‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter,’ he said, ‘if it pleases you I would like to offer you my sword and my oath.’
‘And who might you be?’ I said, thinking that this old warrior just wanted food and a place by the fire. He seemed to read my mind.
‘I am Varg. The name of my father does not matter. I served many kings and chieftains from Norway to Miklagard where I joined the Emperor’s bodyguard. That’s why they call me the Varangian. I can still wield both sword and axe but mainly I know about horses. You have good grazing here. There’s wealth in good management of horses.’
‘Varg the Varangian. Serving a woman is a big step down for you. Would you not rather go raiding with my husband?’
He thought I was making fun of him and straightened his shoulders.
‘I know age has robbed me of much of my former vigour but knowledge has value too.’
‘No, I’m serious. Why would you choose to serve a woman? You could swear the oath to my husband and stay here as his man.’ He bared his teeth in what I supposed was meant to be a smile. It gave me a jolt to see that his front teeth were filed with a couple of grooves in each. This man had been no ordinary warrior. He had been one of the Wulfhednar; ferocious warriors dressed in wolves’ skins, whose howls put fear into the hearts of the bravest of warriors. I had never met one, they tended to die young.
‘Princess Sigrid, I choose to serve the granddaughter of Harald Finehair and the daughter of Kveldulf Arnvidson, as brave a warrior as ever went berserk on a battlefield.’
‘You fought beside my father?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘when we were both young, before we left Norway to each follow the destiny the Norns had woven for us.’
That decided the matter. He bent his knee to me and offered the hilt of his sword. As I touched it and accepted his oath of allegiance I tried not to think of Ragnar’s amusement when I told him about this latest addition to my entourage.
***
The day before Ragnar and the crew set off, we sacrificed to our gods. We had much to ask for: from Thor, a safe voyage and success for Ragnar; from Frey, time to gather the harvest before the bad weather set in; from Odin, luck for me when I presented my claim to my father’s farm at the Thing. We selected a young heifer and I led the household and Ragnar’s crew to the holy grove. The offer-stone stood below an old oak tree. On its branches hung the ragged evidence of previous sacrifices, heads and fleeces of animals given to Odin, Thor, Frey and Freya in return for their protection and benevolence. The carved images of our gods looked dry and neglected. I noted with trepidation that there was little evidence of gifts being added since the last time I led a ceremony here. The gods do not take kindly to being ignored and I was pleased that I had picked out a fine animal to give them.
The heifer was killed with a knife-stab to the heart and collapsed on to the offer-stone. I slit its throat and collected the blood in the silver bowl with the finely worked images of Odin on his eight-legged horse Sleipnir and with his ravens, Hugin and Munin, one on each shoulder. The blood looked almost black against the polished silver. People stood in a circle, chanting and stamping their feet. I put my hand in the bowl and daubed the carved likeness of Odin, the sacred stones and the base of the oak tree with the warm blood. Then it was the turn of the people to dip their fingers into the bowl and smear blood across their faces. While I took the bowl round to everyone they raised their arms and swayed in rhythm to the chanting.
A bunch of sage and henbane smouldered in front of the offer-stone. I knelt and inhaled the smoke. As always I choked and coughed, and then I felt my mind open. The barrier between my world and that of the Æsirs melted away and I was ready to receive a message from Odin. I cut open the heifer’s belly and let its entrails spill out. The air filled with the sickly smell of stomach-churned grass, dung and blood. I crouched down to study the intestines and read what the future held for us. But Odin played with me as the gods often do when they find our concerns trivial. I saw the things I knew would be there: fighting; blood; and gold. I also saw death. Men and a woman, maybe more than one, would depart on a journey but I couldn’t tell who, or whether they would travel in this world or the next. There was no clue as to who would lose their lives or how. I chanted what I could see, the men heard fighting and gold and were happy, the women heard death and journeys and were downcast.
The next morning Ragnar and the crew left on the river-boats. They headed north and then west to the sea where the drakken-ship Storm Wolf was moored. I stood surrounded by my family, servants and thralls. We watched the boats pass Hause Point and disappear out of sight. I blinked away my tears. Many of the women cried but, as mistress of the household, it was my duty to stay strong and reassuring. I straightened my shoulders, smiled and kept my voice steady as I told everyone to get back to work. The memory of our lovemaking during the last few days would have to sustain me for the months Ragnar would be gone. I felt there had already been too many farewells for me and Ragnar, too much time spent apart, but the Norns weave our futures, not to please us humans but to amuse the gods.
***
When I left Buttermere for Norway, three men swore me allegiance and followed me: Thorfinn, a warrior who had sailed many seas and fought many battles, his stepson Anlaf, and Anlaf’s friend Ulf. Those two had been young, eager for adventure but untried in battle. Thorfinn and Anlaf returned safe with me and were back with their family at Rannerdale Farm but Ulf died fighting at Nidaros. It was now three full weeks since I had returned to Buttermere and I could no longer postpone a visit to Ulf’s parents at Low Kid Farm. I summoned Anlaf and Thorfinn to accompany me on the journey. As usual, Olvir, my ten-year-old orphaned nephew and fostring, took it for granted that he was to come as well.
***
A short ride took us across the low-lying land at the foot of Grasmoor. It was empty, stark land. I lifted my eyes to the craggy scree slopes which seemed to rise straight up towards the clouds.
‘Are there giants up there?’ said Olvir.
Thorfinn nodded.
‘Men who have climbed those slopes in search of lost sheep say unearthly creatures hide in the mists,’ he said. ‘It’s a place better avoided.’
‘Ulf and I used to dare each other to go there,’ said Anlaf. ‘We climbed up the rocks by the gill above their farm.’ His voice broke and we rode in silence. I turned to Thorfinn. I had to ask the question that had preyed on my mind ever since I loaded Ulf’s dead body onto a horse and led it from the battlefield.
‘Will his parents blame me?’
He looked surprised.
‘No, why should they? The boy chose to offer his sword to you. He died with honour in battle. He’s feasting in Odin’s great hall. They will be proud.’
I thought how easy it was for men; the warrior leaves, fights, dies. As long as he dies sword in hand, he is carried in glory to Valhalla where he’ll spend the rest of time fighting and feasting at the table of Odin until the sound of the horn that calls all warriors dead and alive to the final battle of Ragnarok. But when I lit the funeral pyre with Ulf’s body on it, I was haunted by images of my own sons and I marvelled at the strength of mothers who sent their children onto the battlefield never knowing whether they would see them again, just as my own mother blessed me when I picked up my weapons to help defend King Hakon.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of guard-dogs alerting the family to our arrival. The small farmstead nestled close to Low Kid Crag. I counted only six cows and three horses in the meadow. But the fields were well tended and the yard was swept. Thorfinn blew the horn and we rode up to the gate where Ulf’s father met us.
‘Friend,’ I said, ‘it is a sad occasion for my visit.’ I offered my hand but he took my lower arm in a firm grip and we greeted each other like warriors.
‘My son’s chieftain is always welcome in my house. Come inside for some ale, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter.’ In the doorway, he hesitated. ‘Ulf was our only son. My wife misses him sorely.’ Tears gathered in his
eyes and he turned and entered the longhouse. Inside there was space for animals separated from the family’s living area by a wattle screen.
Ulf’s mother left her work at the loom and bent her knee to me.
‘Princess Sigrid,’ she whispered. I put my hands on her shoulders and raised her.
‘I’m no princess. My father was of humble birth and my mother’s family disowned her when she ran away with him.’
‘You’re still the granddaughter of the great King Harald Finehair and the niece of King Hakon the Good and you do us an honour to come here.’
I noticed the scars from her nails scratching her cheeks and the knife-cuts on her arms. She had done her grieving in traditional Norse manner. I said what I had rehearsed.
‘Your son fought bravely by my side, he watched my back and he saved my life. He was young but accomplished in the use of weapons. His courage was second to none in the battle of Nidaros, and King Hakon and his people were grateful and praised him.’
She wiped her tears and smiled, proud and sad at the same time.
We were seated and served with ale and bread. Two young women, Ulf’s elder sister and his twin, brought fresh meat for the spit while two old servants were sent to fetch mushrooms and apples. I tried to find things to say that would comfort the family but words wouldn’t come. Thorfinn came to my aid.
‘We all miss Ulf. He lived the life of a good man and a brave warrior.’
Ulf’s twin sister Ylva leaned forward and fixed me with an intense gaze.
‘Tell us about the battle. Did he fight well?’
‘He fought with great bravery and slew ...’ I hesitated, ‘many enemies, at least fi ... ten, yes, he killed at least that number.’ I caught Olvir’s eye. His look reminded me of all the times I had told him not to exaggerate the tales of my deeds on the battlefield. But Ylva’s face told me the lie had been worth it. ‘The Valkyries came for him,’ I continued. ‘He’s in Valhalla with your ancestors and my father.’ I beckoned to Anlaf to fetch the leather sleep-bag Ulf had used in Norway. I put it on the table and unrolled it.
‘I have brought back your son’s sword Bloodseeker and his helmet.’ The father nodded. His hands trembled as he drew the sword from its simple scabbard. There was dried blood on the edge. The mother hugged the elder daughter and they began rocking and keening together. Ylva removed her headdress and let her long mane of curly red hair fall over her shoulders. She reached out and picked up Ulf’s helmet.
‘No!’ her father half-rose from his seat but the girl didn’t look at him. She clasped the helmet to her chest and used a tress of her hair to polish it. Her father sat back with a sigh.
‘I gave that helmet to my son,’ he said, ‘as my father gave it to me when I first went to battle as a young man. He took it from the head of a Frankish noble that he killed during a raid on Rouen. For sure, nobody in my family could have afforded a helmet like that unless it were gained in battle.’
We watched in silence as Ylva smoothed her flame-coloured hair over the surface of the finely worked metal. The helmet glittered in the firelight. The crown was worked in segments riveted together, the nose-guard descended from eyebrows spreading like wings across the forehead. It had been lovingly maintained and I remembered Ulf anxiously inspecting it for dents and scratches after sword practice.
I spread out Ulf’s share of the treasure King Hakon had given me; drinking horns, gold and silver trinkets and coins. I added a pouch of silver as compensation from me for the family’s loss. In the bottom of the sack I found the thin gold armlet I had given Ulf to bind him to me as my karl. I picked it up and, unsure what to do, turned it over in my hand. Ylva stood up and put Ulf’s helmet on her head.
Then she knelt to me and said, in a clear voice, ‘Give me the armlet, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, and let me serve you as my brother did. He taught me to fight and I have a heart as brave and true as his, and even your own.’ Her face flushed and her hazel eyes held mine. She was tall and looked strong, with sinews and muscles showing on her arms. My instinct was to accept her but I could not ignore her mother’s terrified scream.
‘Daughter, no, no, no!’
‘Ylva!’ her father spoke with force. ‘Your pride will be your undoing. How dare you challenge the gods and compare yourself to a warrior princess. Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, I beg you to overlook the girl’s rashness. She has always been contrary and self-willed.’
‘I was contrary and self-willed myself once. I like your daughter but I will not take her away from you against your wishes. I shall keep the armlet for now.’ The girl bit her lip. Her father reached for the helmet.
‘Father, please let me keep the helmet. Who else can you give it to?’
‘Grandchildren, grandsons.’
‘When you have a grandson, I shall let him have it but let me keep it until then.’ Her father didn’t reply but he lowered his arm and sat down. His wife stopped rocking and leaned towards him.
‘You spoil that girl, you always have.’
‘Be quiet, wife.’ He sounded tired and sad. He told his elder daughter to serve more ale and we spent some more time talking about his son and the time we’d spent in Norway.
A bed was made up for me, close to the hearth. My entourage wrapped themselves in blankets and fleeces and slept on the rush-covered floor.
The next morning we took our leave. A last horn of ale was passed round in farewell. As Ylva handed it to me she said, without bothering to lower her voice, ‘A warrior princess needs women warriors around her.’
I knew she spoke true and I knew I had not seen the last of Ylva Flamehair of Low Kid Farm.
***
I left Thorfinn and Anlaf at Rannerdale and rode the last stretch home with just Olvir for company. When we arrived, Beorn the Lame came at a limping run from the house to meet me at the gate. His cap fell off in the rush and the rain soaked his thin grey hair. My eldest son Kveldulf, four years old and impatient, overtook him.
‘Mor, Mor! Grandmother Aisgerd is cursed. Her face is clawed by the wood-elves. Like this.’ He twisted his mouth in a lopsided grimace. Beorn caught up with him.
‘Shush, child, or they’ll get you too. You return to bad tidings, Sigrid.’ He helped me dismount and led the way to the hall.
Aisgerd sat in the high seat, slumped with one arm hanging useless by her side. Kirsten knelt next to her, chanting in a low, monotone voice. She cast her rune-sticks and picked them up one at a time. I counted nine of them, one for each of Odin’s healing herbs. I knelt opposite Kirsten and held Aisgerd’s limp hand. She was as dear to me as my own kin. She had taken me in when I was homeless and bereft of friends and family. She treated me as a daughter and never asked for anything in return. I could not accept that she had brought this terrible curse on herself. Of course I had seen the neglected offer-grove. If sacrifices were neglected, the gods were angered. I had seen the yew tree by the gable had lost a couple of branches. The family fylgia may have been offended by the damage. Elves from the woods or the hills could have caused this terrible injury out of spite or in plain mischief.
Aisgerd was carried to her bed. Kirsten placed a rune-stick under her bolster and we closed the hangings round her to keep the magic in.
‘Will she recover?’ I asked Kirsten.
‘I’ve never heard of anyone who did.’
‘But Ragnar is gone. Will I be expected to ... the Leap ... shall I have to ... to send her on her way?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not like with men who have to die sword in hand. A straw death is no disgrace for a woman and you are wealthy enough to keep her and feed her. So let’s not talk of the Leap, not yet. I shall prepare a poultice and a brew. We must wait and see.’
‘My children. What about Kveldulf and Harald? Harald’s just a baby. Will they be safe from this?’ Kirsten nodded and sent for the boys. She touched their amulets and added fennel and chervil to the small leather pouches they wore around their necks.
‘Where’s Olvir?’
‘
I sent him to gather some more herbs. He’s a great help, Sigrid.’
I nodded. In Norway, Olvir had for a time been in hiding with Kirsten and her grandmother and had taken an interest in their knowledge of healing. He arrived, out of breath, with bunches of herbs. I left him and Kirsten discussing how best to protect the household from the evil force that had taken hold over Aisgerd.
***
As the harvest month progressed, no further disasters befell the household and we got used to the routine of feeding and caring for Aisgerd. She spent her days slumped in the high seat. Her speech was too slurred for anyone to understand but her pleasure in her two grandsons was obvious. My concern with my mother-in-law had made me forget that Thora was nearing her confinement and it took me by surprise.
Again it was Beorn the Lame who brought the news but this time his face creased into a big smile as he told me.
‘Young Thora is thinking her time has come,’ he said. ‘She’s with Kirsten in the sauna.’ Lothar had joined Ragnar’s raiding-party and, as I went to join my sister-in-law and my servant-girl, I thought to myself that it seemed the fate of the women in this family to give birth when their men were away.
Thora was made for childbirth. Her wide hips offered little resistance and a boy was born before the sauna was properly warm. With no father present, I looked the child over and noted that he was whole and hearty. Kirsten washed him and gave him to Thora. He latched on to her breast. Another hungry little warrior, I thought – that too must run in the family.
‘I never needed to give her anything to help with the pain, it was so quick.’ Kirsten sounded disappointed. I couldn’t help laughing at her. It made her blush and twist the ends of her long blonde plaits together on her thin chest.
The baby fell asleep and I held him while Kirsten washed Thora. The small body nestled in the crook of my arm, tiny fingers closed on one of mine. It is impossible not to smile when you hold a baby, but mine was a smile tinged with sadness, as I thought of the baby daughter I lost during the storm on the North Sea. Kirsten knew what I was thinking and stroked my cheek. She packed her little bag of herbs and healing runes and I sent her to fetch Beorn.
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