This was a great lot to consider, and I took a long time with it. When I touched Sigurd’s face, to show him that my anger had passed from me, I found it wet with tears. “I made a bargain with her,” I began. “I did not keep it. My offense is as ignoble as yours, though my motive was worthier. I feared for your safety, Sigurd. I had reason to believe my brothers… I went to her, and I told her that I would feign indifference to your love-making so as to ensure that you would go to her, if, in turn, she would make Gunner think that the night in the cave never happened. I even told her that I would find a way for her to join us when we go to Gripner’s. I did not think it would make any difference. I thought I had already lost you. But on our wedding night…and ever since… That was something I did not count on. We have both failed her. We have both deceived her. You must go to her tomorrow as she asked and tell her she was right to think it was only your guilt that kept you from her today.”
Sigurd rolled away from me, onto his back. “I have made a great mess of things,” he whispered. “I am a disloyal, dishonorable man. I never thought I should have to acknowledge these things about myself.” He rolled back to me suddenly. “You know I was not always this way. You must despise me. How could you do otherwise?”
“I must hear in your own words what happened that night.”
“It will soothe me to tell you. I wanted to sooner, but—”
“I know you did. I was not ready then. I am now. I must know.”
Sigurd began slowly, his voice quivering with sorrow. “I came down from the high mountains a changed man, feeling my feat would carry me high for the rest of my days. And there she was, dressed in the Roman war weeds, blood gushing from her thigh. She was beautiful, extraordinary, a valkyria. And she did not keep her attraction for me a secret either. Still, I believed myself able to resist her. But when I went back for her, and we began our journey here, it became more difficult. We took to speaking of ourselves as gods. She never tired of describing to me how her rune-wisdom had brought fortunes to others. I never tired of telling her about the gold and how I had come by it. We let our minds wander. We invented settings in which her rune-wisdom and my gold and valor enabled us to prosper, to fight against the Romans…even the Huns. And though our words were mostly in jest—most of our imaginings being quite far-fetched, things that no man or woman can ever hope to accomplish—I would be deceiving you if I did not admit that the prospect of such an alliance began to seem a very fine thing to me.
“To shake myself free from her spell, I spoke of you. I said you were a good woman, content to live in peace and obedience to your brothers. She laughed. She said you sounded to her to be unfit to be the wife of a dragon-slayer, and I began to see you through her eyes.” Sigurd grabbed hold of me suddenly, crying, “I do not mean to cause you pain. I tell you these things only to help you understand…”
“Go on,” I said.
He rolled onto his back again. A moment passed. “Our horses were tired by the time we got to the cave. And the rain had begun to fall harder. The thought of a warm fire… But no, that was not it. Oh, Gudrun, how can I say these things to you? My tongue would cut down the truth at every turning. I needed no fire. It was Brunhild I desired. I was mad with desire for her. Gudrun, Gudrun, how can you ever forget and forgive me?”
I said nothing. For so long I had feared to hear Sigurd speak these words, but now that he was saying them, I listened almost dispassionately, as if the tale he told involved strangers. If I felt anything, it was pity, for I had never known Sigurd to shed a tear before.
“When we arrived at your hall, I was sure I loved her. I saw your envy and your pain. They were as clear to me as the pebbles at the bottom of a shallow stream. I could think of nothing but how I might break off our betrothal. I wanted only to be free of you. I’d had it in mind to stay some three or four days before returning to my people, but your face, your sadness, was like a blade cutting though me, reminding me of all that I could not have—those acts of valor which I imagined at Brunhild’s side.”
Sigurd laughed, a single ironic grunt. “I have grown womanish with these tears,” he said. “How you must detest me. How I detest myself. But let me go on now that I have begun. When I left your hall, I found I missed you sorely—your friendship, that is. The way you have always had of listening to my troubles as if they were your own. I was confused…and ashamed. I wished that you had never been more than a friend to me, a neutral third party, a sister. How quickly then would I have turned back and begged you to listen… And little by little I came to see that this trust between us was precisely the thing that made you so important to me, in a way that Brunhild could never be. I rode and rode, and her charm wore off some, though not entirely. I asked myself whether I would have wanted her so much had she been merely a beautiful woman and no valkyria. The answer would not come. I could not seem to separate the two. I could not tell what she meant to me apart from her powers. I wanted her powers. I wanted the future we spoke of. But I could not say whether I wanted her. And then I realized what I had done, how I had broken my blood-bond with—”
“Do you mean to say you realized only then?”
“I had put it out of my mind, as a thing to dwell on later.” He fell silent.
“Do not dwell on it now,” I whispered to urge him on.
He took a deep breath. “At home, Gripner watched me. I felt certain that he knew what I had done and was waiting for me to come forward and speak about it. When I was a boy, it always brought me comfort to know that my uncle knew of my wrongdoings. He always found a way to understand them. For Gripner, there was never good or evil where I was concerned—only mistakes. But how could I speak to him of this? Or, perhaps I feared he would forgive me, and I was not ready for that, for I had not yet forgiven myself.
“To be out of his sight, I spent several days alone in the forest, contemplating my error and praying to Wodan for guidance. I fasted, and, at length, I grew calm. But still I was not able to forgive myself. I began to think of Brunhild as kin, for by now I was convinced we shared—” He broke off.
“Shared what?” I asked.
“An evil element. A lack of desire to do well by our fellow man. And thus I came to feel that I was unworthy of you, of your innocent love. When I returned, my mind was still divided. And then there were your brothers… Gunner always with his eye on me as if… And then Brunhild looking at me as if to convey some message, the meaning of which I could not discern. But the night of the storm, when I thought that I should lose you…that we should lose each other, I saw that you meant everything to me, and that your goodness alone would save me. That your forgiveness alone would ignite mine. But we could not speak then, and afterwards, I lost my courage.”
I wrapped my arms around him. “She put a spell on you with her runes. None of this is your fault.”
“No, it is too easy to believe that.”
“But I believe that, Sigurd.”
“It may be so, but again, it may not. I must know that you forgive me either way.”
“Then know that I do, that my love for you is too great to be rubbed out by one such blunder.”
We held each other in silence for some time. Then Sigurd’s voice came again, low and weary, into the darkness. “I must gain Gunner’s forgiveness too. It is the only way.”
I sat up. “You are mad. He would never forgive you. I know this to be true. He would kill you on the spot.”
“Nevertheless, I must tell him all that I have told you. And anyway, if I do not, Brunhild may. Better he should—”
“No. You must promise to say nothing. This is madness, Sigurd. She will tell him nothing, not if you go to her tomorrow as she asked.”
“And go to her again when next she asks? No. I cannot do it.”
“You must. You must do whatever she wants. You must become her lover again. I will endure it. Or perhaps we will find tomorrow that she plans to go away. You s
aid—”
“And do you think your brother so witless that he will not guess why she is gone?”
“Let him guess. You can deny it.”
“No, Gudrun. He must be told.”
“Then think of this, Sigurd. If you tell him, you will be endangering her life as well as yours. He will kill her, too.”
Sigurd sat up beside me. “Do you think so? After all, it was I who broke the blood-bond. She had no bond with him then herself.”
“He would,” I lied. “I know he would. His pride is greater than his love for anyone. Even Brunhild. And who is there to demand a man-price for her death?”
Sigurd plopped back onto the mattress. “I do not know what to do.”
“I am telling you. Become her lover again. It is the only way. Only now you must be careful—”
“The way you press me here, Gudrun… It makes me wonder whether the words that Brunhild said—”
“I care only for your safety.”
“I will not go to her,” he said resolutely. “Do not speak to me of it again. I broke the blood-bond once. I would only dishonor myself further to repeat the act… And think of your part in it, Gudrun. You have already deceived Gunner on my account. I would rather die than contaminate you further. And who would benefit by it anyway? You? Gunner? Brunhild? No. Today has been the first in many that my soul has known any peace. And now, having told you everything…” He drifted off, as if he had just thought of something else.
“Is there more?” I asked.
“No more,” he mumbled. “I only meant to say… Oh, Gudrun, sleep comes over me even as I speak.”
“Do not sleep yet. You have yet to promise me that you will say nothing to Gunner.”
“I cannot think on it anymore tonight. All these emotions, these womanish tears. So much to sort through. It seems I have done nothing but think for days and days and days. How tiring it all is.”
“Aye, I know your meaning too well myself. Just promise me, or I swear I will never sleep again.”
“I promise then, but I hardly know what it is that I am promising. And I fear I am a dead man either way.”
* * *
As if our dreams had been one dream, we awoke at the very same moment the next morning. And as if we knew already that this day would end our happiness, we clung to each other wordlessly and with a desperation greater than any I had ever know before, for in Sigurd’s eyes I saw both his fear and the reflection of my own.
The hall was quiet, and I imagined that Gunner was already seated in his high seat, waiting for us to arise so that he could confront Sigurd with the disclosure which, for all I knew, Brunhild had made to him during the night. Thus I made no move to rise. And Sigurd, who was surely imagining likewise, made no move either.
At length, Mother called from beyond the curtain to say that it was late and that she would soon be removing the breakfast foods from the table. That we had better come in and get our share. Her words did little to put me at ease, for her tone was harsh. I imagined that Gunner, growing impatient, had bade her to call out to us. We clung to each other a moment longer, and then, grudgingly, we released each other. But our desperation persisted, and still we held each other with our eyes as we crawled out from under our rugs and got to our feet.
Before we reached the curtain, I whispered to Sigurd, “It will all end well. You will see.” And I forced a smile.
I was about to draw back the curtain when all at once he fell to his knees before me. “This new day may bring the terror for which last night was only the foretoken,” he cried hastily. “There are things I must say to you before we face Gunner and Brunhild, if she still lives. What happened between Brunhild and me was not the only grave error I made in recent times. It was the only one concerning you and your brothers, to be sure, but there is more. I must tell you now, for I fear I may not have another chance.”
I could bear to hear no more. “This is not time,” I said. “Whatever it is, it must wait.”
“It must be now. I must know that you love me in spite of all that I have done. I must believe, when I breathe my last breath, that you loved the man I am, not the one you imagine me to be.”
I grabbed his arms and made him stand again. “I will not hear you speak of death,” I whispered. “And as for these other things that you would tell me, I will not hear them either. There are times when a man must weigh and decide, and when his decisions turn out to be errors, he must grieve for them alone and then discount them. Gripner was right to teach you that there was no good or evil for a person like yourself. Have you forgotten his lesson? There is nothing you can tell me now that would make me love you less. I have loved you all my life. And all my life I believed I could not love you more. But last night, when we shared our pain together, our secrets and our broken vows, I came to love you even more. You sully this new love of mine when you suggest that there is something you could say to me which would bring it to an end. Let us go, lest Gunner and Hagen begin to wonder why we tarry. And let us be hopeful.”
I drew back the curtain before he could respond. To my astonishment, there was no one in the hall but Mother. “Where have they all gone?” I asked.
“They left early to hunt.” She was wiping crumbs from the table, and she did not bother to look up at us.
“And Brunhild? Is she still within?”
“No, she went out shortly after them.”
“So early?”
Mother shrugged and continued wiping the table. Sigurd and I exchanged a look. “And Guthorm?” I asked. “Where is he off to?”
“He went with Gunner and Hagen, on Hagen’s horse.”
“To hunt?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why—”
Mother turned from the table then and I saw that her face was hard and the rims of her eyes were red. “I do not know,” she shouted. She dropped the crumbs in her hand back onto the table, and grabbing her cloak from the long bench, she lifted the door and ran out.
Though we worked together side by side all that morning and afternoon, milking the goats and later, at our distaffs, Mother said not a word to me, and I concluded that she was worried about Guthorm. I might have been worried myself—for my brothers did not usually stay out so late, and they never took Guthorm along with them—but my thoughts were all concerning Brunhild. Still, I said to Mother, “Do not worry so. They will take good care of him.” She only looked up at me with one brow raised and went back about her labors.
When it was clear that Gunner and Hagen would not return in time to provide us with our meal, Mother set about gathering what leftovers there were from the previous evening. I excused myself then and went out to find Sigurd. He was, as always, at work at the oaks. Two he had already cut and split into burning logs, and he was nearly done with the third. When I approached, he was just putting his ax aside for the day. In spite of the cold, he was drenched with sweat. I was about to say to him that I had seen no sign of Brunhild all day when I saw her emerging from the forest. Before I could avert my eyes, she called out, “It will snow soon enough, tonight perhaps.”
Too astonished to answer, I shook my head in agreement and watched as she went past us and into the hall. Then I laughed and said to Sigurd, “Did you see how pleasant she seemed? She has reconciled herself to the situation. My brother will make her happy, you will see. Everything will end well after all.” Sigurd, whose eye was still fastened on the hall, nodded, but his expression remained one of concern. I wrapped my arms around his waist. “You cannot go on the rest of your life worrying about this,” I said cheerfully. “I say it is over. Let us go in now and find a way to make Brunhild our sister. We have been thinking so much of ourselves that we have forgotten what a heavy load she bears. She has lost your love. And I pity her for that—for all that I am joyous to have regained it. Let us go in and see whether we can ease her pain.”
When we entered, Brunhild was sitting alone at the table, and Mother was filling the drinking horns. Brunhild turned to look at me, the arrogance I was accustomed to seeing in her beautiful eyes replaced by an aspect of tranquility. “We are not waiting tonight for your brothers,” she said. “The food is ready. Your mother feels we should begin without them.”
I sat down beside her, in Gunner’s place. “How strange that they should take Guthorm with them today,” I said.
She shrugged. “Not so strange. Gunner said to me last night that he regrets how little time he spends with the child.”
This was not something I could easily imagine Gunner saying, even if he and Brunhild had made things up between them. “I wonder what keeps them so long,” I persisted.
“I would not know,” she said, looking away.
I got up to fetch the washing bowl, but I took my time about it, for I hoped that Sigurd might say a word to her, too, in my absence. But I heard nothing, and when I turned again, he was seated at the table, staring at his folded hands.
We were in the middle of our meal when the door lifted. Guthorm was the first to enter. Mother stood up when she saw him, and she would have gone to him, but he ran past the table and into the bower which was now Sigurd’s and mine. Hagen came in next, and seeing Mother’s expression, he shouted, “He is tired. Let him sleep.”
“But he cannot sleep in there. He knows that. And he has not eaten yet,” Mother cried.
Gunner entered, and I saw right away that his eyes were glazed over, like those of a man who has had too much mead. “Let him sleep,” he said firmly. He sat down next to Brunhild and held out his hands to remind me that he needed the washing bowl.
“I see the hunt went well today,” I said as I brought him the bowl and looked at his bloodied hands. But as he made no response, I brought the bowl to Hagen in silence and returned to my seat.
That night, Gunner took up his carving, but before he got started, Brunhild asked him to play his harp. He stared at her a moment—incredulously, it seemed to me. Then he got up and went for it. He was mid-way into a melody when all at once the rigid look he had worn all evening vanished and he began to laugh. His sudden outburst was such a contradiction to the rising tension that we all stopped what we were doing to stare at him. Still chuckling, he said to Hagen, “Brother, sing for us again the song you sang on the day of the feast.”
The Last Wife of Attila the Hun Page 26