Ulf gladly received the news that in three months he would embark on conquering new land. In his mind, he already planned what he needed to pack, what preparations he had to make, how to work the field so Yrsa wouldn’t have to do everything alone.
“Will you manage to chop wood for winter by yourself? I know you sometimes have trouble, but…” Ulf was interrupted by Yrsa.
“Ulf! Have you forgotten that we’ve decided to have a child? You promised me you’d be with me during the first pregnancy.” Yrsa rarely scolded Ulf, but now she scolded her fiancé for quickly forgetting such an important decision.
When Ulf heard this, all the excitement about the journey faded from the man. He felt like a child being scolded by his mother. He glanced at Yrsa with guilt and walked out in front of the hut. Yrsa, who disliked upsetting Ulf, ran after him.
“Ulf, I’m sorry. I just love you so much and I don’t want you to leave me for who knows how long.” Yrsa tried to catch up with her beloved.
Ulf stopped and turned to his fiancée. He looked at her, his heart softened as he fell in love with her innocent blue eyes, admiring how she stood out among the village women. All the women of their people were tough, decisive, and skilled in combat. Many of them regularly went to fights, defended the village, and attacked during raids. But Yrsa was not like that. She had a sensitive soul, which Ulf needed so much. She gave him comfort and love that he had lacked his whole life. He grew up as a warrior. His parents, with a firm hand, instilled in him the values that the chosen one of the people was supposed to have.
“Ulf… I’m sorry,” Yrsa snuggled into his bare chest.
It was a hot day, and the southern sun was very annoying. Yrsa’s bright hair seemed to reflect the sun’s rays.
“Nothing happened. I’ll miss you too,” Ulf reciprocated the embrace of his beloved.
But Yrsa was still worried about wanting to have children.
“And what if I’m pregnant? And you’ll be far away from me?” she asked delicately.
Ulf hesitated for a moment. Suddenly an idea came to his mind.
“Yrsa, come with us!” the man was excited at the thought of traveling with his fiancée.
Yrsa was so surprised by her fiancé’s proposal that she even pushed herself away from his chest.
“What are you talking about?”
“Come with us. What harm would it do?” Ulf was surprised by his beloved’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Ulf, I won’t abandon the farm to fate,” Yrsa looked at their animals, the field, and the hut.
Ulf had to admit his beloved was right. They had no one to ask for help with running the farm. The parents of Ulf were no longer alive, and Yrsa’s mother was also gone. Only her father remained, but he needed care himself.
“Do you have to go? Can’t you skip it just this once?” Yrsa suggested quietly.
“I’m a berserker. I can’t skip helping the village. I made a vow,” Ulf showed a burnt mark on his body as proof of his oath. It was on his right forearm, small in size like a walnut, depicting a bear’s face.
Ulf was correct. The village they lived in was one of those chosen by Odin. Their people were blessed, with the souls of warriors sent by Odin into newborn children. Not all children, only the chosen ones. For each family, discovering their child was a berserker brought immense joy and pride. To verify if a child was blessed, they underwent a trial at the age of seven. They drank a special herbal brew that induced berserkergang, but only those children chosen by Odin. If the child did not enter berserkergang, it meant they were just ordinary members of the community. But if they did, a mark burned onto their arm, and they were obliged to swear to defend the village and act for its good.
The bear symbol was not accidental either. Ulf’s village, named Bjorneskær, bore its name because Odin blessed them with the strength and fierceness of a bear. Not far from Bjorneskær lay another village, led by Ulf’s friend Frode, named Ivar’s village. It too bore Odin’s blessing, imbued with the strength and fierceness of a wild boar, hence named Griseby. Both villages maintained friendly relations. Their leaders had long recognized that since Odin had chosen them as his warriors, they should live together in harmony and help each other.
In the vast forest that separated the villages, priests and priestesses stood, praying to Odin every day, thanking him for the immense gift. They also offered sacrifices brought by the villagers.
Ulf was already straining his oath. He was supposed to live close to the palisades that surrounded their village. Instead, he had chosen a peaceful life on the farm with his beloved. This did not sit well with the priests. They argued it would shake their long-standing tradition, that Odin might not approve. However, Ulf’s love was so strong that he sacrificed all the livestock he had to appease Odin.
“We’ll think about it some more. For now, we need to get to work,” Ulf said calmly.
In the shipbuilder’s hut, known as the skipari, there was commotion. Ever since the chieftain ordered the expedition three months from now, Erik knew he would have a lot of work, little time, and plenty of nerves. He had barely felled the tree for constructing one ship when news of the expedition arrived. Erik waited for Frode to come to him with the request for building more. He wasn’t mistaken, because two days after the information was sent out, Frode paid Erik a visit.
“Erik! Greetings, how are you?” the chieftain called out upon seeing the skipari.
The shipbuilder stood in front of his hut, clearing away unnecessary branches and bark from a pine tree. He was preparing the felled wood for shipbuilding. Erik didn’t respond to the chieftain. He was an elderly man now, lacking the energy and inclination for unnecessary pleasantries. He preferred direct information.
“Erik, what’s going on? Aren’t you going to greet your hövding?” Frode wasn’t accustomed to being ignored by the villagers.
“How many and by when?” Erik asked directly.
Surprise painted Frode’s face, but he quickly recovered from it. It was difficult for him to adjust to Erik’s pragmatic character. He tried to adjust to the skipari’s demeanor.
“I need three new ships. You must make them within three months,” Frode said calmly. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked around Erik’s yard.
The shipbuilder, hearing the chieftain’s request, snorted and said, “You could double that number, and I still wouldn’t manage to build even one ship in such a short time.”
Erik didn’t interrupt his work, even during the conversation with the hövding. The chieftain wasn’t surprised by the response, knowing that shipbuilding was laborious and time-consuming..
“That’s why I thought…,” Frode began, but Erik cut him off.
“I can build those ships for you, but don’t expect them to be seaworthy. Don’t even count on them staying afloat!” Erik laughed.
Frode took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Erik was old, pragmatic, and unpleasant. Everyone knew that and avoided contact with the skipari because of it. Yet, he was also the best shipbuilder in the village’s history. His drakkars had no equals. That’s why everyone tolerated him.
“That’s why I thought it would be a good idea for you to take on apprentices. The young ones need to learn the trade,” Frode said firmly.
Erik stopped working but didn’t look at the chieftain. His gaze was fixed on the tree he was working on. Slowly, he straightened up with a groan of pain, as his spine was bothering him. He approached the chieftain, limping, and looked at him. The contrast between them was evident.
The chieftain was still a young man, with brown hair and gray eyes. He stood tall, with his loose hair falling over his shoulders. He had a strong build, broad shoulders, and heavily muscled arms. Erik stood hunched, trying to shift his body weight onto his right leg, which hurt the least. Once blond, his hair was now completely gray, cut short because of the graying. He was thin, with prominent veins on his hands. Finally, Erik spoke.
“Tell me honestly, who among them will endure with me? Is there any lad in the village who wants to learn from me?” he asked sarcastically.
“You’d be surprised. I already have a few who can’t wait for you to take them under your wing,” Frode replied calmly.
The chieftain’s response surprised Erik. He expected that even if he agreed to take on apprentices, no one would want to learn from him. He disliked people, and people disliked him. That’s why he was glad to live on the outskirts, close to the forest.
“So, what will it be? Will you agree?” the chieftain asked.
He smiled at Erik, hoping to persuade him. Frode tried to think ahead and feared that if they lost Erik, they would lose the only person who knew how to build ships. They would then have to import ships from Griseby, which would be costly and difficult to arrange.
“No, now get out of here,” Erik replied bluntly.
Frode was prepared for this and explained his motives to the skipari.
“Erik, don’t make me beg!” the chieftain said, trying to lighten the mood.
“No, and that’s final. Get lost!” the shipbuilder shouted.
Frode became very upset. He had allowed Erik many liberties due to his value to the village, but he also had to maintain some boundaries.
“You seem to forget who you’re talking to. I’m your hövding. You’ll take those apprentices whether you like it or not. They’ll come to you early tomorrow morning.”
Frode’s tone was firm and decisive. As he said this, he looked straight into Erik’s eyes. When he finished, he turned around and walked away without looking back. Erik watched Frode leave for a moment, then resumed his work.
Sigruna lay in bed, cushioned beneath her back by a soft, down-filled comforter that provided a sense of ease. The bed, a wooden chest, nestled against one side of the cabin wall. Soon after her marriage to the chieftain, she decreed that thick quilts replace the furs that had lain on the wooden planks where they slept. She had grown accustomed to the comforts her late father had ensured. Ketil cherished his family deeply.
He loved all his children and his wife, whom he affectionately called “butterfly”. He often remarked on her delicate and enchanting beauty, likening it to the colorful wings of a butterfly. Sigruna did not share his sentiment. She held contempt for her mother and siblings.
She had two older brothers, one a year older than her, and the other three years her senior. Ketil named his eldest son Egil, and he named the second son Vagn. Both resembled their mother, Jorunn. They were proud and resolute, yet always just. They held no respect for crime, deceit, or fraud, openly scorning those who defied the village’s laws.
Sigruna approached life with a completely different perspective. She readily resorted to manipulation, deceit, and small deceptions to achieve her aims. She didn’t see these as wrong; rather, she believed them necessary to succeed in life.
As she lay in bed, her thoughts often drifted back to her carefree childhood, a pleasant escape from the fears and anxieties that now plagued her. Uncertainty clouded her future as the chieftain’s wife. Frode had made it clear that the days of carefree plotting behind his back were over. He had killed her father, and her brothers lacked the strong positions Ketil held. Moreover, her brothers had no interest in village politics, preferring the quiet life of farmers, much like their mother, Jorunn.
Sigruna’s mother bore the political whims of Ketil with a heavy heart. Whenever possible, she pleaded with him to cease his actions, fearing the risks they posed.
“What if someone attacks us? What if someone seeks revenge?” she cried at night, sharing her fears with her husband.
“I will protect you then. You must trust me, butterfly,” Ketil reassured her.
Sigruna admired her father for his firmness and fearlessness in battle. He had quickly earned the trust of the villagers. Unfortunately, there were times when his adversaries challenged him to duels. Yet Ketil, having spent his life in physical labor and participating in numerous fights, dispatched his opponents without difficulty. This allowed him to claim their entire wealth, earning him the title of the wealthiest farmer in the village and solidifying his status.
Sigruna’s reflections were interrupted by her slave.
“Shall I bring you something to drink?” he asked, his accent betraying him.
The slave was a young man of 28, brought to their village from one of the raiding expeditions her people undertook. His appearance was strikingly different from that of Sigruna’s people. He identified himself as a Slav and called himself Maciej. Sigruna glanced at him. She found herself both attracted to him and feeling contemptuous towards him. She didn’t regard him as an equal human being but rather as an object—something she possessed.
“Fetch some wine,” she instructed in a detached voice.
She still felt weak, not so much from the slap but from the emotions she had experienced and continued to endure, struggling with the bitter reality of disposing of her father’s body in some manner while considering finding it and preparing a burial befitting his status, planning to keep this secret from her husband. Yet, she concluded it was too risky a plan, especially given Frode’s mounting anger towards her and her family.
As she awaited the slave with the wine, she pondered how she might regain control over her husband. Refusing to be submissive to him or allow him to rule independently, she cherished the times when she and her father had wielded authority over the village and Frode together, relishing her role as the most important person in the village and demanding respect from others, feeling too exceptional to be just another ordinary village girl.
Maciej returned swiftly with a wine goblet. He assisted Sigruna in adjusting her pillow, lifting her head and offering her the drink. Sigruna took a few sips and waved her hand, signaling to the slave that she desired no more. Maciej removed the goblet from before her and adjusted the pillow where the chieftain’s wife again rested her head.
“Is there anything else you require?” he inquired.
“Leave my sight,” she replied, annoyed.
The woman was displeased that Maciej had not adjusted her pillow as she preferred. She felt frustrated that the slave had failed to anticipate her preferred position.
“What a hopeless slave,” the embittered woman thought. “Today, I’ll assign him to work with the cattle. Perhaps cleaning up their dung will teach him how to treat the chieftain’s wife.”
Two slave women suddenly burst into the room and began preparing Sigruna’s elaborate attire, interrupting the woman’s cunning schemes.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Sigruna shouted angrily.
She watched as the slaves hurried about their task. She was furious at their sudden intrusion into her room.
“Chieftain of Griseby is arriving, my lady,” one of the slaves addressed timidly. “Chieftain Frode requested that we prepare you for the guest reception.”
The young girl who spoke to Sigruna was very afraid of the chieftain’s wife. Even when addressing Sigruna directly, she did not look her in the eye. This fear stemmed from the numerous punishments she had received, many of them physical.
Upon hearing the news, Sigruna shouted at the slaves to help her get out of bed. The girls obediently did so, rushing over to the chieftain’s wife and assisting her to rise from bed. Unfortunately, Sigruna had been drinking nothing but wine for several days and immediately felt dizzy and a strange ringing in her ears upon standing. Her vision also blurred, and she realized she had drunk too much, but she didn’t want to further upset her husband.
Despite her fears of her husband, a plan began to form in Sigruna’s mind. She knew Ivar was no longer a young man, but he still liked women. He had been married several times before, and from what was known, his last wife died in childbirth. She hoped to seduce Ivar and together, exact revenge on Frode. That way, she could seize complete control of the village.
As Sigruna realized her opportunity, she grabbed one of the slaves by the hand and shouted:
“Prepare hair ornaments immediately! And heat water for washing!”
Emotionally charged, the chieftain’s wife dug her nails into the young slave’s forearm so deeply that blood appeared. The poor girl wanted to pull away from Sigruna’s grasp but was afraid to do so. She gritted her teeth and hurried towards the door to fetch water from the well and boil it over the fire.
The second slave stayed with Sigruna and helped her get ready. First, she pulled out from a wooden chest beside the bed a pair of beautiful shoes. They were made of leather with numerous ties made of colorful fabric, a luxury only the wealthiest could afford.
Sigruna stood in the room, looking around. It wasn’t a large room, containing only a bed, a chest, and a few stools with candles that the slaves lit at dusk. This didn’t mean it was a poor room; the fact that they could afford a separate bedroom spoke of their status. The rest of the society usually had two rooms in their cottages, sleeping and eating in the same space. The woman crossed her arms over her chest and refined her plan. Above all, she would have to engineer a situation where she would be alone with Chieftain of Griseby. That would be the most difficult part, as seducing men came naturally to Sigruna.
She pondered how to rid herself of her husband so that she could freely seduce Ivar, when the slave interrupted her thoughts.
“Ma’am, would you like to wash your entire body or just your face and hands?” the girl asked quietly and shyly.
She gripped the water basin with all her strength to steady her trembling hands. Sigruna looked at the girl from under her brow. She despised the slaves. She thought they smelled, wore rags, and, on top of it all, willingly subjected themselves to enslavement.
“If someone else had kidnapped them, they would be dead by now. Or serving as prostitutes. They have it so good with us, yet they look as if we’ve wronged them. What ungrateful creatures,” thought Sigruna, staring at the girls with disgust.
She stated firmly that they were to wash her entire body. The girls set to work. They washed Sigruna’s body very gently and carefully, knowing that even one mistake would result in a beating. Once they had washed and dried Sigruna’s body, they dressed her in her favorite dress. The slaves quickly styled the chieftain’s wife’s hair; she wanted her long, red hair to exude an innocent feminine charm. When she was ready, she hurried to the hall with the throne, where her husband was receiving guests.
Sigruna wore a magnificent red dress that caught everyone’s eye in the room. The dress was made of heavy, soft velvet that draped her silhouette, accentuating her curves. The intense red color of the fabric gleamed in the candlelight, giving her the appearance of a true chieftain’s wife.
The neckline of the dress was square and delicately cut, adorned with intricate embroideries depicting floral and animal motifs. The sleeves of the dress were wide and flared, reaching all the way to the ground. Every movement Sigruna made caused the sleeves to ripple around her like wings, adding lightness and grace to her figure.
The waist of the dress fit and adorned with a golden ribbon subtly shimmered with each step. From the waist, the gown cascaded down in wide, softly flowing folds that enhanced her appearance. Additional embroidery embellished the lower part of the dress, harmonizing with the decoration on the neckline. The back of the dress had a long train gently trailing along the floor, adding a majestic look to her entire silhouette. A golden necklace with precious stones complemented the ensemble, highlighting Sigruna’s neck and sparkling in the candlelight.
In this dress, Sigruna looked like a true queen, exuding elegance and strength while also displaying her delicate, feminine side. This was the effect Sigruna desired. Even Frode took notice of how beautifully his wife presented herself. However, he knew that this was only the superficial part of Sigruna. Inside, she was ugly and corrupt, which repelled him. He was disgusted by his own wife.
Frode sat on the throne, awaiting the arrival of his friend. He was dressed in simple, everyday attire. It was the most comfortable for him, and most importantly, it was breathable clothing. At this time of year, the days could be truly hot.
The chieftain did not greet his wife; he aimed to make it clear to her that she meant nothing to him. In truth, he would gladly rid himself of her, but he respected every oath he had taken, and during their wedding vows, he swore to Sigruna that he would be with her forever.
When Sigruna approached her husband, she asked, trying to control the trembling in her voice:
“When can we expect Ivar’s arrival?”
She stood before her husband, her posture straight and her head held high, attempting to show him respect but not easily broken. She looked him straight in the eyes. Frode reluctantly returned her gaze. Sigruna was beautiful; that couldn’t be denied. But he despised her character. He rolled his eyes when he noticed the expensive necklace around her neck. Sighing, he replied that he didn’t know, but they should be here any moment.
Sigruna sat down beside her husband and observed how the slaves in the hall bustled about with preparations. Warm meals already graced the tables, awaiting the guests; goblets adorned each setting, and a slave stood ready to pour drinks for the guests.
Frode watched his wife. He was vigilant. He knew her well enough to know that she would be devising clever plans to improve her situation. But he was surprised because the woman sat calmly and quietly observed the commotion in the hall.
“Has she changed?” thought the chieftain.
“No, impossible. She’s irredeemable,” he quickly dismissed the hope of a normal marriage.
The chieftain looked forward to Ivar’s arrival. The men had genuinely become friends during their first meeting. Both cared deeply about the welfare of the village’s inhabitants. They shared a similar sense of humor, and both enjoyed expeditions to new lands for exploration and plunder.
“I forgot to tell you, you’ll have to take care of Ivar’s new wife,” Frode said.
He didn’t even glance in his wife’s direction. He told her this so she could plan ahead for entertaining Ivar’s wife.
Sigruna felt a tightness in her stomach. For a moment, she thought she had misheard, but when she looked back at her husband, she understood that it wasn’t a figment of her drunken mind.
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