Sigrun's Secret (4 page)

I couldn’t lie still. Sitting up, I freed myself from my sheepskins and pulled my kirtle over my head. I decided to go and groom the horses, ready to show them off to my father, my brother, and to Ingvar. That would keep me busy and take my mind off the unease coiling itself around my insides. Carrying my shoes, I climbed as quietly as I could past the other sleeping girls. The ladder hadn’t been put out for us to climb down yet, so there was probably no one else up.

Removing the ladder from the loft at night was supposed to protect our virtue, all those of us who were young and unmarried. It was a joke really, considering how Hild had crept down to Geirmund every night for months and was only discovered once she was with child. Father was angry at first, but then they were married and everyone forgot about it.

It wasn’t too high to drop to the ground. It’s what we all did if we needed to relieve ourselves in the night. As I slid down backwards and landed with a soft bump on the dirt floor, a couple of the men sleeping nearby stirred; one stopped snoring and grunted. I placed the ladder so that the other girls could climb down when they woke, and slipped barefoot out of the house.

The ground was freezing cold and the dewy grass bit my toes as I emerged into the bright light of another summer morning. I hurriedly bent and pulled my soft leather shoes onto my feet. Once the sun came up over the mountains it would be a warm day, but there’d been frost in the night to judge from the chill now. It was bad for the grain crop when the night frost persisted through the summer.

I headed for the pickets. Some riding horses were kept nearby, while the rest of the herd were left to roam free through the summer, fattening themselves on the rich grass. The four youngsters were grazing peacefully on their picket lines and all lifted their heads to nicker softly at me. I petted them, frowning at the patches of mud where they’d rolled, and checking their legs to make sure they were sound. In the excitement of the homecoming yesterday, I hadn’t seen to the colt myself, which had been a mistake. Whoever had rubbed him down had done it carelessly. There were sweat patches dried into his coat in places, and I detected a slight heat and swelling on one hind leg. That would need to be treated at once.

‘You foolish young horse,’ I chided him, rubbing his soft nose. ‘What a trick that was yesterday. You shamed me in front of everyone, and hurt yourself too.’

Untying him from his picket, I led him to the stables. He went willingly; he was tame enough as long as I didn’t try to ride him.

I wanted all the young horses groomed and presentable before father saw them. I’d been looking forward to this but now I worried a little he would take me less than seriously after yesterday’s disaster. I sighed. I’d succeeded in breaking and taming three out of the four youngsters, after all. That ought to be impressive enough.

I’d made a poultice for the colt’s leg and was rubbing down the first horse when the women walked past to begin milking. They waved to me through the open door of the stable. Once the milking was done, it wouldn’t be long until breakfast time and I was hungry already.

Before I’d finished grooming the second horse, a shadow darkened the doorway. I turned and saw Ingvar’s tall shape silhouetted there, his fair hair glowing in the sunlight. I smiled warmly up at him, both delighted and surprised that he’d come to find me.

‘I’m just … ’ I indicated the horses, but then dropped my brush. As I bent to collect it, I felt the colour rush into my face at the thought of what a fool I kept making of myself in front of Ingvar. It was ridiculous to be so shy, but he was no longer anything like the little boy I had played warriors with in the pasture years ago. He was a young man.

Ingvar stepped close to me, flustering me. I could smell the smoky scent of the longhouse still clinging to his woollen tunic. But he was merely running his hands over the horse I’d been grooming, apparently unaware of my confusion. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

‘This one’s grown very fine,’ Ingvar said with a smile that made my heart miss a beat. ‘Does he run away too, or can he behave?’

‘He’s as gentle as the other one’s wild. I broke him in the autumn and he’s ready to be ridden by anyone.’

As we began to talk horses, I gradually relaxed. It was familiar territory, and it was easier to slip back into our old friendship terms. Soon Ingvar was hard at work grooming and we worked side by side in comfortable companionship until my brother joined us.

‘Asgrim,’ Ingvar greeted my brother. ‘Have you seen how the young horses have grown?’

‘Father sent me,’ Asgrim said grimly. ‘Some men have arrived, interested in buying horses.’

‘Well, it’s early in the day, but there’s nothing in that to give you a long face, surely?’ asked Ingvar.

‘I’ve never seen father so agitated,’ said Asgrim. He paused, looking at me, and we held one another’s gaze for a moment.

‘Some kind of trouble?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘I don’t know. They’re unpleasant customers … they refused our hospitality: they don’t want breakfast. We’re to bring the four youngsters down for them to look at now.’

While Ingvar and Asgrim put saddles and bridles on the three horses that were groomed, I swiftly brushed the worst of the mud off the fourth youngster. My belly was churning now. What was upsetting my father? Was it the danger my mother had foreseen? As we led the horses out of the stable, I saw the strangers standing with father, waiting for us; one tall, broad, and red-haired, the other fair and slight, with the face of a fox. To my relief, neither wore black. They were simply wearing ordinary homespun clothes in the usual browns and greens.

The sun was up now, and with it had come the warmth of the day, making the ground steam as we made our way down the hill to the three men. My father made no introductions, which surprised me, but instead, spoke to the strangers.

‘All four youngsters are broken and for sale,’ he said, his voice cold and unfriendly.

The red-haired stranger headed straight for yesterday’s runaway.

‘This one isn’t fully broken yet,’ I explained hurriedly. ‘He’s still rather wild. The others are gentler and fully trained.’

My father frowned slightly. The stranger, after a brief stare at me from ice-cold eyes, remarked: ‘This is the only one up to my weight.’

He swung himself heavily onto the horse’s back, landing with a bump that had the youngster pulling madly on the reins I still held. His head was up, his eyes rolling back to show the whites and his ears flat against his head. I was afraid for both the horse and the stranger. But the man simply pulled the reins out of my hands, put his heels to the horse’s side and pushed him forwards.

With an indignant snort, the horse threw up his head and started to fight the bit. The stranger pulled at the young horse’s mouth and kicked him again, and the horse let out a shrill, indignant squeal. He flung himself into a series of bucks ending by rearing up on his hind legs with a loud neigh. Several people came running out of the longhouse to see what was going on, my mother among them.

She saw the strangers and her expression changed. A look of horror came over her face. Leaving the group of onlookers by the door, she half-ran forward towards us. And then she froze, her eyes glazed. I knew it was the sight, but I also knew she was in danger. The horse was twisting and bucking. He hadn’t yet unseated his rider, but he was out of control. A final twist and the rider fell heavily to the ground. The young horse turned to bolt and ran straight towards my mother as she stood helpless and unseeing.

‘Mother!’ I cried out, trying to warn her. I could see her standing there, motionless, unaware that a maddened horse was running straight at her. Her sight was turned inwards; towards whatever it was the goddess was showing her. I ran to her, but I couldn’t overtake the horse. Head held high, foam flying from his mouth, he fled across the yard. In his desperation to escape the man who had tormented him, he didn’t see my mother.

There was a moment’s confusion. Hoof beats and the squeak of leather, then a collision. I saw my mother fall under the legs of the runaway horse, and I heard the sickening snap of bone as the horse trod heavily on her leg. Then he was gone in a thunder of hooves, stirrups flying, and my mother lay crumpled on the ground.

‘Thora,’ yelled my father, already running towards her, his voice hoarse with fear. He reached her first, dropping to his knees beside her, taking her hand. She clung to him, her eyes clouded with pain. ‘Send them away,’ she panted through gritted teeth.

‘You’re hurt,’ said my father. As I knelt beside him, I could see all the colour had drained from his face. ‘Oh my love,’ he whispered. ‘No, please, no.’

I was already checking my mother’s leg. She cried out as I touched the break.

‘This needs to be set at once,’ I said, feeling sick at the thought.

‘I know,’ she gasped, her face white. In a voice faint with pain, she whispered urgently: ‘Bjorn, you must send the men away. They aren’t here to trade, but to spy.’

Exhausted from the effort of speaking, she fell back. Everything was confusion around me. I heard my father shouting at the strangers, sending them away. Ingvar and Erik carried my mother indoors. Asgerd hurried for splints and Astrid tore strips of cloth. This wasn’t the first broken bone I’d set, but I’d always worked under my mother’s guidance.

Mother endured the move with gritted teeth. There were beads of sweat on her brow and her hands were clenched at her sides. Ingvar and Erik stood ready to hold her down as I worked. I knew if I made a mess of this, my mother could be a cripple for the rest of her life, her gait marred by an ugly limp. I breathed deeply, trying to stop my hands shaking. My mother reached out and grasped my wrist.

‘You can do this,’ she said calmly, despite her own pain. ‘I trust you.’

‘Thank you,’ I said gratefully. Her confidence gave me courage, but it didn’t last long: even though I worked as quickly and as lightly as I knew how, my mother gave great cries of pain that sent shivers through me, unnerving me. But the task was done at last and the leg tightly bound. I sat limply by my mother’s side, trembling and sick from the effort and responsibility. She took my hand.

‘Well done, my daughter,’ she said, her voice faint. Her skin was cold and clammy and I knew she was in shock. The danger wasn’t over. This might be a clean break that healed well. Or there might be complications—internal bleeding, for example, which I could do nothing about. Oh, how I wished I was better at this. I’d worked hard to learn, but I didn’t have the favour of Eir, the goddess of healing. And now my mother, who I’d always depended on, was sick herself.

‘Put your fears aside, Sigrun,’ said my mother. ‘What will be, will be.’

I nodded numbly, unsurprised by my mother’s uncanny ability to see my thoughts and feelings. She always knew.

‘If only
I
had the sight,’ I said suddenly, the words escaping me unexpectedly. ‘Then I might have been able to prevent you being hurt.’

It was the first time I’d ever expressed such a wish to my mother and her reply astonished me.

‘Don’t wish for it, Sigrun. It’s … a great burden to bear.’

‘But it keeps us safe … ’

‘It didn’t keep me safe today. On the contrary. And it comes at a cost. Can you imagine seeing the future, and being unable to change it?’ Her voice was a strained whisper. ‘So much fear. So much dread. And sometimes it’s a glimpse only. Without the context, the whole picture, it’s misleading. Things haven’t always turned out as I’ve expected.’

I’d never thought of it like that, but dimly I could see that might be so. ‘I thought you were disappointed I hadn’t inherited the gift,’ I whispered. ‘It would be a sign I was a true healer.’

My mother’s hands tightened on mine. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I dreaded it coming to you.’

She lay back on her furs, pale and exhausted, her eyes closed. I stroked her damp hair back from her brow, and turned the new thought over in my mind. Mother wasn’t disappointed in me. And despite my fears, I felt as though a burden had been lifted from my shoulders.

My father entered the room, his face lined with worry, and dropped to his knees at my mother’s side. He drew her hand from mine and kissed it tenderly. ‘Thora,’ he whispered, his voice breaking with distress. He saw the splint, looked up at me and managed a faint smile. ‘Well done, Sigrun,’ he said. ‘Will it heal?’

‘That’s in the hands of the goddess,’ whispered my mother faintly. ‘But, Bjorn, did you send those men away? They weren’t here to buy horses.’ She was agitated again, and needed to be calm.

‘Can I have your keys?’ I asked softly, intending to look in the storeroom for some willow bark or elder that I could brew into a pain-killing drink. Mother fumbled at the cord at her waist, untied the household keys and handed them to me.

‘Those were the men from the market,’ I heard father say softly. ‘They … ’

I paused, hoping to hear more, but my father stopped and glanced at me. Reluctantly, I left the room.

As I emerged from my mother’s room, everyone looked up. Nobody was working; they were all gathered in groups around the fire.