***
I sent Anlaf back to Rannerdale to defend his mother and his farm should they be in danger. Thorfinn stayed at Buttermere and set lookouts for the night. Children and old servants returned from their hiding places among rocks and trees. The fire was banked up to stop smoke giving us away to any marauders. The women prepared a meal of sour curds, bread and smoked meat. We all went to bed with our weapons within reach. I put Kveldulf and Harald on one side of me in the bed and my sword Dragonclaw on the other. There were too many thoughts to allow any sleep and so I was awake when Olvir crept up and joined us. I put my arms round him and noticed the bandages on his feet and hands.
‘Did you try to get them out?’ I felt rather than saw his nod. ‘That was brave but not very wise.’
‘I had to.’
‘I know.’
‘Bjarne.’
‘You did all you could. There’s no blame, none.’
‘I’m coming with you tomorrow.’ His tears soaked through my tunic.
‘Yes, we’ll do this together.’
***
We rode armed, and alert for any ambush. Thorfinn and Varg in front with me, Aluinn and Olvir followed on a sturdy mare and Ylva brought up the rear. Nobody spoke. As we descended through Mosedale we made a detour through the woods, keeping out of sight of the farm. We smelt it long before we saw it. Then it was there in front of us. Part of the turf-roof had caved in where the timbers and rafters had burnt and given way but most of the hall was still standing. Of the door, only scraps of blackened planks remained on the hinges. The sparse furnishings in the hall had not given the fire enough to keep going and that had saved much of the structure but it would not have helped the people asleep on straw-filled box beds.
Thorfinn and Varg went ahead and looked inside. Varg signalled from the doorway that it was empty and I entered. The smell hit me and made my head spin. In my life I had seen battle, I had walked through the desolation of a field strewn with bodies where the air was full of moans and cries, and the stench of blood and torn flesh made me gag. But I had never had to breathe in the smell of charred flesh, knowing it belonged to people I loved.
Aluinn went past me into the hall. Cinders crunched under her feet and the movement of her skirt made little clouds of ash rise and swirl. She stopped. The sleepers had not had time to escape. Among the piles of charred wood we recognised Bjarne’s body from the small knife Beorn had given him. His mother fell to her knees and tried to embrace the black remains. Her keening rose and fell like waves in the aftermath of a storm as the body of her son disintegrated in her arms. I went to where the next bed had been and where two shapes lay side by side. The remnants of Beorn’s shield, just the central boss surrounded by singed leather, dangled from a nail in the wall. Further in, the fire had not taken as firm a hold and the bodies of the two thralls were less badly burnt.
‘They don’t look like they’ve even tried to escape,’ Olvir whispered through his tears. ‘Why didn’t they get up and run outside?’
‘Smoke,’ said Varg. ‘It can suffocate you in your sleep.’ But the look he gave me told me there was more.
***
I decided to bury the five bodies next to my father’s stone. I looked round the stores and the undamaged side of the hall for something to offer as grave-ale. At the back I found a small barrel that was half full.
‘Don’t touch that or anything else, Princess Sigrid.’ Varg had come up behind me. He looked round to make sure nobody else was about. ‘Those lads would have had time to wake and get out, maybe help the others and even put out the fire. Their sleep was not natural.’
‘But you said the smoke ...’
‘That’s for Olvir’s and Aluinn’s ears. When the lad’s better we’ll have to ask him if the ale had a different taste to it and about recent visitors to the farm.’
‘There was a small boy,’ said Olvir. ‘And I don’t need shielding. I’ve been in a battle, you know.’
‘What? Thor’s balls! How did you sneak up?’
‘It’s what I do when I think there are things people don’t tell me.’
‘No offence, Olvir, none.’ Varg patted Olvir on the shoulder. ‘Did the ale taste different that night?’
‘I don’t know, I was looking after a sick cow, I just took some sour curds and bread and went to spend the night in the byre.’
‘A boy, you say.’
‘Yes, he came three days ago, said he was lost. All dust and dirt he was. I think he may have been a runaway. Brita took him in and fed him. He stayed the night and then, in the morning, he left without saying anything. That night, the fire ...’ he raised his shoulders in a hopeless gesture and tears ran down his cheeks. I put my arm round him and made my decision.
‘We can’t stay here. If the ale has been poisoned, the well may have been. Whoever the boy was, whoever he scouted for, may be watching us now. We need to set off for home.’
***
We buried Beorn with his sword and the shield-boss; Brita with an iron pot, into which we put some grain; Bjarne and the two thralls with their knives. They all deserved better but I was now anxious to leave. Odin and Freya knew their worth and would reward them in the afterlife.
***
Thorfinn rode next to me. I told him about the boy and he nodded.
‘I had a look round. All the animals are dead but not from fire. The cow, I couldn’t tell what she died of but the chickens had their throats cut and the dogs too.’
‘Who would get close enough to those beasts to be able to cut their throats? I know them from old, they’re good guard dogs.’
‘Who would be familiar enough to them? We both know that, Sigrid. My old friend, Kjeld Gunnarson.’
‘But Kjeld was at Keskadale. You saw him there yourself.’
‘One of his men then, makes no difference.’ We rode in silence the way we had come. Then a whistle from behind me. I reined in my horse. Olvir pointed down the slope towards Mosedale Beck. I strained my eyes and there among the aspen and hazel was a flicker of white and black.
Thorfinn leaned over and whispered, ‘What’s he seen?’
‘I can’t quite make it out. Black and white down by the beck, look.’
‘It’s a horse,’ said Olvir. He slid off the mare he shared with Aluinn and, without waiting for the permission he knew I wouldn’t give, set off down the slope at a crouching run. We watched him diving in and out of cover. Varg and Ylva followed, with as much care but more slowly. Then a white horse with black markings broke out of the bushes. Varg intercepted it, reached out and grabbed the bridle. He spoke to it and stroked its nuzzle.
‘That’s one of Kjeld’s horses,’ said Thorfinn. ‘He breeds that kind with the black markings. I thought he’d be involved somehow.’
Meanwhile Olvir appeared, looking puzzled.
‘I couldn’t see anyone there. I think we need to search. There must be somebody here.’
We dismounted, hobbled the horses and spread out along the hillside but there was no trace of any human. I decided we must move along before it got too late. We walked with great stealth along the track, leading the horses and were close to the top of the valley when Varg called out.
‘Princess Sigrid! Here’s the boy.’ He pointed down the slope. It looked like a small bundle but when we got there it was the body of a child.
‘It’s him,’ said Olvir.
‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s not him – it’s her.’
I removed the cap to reveal long hair, black as a raven’s wing. Last time I saw her, her eyes had been burning with hatred as she cursed me and swore vengeance for the death of her mother.
***
I wrapped the child’s body in my cloak and tied her to Kjeld’s horse.
‘We shall go to Swanhill. They will know what to do with her body.’ I sent Thorfinn with Aluinn back to Buttermere. She was shivering and seeing the dead child had set her crying again. I also didn’t want Thorfinn with me in case we met with Kjeld.
We stopped
at Floutern tarn to let the horses drink. It was getting late, our provisions were about finished and I realised that we’d need to stay the night at Swanhill. This did not worry me, the sacred rules of hospitality applied to enemies as well as friends and, despite our recent encounter, I didn’t think I had anything to fear from Kjeld at this time. Even so, my heart beat faster as we negotiated the steep slope down to Ennerdale.
As we reached the outlying fields, we were spotted by some people working there. I waved to show that we arrived in peace. Most of them ran towards the farm but one stopped and waited for us to reach him. An old man showed his toothless gums in a wide grin.
‘Mistress Sigrid! I knew it was you. By Odin’s eye, I never thought I’d see you again. And young Olvir too. Thorgunn will be happy.’
‘It’s good to see you again. I wish the times were better for our meeting. I bring sad news for your master. Is Kjeld Gunnarson at the farm?’ His eyes moved to the horse we had found. His smile died.
‘You found the horse. Looks like you found the girl as well. She’s been missing for several days. Bad tidings this, very bad.’
***
It felt strange to return to Swanhill. I had ruled there as Mistress when I was married to Hauk. Kveldulf was born there. After the battle of Brunnanburgh I had returned there expecting to stay and run the farm. Kjeld had deprived me of the farm and everything on it. Now he stood in the yard watching me approach. A tall, dark woman brought a horn of ale in the traditional gesture of welcome. Kjeld scowled when she held it out to me. I dismounted and drank. A couple of thralls untied the body of the child, laid her on the ground and uncovered her. Kjeld and I stood looking at each other over the dead girl. His jaw was clenched and his eyes unfocused. I saw the grief and remembered that the girl was not just the child of the Galician woman but she was the daughter of my dead husband, Hauk. Kjeld was looking at the body of his niece.
‘Kjeld Gunnarson, there has been bad blood between our families for too long.’ It was pity that made me say it and when Kjeld turned his back to me and walked away, I wished I hadn’t. His woman gestured to the hall.
‘Please, you are welcome and shall enjoy shelter and sustenance here in safety.’ The traditional greeting, it meant nothing. Kjeld should have said it. He didn’t but that, too, meant nothing. Not at this moment.
Inside, I was shown to the guest seat next to Kjeld.
‘I’m sorry for your niece, Kjeld.’
He looked at me for a long time. He looked in silence while his household and my companions took their seats, while the food was served and while they all ate. I couldn’t take either food or drink under that stare. It was a long time before he spoke.
‘Maria was not my niece. She was my daughter.’
‘But Lydia was Hauk’s woman! I know she was. He told me so himself.’ His face a blank mask, he answered with a contemptuous snort.
‘Yes, but the children are mine. Hauk was only part a man. He laid every thrall-woman, every servant-woman and none of them carried a child for him. I helped him out, to save his honour. I would have helped him out with you too but your outlaw beat me to it. You escaped me and you dishonoured my brother.’ He spat on the floor between us. ‘You see, I knew all along your son could not be from Hauk's seed. You’re nothing but a whore-woman who cuckolded my brother and tried to pass your son off as his. He was too trusting, wanted too much to believe that he was a man. In the end that killed him. But your bastard didn’t get to inherit – by all the Gods in Asgard, I made sure of that at least.’
I reeled from the vehemence in his voice. I knew then that there was no hope that this bitter, vengeful man would let go of the past.
September 941
Olvir was greatly affected by the fire and Bjarne’s death. He didn’t speak of it but he was quiet and distracted. He no longer took any interest in the gossip around the farm. He, who’d been at the centre of any tittle-tattle, sat by the evening fire with a faraway look, unresponsive to jokes and riddles. He spent his days caring for the animals. He worked in the stables with Varg, who was pleased to have him back. But I felt it was not right for him to be with an old man so much. He needed the company of young people. The one nearest him in age was Ylva but she was absorbed in weapons training. Kveldulf didn’t need him the way he had when younger; these days his thoughts were on hunting and sword fighting, and he hung around Ylva and the younger servants when they practised in the yard. Harald followed Olvir like a shadow but he was no company for the lad.
My worries about Olvir mixed in with my unease about the prospect of war, not far away from here in Cumbria, and of course fear for Ragnar. He had been away much longer than anticipated and although I should know that these things cannot be planned, I fretted. Thora pined for Lothar the Frankian and sometimes we sat in silence together, each knowing the other’s thoughts but not daring to speak for fear of attracting bad luck. I cast the magic runes but the gods would not speak. The horrible visions I had at the midwinter blot haunted me. There had been blood and a thick mist. But whose blood? I hadn’t told anyone but pretended the gods had accepted our sacrifice without any specific messages.
The effort of keeping a brave face and a cheerful demeanour in front of the household was wearying. Sometimes I needed to get away from the farm and wander with nothing but my own thoughts for company. Once the harvest was over and people and animals were back from the summer grazing in the shieling, I had more time, and roamed further from the farm. Varg disapproved of me walking like that and I knew he followed me at a distance, armed and sometimes accompanied by Ylva. I didn’t mind. They didn’t intrude and I accepted it would be senseless for me to fall prey to outlaws, cattle raiders or the wolves that had roamed ever closer to the farm last winter. It was on one of my rambles along the edge of Crummockwater that I spotted a river boat heading for our pier. A glint of metal told me there were weapons onboard. In an instant, Varg stood on one side of me and Ylva on the other.
‘We’d better get back, Princess Sigrid. Those are warriors at the oars.’ I began to turn but something held me back. I strained to see the crew in the boat.
‘Who’s that in the prow?’ said Ylva, ‘It looks like Lothar the Frankian. It is!’
I, too, recognised Ragnar’s friend and blood brother. The last remnant of uncertainty swept from my mind washed away by a tidal wave of joy. My man was back and I had stood the test. I had waited and resisted temptation. Grim was nothing. My Ragnar was back.
‘You can’t be sure it’s Lothar,’ said Varg, ‘not at that distance. Besides, he may be their captive.’
‘No, no,’ Ylva shouted in her excitement. ‘They’re back. It’s them. Look, there’s Hrodney’s boy Orm.’
‘Ragnar, Ragnar,’ I didn’t know whether I screamed or whispered. My eyes searched the boat for his blond head. Why was he not in the prow? He should be there, in mail-saerk and helmet, ready to receive our welcome. At a stroke, my joy was carved from my mind by the cruel knife of despair.
‘He’s not there! Odin, Thor, why is he not there?’ Followed by Varg and Ylva, I ran towards the pier.
***
By the time we arrived, four warriors were bringing ashore a stretcher. On it was a body covered by a cloak. On top rested Bearkiller, Ragnar’s sword.
‘Steady now, Princess,’ whispered Varg. ‘He’s alive or they wouldn’t bring him home. You must be strong now, stronger than on the battlefield, stronger than in the hólmganga.’
Varg’s rough voice stopped the keening that had escaped through my lips. It took a giant’s effort but I straightened my back and, head held high, I approached the stretcher. Why had they covered his face? Why? I took a deep breath and reached out to lift the sheet. My hand stopped. My whole arm shook as it hovered above the shape on the bier. What would I find? My handsome warrior, my lover, my friend. Would it be him or some mutilated abomination in his place? Lothar reached over and lifted the top of the cover. I saw hair, blond but gone dark with greasy dirt and glued together with c
lots of blood. Then a soiled bandage held in place with rags and a plait stiff with dried blood. Even in the fresh breeze, I could smell the filth from the neglected body. I put my hand to my mouth to stop me gagging.
‘We tried to still the blood but the wound won’t heal.’ Lothar sounded apologetic. He pulled the sheet a bit further back. Ragnar’s face under the grimy tufts of beard was the colour of dried clay. His eyes were closed and his lips bloodied where he’d bitten into them. Beads of sweat collected in the furrows on his brow and ran down his temples. His emaciated body shivered in a fever.
‘Inside,’ he mumbled through clenched teeth. I felt a jolt of relief in the midst of my anguish. He was alive and Kirsten would ... but of course, Kirsten was missing.
***
We settled Ragnar in the box bed. I decided that letting him rest was more important than cleaning him up and gave him a draft of valerian to let him sleep. I sent Kveldulf and Harald away, saying Far was tired. Then I just sat, shaking, looking at the shell of a man that was my Ragnar. After a while someone knelt in front of me and a pair of soft arms embraced me.
‘He’s back, Sigrid. They’re both back. Everything will be well, now they’re home.’
Thora’s smiling, tear-streaked face looked up at me. Behind her, Lothar the Frankian stood holding their son. His smile seemed to light up the whole house. Thora was right, I must not despair. Ragnar was alive, there was hope. Also, I was mistress of the house, I had a hall full of warriors in need of rest, sustenance and various degrees of healing. There was work to be done. My work.
***
Olvir didn’t have Kirsten’s knowledge but I had to trust him to take charge of Ragnar. He inspected the blood-soaked bandage. Then he pulled down a lower eyelid. Ragnar mumbled something inaudible but didn’t wake up. Olvir let his fingers travel lightly over Ragnar’s head. He nodded.
‘The skull is not broken but he’s lost too much blood from the wound. He’s all dried out. Lothar, I need to speak with you.’ His voice held a quiet authority and I looked with new eyes at my almost-adult fostring. Lothar explained that apart from the deep cut on the side of the head, Ragnar had no other injuries that he was aware of.
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