To Save a Kingdom

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To Save a Kingdom Page 27

by Marianne Whiting


  ‘Not all believe in our struggle.’

  ‘Who?’ We were now whispering.

  ‘Kjeld Gunnarson and, I’m ashamed to admit, my brother Bose. Things are not easy in our house. Well, they never were, of course, but this is different. Grim is back but goes his own way, I hardly ever see him. And Bose, well I get the feeling the only reason he hasn’t gone to join Kjeld’s household is that Kjeld wants him to stay and watch me and Grim. They believe we cannot win and we’d be better off negotiating for peace.’

  ‘It’s true that Edmund’s forces are superior to Dunmail’s.’ said Ragnar. ‘But they forget that we have the mountains. We have to fight a different kind of battle. And some of us have no choice. Edmund will not pardon those who raided Tamworth and fought him at Leicester.’

  It hit me afresh. ‘Edmund never forgives and he never forgets those who once crossed him.’

  ‘And you have done that more than most, Wife. Kings don’t like being made to look ridiculous,’ said Ragnar and looked both serious and proud. Eysten grinned.

  ‘It was a glorious trick you played on him. The story will be told for generations how Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter rode out of the King’s camp on the King’s horse ...’

  ‘My horse.’

  ‘But his saddle and bridle,’ said Ragnar. ‘I truly believe Sigrid is the only one who returned from Leicester with any loot.’ They laughed and little Gudrun joined in as innocent children do.

  ***

  Grim was given leave to address the Thing.

  ‘Edmund has subdued the North. The land lies bleeding from the Humber to the Tyne, from the shores of the North Sea to the mountains of Cumbria. Edmund and his army are moving this way. He’s bringing his soldiers across the Keel. Our allies of old are no longer by our side. Our Dublin brothers have left. Malcolm, King of the Scots has sided with Edmund and stands ready to attack from the North. Our brothers in Wales are defeated. We stand alone but for the army of the King of Cumbria who will muster ...’ Here Grim was interrupted by a chorus of angry shouting and derogatory laughter. Kjeld Gunnarson, surrounded by a group of supporters, made himself heard.

  ‘Dunmail, the hero of ... ah, let’s see now, which battle was it he fought again?’

  Grim turned to Kjeld. He sounded perfectly polite as he answered, ‘The same battle as you, Kjeld Gunnarson.’

  Silence spread its black wings over the gathering. We all shared the same thought; someone would die here today, the accused or the accuser. Such a challenge between men of rank must be paid for in blood.

  ***

  Kjeld, pale as a sun-bleached skull, issued his challenge and Grim accepted. The Lawman ordered the square piece of land for the hólmganga to be measured out. Grim was first to make his way there. He looked calm and determined. Grim was lame since I injured him in swordplay when we were children. It was there for all to see. Kjeld would have to keep his bandage in place or admit it was pretence. Which would amount to an admission of cowardliness and disgrace. So, injured or not, he would be less agile with it tied around his leg. On the face of it, Grim had the advantage. We waited. People grew restless.

  At last Kjeld arrived. The bandage around his injured leg looked heavier than ever. His limp more pronounced. He appealed to the Thing be allowed a champion to fight his cause. The Senior Lawman hesitated. He spoke with the other two Lawmen. They talked, shook their heads and talked some more. Then the question was put to the Thing. No discussion, just a show of swords.

  The vote went against Grim. Ragnar grasped my arm. His voice a hoarse whisper:

  ‘No! Oh, Sigrid, this is going all wrong.’ I felt sick to the stomach and my hands shook. How could this be happening? Grim was a no more than adequate swordsman. Against Kjeld, bandaged and clumsy, he would have little to fear but against a champion, this amounted to a death sentence. Kjeld smiled.

  Then Eysten shouted, ‘I offer to be my brother’s champion. If Kjeld is allowed to use one then Grim should be.’

  ‘No, let me champion Grim Mordson.’ Ragnar called and was joined by others.

  Grim had turned pale but his voice was firm when he said, ‘No, I do not wish for a champion. This is my fight. Bring the man you have chosen to fight for you, Kjeld.’

  The swordsman stepped forward. At first we couldn’t see who it was. Young but tall and broad in the shoulder, he stood silent next to Kjeld. Then he removed his helmet. The crowd let out a gasp of horror. Kjeld’s chosen man was Grim’s younger brother Bose. The youngster looked terrified.

  Grim and Eysten shouted in unison, ‘No, this is not right.’ Their voices were joined by others. Cries of ‘shame’ went up and grew to a chant. Kjeld’s supporters tried to drown it out with loud demands for justice but some of them looked thoughtful and moved away from him.

  The Senior Lawman stepped forward and raised his hand.

  ‘You wish to pitch brother against brother, Kjeld Gunnarson. That is a shameful act and I will not allow it.’

  ‘You set no rules for my choice,’ said Kjeld.

  But this time he had misread the mood of the gathering. I wasn’t the only one who believed his injury false, that he’d run from the battle. Kjeld looked around, his face like a moonless midwinter nigh. But nobody offered to fight for him.

  ‘You have one day to find another champion,’ said the Lawman.

  ***

  Kjeld didn’t bring another champion. The next day he was gone. Somebody must have seen him leave but nobody said. Nor did anyone know where and when he sustained the injury to his leg. His disgrace was complete. He was judged to have forfeited his place at our Thing. He was no longer part of our community.

  ‘Have we seen the last of that one, then?’ said Ragnar. I shook my head.

  ‘I wish I could believe that.’ It did cross my mind that, freed from the influence of his fellow Norse, Kjeld would be even more dangerous than before.

  We returned to the Thing-mound, and the interrupted meeting about the threat from Edmund was resumed. Grim put his case for resistance again. When he urged us to join forces with Dunmail I realised that provoking the challenge from Kjeld had been a calculated move to get rid of him. I shivered at the thought of Grim willing to risk his life to that end. Who would put the case for resistance to the Thing if Grim had died?

  Of course, Kjeld had taken his men with him and some of his supporters had turned from him. That left fewer people hostile to Grim’s argument. So when a heavily cloaked man approached and asked to be heard nobody objected. Most people had never met Dunmail ab Owain, King of Cumbria. Those who had, struggled to recognise him. Thinner, hollow eyed and devoid of the self-assured swagger, he made the impression of someone who sought our support with humility and honesty. The gathering responded by hearing him out.

  He didn’t have much to say that we didn’t already know. Since his Scottish ally King Constantine had retired, the new King of the Scots, Malcolm, had sided with Edmund and Dunmail was caught between two hostile forces, each of them intent on extending their lands. By giving sanctuary to Cuaran he’d made his choice: to stand up to Edmund and defend his kingdom. But one thing was new to most of us.

  ‘The crown of Cumbria,’ said Dunmail, ‘has ancient magic welded into it. No man can be King of Cumbria without it. It lends power to the bearer and destruction to any usurper. It can be given by the king to a successor or it can be won on the field of battle. But then it has to be taken from the head of the old king by the new. I have a sacred duty to save this crown from the grasping hands of Edmund. As long as the crown is safe he shall never be King of Cumbria.’ He raised his sword and his voice rolled across the hills: ‘Good men and women of Cumbria join me in this battle. Rise up, fight for a Cumbria safe from the clutches of the Saxon King.’

  Many of us cheered but far from all. Dunmail left and we began the debate that would decide whether we fought for our freedom against the yoke of the Saxon King or submitted to him in the hope of leniency. Many, tired of years of fighting, argued that the tales of Edmun
d’s cruelty must be exaggerated while some of us knew only too well that this was a king who would rule by the sword. We talked long into the night until the Senior Lawman declared that exhausted people make poor decisions and we needed to sleep before making our choice.

  I don’t know how others fared but I got little rest that night. Thoughts swirled round my head like hungry ravens as I lay next to Ragnar listening to the sleeping breathing of our children. Ragnar tossed and turned in his sleep bag. There was no point us talking. We both knew where we stood. We had no choice but to fight. From outside came the sound of whispered conversations. Who was persuading whom of what?

  The next morning the field looked like a busy anthill as people hurried back and forth seeking each other out to ask for advice or to persuade. Voices that began in whispers were raised as men, women and older children all wished to be heard. When it was time for the moot to gather, the mound filled with people sitting or standing shoulder-close to each other. The Lawmen took their seats. They didn’t allow any more discussion but called for a vote. The pit of my stomach felt cold and hollow as I craned my neck to try and count the raised swords. It was too close. I couldn’t work out the answer.

  Neither could the Lawmen and they took the unusual step to ask us to move to their right if we supported resistance and to the left if we wanted to submit. I had never experienced this before. Usually the deliberations before the vote ensured a clear result but not this time. It was a lengthy procedure to get everyone to move and when we had all found our places, the Lawmen came down from their seats and counted the two groups. Then they returned to the top of the mound. They spoke together then the Senior Lawman raised his hand to call for silence.

  ‘You have decided that we should submit to King Edmund. I shall go to him and ask him to show mercy on those of you who joined Anlaf Sithricson.’ Nobody spoke. There was nothing left to say.

  ***

  The great blot was, as usual, held at the end of the Thing. I arrived, expecting some of the older chieftains to object to my presence. They always had in the past and at the last Thing their rejection had been firm enough to send me away. But today none of them spoke. Instead the Senior Lawman greeted me with a formal speech.

  ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter of Becklund, welcome to our gathering. We are proud to have the hero of the Battle of Leicester as one of our Cumbrian Norse. Your deeds will be remembered for generations. I take it your horse is safe?’ This brought on cheers from the other farmers and chieftains who lined up to exchange the traditional warrior’s handshake with me. No mention of grandfather, father or husband. Just me. I was finally accepted, in my own right, as one of them.

  Last in the line of well-wishers stood Ragnar. We looked at each other. The men around us fell silent. Had they realised the impact on a Norse warrior and chieftain when his wife was granted equal footing at the Thing? A widow could take over the right to vote but not to take part in the blot. That was unheard of. I looked at Ragnar and my smile died. I couldn’t read his expression. Serious? Sad? Angry?

  ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter,’ he said, ‘of Becklund?’ My happiness stuck in my throat. Had I taken too much for granted? Was he not ready for this? I found my voice:

  ‘And Buttermere. We have two sons. A farm for each of them.’ The laughter wrinkles gathered at the corners of his eyes.

  ‘I’m so proud of you, Shieldmaiden,’ he said. I believed him.

  ***

  We returned to Buttermere in sombre mood. When we reached the farm, Olvir met us with the welcome-horn.

  ‘Someone has arrived and I decided to let him stay,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ said Ragnar, ‘I put you in charge so it was your decision.’ Olvir looked relieved but it was me he turned to with the explanation.

  ‘Sigrid, you may not agree but, you see, Kirsten begged.’ I realised who the guest was. I drank from the welcome-ale and when I finished, I saw him. Njal came towards me, bent his knee and offered me the hilt of his sword.

  ‘What in Odin’s name is this?’ said Ragnar. He didn’t sound too pleased. Njal ignored him and looked up at me.

  ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, I have behaved dishonourably. I sided with your enemy. I ran away from my punishment. I had thought to return with gold and a reputation to be proud of. I have gained some honour but not enough gold to buy my freedom and compensate you for my misdeeds. So I return to serve you as a thrall for the two years my father judged but I also ask you to give me Kirsten for a wife and accept me as one of your oathsworn.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ said Ragnar. I scowled at him. How dare he interfere! I was a chieftain. A young man offered to swear allegiance to me. It was none of his business and he showed me disrespect. Our eyes locked. He fell silent but didn’t back down.

  ‘Ragnar Sweinson,’ I hissed.

  ‘Wife,’ he spat the word at me. Only then did I realise what I asked of him. This was Buttermere, his farm. He was master here. I had always been careful to defer to him in front of the household. But this was different, the boy appealed to me as a chieftain in my own right. It was nothing to do with Ragnar. I expected him to step back, to apologise even. But, in his own home, a chieftain does not back down, not to his wife, not to any woman or man, not to anyone. The joyful welcome turned sour and our family, servants and thralls, watched us in miserable silence. Somehow Ragnar must accept that I was a chieftain and, at this moment that came before being his wife. We continued to stare at each other. Stalemate.

  The silence was broken by Kirsten.

  ‘Master,’ she said. I had never heard her call Ragnar that before. Now she knelt in front of him. ‘Njal is the father of my child. We both wish to be part of your household here at Buttermere. Njal has much to atone for to my mistress. I beg you to let him clear his name.’ Ragnar looked taken aback. They stayed like that, her kneeling, he silent until it seemed time had frozen. Then he took her by the shoulders and raised her.

  ‘Nobody is more precious to this household than you, Kirsten. You are a free woman and you marry who you like. If you want the ærsling you shall have him and you are both welcome in my hall. If he owes service to Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter then, if she’ll have him, he shall swear allegiance to her and serve in her hird.’ He stopped short of apologising but took a step back. The joint sigh of relief from the household was like a gust of fresh air. Thanks to Kirsten’s intervention, Ragnar had managed to be both fair and magnanimous without compromising his authority.

  Njal had lowered his head during our stand-off; now he looked up at me again. But I did not accept his sword.

  ‘Your father’s judgement was fair. For siding with my enemy in an ambush against me, for stealing my horse and abducting my servant woman you shall serve two years as my thrall. At the end of that time you shall be free and you may again offer your sword to me. But you are also the son of a Lawman and on his deathbed he decided you should marry Kirsten.’ I turned to Ragnar. ‘Husband?’ He grinned.

  ‘In the name of Frey, we need something to cheer us up. Let’s have a good bride-ale for our Kirsten.’ Olvir shouted hurrah and clapped his hands. Everyone joined in.

  ***

  ‘You need to tell Varg,’ I said to Kirsten when we were alone.

  ‘We have been to Becklund to see him.’

  ‘Both of you! And?’

  ‘I think we managed to get him to forgive Njal. He said he’ll be the grandfather instead of the father.’

  ‘Will your son still be called Njal? It’s a bit confusing.’

  ‘We’ll re-name him Varg.’

  ‘Oh, I see, that was part of the reconciliation.’ Kirsten giggled. I hugged her and, in our happiness, we laughed so much that I forgot about Cumbria, King Edmund and all the dangers that lay ahead.

  A week later, a horn sounded to announce the arrival of a visitor. It was Grim, accompanied by men, some of whom I recognised as his father’s karls. As had become his habit, he dispensed with the usual greetings and small talk.

  ‘Is the bo
y safe?’ he said with one foot still in the stirrup.

  ‘Yes, he’s here.’ I handed him the horn with welcome-ale. ‘He shall serve his sentence as thrall and then he’ll marry Kirsten. It’s what your father wanted.’ He stopped drinking.

  ‘Thrall? What’s he done? What’s my father got to do with this?’ We stared at each other. Ragnar arrived from the lake shore.

  ‘Grim, welcome. Have you come to see your ærsling of a brother?’

  ‘My brother? You mean that nithing who brought disgrace on the family? I hoped he’d disappeared for ever. No, I’m here to ask you to allow Olvir to come with me. I need his help.’ Ragnar silenced my protest with a look. I knew I must resign myself to the thought of Olvir as a man and I bit my lip.

  ‘We shall speak of it inside,’ said Ragnar, ‘with food and ale to help our deliberations. Please come.’ Ragnar pointed to the door and I called the thralls to prepare sleeping quarters and food.

  ‘No,’ said Grim.’ I thank you for your offer of hospitality and both my men and I shall accept a meal with gratitude but we need to move on.’

  ‘Not before you’ve met your brother,’ I said. He sighed.

  ‘He’s shamed the family. I’m grateful that you’re prepared to keep him but I have no affection for him and no wish to meet with him.’

  ‘You’ll find him greatly changed. And as for shaming the family ...’

  ‘I suppose everybody knows about my stepmother and Eirik.’

  ‘I don’t think there are many who don’t. Njal felt your father’s shame but didn’t know what to do about it. He chose unwisely when he sought refuge with Kjeld Gunnarson. I have been very angry but I am prepared to accept his remorse as genuine and I shall allow him to serve the sentence so he can clear his name.’

  ‘And is your Kirsten really prepared to take him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s too good for him.’

  ‘Yes, but she wants him. Will you meet them? Will you agree to the marriage?’ He grunted. I decided it meant ‘yes’ and sent for Njal and Kirsten. They arrived, Kirsten smiling, Njal red in the face, hiding his shaking hands behind his back. The two brothers greeted each other without warmth. Kirsten showed little Varg to Grim and he nodded approval.

 

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