Chapter 41

Death is a Fate Far Better than Life, For You are Reunited With Lost Loved Ones

I had made it back just in time for the ceremony to begin.

The sky paled into sunrise as they tumbled out of the Mead Hall, all of them worse for wear. Estrid, cloaked in full white vestment with a red knotted cincture at the waist, walked before them carrying Sigurd’s cloak and the sword I had given him on our wedding day. Six men dressed as she bore Sigurd’s body. Men and women fell in behind. Each carried their own tribute to their Jarl. A procession of exquisite furs and jewels. Shields and clothes snaked their way between the steads and down to the horseshoe bay where the pyre waited.

Estrid would preside over the ceremony and act as the Angel of Death. A vulgar term, but I had allowed it as long as there were no deaths this morning. We had all lost enough.

Dry wood had been hard to find. They had returned with nothing but damp twigs, parts of a ship they’d found ran aground and whatever driftwood they could dry. They laid them in an oval, along with dry straw and bark we could muster from the animal pens.

We brought the largest of our remaining longships, The Ormen Korte, onto land. It was not Sigurd’s, but it would make a fine burial mound. Thorkell had arranged the firewood as the compass Vegvisir and the bow of the ship pointing north.

Sigurd lay upon it, surrounded by mounds of furs. All around him were his treasures: the saddles and hardness, a horde of silver and jewels that he had brought back from his last raid in the Kingdom of Frankia. A bow and arrow. His battle axe and at the prow of the ship I had made Thorkell place his chair. His beautiful shields lined the outside of the ship. Grave goods that would help him on his long journey to Valhalla. The thralls had made offerings of bread and mead, placing them at his head and his feet. All had come to pay their respects.

With Thorfinn at my breast, I climbed the gangplank clutching a broadsword. I stared down at the shape of my husband, beneath the burial shroud. The pyre was large enough for both Sigurd and I, but then I was not so foolhardy to climb upon it and die with my husband. I needed to make those that had wronged us pay. In my place, I set down the sword I had given him on our wedding day. I am his wedded mate and always will be.

I placed my hand between my breasts and plucked Thorfinn’s first curl. I had taken it from the nape of his neck. Shakily, I placed it on Sigurd’s chest, tucking it beneath a fold in the shroud.

‘That is your son. May you take him with you to Valhalla so that you will always know him. That you will find each other when it is time to meet again.’

When we were finished, I began to descend the gangplank, the cleats nailed to it steadying my feet. There was not a cloud in the sky, but the winds whipped from the north, biting and gnawing at our faces. I pulled my cloak tighter around us to shield my sleeping child. Winter had truly arrived.

Thorkell fell in at my side just as the sun crept from its slumber. From the vantage point of the gangplank, I stared out at a sea of men and women. All waiting for their Jarl to speak. I called everyone around me. We were more than two hundred strong. Warriors. Chieftains. Shieldmaidens. Farmers.

‘My father killed him to get to me. I need to find my strength now I am Jarl.’ I raised my voice above the keen of the wind. ‘When this is done we will go back to Alba and we will see to it that they pay.’ A ripple of cheer started amongst the crowd. ‘We bow to no one.’

‘For Sigurd!’ shouted one.

‘Odin owns you all!’ shouted another.

‘My cowardly father thinks he will live forever if he keeps away from fighting, but old age won’t grant him a truce, even if our spears do.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Every man dies, but not every man truly lives as Sigurd did. I say goodbye to him in my own way.’

From the corner of my eye, I watched as storm clouds gathered out across the sea. Estrid and those that had carried Sigurd’s body began to light greased torches. It was almost time.

‘Here before me, I see Picts. I see thralls. I see Danes. You are all free. If you wish to return to your homelands, go. No harm will come to you. You have my protection but know that there will always be a place for you here. If you wish to marry, fight alongside us, have children and grow crops, you are welcome. You are free.’

I turned to Thorkell. ‘Thorkell Fostri, you have agreed to foster Thorfinn, until he comes of age. In return, I will grant you enough land and I will pay you well.’

‘It will be my honour,’ he said. ‘I will be with you both and raise him as if he were my own son.’ He raised his battle axe to the sky. ‘Before Odin.’

‘Ligach.’ I called her before me. She wore a tunic with a falcon upon it tucked into breeches and fur about her shoulders. ‘Will you swear me your kinship?’

‘Jarl Gunhild, I am your shieldmaiden.’

I nodded, taking her hand in mine and squeezing it. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

I placed Thorfinn in Donada’s arms, tears streaming down my cheeks. As I turned, Estrid handed me the torch, guttering and spitting against the wind. I recited the words she had taught me. ‘Hail the All-Father, wise warrior and wanderer. You who chooses the slain. Look upon Sigurd’s deeds now that his time has come to join you at your table, let his end be worthy of song.’ I placed the first of the torches against the pyre. ‘With this fire, I light your way to Valhalla. Sleep well.’

We watched as the sky burned orange, sending plumes of black smoke skyward. This was my offering to Odin. To all the gods. I went to sleep as a mother and woke up a warrior. I was no longer Olith. I was Gunhild.

When I first arrived, I saw heathens. Barbarians as wild as their seas. But that dawn, I saw men and women bound together in utter fearlessness. They were stronger than any of my father’s men. They fought with the courage of Odin, on foot with axes and swords. They fought with the honour of Freyja in the air with their bows. They were deadly. They were my people.

I took Thorfinn back into the crook of my arm, still sleeping soundly. My finger traced the line of his jaw. The shape of his nose. The shape of his mouth. Sigurd would never be gone as long as his son was in the world.

High above, I heard the piercing screech of a falcon. I shielded my eyes, squinting into the winter sun. My heart leapt. High above us, Drest whipped and whirled against the skyline.

‘Look, Thorfinn,’ I whispered. ‘The goddess Freyja has blessed us, Drest has returned home.’

The gods had woven our destinies. Rooted my fate to this land. Only now, after all I had lost, was I brave enough to see it.