Shieldmaiden

by Marianne Whiting

  He was a thrall-woman’s child. There wasn’t much point in asking who his father was. It could be any of the men at Becklund. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know but it stayed in my mind as I sent him back and continued on my own.

  At Rannerdale I was met by the usual gaggle of children and dogs. Hrodney welcomed me and sent one of her children to find Thorfinn. She brought curds and bread. The bread was good with less bark in it than we had at Buttermere. We made small talk about the weather, the farm and the expected baby. Anlaf and Thorfinn joined us. I brought out the gifts and apologised for their meagreness. They praised the intricacy of Gyda’s weaving and the softness of the deerskin. By now, we all knew the purpose of my visit.

  Anlaf was awkward and had to be prompted to offer praise. He treated me with great respect. But the way he looked at me, when he thought himself unobserved, the way he blushed if our eyes met, made me feel as uncomfortable as his previous insolence. I wondered what had caused the change in him.

  Hrodney and Thorfinn were as enthusiastic as Anlaf was reluctant. I would return to Buttermere with the message that Thorfinn and Anlaf would visit soon. Before I left I enquired about Brother Ansgar. He was at Keswick market, a trusted servant rather than a thrall.

  ‘But he knows nothing about farming!’

  ‘No,’ said Hrodney, ‘but he knows about money and bartering. Many of the Saxons like to deal with him because of the religion. They trust him and there’s less trouble. We trust him too.’ I could but marvel at how the little monk had prospered. I was sorry to miss him and left my greetings for him.

  Thorfinn accompanied us part of the way home, as was polite, but in reality he wanted to talk.

  ‘We suffered a bad defeat at Brunnanburh.’

  ‘Yes, it was hard.’ I was still on my guard with Thorfinn. I wasn’t sure how deep the change in him had gone. It is a big step from violent berserker to peaceful farmer. And the worry that he’d regain his memory nagged at me. But he seemed relaxed and friendly as with an old comrade which, in a sense, I was.

  ‘None of our fault, though. We fought well.’

  I could no longer keep my curiosity under control. I had to ask: ‘How did you get away? Last time I saw you, you slept like a dead man. I couldn’t rouse you.’

  He grinned and his eyes shone with the pleasure of the memory: ‘Well, ah…you see, I borrowed some clothes and a helmet from a Mercian who didn’t need them any more and pretended I’d fought for Aethelstan all along. How did you manage?’

  I told him as much as I thought he needed to know. I made sure he understood my kinship with King Harald Finehair.

  ‘And, I think, maybe Hakon took my mother back to Norway.’

  ‘So she may still be alive. A real lady, your mother, she treated us well.’ A thought made furrows on his brow. ‘But there was this wench…’ he looked at me. ‘It wasn’t you was it? Cut my hand?’

  ‘You should have been more careful where you put it, Thorfinn.’

  I made a joke but every muscle in my body was prepared for flight. He stared at me under lowered brow. His knuckles showed white on his clenched hands. I held my breath. Had I pushed my luck too far? Suddenly, he threw back his head and his laughter rumbled like a rock-fall.

  ‘I should have known,’ he snorted and steadied his horse, which had been startled by the sudden noise. ‘I should have known. A real shieldmaiden – already a warrior queen in the making.’ He pulled up his horse and turned so we were face to face.

  ‘Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, we have done much fighting together and minded each other’s lives like good comrades.’ He looked me straight in the eye and offered his right hand. We clasped each other’s wrists in a warrior greeting and his voice was warm when he declared: ‘There is no bad blood between us.’

  I agreed but wondered how he would feel if he ever recalled how I almost killed him by Mosedale Beck.

  It was another full moon before Thorfinn and Anlaf arrived at Buttermere Farm. They were accompanied by Brother Ansgar. I was pleased to see him again and noted how strong and healthy he looked.

  ‘Working the land, Sigrid. It is good for me to breathe God’s fresh air instead of standing in the scriptorium copying documents all day, important work as that may be. I always knew the Lord had a purpose for me here.’

  I was amazed at his conviction and wondered to myself if he realised that two of his converts were dreaming of raids and battleglory. After greetings had been exchanged and the guests settled inside, a sulky Anlaf was prompted to hand a carved scutcher to Gyda.

  ‘Funny kind of a love-token,’ Olvir whispered to me.

  ‘It’s because of her skills in weaving ribbons. The scutcher will help her prepare the flax.’

  ‘He still doesn’t seem very keen, does he?’

  ‘I suppose he’s a bit shy.’

  ‘Not shy of looking at you though. See, there he goes again.’

  ‘Stop it, Olvir. This is nothing to do with us. Let’s go.’ I picked up Kveldulf but was called back by Aisgerd, who wanted me to be part of the bartering. I made it clear to Olvir he would not be needed and he scuttled off with Bjarne to take the field-workers their mid-day meal.

  A traitor’s daughter or not, Gyda was of an old, high-ranking Manx family and a desirable addition to the household at Rannerdale. Their demands for dowry were modest. She had her jewellery and she’d get linens and fleeces. The rest could be raised by selling some animals.

  ‘Perhaps the horse I arrived on,’ suggested Ansgar. ‘I would be willing to take it to market and get a good price for it.’

  We accepted and I knew this was my opportunity to finally get rid of Thorfinn’s stallion. It would fetch a better price and maybe make Gyda more favourably inclined towards me but, more importantly, it would rid me of the last link with that day by Mosedale Beck.

  ‘Then there’s the question of the bride-geld.’ Thorfinn looked pleased with himself. ‘We can offer you a thrall-girl to take over Gyda’s work on the farm. She is with child so we’re giving you two thralls.’ The way Anlaf glared at Thorfinn made it clear who the father was, but that was no concern of ours. ‘Brother Ansgar’s time as a thrall with us comes to an end this autumn but we are willing to release him early so he can help you with the spring ploughing.’ Everyone agreed these were very good terms and Thorfinn had done well by Aisgerd.

  We drank good mead to seal the agreement and Thorfinn grew talkative. After reminiscing about Brunnanburh, I steered the conversation on to Becklund and I told of how I had lost my claim to my family home. Thorfinn shook his head in sympathy.

  ‘Did you know my father had been branded an outlaw?’

  ‘No and it seems harsh.’

  ‘Sometimes I feel that, if I could only talk to my grandfather, he would change the verdict.’ He looked surprised.

  ‘Have you not heard? Harald is dead and Eirik is king. Your other uncle, Hakon, the one who…ahem… slew your father, well, he’s left England and gone to Norway to challenge his brother for the crown. Now that will be a battle. They are both great warriors, those two.’

  ‘I didn’t know. Who do you think will win?’

  ‘Hard to say. But they will both be looking for swords to support their claim.’

  At this point Aisgerd put a stop to his deliberations.

  ‘None of that concerns us here. Sigrid has this farm to look after. She doesn’t need another one.’

  I could see no advantage in upsetting her and so we listened to her memories of her life in Ireland before she was given in marriage to Jarl Swein and taken to the Isle of Man. Her comments about her dead husband were, as always, bitter and I saw Thorfinn growing uneasy. After a polite interval he and Anlaf took their leave. I went with them as far as the gate to wish them a safe ride home. They mounted their horses but before they rode off Thorfinn turned to me and said: ‘If you decide to go, send for me.’

  Ansgar stayed with us and two weeks before midsummer he and I led the bridal party from Buttermere to Rannerdale. Aisge
rd was not well enough to undertake the journey so Gyda was accompanied by Thora and two of the servants. We were greeted by the assembled household at Rannerdale and the family from Low Kid Farm. Horns of sweet, strong mead were handed round. I thought back on my own bride-ale and how I had humiliated my father.

  This time it was not the bride but the groom who was reluctant. Gyda, her hair bleached and braided, in her best clothes and jewellery was all smiles. She was introduced to those present as Anlaf ’s bride and the future mistress of Rannerdale farm. Then Thora and Hrodney took her inside the house. After a short while they came out and told Anlaf that his bride was ready. He had drunk more than his share of the mead and now, supported by his friend Ulf of Low Kid Farm, he staggered towards the house. In the middle of the yard they stopped and turned. They walked on unsteady legs past the house and disappeared behind the corner in the direction of the privy. This caused many jokes which were interrupted by a group of children running into the yard and Olvir’s frightened scream;

  ‘Smoke! There’s a fire! It looks like Buttermere.’

  16.

  We left only enough people to defend Rannerdale Farm, the rest joined me in fetching our horses from the meadow and getting helmets, shields and weapons ready. Thorfinn and two others rode up Rannerdale to Whiteless Pike thinking to cut off the escape of any raiders that way. Anlaf and Ulf came at a stumbling trot from behind the house. They dunked their befuddled heads in the water trough. Dripping and fumbling to get their weapons and armour ready, they joined me by the horses. I threw off my pinafore and tucked the hem of my dress into my belt. Straddling my mare I led them on the more direct path through Great Wood. My face burned and I spurred Moonbeam in front of the others. The house we had repaired, the animals we had reared and kept alive during the winter and, worst of all, Aisgerd with only Beorn the Lame and a handful of women and thralls to defend her.

  The wind blew into my face and soon I could smell the smoke. It was acrid. They had set fire to the fresh hay as well as to the buildings. The bellowing of frightened animals mingled with the terrified screams of women and excited, high-pitched yells of the raiders. I urged my mare on. One of our dogs lay on the track with its throat cut. I steered my mare around it and drew Dragonclaw.

  There were five of them but they all looked strong and were armed with spears and clubs. I rode in through the broken gate and headed for a red-bearded villain. He heard me and turned. I looked into his staring eyes. His mouth opened. Then Dragonclaw slit his throat. The mare neighed as she was splattered with the warm, dark blood. One of the raiders saw me and threw his spear before he ran. His aim was poor and it only grazed my arm. It was a scratch, no more, but enough to provoke the battle-fury and the strange detachment it brings.

  Moonbeam bridled but I forced her on. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Anlaf and Ulf, their swords flashing in the sun as they chased one raider and a herd of cattle towards the lake. The remaining three raiders climbed the fence to the meadow and headed for the slope towards Whiteless Breast. I followed. My mare jumped the fence with ease. One of the marauders stopped and raised his spear. He had no fear and his aim was good. I had no choice but to turn my horse. She took the spear in her neck. She reared and her neigh rose to a wild scream. As she crashed on to the grass, my leg was trapped under her quivering body. My enemy gave a triumphant shout. His eyes glowed fierce under a tangle of black hair. He made no hurry but started towards me with a confident stride. I brought Dragonclaw down on the mare’s flank. She jolted trying to get up. I managed to snatch my leg from under her. In my frenzy I felt no pain only a violent hatred of the marauder who had attacked my home and my people.

  I got to my feet. Dragonclaw felt hot in my hand, eager for combat. I took my knife in my other hand and went to meet the Scot. I saw him hesitate. Without his spear he had to rely on a dagger and his club but he was taller than me and had a wider reach. He growled and began an attacking run down the hill. He raised his club, ready to strike. I waited until he was almost upon me before I ducked, side-stepped and with a swift turn let Dragonclaw slash his arm. She found the wrist and his dagger fell to the ground. He roared and swung round to face me. We crouched and began circling each other. I now had two weapons to his one but he could use both arms for more force and better control of each strike. One blow of that club would crush my head. He lunged at me a few times and I leapt aside. The club is a forceful weapon but it is slow. I tried to use my speed and agility to advantage and twisted and turned to come at him from different angles. He was alert and ready to parry attacks from any direction but his breathing was laboured and each time I jumped to one side he was a little slower to respond. I began to feel confident and that is never wise because the gods like to punish such pride. I side-stepped, stumbled and fell on my back. My scream echoed alien and distant. With a satisfied grunt my enemy lifted his club. I rolled down the slope and got back on my feet. His club hit the ground with a dead thump.

  Then he began to retreat up the hill. Encouraged by his laboured breath, I followed. Step by cautious step, striking out at each other, we worked our way up the grassy slope. I tried to get within reach to let Dragonclaw stab at him but he was on his guard with the club a constant threat. I tried to overtake him to force him back down towards the farm where there was help. I tried to trick him. I looked over his shoulder with a smile as if there were reinforcements on their way. But he ignored it. His clever eyes stayed fixed on my face as he tried to read my next move.

  Instead it was I who was distracted. The hem of my dress began working loose from the belt and with the hand that held my dagger I tried to pull it tight again. The Scot saw his opportunity and brought his club down on me. I slipped, lunged sideways, tried to roll out of the way. This time it didn’t work. My raised left arm took the full force of the blow. I heard the bone crack and a searing pain burnt its way up towards my shoulder. The air left my lungs in a piercing scream. I cried a desperate plea to Thor for help. Through a mist of pain I heard my enemy’s triumphant bellow and saw his torso upright and both arms raised to swing the club. The great warriorgod heard me and sent a wave of strength to my sword-hand. I twisted round and thrust Dragonclaw into the villain’s exposed belly and up under his ribs. He staggered backwards and fell like a tree. In a last effort I crawled away and from a distance of a few feet I watched his eyes lose their lustre and red froth well out through his mouth.

  I sat hunched supporting my injured arm. The battle-fury left me and I could hear the sounds around me; cattle lowing, men and women calling, dogs barking and, somewhere above me, men shouting. I could make out the foreign ring of the marauders’ voices. They were coming towards me. I looked around for a hiding place but there was nowhere on the bare hill-side. Whimpering with exhaustion I got to my feet. I had to let go of my broken, battered arm. As it hung unsupported at my side the pain throbbed and stabbed and my vision blurred with tears. I rubbed my eyes with my sleeve. Then I gripped Dragonclaw and, using my foot to brace against the dead Scot’s body, pulled her free. Chanting the warriors’ battle-call: ‘Odin, Odin’, I turned to face the enemy, prepared to die with honour.

  Two men came running down the hill pursued by two others on horseback. I recognised Thorfinn and his neighbour. The Scots headed towards me. If they got to me before my friends got to them, I would enter Valhalla that day. They had lost their spears but held their clubs in front as they ran. I raised Dragonclaw. Thorfinn had spotted my plight and urged his horse on but I could see he would not catch up in time to save me. Then a shout from behind me:

  ‘Sigrid! Get down!’ I crouched and first one, then another spear flew past me. The first landed in the chest of one of the marauders the other missed but made the remaining raider veer away from his path and away from me. Ulf and Anlaf steered their horses up the hill in pursuit.

  ‘We’ll get him!’ Their calls, shrill and excited, mixed with the groans of the injured man. Thorfinn finished him with his axe.

  Then he helped me back to the
farm. My pain was no more severe than the anguish I felt for those I had come to think of as my family and household. I looked around for them while Thorfinn fashioned a splint for my arm. Ansgar came limping up to me.

  ‘Sigrid, you came just in time. We have the nithings on the run!’ I hardly recognised the peaceful little monk. His face was streaked with soot and sweat and above his left eye a mighty lump had formed. In a state of high excitement he waved a sturdy staff. ‘I shall take the boy Bjarne with me and we shall find the cattle and bring them back, every single one, I promise.’

  ‘But Ansgar! Brother, you are hurt.’

  ‘A scratch, Sigrid, no more.’

  He left with Bjarne, who was dirty and in torn clothing but otherwise looked unhurt. Beorn the Lame sat leaning against the fence. He looked dazed and had a blood-stained rag round his head. One of the thralls lay dead, his skull split open and his white hair stained with blood and matter. For the rest, I called them all by name and took stock of their injuries. Bjarne’s mother and another thrallwoman had been raped and were in the lake to wash out the vile seed. The rest were frightened and angry but had only grazes and minor wounds. One person was missing.

  ‘Aisgerd, where is Aisgerd?’ Someone muttered she must still be in the house. I went inside to look for her. She sat slumped in the high seat. Around her were broken chests, torn clothing and scattered treasure. Her face under the stained and crumpled head-dress was as grey as sorrow itself. I believed her dead and let out a wail. But she opened her eyes and when she saw me she tried to straighten up.

  ‘Sigrid,’ she said in a low, weak voice, ‘daughter. You must take over now.’

  The hangings on the bed were torn but the timber was sound and I collected what blankets and fleeces I could find. Thorfinn carried Aisgerd over to the bed but before she lay down she said: ‘Sigrid, you shall sit in the high seat.’

  ‘I will until you feel strong again.’ She nodded and closed her eyes.

  We had interrupted the plunder and destruction and, while I fought on the hillside, the people on the farm had managed to pull the burning thatch down from the dairy roof. It still smouldered on the muddy ground spreading dark choking smoke. The byre had burnt to the ground but the roof of the main house was covered in turf and the timbers were undamaged. I noted all that would need repairing, thinking to myself we had done it before, we could do it again. I began to plan what to do first; there would be injuries to see to, the cattle would need rounding up and bringing back.