Torches lit on the fire on the hearth in Mord’s hall were placed at the four corners of the pyre but despite the dry weather the faggots did not accept the flames. Some miserable sparks flared up briefly and died. More torches were called for. The first flames were fanned into life and took hold. Smoke began to rise, thick and black to begin with then turning grey and at last white against the darkening sky. We chanted and raised our hands and followed the pillar of smoke as it rose and carried Mord’s spirit with it. Then a gasp of disbelief from the mourners. In the still air the smoke stopped its upward journey, turned sideways then curled back on itself and sank before rising again but on a dissolute, meandering path. Silence spread among the gathered crowd.
Somebody called out, ‘It’s an omen! What does it mean?’
A great storm of voices broke out, angry, frightened.
‘Misfortunes shall strike.’
‘Oh, do we not have enough to bear?’
‘What caused it?’
‘Who has angered the gods?’
‘It’s the priest.’
‘Those cursed Christians with their blasphemous talk.’
‘They interrupted sacred rites. The gods are angry.’
This last was taken up as a chant.
‘The gods are angry. The gods are angry.’ People whipped themselves up into a frenzy. In the faces and voices I around me I read blood.
The throng moved like a pack of wolves towards the sty. This time, swords, axes, knives and other more unconventional weapons were ready. The scuffle, the elbowing in that race was unseemly. The slow and infirm were pushed out of the way by those determined to be first to gain honour with the gods by striking at the enemy. I was torn between anger at those who had desecrated our sacred rites and worry for my friend who would die at the hands of my people. I owed it to Ansgar to try and save him. With Dragonclaw half-drawn I looked round for support. Was I the only one who did not want to see this happen? I saw the elders standing to one side speaking together. I caught the eye of one of them. He shook his head. This time there was nothing I could do to save Brother Ansgar. I stood helpless, watching the furious mob reach the sty. They rolled away the barrel. They tore open the door. One of them went in and emerged dragging the priest by the scruff of his neck. The priest’s eyes were closed. The cross he had so recently swung against us, he now clutched to his chest. His captor pushed him to the ground and he lay whimpering like a frightened puppy. Someone snatched the cross and used an axe to chop it into small splinters.
‘He must die,’ shouted one.
‘A sacrifice to please the gods,’ said another. Some shouted suggestions as to how to kill the priest. Flogging, flaying, dismembering? It must be slow and painful but it was agreed that the blood eagle was for warriors, too good for a priest.
Then someone asked, ‘Where are the others? The sty is empty. The Christian pigs have escaped.’
It was true. A hole in the thatch showed how the captives had made their way out. In the gathering darkness neither footprints nor any other trace could be found and the search was called off before it began.
‘Send the cursed priest with Mord Lambason,’ said someone. The priest was thrown on the pyre. At first he was silent, then the flames engulfed him and he screamed. The smoke from the pyre rose strong and full into the sky. The gods were satisfied.
***
The feasting in Mord’s honour lasted for three days. There was food and drink aplenty and those present declared it a fitting tribute to his memory. If anyone shared my view that it would have been even more fitting to wait until his sons and the most important chieftains in the area had returned and could attend, they chose not to say so.
Back home I found, as I expected, Brother Ansgar. He was helping Kirsten put a bandage on a thrall who’d been gored by one of the cows.
‘Welcome home, Sigrid,’ he said. I felt like hitting him.
‘Ansgar, do you have any idea how lucky you are to be alive? That priest was thrown on the funeral pyre, alive. You would have been too. Do you understand?’
‘Father Wilfrid? A martyr? Praise be to the Lord.’
I would have told him of the priest whimpering for mercy, his crying and his heart-rending screams but I realised it would have no effect, so I kept quiet. When I asked how he’d escaped Ansgar shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’ve helped build sties like those, when I was a thrall. I know the thatch is fairly thin so I made a little hole. You may think that I should have stayed and stood firm next to the blessed Wilfrid but I decided one martyr at a time is enough. So I ran in order to continue my mission. It was you who taught me about escape.’ Odin, I thought, have I really taught someone to run away from danger? ‘Not by example, of course,’ I heard him say, ‘but by constantly telling me that if I’m killed, my work will never be done.’ He tied a knot on the bandage, stroked the cheek of the injured thrall and then he turned to me and took both my hands in his.
‘Sigrid, we have spoken many times of this. I must go where my conscience bids me. Being Wulfstan’s scribe is not the Lord’s work. Archbishop though he is, he’s steeped in the affairs of men. He meddles in war and peace. My work is here among the people of Cumbria. So many of you haven’t come to the Lord yet. So much to do. Not least,’ he smiled, ‘among my fellow missionaries. I tried to tell them that you don’t get people to listen to you by insulting their beliefs, however wrong they are. You taught me that too.’
I sensed the conversation was about to stray onto my own beliefs and quickly asked, ‘What happened to the other three?’
‘They went straight back to Keswick. I came here because I felt I owed you an explanation. I shan’t stay. I must go where the Lord sends me.’
I knew I’d regret asking but I couldn’t help myself. ‘How do you know what He wants you to do?’
‘I pray and he sends me a sign. This time you were the sign. The moment I saw you there in Leicester, I knew I had to return here.’
***
Ansgar left and I settled down to the routine on the farm. My people had managed well while I was away with the muster. We’d lost a few cattle. As always when there was unrest, raiders had dared further south but the farmstead itself had not been attacked and when the animals were brought down from the shieling in autumn I congratulated Thora on the cheeses and butter the farm had produced. There was enough hay to sustain our horses but not enough for more than ten cows which meant a great slaughter before winter. We drove the pigs to the forest to fatten up on acorn. Kirsten lowered her eyebrows at me for taking part in the pig run but agreed that the exercise would do me good as long as I was careful. I laughed and shouted with pleasure as I drove pigs through the forest with my sons. The fighting and intrigue of kings and bishops was too far away to touch me. I was busy. I missed Ragnar but with the movements of our child growing stronger inside me, I felt contented. Perhaps I was too happy. Gods are sometimes bored by human happiness.
***
The Thing gathering was held as usual that autumn. Women, old men and children arrived, the absence of men noticeable. Of adult men, only the wounded and the infirm were present. Kjeld was among them, his leg still swathed in bandages, a sturdy stick to lean on. I dared a few cautious inquiries but nobody I spoke to knew when or where Kjeld had sustained his wound. The two Lawmen took their seats on the mound and left Mord Lambason’s place between them empty. Before any other issues could be spoken of we had to elect a successor to Mord. It was custom for the older of the two remaining Lawmen to be awarded that honour and a third Lawman would be elected. But this time, some had different ideas. Now I found out what Kjeld Gunnarson’s scheming had amounted to. He wanted power. He had nothing to commend him as Lawman so now he proposed a change.
‘Times are uncertain,’ he began. ‘We have suffered a great loss. Mord Lambason was an outstanding speaker of law and showed great wisdom when passing judgement.’ He paused to allow people to demonstrate their agreement. I couldn’t help reflecting that Kjeld had
not always felt like that. He had protested vehemently when Mord’s decisions went against him and at the muster he’d shown scant respect for the old Lawman. Still, Mord was dead and must be praised. He had also been well regarded by most. So Kjeld went out of his way not to upset anyone by uttering negative sentiments. Eventually he came to the point.
‘In these violent times we need leaders in matters of war as well as in matters of law. Just as we listen to the judgement of one Lawman, we need one leader to decide on matters of war. Too many voices mean long deliberations which delay action and give the advantage of time to our enemy.’ He continued in that vein for some time and all round me people nudged their neighbours and nodded agreement. Others whispered with great eagerness to those next to them. I even thought I saw gifts change hands. The older Lawman stood to speak.
‘This has never been needed before and I see great danger in separating leadership in war from the Law. Mord Lambason rode with our warriors to battle as did Lawmen before him. I shall do the same as will those who come after me. Such is our custom and it has worked to ensure that no one man has too much power in war or in peace.’
Kjeld rose to reply. ‘Mord Lambason was no longer the man he was when young. The long rides tired him. His son can vouch for that and there’s no shame in it. In the field he lacked the experience and vigour to make decisions and others took advantage of him issuing orders and taking charge of our warriors.’
That wasn’t how I remembered it and while Kjeld had been missing for whatever reason, I was there. I stood up to show that I wished to be heard. What did I expect? These were not the chieftains who had, albeit reluctantly, accepted me as one of them and who respected me as a warrior. These were the old men who had handed over the reins to their sons but who now, in their absence, spoke for them. Their indignant voices rolled towards me like storm waves.
‘You have no say here, woman.’
‘Law and power are men’s business, be still.’
I tried to defend my right to speak.
‘I am like you a landowner and a warrior. I have been ...’
‘You are a woman in child! You have no business meddling in questions of war.’
‘I fought at ...’
‘We know you fought. That doesn’t make you anything more than a daughter of one and a wife of another.’ The two Lawmen seemed unsure what to do. The older of them still had to be voted in so, mindful of his own position, made but a lame intervention in my favour. There were too many of them. Kjeld knew I would oppose him. He and his henchmen had prepared the ground for his bid to power. I was shouted down and had to stay silent although I seethed with anger.
***
Kjeld Gunnarson was elected, not as our third Lawman; a respected chieftain from Ennerdale was given that honour, but in a capacity where he would have far too much influence over when to call a muster and against whom. He smirked and preened himself as he accepted the good wishes heaped on him by his supporters. Next to him stood his two children. Both now free from thraldom after Mord’s judgement at the last Thing. The boy, Veste, was dressed in a tunic of bright blue, tightly woven wool. Round his neck hung a cross on a gold chain. The girl, Nanna, now nine years of age and with the fierce dark eyes of her mother wore a green dress in the Wessex style with narrow sleeves over a shirt of white silk. She too had a cross round her neck. I remembered their mother’s fervent Christian faith. I noted the children’s Saxon attire but dress in these parts varied so much between Britons, Angles and Norse that I thought no more of it.
Fed up with listening to the ill-informed talk among my fellow Norse, I decided it was time to leave. I went to look at the children’s games and competitions. They were easy to find. I only had to follow the noise. It led me to a football game. As a child I revelled in this rough, free-for-all, chase to be the one who kicked or threw the inflated pig’s bladder over a gate put up for the game. I used to think my mother made a fuss but now I turned into my mother and fretted over the risk of injury. I had to stop myself rushing after him when I saw Kveldulf sporting a bloody nose. But he was in the middle of a scrum and enjoying himself. I sat down on the slope to watch. Then I shot up like a startled hare. Harald was running behind the pack. If they turned he’d be crushed. He had seen but five summers, too young to be in this mêlée. I went onto the field, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him off before he could come to any harm. He squirmed and tried to dig his heels in.
‘Mor, you’re humilating me.’
‘Humiliating, you mean, and who’s taught you that big word?’
‘Varg. Just before you left. One of the Norwegians used it to tease him about being sworn to a woman.’
‘Oh, and what did Varg say to that?’
‘Nothing.’ He shrugged then he laughed. ‘But it was lucky Kirsten was there. She stopped him before he killed him. He was in a bad way though, the Norwegian.’ I realised that Kirsten had also put a stop to any talk about this before it even began. I shuddered at the thought of one of my sworn warriors killing one of Ragnar’s. Two hirds in one household, was I asking too much of my husband? I knew Ragnar felt he had to grow a reputation. To move out from under the shadow of his father’s treachery he had to become greater than the outlawed Jarl. The failed raid had been a blow to this aspiration. If it looked to the world like his wife ruled in his hall, it would be a fatal blow to his reputation.
I sat down with Harald to watch the game. He seemed to have forgotten his ignominious retreat and kept up a running commentary. I noticed that Kjeld’s son Veste was in the thick of the action, ruining his fine clothes. The game was nearing a conclusion. One of the older boys lobbed the pig’s bladder through the gate. His friends cheered with abandon. If anyone was inclined to complain they were probably too exhausted to make themselves heard. I rose, expecting Kveldulf to join me and Harald. He didn’t. He linked arms with Veste and sauntered across to where Kjeld’s daughter sat watching the game. They laughed together. Nanna tore a strip from her silken under-gown and used it to wipe the blood from Kveldulf’s face. The way he looked at her when she put a tender finger to his nose cut through me like a knife. My elder son admired the daughter of a man who wished him, me and all of our household nothing but harm. I realised that I was shaking and sat down.
‘He thinks she’s beautiful.’ I heard Harald’s contemptuous voice. Then he said: ‘Mor, are you unwell? He rubbed my back and whispered: ’Is it to do with the baby?’ I took a deep breath.
‘Oh, what baby might that be, Harald?’
‘Yours,’ he laughed. ‘I know because Kirsten is all strict with you the way she is with all the women when they’re going to have babies.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s not as easy for women as it is for cows and sheep. And specially the sows, they have lots all at once but sometimes they eat them so you have to watch out.’
‘Yes, thank you, Harald, I know.’ I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat, laughed and felt better.
***
Ragnar and his hird returned home just before the midwinter blot. We heard the horn from a long way off. Thora smiled and nodded when I suggested that this would be an occasion for serving up the food she had saved and prepared for Yule. The sauna was fired and the thralls prepared drinking horns and set meat on the spit. The air was full of excited chatter but only a fool would believe that all who left would be coming back. They rode in through the gates, mud sticking to the horses’ hooves, water dripping from rain-heavy clothes. Ragnar, in front, straight-backed, his posture belying the tired gait of his horse. His men followed his example and, despite dirty bandages and faces grey with fatigue, they made a passable impression of proud warriors returning with honour. Servants and thralls rushed out to take care of the horses. Inside the hall, Kirsten brought out her bundle of herbs and set one of the thrall girls to tear some old sheets into strips for bandages. I stood in the doorway struggling to hold back tears of relief. Ragnar dismounted. I handed him the drinking horn.
/> ‘Welcome home, Husband.’ He kissed me then he emptied the horn in one go and held it out to be refilled for everyone in his hird to drink. The yard was alive with greetings and laughter but Ragnar looked downcast.
‘You are a couple of men short, Ragnar.’
‘Yes, Hrodney’s son Skuli and one of our servants, Ebbe the Angle. Both killed in battle. We built a good funeral pyre for them and for Eirik Mordson and some others before we left Leicester. I’ll ride to Rannerdale and pay Hrodney compensation in a few days.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No,’ he said and stroked my cheek. ‘My karl. My duty. Orm can come, he’s due a few days with his mother.’ Then his demeanour changed and a tired smile spread across his face. ‘What have we here? Two young warriors. They seem familiar. Who ...’
‘Far! It’s us.’ Harald laughed.
‘He knows, silly,’ muttered Kveldulf and bent his knee to Ragnar. ‘Welcome home, Father.’ Ragnar grinned and swept hem both into his arms.
***
The returned warriors retired to the sauna. I sent Aluinn with a small barrel of ale for them. The noise of singing and laughter grew louder and louder. Ragnar came out with a smile on his face.
‘Sigrid, it is so good to be home. Come here, give me a kiss worthy of a returning hero.’ Servants and thralls applauded as I complied.
‘Shall we have peace for a while?’ I asked while I pulled a clean shirt and tunic from his clothes chest. Ragnar shrugged his shoulders.
‘When we disbanded they seemed to have come to an agreement. Cuaran will keep the crown of Jorvik, for now at least. The truth is we were well and truly beaten at Leicester and it was only by using your little noblewoman that Wulfstan and Cuaran had anything to bargain with at all.’
‘Will Edmund be satisfied with a Norse king in Jorvik? Will he let it rest?’
‘For now. As for the future, who knows?’
I thought of Edmund, hard, uncompromising, driven by an ambition to match – no, to surpass – his half-brother in power. He would not have anyone else called king, even under his overlordship. But I didn’t say anything. Why spoil a homecoming with worries for a future we could do nothing about?
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