TWO
Sigrid Pettirsdottir rolled across the dusty yard behind the longhouse. She kept her grip on the haft of the lang ax and swept the butt at her opponent’s legs even as he followed up the blow from his shield that had knocked her to the ground. He dodged her counter, giving her just enough time to get her feet under her and raise the ax in the high guard. The pair circled warily, each looking for an opening. She was sweaty inside the quilted linen armor-cote, her hair itching under the felted wool lining of the spangenhelm. She ignored all that, though—her eyes remained locked on the centerline of her opponent’s body, just below the neck.
?ke Fair-Haired was a seasoned warrior half again her size, armed with a practice sword and a heavy round shield that covered him from mid-thigh to shoulder. ?ke moved with care, his eyes remaining locked to her frame too. Her bearded lang ax was blunted—a practice weapon like his sword—and even though it wouldn’t shear through his maille, a heavy blow from the ax could crack bones.
Her foot caught momentarily on a tuft of grass as she circled, and the hitch in her movement was the mistake ?ke had been waiting for. He punched his shield at the center of the lang ax’s haft and stepped forward to her right, his sword licking out toward her shoulder. It was a good attack and should have been successful, but Sigrid had anticipated him—her stumble had been a ruse to draw him in.
As he thrust forward, she stabbed the butt of the ax into the edge of his shield, rotating it in his grasp. The rim of the shield struck him in the chest, throwing his sword blow off, robbing it of its speed. She moved into the blow, catching it on the haft of her weapon and passing his sword over her head. Bringing the butt of the ax across his chest as she stepped in to check him with her hip, she threw him to the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs and send his helmet rolling across the yard.
Stepping out of reach, she grounded the butt of the ax and leaned on the head, catching her own breath as the cheers and laughter from the other Sworn Men watching them washed over her. ?ke half laughed, half gasped himself as he lay flat on his back.
“Aye, the lang ax is a man’s weapon,” she teased when she had the breath to spare. “I can see that now. It’s certainly done for one man today.”
?ke sat up, shaking his head ruefully. “Fairly spoken,” he said, “and well tested, skj?lmdo.”
Sigrid grinned as she stripped off her helm. It was the first time he had spoken of her as a warrior—a Shield-Maiden—instead of simply referring to her as girl. It had been nearly a year since she had taken her vows to the Jarl, her father, and while the Sworn Men accepted her presence in their ranks, their respect was more elusive. ?ke, though, was First among the Jarl’s Sworn Men, and the others looked to him for guidance and leadership. If he spoke of her differently, then the others might follow suit.
She offered ?ke her arm, and he took it, hoisting himself to his feet. He held on to her arm for a moment, though, standing close to her. “It is but one bout,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.
She tensed, feeling a familiar flush start up her cheeks.
“That is what others will say,” he continued. “Do not let their words unsettle you. It does not matter. One bout is enough on the battlefield, yes?”
“Aye,” she agreed, swallowing her anger.
?ke grinned at her. “It was a good throw, skj?lmdo. You could have done much worse to prove your point.” He released his grip and clapped her on the shoulder. “Gods,” he said loudly, addressing the crowd, which was drifting away. “I am thirsty. Is it time to start drinking yet?”
Sigrid let a tiny smile crease her lips. The hold was celebrating the beginning of spring, and most of the Sworn Men had little to do until the games started later in the day. That very indolence was what had led ?ke to make his comment about the lang ax earlier, as well as her own challenge to settle the matter on the field.
Some of the Sworn Men raised their voices in agreement with ?ke, and the First of the Sworn Men banged his sword against the metal center of his shield to incite their enthusiasm to an even greater volume.
Shaking her head, Sigrid slipped her helm under her arm and grabbed the lang ax. She didn’t follow the Sworn Men. It was barely midday; there would be more than enough time for drinking later.
Sigrid gasped as she pulled her head out of the rain barrel. It might be the first day of spring, but the nighttime air was cold, and the days were still too short for the sun to warm up the water in the rain barrels. She shivered as she shook out her auburn hair to shed the excess water. She stripped off her linen sark, then dipped it in the barrel and used it to scrub her torso. She made no effort to hide herself; she had long given up feeling self-conscious about exposing herself so. As a Shield-Maiden, she was like the other warriors under the laws of the land, which meant she was a man in all the ways that mattered. She acted as they did; bathed the way they did; slept the way they did; ate, fought, and demanded respect like they did. To shirk any part would be to acknowledge that she felt she was different from them; any such acknowledgment would be a perpetual reminder that she was less than they.
Still, she did not undo the cloth that bound her breasts under her armor-cote until she had shrugged into a clean sark.
For even though she lived as a man in many ways, she did not enjoy all their freedoms. They were allowed to bed the thralls as they saw fit, and she did not participate in such rutting equally. There was a practical reason, after all: a pregnancy would take her from her duties for months at a time. Though, in truth, she didn’t fancy the men among the thralls. They were not in the same demand as the women, naturally, nor was she the type to take a woman to her bed.
Conversely, she would not be bartered off to marriage like the other daughters of the Jarl. Rather, she could choose a husband of her liking, though in this too she did not enjoy perfect freedom. The other Sworn Men could marry as they would, and their Jarl would award them a place. But as a woman warrior, she was expected to establish her household and prove that her income could support a family. She would also have to provide her husband a hauswif to fulfill her duties in the household while she was occupied with her work.
Fortunately, she had already made arrangements on that score. Now all she had to do was find a man worthy of her.
She pulled on a clean pair of wool trews, and—tossing her balled-up, soiled sark to a thrall—she gathered her things and entered the hold’s longhouse. After she stored her weapons and armor-cote, she was helped into a tunic of russet linen by Cem, a pretty Celtic thrall who had tended for her since they were both children. Nodding her thanks, Sigrid belted on her pouch and saex knife.
The saex had been a gift from her father when she swore her oath of service to him. As the thrall combed her unruly mop of hair, Sigrid examined the weapon with care, checking for signs of rust or dullness in the edge. She couldn’t help admiring the knife. The stout, single-edged blade was the length of her forearm, and the handle was of ivory from the tusk of a walrus, bound at the shoulder with silver wire to prevent the handle splitting. The ivory was incised with the figure of a dragon, its crest, limbs, and tail intertwined about it so fancifully that the nature of the beast was nearly obscured. While clearly decorative, the carving also served the purpose of improving the grip. The handle was surmounted by a riveted silver plate pierced by an iron staple for a lanyard to secure the blade to her hand when working. Satisfied with the blade’s condition, she slid it into the silver-mounted sheath suspended horizontally below her belt.
The fact that her blade was of a higher quality and workmanship than the other blades given by the Jarl at the oath ceremonies was overlooked by the others. What man could fault a father for indulging his daughter?
Even one as headstrong as she.
As Cem worked out the knots in her hair, Sigrid sighed and closed her eyes, letting her mind summon up the last conversation she had had with her father, not three days past.
“What you ask, daughter, is not something I can give you. It is simply not possible.” Pettir Olafsson paced back and forth across the private room that he shared with Sigrid’s mother. Age had stooped him slightly, and his beard and hair were more silver than white. His left leg pained him when it was cold, and his pacing back and forth was a means of keeping the stiffness at bay.
Though it was, by no means, the sole cause of his consternation this evening.
“Were it my expedition, I would certainly consider your request,” her father continued, “but for you to leave this hold and go out under another man’s command—a man whom you do not know and who does not know your skills—that is out of the question.”
“Why?” Sigrid demanded. “Have I not taken the same oath as your Sworn Men?”
“Yes,” Pettir sighed, “of course you have. But—”
“But you do not go avikinga,” Sigrid said, finishing his statement by turning it into something else. “If I wait for you, I will never make my own way. Ulf and Skeggi have your leave to seek their fortune in other lands. They and I are of the same age, though they have no more experience than I.”
“Ulf and Skeggi are not my daughters,” Pettir snapped, and seeing her expression, he threw up his arms. “Yes, there. I said it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
She took care to keep her temper in check. It would not do for her to fall into hysterics at a moment like this. “I don’t deny that I am your daughter,” she said carefully. “But when I braid my hair, it isn’t so that I look pretty for the young warriors who come to your hold, seeking to petition you. I braid it so that my spangenhelm fits firmly on my head. When I cut my nails, it is not so that I may sew better, but so that my grip on my sword is more firm. I may be your daughter, but I have also sworn a vow to fight for you, for your hold.”
“Aye,” Pettir replied. “That you did.”
He looked as if he were going to say something else, but Sigrid continued before he could speak. “You have the same obligation to me that you have to the rest of your Sworn Men. You owe me the opportunity to make my fortune.” She crossed the room and laid her hand gently on her father’s arm. “I know, in many ways, I will always be your little girl, but I am a woman grown, Father. I would marry at some time before age or injury renders me unfit, and I cannot do so without means of my own. How else am I to do so except by going avikinga?”
Pettir shook his head. “Oh, to have such bad luck that we live in quiet times,” he said. “When you swore your oath, I had resigned myself that you would go to war with us when the levy was called. That you would fight among friends and kin. But”—he shrugged—“who could have known peace would break out?”
“If I had known, perhaps I would have remained your little daughter and let you marry me off,” she said.
He favored her with a knowing grin. “Would anyone have had you?” he said, putting his hand under her chin and raising her face. “You had a fierce reputation, daughter.”
I learned it from you, she thought, staring intently at her father. He nodded, knowing full well what she was thinking.
“skj?lmdo do not, as a rule, go avikinga,” he sighed, a thoughtful expression creeping across his face. “Truth be told, I would not say the same to your aunt. This life is too quiet for her. She will mount an expedition of her own in the next year or so, I suspect, if she can finance a ship. I have little doubt she will find men willing enough to go with her.”
Sigrid’s hand tightened on her father’s arm.
Her father’s sister, Grimhildr Olafsdottir, was a Shield-Maiden. After her sons were grown and her husband taken by winter fever, she had joined herself and her daughter, Malusha, to her brother’s household. It was at her hand that Sigrid had learned the arts of war.
“Let us discuss this, though, if and when such an eventuality arises,” her father said, extricating his arm from her grip. “Though, if you must pray for war to break out,” he added, leaning in and lowering his voice, “do so quietly, please? I, for one, am enjoying spending my winters at home, in front of a roaring fire, my hand gripping a mug of mead rather than the hilt of a sword.”