Shieldmaiden by Marianne Whiting Page A

Eahlswith and made her agree to the marriage. Young as I was, I thought it a bad idea for Thorstein to use his music to woo a woman on behalf of his brother. I was not surprised when, after less than a year, Eahlswith left Steinar and returned to her parents. Many excuses were made for why the marriage failed.
    â€˜It’s never good to marry among the Anglians,’ said my mother. ‘They have different ways of doing things. The cloth she wove was full of snags almost as bad as Sigrid’s.’
    â€˜She used too much salt on the herring, wasteful,’ father grumbled. ‘And her religion. Being baptised doesn’t mean you can just forget about the old gods. I was baptised a couple of times, once when I fought with Rollo along the river Seine and...’ mother cleared her throat and father stopped mid-sentence.
    Steinar didn’t listen to them anyway. He got his message from the giggles and taunts of the serving-wenches and the sneers of the thrall-girls and he knew there was no prospect of another bride.
    This may not have mattered much if Thorstein and Freydis had delivered the grandsons my father so longed for. In the end, of course, that didn’t matter either since Becklund was burnt to the ground, my father beheaded and my mother led away by a Viking, called Hakon, who wore a helmet inlaid with gold and who called my father brother-in-law and then ordered him killed.
    It all happened a long time ago and I have seen many deaths since then but sometimes I have dreams when I see my father’s grey hair in the brown mud, his cheek resting against the wooden walkway, while blood flows from his severed neck. And in my dream I hear myself scream like I did then, until someone struck me and allowed me to find brief solace in oblivion.
    I woke up cradled in a pair of soft arms. A voice made soothing noises in my ear. There was a strong smell of burning. I looked up to see the red, swollen eyes of Ingefried, my mother’s serving woman. I tried to turn towards where my father’s mutilated body lay but Ingefried held my head and made me look the other way. She whispered:
    â€˜You must not say anything, Sigrid. Just stay quiet. Whatever happens, be quiet.’
    My mother’s face was the colour of wood-ash. I wanted to run to her, to embrace her, to comfort and be comforted by her. But she didn’t look at me. With her back straight and her head held high, she spoke to the chieftain.
    â€˜I don’t know what her errand is, Hakon,’ she said, ‘this is the wife of one of our neighbours, Hauk of Swanhill. Hauk is not part of your quarrel with Swein, you must let his wife go. I shall send Ingefried with her to keep her company.’ Her words twisted like a dagger in my breast. I was Hauk’s wife and no longer a daughter to her. Was my disobedience so bad, my shame so deep I had to be denied?
    I was helped to my feet and began the long, sorrowful walk back to Swanhill. Ingefried led me by the hand, slowly, coaxing me along. I closed my mind and put one trembling foot in front of the other. We came across the boy Olvir guarding Thorfinn’s horse. He turned and followed us without a word. That night we huddled together like frightened animals. I kept dropping off to sleep and then waking up, my screams smothered by Ingefried’s apron. The boy sobbed quietly on and off. The morning arrived heavy with dew and we got up and continued trudging along the track leading up through Mosedale.
    The sun hid behind heavy clouds and a drizzling rain soaked through my clothes. The acrid smell of burning buildings followed me like a ghost of loss and despair. The moment of my father’s death appeared like an evil vision at every turn on that heavy journey. I was shaking. One moment hot and soaked in sweat, I threw off my shawl, turned my face to the sky and let my tears mingle with the rain. Then I shivered with cold and tried to hug some warmth from my wet clothes. I