Shieldmaiden

Book 0: The Shieldmaiden Trilogy

by Marianne Whiting

Genres: Action & Adventure

Synopsis

You are your father's daughter... A young Viking woman picks up her sword and goes in search of retribution and justice. In 934 the English are fighting the Norse for supremacy over the North. Worship of the old Norse gods is challenged by Christianity. Traditional loyalties are tested and revenge can be swift and violent. In Cumbria a man is outlawed and killed. Faced with a life of destitution and servitude, his daughter Sigrid's only option is to appeal to the King of Norway to reverse his judgement on her father and allow her to inherit the family farm. But Norway is far away and Sigrid has only her wits and her skill with the sword to help her cause. Sigrid sets out to regain her birthright, encountering kings, warriors and villains on her quest. While her fighting skills earn her admiration, she must also learn about duty, honour and loyalty if she is to grow from a headstrong teenager into a woman and a respected warrior.

Release date: December 2, 2016

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 293

Sample

––––––––

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 fleece-lined 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 mail shirt, 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 bathhouse 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 cannot 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 yet 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 troll-ugly 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 serf 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.

––––––––

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 serf, whom 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 swordplay 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, 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 plaything. 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.

* * *

Five glorious days we rode, swam, hunted and laughed together. We climbed Raven Crag and White Crag and up to the ridge of Mellbreak. From the tallest peak we looked across Crummockwater to the looming bulk of Grasmoor wondering whether there were giants there. We tickled trout and cooked it over an open fire. We sneaked away early in the mornings and had no need to return until the light failed. We fed on berries and fish and wild fowl we snared by the lake. The world was ours. Avoiding my mother’s and Ingefried’s demands that I carry out my duties on the farm became an amusing game. Many times afterwards I wished I had not been so reckless about that. But I was happy and gloried in Ragnar’s friendship.

One day we rode up onto Burnbank Fell where we had spotted a small herd of roe-deer a couple of days before. We tethered our horses to track on foot. I wore breeches and a tunic and my bare feet moved silently on the soft grass. Ragnar nodded and we split up to approach the heard from different directions. He disappeared round a low knoll and I continued to move at an angle to his path. When I saw him about sixty ells away I waved. We got down and began creeping up on the deer. I got so close, so very close. I saw the strong, yellow teeth biting off the grass, the small, pointed horns and the delicate hooves. I reached for an arrow.

But we had mistaken the direction of the wind. One of the does sniffed the air and then they were all moving away from us. We ran with them, keeping them in our sight. After a while they stopped and resumed their grazing. Ragnar crouched next to me. We were both breathing hard with the effort of running. I looked at his hand where it rested on the ground. It was tanned and covered in fine golden hairs that glistened in the sun. I could smell the sweat and feel the heat from his body and it made my insides go soft and warm. I felt excited and confused and drew aside. He didn’t seem to notice. He pointed to a doe that had been separated from the rest of the bevy. We crawled through the bracken to get downwind of her. As we came within range we both pulled our bows. Two arrows pierced her neck. The doe ran, staggered, fell. We raised a victory-cry putting the rest of the heard to flight.

‘You’re splendid, Sigrid,’ said Ragnar. ‘I sometimes feel we could conquer the world together.’ He laughed and put his arms around me. ‘You’re both my friend and my ...’ He stopped. His arms tightened around my body and I gasped. My heart beat so hard, he surely must have felt it through our clothing, just as I felt his.

There was a call from the distance.

‘Whoa, you two!’ Steinar had been sent to look for us. He seemed to take pleasure in relaying just how angry my parents were about my behaviour. We rode home in silence. After we released our horses into the meadow, Ragnar took my hand and whispered, ‘You’re my shieldmaiden, Sigrid.’

The next morning Ingefried declared Ragnar well enough to travel. He was handed gifts for his family and my father sent a servant to show him the way to Buttermere.  My mother looked pleased. I still remember Ragnar’s farewell to me.

‘We’ll meet again before long. Sigrid, don’t forget me.’ He kissed my hand as I gave him the drinking horn. His sea-green eyes held mine and we both trembled and spilt some of the farewell ale.

Jarl Swein’s farm by Buttermere was but half a day’s ride away and every day I watched out for Ragnar, expecting to see him arrive on horseback. I knew better than to ask my mother about him. My father’s reply the time I mentioned Ragnar was curt. ‘Put that boy out of your mind, daughter.’

Two summers went by with no word from Ragnar or from the rest of the household at Buttermere. I suffered the doubts and the longing, and also the teasing of those who found it amusing.

––––––––

Autumn on Becklund farm was always busy with preparations for winter. The storehouses were filled with grain, fruit and nuts. The animals we couldn’t feed through the cold season were slaughtered. I spent days on end with my mother and the serf girls in the cookhouse making sausages, brawn and black pudding. We needed salt to cure hams and preserve herring. To pay for that and other essentials my father took pigs and heifers, or whatever animals we could spare, to the market in Cockermouth. I sometimes accompanied my father on these trips.

I was fair of face, strong in body and of a good family. Becklund was a prosperous farm and I began to attract the attention of marriageable men in the area. I turned down three proposals in rapid succession. My mother was vexed, especially when I returned Hauk of Swanhill’s elaborately carved love-spoon. Hauk’s messenger was barely out of earshot before she cried, ‘This just won’t do, Sigrid. Hauk may only have one eye but he has the best farmland in the area and he returns with the largest catches of herring. You’d be well provided for. You can’t keep turning your suitors do. . .