Sigruna sat next to her husband, trembling. She was furious that Ivar had found a new wife so quickly. “Which bitch seduced him?” she thought, trying to calm herself so that her husband would not notice the change in her mood. She dug her nails into the chair she was sitting on, her clenched teeth began to ache, and her leg was twitching nervously.
Trying to convince herself that she would still be able to seduce Ivar and turn him against her husband, she needed to come up with a new strategy if Ivar’s new wife turned out to be an obstacle. She needed to come up with a new strategy if Ivar’s new wife turned out to be an obstacle. The idea that her last hope was slipping away just because some stranger had taken Ivar was unbearable to Sigruna.
“I need to use the outhouse. I’ll be back soon,” Sigruna said to her husband, trying to make her voice sound natural, without showing any signs of agitation.
She saw Frode nod in acknowledgment and continue watching the slaves finish preparing the hall. Sigruna quickly ran outside. Needing fresh air, she stood in front of the hut, looking for a slave on whom she could take out her anger.
Observing the village, which was lively at this time of year, she felt detached from the cheerful scene. Birds were singing beautifully, perched in the treetops surrounding the villagers’ huts. The lowing of cows from distant pastures could be heard throughout the day, and cheerful children ran around playing together.
Sigruna paid no attention to this and was searching for a victim. Eventually, an opportunity arose as Maciej sat under a tree in the shade, playing with leaves he had picked from an oak.
Sigruna walked toward him, ignoring the wind messing up her perfectly combed hair. She passed a few villagers who greeted her politely. She dismissed them with a wave of her hand. When she was close to Maciej, she heard him singing. It was a song from his country, as Sigruna did not understand the words.
She thought Maciej had a beautiful voice. Surprised by this discovery, she forgot about her anger towards Ivar’s new wife and focused on the fact that Maciej could entertain her with his talent.
“Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?” she asked sharply, moving closer to make him look her in the eye.
She stood behind Maciej, who was sitting with his back to her. At the sound of her voice, he turned his head but did not stand up.
“You didn’t ask me about it. Besides, I don’t know your songs,” he said, still maintaining his strong Slavic accent.
“Someone could teach you,” Sigruna replied.
Maciej looked her straight in the eye. The chief’s wife was surprised by his boldness and lack of fear. At the same time, it began to impress her.
“I’ve barely learned your language. Everyone still tells me I haven’t lost my accent. I would butcher your songs,” he replied calmly.
However, Sigruna did not want to give up the chance of having a personal musician. She wanted someone to entertain her during such hard times.
“Do you play anything? Can you play any instrument?” she asked.
Still tired from the strong emotions she had endured over the past few days, she decided to sit down on the ground. Thinking only about her comfort, she forgot that such familiarity with a slave was disgraceful to the villagers. Moreover, it would be a terrible embarrassment for the chief’s wife. Sigruna forgot herself at that moment, as she was fascinated by the vision of the handsome Maciej playing just for her.
“I used to play the zither. At weddings, I was in high demand.” Maciej no longer looked at his misess but returned to playing with the leaves.
Sigruna did not know such an instrument and was very curious about the sounds it made.
“Would you be able to build one?” she asked.
Maciej turned his head toward her. His face showed a look of surprise.
“That doesn’t seem to be part of my duties,” he retorted cheekily.
Shocked by his lack of respect, Sigruna quickly replied, “Don’t you forget yourself?”
The anger she had felt a moment ago returned with double force. The humiliation she felt from her husband and how he had treated her father seemed insignificant compared to the lack of respect from a slave.
“You started this, sitting next to me as if we were equals,” Maciej said calmly.
A smirk appeared on his handsome face. The chief’s wife considered him incredibly attractive. When he looked her in the eye and smiled, she felt her heart beat faster.
The arrogance and self-confidence of the slave reminded Sigruna of her father. Looking at Maciej, she thought that her father would not have allowed himself to be trampled on either.
“Dad would never have become a slave,” she thought, but then she remembered the image of her father being choked by her weak husband.
This caused confusion in her mind. On one hand, her father had been a strong, tough, and determined man who cared about his own and his family’s reputation. On the other hand, he had been defeated by her husband, whom Sigruna genuinely despised.
Lost in her thoughts, Sigruna did not notice that people were pointing at her.
“You’d better get back to your husband. People are staring at us,” said Maciej.
Sigruna did not hear the slave’s comment. She sat next to him, lost in contemplation, nervously tearing at the clumps of grass she was sitting on. Maciej repeated his comment, this time louder, so that Sigruna would definitely hear him.
“What? You’re not going to lecture me!” Sigruna shouted angrily.
“By the way, why are you sitting here doing nothing? You should be working!” she added, throwing a clump of grass at the slave.
Maciej caught the grass in midair, impressing Sigruna.
“Because I’ve finished my work, and there’s nothing else to do,” he said nonchalantly.
He placed his hands behind his head and lay down on the grass. Sigruna could clearly see his well-defined muscles, but she quickly glanced around and saw that people were staring at them and whispering among themselves. She jumped to her feet and shouted loudly so that everyone could hear:
“From now on, you’ll sleep in the stable!”
And she walked away from Maciej, trailing the train of her gown behind her. But inside, she felt her heart beat faster. She plunged into the crowd of onlookers, pushing a small boy out of her way to clear a path. She returned to the chief’s hut and headed toward her husband, pretending that nothing had happened.
Yrsa was walking with a bucket of milk and a basket of eggs to her home. She was dressed in a gray linen blouse and a white skirt. Her blonde hair was braided. Sweat was pouring from her forehead. The day was unbearably hot.
When she entered the tiny hut, she saw that Ulf was sitting at the table, trying to fix a pitchfork.
“I heard that the skipari is not giving the young ones any rest. Thyra complained to me this morning that her son came back dejected from his training with the shipbuilder yesterday,” Yrsa said, setting the bucket on the ground.
She approached the chest where they kept their dishes and took out a small pot in which she wanted to boil the eggs for Ulf. The man was struggling with repairing the pitchfork. He nodded to his fiancée and, with a grimace on his face, tried to straighten one of the tines of the pitchfork that Yrsa had accidentally bent while trying to break up clumps of earth.
“You seem so weak, but when you want to break something, you get stronger than me,” he said jokingly to Yrsa.
Yrsa smiled at her fiancé. For several days, they had not returned to the topic of Ulf’s departure. Although the woman very much wanted to persuade her fiancé to cancel his trip just this once, she was afraid to bring up the subject. Not wanting to upset him, she preferred to spend the time when he was still at home in a pleasant atmosphere. While outside the hut to light a fire to boil the eggs, her older brother ran into their yard.
“Yrsa!” Geir shouted. “Dad has killed himself!”
Yrsa dropped the eggs she was holding, and they shattered on the ground. Ulf quickly ran out of the hut, still holding the pitchfork.
“What happened?” yelled Yrsa’s fiancé.
Geir, holding back tears, said:
“Dad killed himself. He jumped off a cliff.”
As he spoke, his voice broke, and he had to draw in a breath to stop the tears from welling up in his eyes. Yrsa felt the ground slip away beneath her. Her knees went weak, and she knelt on the ground. She could not imagine that her beloved father had taken his own life.
She felt her heart pounding in her chest, her head began to spin, and she could feel burning tears starting to stream down her pale cheek. Meanwhile, Ulf had run over to Geir and began asking for details about the incident. The men started planning the funeral, while Yrsa knelt on the ground, choking on her own tears.
She burst into tears so terrible and painful that she began to scream, pleading with Odin for it not to be true.
“I just saw him. He was so happy. Why did he do it?” Yrsa thought.
Her heart tightened at the vision of her father’s body lying lifeless on the sharp rocks beneath the cliff. In her mind’s eye, she saw the strong waves tossing her father’s body. This led Yrsa to cry even harder.
When Ulf finished his conversation with Geir, he approached Yrsa. He knelt beside her and looked into her red, tear-swollen eyes. Without saying a word, he embraced his fiancée tightly, letting her cry on his shoulder. When Yrsa had calmed down a bit, she pulled away from Ulf so she could look him in the eye and asked, her voice breaking:
“Why did he do it?”
Ulf felt a pang in his heart seeing his fiancée’s suffering. With compassion in his eyes, he looked at her and, trying to choose his words to be as gentle as possible, replied:
“He didn’t want to be a burden to you. He committed honorable suicide.”
At these words, Yrsa turned her head away from her fiancé. She tried to calm herself enough to talk to him, but she couldn’t manage to utter even a single word. Ulf embraced his fiancée again and calmly explained how he had planned the burial with her brother.
When the day of the funeral arrived, Ulf and Yrsa dressed in their formal attire. They knew there would not be many people at the funeral, as Yrsa’s father was an ordinary farmer. He had led a simple, peaceful life. He rarely went on voyages, preferring to spend that time quietly with his loved ones.
In the cool morning light, a small group of people gathered around the modest grave amid the gray-brown fields. The air was filled with silence, broken only by the sounds of the wind and the distant song of birds. A gentle mist hovered over the grave, adding a melancholic mood to the scene.
The graves dug for the deceased were shallow and simple. The small pits in the earth were modest, their edges adorned only with a few small stones meant to protect the grave from wild animals. The scent of fresh earth hovered over the grave, marked by the impressions of hands that had carried the coffin to its resting place.
The deceased’s body, wrapped in simple linen, lay at the bottom of the grave. Everyday items such as a piece of a simple tool, a fragment of pottery, and a few wooden bowls were carefully placed beside it, symbolizing a gift for the deceased on his journey. There were no lavish decorations or valuables at the burial site—just simple, functional items that had been important to the deceased in life.
Family and loved ones stood in silence around the grave. Their faces were somber, and their movements slow and respectful. Some held small offerings—pieces of bread and milk—which they quietly placed at the edge of the grave as a gesture of farewell and blessing for the deceased.
A small fire burned over the grave, its smoke mingling with the morning mist. There were no large pyres or elaborate rituals, just modest flames that provided warmth and light. No one sang songs or raised loud prayers. Instead, those gathered whispered quiet prayers, asking for a peaceful passage for the deceased and blessings for his family.
After the ceremony was over, the family began to slowly leave, leaving the place in silence and contemplation. The dug grave was covered with earth, and only small stones lay on its surface, marking the resting place. No decorative stones or intricately carved plaques were left there. Only a simple marking in the earth reminded of the presence of the one who had passed.
Thus ended the funeral of a low-status Viking—a modest but respectful farewell, in keeping with the simple life he had led and the values of the community that was bidding him farewell.
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