‘We shall speak more later, Sigrid,’ he said.
***
Cinedred invited me to see her new wall hangings just arrived from Keswick. My mind was still fuming from my talk with Mord but I did my best to show interest. When we got inside, she led me to the room reserved for the family. It was partitioned off from the rest of the hall and I thought how nice it must be to have a private area like that. She sent her women out and closed the door. I wondered how I would see the wall hangings in the dim light from the fire. Cinedred pulled me down to sit next to her on a bench. She leaned close. I realised that she was trembling.
‘Sigrid,’ she whispered, ‘I have need for your Norwegian seidir.’ At first I didn’t realise what she’d said. Then I was gripped by fear for Kirsten. There is danger as well as power in the use of magic.
‘Kirsten is no seidir. She knows healing, that’s all. Her grandmother taught her to use herbs but she has no more knowledge of hidden things than you or I. Odin’s beard, Cinedred, are people gossiping about the poor girl?’
‘No, no, I don’t think so but I heard she knows more than most. I’m sorry, I ...’ She was so distressed I felt sorry for her and took her hand.
‘Cinedred, what ails you?’
‘I need to rid my body of an unwelcome child.’
I thought I must have misheard.
‘But why? Mord would surely be delighted at another son. I don’t understand. Why do you want rid of it?’ The fire made deep shadows on her white face. Her eyes were large and frightened.
‘It’s not ... his.’
I tried not to show my astonishment but my eyes widened without me being able to stop them.
‘But surely you don’t have to tell him that.’
‘He would know.’
‘No, of course he wouldn’t. Men can’t know for sure.’
‘Yes, he would know because of what a man needs to do with a woman to get her with child.’
***
We were invited to stay the night at Keskadale and were treated to good and plentiful fare. Cinedred’s eyes were red but, reassured that I would send herbs and advice from Kirsten, she had regained her composure. The evening passed with much talk and storytelling fuelled by Mord’s good ale. I thought Cinedred’s secret safe. I should have known that Olvir would see not just her red eyes but other things as well.
‘She’d cried, hadn’t she?’
‘Who?’
‘The beautiful young wife from Keswick. And did you see how those two looked at each other?’
‘What? Which two?’
‘Oh, Sigrid, you’re hopeless. Don’t you notice anything ever?’ I tried to box his ear but he’d anticipated it and sidestepped. ‘The fine wife and her stepson, that’s who.’ He swaggered off to find a sleeping place with the others in the barn. I caught up with him and grabbed his tunic.
‘Don’t you dare go gossiping about things you don’t understand. You’ll get into serious trouble.’
He shook his head and grinned.
‘You know I don’t tell anyone else when it’s a real secret. Don’t worry.’
But how could I not worry about Olvir who was as dear to me as my own children. I lay awake thinking about him. He was almost eleven – in just over a year, he’d be considered an adult. He would not be a warrior and as a healer he would always run the risk of being called a seidir. People would come to him and ask him to use his powers. Sooner or later it would go wrong. I had listened to enough tales of what befell shapeshifters and anyone else accused of using magic. I realised that Olvir needed something to occupy him.
***
The next morning, before we said our goodbyes, Mord invited me to talk with him.
‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, at this year’s Thing you were accepted into the circle of men for the purpose of the ceremonial sacrifice to our gods. That, as I’m sure you realise, doesn’t mean you have a say or a vote at the Thing. It is unusual but not unheard of for a woman to act as an independent party in our decisions, so I have decided to champion you as the householder of Becklund to take the place at the Thing that your father would have held. It still needs the agreement of the rest of the free men but I shall use my influence on your behalf.’ He paused to allow me time to thank him which I duly did. I was suspicious of his motives, thinking this was nothing but a bribe to stop me taking my feud with Kjeld to another level. Of course he’d anticipated this.
‘As I told you yesterday, the times are troubled and not only Cumbria but the whole of the North is in danger. We need to be prepared to rally in defence of our land and our families.
‘Are we preparing for unrest? The talk at the Thing was about King Anlaf Guthfridson taking the Kingdom of Jorvik back from the Saxons after Æthelstan’s death. It sounded like we’re safe from them now.’
‘No far from it. Æthelstan’s heir, Edmund is biding his time, waiting for Anlaf to overextend himself. He may be right about that. Anlaf is spending much time fighting in the North against the Earl of Bamburgh. The war with the Saxons is not over. This is merely a pause.’ I realised I had been very naïve. I should know enough to understand that King Edmund would not stop until he was lord of all of England. It had been the ambition of his half-brother Æthelstan, who had achieved it with supreme ruthlessness. The new young king had much to live up to. Mord allowed me to think this over before he continued.
‘I’m no longer a young man and all this talk of war does not fill me with excitement. I have seen too many brave warriors depart to Valhalla before their time. But when the call to defend our land comes, I shall be ready. A man must die sometime, after all. I would, however, die easier if I knew that we Cumbrian Norse fought together. We must not squander our strength on feuds amongst ourselves. We shall need every blade when the time comes. Kjeld Gunnarson knows this.’ He held up a hand to stop my objections. ‘He knows because I have told him. He has agreed that, for now, there should be peace between your two families. I want you to tell me that you, too, accept this. You are your father’s heir, you have his skill with the sword and we need you to take his place among us.’ He offered his hand and, despite myself, I felt a surge of pride as I accepted it.
***
The next day, a rider arrived to Buttermere from Keskadale with the kerchief I had, on purpose, left behind. I was not surprised to see that it was Mord’s second son. His pale face and shaking hands told me all I needed to know and I did not hesitate to entrust him with the herbs Kirsten had prepared for Cinedred and instructions how to use them.
PART THREE
“Better burden no traveller bears,
while on the way, than wisdom and wit.”
Havamal
November 940
One night, I dreamt about Becklund. I’d had this dream before and it was so vivid, I could smell the sweet air blowing down from the fells, feel the soft, rich grass under my feet and see the sunlight play on the rippling waves of Loweswater. I walked along the shore up to the knoll where the stone for my father was clearly visible from anywhere on the lake. In the carved ribbon encircling the face of the tall granite slab, the runes read, “Gudrun Haraldsdaughter raised this stone for her husband Kveldulf Arnvidson of Becklund, brave sword, faithful friend, honourable man”. I held up King Hakon’s writ to the stone as if my father were there, as if he could hear me as I read out the pardon that meant he was an outlaw no more.
Then, in the way of dreams, I was at the farm. My father’s hall lay in smouldering ruins, as it did the day King Hakon and his men burnt and plundered it in revenge for my father’s treason. But, beyond the blackened rafters and tumbledown walls, a new building rose before my eyes. It was twice the size of my father’s hall, the turf roof so tall I had to bend backwards to see the smoke coming out of the wind-eye and the crossed dragonheads at the end of the ridge. I stood back and admired the solid stone foundations and the heavy wooden door. I sensed someone behind me and turned round. A woman as tall as a tree with broad shoulders and strong arms came walkin
g across the meadow. Her long yellow hair blew around her face. She held in one hand a sword, in the other a weaving batten. She went up to the hall and the door opened to her. She turned and looked at me. Her cheeks were round and her mouth red. But she looked sorrowful as she stepped across the threshold and disappeared inside. I stood in the bright sunlight and tried to see into the hall but it was all dark.
I thought what the dream might mean. The woman was my family’s fylgia, our guardian spirit. What was she telling me? I could wait no longer. I decided to visit Becklund. I had no right to the place until after Yuletide but I had not been told I couldn’t visit. I figured that with Felipe the Galician dead and Kjeld answerable to Mord, I had little to fear, so I rode with only Olvir and Varg for company.
As we filed down Mosedale towards Loweswater, I was overcome with emotion. My vision clouded over and I had to wipe away tears. My breath came in shallow gasps as I tried to stay calm. I felt my two companions watching me. Varg held his peace but that was never Olvir’s way.
‘Don’t be upset, Sigrid. I’m sure all will be well. I don’t suppose I shall recognise anything much. What do you think?’ The last time Olvir saw Becklund it lay smouldering in ruins and the bodies of people he knew as family lay bleeding on the ground. Olvir was five years old then, his life saved when he brought the message that sent Ragnar fleeing for his life. Ever since then, Olvir had been my faithful companion, my fostring, my nephew, my son.
‘Sigrid! Why don’t you answer?’
‘Forgive me, Olvir, my mind is full of sad memories. What did you want to know?’
‘Will anyone be there?’
‘No. Kjeld has been told to take what belongs to him and the Galician is dead. The farm will be empty.’
We had entered the woods round the lower slope of Raven Crag. Soon we would cross Mosedale Beck and then it would not be long before I’d be able to see Loweswater glittering in the late autumn sunshine.
The path became more defined but the grass that would normally be kept short by grazing animals grew tall and autumn-brown weeds had spread unchecked. Becklund had been rebuilt and, from a distance, it looked the same as the farm I grew up on. Then I noticed some changes: trees cleared; the log-piles in a different place; the byre made larger. All this was to be expected – but not the smoke coming out of the wind-eye.
‘There’s somebody there!’ Olvir sounded angry rather than frightened. Varg and I drew our swords. Varg steered his horse to stand in front of me.
‘Get back,’ he ordered Olvir. A couple of dogs ran barking up to the gate. They were large hunting dogs. Our horses shifted uneasily. A man appeared from the barn. He stopped short when he saw us. He put a wooden bucket down and drew his sword. Without turning round he called something, I couldn’t hear what. My heart quickened. I had no horn to announce our visit as peaceful, nor a helmet for protection in a fight. I cursed my arrogant assumption that the farm would be empty.
But nobody came running in response to the man’s call. It was just him and the dogs. Perhaps he had supporters hidden among the buildings? We stood staring at each other. He had a warrior’s bearing and seemed determined to stand his ground. Who was this interloper? The farm was mine! Gods, kings and Lawmen had recognised it as mine. Who dared challenge my right? My surprise was replaced with hot anger and I made my horse advance. Varg followed. Olvir called out but I didn’t hear him. Only when he came alongside me did I realise that his eyes had seen what mine had missed.
‘It’s Bard, Sigrid. Don’t you recognise him?’ He set off at a trot, shouting and waving. I stopped, told Varg to pull up and slid off my horse. A single command and the dogs withdrew. The gate opened and a familiar face smiled a welcome. I trembled with relief and my voice was hoarse with emotion.
‘Oh, Bard! Bard Beornson, I thought ... oh Bard, I should have known you.’
‘It’s been a long time, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. Welcome home.’ I would have hugged the old man who had served my father and during my childhood had more than once chastised me and my brothers for our transgressions. He was as close as any family to me. But he formally bent his knee and offered his sword.
‘I was your father’s karl. I have tried to look after your home until you were able to come back. It’s been many years but I kept hoping that what’s right would prevail.’ I touched the hilt of his sword and resisted the impulse to help him to his feet.
Varg and Olvir tended the horses and Bard led me to the new hall. It looked empty. Where were the wall hangings, the cushions and bolsters, the fleeces and blankets? Then I realised. My mother’s furnishings were all burnt, my father’s treasure chest and his carved high seat had been plundered. Whatever Felipe had brought, Kjeld Gunnarson would have removed. There was nothing to remind me of my parents or of the life I had lived here. The fire on the hearth was small and the hall felt cold.
‘Sit, Sigrid,’ said Bard. ‘It can all be put right now you are back.’ The door opened and Brita, Bard’s sharp-tongued wife, came in and left a hayfork by the door. She seemed not to have changed at all. Thin and wiry, she scurried up to me and grabbed me by the shoulders.
‘Sigrid, dear child. For a moment I thought you were your mother – you look so like her, the way she was in the days before our misfortunes. Welcome home. I have tried to keep the hearth warm but with just the two of us ...’
‘Do you have no help here at all?’
‘No, but we’re doing our best. We’re not young any more. There isn’t much here. Kjeld took all the livestock. Not as much as a lamb he left us when he realised that we weren’t coming with him. Cross he was, mightily cross. Ha! Nothing he could do. We’re free people and we serve who we choose.’
I realised that I had brought nothing except the food we’d need for the day, as I didn’t think anyone lived on the farm, and I apologised to Brita.
‘Oh, but you shouldn’t even think of bringing gifts to your own home, Sigrid. Will you move in soon? It will be so good to have a family here again. Little Kveldulf, such a beautiful baby. How old is he now? I heard you have another one. That’s good.’ She looked up when Olvir and Varg entered. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘my little one, how you’ve grown. Do you remember me?’ In reply, Olvir flung his arms round her.
We sat down and shared a meal of the bread, cheese and apples I had brought. Brita produced eggs, curds and ale. I asked how they managed and whether they needed anything.
‘Kjeld took all he could,’ said Bard, ‘but there’s some hay and straw in the barn. No grain, he took that. Brita hid some hens she felt he owed us and we had a cow that was ours but otherwise it’s all gone. I smoke the fish I catch but some salt would help keep it over the winter. Shall you come to live here, Sigrid, or will you stay on your husband’s farm? I’m afraid Brita takes it for granted that you will come here but ...’
‘Have no worry, Bard. I shall live at Becklund for the rest of my life. I will send some people from Buttermere to help out here at once and, as soon as I can, I shall follow.’
It was only then that I realised that I had never discussed with Ragnar the question of where we were to live. I had no reason to believe that he had the kind of attachment to Buttermere that I had to Becklund but it was his home. Any decision had to be postponed until he returned.
After a while I left them and went to look for my father’s stone. It stood where I remembered it, on a small knoll overlooking the lake. Like in my dream, I traced the inscription with my fingers. There was no moss. Bard had kept the stone clean. Of course, I hadn’t brought the scroll with King Hakon’s writ but I sat down next to the stone and told my father how much I missed him, and how I would make sure to look after the farm he had worried so much about. I looked around hoping for a sight of the fylgia but nothing disturbed the peace as I wandered along the lake shore back to the farm.
***
Since Kjeld had left Becklund, I decided there could be no harm in sending a couple of thralls to help Bard and Brita. Bjarne was almost twelve years old, close
to adulthood, and ready for the responsibility of taking charge of them. Olvir would go to keep Bjarne company, and also to give him something to occupy his inquisitive mind. I would miss him but it seemed the best thing for him. The two thralls, one a penal thrall who had another year to serve before he became free, and an older man who’d been with the family since they arrived in Buttermere, were both entirely reliable. I could have sent them on their own but I thought it good for the boys to go somewhere different and learn from Bard about the running of a farm. He would also teach the boys the skills of a warrior. I packed salt and meat for Brita and a small pig so there would be ham at Yuletide.
Beorn rowed the little party across Crummockwater. I stood with Bjarne’s mother Aluinn and watched them leave.
‘I want to thank you, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, for trusting my son with this task,’ she said. ‘He’s so proud.’
‘He’s a good boy – well, young man, I should say.’ I saw then that her smile was at odds with the look in her eyes.
‘I wanted to talk to you, Mistress Sigrid.’
‘Yes, let’s go back and sit down.’
‘No here, where no one else can hear.’ She looked round. ‘I’m worried about young Thora,’ she said.
‘I thought she was better. She seemed to brighten up when we were at the Thing. I’m sure she looked healthier.’
‘She did and then I thought she’d been upset by the fighting but I’m not sure now.’
‘Does she nurse little ... um ... her baby?’ Like everyone else I had a problem using the name that had given rise to so much unhappiness.
‘No, she hardly looks at her son. She herself doesn’t eat either.’
‘Is there any food she likes that we could tempt her with?’
‘It’s not a lack of any particular food. I think she sees ...’ Aluinn fell silent, her eyes large and frightened. I didn’t need to ask of what. I felt a cold shadow come over me and my voice shrunk to a whisper.
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