Shieldmaiden by Marianne Whiting

father tapped him on the unprotected shoulder with his sword.
    â€˜You’ve just lost your right arm,’ he would say.
    Father got increasingly impatient and after several failures, threw his sword on the ground and walked away. Steinar stayed and tried to practise on his own. I could see tears running down his cheeks. Thinking I would help, I slid down from my vantage point on the dry stone wall. I picked up my father’s sword with both hands and managed to lift it and let it fall on Steinar’s exposed shoulder. It sliced through his tunic and cut into his flesh. He dropped his axe and shield. I lost my grip on the sword and it hit the ground with a dull thud. We stood together in stunned silence and watched as thick, red blood welled out of the wound and soaked the sleeve of Steinar’s tunic before trickling down his hand and onto the grass.
    â€˜You should have moved the shield.’ I said.
    Steinar didn’t answer but, with the full force of his uninjured arm, he planted his fist in my face. We were both bleeding, he from his arm and I from my nose. We hugged each other and cried in unison so loudly the servants in the outlying fields heard us and came running, thinking there had been an attack on the farm. We were both punished. This created a special bond between us and, believe me, I never wanted any ill to befall my brother and to this day I am haunted by the memory of his death and the part I played in that event.
    When my brothers turned twelve and thirteen, my father decided it was time to start searching for wives for them.
    â€˜My mind is not set on marriage,’ said Thorstein. He stroked his lyre Enchanter and it sang a sorrowful note.
    â€˜Put that down,’ said my father. ‘Don’t play your magic on me. I know what you’re trying to do.’
    Thorstein sighed and put Enchanter on the bench next to him. ‘Father, you know I’m not a farmer. Nor am I a fighter. I will never be a Viking but I still want to see the world outside this valley. I want to make poetry and music about great events. Kings and chieftains pay for entertainment in their halls and for songs about their battles. I can’t steer a plough but with Enchanter I can make a living as a minstrel.’
    â€˜A minstrel! As Odin is my witness, no son of mine will be a minstrel.’ My father’s raised voice prompted my mother to speak:
    â€˜Nobody denies you play well and people are sometimes greatly affected by your tunes but, while you run the farm, take decisions and give orders to the thralls and freemen, you can still play and give pleasure to your family and visitors. You are the heir to Becklund, Thorstein. Others will steer the plough for you.’
    â€˜I can plough,’ said Steinar, ‘and I’d like to marry.’ He was ignored. My father continued to speak to Thorstein.
    â€˜The farm prospers. You will take over and after you, your sons and…’
    I sidled out through the door at this point. I had heard it all before and none of it seemed to have anything to do with me. Becklund was the most perfect place and I couldn’t understand why Thorstein didn’t want to stay. It was true he didn’t like to swim in the lake or race horses across the meadow but he was good at tickling trout in the beck and he loved playing with the young animals in spring. No one could calm a frightened mare or train the dogs better than he and yet he wanted to leave. I felt sorry for him because I knew our parents would have their way.
    Thorstein’s bride, Freydis, only needed to listen to Enchanter once before agreeing to the match and she remained loving and faithful to him for the rest of her life.
    Finding a girl willing to marry Steinar was not as easy. He was a tall, good-looking youth but it never took long for his intended brides and their fathers to discover that he had the mind of a child half his age. It was Thorstein and Enchanter who seduced