Shieldmaiden (2 page)

‘He saved my life, I owe him.'

‘But you saved his too he told me so, when we first met in my father's house in Norway. You owe him nothing, a life for a life, your debt is cancelled.'

‘You don't understand the bond between warriors.'

Mother's voice became an impatient cry: ‘Oh but I do, and I…'

‘Be still Gudrun!' Father rarely interrupted my mother. He was slow to anger but when it came over him, strong men stood aside. The way he sounded now made me crouch deeper behind the piles of firewood. I could hear movement in the hut and father shouting:

‘Get out of my way, woman!'

The door crashed open and my father stormed out. He strode across the copse, kicking at the ground. My mother emerged shortly afterwards and walked with a heavy tread towards the farm. As she came within view of the buildings, she straightened her shoulders and raised her head, always the composed, proud mistress of the house.

Relieved not to have been discovered, I was left with my own thoughts. So, my father had been King Harald of Norway's man. That's why the neighbours, the tradesmen in the towns and farmers in the villages, karls and thralls alike, showed respect for him and did his bidding, it wasn't because he was rich, he wasn't particularly, it wasn't because of his wisdom, there were others wiser than him, but because he was a great warrior. And now he would stand by his blood-brother in the face of danger. I felt a surge of pride because I was still too young to understand the dilemma of divided loyalty and the difference between respect and fear.

For days on end we brewed and baked and slaughtered and cooked. The floor in the longhouse was covered with fresh rushes and the bathhouse fired up so our guests could cleanse themselves after their journey. It was almost like preparing for the midwinter sacrifice. I was happy and excited with the thought of so many new people to meet and, of course, I thought that among the warriors there was bound to be one who was taller, handsomer and braver than all the rest, a young hero meant for me.

The Jarl's household arrived. They came with cattle and sheep and dozens of packhorses laden with sacks, chests and bundles. Our guests pitched their tents in the meadow behind the main house and sent their animals to graze on the hillside. People and animals all looked tired and dejected. The women were a miserable lot, grumbling and complaining about having to leave their homes. They spent most of the time hunched around the hearth with their spinning, telling my mother about the splendid houses and bulging storerooms they'd left behind. The men soon recovered their good humour and went hunting or amused themselves with sword-games and riding competitions. I kept making excuses to leave the women and walk past the men without seeming to pay them too much attention.

My efforts were wasted. The men were either old or ugly or, in most cases, both. They were also rather coarse and took a delight in rough wordplay of the kind I had heard in town and which my father would stop with a look and a sharp turn of his head. But here, in my own home, I was now prey to uncouth pestering while my father was too occupied with his old friend to notice. After a trollugly housekarl tried to fondle me I decided to deal with the problem in my own way.

On the second evening as the company settled down to roast meat, curly kale and rich, steaming broth, I strapped my dagger to my belt under the pinafore. I poured ale with one hand while the other rested on the handle of my dagger. When hairy fingers reached inside my pinafore I was ready.

“Thor and his goats!' the scar-faced fighter swore and wiped his bleeding hand on his tunic. His neighbours sniggered.

‘What is it, Thorfinn?' asked the Jarl. Thorfinn cleared his throat, thought a minute and replied with a drapa:

‘Salt-stained warrior suddenly savaged
meek-looking maiden carries the teeth
of a wild-running wolverine
time now to tame her
by marriage to manly master.'

The guests all laughed and clapped their hands. My father looked thoughtful and my mother glared at me but I had no more trouble from any of the men.

Towards the end of the meal one of the Jarl's daughters was called upon to recite a story. She was very good and we all laughed as the god Thor wrestled with an old woman, who was really old age which, as I know now, nobody can defeat. Then my brother Thorstein fetched his lyre and played. The women closed their eyes and swayed like saplings in the breeze. Ruffians, who had made fun of him earlier, listened slack-mouthed, their calloused hands wiping tears from weather-beaten cheeks

A thrall stirred by the door, the music died and all turned to listen. A horse could be heard entering the yard. The door crashed open. Women grabbed their children. All round the hall men got up reaching for their weapons. A dark, bulky figure entered without putting down his weapons or uttering a word of peace. My father stood up and drew his sword.

The tall figure staggered, his legs buckled under him and he fell, face down, to the floor. The shaft of an arrow protruded from his back. I rushed up to him and stood looking at the dark stain on his cloak. Although I didn't know it then, my hero had arrived and lay bleeding in my father's hall.

2.

I stood as still as a stone, clutching the jug to my chest and staring at the blood soaking into the floor-rushes. Jarl Swein pushed past me and knelt by the body.

‘Ragnar,' he said and his voice was hoarse.

My mother ordered a table to be cleared and the wounded youth was placed on it face down. Jarl Swein's wife cried and called to the gods:

‘Oh, my son, my son! Baldur, Frigga look to your servant the…'

‘Hold your tongue woman or leave!' the Jarl made a threatening gesture and she stopped. He then bent over his unconscious son and with a swift movement broke off the feathered shaft of the arrow. ‘Keep still,' he muttered as Ragnar came to and groaned. Ragnar fell silent but his nails dug into the boards he was lying on. I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, willing him to be brave. The Jarl then removed the thick woollen cloak and cut the blood-soaked tunic open. My mother was ready with hot water and clean rags. The Jarl looked at her and nodded.

‘You always had your wits about you, Gudrun,' he said, ‘noble blood, it shows.' He handed her the rag he'd used to clean around the wound.

‘We don't speak of that here, Swein.' Mother wrung the used rag in the water and gave it back to him. She turned and with a hard look handed me the bowl. I snapped my mouth closed, took the bowl and went to change the water.

When I returned, Jarl Swein was removing the arrow. It had hit Ragnar at an angle, glanced off a rib and lodged in the flesh below the shoulder-blade. The bruising had yet to come out and a wound, the size of a baby's fist, glowed, red against pale skin. Having established that no bone was in the way, Jarl Swein made a small incision in Ragnar's side to allow the arrow to be pushed right through. The boy had seen no more than fifteen summers but he stifled his groans and earned the respect of all the men present. The wound was washed with salty water and covered with clean cobwebs. Ingefried, my mother's Norwegian servant, prepared a poultice of crushed comfrey leaves and tied it in place. Ragnar was supported to sit up and given strong mead to drink.

The arrow had been fired by an angry trader, after Ragnar had killed his thrall, who he accused of cheating. The men found this quite in order and praised Ragnar. His mother, at last allowed to get close, stroked his sweat soaked hair and kissed his pale cheeks. Over her shoulder, Ragnar's eyes met mine and my heart beat so hard I could feel my whole body singing. My cheeks burnt. I wanted to look away but my eyes wouldn't leave his and I couldn't stop myself smiling.

When Jarl Swein and his household departed, Ragnar was still too weak to travel and stayed behind to be nursed by Ingefried. It was regarded as a good opportunity for me to learn more about wounds and healing. Under Ingefried's watchful eye, Ragnar and I had to be careful what we said but there are so many ways young people can convey their feelings. When I put ointment on his wound, Ragnar put his hand on mine and moved it to where I could feel his heart beating.

‘Over here. This is where it hurts.'

Ingefried cleared her throat and he let go but our eyes stayed locked together and I felt my heartbeat quicken.

As he grew stronger, Ragnar was supposed to spend time with my brothers practising weapons-skills but they avoided him, Thorstein because he had perfected the skill of avoiding anything to do with sword and axe and Steinar because he took such a thrashing on their first encounter, he was frightened to try again. So I offered to help.

‘It's not sword-play I want with you, pretty Sigrid.' Ragnar laughed and looked at me in such a way I felt both angry and happy at the same time.

‘She's good,' said Steinar. ‘She's better than me.'

‘That doesn't take much.'

‘Don't be discourteous to my brother,' I said. Ragnar laughed and, feeling only a little remorse for being disloyal, I joined in. Steinar muttered something under his breath. But when I drew my sword and picked up a shield, Ragnar lowered his.

‘I can't fight you, Sigrid.'

‘Why not?'

‘This isn't play. It's serious practice for warriors. You're a woman. Women aren't warriors.'

My smile faded as I realised he was not teasing.

‘Well, this woman is, so defend yourself !' I went towards him, sword raised. He took a step back. ‘Coward!' I hissed and slashed a blade of grass at his feet. He leaped aside and I followed.

‘Get him, Sigrid!' called Steinar. Ragnar raised his sword and shield.

He was good, a real swordsman. We practised together the rest of the afternoon. He always won but he taught me much about how to parry a blow with my shield and how to confuse the enemy by looking behind them or by shouting out. There is more skill involved in fighting without causing injury than there is in killing and maiming. It was many years before I realised how I had courted danger with that attack. My father realised however and, when he found out, he spoke to me with an anger I had rarely seen in him. But worse than that, he took my beautiful sword Snakebite from me. I loved that sword but now my father took it back.

The next day he had calmed down. He came and sat next to me and took my hand.

‘Ragnar has taken the blame for this but I know you too well, Sigrid. One thing I have failed to teach you is to choose your opponents and to keep a cool head. Fighting Steinar and the untried boys at the Allthing is different. Oh yes, I know about that. Did you think nobody would tell me? I had to pay compensation to Mord Lambason when you made his son lame.' He sounded amused and a bit proud rather than angry and I cheered up. But then he cleared his throat and with a stern face continued: ‘Look Sigrid, you shall marry and have sons, who will be brave like you. But that will not happen if you are scarred or maimed.'

‘But Father you say yourself I have learnt well. May I not have Snakebite back? I will take more care, I promise. Maybe we could find a helmet for me as well.' At this point my mother joined us.

‘So that's where you are. Did I not warn you Kveldulf, the girl will become impossible to marry. Who shall want a wife better at swordplay than weaving? Will you finally put a stop to this folly and get rid of that sword?'

I squeezed my father's hand and held my breath. He stayed silent.

‘Kveldulf ?' my mother's voice was full of angry impatience. My father released his hand from mine and stood up to face my mother with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

‘I have thought this through, Gudrun. Sigrid has the heart of a warrior. She is of my blood and of your father's. Our roots are in Norway and in the way of the Norse. So I shall not get rid of it. But she shall only have it back when she shows more sense in how to use it.' He held up a hand to stop my mother saying anything more and turned to me. ‘It is not a play-thing. Wielded by a hand that's not guided by the head it is a dangerous and destructive thing. Now, there's the end of it. And, Sigrid, you need to apologise to Ragnar for attacking him. Steinar tells me you were defending his honour but Ragnar is our guest.'

As I left them, I heard my mother complaining: ‘I don't want her spending time with Ragnar. The less we have to do with the family of Jarl Swein, the better.'

I found Ragnar grooming his horse. He smiled and put down the bunch of teasels.

‘You know, Sigrid, your father is almost as frightening as you are.'

I burst out laughing. When I got my breath back I tried to apologise, as my father had told me to, but Ragnar shook his head.

‘You are not to blame. I was arrogant and should not have offended Steinar. Is Kveldulf Arnvidson very angry still?'

‘He took Snakebite from me.' I choked on the words. ‘He says I can have it back when my head guides my hand. It's so unfair.'

‘Well…' Ragnar didn't continue and I looked at him. He chewed his lip. Then he sighed. ‘Your father may have a point. You're not going to deny you have a temper, are you? That's why I won all the time. You rush… Oh, Sigrid, don't cry. You are a good swordsm… woman, I mean. Your father will give you Snakebite back, surely.'

‘I don't know.'

‘If he doesn't, I shall give you a sword so magnificent it has no equal in all of Cumbria.' He had a way of screwing up his eyes so they looked full of laughter. I wiped my tears. It was impossible to be sad around Ragnar. ‘I understand now, you're no ordinary girl. I think maybe you'll be a shieldmaiden, like in the stories.' I felt my cheeks burn but couldn't help smiling. He laughed and took my hand.

‘Thorstein tells me there are trout in the beck,' he said. ‘Race you there.'

Full of young happiness we ran through the meadow, down to the water. It was the most perfect day and, when we heard Ingefried calling me, we crossed the stream and walked along the lake-shore until we were well out of earshot. We talked, the way young people do, about all and everything and, although I think we must have disagreed about some things, we forged such strong bonds, I felt they were for life.