Chapter 38

Asua Vatni

I turned myself to face her, still wearing the gown stained with Sigurd’s blood. ‘I have named him,’ I said, as I rocked him gently in my arms. ‘He is Thorfinn Sigurd Hlodvirsson, why would you wish to name him? He is not your son?’

‘It is customary that the baby’s father must pick up the child and decide if it is his offspring and if he is to be raised or cast out into the forest.’

‘My husband is dead. I say he is my husband’s, and I will raise him, here with me. I can see no forest.’ I could feel my temper fray but as fast as an unpicked stitch. ‘I need no one else to tell me what I will raise my child.’

‘We need to be sure,’ she insisted. ‘Or he cannot be named.’

‘Bring Thorkell, let him look into my son’s eyes and tell me he is not Sigurd’s. Show me that and I will show you a liar.’

‘As you wish, Jarl Olith.’

She sloped back through the door as slippery as an eel.

‘I do not need half of Orkney to tell me who your father is.’ I stroked his head. ‘Every inch of you is Sigurd.’

He grunted softly; eyes tightly closed in dream. I stared out across the flatness of our lands and out to sea. No rolling hills. No pines silhouetted against the skyline. Far into the distance smoking chimneys bled into the sky. Farmsteads. Homes. Halls and behind them the rolling seas. This was the view that I had come to love. My husband would be buried here. Our son would grow into a man here and now, I grow old here.

A knock came again. More urgent this time.

‘What is it?’ I snapped.

Ligach and Donada slipped in through the barely open door and bowed their heads. ‘You must get ready, Jarl Olith. Estrid and Thorkell are waiting in the Mead Hall for the naming of the child.’

Ligach reached her arms out to take him, but it did not feel right. I clutched him to me. I did not want anyone else’s hands upon him. I placed him before me, still sleeping on the rushed mattress.

‘Will you help me into my gown?’

I warmed myself by the dying embers of the fire as Ligach slowly undid my fastenings, careful not to hurt me. She let my blood-crusted skirts fall to the floor. ‘Good for nought but kindling,’ she said.

I felt as weak as a child. Beneath my skin, I could see hints of bruises and red welts from injuries I did not remember. She took a cloth and a small dish of water, I tried to stem a shiver, but it coursed through me. She began to wash the crusted blood on my legs, she scrubbed until my skin felt raw.

She dried me gently before helping me into the gown I’d worn the first night that I had met Sigurd.

‘Bring me my bracelet,’ I said with a heavy heart. ‘It is the one Sigurd gave me the night we met.’

‘Which is it?’

‘It is silver. A wolf and a bear intertwined.’

It glinted brightly on my wrist. I could not tear my eyes away from it. A thing of beauty. Sigurd and I.

Donada helped me knot my hair into a series of braids, tight to my scalp. Finally dressed, I wrapped my furs about my shoulders.

‘Will I pass for a Jarl?’ I asked, voice breaking.

‘Aye.’ She smiled.

I swaddled Thorfinn into the crook of my arm and took a deep breath. I looked down at him, sleeping peacefully. Angus pressed himself firmly against my leg. I ran a hand through the warm grey fur of his head.

I was Jarl of Orkney now. I would answer to no one but myself. I stood a little taller, pushed out my chin and together we wound our way to the Mead Hall.

The room quietened, pulsing with tension. Estrid stood at the front of the chamber, dressed as she had the day of our wedding. She wore a long white smock, embroidered with red and gold. Her eyes were coal black. She held out her arms.

‘Place the child before me,’ she said, pointing to the place before the fire, where not twelve hours before, my husband’s body had lain. I felt myself begin to shake. I could do nothing but think of where they had taken him. What they had done with him. Donada touched a hand to my elbow to steady me.

‘Here?’ I croaked.

I lay him down, still wrapped, wriggling and whining. Angus cocked his head back and forth, listening to the noise. As the ceremony began Estrid picked him from the floor and held him aloft. She studied him with the same reverence that I had no doubt my father’s priest had when he thought about new ways, he might find me salvation.

Next, she passed him to Thorkell. I felt helpless. He took my child gently as a father. He was as close to Sigurd as his own blood. He looked on my boy with adoration. His long thick hair scraped neatly back and the golden chain bearing Thor’s hammer hung gently against his chest.

Every man and woman in the hall watched on in silence. I do not think that it was Odin who saved us that night. If it had not been for Thorkell, we would not have survived.

Finally, Thorkell broke the silence. ‘By the All-Father, this is Sigurd’s son. There can be no mistaking.’

My son was passed again sunwise to Estrid, who waited with open arms. Whatever she decided, I would not allow my son to be cast out to die in the cold with the livestock. I waited. Heart beating wildly in my chest.

‘It is done,’ she said.

The crowd around us erupted. Voices echoed among the rafters. A hundred ale horns were raised, each of them in celebration of my son.

‘Dearest Freyja, we name this child Thorfinn Sigurdson. Son of Sigurd. Son of Olith.’ She sprinkled a small spray of water about his forehead. ‘Nafenfest.’

As Estrid came to the end of her long recital, Thorkell took the golden chain from around his neck and placed it around my son’s.

‘His name is fastened.’ Estrid called out. ‘Welcome, Thorfinn Sigurdsson.’