Then he said to Kirsten, ‘My brothers and I are grateful for the care you gave our father during his last days.’
‘He was a just man and he showed me kindness,’ said Kirsten. Grim laughed, a derisory, cold sound. Njal snorted and shook his head. The brothers exchanged a look. I thought I noticed a glimmer of understanding between the two.
***
Olvir was sent for. He and Grim greeted each other like old friends.
‘The time has come,’ said Grim.
‘I don’t suppose Wulfstan will be able to help this time,’ said Olvir.
‘No, it’s up to you and me now.’ Olvir nodded.
‘Do you still have the cross Wulfstan gave you?’ Olvir dug into the neck of his tunic and rummaged till he found a silver cross on a chain. Tangled up with it was a pouch on a leather thong. He pushed it back, looking guilty.
‘I thought I told you to get rid of that,’ said Grim. Olvir looked at me. I wanted to hug him then but I just smiled to show him that I remembered.
‘It’s the one Sigrid gave me. There’s nothing much in it. It’s only the squirrel skull left, the legs started to smell so I threw them away, the oak leaf dried and ground to a powder and the sparrow poo, well ...’. Olvir wrinkled his nose. Grim sighed.
‘Just keep it out of sight then. But the cross needs to be on show. And put on your holy face. You’re a novice again.’ Olvir put his hands together, lowered his head and moved his lips as in silent prayer. That was too much for Ragnar who laughed.
‘Baldur himself couldn’t look more innocent.’
Olvir and Grim left. Grim’s parting words were a stark reminder of our situation.
‘Be vigilant and ready. Enough of us are prepared to fight should Edmund refuse pardons for those who carried arms against him.’
We increased weapons practice. We called Varg and Cerdic the Briton back from Becklund and I sent word to Rannerdale for Thorfinn and Anlaf. I decided to include Njal even though he was a thrall. The others grumbled but he behaved with humility and listened with respect to them and they gradually accepted him as part of the hird. So the winter passed.
Spring 945
Spring tried to make its mark and failed. It rained when we should plough. It rained when we should move the cattle to graze outside. Sowing was not to be considered. At the time when day and night are of equal length we offered a healthy heifer to the gods. It made no difference. We wondered what we had done for the gods to punish us like this. I remembered the terrible blot at midsummer when the oak had thrown off our gift. I’m sure many others remembered too but nobody spoke of it. Talk can bring new misfortune. I dreamt of the fylgia. She had her back to me. I wanted to tell her I hadn’t deserted Becklund, that I would be back to continue the work but, as is often the case in dreams, I was unable to make a sound and she walked away from me. I woke up thoroughly miserable. I struggled to keep a calm, confident air in front of the household. Most of them were downcast anyway and it was my duty as mistress to keep their spirits up.
It was an evening to match our mood. Rain fell heavy and hopeless. It battered plants, people and animals alike. The household had gathered for our evening meal and I decided that all were to have a taste of mead to comfort and sustain. The fire burned bright on the hearth. Harald played a tune on his flute and servants and thralls got pipes and drums and gathered around him. They made music, soothing, cheering. It felt good. The warriors tended their weapons, servants and thralls kept busy, the men carved and the women span or sewed. I settled next to Ragnar in the high seat and thought it was good we could enjoy an evening of normality.
The peace was broken by the sounds of our guard dog barking and whining. The dogs inside pricked up their ears and joined in. There was no sound of a horn so this was not a friendly visit by a neighbour or a traveller in need of shelter. No one wanted to open the door and look. Nothing good was abroad in such dark and rain. Then I realised that the dogs didn’t sound frightened as they would if there were visitations from another world. Nor did they sound angry enough for this to be a wild animal or an intruder. We sat quiet and listened. Outside the barking turned into whining. The house-dogs ran to the door and leapt up against it. I signed to one of the thralls to open. He gave a shout of surprise and stepped aside. In the middle of a frenzied tail-wagging welcome a dripping wet, hunched figure stumbled across the threshold and fell inside.
‘Olvir. It’s Olvir, Olvir,’ the name echoed round the hall. He was picked up and held. His face was dirty and tear-streaked, his clothes torn and muddy. He accepted the help of the thralls who removed his wet clothes. I sent for dry sheets and began rubbing him down. He was thin but not injured. When he sat, dressed in dry clothes and sipping hot ale, between me and Ragnar he leaned his head on my shoulder. He was still shivering and his cheeks were wet not from rain but tears.
‘Grim is dead,’ he whispered. ‘We failed.’
‘Hush,’ I said, ‘just rest now.’
‘No, no, I must tell ...’
‘What were you trying to do?’ asked Ragnar. Olvir gulped the horn of ale Thora brought him. Then he sat back and took a deep breath. ‘We tried to get to Wales. Grim said we must persuade some of the Welsh princes to rebel and join forces with Cumbria and fight Edmund. But we were too late. The Welsh overlord is with Edmund and so is the Scottish King. Cuaran has left, gone back to Dublin. Dunmail is running from Edmund. They are coming at us now from all sides. I think Cumbria is lost. If only we’d got there ...’
Ragnar put his hand on Olvir’s head.
‘I don’t think it was destined to work,’ he said. ‘Edmund has gathered them all in his net. You and Grim did well to try. We’re proud of you, son.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you’ve been brave, a true great-grandson of King Harald Finehair.’
Olvir, the boy born a thrall, smiled through his tears.
Eysten Mordson sent out invitations to a grave-ale for his brother Grim. He was now head of the household, a responsibility he’d not expected, as he thought his elder brother a peaceful trader. The poor young man seemed lost. His aunts had arrived and took charge of the preparations. Eysten received condolences with a vacant expression on his face. The reason for his distracted state became clear. There was no body to put on the funeral pyre.
Under the direction of the Mordson aunts, the ceremony took place anyway. Women keened and wept, men praised the dead man. Except that the praise was all about a trader who’d made himself wealthy.
‘Sigrid, this is not right,’ said Olvir. ‘None of them know what Grim tried to do for them all. Someone should tell them. I think I must.’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Edmund has spies everywhere. It could put you in danger if he finds out that you worked with Grim.’
‘But Grim should be honoured for what he did,’ said Ragnar. ‘If you tell Eysten, he can say it when he speaks the lament. Ask him not to mention you.’
So when the time came for Eysten to speak, he told all those assembled about how his brother had scouted for Wulfstan and Cuaran. How he’d sought out the places where Edmund stayed and how he had listened and asked and found out what Edmund planned. How he’d risked his life to try to make Cumbrians, Norse and Scots join in the same alliance they had in the past. Eysten’s face shone with pride as he declaimed his brother’s work and all round him his neighbours and friends listened in astounded silence. When he finished everyone wanted to shake his hand and express their admiration for his elder brother.
Bose Mordson was missing from the funeral of his eldest brother. Eysten said nothing about this so nobody else did either.
PART EIGHT
“Cattle die, kindred die, thyself too soon must die
But one thing never, I ween, will die – the glory of the great deed.”
Havamal
Our new Senior Lawman had gone to King Edmund to offer loyalty and tribute in return for pardon. Three days after the grave-ale at Keskadale a summons arrived to muster at Legburthwaite, the meeting pla
ce for all of Cumbria’s Norse.
‘It must be the reply from Edmund,’ I said. ‘Maybe he’s sent an envoy to deliver his message to all of us.’
‘Most likely a challenge to battle,’ muttered Ragnar moving the whetstone up and down the edge of Bearkiller.
‘Do you think our Lawman might have persuaded Edmund to come to an agreement about peace?’ I said. ‘Lawman Thorgils Egilson has a very persuasive tongue.’ Ragnar looked at me and pulled a face. I shrugged. Of course I knew there was no hope.
Mindful of how many had died from wound-fever after Leicester. I decided to take Kirsten with me. She and Olvir set to collecting and parcelling up herbs, tearing sheets into bandages and sharpening knives and tongs.
‘We could pack it in the cauldron,’ said Olvir. Kirsten shook her head.
‘Too heavy. We’ll heat stones in a fire and drop them into a bucket.’
‘Oh,’ said Olvir. ‘Clever.’
‘Yes, I am.’ The way they giggled together, you’d think they were preparing for a feast.
***
We returned to Legburthwaite. It was very different from a regular Thing assembly. Few of us had brought our families. Nobody spoke of law suits or tried to get support for claims against anyone. There was little trade nor did anyone seem inclined towards feasting or competitions. The air was filled with a muted but persistent buzz from people anxiously asking, speculating, guessing.
Eysten Mordson joined us with his father’s karls.
‘Will your brother join you here?’ I asked.
‘I haven’t heard from Bose since the last Thing. I thought he might have come to the grave-ale for Grim but he didn’t. My family seems to have fallen apart.’ I called Njal to join us. Eysten’s face lit up.
‘Where in Niflhel have you been you little miscreant? Come here.’ Njal blushed and grinned as his older brother embraced him. I felt my jaw drop. This could not be more different from how Grim had greeted Njal. Ragnar and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and left them.
***
After two days we gathered round the Law Rock. From each region came men learned in the Law. But we didn’t see a messenger from the King. Nor was our Senior Lawman Thorgils Egilson anywhere to be seen. There must be a message, whether of peace and reconciliation or about war and retribution. A Lawman from our area climbed on to the Law Rock. We all looked for the scroll with the words from King Edmund. The Lawman carried a leather sack. He didn’t speak. Pale and sombre he undid the ties, reached inside it to pull something out. In his clenched fist he held aloft the severed head of our Senior Lawman Thorgils Egilson.
The silence that fell over those assembled on that hill was like the silence at the end of Ragnarok. Then the Lawmen from each region drew their swords. All those present loosened the peace-cords that held their swords in their scabbards and raised their blades to the sky. Our voices filled the air with a united shout of defiance. It rolled like Thor’s chariot across the fells.
‘Yes, we shall fight to the end. Better die a hero than live a thrall.’
The mountains answered: Better die a hero ...
Ragnar drew me to him and held me close. ‘So this is it, Shieldmaiden. We fight together and maybe we fall together. I shall not look your way, in case I fail to see my enemies. Promise you’ll not look my way but see only where Dragonclaw shall bite. And when, as will happen, we face defeat you must try to save yourself for the sake of our children.’ I didn’t ask what he would do. He was a warrior. So was I, but I was also a mother.
***
We spent the next three days feasting. Many a Brage Cup was drunk and the promises made became ever more expansive but no less heartfelt for that. Nobody skimped on food or drink and our evenings were passed listening to bards retelling the tales of past heroic deeds. Even the rain that set in on the fourth morning couldn’t dampen our mood of defiance.
That morning, the war came to us. At first, in the form of a slow-moving train of horses and carts – Dunmail’s wife and their two young sons were fleeing from the Saxon King and his hordes. They stopped only to tell us that Edmund, with King Malcolm of the Scots and the Welsh Overlord Hywel Dda, were a matter of hours away and that Dunmail and his warriors fought only to slow them down and allow his family to get to safety. Then the carts, heavily laden with treasures and guarded by Dunmail’s elite warriors, set off again. We heard the creaking and rattling disappear south.
It was time to prepare. Families and animals were sent to hide. Kveldulf saluted me as he led North Wind and the other horses out of our camp. My throat constricted with suppressed sobs but my heart was full of pride of my son. Those with knowledge of healing sought concealment where the gills come rushing down from the high fells. Boulders and rocks would grant them safety from anyone who didn’t know where to look. At nightfall, when the clamour of fighting would be replaced by the cries and moans of the wounded and the dying they would leave their hiding places and come searching for survivors in need of their care. Kirsten and Olvir went together carrying their bundles of herbs and bandages. After families and followers left, those of us who were to make a stand against King Edmund sat down to wait. Some slept, some sat in small groups and talked and some prayed to whatever gods they thought would grant them honour and perhaps even life.
It was after midday when the battle noise reached us. It came carried by the wind as it swept down the Vale of St John. A party set off to find Dunmail and offer him support. From the shelter of our hill we could ambush the Saxons. Together we could make a fight of it. They returned and pointed to the track below, where Dunmail’s men scattered across the fellsides, disappearing like woodland spirits among the trees and rocks.
‘He has a stronghold, the Citadel of Helwellyn, and wants to make his stand there,’ one of our guards said. ‘We asked him to stay and fight with us but flight seems to suit him better. Just as in the old days.’ He spat on the ground behind him.
We waited again.
***
The sound of soldiers in pursuit grew louder. Horses snorted, their hooves sparked against rocks on the rough track, men shouted, weapons rattled. They emerged and stopped at the edge of Leathes Water. The forerunners looked around but Dunmail and his men had vanished among the boulders and trees. A couple of riders dismounted and searched the ground. A group of warriors in rich armour on splendid stallions rode up. In the middle we spotted a helmet circled by a crown.
‘Edmund,’ someone shouted. I strained my eyes to see.
‘No, Edmund is fair-haired and clean shaven. The beard below that helmet is brown; it must be Malcolm.’
‘Those are not Saxons,’ said one of the Lawmen. ‘I can’t see Edmund’s banner anywhere either but there are some Scots and some, I think, are Welsh.’
We watched as more horsemen arrived. They struggled for room on the narrow path and some were forced onto the boggy ground their horses struggling against the mud.
We drew up in formation. Our strongest fighters formed a shield wall at the front. Varg and Thorfinn joined it linking their shields with those of Ragnar, Lothar and the others. When Anlaf stepped up to join them, Thorfinn pushed him back.
‘Try to stay alive for your mother,’ he said. Ragnar raised his eyebrows at me and I shook my head. Anlaf shrugged and he and Njal joined me and Ylva in the next line of warriors, those who would replace the ones in the front line as they fell. Behind us, men with spears were ready to aim above our heads at the enemy, and furthest back stood the archers. I had told Hildur and Unn to wait behind the archers together with the young, untried warriors. I still harboured hopes that some of us would survive.
Then we waited for the enemy to discover us. We had no Wulfstan or Cuaran to make decisions. Some wanted to attack before more soldiers arrived; others wanted to stay and make the enemy attack up the steep slope. I heard Ragnar’s voice.
‘We draw their attention and they may attack before they are reinforced. Be ready with spears and rocks to throw when they come.’ The
men in the shield wall hit their swords and axes against the shields. Our battle chant rose to the sky.
‘Odin, Odin, Odin, you all belong to Odin.’ The noise of our weapons grew louder. It echoed between the hills. The soldiers below couldn’t work out where it came from. We cheered when we saw them panic. Some tried to turn round but ran into the steady stream of new arrivals. Others dismounted to form a shield wall round the royal lords.
When finally they saw us, they shook their fists. Malcolm pointed up the hill and his men squelched their way across the boggy ground to ford the shallow beck and begin climbing. Our shield wall stepped aside and the warriors behind stepped forward to shower arrows, spears and rocks at the attackers. They were beaten back and many bodies were left on the slope. They tried again and again. They were mountain men, Welsh and Scots, not Saxons and they knew how to scale a steep slope. But they couldn’t throw spears uphill and their archers were out of range. We were now running out of arrows and spears and had to search for rocks to throw. But still we held them back.
The attackers called retreat. The Scots and Welsh lords stood looking up at our stronghold. Another rider joined them. He rode a fine stallion, a black and white piebald. His hird followed; they numbered a full dozen. One of them carried the standard; a triangular pennant, not a rectangular Saxon or Scottish but one belonging to a Norse warrior. The realisation sent a shockwave through our ranks.
‘That’s Kjeld Gunnarson,’ someone shouted, ‘I’d recognise one of his horses anywhere.’
‘But not him, dimwit,’ said another. ‘He sells those horses all over Cumbria. Could be anyone.’
‘It’s him,’ Thorfinn shouted, ‘no doubt about it. The bastard is in Edmund’s pay.’
‘Careful with that slanderous tongue of yours, Thorfinn Egilson,’ said our new Lawman. ‘A grudge makes a poor judge.’ Thorfinn continued to grumble. To me there was no doubt. I felt sure it was Kjeld.
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