Honour is All Read online

  Two days after giving birth I went to the place where my mother had raised a stone to the memory of my father. It stood on high ground overlooking Loweswater. It had become a habit to go there to seek solace. The reflections of the trees on the water, the quiet and the presence of my father’s spirit soothed and comforted me. But this time I was there with my new baby to let him touch the swirling pattern of the inscription and connect with the spirit of his grandfather. Thorstein’s small fingers curled inwards, scratching at the rough surface. He cried, demanding a feed and I put him to my breast. When he’d had his fill and slept, I sat quietly soaking up the peace of the place. Maybe I slept because the sun stood lower in the sky when:

  ‘So this is where you are.’

  ‘Varg!’ He smiled and, as always, the sight of his filed teeth in his furrowed old face gave me a start. He settled down next to me and I waited for him to give the explanation he owed me. But Varg was looking at my father’s stone with a faraway expression. He read it quietly to himself:

  ‘Gudrun Haraldsdaughter raised this stone for her husband Kveldulf Arnvidson of Becklund, brave sword, faithful friend, honourable man.’ He laughed.

  ‘She forgot to add lucky bastard to that. Your mother was the fairest of the fair. She could have married anyone, a king even, but she chose Kveldulf. He wasn’t a true Berserker, you know. His heart wasn’t in it. You see, there are three kinds of warrior; the Berserkers and Wulfhedne who fight for the sake of it and don’t know how to stop. That was me. Then there are the clever ones who are brave and skilful, who fight in the front line but who know when to stop, when there’s no further point to the killing. That was your father and you are his daughter, his true heir. I think Kveldulf has it in him too and Harald. Too early to say how Little Gudrun will turn out but she’s certainly strong willed.’ He nodded and laughed.

  ‘You said three kinds of warrior.’

  ‘Oh yes, the third kind are the cowards who keep out of the way at the back of the hird. That’s your old enemy Kjeld Gunnarson. Not worth talking about. Best forgotten.’ I nodded and we sat in silence for a while. Then he said:

  ‘I wanted to tell you about me and Eirik and Haeric. You see, I was a bit involved when one of Eirik’s sons was killed by Egil Skallagrimson. It was a fair fight, a battle between two ships. They came for us. We rammed them and, with a bit of assistance, they all drowned. That should have been the end of it. But Skallagrimson put up a shame-pole with a horse’s head on it and cursed Eirik and his Queen. Eirik found out and, believe me, he knows the names of every man who was on that ship. Skallagrimson saved his neck with a praise poem. Of the rest I may be the only one who’s still alive. I had no gold for weregeld, nor can I compose poetry worth listening to, so I left in a hurry. I went east and ended up in the Emperor of Miklagard’s Varangian guard. When I heard Eirik had been chased out of Norway I thought I’d be safe there and maybe one of the local chieftains or even the new king would find use for me in their hirds. So I returned, only to find they all thought me too old. Then you turned up and, with your sword, proved yourself to be Kveldulf’s true daughter and heir. I joined you because I thought you might be in need of a voice of experience and wisdom.’

  ‘Wisdom? From the man who goaded Haeric to start a fight in my hall?’ Varg, the man who spent a lot of his time admonishing me and giving me fatherly advice, hung his head.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to explain. I’m still a Wulfhedne, I can’t help myself. I thought I was rid of the fury but, the truth is, I still don’t know when to stop.’

  Thorstein, my third son, was no different to the other two; difficult to give birth to, hungry and lusty. When he was introduced to his siblings and the rest of the household, my eldest, ten-year-old Kveldulf, commented:

  ‘Another little warrior, Mor. Far will be pleased.’ I thought he was right about that even though Ragnar indulged our daughter to the point of spoiling her. Seven- year-old Harald viewed Thorstein and said:

  ‘When he’s a bit bigger I’ll teach him to ride.’ Little Gudrun was delighted with the new baby. She stroked his downy head and insisted on being allowed to hold him on her own. But after a few days the three-year-old realised that Thorstein had usurped her as the youngest one, the petted one. Her response left no one in doubt as to how she felt about that. After yet another of her tantrums it was Olvir, my sixteen year old nephew, who found a solution.

  ‘I think you’re old enough now, Gudrun to have your own animal to look after. If you play with the other children without getting angry and do your tasks without argument you shall have the next baby animal that’s born on the farm.’ He may have had a puppy or a lamb in mind but a week later he came to see me.

  ‘Sigrid,’ he said, ‘I have done a very foolish thing in promising Gudrun an animal of her own. It was very, very stupid. I don’t want to have to break my promise to her and I don’t think she’ll…’ We were interrupted by Gudrun who came storming through the door shouting at the top of her voice:

  ‘My foal has been born, my very own foal!’ I looked at Olvir.

  ‘Not…’ He nodded.

  ‘Yes the foal from Mayflower and North Wind. I’m sorry.’ But a promise is a promise and, born a thrall, it was even more important to Olvir than to the rest of the family to be true to his word. And what lesson would Gudrun learn from a broken promise? There was nothing for it, our prize foal, born to my best mare and sired by my splendid stallion, the envy of my fellow Cumbrians, had to be Gudrun’s for keeps.

  ‘At least it’s a filly,’ said Olvir.

  ‘That would fetch a good price as brood mare,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps she’ll lose interest when she realises how much work it is.’

  ‘No she won’t,’ said Varg. ‘I’ll see to that. I’ll make her the best little horse woman in Cumbria and if the filly lives up to her promise we can race her.’ And so it was settled.

  My baby was healthy, my other children happy and the farm prospered. Everything should have felt peaceful and reassuring. But I was uneasily aware of the events in Northumbria.

  Cumbria was of course not part of Northumbria. After the defeat at Dunmail’s Rise King Edmund had handed Cumbria to King Malcolm of Scotland in recognition of his support. Malcolm took up tribute but didn’t punish those of us who’d fought against him. We had it easy in comparison to Northumbria where Edmund burnt and ravaged the land in order to prevent the rise of another Kingdom of Jorvik.

  Edmund didn’t enjoy his victory for long. He was killed in a brawl. So now there was a new King of England. King Aedred was young but had learnt the lessons of his forebears. No sooner was he secure on his throne in Wessex and Mercia before he turned north and made sure everyone, the Scots included, understood that he was in charge. He had all the Jarls and chieftains in Northumbria, with Archbishop Wulfstan in the lead, swear him allegiance at a great meeting by Tadden’s Cliff. But oaths made under duress were not binding, at least not to the Northumbrians who were used to electing their kings.

  I was not surprised to receive the news that the Northumbrians had chosen my uncle as their king. They had no love for the King of Wessex and Wulfstan usually persuaded them to go along with his wishes. There would be fighting, of that I was in no doubt, but, if our gods watched over us, it need not involve Cumbria. I went alone to the holy grove. There among the ancient oaks, before the carved likenesses of Odin, Thor, Frey and Frigga, I cut the throat of a hen, daubed the carvings, the stones and the trees with blood and prayed:

  ‘Odin, hear me and don’t allow the whole vicious struggle to start again.’ As I chanted my prayer, dark clouds drew up and it began to rain. The blood on the wooden likeness of Odin ran like tears down his one-eyed face.

  September 947

  Another group of men arrived on horseback but this time I felt very different when told who they were.

  ‘Fetch a horn of best ale and tell Aluinn to prepare a feast.’

  Ragnar and his sworn men rode into the yard and dismounted. I
stood ready.

  ‘Welcome home, Husband.’ He smiled and the years melted away. My heart quickened when my eyes met his. He had changed, of course he had but he was still tall, his hair was still the colour of sunshine and his eyes the colour of the sea. He kissed me and then he emptied the horn and handed it to Olvir to be refilled. Behind him his men waited their turn to refresh themselves with the welcome ale. Our children lined up to greet him.

  ‘But Sigrid, who are these young warriors and where are my little boys? And what’s this? A young maid? Where did she come from?’ Gudrun laughed and scolded him for not recognising them. Harald went along with the joke but Kveldulf looked embarrassed, clearly too old to find it amusing. I removed the swaddling and held up Thorstein for Ragnar’s inspection and approval. He placed the baby in his helmet. Then he turned to his men and declared that he knew this as his son and approved the name Thorstein.

  Later we sat together in the high seat that I had occupied alone for so many moons. Most of the crew had left for their own homes and only Ragnar’s sworn men were still with us. These nine men were seated along trestle tables being served meat, bread and broth. Ale and mead flowed. Many a cup was raised in praise of Ragnar and other men who had distinguished themselves during the raiding. That, unsurprisingly, turned out to be all of them. Orm Yngvarson from Rannerdale was teased that he had not really taken part in any fighting since he had, as usual, escaped without injury.

  ‘Not as much as a bruise,’ they laughed. ‘Where were you hiding?’ Orm was never short of a reply.

  ‘You oafs, you’re just envious of my superior skills. You all have shields you just don’t know how to use them.’

  ‘Impudent pup,’ muttered Cerdic the Briton. He was a thrall Ragnar had freed after the battle at Leicester. Behind his back he was called Cerdic Flatnose on account of having his nose chopped off during the battle of Dunmail Rise, to his face he was called Cerdic the Brave. His children sat next to him and listened to the tales of his exploits with open mouths. ‘But this is it, enough is enough,’ he said. ‘I’m too old for these adventures.’

  ‘So you’re staying by the hearth when I next sail, are you Cerdic?’ Ragnar didn’t sound annoyed or even disappointed. Cerdic had declared himself too old before but always followed loyally where Ragnar led. And I suspected that Ragnar would soon lead Cerdic and the other men on another raid.

  After a couple of days I decided to talk to him about it.

  ‘You return with gold and honour,’ I said, ‘you can stay at home now.’ Ragnar sighed.

  ‘By the time I’ve paid off the crew there’s no more treasure left than to see us comfortable.’

  ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘You know it isn’t, not to a pardoned outlaw, son of a dishonoured jarl.’

  ‘Ragnar, you’re well respected here. Nobody mentions that you were an outlaw and you’re not blamed for your father’s treachery. Look how Wulfstan and King Eirik came looking for your support.’

  ‘A sword, Sigrid, any sword, that’s what they sought. I want better than that. My father was once a great chieftain. It is my duty to recover the family honour.’ He didn’t say ‘like you did’ but he may well have thought it. I also believed that he felt a need to better or at least match me in providing for the household. My horses fetched a good price, cattle and sheep thrived and the farm gave good crops. There was no denying I had turned into a prosperous farmer while Ragnar sailed the seas risking his life and, however much his reputation grew, in terms of riches his gains were modest.

  The month before Yule a cold, tired messenger arrived and handed over a small scroll. Ragnar was summoned by Wulfstan to join him at Ripon with his hird. This was no surprise, he’d been part of Wulfstan’s bodyguard in the past and the autocratic Archbishop took it for granted that Ragnar remained his to call upon. The surprise was a second scroll, this one from my uncle, where I was asked, ordered in effect, to join the court at Jorvik to keep Queen Gunnhild company. Ragnar knew just how bad the news was.

  ‘You’ll have to find an excuse not to go. I don’t trust that shape-shifter witch. King Eirik may have chosen to forget your insult to him but she won’t.’

  ‘Family duty, Eirik is my mother’s brother. I have to go. To refuse would be dishonourable.’ Ragnar nodded but his brow furrowed.

  ‘And what about Gunnhild?’

  ‘Ragnar I’m not frightened of Gunnhild for myself and I’m not taking any of the children. I shall manage.’ Ragnar put his hands on my shoulders and his eyes were serious when he said:

  ‘You don’t have to prove to me that you’re brave. I’ve seen you fight. But you know as well as I do, this is different. This is not about swords and shields.’

  ‘I’ll get Kirsten to prepare some amulets for me.’

  ‘Is she not coming with you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think she’d be safe. She has some gift, I don’t know how strong yet. Her grandmother taught her healing, I don’t know what else. I don’t think she knows herself. Gunnhild would sense any power Kirsten may have and be sure to destroy her.’ Ragnar shuddered.

  ‘I’d sooner challenge a shieldwall on my own than have to face that woman.’ I smiled but, behind my back, I put my fingers together in the sacred sign to ward off evil.

  I never for a moment considered taking little Thorstein or any of my other children with me. Gunnhild would take them from me, turn them against me and add them to her own large brood. She was much younger than Eirik and when he died there was a line of sons to follow him and claim any royal crown that was vacant or vulnerable. When she was no longer Queen, she’d be Queen Mother and all the more powerful for it. Over my dead body would my children be supporters of Gunnhild’s sons.

  So I bound my breasts and set one of the thrall women to be Thorstein’s wet- nurse. I wanted to cry, no, to scream, but I was the mistress of the household and if I showed weakness it would rob servants and thralls of calm and courage. I took my sorrow to my father’s stone. There I crouched, leaning against the cold, rough surface, to shed the tears I had to bite back in the house. A discreet cough alerted me to Varg’s presence.

  ‘Princess Sigrid, I hope you’re not thinking of leaving me behind when you travel to Jorvik.’ I had, of course, decided just that. I wiped my nose on my pinafore.

  ‘Varg, I need you to stay here and teach my children about horse-breeding. Ylva and Unn are coming with me so you’ll have to take over training the other three women in the use of weapons. Kveldulf will remain here. He’ll be in charge but he’ll need your counsel about defending the farm should anyone attack.’ He nodded.

  ‘You do right to leave the children here, especially Kveldulf. Eirik would have him fight and he’s not ready for that. But…’

  ‘I also don’t want you in Jorvik taunting Eirik and Gunnhild. You’d be a danger to me, not a help.’ He bowed his head in submission. Then he looked at me, worry written in every line on his face.

  ‘Sigrid, have you met Queen Gunnhild? Will she know you?’

  ‘Yes, she’ll know who I am. I angered her when I escaped from her in Jorvik. Its many years ago but I don’t suppose she’ll have forgotten.’ Varg barked his hoarse laughter.

  ‘No, of that you can be assured.’

  ‘Is she really a volva? Does she see the future, does she have the power to steer our destinies?’

  ‘People say she can take the shape of a falcon and change the course of battles. And other things besides, I believe.’ Varg touched one of the multitude of amulets that hung round his neck. A shiver went down my spine.

  ‘Then why did Eirik not stay in Norway and fight Hakon? If she’s so powerful, he’d be sure to win.’

  ‘Too many of the Jarls were determined to get rid of Eirik and when Hakon turned up it must have seemed like it was the gods from Asgard rather than King Aethelstan that sent him. You see, Gunnhild can destroy Eirik’s enemies but she can’t win friends for him. That’s why her victories are short-lived.’ He watched me while I took all this
in. Then he said: ‘Since your father isn’t here to advise you, I shall. You must keep quiet, don’t irk the Queen. Keep your thoughts to yourself. She probably knows you’ll never be her friend but if she thinks you are her enemy she’ll destroy you.’

  Chapter 2

  The King of Jorvik

  Jorvik was a town in constant turmoil. Besieged, destroyed, ravaged by successive armies, it had never seen peace for long periods of time. But after each war, it was rebuilt and trade returned to make it rich again. I rode through the massive gates and I smiled when Ylva Flamehair and Unn the Untamed, spoke in breathless voices of the height of the watch towers. The first time I came to Jorvik, I too had marvelled at the two wooden structures, taller than any tree, and with room for a dozen men on top. Then I had arrived on foot and was much bothered by the pushing and jostling of carts and people. Now, riding at the head of half a dozen warriors, I was shown due respect.

  Apart from Ylva and Unn, I was accompanied by my sworn man, Anlaf Yngvarson of Rannerdale. In addition to these my own warriors, Ragnar had insisted that I take two of his men; a younger brother of Anlaf’s known as Orm the Unhurt and the freed man, Cerdic Flatnose.

  I also brought my servant Vida. She had got my luggage ready and was in charge of the provisions and equipment during the journey. Olvir had, as always, attached himself to the party, not bothered whether he was invited or not. He wore a padded jerkin and carried a sword which he was utterly unlikely ever to use but it made him look a warrior which he obviously thought was enough.

  ***

  After passing through the huge gates we entered an area of houses and small fields. It felt fresh and rural but soon the smells from the city came wafting towards us; fish in varying stages of decomposition, dung and smoke. Closer to the river the stench from the tanners’ yards made me gag.