PART FOUR
“Be loyal through life to your friends, to them and to friends of theirs.
But never make an offer of friendship to your foes.”
Havamal
October 942
It was time to attend the gathering of the Thing. It was very different from last time. Ragnar was at my side. He would, in front of everyone, recognise our sons as his own and we would be a family in the community of Cumbrian Norse. Alone in the holy grove, I sought the advice of Odin in the magic runes and the entrails of a lamb. The Wise One gave me unclouded thoughts and it seemed clear to me that my encounter with Kjeld Gunnarson at Mord’s parley would be left alone, as Varg and Cinedred were the only ones who knew about it. The fire at Becklund was better not raised, as the child was dead and, in the eyes of the gods, justice had been done. The time was not right to accuse Kjeld of supporting Njal. I had no proof and also, it might start people talking about Kirsten. Ylva’s parents had sent news of her; she was safe and that was all I asked for just now. So, I thought I could ride to the Thing free of worries.
The walls of our booth were in good repair, the roof was soon covered and a fire lit in the fire-pit. I walked round the temporary settlement that sprang up each year around the Thing-mound. I breathed in the smells from cooking fires where a steady supply of food roasted on spits and bubbled in cauldrons. I listened to the banter and arguments. It was good to meet old friends and visit important families to exchange gifts. A couple of my thralls hawked their woodcarvings. I saw our thrall, Cerdic the Briton, smiling as he haggled with a customer. It reflected well on Buttermere Farm; only on a prosperous farm do thralls have time to spare for their own work. Ragnar and I received visitors. His father was not mentioned nor was his own past. On the contrary, people asked him to tell about his travels and adventures.
I had wondered if Ragnar’s return would affect my status among the chieftains. Buttermere was Ragnar’s farm and there I was his wife. At the Thing it was different: I was there as the owner of Becklund; I had warriors sworn to me; I had fought and gained honour. At least, that’s how I saw it. But I was only too aware that it jarred with many of the older chieftains to accept a woman in their midst. I felt reassured when most of the chieftains and farmers treated me as an equal. Then I realised how many of their greetings included references to my grandfather and father, and I had to grudgingly accept that I still owed much of my social standing to men and had some way to go before I had a position among the Cumbrian Norse that I could call my own.
***
There was business to conduct. Varg looked at horses. Lord of the Fells had healed well but his gait was uneven and the scar on his flank was unsightly. We used him mainly to carry burdens while I rode Snowflake, a strong, sure-footed mare.
‘You need a mount to match your reputation and Ragnar Sweinson’s stallion is not good enough for a chieftain either.’
‘I thought you had plans to breed from Lord of the Fells?’
Of course, I knew he would have a horse in mind. I suspected it would cost me dear so I thought I should argue for form’s sake.
‘It would take years, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. You need a good steed now. It was a blow to have Lord of the Fells so badly wounded just after we lost Nightrunner.’
‘Varg, you know why – Nightrunner was the only gift worthy of the gods.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m only saying. We do need a good stallion at Buttermere, two in fact – though three would be better.’ I stared at him. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘no harm in asking, is there?’ He bared his filed, yellow fangs in a grin.
‘So where is the horse you want me to have? Maybe you even know the price.’
‘Now, that’s the knot. The best horses come from a place you would not feel particularly happy dealing with.
‘Kjeld Gunnarson!’
‘No better horses from anywhere around here.’
‘Varg, you know that even if I wanted to buy from him, Kjeld would never agree to sell to me.’
Nevertheless, we wandered over towards the horse field. I knew Kjeld’s horses; piebald black with white patterns, strong and sturdy. I watched one, a stallion, as he pranced round the enclosure with a high-stepping gait, the feathered legs a flurry of movement. Varg followed my gaze and nodded.
‘Yes, that one and perhaps the one over there, but I think that’s the one Kjeld rides himself.’
He pointed to the other end of the field and I had to catch my breath. Sleek, almost completely black, with a white star on the forehead, this stallion was a manifestation of power and grace. I knew then I could no longer ride Snowflake while my enemy was mounted on such a magnificent steed. I would have that horse, whatever the cost.
‘I think he’s called North Wind,’ said Varg and I heard in his voice that he’d known all along that I would covet the steed he’d chosen for me.
‘Kjeld will never sell that horse.’
‘Probably not.’
‘Not for any amount of silver.’
‘No.’
‘Not to me.’
‘No.’
***
Hrodney, as always, took charge of my household and Thora and I had time to meet our neighbours and friends. Thora led her toddler son by the hand and proudly introduced him by his name, Swein. She didn’t need to add that he was named for her father. People would have made the connection with the traitor Jarl Swein Hjaltebrand. I saw many heads put together in tittle-tattle when Thora had her back turned but, if she noticed, she never let on. Her man, Lothar, worked hard to make a name for himself and returned one afternoon to the booth supporting a limping Thorfinn, while trying to staunch the blood from a cut to his own arm. Olvir was summoned and set to cleaning out Lothar’s wound.
‘I let the lad get a few hits,’ said Thorfinn rubbing his leg while ignoring Lothar’s protests and Olvir’s giggles.
‘It was an equal fight, we all agreed on that,’ Lothar said through clenched teeth, ‘and, Olvir, if you don’t stop pouring that troll’s brew into my wound and tie it up, you too will have a taste of my good Frankian sword.’
‘Yes, it’s a good sword that, my friend,’ said Thorfinn. ‘I’ll show you how to use it, if you like.’
Olvir was lonely without Bjarne. He still had no interest in any of the competitions and pursuits that occupied the other young people. He watched and encouraged Kveldulf, who tried everything from wrestling, to shooting his bow and arrow, and throwing a spear. He looked after Harald, who was headstrong and fearless in the way of all three-year-olds. And he treated the household for everything from cuts and grazes to removing a splinter from the shoulder of one of the servants and binding a broken arm sustained by Orm Yngvarson in a wrestling match. Orm had returned with Ragnar and was teased that he’d raided and fought for a year without as much as a bruise to show for it but, as soon as he got on to dry land, he became as delicate as a badly made pot.
I worried about Olvir’s state of mind and I was pleased when he decided to enter the race.
‘I hope you’ll get round without running into anyone this year.’
‘It was her, you know,’ he said. I didn’t need to ask who. ‘I remember her now from Swanhill. I can’t really blame her for wanting to avenge her mother.’ My heart seemed to stop and then start again, beating twice as hard. Did he mean I’d been wrong, sentencing the thrall Lydia to death? Did he blame me for the retaliation that caused Bjarne’s death?
‘Her mother caused Ingefried’s death, Olvir. Mord Lambason has told me I did everything according to the law. I was in my right.’
‘It’s just that it seems like there’s no end to it all.’
‘There is when people accept weirgeld.’
‘I know and it seems a very good way of stopping the killing. But, Sigrid, how can money replace a person? And anyway, if someone killed you, I mean like when that man tried to, I’d go after them – I would. And all the silver in the whole of Cumbria wouldn’t change that. But now I wonder if I should do some
thing about Bjarne. Perhaps Beorn and Brita as well, they didn’t have any children or other family, did they?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘And Bjarne only has his mother.’
‘Yes.’
‘But someone should ...’ his voice wobbled and he stopped.
‘You want me to claim compensation for Bjarne. He was my servant. I’d be justified.’
‘And maybe if you gave something to the other children from Swanhill they would leave you alone.’
I knew, of course, there were two more children – a girl and a boy, both too small to have any memory of the day their mother died but fed stories by their older sister and by Felipe the Galician, probably also by Kjeld.
‘I don’t think I can do that, Olvir. I can’t offer weirgeld for a thrall who belonged to me and who was punished according to the law.’
‘But she wasn’t just a thrall, was she?’
‘At Swanhill, yes, that was all she was. Hauk bought her or was gifted her, I don’t know which – but a thrall she was.’
‘And Hauk is dead and can’t do anything to change it now.’ He thought a moment and shot me a sideways glance. ‘Maybe you could free her and then you could offer to pay.’
‘She’s dead. How can I free a dead thrall?’
‘Wulfstan told me how people get made saints after they’re dead. Why can’t someone be freed after death?’ I had no answer. Olvir followed lines of thought and arguments I had never encountered before.
***
***
Mord Lambason wooed Ragnar to make sure of his sword against King Edmund, and Ragnar became a regular guest at his booth. Ragnar returned from there one day with the news that Archbishop Wulfstan had arrived and intended to address the gathering by the Law Seat the following day. This caused a stir and all but the very young assembled to hear him. He arrived with Mord Lambason. His religious insignia were not much in evidence; the bejewelled cross resting on his broad chest could be mistaken for a pendant. Under his fur-lined mantle he was dressed more like a jarl than a bishop. I took this to be deliberate in order not to offend the many chieftains that adhered to the Old Religion. He spoke and his voice rumbled like thunder, audible even to those at the back of the gathering.
‘Our laws in the Kingdom of Jorvik are different from those of the Saxons. You all know that. Tamworth and Leicester may seem a long way away to you but they are part of the line that divides our land from that of King Edmund of Wessex, the one they call “Deed Doer”. He is set on ruling over the whole of England. The area of the Five Boroughs has fallen to him. There is nothing now to separate his forces from the North. We need to unite, we need to muster and take our swords to the Saxons before it is too late and you find the enemy on your doorstep.’
He paused and looked around. So far Wulfstan’s predictions had come true. Would he be right about the rest? People looked from the Archbishop to each other. Jorvik had shifted hands between the Saxon kings and the Norse more than once but was Cumbria truly in danger of being taken over? For myself, I had no doubt. I had met Edmund and his predecessor, the formidable Æthelstan. I did not wish to be ruled by a Saxon king. But how could we hope to defeat him?
The noise gathered strength as people began discussing what the Archbishop had said. He raised his hand for silence and resumed.
‘We do not stand alone. The Kingdom of Cumbria and the Kingdom of Jorvik – together we can face up to and defeat the Saxons. With the brave swords of the Cumbrian Norse we shall be victorious. Let it not be said that you sat by your hearths like old men in their dotage, hid in your byres like women and ran from the enemy like cowards.’
Murmurs swelled like a wave until there were voices calling out in anger at such slander. And so the Cumbrian Norse decided they were ready to fight for their honour as well as their land. I caught a glance from Ylva Flamehair. She frowned. Like me she was offended by the dismissive comment about hiding like women.
***
The next morning Olvir turned up at our booth with the Archbishop in tow. As usual, Wulfstan presented me with the ring to kiss and, as usual, I ignored it, bent my knee and put his hand to my forehead. He blessed me anyway.
‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, excuse my intrusion but young Olvir has challenged me to a game of hnefatafl and my reputation would suffer terrible damage if I turned it down.’ This drew laughter from my servants and I had to smother a smile before I was able to make the formal reply.
‘Your Grace is always welcome, it is an honour to receive you. I hope you’ll find my present abode more comfortable than Storm-Wolf.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that voyage brought more excitement than is good for an ageing cleric. It was a good ship and, thanks to the Lord, we survived.’
My servants rose to the occasion and came running with seats, wine and sweetmeats. The Archbishop settled down and helped himself to almonds, dried dates and sliced apples dipped in honey. He waved to my household to stay out of earshot and lowered his voice.
‘Mord Lambason has told me of the long-standing feud between you and your former brother-in-law. It is in both your interest and that of the rest of the community here to put an end to this. Dogs should not fight amongst themselves while the wolf kills the sheep. Now young Olvir seems to have put his intelligence to the matter and has presented me with a most interesting proposition. I gather you are aware of his thoughts.’
I looked at Olvir’s beaming face.
The Archbishop continued, ‘I shall, with your permission, give the matter some thought and let your Lawman Mord Lambason know, but I don’t see why a posthumous grant of liberty should not take place, thus clearing the way for an offer and acceptance of weirgeld.’ Dumbstruck, I could only nod and watch Wulfstan and Olvir set out the gaming pieces. They had spent most of the voyage from Norway playing hnefatafl and, although that was two years ago, they looked like they were about to pick up where they had left off.
As is often the case, the game lasted into the night. The board was carried into the booth with more care and attention than had it been made of cobweb. Not a piece was disturbed and the game continued by the light of my best candles. When Mord sent word asking about his guest’s whereabouts, the messenger was sent back with the instruction that the Archbishop was involved in delicate talks. Mord arrived in person. He took in the scene of a senior man of the Church and an adolescent former thrall facing each other over the hnefatafel board. His brow wrinkled in confusion, then he looked at me, shrugged and took his leave. Ragnar returned from visiting, looked at the mismatched pair and had to go back outside until he stopped laughing. I offered wine which was turned down. Hrodney brought food and was waved away. The men went to sleep in their tents and by the fire. The women and children crept to bed in silence. Even Harald seemed to understand that Olvir could not leave his game to put him to bed. I sat up, thinking it was my duty towards my guest. They needed extra candles. The two combatants never noticed me trimming wicks and replacing the stumps. I kept nodding off and, time and again, woke to see the Archbishop muttering to himself and stroking his chin where the emerging stubble made a rasping sound against his fine kid gloves while, opposite him, Olvir sat as still and silent as a figure carved in wood.
***
Sometime in the early hours of the morning the game must have ended for, when I opened my eyes, the Archbishop and Olvir lay side by side on the straw fast asleep. When he woke, Wulfstan broke his fast with us. I didn’t dare ask who’d won but it struck me that Olvir looked rather smug. As our guest was taking his leave, two men approached. Helgi Thorkilson and Ingolf Sigtryggson, both men of substance, had known and respected my father. They supported me many years ago when Kjeld Gunnarson successfully challenged my right to my dead husband’s farm. We had remained on friendly terms, so I was not surprised to see them. They were followed by two young women. All four bent their knee to Wulfstan and, with varying degrees of reluctance, kissed the ring.
Wulfstan began to take his farewell fro
m Ragnar but stopped to listen when Helgi turned to me and, after the customary greetings, said, ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, our daughters have persuaded us that, if we are to enter a violent time, they’d rather be able to defend themselves than have to hide in the byre, which is not a safe place at any time, good or bad. We have come to ask that you accept our daughters as fostrings and teach them how to use a sword.’
A triumphant laugh rang out at this and I turned to see Hrodney put her hand over Ylva Flamehair’s mouth. The Archbishop’s face made it very clear that this was in no way amusing to him. The two fathers looked resigned and I had a fair idea of how the deliberations with their daughters had been conducted. Had I not persuaded my own father to let me have my own sword? The request to foster the daughters of two rich farmers was a great honour. I couldn’t refuse and, in truth, I didn’t want to.
The two young women seemed unremarkable. Hildur Helgisdaughter was a tall, strong-looking girl with unruly blonde curls struggling free of pins and ribbons. She spoke for both of them, while Unn Ingolfsdaughter stood silent, her dark eyes darting between her friend and me. She was small, almost wiry and I judged she would be quick and agile. I exchanged oaths and gifts with the two fathers, then I sat down and first Hildur, then Unn sat on my lap to show that they were now my fostrings. The fathers took their leave. I thought it looked like Ingolf heaved a sigh of relief but decided I had imagined it.
Ylva Flamehair, mindful of her place as my sworn warrior, took charge and asked my permission to start their training by showing them how to look after their weapons. I watched them walk off together and couldn’t help smiling when, thinking themselves out of view, my two fostrings discarded their demure attitude, drew their weapons and waved them in the air with shouts of triumph and celebration. I thought I might have to intercede but then Flamehair stopped and, with feet firmly planted on the ground and hands on hips, delivered what I suspected would be the first of many talks about what constitutes good behaviour among warriors in general.. The girls hung their heads but behind Flamehair’s back nudged each other while their shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. I caught Wulfstan’s eye. Not much escaped him and he’d witnessed the scene with a sour expression. My pride stung, I knew I had to make a success of training the girls.
To Save a Kingdom Page 14