With more care than if he’d been a newborn babe, we undressed Ragnar. I hurt when I saw the hollow of his abdomen between the protruding ribs and hip bones. The strong body had wasted away but apart from some bruises there were no other injuries. Children went hunting for clean cobweb and Thora was ready with pots of shepherd’s purse steeped in hot water. I gave Olvir my finest needle and a length of silk thread. He was almost as pale as Ragnar but his hand was steady as he cleaned out the wound with wine and began to stitch it together. Thora stuffed a rag into Ragnar’s mouth to stifle his moans but tears squeezed out through the closed eyelids and his grip on my hand was so firm it hurt.
When he’d finished, Olvir straightened up with a deep sigh. He applied a poultice of oats boiled with shepherd’s purse and covered it with a clean bandage. He asked for wine to be heated up and sage leaf added to it. Thora put a red hot poker into a silver horn of red wine until it sizzled.
‘We must get him to drink,’ said Olvir. ‘He’s very dry. Wine helps him sleep and sage for the blood so he’ll feel better. Try to feed him broth, just by the spoonful, a very little at a time, but keep going through the day. If he starts bleeding again, I don’t ... you see ...’ He stopped and was a child again, tears running down his cheeks.
There was little else we could do for Ragnar. I couldn’t spend my time sitting by him. It would not help him and I had a large and increasingly boisterous household to keep fed and in order. Eight men had returned with Ragnar. Apart from Lothar the Frankian and Hrodney’s son Orm, only two others opted to stay on at Buttermere. The rest would let their wounds heal and then they would leave in search of other chieftains looking for crews.
‘But there were thirty men when you set off. What happened out there?’ I asked Lothar.
‘Fortune went against us,’ he said. ‘We had no success along the coast of Wales, so we continued south towards the lands of the Normans and the Flemish. We wintered in a place close to the mouth of the river Seine. Then in spring we joined a chieftain out of Ribe who was heading South where we raided along the coast of the Bretons. We had some sport and gained some treasure. Then we split from them and headed for home. We reached the coast of the Welsh and camped on a small island. That’s where Ragnar’s gods deserted us altogether. Men came through the mist, silent as fetches. Spears, rocks and throwing-axes rained down on us. Many of us had removed our armour, Ragnar had no time to put his helmet on. We left many brave warriors there before we managed to put to sea and escape. It was bitter to flee like cowards but they were many and we were too few to make a stand. I don’t know who they were.’
‘Lothar, friend, I thank you for bringing him back. I shall be always in your debt. Did you have no gains at all?’
‘Not much. A small amount of gold for each warrior, a few thralls which I sold to get enough gold to pay off those warriors who chose to leave. I have buried Ragnar’s and my share in the usual place. You know it. It will pay for salt and keep us comfortable for a while. I’m sorry, Sigrid. It’s not the homecoming we had in mind when we set off.’
***
Kveldulf accepted that his father was wounded and needed rest. He became very popular with the returned crew. They found it amusing when he commandeered them to help him with his weapons training. They called him the young chieftain and each evening I was treated to tales of his exploits. Harald had no memory of his father and would sidle up to the bed and lift the hangings so he could look at him. We soon realised that he didn’t disturb Ragnar as he stood on tiptoe, craning his neck to get a good view. Often he seemed to sway and sometimes I thought I heard him sing a wordless tune.
‘What are you singing, Harald?’ I asked once when I picked him up.
‘Lullaby. Far sleepy. Ha-ald sing lullaby.’ Ragnar looked up and winked at me.
***
Two moons after Ragnar’s return, he was strong enough to leave his bed for short periods of time. He was still a pale shadow of his warrior self but the wound was healing and his emaciated body began to fill out. The crew left, all bar two Norwegians. Olvir had healed their wounds but they asked to stay until they returned to full strength. They proved themselves capable and willing workers. It was a busy time on the farm; slaughtering the animals we would not be able to feed over winter, salting and smoking their meat to preserve it, collecting firewood, repairing the buildings to make sure they would hold against the winter storms. The harvest had been good, extra hands made light work. Two more swords to help defend the farm might, of course, also come in handy.
Towards winter, we still were no wiser as to the whereabouts of Kirsten and Njal. So, when a horn sounded to announce the arrival of Grim Mordson and a small entourage, I thought there would be news about the two runaways. But his visit turned out to have another reason. He had a packhorse loaded with two panniers full of bundles and chests. He dismounted and flicked back a fur-lined cloak to reveal rich clothes of wool and velvet, trimmed with gold thread and silken ribbons. My hands shook and went as cold as water fresh from the well while my cheeks turned as hot as the sun at midday. There could only be one reason for him making a visit dressed in all his finery.
‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter,’ he said after the formal greetings were completed, ’I have brought gifts. I looked for you at the Thing but you weren’t there and so ...’
Before he could continue, I said, ‘I was not at the Thing because my husband returned wounded and needed rest. He is healing and getting stronger by the day. Please come inside and meet him.’
Grim’s smile died and his face looked as if chiselled in grey stone. I handed him the mead horn. He drank. It looked like he kept the horn to his lips long after it was empty.
Then he handed it back, took a deep breath and said, ‘My father sends gifts to help compensate you for the loss of your thrall and your serving woman. I was riding this way on an errand and so ...’
He didn’t finish. He knew, as I did, that Buttermere was not on the way to anywhere. If you came here, especially at this time of year, it was because this was where you wanted to go. But I had to admire his presence of mind to change from suitor to messenger. I sent the thralls to prepare food and drink and also to make sure Ragnar would be ready to meet Grim.
***
Ragnar had a knack of knowing when a man admired me. His jealousy and quick temper had in the past put us both in danger. He struggled to his feet and faced Grim with his arms crossed over his chest. I glared at him until he offered Grim his hand in welcome. We sat down. The servants put out meat and ale which were ignored. I asked Grim after his family and got an answer so perfunctory, it was only just polite. Well, I thought, it was perhaps not a happy topic for conversation. I tried again.
‘What news have you from the Thing?’
He still avoided my eye and addressed his answer to the ale-horn.
‘Not much. Anlaf Sithricson, the one they call Cuaran, was elected King of Jorvik. But you knew that already.’
He fell silent and I couldn’t think of anything else to ask him so I was forced to keep the silence at bay with inane chatter about the farm and the children. Grim and Ragnar kept giving each other hostile glances. It was a relief when Grim turned down my offer of hospitality and got up to take his leave. I followed him outside, as was polite. It wasn’t that I cared but I couldn’t help noticing that Grim told his groom to put the larger of the two panniers back on the horse, leaving the smaller one with gifts for me.
‘There’s no need to thank my father for these gifts. I’m sure you understand.’
***
Why did I feel guilty? I had never allowed Grim to think that I was agreeable to his courtship. Or had I? At the feast after the parley, had he noticed how I couldn’t help meeting his eyes, how my hand trembled when he helped me to my seat? I pretended to have some business in the dairy to get time to think. I sat down on an upturned milk pail and rested my chin in my hands. I had hoped for a friend, I could cope with an admirer – but a suitor? No, that I had not asked for, no
r encouraged. I felt embarrassed and angry. A bit annoyed with myself, too. I had enough problems without this. My mood didn’t improve when I got inside and had to face Ragnar.
‘So, you’d given me up for dead and were making arrangements to replace me, were you?’
He sounded almost his old self and I was about to lash out at him. Then I saw him slumped in the high seat, his sunken cheeks, the furrows on his brow and I reined in my fury. I clenched my hands and took a deep breath to keep calm. But I wasn’t going to let his unfair accusation pass unchallenged.
‘It ill-behoves you to complain when, I’m sure, you take your pleasures where you find them while out on your journeys.’
I saw the words ‘that’s different’ forming on his lips. He, wisely, didn’t say them out loud and I had no trouble staring him down. I felt not the slightest twinge of conscience taking advantage of his weakened state. He sulked in silence and I made a show of moving around the hall doing my chores.
That night I shared his bed. I slipped in beside him and he put his head on my shoulder. I whispered, ‘You know I have waited for you. You should be ashamed of yourself for doubting me.’
‘Sigrid, we must be married.’
‘We are married – don’t you remember, in the chapel at Nidaros. Hakon and that priest made us promise all sorts of things.’
‘That doesn’t count. It never did. We must have a marriage that is recognised by the people here.’
In the dark I smiled to myself.
***
A few days later Ragnar and I sat next to each other on a bench by the south-facing wall making the most of the rare winter sunshine. He was rubbing sheep fat into his chain mail to keep the rust away and I was stitching a new shirt for Olvir who seemed to grow taller by the day.
‘Midsummer, I think,’ he said.
‘Mmm? What about it?’ I shook out the stiff linen cloth to judge the length.
‘Our bride-ale. Midsummer. What do you think?’
‘Oh, I was to be allowed an opinion, was I?’
He leant across and bit my shoulder. I jumped up and cried out then I laughed till I was out of breath. When I recovered, I kissed him and said, ‘Yes, midsummer will be just right. Baldur and Freya will bless our marriage.’
Midsummer came and Buttermere Farm filled with guests: the families from Rannerdale and Low Kid Farm and people from more distant farms. Among them, to my astonished delight, were Lawman Mord Lambason, his wife Cinedred and his two younger sons, Eysten and Bose. That was an honour I had not expected. We were well prepared. We had baked and brewed, slaughtered and cooked for days. Our stores were full of delicacies, almonds, dates and wine brought from faraway lands as well as our own hams, sausages and game. The animals were all outside and the stalls and barns gave sleeping places for servants and youngsters, while older and more important visitors were given sleeping space on the benches in the hall. I felt a surge of pride to hold such a great feast.
Ragnar had paid bridegeld to my mother when we were in Norway. I already shared his home so there was no procession to bring the bride to her husband. This didn’t stop us celebrating our marriage and, once the feasting was under way, we were carried shoulder high into the hall and deposited in the bed that we had already shared for years. The door closed after the wedding party and we listened at their laughter and bawdy jokes. Music from pipes, drum and lyre started up as the feasting outside continued.
I hugged Ragnar and said, ‘We’d better wait a decent interval before we go outside and join them.’
He laughed, kissed me and removed my headdress.
‘Oh no, my beautiful bride, don’t think you’re getting away with that.’
He carefully unclasped the two brooches that held my pinafore together. He peeled my dress away from my body and traced the outline of my nipples with his tongue. His hands caressed my stomach, my back and my thighs with a touch so light and soft my whole body sang with delight. When he entered me, I clung to him, forgetting all but the urgency of my need for him.
We must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew was a heavy knock on the door and a drunken voice calling to us that it was getting too dark and cold to sit outside. The wedding party all came tumbling in singing and laughing. I pulled the drapes round our bed to preserve our modesty while we got dressed but it became a tale often repeated how Ragnar had bored his bride so badly that she slept through the feasting at their bride-ale. Thorfinn began to compose a drapa about it but stopped when Ragnar smiled and promised to cut his tongue out if he continued. The last of the guests left two days later and it was agreed that a better bride-ale had never been celebrated in the whole of Cumbria.
***
Kirsten arrived one evening as the summer drew to a close. She rode into the yard on Lord of the Fells, her torn, dishevelled dress stretched over the child in her womb. Varg helped her dismount. Nobody else dared come near her, not even Olvir. It was as though she walked inside a shell. She came up to me and, without a word, prostrated herself, resting her face in the dirt. I lifted her up.
‘Kirsten, this is your home. We have missed you. Thank you for coming back to us.’ I gave order for the sauna to be heated. Then I took her inside the hall, away from all the staring eyes.
‘He’ll come back for me,’ she said. ‘He promised he would and I believe him.’ Her calm was unsettling. Thora brought wine in a small beaker but Kirsten shook her head. ‘I shall stay as your thrall, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. I shall work off my debt to you. We did wrong to take your horse although we always intended to return it. I deceived you and repaid your trust and kindness with treachery. I would ask your forgiveness for that but I do not regret going with Njal.’
‘Kirsten, you will never be a thrall in this house. You will be my serving woman as before and you and your child will always have a home here. If Njal should ...’
‘When Njal comes for me, not “if”, I shall leave with him, whatever destiny the Norns have wrought him.’
I sighed. What could I say to that? Thora took Kirsten to the sauna and brought her clothes back. We found a soft shirt, a light woollen dress and a pinafore and when she had been cleansed, I combed Kirsten’s long hair and helped her dress. She didn’t tell me where she and Njal had been hiding, nor where he’d fled to after leaving her. Only after several days had passed did she tell me that he had brought her almost all the way to the farm before leaving her to ride the last few furlongs on her own.
‘He cares for me, Sigrid. He never mistreated me and he didn’t force himself on me. It was my choice.’
‘But he abandoned you when you became with child.’
‘He had to. It was my decision to keep the baby.’
‘Did you not realise he’d have to leave you then?’
She lowered her head over the small shirt she was sowing and her reply was but a whisper.
‘No, I thought I’d come with him – some women do – but he said no good women do, so ...’
I sighed. I seemed to do a lot of that since Kirsten had returned and I suspected there was more to come. Mord would want to know where his son was and he would be much more forceful in his questioning than I was. I also wondered what Mord would think of a grandchild. He wouldn’t want Kirsten in his house but he might claim the child, especially if it turned out to be a boy.
***
‘Ragnar,’ I said, ‘I think I need to keep Kirsten hidden from Mord until after the baby is born. Lawman or not, I am determined to stop him claiming his grandchild.’
‘You’re playing a dangerous game,’ said Ragnar. ‘We can’t keep her secret for ever. When shall the baby be born?’
‘Around Yuletide, she thinks.’
‘And you believe that for the next three moons you’ll be able to keep Mord from finding out?’ Then he stopped and stroked his chin. ‘Could we pass someone else off as the father?’
A voice interjected from somewhere behind his shoulder.
‘Bjarne wanted to marry her.’
&nbs
p; ‘Olvir, have you not grown out of sneaking round and listening to people?’ Ragnar made a half-hearted attempt to box Olvir’s ear. Olvir ducked with a practised move and continued.
‘Well, since Bjarne is ... he’s ... well, I thought maybe ... perhaps I should.’
‘Should what?’
‘Marry her. Marry Kirsten. Instead of Bjarne, I mean, since he ...’
Ragnar turned round and coughed. I bit back a smile.
‘No, that’s not how it works,’ I said. ‘Kirsten wants nobody but Njal so she’ll want to stay alone, at least for now.’
‘Ah, I see,’ said Olvir. I couldn’t tell whether the look on his face was one of disappointment or relief.
‘I think we’ll have to send Kirsten to stay somewhere else for a while. Sooner or later Mord will find out she’s back and Buttermere won’t be safe for her.’
Ragnar snorted. ‘Out of reach of Mord! Ha!’
But Olvir looked thoughtful. ‘Becklund would have been a good place,’ he said. ‘Brita and Bard would have looked after her. But perhaps Ylva’s parents would take her in.’ Ragnar stopped frowning, smiled and put his arm round Olvir’s shoulders.
‘You’re not such a waste of space after all, are you, son? Low Kid Farm is so humble, Mord probably doesn’t even know it exists.’
‘You’re wrong there,’ I said, ‘he knows every household in the area – but perhaps not exactly who belongs to each one. They can pass Kirsten off as a servant, or even another daughter. Yes, I think that could work. Ylva hasn’t seen her family for a while. It’s time she paid them a visit.’
Kirsten left, telling everyone that she’d go to find Njal. There was much tut-tutting and some tried to talk her out of it but nobody seemed surprised when I made sure she had food for the journey and warm clothes to wear. We said farewell in the yard in front of servants and thralls. I sent Ylva the next day, on horseback with gifts and messages. I was left wondering if I’d done the right thing putting Ylva and her parents in danger of incurring the wrath of the Lawman.
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