***
The next couple of days I was able to take my leisure. Visitors came and went. Kveldulf was full of questions about what had taken place. Thorfinn and Olvir outdid each other exaggerating my exploits. Life seemed to return to normal. I had no more interest in the lawgiving but the feasting and games continued. Olvir was taking part in the long race. I was glad of the distraction. I’d had enough of being the centre of attention. As the children were called, I made sure to be where Olvir could see me. There were always many parents and relatives gathered to watch and support this race and most had opinions about how it was organised.
‘But the ground looks prepared,’ grumbled an old man. A worried-looking mother answered.
‘Yes, they had sheep grazing here.’
Then a third party, a well-dressed man commented. ‘That’s not all. They’ve taken out most of the shrubbery as well.’ He sounded pleased.
The old man shook his head and spat. ‘That’s no way to teach the young ’uns about real life. They need to know how to watch the ground and be sure-footed as well as swift. On a raid or on the battleground the land won’t be smooth and even.’ The mother looked like she was ready to take issue with him but was interrupted by the starter calling attention. Excited shouts of support from spectators rose to the sky. There was some arguing and shuffling and pushing among the fifty-odd runners. Two boys came to blows and were hauled out for a telling off before being shunted back on to the starting line.
Olvir had raced once before. Three years ago he had hovered on the edge of the field, shy and uncertain. But his adventures in Norway had given him confidence and now he jostled for position with the older boys at the front. Like the rest, he had removed his tunic and round his neck hung the Mjölnir-amulet Ragnar had given him. The starter blew his horn, the crowd cheered and they were off. As happened most years the pushing and shoving caused some to fall and pull others down with them. Bjarne got away but Olvir was one of the kicking, writhing bodies piled up on the ground. By the time they had disentangled themselves it was too late for any of them to catch the leaders but Olvir and four others set off anyway and cheered on by the crowd, made a race of their own.
The track went up to an old oak tree and curved round it before returning the same way. It was inevitable that the front runners met and had to negotiate their way through the main pack. This was not usually a problem since the track widened towards the turning point by the tree. But Olvir and his fellow stragglers met not only the small group of front-runners but the rest of the pack as well, and on the part of the track where it was narrow and where over-enthusiastic spectators often strayed on to it. I didn’t worry. I was so sure that Olvir, who was used to running among trees and well able to dodge obstacles, would come out of it unscathed. But trees and rocks don’t move and change direction. A moment’s hesitation from a slender girl with hair the colour of Odin’s ravens and she and Olvir collided head on. The runners closest to them had no time to stop or swerve and, as the roar of the onlookers rose to welcome the winner, some tired stragglers ended up in yet another pile on top of Olvir and the girl. This was common during races and part of learning how to survive on a battlefield.
Olvir and the girl were the last ones to get up. She looked at him, said something and limped off. Olvir looked dazed. He rubbed his forehead and was slow to get to his feet.
‘Can I go and help him, Mor?’ Kveldulf was full of anxiety for his hero. ‘Am I allowed on the track now?’
‘Go and meet him but don’t help him. That would make him look weak. Take Harald as well.’ I put down my toddler who laughed and pointed and called for Olvir.
‘Do I have to? He doesn’t understand.’
‘So you’ll explain to him then.’ Scowling, Kveldulf dragged the unsteady toddler on to the track.
Olvir was limping and a swelling was beginning to form on his forehead.
‘I’m sorry, Sigrid. I let you down.’
‘You did no such thing. You ran faster than anyone else. And you learnt a lesson about where to start from and how to watch and dodge other runners.’ A sudden unease made me look up. The girl stood on the other side of the track. She stared at us, at me. When she saw I had noticed her she shook her fist at me and spat on the ground. She held up a small silver cross and said something I couldn’t hear. I was about to go across to her when Bjarne came up to us claiming my attention. He was panting from the exertion and grinning.
‘I came third, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. I would have been second but I was pushed and stumbled when I came round the tree.’
‘Well done, Bjarne. Wasn’t that good, Olvir!’ Olvir nodded, blinking away tears. Bjarne put his arm round Olvir’s shoulders.
‘Next year we’ll be first and second. I know you’re faster than me and faster than any of the others.’ I chose not to remind him that next year he’d be twelve and too old for the children’s race.
We all looked towards a commotion by the finishing line. Angry shouts mingled with laughter and calls of support as the winner of the race pranced round holding up a cross he had worn around his neck.
‘Thank you, Jesus Christus, thank you, Jesus Christus,’ he kept chanting until a woman pulled him away by his curly brown hair.
‘That’s nonsense, isn’t it?’ said Bjarne with a cautious look at me. ‘The wrestling and spear-throwing and most of the other games were won by men true to the Old Religion so just winning one race doesn’t prove anything, does it, Sigrid?’
***
I thought deeply about how to give thanks to Odin and Thor for standing by me in the combat. Nothing but the best would do. I tried not to show hesitation as this could be understood by the gods as lack of true devotion. I made my decision and went to break the news to Varg.
‘But, Princess Sigrid, Nightrunner is a champion horse. I have worked hard to groom him for the horse-fighting.’
‘I know, but he is to be given to Odin. He must have no blemish. I have no other animal close to Nightrunner in beauty and strength and this time Odin has a right to expect the best.’ Varg couldn’t object but he looked gloomy as he began grooming another horse for the fighting.
On the last day, a great bloot was held when many offerings were given to Odin. As a woman, I would have no part to play in this but, as head of a household and with men tied to me by oath, I felt I did. When the free men gathered round the offer-stone I approached, followed by the men in my entourage. There was a murmur of surprise and disapproval which rose as they realised that I intended to join them.
‘Women don’t belong here,’ said Kjeld Gunnarson and his supporters jeered.
I felt very alone as I faced the assembled chieftains.
‘I am a woman but I am also owner of land and a warrior. The torc round my neck was given to me by King Hakon in recognition of the battle we fought together.’
‘Women know about healing and can read messages from the gods but they don’t understand the matters of kings and wars.,’ said a powerful, red-haired chieftain and glared at me.
‘I am of royal blood, my grandfather was Harald Finehair, that sets me apart.’
Some nodded and voiced their agreement but one said, ‘There’s no precedent. It’s not how things are done.’
I began to think I would be sent away. I tried to sound confident.
‘Odin and Thor judged in my favour here and I owe the gods a sacrifice.’ I waved to Varg to bring Nightrunner and a sigh went through the assembled like a gust of wind rustling the reeds. Mord held up a hand for attention and spoke.
‘I think we all understand the significance of this sacrifice and you are mistaken in thinking there is no precedent for women as chieftains having a place in the assembly of men. Sigrid takes the place of her father as owner of Becklund. She has shown courage and warrior skills to match any man here. In times of violence she will be a strong ally and in times of peace she has the right to a place among us in the assembly.’ A small majority of the men were now on my side and voted in favou
r of my claim to a place among them.
The offer-stone frightens animals. They seem to understand what lies in store for them. But whereas cattle and sheep accept their fate with nothing more than pitiful lowing and bleating, horses put up a fight. As Nightrunner was brought forward I couldn’t look at him but fixed my gaze on the upright stone with the one-eyed likeness of Odin. The god would surely understand what this sacrifice cost me. Varg did his best to calm him but Nightrunner rose on his hind legs and screamed his protest to the sky in a high-pitched neigh. Thorfinn and Anlaf held on to his bridle but were lifted off the ground so their legs kicked the empty air. As the horse came down Varg swiftly wound a rope around his front legs and pulled. The great bulk of the stallion crashed to the ground. I lifted the heavy, two-handed axe used for such ceremonies and let it fall on Nightrunner’s neck. He was a magnificent animal and I was grateful that Varg’s skill made his journey to Odin swift. All present agreed that my offering was the most splendid and every chieftain accepted a piece of the liver. The Lawman daubed the wooden effigies of our gods with the blood from Nightrunner. We each dipped our fingers in the offer bowl and drew the sign of Odin on our foreheads. After the chanting and invocations, the feasting began. It went on into the night and all drank of the rich broth made from the bones of that most beautiful of horses.
The next day Mord Lambason did me the honour of exchanging gifts. I gave him a dagger, made of best steel from Frankia, with silver on the grip and gold on the pommel. He gave me a brooch with a large emerald set in silver filigree. I felt I had, at last, gained a place in the community of the Cumbrian Norse and could relax. The small voice of caution at the back of my mind was only too easy to ignore.
***
We broke camp at first light for the long ride home.
‘Which horse shall you ride, now you no longer have Nightrunner?’ Varg squinted at me with a speculative look on his leathery face. ‘Lord of the Fells is our finest. He’s still young and skittish but one day soon he’ll be a horse worthy of a chieftain.’ His voice held a challenge.
‘Then I shall ride him.’
Varg bared his fangs in an appreciative smile.
‘I though you might, Princess Sigrid.’ I didn’t tell him not to call me that. Whatever I said had no impact on the wiry old warrior. Maybe I was a little flattered too.
As we prepared to leave, Kjeld Gunnarson and his entourage rode past. He led the group on a splendid white horse with distinctive black markings. I thought to greet him and let bygones be bygones. He didn’t even glance at me. But his man, Felipe the Galician did. He fixed me with the stare I now knew. It was more than the resentment of a man defeated in combat. It radiated pure hatred and I could not understand the venom in it. Then I saw the girl, the one that had cursed me. She rode next to the Galician on a bay mare with a younger child strapped to her back. The likeness was striking; the same black hair and bronzed skin, the same penetrating midnight-dark eyes. I also knew where I had seen eyes like hers before and the truth of it hit me with such force I lost my breath for a moment.
‘Lydia,’ I whispered. ‘Lydia.’ My first husband had a ‘special woman’ called Lydia. She claimed to be a Galician princess. She had three children by Hauk, two girls and a boy. Could this girl really be Hauk’s and Lydia’s daughter? She looked the right age. It would explain the vehemence of that look, of the curse. It was only four years ago that I had her mother executed. The girl would have been about five then and had understood, remembered and nurtured her hatred.
***
We set off for home. I hoped we’d reach Buttermere before darkness. We headed for the pass between Green Gable and Great Gable. We rode close together. I had no reason to think anyone would break the peace of the Thing but there were outlaws who knew that travellers from the gathering would carry many valuable items and to whom our horses alone were a good reason to attack.
Once we were through the rocky pass and were out on the bare, featureless fell where you could see all round, I stopped looking out. All was peaceful. It was a sunny morning with a fresh breeze. There were no shadows, no warning cries from birds, no animals put to flight by any intruders other than ourselves. The hounds were tiring and had stopped chasing off after fox and other small prey. The long ride was good for Lord of the Fells. He calmed down and responded with ease to my commands. We stopped briefly at midday but clouds were gathering from where the sun sets and I was eager to come down from the high fell before rain and mist made it difficult to find our way.
In late afternoon we descended towards the last pass at Honiton Hause and I looked forward to catching sight of home and filling my lungs with the welcoming air of our own valley. When we reached Moss Crag below Fleetwith Pike, I called to Kveldulf and Olvir.
‘Look, nearly home. Behind that rock you’ll be able to see Buttermere.’ They trotted up on the mare they shared.
‘Can’t see it! Just a lot ...’ Kveldulf’s impetuous answer was interrupted by the loud caws of a flock of crows. It echoed between the hills as they rose in a black cloud of beating wings. Lord of the Fells shied away and reared. The spear meant for me hit him in the shoulder. He neighed, came down on his front legs and kicked out behind before bolting and galloping down the path. I stayed on, my feet still firmly in the stirrups. I pulled hard on the bit to regain control and prayed he would not run into a boulder, or stumble on the rocks and shards of slate littering the slope. Behind me, terrified children screamed, furious warriors roared their challenge and our hounds barked. I heard the clanging of sword upon sword and the clashing of shields. There was nothing I could do to help my people. I couldn’t even turn and look around. Lord of the Fells stampeded downhill and carried me away from them.
The shaft of the spear bounced and quivered with every step the poor horse took. Slithering and struggling for his balance he eventually tired and slowed down. I freed my feet from the stirrups and leapt off. I had lost my shield but my helmet was on my head and Dragonclaw at my side. The horse’s legs buckled, he fell on his side and I saw the white of his eyes as he kicked his legs trying to get back on his feet. Careful to keep out of reach of his hooves, I pulled the spear from his side. He neighed in pain and protest. I saluted him and left. I had one thought only, to get to my people and defend them. My whole body trembled with fury at the nithings who had broken the peace of the Thing.
***
Women and children came downhill from the pass. I walked towards them. There was Olvir and behind him on the mare, clinging to his tunic, Kveldulf. Next to them was Kirsten with Harald strapped to her back. I grabbed her horse by the bridle.
‘Get down, Kirsten. I’ll take your horse and you’ll have to share with one of the others.’
‘I recognised one of them, Sigrid.’ But I was on the horse and on my way before she’d time to tell me. I realised at once, this was not a warrior’s horse but a timid little mare and tired from a day’s ride. I had to kick and use the flat of my sword on her flanks before she got up a fair trot. I was getting closer to the mêlée when one of the attackers spotted me and steered his horse down the path. He egged his horse into a gallop and lifted his sword. I had no shield and my mare was at least two hands lower than his stallion. My sword would be no use here. I dismounted and my terrified horse galloped back the way we’d come. The rider came closer. His stallion, wild-eyed and foaming around the mouth, seemed the size of a mountain. I tried to keep calm but shook with each heartbeat. I filled my lungs to bursting point and let the air out slowly. I weighed the spear, still covered in Lord of the Fell’s blood, in my hand to gauge its balance and planted my feet firmly in warrior stance.
‘Odin, be on my side as you were before.’
My ears rang with the noise of hooves and the snorting of the powerful stallion racing towards me. I would die. But I would die a warrior, weapon in hand. I began the battle chant.
‘Odin, Odin, Ooodiiin!’
When I could see the whites of the stallion’s wide-open eyes I took aim. I be
nt my knees, drew my spear arm behind my shoulder and leant back. My whole body lent force to the throw as the spear flew from my hand. My attacker tried to rein in his horse to change direction and avoid the spear. But he was too late. He cried out when the spear he’d aimed at me embedded itself in his own thigh. I thanked Odin for giving force and direction to my throw. My enemy’s face was hidden behind a kerchief which muffled his cry. He slipped to one side, dropped his sword and lost one of his stirrups. Still he managed to cling on to the saddle-bow. Horse and rider careered past me. I watched them down the hillside. The man was a skilled rider and by the time they reached the base of Fleetwith Edge he was in control. He stopped for a moment. I saw him trying to break the shaft of the spear and then, with an impatient movement and a scream of pain, pull it out. He disappeared round the edge of the hill.
On foot I could not pursue him. I began walking up the hill. Loose horses scampered round the hillside with stirrups and reins flapping or grazed peacefully away from the fighting. I made out four men escaping up towards the pass pursued by others. One of the pursuers had a mane of long hair glowing red in the sun. So Ylva Flamehair was there, intent on proving her worth. I had no mount and was too far away to be of any use. I thought of what I and my family had just escaped and I began to tremble. I raised my arms to the sky and thanked Odin and Thor.
The sunlight reflected something in the tall grass. I saw the sword my attacker had dropped and picked it up. It was a good, flexible blade, like the best ones from Frankia. The grip was worked in silver and ended in a golden point. I looked closer at the pattern and found an inscription on the pommel bar, “Kjeld Gunnarson”.
To Save a Kingdom Page 6