To Save a Kingdom

by Marianne Whiting

  ‘I ... I don’t ...’

  His eyes, pale blue like new ice, skewered any hope of leniency. He waited for me to speak but I shook like the aspen leaf in a storm and my words stuck in my throat and choked me.

  ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, I hope you do know what you have to stand trial for. You have brought disgrace on your father’s name. Kveldulf was a man of honour, sometimes unwise but always true. Three years ago, you told a blatant lie to the Lawmen. You will have to accept punishment for that. Our laws are our freedom and safety. You should defend them, not flaunt them or try to bend them to your advantage.’ The soil I stood upon began to shift and heave like waves. His voice dissolved and floated away and I sank into a dense fog of misery.

  Somebody helped me to sit on a bench. Hrodney patted my cheeks. Mord Lambason’s wife held a ladle to my lips. I drank of the ale and took a deep breath. She muttered with a glare at her husband, ‘Mord is sometimes so much law he forgets to be a man – do not heed him.’

  But how could I not? Mord was the Lawman, the most senior man in the district. He held my destiny in his hands. I would have to answer to him for the lies I told three years ago.

  ***

  The days before I would be summoned to the Lawmen I walked around, aimless, in a mist of despair. I tried not to show my misery to the children who threw themselves into the games and competitions and needed constant repair of torn clothes, ointments on cuts and bruises and occasionally a wound tying up. After two days, Olvir had a large lump on his forehead, Bjarne walked with a limp and both were covered in bruises. Then Kveldulf turned up with tooth-marks on his left cheek.

  ‘He was wrestling with a girl a couple of years older than him,’ Anlaf said. ‘The judge spoke to both of them and I’m sure they understand now that biting is not part of wrestling.’ I noticed that Anlaf had a bloodied bandage around the same thigh where he’d taken a sword-cut at Nidaros.

  When Thorfinn saw it, he thundered, ‘To be cut in the same place twice over! What do you think your shield is for, you useless little flea-shit?’

  Varg the Varangian tut-tutted and shook his head muttering about youngsters not listening to their elders.

  Anlaf swore at both of them and shouted, ‘At least I won my wrestling match but I don’t suppose that counts.’

  I called them all to me and was gratified when they apologised.

  ‘We have a purpose coming here,’ I reminded them. ‘Bickering among ourselves will not help our cause.’

  But I realised that my anxiety was showing and it affected my people. I resolved to try harder to keep up with all their activities and reward their efforts. I began by giving Anlaf a silver clasp for winning his wrestling match and Kveldulf a coin for coming third in archery. This prompted Varg to leave the comfort of the cooking-fire and begin grooming Nightrunner for the horse-fighting. That, in its turn, goaded Thorfinn into issuing a general challenge to swordplay. The way Thorfinn looked at Anlaf told me that he wanted to prove a point as well as gain honour.

  ‘They’re like this all the time at home,’ said Hrodney. ‘Constant needling. Sometimes I wish one or the other had gone with Ragnar.’

  ***

  I took up my interrupted round of visiting. Some chieftains gave me a frosty reception but others seemed to have forgotten my disgrace of three years ago, and welcomed me back as the heir to Becklund.

  My father’s old comrade, Helgi Thorkilson, promised his support in my lawsuit for Becklund and said, ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, I hear you acquit yourself on the battlefield in a way that befits the granddaughter of Harald Finehair and the daughter of Kveldulf Arnvidson. It’s good that you have returned.’

  Another prospective supporter, Ingolf Sigtryggson, drank a toast to my father and said he’d always thought the Norns had woven him a harsh destiny. Then he too wanted to know about the battle of Nidaros. After four chieftains had questioned me about my stay in Norway I realised that Olvir and Thorfinn had, as so often before, outdone each other in spreading exaggerated tales about my achievements. This time I didn’t mind. I exchanged gifts, I received a few visitors of my own and gradually I began to feel part of the close community of Cumbrian Norse. It was a warm, good feeling and I did not want it to end. I redoubled my efforts to make allies.

  ***

  The Lawmen, intimidating in their splendour, took their seats on the mound. Mord Lambason sat in the middle. He wore a rich cloak with fur trim and gold braid. His white hair and beard were combed. His hat was embroidered with so much silver thread it glittered like a helmet. The two Lawmen sat on either side of him. I didn’t recognise them but their rich clothing spoke of their wealth and standing. Mord Lambason stood to address the people.

  ‘I shall tell you our laws now. Listen well.’ He began reciting and all round families sat listening.

  Then came the time for complaints, accusations and appeals. I rose and stated my claim on Becklund and it was accepted. Kjeld tried to argue but his objections were turned down. Kjeld had to promise that Becklund would be handed over by the passing of two full moons. He would keep any harvested crops and all the animals but was not to remove any buildings. Nobody thought of mentioning that he must not interfere with the well or foul the water in the beck. He was a powerful man and nobody wished to insult him by implying he might stoop that low. Becklund was mine. But that, as I knew, was not the end of the matter.

  ***

  ‘You stand accused of telling untruths to the Thing, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. The punishment ranges from a fine to banishment for a year and a day depending on the severity of your lying.’ Mord Lambason’s voice carried no emotion and I could not tell whether he was minded to be lenient or harsh. I took long, deep breaths, trying to steady myself. Behind me, a muted chorus of voices expressed astonishment, dismay or glee depending on their relation to me. Banishment – the word could mean death; it certainly meant having to run for my life, leave my family behind and hide in the hills or take refuge abroad. Kjeld and his henchmen would be able to kill me without fear of redress. My head span, I tried to cut out the sound of Olvir’s anguished cry and Kveldulf’s frightened questions. I must concentrate on answering my accusers and persuading the Lawmen that my lies – for lies they were – had not been intentional. I closed my eyes and promised a splendid sacrifice to Odin, he who is the god of justice but who is also the deceiver, the wearer of disguises and teller of tales. Then I straightened my shoulders and addressed the Lawmen.

  ‘Three years ago I came as a young widow to ask for my inheritance and my son’s inheritance to be recognised. An ill-thought-out decision by my father to put his blood brother before his King deprived me of Becklund. I have, through my own actions, made up for my father’s mistake and you have yourselves agreed that it is right and proper that I accede to the land my father broke open and turned into a farm.’

  ‘Get to the point,’ said Mord his eyebrows so low they obscured his eyes.

  ‘My son’s inheritance was denied him when you doubted he was the true child of my husband Hauk Gunnarson of Swanhill. I told you then that he was Hauk’s son. This I now know was not the case. But three years ago I was not sure and I argued what I wanted to believe, that Kveldulf was the seed of the man who poured water on his head and pronounced him his son and heir. This was Hauk’s decision and I was his widow and bound to support it.’ While I spoke a murmur of voices grew among the assembled. Mord held up his hand for silence. Then he jabbed his finger at me.

  ‘Tell us how you could not be sure? How can a wife not know whether her husband or some other man has sired her child? You knew that Hauk was not the father of your child and you lied to get your hands on his property. Is this not so?’ His question gave me time to draw another deep breath. I needed it. I knew I was playing a dangerous game when I challenged the sacred nature of fatherhood. If I had hit a sore point I might live to regret it. An old woman stood up to be heard.

  ‘Mord Lambason, this is a matter in which men are ill-equipped to judge. The
re are times when a woman doesn’t know exactly when her child is due. It could be that her blood does not appear at every moon.’ Several women nodded and made sounds of agreement. ‘Then there are times when a woman has known more than one man within a short time.’

  ‘That sounds more like it!’ The shout came from Kjeld and drew guffaws from some of the men. Mord glared at him and nodded to the woman to continue.

  ‘Children are sometimes born early, sometimes late. All I’m saying is that a young woman without much experience may well be unsure in these matters.’ She sighed and sat down. Mord spoke with the two lawmen and turned back to me.

  ‘You owe the Thing Assembly an explanation as to who sired your child.’ There was no way to make myself seem innocent. I had to accept the humiliation and reveal my past treachery.

  ‘Ragnar Sweinson is the father of my son Kveldulf.’

  ‘Ha, see the lying whore-woman confesses. She put horns on my brother!’ Kjeld was triumphant. But as I had not sat down he was told to interrupt no more.

  ‘How do you know that Ragnar Sweinson is the father and not somebody else? When did you decide?’ The implied insult in Mord’s question made my eyes fill with angry tears.

  ‘There are only two men in question here, Mord Lambason and if you saw my son next to Ragnar Sweinson you would not ask who his father is.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Ragnar was my childhood sweetheart. He had to go away and I thought I’d lost him, so I gave in to my parents’ wishes and married Hauk. Then Ragnar came back. I had decided to divorce Hauk so we could marry but when Becklund was raided, I lost Ragnar, I lost my home and I lost my family. I returned to Hauk. I had nowhere else to go. I tried to be a good wife to him and he accepted the baby as his. It was his decision.’ Mord was shaking his head. I wondered what more I could say to persuade him.

  A woman’s voice rang out demanding to be heard. I saw Mord turn pale. With the rest of the crowd, I craned my neck to see who had come forward to speak. It was Mord’s wife. She stood straight-backed and proud. Rumour had it that Mord had taken on more than he bargained for when he married the impetuous, self-willed young daughter of an Angle merchant from Keswick. He looked dumbstruck as she faced him and spoke.

  ‘A wife has the right, the duty even, to defend her husband’s honour. If Hauk accepted the boy as his own seed then that was his decision, which he had a right to make. It was then Sigrid’s duty to support him or he would have looked a fool.’ She turned and walked back to her seat. Mord watched her sit down. His mouth kept opening and closing but no sound emerged. One of the other Lawmen bent towards Mord and spoke quietly to him. The crowd seemed to hold its breath. The three Lawmen conferred for a moment before Mord spoke again.

  ‘The question we need to answer is whether Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter made an honest mistake or told deliberate lies. We find this has not been proven one way or the other. In mitigation, we are prepared to accept that she may have had her dead husband’s honour in mind, although this is not certain. We are inclined to acquit her unless someone wishes to challenge her to prove her innocence through a trial by combat.’

  ‘I challenge!’ shouted Kjeld. Several women screamed, some men protested but others cheered. ‘I nominate as my champion Felipe the Galician.’ He pointed to the swarthy man who had challenged me over the pitch. ‘He will fight any champion appointed by Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter.’ It took less than a heartbeat before Thorfinn stood on one side of me and Anlaf on the other. I shook my head.

  ‘I don’t need a champion. I fight my own battles. I am ready.’ Thorfinn and Anlaf breathed a ‘no’ in unison. But the crowd cheered and suddenly the cat-calls were for Kjeld.

  ‘A woman warrior, no wonder you need someone else to fight for you, Kjeld.’

  ‘Maybe you should ask your mother to help.’

  Kjeld turned red and scowling, put his hand to his sword. He turned to Felipe the Galician but the man had accepted the championship and could not withdraw without loss of honour. He ignored the scorn especially from the women in the crowd and fixed me with a stare so full of hatred I felt it like a blow. As far as I knew our paths had never crossed, but he looked at me as if the Norns had woven our destinies together with a strong and treacherous thread.

  ‘For the sake of Odin and his ravens,’ said Thorfinn, ‘Sigrid, let me fight for you. If you get hurt, I will have to answer to Ragnar as well as to your children.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Thorfinn? Don’t you trust in my innocence or is it my sword-skill you doubt?’

  ‘No, no, of course not, but ... ahem, how can ...’ But I had him cornered. Neither he nor Anlaf could argue without insulting either me or the gods. And how could I appoint a champion to risk life and limb for me when both I and the gods knew that I had lied deliberately. But the gods also knew why I had lied. Trying to secure life and livelihood for my son carried no insult to them. I had to trust Odin the Deceiver, the Teller of Tales, the Shape-Shifter to find my cause worthy of his support. I wore the symbol of Thor’s hammer round my neck. He had protected me in past battles. I knew I asked a lot of my gods – maybe this time I asked too much and I can’t deny I trembled with fear.

  ***

  I changed into breeches and a light tunic. I let my hair hang loose as I did in battle and put my helmet on. Dragonclaw sat easy in her scabbard. It was many moons since she had tasted blood and she seemed to hum with eagerness. I was far from confident but took some deep breaths and chided myself that I had survived worse battles. Even so, my knees were weak and my heart beat like a drum in my chest.

  ***

  The square for the hólmganga was measured out. Mord Lambason stood in the middle.

  ‘This will be a battle to first blood,’ he said, ‘the Law does not require a death to prove guilt in this case.’ I was surprised but had no objection. The Galician grunted to acknowledge that he had understood. He kissed the silver cross he wore around his neck and nodded that he was ready. His looks indicated that he’d rather have fought to the death and I decided it would be as well to be on my guard while we were still in the square and perhaps after that as well. I raised my Mjölnir-amulet to the sky in supplication to Thor. Then I looked carefully at the ground and took my stance. I felt calm now, too calm. I looked at my opponent. I had no quarrel with him, no anger against him. I needed the battle fury to fire me up and want to destroy him. I sought out Kjeld’s hateful smirk. I thought how he had threatened Kveldulf’s life and that memory sent the icy stab of hatred into my heart. As Felipe the Galician walked towards me with raised sword I knew of nothing but the desire to drive Dragonclaw through his chest.

  He came straight for me and I began sidestepping. We circled each other, sword in one hand, knife in the other. He was thickset, but his heavy build was deceptive; he was light on his feet and fast. I was still not back to full strength from the hardships of my journey and a doubt crept into my mind whether I would be able to keep up the swift ducking and twisting I usually relied on. ‘Doubt is the warrior’s worst enemy,’ my father would say as he taught me how to use my light frame to advantage against heavier opponents. I swirled round and forced the Galician to turn and sidestep. He was sweating but his breathing was controlled. We circled some more, testing each other’s alertness with occasional sword-thrusts. The onlookers became impatient and taunts and encouragement flew through the air.

  The Galician made the first move. He raised his sword and let it fall. It swung past my left shoulder as I read him and leaped aside. He staggered but regained his balance and faced me to deflect my blade.

  ‘Well done!’ I called. ’Who taught you to fight, your grandmother?’ He scowled and said something in a tongue I didn’t recognise. His breathing sounded more laboured. But so was mine. The taunt seemed to affect him. He glared at me. I smiled and called out again.

  ‘Slow as an ox looking for its balls.’ I danced past him and forced him to twist and turn. I managed a laugh. Our audience cheered.

  ‘You d
ie!’ he roared and charged with his sword raised. Dragonclaw met his blade as it came down and with a roll of my wrist I deflected his stroke. He’d learnt his lesson and kept his balance. We drew apart and circled each other again.

  ‘Get on with it!’ someone shouted from the sideline. He was joined by other voices taunting and jeering.

  Neither of us took any notice. We locked eyes and again I saw the hatred burning in his. I made a feint to his right. When he raised his sword to parry, I quickly withdrew and stepped aside and tried to thrust Dragonclaw into his side under his raised sword-arm. But he was too fast and again swung round to face me with his sword held high ready to strike. I stepped back. The ground gave way. A treacherous rock rolled from under my foot. I stumbled. I cried out. Reaching for support, I dropped Dragonclaw. With terrible certainty I knew that I had challenged the gods and taken on one fight too many.

  ‘Thor! Odin!’ I called to my gods. The spectators fell quiet and my voice echoed in the silence. My nails scratched the ground reaching for Dragonclaw. It was the Galician’s turn to smile. His sword came down towards me with the full force of his hatred. I rolled over and he missed me by a hair’s breadth. Meeting no resistance, his sword followed through the stroke. It hit the rock that had tripped me. There was a crash. Sparks cascaded like flashes of lightning as his blade broke in two. The Galician stumbled and fell. It was a moment’s work to stick my knife in his exposed shoulder. There was neither jubilation nor anger among the people watching, just the astonished murmur of men and women in awe of what they had witnessed.

  The rock was Thor’s own work. It must have been. The god had reminded me that I was in the wrong but he stood by me and broke the blade of my enemy. The Galician was pulled to his feet by two of Mord’s men. They held on to him but there was no need. He stood frozen, staring at the stump of his weapon. It happens sometimes in battles when an unlucky warrior carries a bad sword sold to him cheap or robbed from an unknown source. But a contest is different. A fighter will borrow a good sword if he knows his is not strong. Felipe the Galician had felt confidence in his blade. He did not react when Mord declared me the winner and urged him to accept defeat. Mord extended his hand to help me up. I heard Kjeld shouting about foul play and being told to hold his peace. The trial was over. Once the Galician and Kjeld had withdrawn, cheering broke forth like a waterfall unfrozen in spring. I was surrounded by well-wishers and, choked with relief, accepted their praise and congratulations. Odin the Lawgiver and Thor the god of battle had spoken.