Shieldmaiden

by Marianne Whiting

  ‘So you want it done properly, do you, Sigrid? Well, the damage is done, so…’

  His eyes were as green as the sea in a storm and his hair reflected the last of the sunlight. For a moment I thought he was a young god come down from Aasgard to take a mortal woman for his bride. He pulled me close and, this time, his touch was as light as a moonbeam. His hand set my skin tingling and made me sigh and tremble. He entered me slowly and lay almost still on top of me until my womb responded, my mind took flight and my body, arched against his, began to move without restraint or shame. I heard, as from a distance, my moans and cries and my whole being shimmered and shook with delicious pleasure.

  When I came out of my ecstasy, dusk was closing around us and the reality of my situation chilled me. Ragnar was asleep but I shook him and said:

  ‘We must decide what to do, Ragnar. I am married to Hauk.’ He sat up with a cry of horror. Then his body sagged and he put his head in his hands.

  ‘Sigrid, what are you doing to me? I must have broken every pledge of honour this day. I have spoiled a woman from a good family, I have broken a sacred oath of friendship and gratitude to her father, I have taken another man’s wife. Your father and your husband will both seek my blood. My name will be dragged through the dirt, my family dishonoured and I…’ He fell silent, thought awhile then with narrowed eyes he leaned towards me. ‘Married? Since when? You didn’t feel like a married woman to me.’

  ‘I’m married in name only. I can’t stand Hauk to come near me.’ He smiled a bitter little smile.

  ‘That’s understandable but why did you marry him then?’

  ‘I had to marry someone. Ragnar, you said we’d meet again and then never a word. I waited and waited. I thought you’d forgotten me. Where have you been?’

  ‘On the run. We were outlawed by King Harald. His arm is as long as his memory and it wasn’t safe for us to stay here. I tried to get word to you. I sent a thrall with a message. Didn’t you get it?’ I thought of my mother and her servant Ingefried. They would have made very sure no message from the son of Swein Hjaltebrand got to me. I shook my head.

  ‘We spent some time raiding then we joined King Olaf of Dublin against King Aethelstan. My father is unlucky in his choice of allies. It’s not wise for us to remain in Aethelstan’s realm either.’

  I threw my arms round him and pressed my face to his.

  ‘I’ll divorce Hauk and we can get married. My father, at least, won’t object. You are the son of his blood-brother.’

  ‘Sigrid, I cannot marry. I am an outlaw, any children I sire will be outlaws. I have no home, nor anything else to offer you.’ He shook his head and got up. ‘It’s getting dark. I’ll see to the horses. We’ll stay here tonight.’ He returned carrying a small bundle of food. We shared cheese, bread and apples. No chieftain’s feast could have tasted better than that meal.

  I spread Thorfinn’s cloak over us. The stars were coming out and a crescent moon dipped in and out of the scattered clouds. I lay with my head on Ragnar’s shoulder listening to the sounds of the night, a horse shifting its stance, the hoot of an owl, the churring of a nightjar. I was happy, convinced Odin had tried me and found me worthy. He had brought me my love and, outlaw or not, all would be well. We’d think of something.

  We woke and our bodies craved each other and found each other again. The horses had wandered off in search of grazing but we felt neither hunger nor thirst and the sun was above the crest of the nearest hill before we dressed and faced our situation. We sat hand in hand trying to decide what to do.

  ‘Sigrid, I can’t stay. My father and I have pledged our loyalty to William Longsword in Neustria and we must go. Oh Sigrid, I wish it weren’t so.’

  ‘I want to come with you, Ragnar.’

  ‘You can’t. Believe me my love, where we’re headed is no place for a woman.’ He looked at me with a sad little smile. ‘Not even a brave shieldmaiden.’

  ‘It’s all your father’s fault, isn’t it?’

  ‘He is my father, Sigrid, don’t speak ill of him.’

  I thought again of my own father. He would not refuse to take Ragnar as his foster-son and offer him sanctuary at Becklund. Ragnar was doubtful but agreed we should speak to him.

  We retrieved the horses. Thorfinn’s steed was still lame so Ragnar pulled me up to sit in front of him on his stallion. We rode towards Becklund and I told Ragnar how it came I had Thorfinn’s weapons and his horse. As I spoke, I felt Ragnar’s close embrace melt away and he became quiet. The silence frightened me. I tried to turn and look at him but couldn’t.

  ‘Ragnar, it was self-defence! What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘My father won’t see it like that. He has lost one of his men and will want compensation.’

  ‘But he saw Thorfinn holding me down. He knows it was a fair fight.’

  ‘That is what you would have to argue in front of the Allthing and my father is not in a position to go there.’

  ‘I shall hide the weapons and let the horse go. Nobody needs to find out – ever.’

  ‘And we’ll leave the warrior’s body to the crows and the foxes?’

  ‘What do you want, Ragnar? I confess I killed him. One of your father’s warriors was killed by an unarmed woman. He’ll be ridiculed rather than honoured. I’ll see to it that he’s buried but I’ll do him the favour to have it done in secret.’

  I held my breath waiting for his response. It was a long time coming. His shoulders seemed to shake and I wondered if he was crying. But when he spoke his arms were firm around me again and there was laughter in his voice:

  ‘Maybe Thorfinn got what was coming to him and perhaps it would be kinder to his memory if we kept the manner of his death a secret. But please don’t kill any more of my father’s warriors, it doesn’t help our situation at all.’

  Thorfinn’s weapons found a resting place beneath a rock and I took an oath to reunite them with Thorfinn in his grave. We kept the horse with us, it could be tethered somewhere closer to Becklund until the Jarl had left. Then we continued down the valley towards Loweswater. We walked in single file, each leading a horse down the steep slope towards the river and the lake. Soon I could see the trees down in the valley and I knew I was close to home.

  The ground levelled out and we entered the wooded area. The sudden noise of dry twigs snapping and leaves rustling startled the horses and made us reach for our weapons. A small boy tumbled out of the shrubbery and landed on all fours in front of us. He was dirty, his clothes were torn and his face streaked with tears. He got up, gave me a confused look and turned to Ragnar. His words fought each other to get out.

  ‘Ragnar Sweinson, your father sends word. He says… um, he says you must go to Buttermere…swiftly…ah, and…and warn your mother to seek safety wherever she can.’ His eyes darted between us as he continued, ‘And then you’re to join Jarl Hjaltebrand where the ship is waiting. He says you know the place.’ Having delivered his message the urchin stood aside and stared at us with round eyes and open mouth.

  ‘Sigrid, I must go.’ For a moment Ragnar held me close. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll be back. I promise I’ll be back.’ His voice choked. Then he got on his horse and I watched him ride off.

  My breath was like a knife in my throat. I tried to blink away my tears but they fell heavy from my eyes. I turned my back to the boy so he wouldn’t see. He pulled at my sleeve.

  ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, terrible things are happening.’

  I told the boy to lead Thorfinn’s horse and set off ahead of him. I heard the noise long before I got to Becklund and, as I drew closer, I distinguished the clanking of weapons, the angry shouts of fighting men, the agonised cries of the wounded and the fearful screams of women and children. A roundabout route took me unseen to the farm. Strangers in full armour stood guard outside the enclosure behind the hall. I crept up behind the dry stone-wall above the meadow. I saw two of our free men bleeding on the ground, their weapons still in their hands. A girl, undetected by the marauder
s, cowered behind a shed, another crawled slowly towards the fence. Over by the barn a small group of women and children were kept under guard by a shaggylooking fighter. Blood stained their clothes but whether their own or that of others was impossible to say. The women tried to shush their crying infants. I heard more shouting and the clashing of swords, axes and shields but I couldn’t see beyond the other buildings.

  My legs trembled as I continued to crawl along the wall. On the other side of the farm I saw horses, more than a score of them, guarded by a couple of young boys. This was no ordinary raid by Scottish clansmen rustling cattle, nor was it lawless Vikings looking for slaves and gold or a vengeful neighbour in search of retribution. All those horses. Armed warriors against my father’s eight karls. Had there even been time to summon the karls? The twelve thralls were not fighting men and, although both they and the women would help defend the farm, they had no hope against these attackers.

  I moved from tree to tree, staying out of sight. The noise was abating and it became possible to separate out individual sounds. My mother’s voice, strong and commanding soared above the grunts of men pushed to their limits. I could not hear my father anywhere. As I came closer to the farm I came across dead and wounded. Old Ulf, the story-teller, lay sprawled on the ground, his eyes dull below half-closed lids. An armed stranger lay draped across a tree-stump, his own blood running thick and red into the grass. Ketil, the brown-eyed thrall I had played with as a child, was choking on his blood, his chest cut open, his fingers digging furrows in the soil. Next to him lay his enemy, pinned to the ground with Ketil’s pitchfork. I took it all in, the smell of torn human flesh, the sight of life ebbing away. All the time I kept moving towards where those alive were still fighting. I crawled under the fence and slid underneath the floor of the grain-store. Hidden behind one of the props I could, at last, see the yard.

  With his back to me, my father knelt on the ground, a deep wound in his right shoulder, the arm lifeless and his open hand resting on the ground next to his battle-axe. A warrior stood on either side of him. One of them rested his sword on my father’s neck. I pressed my hands over my face. My stomach heaved and bitter bile gushed into my throat. I forced myself to look again. My mother, blood-stained and dishevelled, was pushed forward and a warrior wrenched a sword from her hand. She was led up to a tall, blonde man who wore a fine mailshirt and an ornate helmet with a pattern glinting of gold. She said something to him. He looked closely at her face and then he bowed. Her captor let go of her arm and stepped back. She remained standing by the chieftain but her eyes were fixed on my father.

  There were dead and injured scattered across the yard. Inside a circle of onlookers two men were fighting. One of them was Jarl Swein Hjaltebrand. His mailshirt had been slashed open in several places and he was bleeding from many wounds. He struggled for breath and staggered with fatigue. His shield lay discarded on the ground and he used both hands to swing his sword. His opponent, a much younger man, sidestepped. The Jarl stumbled and had to put the tip of his sword on the ground to steady himself. The other man laughed. Onlookers shouted out, some in terror, some in triumph as the uneven fight came to an end and the Jarl was pinned to the ground by his grinning enemy.

  The chieftain left my mother’s side and went up to the Jarl.

  ‘Hjaltebrand, you are a traitor and will meet with a traitor’s death. Tell me where your son is hiding and I will make your end swift and painless.’

  I couldn’t hear the Jarl’s reply over the moans and cries of the injured and bereaved. The chieftain nodded to two of his men and they carried the Jarl across the yard to the water trough. The Jarl cried out:

  ‘My sword! Hakon in Odin’s name let me die with my sword in my hand!’ The men looked at the chieftain who shook his head. They immersed Jarl Swein’s head in the water and held him down until his legs stopped kicking and his arms hung limp. The lifeless body was dumped at the feet of the chieftain. The horde of invaders cheered. My mother didn’t flinch even though the Jarl’s hand came to rest on her foot. Her face was as pale as moonlight, her eyes were still on my father and her lips moved as if she was whispering to him.

  The chieftain then turned to my father, who was pulled into a standing position by his two guards. I saw his trousers were soaked in blood and he didn’t put any weight on his left leg. Someone gave him his axe and he used it to lean on.

  ‘You harboured a traitor, Kveldulf Arnvidson. You met the son of your king with force. What happened to your sworn loyalty, brother-in-law?’ The chieftain’s voice was both angry and mocking when he said ‘brother-in-law. Then my father’s voice cut through:

  ‘You do me an injustice, Hakon. Swein was my brother-in-arms. He made a mistake. He never meant treachery to your father or to you. I asked for parley but you attacked without hearing our pleas.’

  ‘There’s no negotiating with traitors. Your duty is to your king first, did you forget that? You still wear his ring on your arm. Do you mock him, Kveldulf, as well as betray him?’

  The chieftain nodded to his housekarl. My father was still shaking his head when the long sword made a mighty arch through the air and cut it from his body. I saw my father’s head roll across the dirt and come to rest on its side against the wooden walkway. I saw the jet of blood pulsating from his neck. I saw the legs buckle and the twitching body fall to the ground his hand still holding his battle-axe. There was a hush, then a wave of muffled voices and amidst them a scream, a long, wailing noise rising and rising, higher and higher. Someone pulled me out from my hiding-place and slapped my face. The screaming stopped, everything stopped.

  PART TWO

  SHIELDMAIDEN

  5.

  I still hurt when I remember the day my father was killed, my brothers disappeared and my mother disowned me, leaving me without the protection of the family I had taken for granted would be there for me always.

  I was the youngest of my parents’ children and I was my father’s favourite. He encouraged the wild, even violent, nature I displayed early on. Girls, in those days, were still taught to use a bow and arrows and to wield a knife to defend themselves. I could ride and swim by the time I was three. Today it’s different. It’s the influence of the English and of their religion, Christianity. Their God doesn’t favour women. My father was baptised when serving under Christian kings and chieftains but it was accepted by all that such baptisms did not count once the warrior left the service of his godfather. So he lived by the Old Religion and followed the Norse way of life. He stopped going on raids soon after I was born. He made more profit from trading than raiding and adventure didn’t appeal to him as in his youth. He would perhaps have continued if his three sons had been able to follow him.

  The eldest of my siblings was a boy. He was killed by Scottish cattle rustlers. I don’t remember him. I had seen but two summers when it happened. My mother never spoke of him but my father told me once that Rolf would have grown up to be a great warrior. He sounded sad as he spoke of the youth, in charge of the cattle over on Burnbank Fell. His body was found many days after, when one of the calves wandered into the farm-enclosure on its own.

  ‘I rode up onto the fell in a great anger,’ my father said, ‘thinking the boy had neglected the animals. When I found him he was lying on his front. I thought he was asleep. Then I saw the wounds and the blood and I knew he had died a warrior’s death. I carried him home and we drank the funeral ale and the smoke from a large funeral pyre took him to Valhalla. I made a sacrifice to Odin and raised a stone where Rolf fell.’

  It was true. I have seen it many times. The runes inside the body of the snake of Midgaard wind their way round the face of the stone. At the top is the large snake head with the tail in its mouth. The inscription says: ‘Kveldulf Arnvidson of Becklund raised the stone for his son Rolf who fell in battle with many wounds’. The stone is still there but in the soft ground it is not stable and the last time I went there it was tilting.

  There were two other children. A still-born girl the
n a boy rejected as deficient and put out to die. This too my mother never spoke of and neither did my father. It does no good to dwell on what fortune the Norns weave into the fabric of your life.

  Then there were my brothers Thorstein and Steinar. Thorstein took ill as a child and it was his musical talent that saved him. He was three summers when a burn went bad and he was struck down with a fever. He was put in the sick-tent with water and some food. On the second day he was heard singing with a weak but pitchperfect voice. One of the servants swore by the golden hair of Baldur that he’d heard the sound of a lyre accompanying the singing infant. Be that as it may, he overcame the dread of sickness and helped the child to eat. He remained attached to Thorstein and it was he who persuaded my father to pay ten silver coins for a lyre. Those coins were well spent. Thorstein’s music didn’t just entertain, it cheered and comforted and had the power to make men and women laugh and weep. But he was no replacement for Rolf for he remained weak and sickly all his life. He was never able to help with the heavy work and he never learnt to handle weapons. He named his lyre Enchanter and, many years later, it saved his life better than any sword or shield.

  My other brother, Steinar, had a big, strong body but was slowwitted. It didn’t much matter in the day-to-day work on the farm but he was a poor hunter, unable to figure out where the swift hare or the graceful deer would run to and an even worse fisherman since he never learnt to tell the weather or judge where the shoals of herring would gather.

  Then there was me. I was a healthy, sturdy child, inquisitive and headstrong. My father found me amusing and took me with him when he went hunting and fishing. I had a good eye and was soon useful with my bow and arrow. The first time I shot a hare, my father gave a loud shout of triumph and all the way home he couldn’t stop laughing and praising me. That’s when he gave me my first hunting dog, Swift. For years he would tell the story of how I stalked my first deer and brought it down with a shot through the eye. My mother was displeased and accused him of spoiling me. She was right of course. She had only the one daughter and I should have spent more time learning women’s pursuits, my weaving was uneven, part of the cloth tight and stiff, part of it loose and thin, the patterns in the ribbons I made were full of knots and I only paid attention to cooking after my mother made me eat my mistakes.