To Save a Kingdom

by Marianne Whiting

  ‘Ah, well, yes but, you see, there’s no challenge.’ He lowered his voice and looked round. ‘I have to confess that I sometimes feel I serve the man Wulfstan at the expense of serving Our Lord God through His Archbishop. It was different back then. I did have some success, there in Cumbria, did I not? Once I got to know the people? They became very dear to me, you know. I think of them often. How are they all? Thorfinn and Hrodney and their sons, have they stayed true to their beliefs?’ Since he didn’t specify which beliefs in particular I was able to nod without lying outright, although, to be fair, Hrodney was still a Christian.

  Ansgar had changed little, his hands no longer bore the calluses and cuts from outdoor labour and the shaved patch on his head was a lot neater, presumably because someone did it for him, but he was as thin and ascetic-looking as ever. I also feared that he was as idealistic and naïve as when he set out to convert the Cumbrian Norse. I recognised the excited smile and the roses spreading on his cheeks and, despite my fondness for the little monk, I began to have reservations about this reunion.

  Ansgar’s next question made me sit up straight.

  ‘Olvir, my dear little Olvir, how is he? He must be ...’

  ‘What do you mean, I thought you’d know? Wulfstan took him away to educate him and turn him into a scribe. Is he not with you?’

  ‘No, but I would not necessarily have heard of any new apprentices. Oh, Sigrid, such a blessing for the boy. I always knew he’d find the true path and now thanks to the Lord, he has. Please don’t look so downhearted; as a scribe, he’ll be safe, and he has a great future ahead of him. Rejoice, Sigrid, in little Olvir’s good fortune. Maybe he can assist me in my mission when we return to dear old Cumbria.’

  Two strong emotions fought for precedence in my breast; one was an unjustified anger that Wulfstan had not kept Olvir at his court, but, after all, the boy was safe as a scribe somewhere; the other was a wholly justified worry for Ansgar whose safety might once again become my responsibility.

  ***

  One market day I took my women to visit the town. They deserved some distraction from the tedious routine of the camp. I also thought they were, like me, homesick. We all had items from the looting of Tamworth that we wanted to barter for more useful things. I told Kveldulf he could come and the men also joined us under various pretexts. I thought for a moment that they lacked confidence in my ability to keep the girls safe. But no sooner had we entered the city than Thorfinn made a lame excuse to visit the area along the river where some of the local women made themselves available. He was followed by Varg. Both had a spring in their step as they made their way along the rows of houses.

  ‘Can I go with them?’ said Kveldulf, and Anlaf laughed.

  ‘No, I think they have business of their own,’ he said, ‘men’s business.’

  ‘Why aren’t you going with them then?’

  ‘I thought I’d, ahem, have a look around.’

  ***

  Anlaf stayed with us as we walked from stall to stall, admiring jewellery made from bone, ivory from the South, jet from Whitby, amber from the Baltic and intricate filigree silver brooches and pendants. Unn found a scabbard inlaid with silver for her knife. We all bought new kerchiefs to stop our leather jerkins chafing against our necks. Hildur found a pair of boots and declared her old ones beyond repair. Ylva admired a comb made of bone with animal figures carved on it. She decided it was just the thing to tame her unruly mane.

  ‘And what about you?’ Ylva teased Anlaf. He blushed and dropped the string of beads he’d been looking at. Now, that’s enough, I thought. Keeping a wench at the camp was one thing – presumably he paid for her services – but buying her presents was going too far.

  ‘Yes, Gyda would like that, why don’t you buy it for her?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he mumbled. I was struck by the look on his face. Confusion, guilt, resentment – poor Anlaf, bound by oath to a chieftain who was also his sister-in-law. Would Ragnar have been more understanding? What did Ragnar ...?

  Feeling my temper rising, I decided that line of thought would lead me nowhere. It had to be enough that, on Buttermere farm, the only children who bore any resemblance to Ragnar were mine. I took a couple of deep breaths and joined the girls by a woodturner’s hut. I felt a tug at the sight of small toys, a horse on wheels, a spinning top. Kveldulf stared at them.

  ‘Well, of course I’m too old for that sort of thing,’ he said, ‘but we could get something for Harald.’

  ‘Yes, and you could pla ... ah ... look after them until we get home.’ It was all very well for Ragnar to tell me not to think of home or of Harald but how could I not?

  ***

  The market was busy and we grew tired of jostling with people. I decided we needed food and drink. The one tavern was full and we had to make do with places along a trestle table outside a small hut where a widow, dressed in an apron that may once have been white, made good profit from visitors to the market. I ordered meat and ale from the old crone. The ale was watery and the meat tough but a fire burned close by and made it feel tolerably warm.

  ‘I promise never to complain about the food at home again,’ said Ylva as she shifted a mouthful to chew on the other side.

  We had a fine view of the comings and goings along one of the main routes through town. Just watching the people milling about was exciting and the girls kept a running commentary on what they saw. But they fell silent and stared round-eyed when a couple of King Anlaf Cuaran’s guards made room for a young girl to have sole access to the stall selling used clothes. She couldn’t have been much older than Kveldulf but her bearing spoke of privilege far beyond anything he could ever hope for. Her dress had once been fine enough for a queen but the velvet was torn and the embroidery frayed and the dirt from the journey from Tamworth too ingrained to be shifted. I had heard about this girl, a hostage called Wulfrun, taken to be used as a bargaining point with Edmund. She looked pale and gaunt, the round cheeks of maidenhood had melted away revealing a pair of high cheekbones. But there was about her a quiet confidence as she rejected one garment after another to the consternation of the stallholder. Next to her, politely ignored by the girl, stood the Abbess, her lips getting thinner every time her suggestions were turned down. I almost laughed when I thought that the Abbess had her work cut out with this self-possessed child.

  ***

  Occupied with Wulfrun and her shopping, my companions didn’t notice when I choked on my ale. I had to blink to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. Grim I might have missed, despite his limp, but Olvir I’d know anywhere in whatever disguise. As they passed us, I thought they increased their pace.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ I said to Anlaf, ‘don’t draw attention to us. I’ll see you back at the camp.’ Anlaf shushed Hildur and raised his eyebrows at me. I shook my head, put some hack-silver on the table and rose to follow the pair. Olvir turned a corner by a bone-workers’ shop and I followed.

  Grim and Olvir weaved their way past workshops and stalls. It was hard to keep them in view while dodging people and animals in the crowded street. I cursed as I stepped in a fresh dog turd. I gagged on the stench but kept my eye on Olvir. They had slowed down again and walked without hurry, a monk and a young novice. There was nothing remarkable about them. I had expected them to head for Wulfstan at the hall but they turned in the opposite direction and made their way along a heavily rutted lane. It led away from the market and the main street. I had no idea where I was. A woman swore at me when I bumped into her pig. The animal ran squealing down the street and collided with a man. He kicked it into the path of another man who lost his balance. He dropped a tray full of pots and the crash as it hit the ground mixed with the pig’s squealing and the shouting and laughter of the onlookers. The woman chasing her pig shouted as she passed.

  ‘May you join Loki under the serpent, you miscreant. Go back to the trolls where you belong.’

  The unlucky potter tried to pick his wares out of the dust and filth, but cam
e up with nothing but cracked and broken pieces. He rose and, towering above me, shook his fist in my face.

  ‘Bloody hussy,’ he growled, ‘that’s two whole days’ work. Look at them, broken every one, you cursed child of Satan. What are you going to do about this? I can’t sell shards at the market. You Devil’s spawn. How will I feed my children?’ While abusing me in ever more colourful language, he looked at me, assessing how much I could be expected to pay him in compensation. People gathered closer. Some seemed inclined to join in so I hastened to offer the potter a piece of hack-silver. As I expected he looked at it with scorn.

  ‘Two days’ work!’ he growled. I added a small coin. He continued to scowl but when I swept my cloak back, he saw my sword and took the silver. Behind him I saw Olvir’s wide-eyed, over-the-shoulder look, as he hurried away from me. I retreated from the small crowd and walked in his direction. Nobody followed, as far as I could see. I walked quickly until I reached the corner where Olvir had disappeared. It was too late. Olvir and Grim were gone.

  I looked around me. Where was I? I had no desire to retrace my steps and face the crowd I’d left behind, so I continued walking. Here were no streets, only trampled paths between houses and shacks surrounded by gardens and small fields. Pigs, chickens and cows were kept behind rough fences. The houses were small, with workshops and stores inside, cooking fires and privies outside, the air full of smells, most of them unpleasant. People looked away as I passed but I could feel their eyes on my back. The houses gave way to shrub-covered wasteland. I soon reached the town wall and came to a halt. The sun was in its afternoon descent, south-west. That didn’t help me much, as I didn’t know which direction I had started from.

  ‘We seem to have lost them.’ It was no more than a whisper. I gasped. A hand covered my mouth. A cloak wound around me and pressed my body close to that of another. How could I have been so careless? Intent on following, I hadn’t noticed that I was myself a prey. I didn’t know the voice in my ear.

  ‘Don’t scream. We should talk, you and I, Mistress Sigrid.’ I relaxed my stance. The man let go. I spun away and drew my knife. I stood face to face with a stranger. He was dressed as a merchant but, despite his short stature and slightly crooked back, there was more than a hint of the warrior about him. He stepped back and grinned.

  ‘You won’t need your knife,’ he said, ‘you are perfectly safe with me. Ragnar Sweinson’s sword demands too much respect for me to impose myself on his wife. Besides, you still have your own sword to defend your honour.’ He giggled as he removed not only his fur hat but the black plaits and the long fringe that were attached to it. I stared at Anlaf Sithricson, the man we all called Cuaran, King of Jorvik. He was younger than he had seemed at a distance, younger than my score and one, yet he was a battle-hardened warrior and a king. Not that there was much royalty about him now as he laughed and slapped his thigh.

  ‘Please don’t bother to curtsy,’ he said. ‘It’s a good disguise, isn’t it?’ Then his mood changed. ‘Mistress Sigrid, you have caused me some inconvenience today. The two men you followed were my messengers. I do need to speak with them but the commotion you caused made this impossible. I take it they are familiar to you.’ I didn’t know whether to trust this king who used messengers so secret he couldn’t meet them in his own hall. On the other hand, I couldn’t refuse to answer.

  ‘I thought the boy looked like my fostring. I may have been mistaken.’

  ‘Not sure? And yet you were very determined in your pursuit of them. Who sent you to look out for them?’

  ‘What? Nobody sent me, what do you mean? What’s happening? What’s Olvir doing?’ I had raised my voice. He shushed me and looked in all directions.

  ‘Mistress Sigrid, you need to keep your voice down. So, Wulfstan’s little spy is your fostring, is he? Interesting.’

  ‘Olvir was taken on by the Archbishop as apprentice scribe.’ I seethed but managed to keep my voice steady.

  ‘The difference is sometimes not obvious,’ said Cuaran. ‘The boy is good, he has a talent for finding out things, information, details about people.’

  ‘I shall speak to the Archbishop. He has no right to put the boy at risk. Olvir could be killed and I ... and I ...’

  Cuaran, hard-faced, stared at me. The whites of his eyes had a blueish tint. It unsettled me, making my voice fade to a whisper. He shook his head.

  ‘No, running to Wulfstan won’t do you any good. You must accept that we all have a part to play in this. I shall fulfil my destiny as the Norns have woven it for me since I was born and so shall the rest of you. The boy, you, Wulfstan, all of us.’ The light-hearted note was gone from his voice. A dagger at my throat could not have made his point more clearly. We stood in silence.

  ‘Am I free to leave, Sire?’

  He seemed to have forgotten about me and nodded. Then, as an afterthought, he said, ‘You will stay away from my messengers, whatever they are to you. And you are not to mention to Wulfstan that they report to me. You are not to interfere, it would spell misfortune for you and yours. I hope you understand that. Yes, you may go.’

  ***

  Two days later, in the bleary light of early dawn, I was called to attend the scene of a killing. Hildur’s suitor lay in his own blood with the point of a spear embedded between his shoulder blades. Nobody knew the spear; it was plain without distinguishing marks, the kind most people carried. A mob faced Hildur and Unn, accusing them of the killing. The girls swore on their lives it wasn’t them. I knew it couldn’t be Ylva; if she wanted to kill anyone she’d do it in broad daylight after issuing a challenge. The three shared a tent, they vouched for each other but were accused of doing the killing together. I argued that none of them needed to sneak around stabbing people in the back. They were warriors and capable of getting retribution in a fair fight.

  ***

  The murdered man’s father arrived within the hour, with his karls and two supporters, baying for revenge. He was followed by Ragnar and his men. Ragnar looked grim.

  ‘What have those girls of yours done?’ he said.

  ‘If you’re referring to my warriors, they’ve done nothing.’

  ‘Well, who then? It’s like the start of Ragnarok at court. Wulfstan’s furious.’

  ‘It’s none of my warriors, men or women.’

  He thought a moment.

  ‘No, probably not. They’re too hot-headed to wait and too noisy to take anyone by surprise, except perhaps Varg. Where was he?’

  ‘I tell you, none of mine! And Varg, why would you even think of him?’

  ‘The girls are his charges. He’s very proud of them.’

  ‘He shares a tent with Thorfinn and Kveldulf. They’d tell me ...’

  Ragnar pulled a face. ‘Both Varg and Thorfinn get up for a piss several times in the night.’ He shrugged.

  I had to admit that maybe he had a point. ‘But I can’t believe either would spear a man in the back.’

  ‘Sigrid, it might be easier to just take responsibility and offer compensation. Then you don’t have to name a culprit.’

  ‘That would be to admit it was one of my warriors. I can’t do that. And anyway, did you think Sone Ivarson looked like he seeks compensation in gold for his son’s death?’

  ‘No, but maybe we can persuade him.’

  ‘If it were Kveldulf?’

  Ragnar went as white as a fetch.

  Eventually he said, ‘We need Wulfstan’s help.’

  ‘No we don’t. It’s a matter for the next Althing. We have our own Lawmen to pronounce on innocence or guilt. Mord will ...’

  ‘You haven’t heard?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mord is dying. We had word two days ago. I also heard that Kjeld Gunnarson, bragging about a leg wound, has returned home and is establishing himself as a leader in the region. Odin knows on what grounds – perhaps his wound has made him a hero – but he has a strong following. We can never hope to get as many supporters as him. You won’t get much justice if he can help i
t.’

  I felt like I was drowning. How could I ever prove that the girls, or anyone else linked to me, was innocent of the cowardly deed?

  While Sone Ivarson prepared to bury his son, we rode to Leicester to seek the Archbishop and ask for his help. He met us halfway there. He’d come out of council, flustered and impatient. He made it clear that he had no time for me, my warriors or even for Sone Ivarson and his dead son.

  ‘Edmund is expected here tomorrow. He leads an army of men from Wessex, Mercia and two earls from Wales with their warriors. Your own concerns have to wait. Now we must fight and fight together. Ready yourselves for battle.’ He made Sone Ivarson promise to seek revenge only after we had fought the enemy we had in common. The man was distraught and hungry for retribution but, in the end, he agreed.

  It was hard to leave Ragnar without an embrace but here we were both warriors.

  ‘May Odin be on your side, Shieldmaiden,’ said Ragnar. ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for.’ His smile made a rush of excitement wash through me. Yes, at last, I thought, we shall fight the Saxon King and our gods will grant us victory. Dragonclaw began humming at my side, my beautiful blade, thirsty for blood. I rode back to camp to call my warriors to arms.

  ***

  Wulfstan’s scouts had reported that Edmund’s main force was some hours’ ride away. The main army was followed by more men on foot. We had to attack Edmund before these caught up with the main force. The news was greeted with excitement in the camp. At last the waiting was over and we would see some action. Our confidence was high. After the victory at Tamworth we felt we were invincible.

  Cuaran, Wulfstan and their elite warriors made a magnificent spectacle marching out of Leicester. Pennants fluttered in the wind. At the front, Wulfstan’s rectangular banner with the blue cross held in a golden hand against a red background. Then there was Cuaran’s traditional Norse banner, triangular with a raven in full flight and five gold ribbons streaming out like sunrays from the edge. After them, the chieftains followed, each with their own symbols: dragons; horses; swords; axes; ravens; and eagles. Polished helmets glittered and freshly painted shields shone. I looked out for Ragnar among Wulfstan’s entourage. He was there, smiling and chatting with Lothar. Cuaran drew up next to Wulfstan. He had by far the largest and best trained army. Among his warriors were a full dozen berserkers who made up his personal hird. They were sworn not to survive him on the battlefield. He also had a group of Wulfhednar under their own commander, rootless fighters who served any king or chieftain willing to pay them. They had spent the night working themselves up into the trance that turned them into wild beasts, snarling and slobbering, howling their blood thirst.