‘Please, please ...’
I made my decision. She would be a useful addition to my household. And anyway, how could I not help her, I who had once persuaded a man to believe he was the father of what I knew to be Ragnar’s child, I who was beginning to think I was myself expecting a child?
***
Vida had told Ansgar that she was Anlaf’s wife. He soon wanted to know the circumstances of this new marriage.
‘Sigrid, is poor Gyda dead? I should offer my prayers and comfort to young Anlaf.’
‘No, no, nobody has died. That’s not it.’
‘They haven’t divorced, have they? Oh, for shame!’
‘No, Ansgar, no that’s not it either.’
‘Oh, but what then?’
‘There’s been a ... um ... misunderstanding, I think. I’m sure it will all be sorted out.’
The poor man looked utterly confused but had to accept I had no more to say on the matter. I thought he’d find out soon enough, as in time, would Ragnar. I sighed when I thought of my husband’s likely reaction to this insult to his sister.
Anlaf, too, had thought about that.
‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter,’ he said, ‘by Odin and his ravens, I never promised her anything, honestly I never did. I didn’t think she’d be able to follow me.’
‘No? So you just used her and then you dropped her like a dirty bum-wipe. Not very gallant of you.’ His expression made me laugh out loud and I slapped his shoulder.
This made him brighten up. ‘I can maybe leave her at that place Ansgar told us about.’
‘It’s a monastery! It’s for monks!’
‘I just thought ...’
‘No, Anlaf, that won’t work and anyway, Vida is expecting a child. I don’t think the Abbot would take very kindly to that.’
‘Child? It can’t be mine! Can it? But it’s ...’
‘No, Anlaf, it’s not your child.’
‘She had a lover?’
‘No, she’s a whore looking for a way out. If it hadn’t been you it would have been another deluded fool.’ A rush of deep crimson spread from his cheeks up to his hairline and down his neck.
‘The bitch,’ he whispered, ‘the evil, conniving bitch, I shall ...’
‘You shall nothing, Anlaf, except learn from your mistakes. Women do these things to men sometimes, not out of evil but out of desperation. When you have told her of your marriage and she has told you her story you will both ask each other’s forbearance.’
‘But then what? I can’t take her home. Gyda would guess.’ I couldn’t help laughing.
‘Yes, she probably would. So I shall take her home with me. I plan to rebuild Becklund and there will be a place for her there. She seems capable and she certainly has a good measure of determination. I can use a servant like that.’
‘Please don’t tell Gyda.’
‘I wouldn’t want to hurt Gyda, so if she finds out it won’t be from me. There are others though.’ I nodded towards Thorfinn. ‘You may have to grovel to your stepfather in order to keep the peace in your house.’ I smiled as I thought how pleased Hrodney would be if there was to be less strain in the relationship between her husband and her eldest son.
***
The monastery at Sandbach was a miserable collection of hovels around a small wooden hut and a stone cross. Among the cattle and sheep grazing the fields there was a small mare, not as young as the shifty-looking lay-brother told me but sturdy enough under the neglected hide. The Abbot, proud despite his ragged habit, was none too pleased to have to deal with a woman chieftain. But I wanted the horse and he wanted the silver, so we agreed in a business-like manner.
***
At last I was home with both my sons.
‘Welcome home, Sigrid,’ said Thora. ‘We shall hold a feast to celebrate your return.’
‘No, Sister,’ I said, ‘Ragnar and his hird are still away and in peril. It doesn’t feel right.’
‘Sigrid, you are here, you are safe, we have missed you so much, of course we shall have a feast and give thanks to our gods.’ Her heartfelt greeting brought tears to my eyes. When I took my place in the high seat, Harald climbed on to my lap.
‘Mor, I can ride the fastest of all. We had a race and I won.’
‘Less said about that the better,’ said Thora. ‘Little rascals have been riding in the meadow tiring the horses we need for work.’ She gave him a playful cuff and Harald laughed.
‘It’s me and Ole and Ketil and Inga but I win every time. Well, nearly every time.’ I looked round for Harald’s friends and got three gap-toothed grins in return.
‘Yes, I used to do that,’ said Kveldulf with the world-weariness of one who’s seen and done it all. Harald and his three friends looked at him with the admiration usually reserved for elite-warriors and royalty. Ketil sidled up to me and cleared his throat.
‘Maybe when you go to war again I can come and help Kveldulf with the horses. I’m almost as old.’ Overcome by his own boldness, he turned the colour of sunset below his dark fringe. I handed him a couple of dates which he stuffed into his mouth and chewed with a blissful expression on his face.
‘I hope I won’t need to go away again very soon.’
‘I think,’ said a small but insistent voice by my side, ‘I think girls should be allowed to come as well. I’m very good with horses.’ Like her older brother Ketil, she was small with light-brown hair and I couldn’t help noticing they both bore a resemblance to Cerdic the Briton. Were these the reason for his ambition to become a free man?
‘Shush with you, Inga’ said Aluinn. ‘Stop bothering the Mistress, all three of you. Off you go. You could go and tend to all those horses you say you’re so good with.’
‘No,’ rumbled Thorfinn. ‘They must all stay. Everyone must hear the drapa I composed about how Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter took back her horse from King Edmund at Leicester.’ I wasn’t too sure that I wanted everyone to know that particular tale but Thorfinn had drunk twice as much as anyone else and I knew better than to try and stop him.
PART SEVEN
“Only dead fish follow the current.”
Swedish proverb
August 943
Thorfinn and Anlaf left for Rannerdale, and the rest of my entourage settled back into daily life on the farm. Vida caused an initial stir among the women, some of whom felt their place in the hierarchy threatened by the newcomer. It all simmered down when I explained that she was one of the people I would send to Becklund to help rebuild my father’s farm.
Ansgar decided to seek out the Christian community in Keswick. It was with mixed feelings I saw him go. In his innocent way, he was bound to blunder into all sorts of dangers. I felt responsible for him and would have preferred to be able to keep an eye on him at Buttermere.
A couple of days after my return to Buttermere, I had a message from Keskadale that Mord was ailing and wished to see me. Mord had, against my expectation, survived the journey home. Kirsten had moved to his hall in Keskadale to care for him and, with her help, he maintained a tenuous grip on life. His son, Bose Mordson, had matured in the few weeks since he took charge of transporting his sire back home. He had been forced to take on responsibilities that he, with three older brothers, had never expected. But Grim was out there running Cuaran’s errands, Eysten was still with Cuaran’s army and Eirik had been killed at Leicester. Bose’s stepmother was nowhere to be seen and he explained that she’d left for her father’s household in Keswick. There was a bitter twist to his mouth when he told me what I already knew about Cinedred and Eirik.
‘To think we drove Njal from our hall for telling the truth,’ he said.
I went to Mord’s bedside. His skin the colour of sun-bleached bones, he looked so thin I thought he’d cast no shadow. A large, padded bandage covered his shoulder and he looked feverish. Kirsten was with him and, in a corner of the room, her baby played with some wooden animals. When Mord saw me he insisted on being propped up into a sitting position. He pointed a bony finger at th
e child.
‘See,’ he said in a weak voice, ‘see, Sigrid, my grandchild. My first grandson. She wasn’t going to tell me but I got it out of her in the end. She’s promised me to marry the lad. She thinks he’ll come back, you see. If he doesn’t she can marry one of the others – Grim, perhaps, since you turned him down. Oh yes, I know about that. I know about everything. At least I used to. I’m not so sure now.’ He closed his eyes and fell back against his cushions. His breathing came in shallow gasps with a whistling sound at each in-breath. For a while I sat silently, wondering if I dared take his hand. Then he opened his eyes and said in his normal, strong voice: ‘Oh yes, I remember. I have to tell you. Of course. Yes. Listen ...’ Those were his last words.
I stayed and kept Bose company at his father’s deathbed. We laid his sword on his chest and made sure his hands were closed around the hilt. He had died, if not in battle, at least from wounds sustained in battle. A Valkyrie would come for him and bring him to Valhalla. I told his son to take comfort in that, although I didn’t think Bose looked particularly bereft.
The next morning I took my leave. As I led North Wind from the stable, Kirsten stood ready with her son and a small bundle with her belongings. I asked the loan of a mare for her to ride with me.
‘You’re welcome to a horse, but I thought she was staying,’ said my young host.
‘Kirsten is a free woman and decides for herself. I brought her here as my serving woman and that will only change when your brother returns to marry her.’ Bose looked disappointed. But Kirsten smiled as we set off for home. After a while she turned to me.
‘I’m pleased you’ve come home in plenty of time. If you’re careful everything will go well this time. I shall look after you. Maybe it’ll be a daughter. I know you want that.’ I couldn’t help laughing. How on earth did the girl know?
***
Only a week later a message arrived with the summons to Mord’s funeral-ale. When I heard it was set for just another week’s time, I understood why the servant who brought it seemed so embarrassed. It really was unseemly to be in such haste. I decided I had to speak to Bose and make him delay the funeral until due preparations could be made. I rode across to Keskadale with only Varg and Ylva for company. We were given a cool welcome. I enquired why Bose had decided not to wait until his brothers returned from the war against Edmund. I put it to him that a temporary grave until a suitably lavish funeral-ale could be held seemed more in keeping with Mord’s standing among the Cumbrian Norse. He clearly didn’t think it any of my business and was only just polite when he answered.
‘A new Lawman must be appointed at the next Thing. It can’t happen if the previous Lawman is still waiting to join the other world. My father must be sent on his final journey.’
‘Shall there be a Thing gathering this autumn? Most of the men are away, not to mention your brothers.’
‘The invitations to the funeral have already gone out to all farms in the area. I have made my decision.’
I wondered at this new confidence in the young man who had, not so long ago, sought my advice about far less difficult matters. It was late enough in the day for us to expect an invitation to stay the night but Bose broke with the ancient laws of hospitality and didn’t even offer us sustenance before our return ride.
‘Something’s wrong with Bose,’ said Ylva. ‘He never used to look that shifty. I felt like giving him a good hiding for not treating you with the full respect you’re due.’
‘He seemed very knowledgeable about the rules for electing new Lawmen,’ said Varg. ‘Someone has taken him in hand, I think. Wonder if it was the person whose ugly mug I saw through that glass-covered wind eye they have on the gable.’
I laughed, but without mirth. ‘And who has three of his horses grazing in the meadow behind the hall. Yes, I think between us we’ve solved the riddle and the answer is: Kjeld Gunnarson.’
***
We gathered to bury the old chieftain who had served as our Lawman for as long as I could remember. It was a small, undistinguished group of people who’d come to send him on his way. But despite the difficult times, every household had sent someone to show the respect and esteem they afforded Lawman Mord Lambason of Keskadale. Old men had forced their stiff joints away from the comfort of the hearth to make the journey on horseback. Pain and weariness showed in the deepened lines on their faces as they were lifted down from their mounts. Boys, not old enough to serve as men, came to help their elders and to represent their fathers. Women, worried at leaving their homes undefended, nevertheless came to offer help and comfort. Mord’s two sisters had arrived and taken charge of the household. People were allocated sleeping quarters according to their standing. The hall was set aside for the preparation of the body but stables and barns gave ample room for men and women to spread out their sleep bags. Many expressed their surprise at finding the young widow still absent.
‘My stepmother took ill while at her father’s house and has remained there.’ Bose managed to sound fairly convincing but I noticed many exchanging meaningful glances and some went so far as to shake their heads in disbelief.
I heard one old wife mutter, ‘Good riddance. Her carrying on like that and he the Lawman and all.’
A couple of other women who overheard her nodded. But I found it difficult to condemn Cinedred. She was a young woman married off to an old man and living in a household full of young warriors. Her behaviour was reprehensible, no doubt, but was she not also to be pitied? I chose to keep my thoughts to myself. This wasn’t the time or the place to discuss Mord’s unhappy family.
Kjeld Gunnarson acted as if he were the host. Supplanting the young Bose Mordson, he seemed very much in charge. His left leg was bandaged and he hobbled, leaning on a sturdy stick. So he had been wounded and returned home to recover. I was surprised not to have heard anything about that and didn’t think it beyond him to pretend. I received a curt nod from him which was more than I expected. I observed him moving from one family group to another, talking, gesticulating, distributing gifts, splendid gifts by the looks of it: a glint of gold, a flash of silver, bundles of cloth, pairs of glass beakers, decorated drinking horns.
Varg had noticed as well.
‘Did you know that Kjeld was as wealthy as that?’ he asked. ‘Why was he struggling to pay the compensation for your losses after the fire at Becklund if he had so much to give away?’
‘I don’t understand it. But he’s up to something. Look at him, all smiles and respectful attention, paying court to high and low. He must be scheming, but to what purpose?’
‘Maybe he’s a champion for someone to succeed Mord?’
‘No, he must realise that with most of the local chieftains absent there can be no meaningful election.’
‘Shame young Olvir isn’t here. He’d be able to provide some interesting insights into what Kjeld discussed with the other mourners.’
‘Varg, we really shouldn’t encourage his eavesdropping.’ But I had to admit it would have been useful.
***
The women gathered inside the hall to make the preparations for Mord’s final journey. I had come to trust and respect Mord and I knew I would miss him. But in the shrieking, hair-tearing expressions of grief that belong to the funeral rites, not only the dead one on the bier is the object of grief but all those we have loved and lost before. I cried my pain and loss for my murdered father; for Ingefried who had been like a mother to me, poisoned by the thrall-woman Lydia; for Ylva’s brother who died fighting by my side in Norway; for my unborn daughter that I lost in the storm; for my mother-in-law Aisgerd and Beorn the Lame; for Bjarne, Bard and Brita who died in the fire at Becklund.
We circled the bier, stamping our feet, chanting and crying, while the three Mordsdaughters and Mord’s sisters washed and groomed him. Then they dressed the body in a silk undershirt, a velvet tunic with embroidery round the neck and sleeves in gold and silver thread. To finish they wrapped him in a woollen cloak lined with bearskin and put his sword o
n his chest.
We all knew we’d be interrupted and called upon to give up the body to the funeral pyre. But the call that followed the furious banging on the door came neither from Bose nor from Kjeld Gunnarson nor any of the Elders.
‘In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, open up and desist from this heathen desecration of the body of a man baptised in the Christian faith.’ It took some more of the same before one of us drew the bolt from the door and let it open to show a priest in black habit, a purple shawl embroidered with golden threads around his shoulders. The colour of his furious, clean-shaven face matched his shawl and he wielded a large cross like it was a sword. Behind him were three men on horseback and Brother Ansgar.
As soon as the mourners had shaken themselves out of their state of exaltation and intoxication, the intruders were in danger of being hacked to pieces. Men fumbled with the peace-cords that held their swords in their scabbards and women grappled for hoes and pitch-forks, ready to start a massacre. While the mob got their weapons, some of the more far-sighted managed to bundle the priest and his supporters into a pigsty, previously inhabited by the sow slaughtered for the funeral meal. They rolled a barrel in front of the door. Those baying for blood were persuaded to wait until after the funeral to deal with the cleric and his supporters. People were reminded of the purpose for our gathering and when they had calmed down we continued the ceremony. Mord’s bier was carried from the hall. We followed it in procession and nobody was unduly bothered by the shrill voice from the sty calling down the judgement of Almighty God on all our heads.
***
Mord’s funeral pyre was well built, high and wide as it should be for a Lawman. Bose Mordson recited the lament for his father. His voice lacked warmth and I was reminded of Grim’s bitter words about Mord’s strict rule over his sons. It sounded like the boy spoke from memory something he’d been taught to say. Someone, Kjeld Gunnarson perhaps, had composed words of praise and gratitude but Bose had difficulty expressing them, stuttering and hesitating. It was a relief when he finished.
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