Short Fiction

The Saga of Sigrid

There was a man named Njal Flamebeard who lived at Skaftafell in the south of Iceland. He was a worthy man, the godi of his district; respected by his neighbours, always law-abiding, and a fair shepherd to his people. Nevertheless, in his younger days he had spent time plundering as a Viking, and sometimes the fiery battle-rage of his youth would return and burst forth once more. In short, when provoked he was often consumed by the berserkirgang, a red mist falling before his eyes, and as such he was a dangerous man to cross. The largest farm at Skaftafell was his, and from this rich farmland he had become a wealthy man. He had meat and butter aplenty at his table, and fine clothes and jewellery upon his wife and kinfolk; yet everyone knew that the greatest of his treasures was his only daughter, Sigrid.

             For Sigrid was like a star fallen from the heavens, and the light of the Gods seemed to shine from her face. She was strikingly beautiful, but strange to see, having not the straw- or copper-coloured hair of her parents and brothers, but rather a head of raven-black. Her hair seemed blackness itself, like the deepest winter night of her northern island home. It was so vivid in its darkness that it seemed to shine brighter than the brightest golden locks of Iceland’s other prized daughters.            Sigrid’s eyes too were famed for miles around, for they were clear and green like emeralds. Their power was such that they could hypnotise both man and woman; and their worth to Njal was far greater than that of real emeralds, or indeed any other precious stone.

            It should not be at all surprising, then, to learn that Njal’s daughter was known as Sigrid the Enchantress, for with no more than a glance she could cast a spell on any man alive. Some even suggested that she had the blood of the hidden folk, the Álfar, in her; such was the strange beauty of her face.

            Now, in some cases such beauty in a person is resented, especially when that person is fair of face but ugly in soul. With Sigrid this was not the case – she was good in her heart, and all of the people of Skaftafell loved her. Even Njal’s slaves praised Sigrid, for she was never anything but kind to them, and even tried to calm her father’s bloodlust when he was angry with them. She respected her father, but did not fear him, knowing the power she had over him was greater than any other.

Her only weakness seemed to be her too trusting nature, and a naivety that was born of her peaceful and sheltered upbringing. Her beauty, and her father’s power had always guaranteed her respect and kind treatment, and it is fair to say that at the age of seventeen winters she knew little of cruelty or fear.

Now, at this age it was high time that Sigrid found herself a suitable husband, and she certainly had no shortage of opportunities. For four years young men had called at the hall of Njal, each leaving in a star struck daze, heart aching, but still unbetrothed. This suited both Njal and Sigrid fine, for she was able to make the most of her innocence, and to hold out for a man she knew she truly loved. As for her father, secretly he loathed the idea of having to hand her over to another man, however worthy. Still, he knew that the day must come soon, and at seventeen years old, Sigrid’s betrothal was overdue.

And so it happened that when two young men set out for the hall of Njal in the green days of the Sumarmàl they were destined to cause quite a stir.

Sigrid was in the herb garden picking rosemary when she saw the two men approaching, mounted, with light cloaks and long hair fluttering behind them. She knew they were probably here to see her, and despite herself she felt a vain feeling of pride well up inside her. There was no denying that it was flattering to have so many fine men pursuing her hand, but over time Sigrid had grown quite used to it. Besides, it had been some time since any of them had remotely interested her, and so she calmly watched the riders approach, only a little excited to see what manner of men they were. When they drew close to the hall she retreated indoors to prepare her hair and jewels.

The riders were met by a house slave, and brought inside to take mead while they waited for Njal to return from the fields where he was working. It transpired that they were brothers; the elder, named Tostig, had come to seek the hand of Sigrid, and the younger, named Thorstein, had travelled along to accompany him. They were the sons of Gunnar Tostigsson the Brave of Vik, situated on the south coast of Iceland. Gunnar’s father had been a mighty Earl of Norway, accomplished in deeds and skilled in battle, and he had married Yngvild, a princess of Norway. When Yngvild’s father King Erik Bloodaxe died they had left Norway and taken the whale road, sailing west to Iceland where they had settled and built a grand hall at Vik.

So, the brothers Tostig and Thorstein were of high birth, and their stature and bearing fitted this, for they were both tall, strong, and noble of face. Tostig as the elder was somewhat more commanding, slightly larger, and more heavy in jaw and brow. He was a famous Viking already with battle scars to prove it, confident and manly, loud in voice, and with a booming laugh. He held sway over his younger brother, who was yet only twenty winters old, and whose beard grew fine and sparse, and for which reason he kept his chin shaved clean.

When Njal came in from the fields he was happy to see such a fine pair in his home, and even more so when he discovered they were sons of Gunnar the Brave. He surmised that they had come to see Sigrid, and invited them to feast that evening accordingly. Servants were sent out to the surrounding farms, and all of Njal’s neighbours were invited, for, as has been told, he was a rich man, and besides, he was in a good mood at seeing a promising suitor for his daughter.

At the feast he sat Tostig in between himself and his daughter, that both he and she might gauge his character and worth. The younger of the brothers, Thorstein, was sat on the left side of Sigrid, and next to a pretty unmarried girl named Ingrid Ulfsdottir, who came from a farm a few miles to the south. It promised to be a great feast, and there were many people at Njal’s table: his wife, his two sons and their wives, and many farmers with their families who had come from the neighbouring farms. 

The night was warm, and Njal had ordered his house-slaves to roast a great pig, as well as one of the spring lambs, and the cooking fires made the hall quite hot. The warmth, along with the mead and meat made the company merry, and conversation flowed around the table.

Njal engaged Tostig in talk, questioning him on his adventures as a Viking, and Tostig gladly told the tales of his raids in his loud, strong voice. Njal was impressed, and Tostig’s pride was clear to see; he kept turning to Sigrid to see if she too was impressed by the adventures he recounted. As time wore on the mead spurred both Njal and Tostig on to louder and more raucous laughter and Tostig leaned into Sigrid, whispering small jests to her.

She smiled at these, and talked with him politely, but really she found him brash and boastful, and as the drink made him yet more so she began turning more and more often to her left to the quieter Thorstein. He was less involved in the bantering at the head of the table, only being called upon occasionally to verify the truth of his brother’s great exploits as sea-wolf. In the meantime he spoke politely to the girl the other side of him about this or that, making her laugh shyly.

When Sigrid began speaking to him he was slightly nervous at first, her emerald gaze piercing him so that he could not hold his eyes up to meet it. She was so beautiful that she seemed untouchable to him, and yet she smiled so disarmingly and spoke so kindly that he soon began to relax. Within a short while he had regained his composure, and it became clear to Sigrid that he had a charming, easy manner. While Tostig’s raucous jokes and boasts bored her she found Thorstein’s conversation captivating.

He was learning to be a poet, and even at twenty he already had amassed a great word-store, hoarded invisible in his mind, while his brother had hoarded stolen silver and swords in his hall. He used these words gracefully and with wit, speaking eloquently and occasionally dipping into his own verse when recounting small tales. Sigrid the Enchantress listened intently, sometimes laughing, immersed in the sea-depth of his language. She was amazed at this young man, beardless and fresh of face, speaking so beautifully, and with a wisdom beyond his years. He listened to her too, unlike her other suitors, who would shut their ears to her voice and only revel in the sight of her face.

As the Enchantress was finding herself under the spell of another, Tostig was growing impatient. He found Njal good company, and they were born drinking companions, yet he had not come to this hall to get drunk and tell tales. When he turned to his left he increasingly found himself facing Sigrid’s back, and a silent wall of black hair – the polite laughter was no longer forthcoming.

            This brought a deeper red to his already drink-reddened cheeks, and he tried loudly to recapture her attention. This worked for a short time, but Sigrid had now stopped smiling at Tostig’s jests, instead leaning back away from him, repelled by his drunken vulgarity. This didn’t make any difference, however, as Tostig’s head and eyes were by this time clouded by brain-dulling drink, and he didn’t notice her disgust.

            Soon Njal felt the time was right for a great toast to his guests, and he ordered the feasters to stand as he made his speech. In return Tostig called on Thorstein to recite some verse, extolling the greatness of Njal, Skaftafell-shield, and his beautiful daughter Sigrid, and so Thorstein spoke thus:

            “Rough road we have trodden, travelling on

            Eastwards through Iceland, my brother and I,

            Seeking the sight of a beauty unmatched,

            High-born in fine hall,    of Flamebeard, Njal

            Strong shield of Skaftafell, a warrior worthy.

Peerless and pretty, his daughter appeared

Silver on a slim neck, even emeralds for eyes.

A beauty beyond my poor poem’s telling.”

            He carried on in this vein some time, his words growing more beautiful as he let himself sail free on the word-sea of his mind, waves and currents bringing poetry to his mouth to flow forth in verse. The audience sat quietly, but at the end made a great cheer, while Njal’s face glowed redder than his beard with deep pride and happiness. Tostig too was joyed at his brother’s words, especially seeing how enthralled Sigrid was with them. He felt that his chances of taking her hand were good.

            After reciting his poem, Thorstein excused himself from the loud singing that followed, and left the table to take the air outside. He walked a short way from the hall door and sat down on the soft, mossy grass. The cooler night air blew away some of the mead-induced mind-fog, as he sat there gazing up at the jewel-laden fastness of the sky.

            Lost in reverie, Thorstein did not hear the soft steps on the mossy carpet, and the whisper of Sigrid’s voice next to him made him start. She knelt down close beside him.

            “So this is where you disappeared to, my lord,” she said, speaking softly, “I don’t blame you; the springtime air is sweet at night. It is certainly quieter out here as well,” she gave a little wry smile that Thorstein understood.

“My brother waxes a little loud at times, especially when he is in company with his good friend; the mead-horn,” he muttered, a hint of frustration in his voice. Then a flash of guilt crossed his young face. “He is a great man, my lady. A very worthy man. You could do far worse than marry a man like him.”

“I could do far better.”

These abrupt words startled Thorstein, and he looked angrily into her eyes, “Pray tell, O Enchantress, exactly what do you mean to say? You may be beautiful but that doesn’t give you licence to mock mighty warriors such as my brother,” he said. Sigrid sighed and looked down at the ground.

“Many men have asked for my hand, my lord, and so far not one has stood apart from the rest; though they all jostle for my favour like a pack of slavering hounds. For four years, now, I have held out, and I’m not about to throw all of that away for just any rough-bearded Viking.” She spoke quietly but earnestly, and it was clear that these were not just throwaway words to her. “That’s not what I want; I want someone who is more than just a fighter or a killer. I don’t want to be just another treasure in the hoard of a warrior; to be kept like a pretty bird in a cage, or a prize steed that can be gloated over and ridden upon. Do you understand?”

            She looked up as she said these last words, her emerald eyes piercing Thorstein’s anger and softening him. “Then what is it that you do want my pretty enchantress? Perhaps it is time that you learnt that we seldom get what we want in life, and that to achieve what we want in love is even rarer.”

            This time it was Thorstein’s turn to look down at the ground.

Sigrid paused a moment, then began falteringly: “And what is it that you want in love that you cannot get, my handsome skald? I’d wager that whatever you want, you can have,” at this she reached out suddenly, placing her hand on his.

“Ha! Not true my lady, not true, for even if it were offered to me I could not take it! Blood is thicker than water, that’s what they say.” He looked down for a moment at the slender hand that clasped his gently but firmly, and then withdrew his hand, wincing as he did so. “Please don’t tease me lady, it is more than I can bear. Go back inside and find my brother, it is he that you should be alone with now, not me.”

            Thorstein looked into her eyes, which glistened with tears, and for a moment it seemed that she might cry, but she forced back the tears and set her jaw firmly.

“Don’t you understand?” she said slowly, her words heavy and measured, “I don’t want your brother; I want you. I mean it, and this isn’t a game I’m playing,” as she spoke she held his eyes locked with hers, “I love you, Thorstein, I can tell you are different and that you appreciate me for what I really am. Say feel the same about me, my lord, I couldn’t bear to see you ride Westward tomorrow and leave me alone again!”

            Thorstein’s face contorted with emotion, a battle raged across his features as it raged in his heart; blood-duty against love; grappling for control of him. He looked for a moment as though his heart’s wish had been granted, then suddenly angry, and then sad; grimacing as a solitary tear rolled down his cheek. The tear glistened in the moonlight against his close-shaven skin.

            At last he gathered himself and made as if to speak, but stopped again, reaching out a hand instead, and placing it on the girl’s pale cheek. Their eyes remained locked together, determined yet apprehensive, and then Thorstein kissed her. His lips met hers gently but insistently; she returned their pressure, and her hands moved up to his head and neck, holding on tightly, the locks of his fair hair intertwined with her fingers.

            The two lovers did not notice the heavy figure of Tostig as it emerged from the night’s shadows a few paces away. He had left the feast shortly after Sigrid, hoping to find her in some secluded place where he could make his proposition. Seeing the two figures seated now far from the langhús door he had at first taken them for two young house slaves, whispering their love to one another while the freemen made merry inside. Nevertheless, curiosity had seized him, and he had moved into the darkness behind an ox-cart, from where he could view the two whispering youngsters without being seen.

            Soon the true identities of the two whisperers had become apparent to Tostig, puzzling him at first, until anger began to seize a hold of his heart. Nevertheless, he had managed to force his rage down and remain silent for a while, although the fire-water in his blood spurred him viciously to violence. When the two pairs of lips had met his restraint had crumbled and he had stepped out.

            The pair were entwined in one another’s arms and did not notice Tostig as he paced swiftly towards them. He seized his younger brother roughly by the hair, dragging him up, and Sigrid let out a scream as she fell back in shock. In his fury Tostig seemed larger than ever as he marched his kinsman over to the hall building and flung him against its timber wall, pinning him there with one great hand on his neck.

            “I didn’t expect this kind of treachery from any brother of mine!” he bellowed, spraying spittle and mead fumes into Thorstein’s face, “I’ve been watching you two love-birds for a while now, so there’s no point denying anything you worthless swine.” He slurred the words out as he wagged a meaty finger and roughly prodded it into his brother’s cheek.

            Thorstein trembled as he saw the murderous look on Tostig’s mead-reddened and scarred face.

            “What have you got to say for yourself?! Eh?! Don’t be silent like a prick-less gelding, brother, speak, or Thor help me I’ll bury steel in your belly!”

            Just then Tostig felt a pulling on the back of his cloak, and turned to see Sigrid tugging at him desperately, “Leave hold of him you brute,” she cried, “It’s my destiny and no concern of you or anyone else! It’s up to me, and I don’t want you! Look at you, you are pathetic, threatening your own brother, beating and bullying him when you don’t even recognise that he has gifts far greater than anything you could win with your blade! Get off him you beast!”

            At this Tostig spun around, towering over Sigrid like a mighty jötnar giant. He was quivering with rage, his eyes misted red like an angry bull’s; but Sigrid stood her ground beneath him.  

            “A beast am I?!” he roared, a swung a huge fist at her, striking her on the temple hard. Sigrid fell heavily, landing unconscious in a black sleep.

            “You monster!” yelled Thorstein, drawing his sword from its scabbard, “No warrior strikes a lady, that is the work of a coward!”

            “Ah, so it’s fighting talk from the young wordsmith is it? Well, we’ll see who the better man is, and mark my words, boy, you won’t be crossing me again, you won’t be crossing anyone or anything except the rainbow bridge on your way to the afterlife in Asgard!” He made a snarling smile of grim satisfaction, and with these words pulled forth his own sword, which made a metallic zing as it left its sheath.

            The big warrior leapt at Thorstein, and the clash of their skull-cleavers was like lightening in the night air. The swords rung out again and again, as the younger brother strained with all his might to parry to powerful blows rained down upon him. Tostig was drunk, but nevertheless he was still a deadly foe, slashing fast and hard in arcs that would slice Thorstein diagonally from shoulder to hip if they struck home.

            The men panted and snarled, and their blades clanged and slashed, while their feet danced a war dance, kicking up dust as they shifted forward and back. Meanwhile loud singing and laughter still emanated from the hall doorway where the feasters carried on unaware. Soon Tostig’s strength began to tell, their swords locked together, and with a mighty shove he threw Thorstein against the hall wall once again. This stunned the younger brother and his sword fell from his grasp. Seeing victory Tostig hefted his blade and swung a mighty backhand stroke from left to right, but Thorstein was quick and threw himself to the ground as the blade thudded into the timber above him.

            He fumbled for his sword, anticipating a death blow from above at any moment, then looked up to see the warrior silhouetted by moonlight, tugging at his blade which had become lodged in the wall. The spirit of battle and survival in him, Thorstein took his chance and thrust upwards into the shadowy figure looming over him.

            Blade struck body and blood was drawn, and Tostig sank to his knees gasping. The two brothers knelt opposite each other, faces inches apart, as the life-blood of the elder left him forever. Two pale faces, exhausted and shocked stared at one another.

            “I’m sorry brother,” said Tostig, softly, his speech and eyes now clear and without any trace of drunkenness.

            “No! No, I am sorry, what have I done?! Wait, I must get help,” Thorstein began to move, but his warrior brother held him with a hand on his shoulder.

            “Stay Thorstein, I am slain, it’s no use. You were the better fighter,” he managed a thin smile, and a tear broke free and rolled down into his beard, “You were the better man, it is my fault.”

            “I drew a blade on a kinsman, it is my fault! I will tell the courts so and be judged brother.”

            Tostig grunted impatiently, “None of that brother, you are a just man. She chose you, I curse my former blindness for now I see my own folly. You must keep her, love her, but I ask you one thing; please forgive me my madness,” he gave a gurgling cough and a few flecks of blood spattered his lips, “Come to me in the afterworld and we’ll drink as brothers again.” He looked pleadingly at his younger brother, all anger drained from his face.

            “We will drink together again in Asgard, and be comrades once more my brother.” Thus spoke Thorstein, grasping Tostig’s hands firmly as he did so.

            He lay his brother down on his back; Tostig grimaced with pain, suppressing the urge to cry out. Thorstein held his huge, rough hand as he watched the life ebbing away from his sibling, the laboured breathing gurgling in his chest, until finally the breathing stopped.

            It was then that Njal emerged from the hall doorway, peering into the darkness about him for a sign of his daughter. He saw nothing at first, but as his eyes became adjusted to the night he began to make out the figure of Thorstein to his left, hunched over his brother, shaking with convulsions of grief. At first he didn’t understand, and hung there in the doorway, confused. Then he saw his daughter, prone, face down in the dust of the yard.

            He let out a furious cry of pain, and spun again to the left. Thorstein looked up, tear-drenched face glistening in the moonbeams which cast white light on his face. A look of shock was on his face as he stood up, and then Njal saw the hilt of the sword protruding from Tostig’s barrel torso. He looked up again at Thorstein’s face, and stared into his eyes for a second.

            The two stood, a few short yards between them, silent, eyes fixed on one-another, but neither could force words out until Njal spoke:

            “You will die for this, murderer!” he cried, and as he said this he pointed at Sigrid with one hand and with the other drew his sword, then leapt forward, blade slicing the air. Thorstein didn’t even flinch as the forge-ice bit into his neck and down into his chest. Njal stepped back, the grim satisfaction of revenge on his features as he watched Thorstein drop to his knees, crimson already staining his fine shirt, then fall face down next to the lifeless body of his brother.

            Njal threw his blade to the ground and took a step towards his beloved daughter’s body, when suddenly she moved, sat up:

            “Father?”

Njal froze, and his heart leapt as hope swelled up inside him.

“Where is Thorstein?!” she said weakly.

“It is okay my love, I have…”

“Tostig was angry and attacked him …I tried to stop him but then he…hit me.”

At these words Njal felt something like lightning strike him inside. His eyes misted. He turned back to the blood-drenched heap by the wall.

“Tostig hit you?”

Will Ockendon