Shieldmaiden

by Marianne Whiting

  ‘I hear you are fond of the noble game, young Olvir.’ The Archbishop was already busy setting out the pieces and Olvir’s smile widened. Ragnar and I left them to it. He returned to the prow to keep an eye on Kveldulf who was trying to catch the spray whipped up when the prow sawed through the waves. I went to see that my baby, Harald and my servant-girl Kirsten were comfortable.

  I stayed with them. Harald was trying to walk. Kirsten bounced him on her lap and let him take wobbly little steps on the steering platform but he was restless and wanted to stray further. I could see we were in for a trying time with the energetic toddler on the ship.

  Kirsten had approached me about becoming my servant a few days before we were to sail.

  ‘I feel my destiny belongs with you and your children, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. I helped Harald into this world and Olvir became my friend when he stayed with my grandmother and me.’ She was twelve years old with no prospect of a marriage. I liked her direct manner. She was strong and intelligent, her grandmother had taught her healing so, I decided, she would make a useful addition to the household. I was now grateful for her presence as we held an arm each of the bouncing bundle that was my youngest son.

  ‘Shall you want a daughter next, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter?’ She kept her voice low so the helmsman would not hear.

  ‘Ah, well I…I…’

  ‘I think you are, are you not, with child again?’

  ‘But how did you know? I only just began to think so myself ?’ She laughed and her light blue eyes gazed at my belly.

  ‘You have looked pale and I heard you retching yesterday morning. I shall be able to deliver your child. The Old one said I’m ready.’ I felt reassured but also reminded of the difficult time when the Valkyries rode the bridge of Bifrost. The girl seemed to understand this for she patted my arm and smiled.

  ‘I’m sure it will be easier this time. The Old One told me it gets easier with each child.’ It was a strange experience being reassured by a girl so young but there was something about Kirsten that belied her years, something in her eyes made me feel I looked at a pool of wisdom gathered by women with special powers over generations since before the time we live in now.

  Thor who rules the wind sped our voyage and gave us good, dry weather. We settled into a peaceful routine. Ragnar taught Olvir and Kveldulf to recognise the different parts of the rigging and their uses. Olvir gained confidence on the ship and on the third day at sea, cheered on by the crew, he made his way from stern to prow leaping from one cross-plank to the next. He spent hours each day playing hnefatafl or just talking with Wolfstan. The Archbishop seemed to enjoy his company and encouraged by the attention Olvir was returning to his old, talkative self. At first I worried that he might annoy the Archbishop with his opinionated chatter but my mind was put at rest when I heard Wolfstan’s booming laughter mingle with Olvir’s high-pitched giggle. They made an incongruous pair the ten year old, precocious farm-lad and the greying cleric with his rich clothes and warrior bearing.

  After four days we had a look-out posted as we expected to see land very soon. The first signs were gulls and terns gliding on outstretched wings, diving into the green water and sometimes emerging with a silvery fish in their beaks. Then small patches of seaweed floated past on brown air-filled blisters. That night we rolled ourselves in our blankets and fleeces hoping to see the shore-line of England the next morning.

  I woke in the middle of the night. The rigging whined and groaned. The sail whipped and flapped and made noises like Thor’s hammer crashing into the giants’ mountain. The men lowered the sail to a third of its size but we still surged forward. Thorfinn, at the helm, had the help of a tall Norwegian but still struggled with the steering-oar. The waves grew so tall that one moment we were lifted high enough to touch the grey clouds and the next we descended into deep valleys surrounded by white crested water-mountains. The wooden hull creaked and shuddered. The waves broke over the sides and water gathered around our feet. My spirits sank as I realised that the gods had neither forgiven nor forgotten my debt. The storm was sent by those whose laws I had broken when I betrayed my brother. I held my Thor’s hammer amulet to the wild sky and prayed for mercy, if not for me then for my children. I saw Kirsten holding the sleeping Harald in the shelter under the steering platform. Her pale eyes were wide open but she looked calm and unafraid. Kveldulf sat on Olvir’s lap by the mast. He thought it was a game and, wild with excitement, cheered when the ship was thrown high on a wave, then he piped a long, shrill note as we slid and crashed into the next trough.

  The crew clutched amulets or crosses each according to his preference. Many were sick and their spew mixed with the gathering bilge in the bottom of the ship. The Archbishop was on his knees praying in a loud voice in Latin. In the middle of the ship sat an old, gnarled warrior called Varg the Varangian. He held his Thor’s hammer amulet in one hand and a cross in the other as he shouted prayers to Odin, Thor, Njord, Jesus and Jehova.

  Ragnar passed leather buckets and wooden pails and shouted above the roar of the storm that it was time to start bailing. Some were too sick to be of much use so I took a pail and helped. Next to me the Archbishop filled and emptied a bucket, his broad back rising and falling in continuous movement. Kveldulf thought this was a new game and used a small wooden bowl to gather the filthy mess. He tried to throw it overboard the way he saw me do but he was of course too small and the content of his bowl landed back where it had come from with a fair amount splashing on men, already wet and sick. Olvir, green-faced and trembling, crept to his side and showed him how to tip his bowl into a bucket, which he could then empty over the side of the ship. The child thought this splendid fun. I lashed the pair of them to the mast with a short lead and showed Olvir how to undo the knot with a sharp tug, should the ship break up.

  I moved to the stern where I could keep an eye on Harald and Kirsten. I bailed and prayed and listened to the empty retching of the sea-sick and the fury of the storm. I entered that dream-like state where the mind watches from a blurred distance as the body labours regardless of pain.

  Every seventh wave is larger than the ones before. It was a seventh wave that took the tall Norwegian. He’d been helping Thorfinn keep the rudder steady but whereas Thorfinn was lashed to the steering oar, his friend was not and when the vicious wave struck he was washed overboard. Nobody else noticed. I was the only one close enough to hear Thorfinn’s frantic call for help. His face was contorted with the effort of holding the rudder steady against the wild water. I crawled across and on to the platform. I pulled myself up and gripped the end of the oar. It tugged and pulled as violent as a wild animal and I braced my body against it to help keep it steady.

  ‘Rope! Tie yourself.’ Thorfinn’s voice was barely audible in the storm. A length of rope swished like an angry snake from the oarport. I put it through my belt and tied it. The steering platform was wet and we slipped and struggled. Each time I lost my footing the rope saved me from being washed overboard but my belt tightened like a vice and pushed the breath out of my lungs. The salty water stung my eyes and I kept coughing as I breathed in the heavy spray that soaked every inch of my clothing and every hair on my head. Once, between two waves, I caught a glimpse of Kirsten. She lay half outside the shelter waving her arm. Her face was white, her eyes wide. She shouted something which was lost in the noise from the storm. I tried to reach her but the rope had swelled and the knot set like iron. The next wave struck. I gripped the oar tighter and groaned with the effort. My feet slipped again and my belt cut into my stomach. I stifled a groan and concentrated on clinging to the steering oar.

  Grey morning-light dawned. The wind and the waves calmed somewhat. Storm-Wolf continued to dip and dive but water no longer gushed over the sides. The crew stopped bailing and slumped against whatever support they found. Somebody came up on the platform. An arm held my exhausted, trembling body. In a haze I heard Ragnar:

  ‘Was she here all night? Were there no men to help? Why didn’t you call me?�
� I didn’t hear the reply. My legs gave way. Someone cut the rope from my waist and I slid down on the wet, stinking hull. I clutched my aching belly. Then Kirsty was next to me removing my belt.

  ‘Mistress, you were very foolish. I don’t know how…’ The rest of her words floated away in a dark mist.

  I woke next to Olvir and Kveldulf. Olvir was awake. He looked at me with hollow eyes. He still clutched the end of the tether in one hand and Kveldulf ’s harness in the other. I reassured him the storm had passed and helped him loosen his stiff fingers from the leather thongs and untie the knot. Striker came out from under the steeringplatform crawling on his belly. Emitting pitiful whines, he licked Kveldulf ’s face. Kveldulf woke and picked up the dishevelled dog.

  ‘Wasn’t that exciting, Striker!’ Olvir closed his eyes and groaned.

  The full sail was hoisted but then the wind died altogether and we were left slowly rising and sinking on the swell. The sun hid behind heavy clouds. Thorfinn sat slumped against the side of the ship fast asleep and Ragnar was at the rudder. He had no means of telling where we were. There was no land in sight although it couldn’t be far because seaweed and birds appeared again. The crew became more cheerful, discussing which was most urgent, food, water or a fire to dry themselves out. Olvir and Kveldulf slept for a while then they sat in the prow and had a wager of who would be the first to spot land. Soon they shouted together and pointed to starboard. The clouds were breaking up and the low sun revealed a black shadow on the horizon. Ragnar ordered the oars to be put out. The men were eager and rowed with powerful strokes towards the unknown land.

  30.

  In the dark nobody saw the blood soaking through my dress and into the sand as I lost my baby. I had been foolish to think about the life growing inside me as a girl. Now I mourned a daughter even though Kirsten told me again and again it was too early to tell anything from the bloody mess she cleared up as she washed me and found fresh clothes to dress me in. We nestled in a small depression among the rocks away from prying eyes. Nobody must know that I had been punished by the gods. I was shivering, my whole body covered in a cold sweat.

  ‘You must wipe your tears, Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter. The men should not see you cry. Come, I need to get you in front of the fire or you’ll catch a chill. Women sometimes go down in a fever after what you’ve been through.’ She caught her breath. ‘Odin’s beard, your poor body is covered in bruises, all round the middle, no wonder…’ She continued to mutter to herself while struggling to get me into clothes which were clean but, like everything off the ship, soaking wet. ‘Now come here. Let me support you. You can’t stay here.’

  I trembled and leaned heavily on Kirsten as we walked towards the fire the men had lit in the middle of the beach. Ragnar saw us and came over.

  ‘What kept you? ’

  Kirsten glared at him and hissed: ‘The Mistress is unwell and no wonder and I don’t understand how you could allow…’

  ‘Quiet Kirsten, you’re speaking to my husband.’ I staggered and Ragnar caught me and held me steady.

  ‘Sigrid, what is the girl talking about?’ I couldn’t answer. I shook my head. My eyes filled with tears again and I bit my lower lip to stop it trembling.

  ‘She lost the child because of having to do the steering all night and…’ She was still speaking when Ragnar turned to me.

  ‘Child! Sigrid, I didn’t know. Why do you keep these things from me? How can I protect you if you don’t tell me anything?’ Their raised voices attacked my ears. I burst out crying. That silenced both of them. Ragnar held me close and rocked me softly from side to side. After a while Kirsten said:

  ‘Forgive me Master, she only just found out herself. Maybe she wasn’t sure.’ Ragnar dried my tears and Kirsten rubbed my back. ‘She’s very cold, Master, she should be by the fire.’

  Fleeces had been laid out for me, Ragnar and Archbishop Wolfstan. I lay down grateful for the warmth from the fire and for the flickering light which hid my tear-swollen face.

  ‘Where are the children?’ Ragnar nodded towards a nest of hides and shawls where Olvir and Kveldulf slept surrounded by the crew. The men were all asleep too except for the handful keeping watch. One other was also awake. Anlaf moved back and forth among his sleeping comrades. He was bent double supporting Harald as he walked on unsteady legs trying to kick sand over the sleeping men.

  ‘See if you can settle Harald, Kirsten. Anlaf must be exhausted.’ I watched Kirsten take Harald and sit down next to Olvir and Kveldulf and I was overcome with love for my children and gratitude for our survival.

  I was sore and cold and full of sad thoughts. I didn’t expect to be able to sleep. But many hours later I was woken by the sun and the noise made by the men as they stretched and cleared their throats, coughing and spitting. I turned over. My body felt covered in bruises, my limbs ached and my cleft stung and burned. Slowly I sat up and looked around. The sun was rising and the sea and sky merged in a golden glow on the horizon. A slight mist rose from the water’s edge and languid waves rolled on to the sand with a soothing murmur. The bay was surrounded by steep cliffs on both sides and a gentle tree-clad slope stretched between them. On the north side of the bay I counted eight ships and a number of smaller vessels moored by three wooden piers or resting in the sand. Smoke rose from behind the trees. Whoever lived here would know that we had arrived.

  Ragnar saw that I was awake and brought me fresh water. I managed to smile. We had no time to talk as the Archbishop came to wish us a good morning.

  ‘I know this land,’ he said. ‘It’s Skarthi’s burgh. So we’re not too far off course. Jorvik is just two day’s ride from here. I could continue by horse. It’s as fast if not faster than to sail up the Humber and the Ouse. I think you said, Ragnar Sweinson, that you wish to sail for the Irish Sea.’

  ‘Yes, it would suit me to take on water and supplies here and continue north along the coast. But shall you not need an escort? I’m not sure I can spare more than one or two.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Ingolf Skarthi will have a few young men kicking their heels and causing trouble. I’ll be doing him a favour taking them off his hands for a few days.’

  ‘Who is this Ingolf Skarthi?’ I was intrigued by the image of a chieftain with harelip. Usually such children were thought a curse and put out to die.

  ‘He was not born such. His upper lip was slit by a dagger in a fight. His wife sewed it together but it left a mighty scar which gave him the name, a name that carries respect in these parts, I might add.’

  I could not let on that I was not fully recovered from my ordeal so I picked up my weapons and joined Ragnar and the Archbishop to pay a visit to Skarthi. We took eighteen men, a number small enough to show peaceful intent but large enough to denote Wolfstan’s status. Already of imposing stature he dressed for the occasion, a large bejewelled cross showed gleaming among the ermine and embroideries of his splendid cloak. He carried his tall crook as behoves an archbishop but under his cloak he wore a mailshirt and his sword was by his side. Ragnar too noticed this and raised his eyebrows at me.

  Skarthi’s burgh was built to withstand attack. Surrounded by a ditch and a palisade on three sides it nestled at the foot of a forbidding cliff which finished with a steep drop into the sea. The open gate indicated that Skarthi already knew he had nothing to fear from us. Armed housekarls met us and led the way between tightly packed houses to a longhouse built in the Norse fashion with low walls and a tall, steep roof. Smoke seeped out through the openings in the thatch at each end where the ridge finished with two crossed dragons’ heads looking in opposite directions keeping watch over the household. Our men were made to wait outside. Ragnar and I were asked to leave our weapons in the wapenshouse before entering the hall. One guard pointed to Wolfstan’s sword but faced with the Archbishop’s scowl, didn’t insist.

  Skarthi was a man of importance, judging by his hall. The walls at the top end were covered with woven hangings in brilliant colours showing scenes of hunters and their prey.
Skarthi sat leaning against cushions in a seat carved with ravens and wolves’ heads, his legs stretched out in front and his hands clasped over the dome of his belly. His large head was dominated by a sprawling moustache so heavy the ends hung below his clean-shaven double-chin. He rose hurriedly when he saw us, stepped down from the dais and supported by one of his men bent his knee to Wolfstan.

  ‘Archbishop! I was told to expect visitors but nobody told me such an illustrious traveller had been washed up on my shore.’ He kissed the proffered ring and after the Archbishop had blessed him Skarthi waved to the servant to help him rise. Panting with the effort he returned to his seat and made room for Wolfstan to sit next to him. Ragnar and I were introduced, seated on the bench on Skarthi’s left side and then ignored.

  Wenches brought meat, bread and ale to the table. Realising how hungry I was, I did full justice to everything set in front of me. Ragnar did likewise but Wolfstan turned down the meat.

  ‘It is Friday here as in the rest of the Christian world I assume, Ingolf,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, but so it is!’ Skarthi dropped his pigs-trotter on to the table. ‘Those stupid thralls, they…’ he cleared his throat and fumbled at his chest. I smiled when I recognised that he was secreting his Thor’s hammer amulet into the folds of his tunic.

  ‘And how is the building of the chapel proceeding, Ingolf ?’ The Archbishop seemed not to have noticed the discomfiture of our host. ‘It must be almost finished. It is, let me think, how many years since King Aethelstan sent me here to baptise you and your household?’

  ‘Ah now Your Grace, let me think. It can’t be more than three, perhaps less.’

  ‘Oh more than that, surely. Four at least. Oh, and where is the young priest I left behind to help you carry out your religious duties?’

  ‘He…ahem…left.’