To Save a Kingdom

by Marianne Whiting

  ‘I won’t ask you to be my wife, if that’s all the same to you, girl,’ he said. Then he complained about the smoke from the fire and rubbed his eyes.

  ***

  Two weeks after Kirsten’s return, a tired rider all but fell off his steaming horse and handed an arrow to Ragnar. The summons had arrived. Ragnar carved our sign on the shaft and called for one of our best horses to be saddled. Orm volunteered to ride with the message to Rannerdale and on to Low Kid Farm. I thought I knew why. The eldest daughter at Low Kidd Farm was a comely girl and I had sensed an agreement between them. They must say their farewells. There was no telling which of us would return and which would not.

  The muster was set for four weeks hence at a place where the ancient roads cross the river Ribble. It was several days’ ride away and we worked hard to collect provisions from our dwindling supplies. Thorfinn and Anlaf arrived with Anlaf’s younger brother Skuli. Orm was already sworn to Ragnar, so we now had Hrodney’s husband and three of her four sons in our hirds. I wondered who would be tending their farm, but young men are drawn to battle and forget about the fields and animals. They think of honours only and don’t believe that anything can harm them. Not just the young men for that matter.

  ***

  Ylva Flamehair would ride with me. That was never in question. She was sworn to me and had proved herself skilful and brave in the face of attack. Unn and Hildur were different. It was only now, with the certainty of battle ahead, that I realised the responsibility I had accepted in taking two fostrings into my care. Though more common with boys, it was not unheard of for a girl to be brought up in the family of a chieftain. I had been flattered to be asked. I was not high-ranking enough to merit such an honour in the usual way, which was that girls were taught the female skills of weaving, embroidering and running a household. But Hildur and Unn had been given to me to learn the skills of a woman warrior. Their fathers were themselves warriors and knew the risk of injury involved in serious weapons-training but a battle was another matter. I had no right to expose the girls to that. I told Flamehair that I had decided to leave them at Buttermere.

  ‘But, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, they will be sorely disappointed. You have trained with us, you have taught them and me. We are a unit. We are as much part of your fyrd as Varg and Thorfinn and Anlaf.’ She had a point, of course. She and Varg had worked hard to instil some discipline in the boisterous pair and between bouts of high spirited rebellion they had responded well. But were they ready for battle?

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘they are different. You are my sworn warrior but the girls are my fostrings. I must keep them safe, not put them in harm’s way.’

  But when told they would not be part of the muster, the girls set up a wailing loud enough to wake dead nithings in Nifhel and I had to agree to let the matter rest until we met with their fathers. In truth, I was pleased with their response and since Varg got involved in their training they had developed into a team which, if Hildur kept her nerve and Unn listened to her, could be quite effective in a battle.

  ‘Too many “ifs”,’ muttered Ragnar. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ***

  Thorfinn was not, like Anlaf, Varg and Ylva, sworn to me. I had known him since Jarl Swein Hjaltebrand brought his household to Cumbria. They visited my family at Becklund while looking for somewhere to settle. Thorfinn was one of Jarl Swein’s sworn men. He was too fond of his ale and once in his cups tried to paw me. I was twelve years old and well able to defend myself from unwelcome attention. One of the many scars on Thorfinn’s hands was from my knife. He knew that and, many years after, we joked about it. But he still didn’t know that it was also I who dealt him a deep wound in his neck and left him for dead by Floutern Tarn. I often thought when I saw the ugly red scar on his throat that I should perhaps tell him but it was not in my interest for Thorfinn to regain his memory and maybe direct his fierce tempertowards me. He was a much-changed man since he married Hrodney and I had decided to let sleeping dogs lie. We fought together at Brunnanburgh and there was no one I’d rather have on my side in a battle.

  Ragnar’s fyrd included Lothar and he also claimed Hrodney’s two sons Orm and Skuli. His two Norwegians, Kohl and Knut, had made themselves useful around the farm while waiting for opportunities to join a crew and go raiding but now they made it clear that they were ready to swear allegiance to Ragnar and follow him into battle. Two of our servants, Ebbe the Angle and Cerdic the Briton, had persuaded Ragnar to include them too. As always, we would be accompanied by thralls; men, women and older children whose task was to prepare our camp, cook and see to the horses. But I hadn’t realised that Kveldulf was coming.

  ‘He’s too young,’ I pleaded with Ragnar.

  ‘He’s seven, the same age Olvir was at the battle of Brunnanburgh. He’ll stay with the horses safely out of the way of the fighting. It’s part of the training of a warrior, Sigrid, you know that. Remember whose blood runs through his veins.’ I looked at my first-born, tall for his age, sturdy and fearless. The great grandson of King Harald Finehair, he was born to be a warrior. I felt a surge of pride.

  ‘He shall need proper weapons and a shield,’ I said. ‘He may be looking after horses but he is of royal descent and he must look the part.’

  Kveldulf was too small for a sword but I raided chests and hiding places for a seaxe and a small axe. His shield was reinforced with a shiny new boss. I gave him the helmet I had used as a child when my father finally accepted that I wasn’t going to stop fighting. It was still a bit large but we padded it with wool until it sat safely on Kveldulf’s straw-coloured locks. We followed him outside as he raced off to show his new armour to everyone.

  ‘I haven’t seen your mail-saerk,’ said Ragnar to me.

  ‘I don’t wear chain mail, it’s too heavy. The way I fight I need to be able to move quickly and ...’

  ‘Thor’s thunderbolts! You must wear a saerk, Sigrid. Arrows ... axes ... oh, what are you thinking of?’

  ‘I’m thinking of how I fight best, Ragnar. This won’t be my first battle. It’s worked fine in the past.’

  ‘Sigrid, I have stood in a shield wall and, by Baldur’s balls, there you need every bit of protection you can get.’ I had to admit I didn’t know what kind of fight we faced. Brunnanburgh had been a field marked out with hazel rods and the warriors of the two armies met in single combat when the horns sounded to attack. The kings and jarls had been protected by their housekarls forming a shield wall round them but I had not been part of that. I knew the coming battle might be different but I also knew I wasn’t strong enough to wear a heavy mail shirt. My women warriors had, like me, been trained for speed and agility. Leather jerkins were good for stopping arrows from a distance but to stop a sword or axe we had to rely on our swords, shields and ability to move quickly.

  ‘Do you think anyone will ask me to be part of a shield wall?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so.’ He sighed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s so much easier when I go on a raid. I leave, thinking you and the boys will be safe at home.’ I laughed at this and he smiled. ‘Yes, I know you weren’t but I didn’t have to be there and see you face that Galician or fight off the ambush.’

  ‘Ragnar, we’ve been through this before. I thought you’d got used to it. I am my father’s daughter, a woman warrior. My own mother accepted that and sent me into battle with her blessing as if I were her son and not her daughter.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I see you practise and admire your skill – no really I do – but I don’t want to watch you in a real battle. That’s all.’

  ‘You’ll have no time to watch for anything apart from the enemy. It’s simple enough.’ We both laughed at that and I felt the first twinge of excitement at the forthcoming battle.

  ***

  We set off at first light. Relentless drizzle had replaced the sunshine and, despite our banter with the stay-at-homes, we set off in a low mood. I tried singing to lighten our spirits and,
ever loyal, my retinue joined in but with so little enthusiasm I decided the sound did more harm than good. The only one in our company who was excited and happy was Kveldulf, seven years old and riding to his first battle. Varg had taken it upon himself to instruct the lad in how to keep the horses safe and calm, how to move them out of harm’s way should the ebb and flow of the fight come towards them. They rode side by side discussing the merits of different breeds.

  We stopped at Keskadale where Mord and three of his five sons would join the muster with a following of three score men. We were offered refreshments and I was surprised that Cinedred was nowhere to be seen. I sought out Eysten, third eldest of the Mordsons, and enquired about my friend.

  ‘My stepmother has gone to stay in her father’s house,’ he said. He turned red and kept glancing at his brother Eirik, the brother who I knew was Cinedred’s lover. My silence was too long to disguise the fact that I knew all was not as it should be. We were saved from further embarrassment by the call to mount.

  ‘I see your merchant is staying out of harm’s way,’ Ragnar smirked.

  ‘He’s not my merchant and, Ragnar, in the name of Odin and his ravens, don’t let Mord hear you slander his son.’ He laughed as he went to get his men settled.

  Kjeld Gunnarson and five other farmers were already camped at Keskadale and between them they brought another four score and eight. Kjeld had the most men in his following and it riled me when I saw other chieftains defer to him. He also treated Mord as if they were equals. Even Ragnar noticed this.

  ‘What’s happened to make Kjeld so big? He conducts himself as if he were above the rest of us. And Mord, why doesn’t Mord put the bastard in his place?’

  ‘Oh well, Mord, I think Cinedred has left him. One son on the run and a wayward wife. That won’t do much for his reputation. There will be gossip. Try, for once, to pay attention to it.’

  ‘We could do with Olvir and his long ears. You know, Sigrid, I feel quite sorry for Mord. He is owed more respect than this.’

  Ragnar never was one to find out how the talk went and I wasn’t surprised when it was Varg who drew me aside to tell me.

  ‘That son of a viper, Kjeld, says a man who can’t rule his own family and keep them within law and custom is not fit to sit on the Law Rock. Some – not all by any means –but too many for comfort, listen to his slanderous talk.’

  ‘But Mord is our Lawman. Nobody knows the law better than he does. Kjeld can’t be deceiving himself to aspire to that place.’

  ‘No, he knows he can’t hope to become Lawman, he lacks the knowledge for that and the support too. People respect the title even when their trust in the person is on the wane.’

  ‘Are there many, then, who no longer have confidence in Mord?’

  ‘Enough to encourage that sheep’s turd to fancy himself as a leader. He seems to think there can be one leader to deal with matters of war and fighting and one to deal with matters of law and disputes between ourselves.’ I found this both sad and disturbing. I had not always seen eye to eye with Mord but to challenge a Lawman was to challenge Law itself and the whole of our way of life, and that was what we were fighting for, was it not?

  ***

  Ingolf Sigtryggson and Helgi Thorkilson greeted me with the respect I was entitled to as the foster-mother of their daughters but Unn’s father, Ingolf, seemed on his guard. He obviously knew that he’d not been entirely honest when putting his daughter in my care. My pride got the better of me and I praised the girls and the progress they’d made in their weapons training. I called them over to greet their fathers. Helgi embraced Hildur and kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘You look good, my girl,’ he said and Hildur smiled.

  Ingolf’s attempt at embracing Unn was perfunctory and he didn’t look her in the face. His daughter’s eyes were narrow slits and she bared her teeth, not in a smile but in a growl. I hastened to intervene.

  ‘My foster-daughters wish to join my fyrd in the forthcoming battle to help defend our land. They are here to ask your permission and your blessing.’

  I had hardly finished speaking before Ingolf said, ‘That’s freely given. You have my good wishes.’ He said nothing to Unn. Helgi looked thoughtful.

  ‘Hildur, my daughter,’ he said, ‘is this your wish?’ Hildur smiled and nodded. But Helgi was unconvinced. ‘Are you ready for this? What about–...’ he glanced at Unn.

  ‘Father, a warrior called Varg has taught us to fight together, as one. Unn attacks and I watch her back.’

  ‘But can you also hold her back when ... when she ...’ Helgi’s eyes darted between me and Ingolf. I decided it was pointless to continue any pretence.

  ‘When Unn is in the grip of battle fury, you mean.’ At my words, Ingolf made a noise like a drowning man.

  ‘She’s cursed,’ he spat the words, ‘cursed, cursed!’ Helgi put a hand on his shoulder but Ingolf stormed off. I sensed a movement from Unn and grabbed her arm.

  ‘Stay here, Unn. You belong with me.’ To my relief, she became still but her rasping breath told of tears held back. Hildur looked at Helgi.

  ‘We have practised hard, father, and I believe we can do it. Varg has made us pretend it’s for real and when Unn gets angry I calm her before the fury comes over her. I know it will work and, father, this is what I want to do. You have no son but I can be a warrior.’ Helgi sighed.

  ‘I had rather hoped for grandchildren.’

  ‘That can come later; I’ll marry a man who will accept me as a warrior.’ I couldn’t hold a back a wry smile which was not lost on Helgi.

  ‘The confidence of youth,’ he said to me. ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, our agreement was that Hildur should learn to use a sword so she could defend herself.’

  ‘Was it, Helgi Thorkilson? Or was it to get Unn off her father’s hands?’ His cheeks reddened but he said nothing so I continued, ‘Your agreement with Ingolf is no concern of mine. I accepted both girls as my fostrings, I have become fond of them and I wish no change in my agreement with you. So it is for you to decide whether you wish for Hildur to join my fyrd and be subject to the dangers that involves. If you say no, Hildur will be escorted back to Buttermere and Unn will go with her. The request is from them, not me. You know the risks as well as I do and you know I can give no promises.’

  ‘Sigrid’s firstborn is part of the muster. He’s only seven,’ said Hildur, ‘and if I were a boy you wouldn’t hesitate, you’d be proud.’ Helgi nodded.

  ‘I am a weak man. Daughter, you persuaded me, against my better judgement to arrange for you to go with Unn to Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. In fairness, I now reap what I have sown. I should have known that you would get a taste for the fight and not be content to just play. When I give you permission to go, it is in the full knowledge that you risk your life in this cause, the same as I do myself, the same as a son of mine would have done. I am proud of you. But how I am to explain this to your mother Odin himself doesn’t know.’

  ***

  Legburthwaite was an old place for meetings, older than the Norse in Cumbria, older than the Angles, maybe even older than the Romans. A ridge led up to the base of a steep hill. There were stones and mounds nobody knew the meaning of. On one side was Helwellyn Gill, on the other Leathes Water. It was a fortress created by nature and blessed by many gods.

  The Archbishop arrived with Anlaf Cuaran and his cousin Ragnwald Guthfrithson. The two had put their rivalry for the crown of Jorvik aside in order to join forces against Edmund. Or so we were persuaded by Wulfstan to believe. They brought many warriors and soon the whole ridge was clad in tents and shelters and cooking fires. Food became scarce. Men hunted and caught fish in Leathes Water, women and children gathered the few edible roots and plants they could find so early in the year. We had brought what provisions we could and people went round the farms in the area looking to buy and barter. Nobody had anything much to barter with, as supplies were low after the winter. I suspect many farmers found animals missing from their flocks by the time we left.


  Five days we waited there, in the rain, for the King of Cumbria and his fyrd. The Archbishop was not used to being kept waiting and his eyebrows grew ever closer together until they met on the bridge of his nose, making a deep furrow in the centre of his forehead. Then an argument broke out between the two Dublin Kings. Ragnar and his hird had, for the duration of this campaign, been sworn to Wulfstan as part of his personal bodyguard and he heard a great deal of the rows.

  ‘They’re both descendants of Ivar the Boneless and they both claim to be the rightful king, although I have to say Cuaran, with his crooked back, hardly looks the part. His father Sigfrith was King of Jorvik but died when Cuaran was a child. Anlaf Guthfrithson was the king’s brother and was elected to succeed him. Now another brother, Ragnwald, claims the crown but so does the son, Cuaran. They argue about strategy as well. Ragnwald wants to go north where he thinks King Edmund has joined the Earl of Bamburgh. Cuaran wants to go south towards the Five Boroughs. The only thing they seem to agree about is that Dunmail is a treacherous bastard who abandoned them at Brunnanburgh and is doing the same now. Oh, and Ragnwald Guthfrithson blames Wulfstan for making him believe that Dunmail would turn up. I rather get the impression that Cuaran agrees with him although he doesn’t say so.’

  ‘So one king doesn’t show up, the other two are at each other’s throats and turning on Wulfstan. Is that what we’re here to fight for?’