Thora stood by the offer stone. Her baby lay on top. She chanted quietly to herself and with a ceremonial dagger she made the holy signs in preparation for a sacrifice. Her arms and chest were cut and her shift hung in blood-soaked rags. Gyda called out to her but she didn’t even look in our direction. Her mind was in a different place, captured and enslaved by the evil forces of Niflhel. I threw the torch to Olvir and lunged. I got to her just as the mill-sharpened point reached the baby and pierced the white skin to draw the first drops of blood. I wrenched the knife from her hand and wrestled her to the ground. She was taken by surprise but when she came to she fought me with the desperate strength of the moonstruck.
I called out, ‘Thora, sister!’
Gasping with the effort of the struggle she shouted, ‘Leave me ... foul ... fiend!’
‘Thora, it’s me, Sigrid!’
‘Noooo ...’
Her howl was drawn out like that of the winter wolf. I had to sit astride her and pin her arms to the ground. Olvir tried to hold her legs. She kicked out and he dropped the torch. On the dusty track it glowed for a while then went out. I called out to Gyda and between the three of us we struggled with Thora’s thrashing body. Her incoherent screams about the vengeance of her mother’s restless fetch made the hairs on the back of my head stand on end. It felt like someone, something was there in the darkness watching and waiting. The evil force that gave strength and endurance to Thora lasted through the darkness. From time to time we heard the pitiful cry of the infant but without being able to go to him. It was scant comfort to know that if he cried he was alive. Three times we thought Thora was back with us and we relaxed our hold but her madness returned and she fought us anew. I despaired many times that night and Gyda cried bitter tears for the sister who no longer knew her.
***
With the first light, Thora changed. Her body went slack, she closed her eyes and her breathing became regular.
‘Is she asleep?’ whispered Gyda. We eased our holds on her limbs. She didn’t move. I nodded to Gyda and she crawled over to where she’d left the baby on a patch of dry grass. She blew on his face and he made a weak mewling sound.
‘He’s so cold,’ she said. ‘We must get him back to the farm. Shall we wake Thora? Dare we?’
I had remained straddling Thora’s body, ready to hold her down again. But, with daylight, everything felt different. I spoke softly to her. She opened her eyes but stayed still. I moved off her, slowly and on my guard. But she offered no resistance when I picked up her arm and raised her to a sitting position. She looked around her. Gyda smiled and held out the baby towards her but Thora ignored them. Her gaze wandered round the grove as if searching. Olvir shuddered when her eyes, for a brief moment, met his. She took no notice of him. He might as well not have been there. I reached out and stroked her hair.
‘Thora, sister, we must go back to the farm. It’s time to go home.’ My hand shook and it was clear to me that the three of us were too exhausted to carry her so I sent Olvir to fetch Beorn.
He arrived moments later, running, his lined face betraying his anguish. He picked up Thora and, mumbling soothing words in her ear, carried her back to the farm.
‘This is a bad thing that has happened,’ he said to me later. ‘An unhappy grave-ale will let evil into our lives.’
‘But Aisgerd loved us. She wouldn’t do anything to harm her people at Buttermere.’
‘Not the mistress, no, but forces that enter from the other side, if the wall between their world and ours remains breached for too long. Aisgerd couldn’t pass through without the care of her daughter and now ...’
His words made me go cold and I had to fight off the impulse to look over my shoulder.
‘There are things that can be done, Beorn. Thora needs rest and food and then I shall speak to Kirsten. Her grandmother was skilled in magic. I’m sure she’ll have passed her knowledge on.’
We left it at that, although, from then on, Beorn could often be seen shaking his head as he went about his work. I reassured myself that Thora would improve in time. The gathering at the Thing was close; the journey and the change would do her good. Meanwhile the thrall woman would feed the baby I still hesitated to call by the name his mother had chosen for him.
PART TWO
“Let no one stir on the road a step without the weapons of war; for unsure is the knowing when need of a spear shall arise on the way”
Havamal
October 940
The stallion Nightrunner was new to the farm. He arrived a few days after the raiding-party left, a gift to me from Ragnar. A horse-trader brought him. The man seemed relieved to hand him over.
‘He’s more than a handful, this one,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what your husband thinks he’s going to do with the brute. But he told me to bring it to you, so here you are.’ Then he rode off.
The black stallion was not of the local breed which produces small, sturdy horses, brown, bay or piebald. This one was tall with a small head and long nervous legs. Varg bared his filed teeth in a grin.
‘A horse worthy of a chieftain, Princess Sigrid.’
‘Don’t call me that, Varg.’
I didn’t know why I kept telling him; he never took any notice, least of all now when he was absorbed in Nightrunner. He whispered softly to the horse and stroked its glossy flank. He checked the teeth and lifted the hooves one by one for inspection.
‘I saw horses like this in Miklagard. Skittish and aggressive they are. Were you planning to use him for yourself?’
‘I think that’s what Ragnar intended when he sent it.’
I was no expert horsewoman but his question stung me. I reached for the bridle. Nightrunner shied and tried to rear. Varg took the rein from me and spoke to the horse in a low, soothing voice. Then he turned to me and his voice indicated that he was now taking charge.
‘He’ll need a few days to get used to being here. Then I shall make you the best rider in Cumbria.’
I had to swallow my pride and allow Varg to teach me, much in the same way that my father had taught me to use a sword many years ago although, to give him his due, Varg was considerably more respectful. The best rider in Cumbria would be an exaggeration but, when the time came for me to travel with my household to the Thing, I was able to mount Nightrunner with confidence for the long ride to Little Langdale.
The day before we left, I went alone to the sacred copse. I sacrificed a hen and cast the holy runes. In the runes I read the name of my first husband, Hauk. It gave me a turn. I had not thought about him in years. Why was his name returning to haunt me now? I admit I didn’t treat him well. I was pressured into the marriage but I did agree to it, I was not forced. He loved me truly and he deserved better, even after his love turned to hate. But why did the gods choose to remind me of him now? I knelt in front of the offer-stone, collected the wooden tablets and cast them on the ground again. This time there was no message – none that I could read, anyway. I tried once more without success. I had delayed reading the innards of the hen. The blood was setting and the movements in the entrails that make the message had ceased. The gods had spoken and would say no more.
My household was joined by the families from Rannerdale and Low Kid Farm and we were a company of thirty-two, including children, of which there were many since Hrodney brought her five by her first husband and her little girl by Thorfinn. Some of the servants and thralls accompanying us also had children; among them was Olvir’s friend Bjarne, a sturdy, bright boy of twelve. It was a high-spirited journey with much laughter and excited talk about the competitions and feasting ahead. Ylva Flamehair, like me and some of the other women, rode in breeches and carried weapons. Her lack of finery didn’t put the young men off. Some of them jostled to ride next to her.
‘Ylva, will you come and cheer me on in the swordplay?’ said one of Hrodney’s sons.
‘I’ll most likely be fighting you, Skuli.’
‘If you marry me, we can fight all day.’
�
��You like to live dangerously, do you?’
‘I’d like a good wrestling-match with you, Ylva, in the quiet of our own home, ending up in ... ouuuch!’
Not all the banter among the youngsters was bawdy. Ylva’s sister and Hrodney’s three daughters wore their finest clothes and would stay on their horses until someone helped them dismount. If a father or brother offered to help, the girls hissed at them to go away.
‘But I only want to help,’ said Thorfinn when his stepdaughter made her horse move away from him. Thorfinn winked at Olvir who giggled and asked the scowling girl if she’d like him to help her.
‘Will you two stop teasing the wench,’ said Hrodney and shooed them away to allow a blushing youngster to lift the girl from her mount.
I tried to join in with the laughter and high spirits but my smile was forced and I found no retorts to the banter. I kept thinking of Kjeld Gunnarson, the brother of my first husband, the man who took Becklund from me and caused my exclusion from the community of the Cumbrian Norse. Three years ago he revealed to the Lawmen that Kveldulf was a bastard and had no right to inherit anything from my husband Hauk. He also persuaded the Lawmen that I couldn’t inherit my father’s farm, Becklund, because my father was an outlaw and, as such, had no right of property. Kjeld would be at the Thing. He held me responsible for the death of his brother and, with his large following to lend support, he was a formidable enemy. I missed Ragnar, who never allowed anything to worry him and whose carefree laughter would have strengthened my courage. I kept making sure the writ from King Hakon was secure in the pouch attached to my belt.
It was slow going with packhorses carrying food and gifts, an ox and three sheep brought along for meat. I wasn’t sure I would get visitors but it wouldn’t do to serve up meagre fare should anyone come to my booth. We travelled for two days before we arrived at the Thing-mound. We could hear the gathering long before we saw anyone. Through the distant murmur of the multitude rose ripples of laughter and shouts of greeting and encouragement. Surrounding the human voices like an echo were the sounds of dogs, cattle, sheep and horses. As we came close, the smoke from cooking-fires mingled with the damp evening air and we breathed in the aroma of burning wood and roasting meat. Then we rode down from the fell into the valley, to be caught up in the buzz of expectation and excitement.
I rode at the head of my household. I had changed from breeches and wore a blue dress of finest wool with rich embroideries around the sleeves and hem. My cloak was trimmed with fur and held together by a brooch in the shape of a dragon’s head. I flicked it back to show the golden torc around my neck. It was unusual for a woman to ride a stallion and it emphasised my status as head of the household. Nightrunner was nervous of the crowds and I was grateful for Varg’s lessons as I kept him on a short rein. We attracted a great deal of attention as we rode past the lines of booths and tents. Thorfinn rode by my side, grinning with satisfaction.
‘See how they stare? They’ll send servants to find out who this Odin’s shieldmaiden is, for sure they will.’
‘Just don’t tell too many lies, Thorfinn. The truth will do.’ He laughed out loud at that and I knew my past would be exaggerated and embellished. I also knew that this was expected and people would be aware of it.
Households set up their camps in the same place each year. I had set out early to make sure we could pitch our tents and dig our fire-pit on the site my family had used in the days when my father was a well-respected warrior and trader, and Becklund a prosperous farm. That was eight years ago. I expected the site to be overgrown and derelict. It wasn’t. The low stone walls of the booth were intact, waiting for the cloth to be draped across them for a roof. The fire-pit was still visible in the ground. I took a deep breath. Who had used my family’s booth? I mustn’t show hesitation. I kept my voice calm as I ordered the servants and thralls to make the place ready. Soon they were busy putting up tents and collecting firewood.
The next day a group of people I didn’t recognise rode up and challenged my right to be there.
‘You, woman – to this place you have no right,’ said their leader in a throaty voice. I tried to remember where I had heard a similar accent before. He was thick set with a hook-nose in a tanned face and long black hair in plaits. He wore full armour and his tunic and cloak were of good, thick wool.
‘I am Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. I have come to reclaim the land and the rights that are mine. I have King Hakon’s writ to support my claim. Who are you and by what law do you challenge my rights?’
‘I know you. No need for my name.’
He sneered, while looking down on me from his horse. Then he wheeled round and rode off, followed by his retinue which was similar to mine but fewer in number. I watched them go and thought the stranger must be Kjeld Gunnarson’s man.
It didn’t take long for Kjeld himself to seek me out. He arrived on a splendid stallion with a small but heavily armed retinue. It included the swarthy man who had challenged me before.
‘The pitch goes with the farm and you have a right to neither,’ Kjeld said, without bothering to greet me or dismount from his horse. I felt the fury rise in me as I looked into the greedy eyes of my erstwhile brother-in-law. He had not changed much, a few more grey hairs but the same superior smirk. I clenched my fists, determined to keep calm.
‘I have King Hakon’s writ that Becklund belongs to me. You never had a lawful claim on that place.’
‘It’s mine by right because my brother re-built it, I took it and nobody has dared challenge me. You may have writs from Odin himself but no husband-killing whore-woman is going to oust me from Becklund.’ While he spoke, he kept glancing around my entourage to gauge our strength. He locked eyes with Thorfinn who bared his teeth and put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘What did you just call my chieftain, Kjeld Gunnarson?’
‘Your chieftain! Things have changed with you, Thorfinn Egilson. Time was you swore allegiance only to powerful men, to Kings and Jarls. Are you so old and weak now you have to hide behind a woman’s skirts?’ Thorfinn made a low growling sound from the back of his throat and moved towards him. Kjeld afforded him a scornful leer. Then he turned round and left at a canter.
‘That man will not see his sons grow up,’ said Thorfinn and began walking after Kjeld. Before I had time to say anything, Hrodney spoke.
‘Don’t do anything foolish, husband.’
She didn’t raise her voice but Thorfinn stopped in his tracks and turned round. He frowned and made to speak but she shook her head and looked at me. Thorfinn followed her gaze.
‘Oh, yes, well yes, that is, if you so wish, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter.’
‘There will be no breach of the peace of the Thing by my people, Thorfinn. Don’t let Kjeld goad you into any rash actions that can be used against us later.’
He nodded.
‘My temper got the better of me.’
‘Just as he intended,’ said Hrodney and then to me in a low voice, ‘Sigrid, I have known Kjeld since we were children – he always was small-minded and grabbing. You need to watch your back. He’ll go to any lengths to keep Becklund.’
‘I can’t believe he still blames me for Hauk’s death.’
‘He’ll try to blame you whether he thinks it’s true or not.’
We were interrupted by a gaggle of children led by Olvir and Bjarne.
‘Some of the games have already started. We want to go over there. Will there be food soon?’
‘No food for a while yet. I’ll send someone to find you.’
Olvir leaned close to me and said, with a wide grin, ‘This time I shall win the big race. I promise you.’
I went visiting families in search of supporters for my forthcoming appeal to the Lawmen. My first call was on Lawman Mord Lambason of Keskadale. As I approached his camp, I saw Kjeld hurry away from there. I was determined not to let that worry me. I knew I had a just claim on my childhood home. I greeted Mord with respect. He was, to my reckoning, the same age as my fa
ther would have been. His once vigorous body was gaunt and the broad shoulders stooped. But he had a full head of white hair carefully combed and his white beard was trimmed close to his chin. His fine clothes spoke of his wealth, although some said much of it had come from his new wife, the young, beautiful, daughter of a rich merchant from Keswick.
Three years ago Mord dealt me a harsh judgement and I was far from certain of a friendly reception from him. I gave him a length of silk and a bowl made of green glass from Langobardia. He accepted my gifts and we spoke of our families and of our farms. He was reserved and there was no warmth in his voice. I persuaded myself that this was his manner and was of no importance but I didn’t feel at ease in his company. When we had spoken for as long as seemed polite I handed him the writ from King Hakon. He studied it and found it in order. All the tension that had built up inside me evaporated and my eyes filled with tears of relief.
‘So Becklund will be mine.’ I was hoarse with emotion. But Mord had no smile in response to mine.
‘Yes the farm will be yours but before that I think you know that you have something to answer for.’ Thor’s mighty hammer could not strike a crueller blow than those words. I knew what he meant but I had been foolish enough to think it would be overlooked. My cheeks burned and under Mord’s cold stare the heat spread down my neck. He watched my discomfort and did nothing to ease it.
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