Oh no, oh dear.’ Brother Ansgar came up to us. ‘Your son is as stubborn in his heathendom as you are, Sigrid. And I thought that since young Nanna is a follower of the True Religion he would be too.’

  ‘Nanna?’ said Kveldulf.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She came with me. We shall all go home together. Jarl Arnkeld has released you from your oath. There’s much to tell and we have a long journey.’

  ‘Oh Mor,’ said Kveldulf and swept me into a warm embrace.

  I let Ansgar take Kveldulf to find Nanna. Somehow I couldn’t watch their reunion. I accepted Kveldulf’s right to choose, maybe I was even reconciled to their marriage but I couldn’t stay to watch them meet. I walked slowly away from the church, its ruined walls a symbol of my life. Life without Ragnar, how was that possible?

  Ansgar told the Archbishop about Kveldulf and Nanna. I’d rather he hadn’t because the result was only too predictable.

  ‘A wedding, how charming,’ he said. ‘I shall personally join the two young people in holy matrimony.’ My shoulders were on fire, my head ached, I was too tired to object. Then I remembered that Ragnar and I had been forced to undergo a Christian wedding ceremony in Norway. It hadn’t done us any harm and later, back in Cumbria, we celebrated a proper bride ale as well.

  The church was in ruins but the crypt was still intact and that’s where my son was married to the daughter of the man who had done his best to kill us both. It was, of course, an honour to have the Archbishop perform the ceremony. He was assisted by Ansgar and a couple of other clerics who seemed as confused as I was. Kveldulf wore the torn, bloodied jerkin he’d worn in the battle. Nanna was a bride in rags, her dress dirty and her hair covered by a crumpled cloth. The rest of the wedding party were no better attired apart from the Archbishop who had changed out of his armour and donned his vestments. His voice filled every crevice under the low, whitewashed vaults. He looked genuinely pleased. Ansgar beamed. Kveldulf grinned. Nanna smiled but shook like an aspen leaf in the wind and her face was wet with tears. I stood like a corpse, propped up by Olvir and Unn.

  I sat through the wedding feast arranged by Wulfstan. Eirik turned up. Olvir left his seat and Eirik sat next to me. It was all like an evil dream. My beaker was filled with wine that I couldn’t drink. My platter was loaded with roast venison and I couldn’t touch it. I was grateful that Eirik’s customary rudeness of ignoring me meant that I was excused conversation. Olvir stood behind me and his warmth held me up through the evening.

  Eirik left early and then I could leave too without giving rise to comment. I got up and reached for Olvir to support me.

  ‘Mor,’ Kveldulf rose and came towards me with open arms. His kiss smelled of wine. ‘Mor, thank you.’

  ‘Mistress,’ Nanna kneeled and kissed my hand.

  ‘You can call her Mor now,’ said Kveldulf. I reeled.

  How could I suffer this? The child of Kjeld Gunnarson was to call me the name my own children used. No! Olvir took charge before I had time to say anything.

  ‘May you have a long and happy life together.’ Kveldulf laughed and hugged him. Nanna blushing, accepted a peck on the cheek. I felt sick to my stomach. When I looked up I saw Wulfstan’s
eyes on me. I turned and left through the narrow stairs that led to the cool air under the merciless sky.

  Chapter 7

  The King of All England

  We left the next morning. Wulfstan and his hird led the way. I followed with Ragnar’s men; it felt strange to even think of them as my hird. Wulfstan didn’t comment. Ragnar’s hird had been part of his retinue but he was never going to invite me to take Ragnar’s place so I thought my men would be safe from him a well. It was not unusual for a hird that had lost its chieftain to stay together under a new leader but my followers were a mere rump of Ragnar’s hird. Bereaved, exhausted and demoralised, the few remaining warriors had no wish other than to withdraw to a safe place to lick their wounds. Most of them had sustained injuries. Kirsten would have her hands full. I wasn’t even sure they’d all make it home to Becklund.

  We reached Ripon and Wulfstan ordered a mass for Ragnar’s soul. I was content that Ragnar had been carried to Odin’s hall and was feasting there with my father and his, with Varg and Thorfinn and all the brave warriors that had gone before them. Any amount of Wulfstan’s prayers and chants couldn’t change that. So I breathed the incense, listened to the singing and the praying. I knelt and I even made the sign of the cross, all as expected of me. And all the time I felt secure in the knowledge that it meant nothing. Ragnar was safe.

  Much as I wanted to hurry home to my children I had to accept that we were not fit to travel. The ride to Ripon had exhausted the wounded, myself included. My shoulder burned and throbbed and, although the spear-wound was healing, I still didn’t have the full use of my right arm. The Archbishop offered us shelter in his lodge and I accepted. Olvir made free with the monastery herb garden. I took everything he brought; ointments, washes and draughts of mixtures which seemed to get ever more foul-tasting. But they worked and I felt my strength returning by the day. When we had been there a week most of the men were getting restless. Even the most seriously wounded, a wiry little Dane with a broken leg and a deep cut across his arm, declared that he was able to ride. I was contemplating setting off for home when: