The grey haired man stood up but made no move to step out of the shadows. The long colourless cloak covered him from chin to boots and the assembled household could make out few of his features. He could see them clearly, the Lord, his Lady and the men of his hearth-troop, lit by the fire and the flickering torches. He spoke and his voice was clear and strong, cutting through the noise and hubbub of the Great Hall.
“My Lord, my Lady” he said “I am a no scop, no poet or singer to kings and lords. I dwell with no one particular king. I travel, and sometimes when I stop I sing my songs in return for hospitality.”
Standing half hidden, part lit by the flickering yellow light he addressed the Lord’s Lady, who sat quietly at the table. “My Lady, I see that this is no outpost on the frontier, that you have furnished your Lord’s Hall with all that civilised man could ask for, and I see my Lady,” he indicated with a wave of his hand “that even here in Wessex you have scops to sing your Lord’s glory and to recall the old stories from across the water. And you wonder Lady, what song, what story could a grey-bearded traveller tell that this magnificent assembly has not heard?”
“Well, Lady, to show my gratitude for your hospitality to a traveller I will tell you a story of the old country: a story that your own scops will not sing. It is a dark tale, a tale of abuse and murder, of bloodletting and betrayal, of Wotan and his shield maiden Hild. Ah, yes, I see your scops are interested now, well, Lady, with your permission I shall start my story.
It begins not far from here, close enough for stout men to sail a good ship there and it ends where the north wind blows cold over the sea drenched stony beaches of Hoy. But the bloody ending must wait, first we have a birth. King Hagni’s wife has given birth to a girl-child. The King was young and strong, his wife young and beautiful: his lands were at peace, his hero-deeds done. Everything was well.
Hagni’s queen named the child Hild and she dedicated the child to Wotan. The King, besotted with his wife allowed this and the days passed in joy and happiness. Little thought he gave to his sword Dainsleif, which he had swung in the battle mad days when he become king and defended the land. The sword had been forged by four dwarfs and must always slay a person after being drawn from its scabbard.
Oh, My Lady, the stories I could tell of Hagni and his sword Dainsleif before peace was bought in blood and souls: but this is not that story, another scop must tell that.
Yet it is not only the sword that kills and when the girl-child Hild was still young Hagni’s queen was taken by the fever. Dying she commanded two things of her servant Cumbra: that he protect her daughter Hild with his life, and that he ensure her dedication to Wotan. Hagni was distraught at his wife’s dying and agreed to Cumbra having custody of the child.
Her death was the death of Hagni, my Lady. All that was good, all that was brave in him died. His soul shrank within him and he was a shadow masquerading as a man. He took solace in beer, dark bitter brewed hops medicine that shrivelled the brain and clouded thought, yet evaporated as the mist in the morning leaving memories clear as ever. He sought other women, buried his bearded, care-worn face in their soft swan-white flesh and found no pleasure.
He stumbled and retched his way through the years as Hild grew up. She grew tall and straight and though she gave respect to the king she gave him little love or affection, reserving that for her teacher, bodyguard and servant Cumbra. Her hair was the colour of the autumn harvest, the colour of barley in a sun-covered field. Blue her eyes were, the light blue that is the sea in summer, clear and yet deep enough for a man to drown within. She grew to be a woman and the shapeless white gowns she wore could not hide that fact. Only her face and hands were left bare and these still she kept pale and white. Many a man of Hagni’s household looked with envy and longing on the daughter, no longer a child, and unprotected by her drunken, debauched soul-shattered father. But Cumbra was ever –present, ever ready to defend his charge, and the Household, whatever they might think or dream, gave Hild only respect.
Little the men of Hagni’s Household knew that at night she threw of the shapeless white gowns and raced naked through the forests. Deep inside in a grove sacred to Wotan she stood, arms raised, her body light by the moon’s pale blue light., and called out to Him-She-Served. The people, the farmers and the fishers knew but none came to stare at her nakedness—and not through fear. They worshipped the Goddess, Freo, for the Goddess brings forth life, and those of the land and the seas work with life. But they knew Wotan and his grove in the forest and they gave reverence to both, and kept their families and livestock well away. Should they meet Hild walking back to Hagni’s Hall they were polite and deferential. None, save perhaps the naked Hild, had met a tall, old one-eyed man, wearing a cloak and a broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a spear, and all prayed to Freo that Wotan would not take this human form and leave his grove.
And so it was for years. Hagni, losing the virtues that had made him King and hero, and Hild growing up, keeping her mother’s pledge to serve Wotan, the god of war and strife. Hagni and his people were fortunate: the blood red madness of war passed them by, as other kings and warriors remembered Hagni’s reputation and the sword Dainsleif. His Household stood ready yet their most hazardous duty was to eat and drank at their king’s expense and boast of their prowess to the local women.
It was fifteen years after Hagni’s queen had departed this life and Hild was in her nineteenth year when an invitation came to Hagni to visit fellow monarchs. Through the waves of fermented hops and barley that swamped his mind Hagni heard the invitation and on a whim, a mindless, purposeless, destructive whim, he decided he would go. So the Household, the warriors of Hagni, accompanied their king and set sail, leaving Hild and the kingdom unguarded but unworried in this time of peace.
With the King and his Household departed a visitor came unannounced and unwelcome to Hagni’s Hall: black clad and cloaked Death strode ashore from Hedin Hiarrandason’s ship. His ship beached at night and the warriors, weapons drawn, slunk like wolves through the shadows towards the sleeping unguarded hall.
Their leader, Hedin Hiarrandason, paused and listened. Hedin stood, an axe in his hand and a horn in the other. He watched his men move amongst the beached fishing boats, each group moving close to one of the buildings that surrounded the Hall. When he saw they were in position he walked up the beach towards the King’s Hall where his companions waited: dark grim faced men with murder and rape in their hearts where honour should bide in a warrior. Outlaws, cast out from clan and family, exiled from the presence of Kings and Lords, detested by decent society and bound together as only men without home or family can be. He raised the horn to his lips and gave a long piercing cry.
Leading his honourless men he burst into the main hall and began to serve his master Death as only a dedicated servant could.
My Lady, shall I tell of that bloody night. Hagni’s subjects died without striking a blow as Hedin’s sea wolves rent their souls from their sleeping bodies. The ferocious bloodletting as axe and sword cut down the fishermen, farmers and handful of old warriors left behind lasted but a few heartbeats and resistance was over. The grim faced wolves turned their bloodstained hands to the screaming frightened women. Beer and mead poured down savage throats and rough hands ripped nightclothes from soft white flesh. But amid the screams and shouts, the threats, curses and savage laughter there was the sound of battle. At the rear of the Hall, outside the door to one of the private rooms Cumbra fought his last battle. Unarmoured he stood with his back to his mistress’ door, a sword in one hand and small wooden stool in the other. Before him a sea wolf lay dying, his head shattered by a savage blow from the stool and another staggered back clutching his stomach, desperately trying to hold his blood and intestines inside. More of Hedin Hiarrandason’s rushed the servant who stood his ground outside the door: faithful Cumbra, he gave no thought to the wounds he received, to the spear thrusts that pierced him but cut and thrust, hacked and slashed, and slew his mistress’ enemies.
Ah, My Lady, shall I sing of faithful Cumbra who died true to his word: true to the oath he swore Hild’s dying mother so many years ago, who died sword in hand, blood stained and glory-covered, whom Death saw and took for Himself. Or shall I tell of Hedin Hiarrandason who broke open the door and rushed into the small room that housed Hild.
Hedin was not the first man into the room and that first man died on Hild’s dagger. Then Hedin was on her, throwing Hild down onto the fur covered bed. Hedin’s wolves attacked the two other women in the room, ignoring their kicks and blows as they ripped their clothes from them. Hild struggled, she fought and cursed, she kicked and scratched but she could not push Hedin away. His face hovered in front of hers: she smelt the stale beer on his breath, saw the blood flecks in his lust filled eyes and her struggles increased. Somewhere, somewhere distant, she faintly heard the cries of her maids but she could not concentrate her mind through the pain and terror.
Lady, I will not say what happened in that small room at the back of Hagni’s Hall. It was not over quickly, and when the sea wolves left Hedin Hiarrandason took Hild with him. Behind he left the Hall and the surrounding buildings ablaze, with widows mourning their dead. Anything of value had been taken aboard, quantities of beer and food, and individual women for the pleasure of the sea-wolves.
When Hagni returned he saw the devastation of his Hall, of his people and his lands. For the first time since his queen had died he buckled on the sword Dainsleif and cast off the fog that had clouded his mind for so many years. He learnt the name of the raiders from the survivors, and ordered his hearth-troop to ready their ships. Over the swan’s road they travelled, urgently following the bloody burning trail that Hedin Hiarrandason left as he travelled north to Norway.
Hedin had left Norway when Hagni arrived there. The events, the voyage over salt water had cleared Hagni’s mind and after making enquiries he set sail again, standing in the bow as the ship cut through the whale’s path heading for Orkney. On Hoy they found Hedin Hiarrandason.
For the first time since his mind had cleared Hagni met his daughter. Hedin Hiarrandason had sent her out to meet her father, after first obtaining her oath to return to him. He had given her gifts for her father, to atone for the blood letting and burning, for the rape and abduction of his daughter; fine gifts including a neck-ring of fine gold and blood red rubies.
Hagni was not gentle with his daughter. Why was she still alive he shouted, why had she brought such dishonour to him and his household. Hild did not answer. She thought long and hard about her father, about her abductor, about the blood gifts she had carried, and about the hearth-troop that stood behind her father King Hagni. But though she thought a lot, nothing did she say.
Hagni inspected the blood gifts and his mind wondered if such finery could pay for what Hedin Hiarrandason had done. Hild spoke. She told her father that Hedin Hiarrandason had said he wanted peace, he wanted to make terms, but he would fight if he must.
Hagni told his daughter to return with Hedin Hiarrandason and they would speak.
And so on a windswept stony beach in Orkney two men and their companions stood facing each other. For the first time in twenty years Hagni, king and man again drew the sword Dainsleif from its scabbard. It felt warm and solid to his touch and seemed to send a feeling of power through his hand, up his arm and into his body. He waited as Hedin Hiarrandason, Hild and the sea-wolves approached. Hiarrandason stood in front of Hagni and spoke. He offered to pay blood money for the raid, and the
Neck-ring would pay for the abuse done to Hild. He told Hagni that Hild had not suffered more than other women, that she had protested but did not all women protest: that all women lost what had she lost and better she lose to him than some spotty youth. The two men argued, ignoring Hild who stood silently next to Hiarrandason, listening as they weighed blood and virtue against gold and blood-red rubies. And then Hagni reminded Hedin that he had drawn his sword Dainsleif, the sword forged by four dwarfs that must slay a person before it could be sheathed. But Hedin Hiarrandason answered that battles were won by swordsmen not swords. And then Hild could stand no more of their bargaining and she reviled the two men: the abductor for what he had done to her, and the father for being more interested in gold and blood-money than her lost virtue. She poured scorn on her father’s hearth-troop and turned again to the two men. Out of sweetness came forth vitriol, as all the abuse she had suffered poured out of her soul.
And then Hedin Hiarrandason grasped Hagni’s sword hand, and with all his strength drove the sword Dainsleif, the sword forged by four dwarfs that must slay a person before it could be sheathed, into Hild’s stomach. She cried out and fell dead.
Hagni’s hearth-troop surged forward. For twenty years they had lived on their reputations, drank the dark bitter beer and pale honey-flavoured mead, and enjoyed the favours of Hagni’s women. Now they would pay for the feasting. And the battle began. Sea wolf fought hearth-companion, axe rang on sword, shield shattered beneath blow: over the dead body of Hild the warriors fought, each protecting their leader so Hagni and Hedin Hiarrandason could not get to each other. All day they fought, until the sun was low in the sky and her sister moon stood ready to flood the stony beach. Then the two leaders called for a truce and spoke about calling a halt to the day’s killing, after what they called sword-play of honor.
“Honour” boomed a voice that sounded of thunder, that sounded of the waves crashing against the shore, a voice that sounded of death and the charnel house. “Honour, I see little of honour here” said the white haired man who leaned on his spear. He appeared from nowhere in the failing light, his body wrapped by a long cloak from which the colour had drained. A wide brimmed hat covered most of his face but Hagni and Hedin could see the black leather patch that covered one of his eyes.
“I see rabid sea-wolves, and a hearth-troop that dimly remembers that its purpose is more than to drink the honey sweet mead. I see an honourless rapist and murderer and mind addled sot who might have been a mighty hero. I see no honour here”. The Dark Man, the Master of Death Runes, the Shape-shifter, the Gallows Rider, Wotan moved among them, and spoke softly “And yet I care little for such things. But you have taken what was mine, mine – between you all you have despoiled and murdered my Shield Maiden and this I will not forgive.” He turned to look at the bloody body of Hild, sprawled on the stony beach. “Come child, you have work to do”. He transferred his spear to his left hand and held out his right.
And Hedin’s blood ran cold. Battle held no fear for him, wounds he had many, and honour and morals had never affected his leadership. Yet now, the blood ran cold, goose bumps ran up his arms and his sword hang limply, uselessly at his side. For Hild was walking towards her master Wotan. He could clearly see the mortal wound that the sword Dainsleif had made. Her long white dress was stained with her heart’s blood and yet she walked and stood in front of the Grey Man.
The Grey Man, the Master of Death Runes turned to face the two leaders and spoke. “This is Hild, my Shield Maiden, my waelcyrie, she who goes to the battlefield and chooses the warriors who will join me in my Hall, or go down to Hel. Now, I shall grant her wish and she go across the battlefield at night, but there are none here who she will lead to my Hall, to my Company. Instead each man who dies will rise again in the morning and this battle you have started today will continue. Each man will feel the pain of wounds and death, but death will bring no relief. Hild will walk among the dead and they will live again, and fight each other in the new morning.”
He turned to walk away, and then turned to look at the two leaders. “Look well upon me, this is the last time you will see me until I come here at the time of the final battle Ragnarok—the final battle when the gods must come to fight. Then will you see me, Wotan, again. Until then, fight and each night my waelcyrie will walk among you and restore life, and in the time between the setting and the rising of the sun you may remember what has brought you here. Farewell, Hedin Hiarrandason, farewell Hagni who could have been the hero, farewell Hild my waelcyrie, until we meet again at the end of the world, farewell”.
The story-teller who was no scop was silent, as was the entire hall. Only the crackle of the burning fire wood broke the silence. In the half light of the corner he put on his wide-brimmed hat, and took his spear from the wall. He stepped out into the light and for the first time his audience saw him – what was not covered by the hat and the long cloak from which the colour had drained. He leaned on his spear and spoke to the Lord’s Lady “A tale, Lady, that your scops would not and could not tell you – a tale to remind you all that the old ways still run true even in this new land. And now farewell, Lady”.
He walked in silence the length of the Hall and out into the dark. As he stepped outside there was a loud roar of thunder, and then silence.