Shieldmaiden

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.

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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.'