The Last Wife of Attila the Hun

by Joan Schweighardt

  Again I searched Sigurd’s face for some hint of his expression, but now that our faces were so close together that I could feel his breath on my cheek, even the dark shape of his head was indiscernible against the darker darkness. The last time Sigurd had declared his love for me, his words had been without conviction, the response, surely, to my envy and my tears. Had I somehow forced his tongue again? Or was he only, as perhaps he had that morning, confusing his affection for me with his excitement over the gold? Whatever the reason, this was something I had not counted on. In fact, it only made a snarl of matters that were snarled to begin with. As Sigurd kissed me, I forced my mind to consider the consequences. Would Sigurd go to Brunhild if he had come again to love me? But I was a fearful little thing. It was not possible. And if he did not go to her, what then? I had made a bargain, after all. I backed away and ended our kiss abruptly. But Sigurd laughed and pursued me all the more. And so helpless did I feel myself in his embrace that I said to myself, One more moment, one more kiss, and then I will tell him the lie I have already rehearsed. And while the logical part of my mind was urging me to tell him now and be done with it, the other part, so joyful to feel his touch, to be alone with him (or nearly so) in the dark bower while the mirth of the Burgundians went on just beyond it, bade me wait and wait, that there was time enough ahead to countermand my selfishness. And how quickly then did I turn my ear from logic and give myself to my husband.

  14

  I AWOKE ENCLOSED in Sigurd’s arms, with Sigurd’s breath on my face and Sigurd’s skin against my skin. I saw immediately that the past was a contradiction and an inconvenience to my bliss. And thus I changed it. I told myself, first of all, that I had over-reacted to the conversation I had overheard between my brothers. That their words had been merely the idle reflections of two weary men who had come to feel emasculated by their circumstances. How difficult it must be, I mused as I ran my finger along Sigurd’s slumberous smile, for my brother the king to acknowledge that his people were too few and too poor to take up arms against their enemies. Like our father before him, Gunner was a king in name only. And as if to confirm this for those who would assert otherwise, he had grown fat and melancholy over the years. But who would assert otherwise? No ambassadors from foreign tribes came calling at our door, bearing gifts and offering allegiance. Even our own people treated Gunner as little more than an elder brother, someone to be looked to when it was necessary to interpret the laws or remember the past. It was only natural then that Gunner should see in Sigurd’s gold the opportunity to change these sordid circumstances. And I pitied him now, with all my revived and thriving heart. I told myself that between words and action there lies a great abyss which he had never actually intended to leap across—for had he truly proposed to take action, he would have done so immediately, as was his way. But he went to Hagen instead, whom he knew would offer resistance. Gunner had only dreamed of action, and recognizing his dream as a fantasy of evil dimensions, he longed, simultaneously, to be persuaded against it. And now he had the war sword. The trouble was ended.

  I found, too, a new way to regard those matters concerning Brunhild. The idea of her joining us when we went to the Franks I put from my mind as something to be thought of later. And as for my more immediate concession, I said to myself, if Brunhild and Sigurd want to be together, well then, so be it. The danger inherent in their association will keep them from being together often. She cannot know, as I do, that Gunner would continue to want her anyway. And when they are apart, Sigurd will be mine. And should the day come when he turns from me again (and I no longer believed such a day would come), then I will have the memory of bliss—second only to bliss itself—to content me.

  And so my delusions went. In fact, so thoroughly did I convince myself that after my initial conjectures, I gave these matters little thought at all.

  The aspect of the days that followed only confirmed my beliefs. On that first morning after the feast, when we met in the hall to share the foods that had been left over, Brunhild was there with the rest of us, and she looked content enough to me. Gunner was as utterly transformed as a man can be. His smile, a sheepish one, never left his face. And yet, like a boy whose happiness embarrasses him, he kept his eye on his bowl. His skin glowed, and his movements, when he broke the bread or cut the meat, were the awkward movements of a man whose thoughts are elsewhere. He ate with haste, stuffing his mouth with more food than is becoming, but so sincere was his smile, which clung to his face even as he chewed, that I could not help but laugh. And when Brunhild heard me laughing, she looked up and smiled at me, as if, I thought, to say, Yes, I have found happiness with your brother after all. When my brother finished eating and began to yawn and say that he needed yet a bit more rest, how quick she was to finish her own meal and follow him back to the bower. And when the curtain closed behind her, Gunner’s laughter came wafting out to the rest of us so that Mother blushed and Hagen quipped, “I will never marry. I see now how it makes men dull and lazy.”

  Thus the days passed, seven in all. The weather, meanwhile, was growing colder, and we expected the first snowfall shortly. Now we were all slower to rise in the mornings, dreading to get out from under our rugs and go about our chores—or in Brunhild’s case, to wander in the forest. In the evenings, when we had eaten, we sought out the warmth of the hearth fire and occupied ourselves there as people do in the winter—Hagen repairing tools and sharpening blades, Sigurd fashioning a new pair of shoes for Guthorm, and Mother and I working the wool that the servants had cleaned into threads on our distaffs while Brunhild sat idly and listened to Gunner’s strains.

  On the eighth day, however, all this changed. Gunner emerged from the bower alone that morning, and without the boyish grin that we had already become accustomed to. Looking at no one, he snatched a hunk of bread from the table and hurried outdoors with it. Hagen put aside his bowl and hurried out after him. A while later, Brunhild got up. She must have thought it was later than it was, for when she saw Sigurd and Mother and Guthorm and me still sitting at the table, she looked surprised. And before we could ask her to join us, she turned and went back into the bower.

  I was outdoors with Mother, tending to the sheep, when Brunhild finally came out of the hall. Without so much as looking in our direction, she bounded over to where Sigurd was at work on the oaks and said something to him, seemingly curt. As she was turning away, heading for her usual destination, Sigurd noticed me watching and he smiled. But his smile, I thought, though I was seeing it at a distance, had an uncertainty about it, as if the thing that Brunhild had said to him had oppressed him.

  Sometime later, at Mother’s request, I had one of the servants prepare the bathing pit for Guthorm. The sight of the steaming rocks upset him terribly, and I had to force him to remove his clothing. And thus it was that I was struggling with him beside the steaming pit, trying to get his tunic up over his head while I gripped one arm and watched the other flap as if he intended to fly away from me, when I thought I heard someone just outside the thicket, on the forest side. I let go of Guthorm and pulled some branches apart and peeked out in time to see Sigurd passing. My first inclination was to call him in to help me with Guthorm. But I saw that his eye was set on something up ahead of him, and when I pulled down more branches, I saw Brunhild standing at some distance along the path that led through the pines and up to the birches. She was facing Sigurd, waiting for him to catch up with her, standing in the one ray of sunlight that had managed to find a course through the thick limbs overhead. She was hauntingly beautiful there in that light, her unnetted hair afire and swirling around her radiant face in the wind. I let go of the branches and turned back to the bathing pit. Guthorm, of course, had fled. He had left his cloak behind. I put my face into it to smother the sound of my sobs. It occurred to me that I could still run out of the thicket and call to Sigurd to help me with Guthorm. Brunhild would see us and step into the trees, I thought, for it seemed likely that she did not care for me to kno
w about this meeting. Then, when Sigurd came into the thicket, happy enough to think that I had failed to note his destination, I would exclaim that Guthorm had escaped. Their chance to go off together would be eliminated neatly, for the moment at least. But I took too long to act, and by the time I got back to the branches, they were already rounding a bend on the path. And at that moment I knew that I had been mistaken to assume that the memory of bliss was nigh to the thing itself; it was, in fact, its opposite.

  I left the thicket and made my way along the path, berating myself for having become so furtive and deceitful. I went slowly, for the leaves beneath my feet were dry, and as I expected with every step to be discovered, I held Guthorm’s cloak high and moved my head from side to side so as to appear to be searching. A twig snapped beneath my foot and I froze. “Guthorm,” I called softly. I heard nothing, but when my heart stopped pounding, I saw the uselessness in going on, and I collapsed to the ground in tears. When I got to my feet again, I went back along the path in the opposite direction, and I passed the rest of the afternoon staring into the bathing pit and imagining the event I had not the disposition to witness for myself.

  Much later, I heard movement on the path, and I reached the branches of the thicket in time to see Sigurd running by. He looked distraught, and I fancied he was concerned that Gunner should learn what he had been about. In my self-absorption, I had forgotten Gunner myself until that moment. I looked about for Brunhild, eager, for Sigurd’s sake, that she should be seen to return at my side, but she was nowhere in sight. I washed my swollen face in the pit and rushed out of the thicket, thinking now that I must catch up with Sigurd before he entered the hall. But he was already entering when I emerged at the end of the path. I hurried along and entered myself a moment later, and Gunner, who was within, came right up to me. “Where is Brunhild?” he asked, his eyes narrowed. Sigurd was standing just behind him, staring hard at me.

  I hesitated, wondering whether I should say I had just left her, but then I thought better of it. “Where indeed,” I said. “She is gone off wherever she goes. Why do you ask me?”

  Gunner turned to sweep his eyes over Sigurd and then back to me again. “One of the servants said he glimpsed her walking along a different path than the one she usually takes, the one that goes up behind the bathing pit.”

  I looked up toward the roof, as if considering. “No, he must be mistaken,” I said as calmly as I could. “I am quite sure I saw her go the way she always goes.”

  Gunner grabbed my arm. “I thought to settle the matter by asking Sigurd here whether he had seen her. But when I went to find him, he was not at the oaks where he always is. It seems he went off, too, today.”

  I calculated quickly and concluded that I had come in too soon after Sigurd for him to have said much more to Gunner than that he had not seen Brunhild. I shook my arm free and forced a laugh. “You speak as if it were an outrage for a man and his wife to go off together.”

  Mother, who had been setting the table, turned around suddenly. “I wondered where you were,” she said, “when Guthorm returned without you. I thought you planned to bathe him.”

  I laughed again. “Aye, I took him to the bathing pit as you bade me. But he ran off, the little monster. And as I could not find him, I sought out my husband’s company.” I held up Guthorm’s cloak, still damp from all the tears I had shed into it. “I will put this away,” I said. And I went quickly to the bower so that I should not have to look into Gunner’s eyes again.

  Guthorm was sitting in the corner where the mattresses were rolled and stored. He had found a hole in my feather mattress and was pulling out the feathers. As I knelt down beside him and put my arms around him, I heard the swish of the curtain behind me. “I must speak to you, Gudrun,” Sigurd said.

  I held Guthorm closer. “Not now. Can you not see that Gunner is suspicious? He thinks you have been with his wife.”

  “But Gudrun, that is what—”

  “Go,” I whispered harshly, glancing over my shoulder. And since he remained where he was, staring at me in amazement, I got up and hurried out past him.

  The table was set. “Good,” I cried, eyeing it. “Sigurd and I are famished after our walk.”

  Gunner took his seat and looked at me curiously. I smiled at him, but his expression did not alter. The door lifted and Brunhild came in. One could see that she had been crying. She closed the door and stood with her back against it, glaring at me as if whatever had upset her had been my fault. Horrified to think that she might say something to oppose what I had already said, I turned to Gunner and exclaimed, “You see how you have upset your poor wife? Look at her face. What terrible things did you say to her this morning that she should return still looking as sad as she did when she left?”

  “What has come over you?” Gunner cried. “How dare you take such a tone with me.”

  I lowered my head. “I am sorry,” I whispered. “It is not my affair.”

  Mother, who was pouring the mead now, said to me, “Where is Sigurd? Did he not see that we were almost ready here? Get him, and Guthorm too.”

  Gunner and Brunhild were staring at each other. I got up from my seat, and moving to the bower, I said, “We walked quite far. No doubt he is resting.”

  “I thought you said he was famished,” Mother snapped.

  “Aye, that too,” I answered wearily. I pulled the curtain back a bit and slid in behind it. Sigurd was holding Guthorm on his lap. He looked at me pleadingly, his lips struggling to form his petition. “Come,” I said. “We are eating.” And I hurried out again before he could speak.

  For the first time since her coming, Brunhild did not ask Gunner to take up his harp that night. Nor did he have a mind to take it up himself. Instead, he occupied himself with a bone carving he had begun the winter before and never completed. The carving was supposed to represent Wodan, but to me it looked nothing like the god. In fact, with its fleshly face and wild eyes and angry mouth, it looked more like Gunner than anyone else. Perhaps Gunner thought so too, for he worked at it grudgingly, putting it aside at intervals to stare into the fire.

  When it grew late, Gunner put the carving down for good and announced that he was retiring to the bower. He went off with his head hung low, without another word to any of us. Brunhild was not long in following. I waited a time, and then I put aside my distaff and bid Hagen and Mother and Guthorm a good night. Mother, whose mouth had been tight all evening, did not respond.

  I was pacing when Sigurd came in. He grabbed my arm as he closed the curtain and said, “I must speak to you.” His voice was loud and full of urgency. I covered his mouth with my hand and pulled him into the corner where our mattress was spread out. Much as I had no desire to be near him, I made him lie down beside me, and then I pulled our rugs up over our heads so that our words would not be overheard.

  “What I must tell you will be painful,” he began.

  “Then let me spare you the pain of telling me what I already know,” I snapped. “I know about Brunhild and the night in the cave. She told me herself. And I know, too, that you were together today. I was in the thicket at the bathing pit when you went by.”

  Our faces were so close together that I could feel his sharp intake of breath. “Gudrun,” he whispered.

  “Let me go on. I will say to you what I once said to her—though I thought of late that I should not have to say it: I will not stand in the way of your love for each other. But the risk you took today was frivolous. And its consequence was that I was forced to lie—”

  “Gudrun, I do not love her.”

  “Do not deceive me,” I cried. I lowered my voice. “Do not deceive me. I have played the fool long enough.”

  “Gudrun, you must listen to me. You are right about the night in the cave. It happened. I do not know how. Or I do. And I will explain to you as best I can if you will only hear me. But as for today, I agreed to meet her only to tell her tha
t that night in the cave had been a mistake. You must believe me.”

  This I could hardly believe, now that I’d had all afternoon to set my mind on the reverse. Still, the tears of joy came welling up, and I had to fight to keep them back—for, in truth, I was eager to hold on to my anger.

  When Sigurd saw that I would make no response, he went on quickly, saying, “You saw her face. You must realize I am not lying. She flew into a rage when she heard the words I had to say to her. She said she married Gunner only to be near me, that I should have told her before the weddings… And I said I would have but that she seemed happy enough, and that anyway, we had no opportunity to speak. She would not believe that I would choose you over her. She said I was weak and dishonorable and connected to you only by my guilt. Aye, I am weak and dishonorable. And my guilt, Gudrun, clings to me more strictly than my shadow. But my connection to you has little to do with it, and I told her so. Then she fell to her knees, and with her arms wrapped around my legs, she swore to me that you came to her the day before our weddings and told her that you had no liking for love-making, that you begged her to become my lover so that… I did not believe her. But she insisted. She said my kisses and embraces disgusted you. She told me to go to you and ask for myself. I said she lied. She insisted. She said to go and find you and ask. She said she would meet me where we met today again tomorrow, and that if I failed to come, she would go back to live her life among the beasts, for she would rather that than continue on as Gunner’s wife, listening to him each night reciting the list of runes he would have her engrave on the war sword which I, she said, so foolishly gave him. She went on and on to name his flaws. I hardly heard her. I was thinking of you, of how I must find you and tell you about the cave, tell you that the man you married is everything she said, weak and dishonest and more, and ask you, too, whether the thing she said is true, though if it is, it is no less than I deserve.”