Shieldmaiden Read online

  SHIELDMAIDEN

  Marianne Whiting

  Copyright © 2012 Marianne Whiting

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1780882 970

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Printed and bound in the UK by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall

  For my husband, Jon,

  who has learnt quite a lot about Vikings.

  Contents

  Part One: Loyalty

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  Part Two: Shieldmaiden

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  Part Three: Respect

  10.

  11.

  12.

  Part Four: Ring Giver

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  Part Five: Quest for Justice

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  Part Six: Vengeance of the Gods

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  Characters in Shieldmaiden

  Historical Note on Shieldmaiden

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  PART ONE

  LOYALTY

  1.

  On the day I was born my father saw the fylgia. Our family’s guardian-spirit appeared to him holding a distaff in one hand and a sword in the other. He thought it meant twins, a girl and a boy. Then he was called into the hall and presented with me, his first daughter. He already had sons so there was probably no disappointment. I like to think that he smiled as he put me in his helmet to show that he accepted this child as his own. Later, when he thought about the fylgia again, he wondered about her message. This is the way with gods and spirits. They show you signs but you have to interpret their meaning for yourself.

  I had seen eight summers when it became clear to my father that it was not his sons but his daughter who had an aptitude for swordplay. He called me to him and handed me a short scabbard. My heart beat like thunder in my chest as I drew a blade from the fleecelined bed. I turned it so it caught the sunlight. The grip had a pattern of trefoils. The top of the hilt had broken off and in its place our blacksmith had forged a disc with a picture of an eye on each side. My father pointed to it.

  ‘She can see in both directions and your enemies won’t take you by surprise,’ he said. I nodded. It made sense.

  ‘Is it really mine? To keep?’ He smiled and I knew a dream had come true, my very own sword. No more playing with sharpened sticks or pestering my brothers to let me use their blades. I swung it a couple of times from side to side. It lay smooth and balanced in my hand. It was a wonderful feeling.

  ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘That’s for you to decide.’

  ‘I shall call her Snakebite.’

  ‘That’s a good name. Remember you will be judged by how you use her so think before you act and make sure you bring honour to both your names.’

  Becklund, my father’s farm, was set among the Cumbrian fells. There I rode my small mare Whitefoot and hunted deer and hare with bow and arrows. I swam in Loweswater and tickled trout in the small beck. When unable to escape, I also helped with the work on the farm and in the house. It seemed a perfect life and I saw no reason for it ever to end. But in the year we now call 933 it did. I was twelve years old when my whole world changed with the arrival of a stranger who had violence etched in the lines of his face.

  Late one evening at the time when summer begins to fade, Jarl Swein Hjaltebrand of Manx arrived alone and unannounced. He had to stoop even lower than my father to get through the door and he stumbled with fatigue as he put his shield down and stepped forward to be embraced. His long, woollen cloak concealed a saerk, the short mailshirt, worn by warriors. A place was made for him next to my father and he unbuckled his belt with the heavy sword and left that and an ornate battleaxe by the door. My father, unsmiling, greeted the Jarl:

  ‘You are welcome Swein. It’s been a long time since we had news of you.’ He led him to the seat next to his own and nodded to me to bring mead, while the thrall-girls went to fetch meat from the cookhouse. The flickering light of the tallow showed the deep furrows on Jarl Swein’s brow and the stubble on his chin. I had never met him before, nor had I heard anyone speak of him and yet my father treated him like an honoured friend.

  Jarl Swein ignored the food but emptied the gilded horn in one draught and held it out to be refilled. My father said no more. Nobody else dared speak and silence grew like a black mould on the smoke-filled air. Then the Jarl spoke in a hoarse voice:

  ‘Kveldulf we have seen many things and faced many perils together. Often we survived by watching out for treacherous knives and bloodthirsty swords. We have mixed our blood and become brothers, is this not so?’

  ‘You speak the truth, Swein.’ My father sounded calm but my mother’s breath came in shallow gasps.

  ‘Things have gone badly for me, Kveldulf. I grow old, my warriors die and my allies turn to the plough and the net. No…’ he held up his hand when my father made to reply, ‘no, I mean no reproach, Kveldulf, you are a man of honour.’ It sounded almost like a question. They stared at each other, the Jarl gradually straightening his back, my father’s eyes dark under his heavy brow. All along the table, spoons and knives were held still, men stopped chewing and the wenches froze with serving-plates and bowls held aloft, as we listened to the unsaid words that made the air between the two masters vibrate with suppressed anger. My two elder brothers leaned against each other, Steinar’s eyes wide open, tears beginning to well up, Thorstein chewing his lips and clasping his wife’s hand.

  I was ashamed of my feeble brothers, unable to hide their fear, their cowardliness bringing shame on the family. I straightened my shoulders and took two trembling steps up to the Jarl.

  ‘Your horn stands empty, Jarl Hjaltebrand, shall I pour you some mead?’ My voice fluttered through the air. Both men turned to me. I didn’t dare meet my father’s eye so looked the Jarl full in the face. His mouth opened in surprise and I noticed he had most of his teeth but they were yellow and rotting and when he breathed out I had to steady myself not to turn away. Then he shook his head, laughed and turned to my mother.

  ‘So, Gudrun Haraldsdaughter, I see your girl takes after you, ever ready to interrupt the deliberations of men.’

  ‘You have paid slight attention to my offerings, Swein. The meat is untouched, does it not please you? Don’t be in a hurry. You can’t travel
this evening. We are all eager to listen to tales of your exploits.’ After that reproach the Jarl seemed to relax and remember his manners. He began eating and the rest of the household took the opportunity to help themselves. That is with the exception of my brothers, who still sat close together, watching our guest, fear lingering on their faces.

  The tales of awesome perils and mighty deeds never materialised. The Jarl wished to speak to my father in private and they withdrew to a corner of the hall. The rest of us had to make do with one of my mother’s stories about giants and trolls. I heard none of it since I sat at the back straining my ears, trying to listen in on the conversation between my father and his guest. I couldn’t hear them either so ended up with nothing but an angry feeling of being left out.

  Jarl Hjaltebrand left early the next morning. He would return with his household for a visit before continuing inland in search of a place to settle. My mother seemed agitated and she was impatient with the thralls during the preparations for our guests. My father went silent and brooding around the farm. I had my own preoccupations, one was to keep out of my mother’s way before I was drafted in to help, the other was the riddle of my father and the mysterious Jarl Swein.

  A few days later I returned from a lonely ramble, having picked a few cranberries to account for my absence. Passing the bath-house I could hear my parents’ voices. There was no smoke so the small stone hut was not in use. I crept up and put my ear close to the cool, moss-covered wall. My father’s voice came through. He sounded tired and he spoke slowly, as if he was trying to be patient.

  ‘… side by side, our blood mingled with that of our enemies. I can not forsake him now.’

  ‘You were Harald’s sworn man, you accepted his ring and now you’ll give shelter to his enemy.’ Mother sounded like she’d been crying.

  ‘We both fought for King Harald Finehair.’

  ‘And now, Swein has turned against the King and brought this terrible danger to his family. I think he lies when he says he didn’t know who owned the island. He must have known it belongs to King Harald and he still raided there. Harald may be old now but he has sons. His revenge on Swein, his household and anyone who helps him will be bloody and without mercy. We have a good life here, Kveldulf. Don’t allow this misplaced loyalty to put us all in danger.’

  ‘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 th
en 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.