GUNHILD PICKED HER way carefully down the riverbank towards the stream that flowed past the camp. She and her maidservants had walked some way upstream to a quieter part of the river, both to avoid the sewage and detritus that flowed from the encampment and to minimise the chance of any men accidentally walking by when she was bathing.
It was early morning and the baking sun was only starting to rise over the horizon. It formed a blazing red ball that was smeared by the mist rising from the water. Gunhild looked at it for a moment, remembering that some saw a red morning sky in the morning as an omen of impending disaster.
There had not been many chances to wash on the long journey north, and the days spent in the dust and heat had left her feeling sweaty, dirty and uncomfortable. This had been compounded by the night spent in the camp, living close to so many warriors and all their detritus. She now felt filthy. She was not the only one who felt that way, as several other noblewomen were also making their way to the water. From their excited chatter she could tell they were all Visigoths, Saxons and Franks.
Once at the river she took a final look around in case any men or others had arrived, then, seeing none, she stripped off her dress and waded into the water. Despite the chill it felt invigorating to be rid of the grit and dirt of the roads and be clean again. She swam a little out into the stream, then came back to wash herself, running her hands over her body to wipe away the remainder of whatever still clung to her. As she did so she looked down at herself, proud that her body was still lean and attractive.
She lay back in the water, letting its coolness strip away her cares for a moment along with the dirt. There would be a battle that day, perhaps the greatest the world had ever seen, yet Gunhild was not especially worried.
Yes, it was true that many men would die and that was sad, but that was just the way of things. Men fought and men died. That was all men seemed to do. The world was a constant struggle between men’s kingdoms. At least this fight would happen well away from her new homeland. Her brother had at least learned that from the disaster their father had overseen at Vorbetomagus. Today, if it all went badly wrong for the Roman Alliance, the Burgundars could always flee south again to their new realm. Surrounded by the mountains, perhaps they could huddle down and let the world outside kill itself.
There was always the chance Gunderic might be killed, of course. That too would be sad, but then again, it would leave her and Sigurd as rulers of the kingdom. And the treasure belong to two instead of three. Or rather, it would be all hers. Sigurd she could control. She was sure of that.
She had no fears for her husband in the coming battle. Who could kill him? Sigurd was indestructible. He had fought and killed who knew how many men. He was strong as a giant and the Byzantine scale armour he wore was as impenetrable as the hide of a dragon. He was one of those lucky men, the sort who could walk through the war at the end of the world and come out of it without so much as a scratch.
She loved him, she had to admit to herself. In her own way, of course. At first she had thought he was just big, strong and stupid and therefore easily controlled. However she had soon seen that was not the case. She had grown to understand and appreciate the dogged determination with which he approached everything. His indomitable spirit and drive for power were infectious, and despite himself, she believed he loved her. He was proud of being married to a woman thought to be the most beautiful in the world. She knew perhaps he had had some dalliances with other women, but they were unimportant and never noble enough to threaten her.
The one thing that disturbed her heart was Hagan’s words and the sight of the amulet he wore around his neck. She had always seen Hagan as the boy they used to run around Vorbetomagus with, the slightly built son of her father’s champion. He was of no real consequence, he was just Hagan. He was not a player in the power games she and Gunderic had been involved in. He was just an ordinary lad.
Now, perhaps, he was a threat.
Movement from the top of the riverbank caught Gunhild’s eye and she looked up. Another woman stood there, the blood red ball of the rising sun just behind her. Gunhild squinted as the woman began to clamber down the bank. She wore a long hooded robe but as she got closer to the water Gunhild recognised her.
‘Brynhild!’ she said, raising her hand from the water to beckon to her old friend. ‘I am so glad to see you. Where have you been all through the journey? We have so much to talk about.’
She smiled but Brynhild just looked at her with her dark eyes from the shadows of her hood. She did not reply. Then she turned and picked her way along the riverbank, moving further upstream.
Gunhild frowned. There was no question that Brynhild had seen her. She had looked right at her.
Brynhild, further up the river now and with her back to Gunhild, pulled down her hood and got undressed. She slid into the water and began to bathe.
Gunhild stood up and waded towards her old friend.
‘How was your wedding night?’ she said.
As she got closer Brynhild turned around.
Gunhild gasped. There was the remnants of a huge bruise across Brynhild’s right cheek and jawline. It was in its final yellow and purple stages of dispersal. Her top and bottom lips had also been split but were scabbed over and healing. The rest of her body was covered in welts and fading bruises too. Her eyes were narrowed, whether through hate or anger Gunhild could not tell.
‘I am sorry. I was foolish to ask of your wedding night,’ Gunhild said. ‘I forgot Geic attacked you and Gunderic. Did he do this to you?’
She reached out a hand to touch her friend’s face. To her astonishment Brynhild slapped her hand away.
‘Let me wash you,’ Gunhild said. ‘Why are you bathing upstream from me? You are the king’s wife now and I am his sister. We are equals at last.’
‘I am upstream from you in case some of your filth washes down in my direction,’ Brynhild said through clenched teeth. ‘You are married to him. You are the other bastard’s sister. Their crimes stain you as well as them.’
‘Surely you could not mean my husband Sigurd?’ Gunhild said. ‘He saved you and Gunderic that night, thanks be to Tiwass.’
Brynhild’s upper lip curled.
‘Is that what he told you?’ she spoke as if her throat was full of river gravel. ‘Well, it’s a lie.’
‘What?’ Gunhild said.
‘It was your husband who did this,’ Brynhild said. She raised a finger to her bruised face. ‘Your brave hero punched me in the face. He knocked me to the ground so your brother could rape me.’
Gunhild’s eyes widened.
‘How dare you say such things!’
‘You don’t believe me?’ Brynhild said. ‘Do you think I did all this to myself?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gunhild said. Her own anger was rising. ‘For all I know, maybe you did. You’ve hidden in your wagon since we left Geneva. Who knows how you got them.’
‘You would deny this?’ Brynhild said, glaring at Gunhild with angry astonishment. ‘I “hid” in my wagon because I was so ashamed. I felt so utterly defeated. When the Huns raped me at Vorbetomagus and left me for dead it took me years to recover. But I did. I swore a vow to the Gods that I would not let it happen to me again. I grew strong. I learned to fight. I prepared. I formed my own realm where women like me could live and be free. But men are men. Kings are always looking to expand their realms and I always knew suitors would come, pretending to want me but really wanting my lands. So I set that challenge of leaping the gorge. I set it because it was impossible. No one was supposed to be brave – be stupid – enough to complete it. Then along came Gunderic and he did. I have to admit, such courage impressed me. It made me actually want him. Then… then he did this.’
She trailed off. She was looking down at the dark river water, a desolate expression on her face as the reflected light of the rising sun dappled and danced across it. After a moment she sucked in a breath that was almost a sob.
‘You said you wanted Gunderic,’ Gunhild said. ‘Are you sure it was rape? It was your wedding night. You were both very drunk.’
Brynhild’s faraway expression disappeared in a flash.
‘Don’t you dare try to suggest that,’ she snarled, pointing her forefinger at Gunhild. ‘Don’t you dare say it was my fault! Yes, I was impressed by his deed. Yes, I probably still bore some remainder of my girlish infatuation with him deep inside. But that night, when he came fondling and pawing at me, drooling like a dog as he tried to unlace my dress, it brought back all the memories of that bastard Hun at Vorbetomagus. I told Gunderic no. I told him to stop. Perhaps I went too far in making my point but that doesn’t give him an excuse for what he did.’
Gunhild looked up, frowning as if unable to comprehend the other woman’s words.
‘I was knocked out by your husband,’ she said. ‘Your brave brother – the man who jumped the chasm – was too cowardly or too weak to fight me and needed Sigurd to help him. When I came around I was tied up. My dress ripped away and Gunderic was…’
She shook her head and looked at the river again silently.
‘Well,’ Gunhild said, her cheeks flushed. She did not know if Brynhild’s words were true or not but she was angry that her old friend had said them. They also unsettled her. Not because of the deeds themselves but because she had been brought up in the Royal Household. It was ingrained in her that at all times the most imperative thing was to maintain outward appearances. Family members could commit the most vile deeds but they were always dealt with in private. The folk, the rest of the world, should only see an outward facade of virtue.
‘You say Gunderic was weak but others would say he was too noble to strike a woman,’ she said.
Brynhild spat into the water and turned away. She began washing her arms, rubbing them vigorously as if she were trying to scrub the very skin off them.
‘And you know what my little brother is like,’ Gunhild said. ‘He’s still a spoiled little prince. Perhaps if you had not denied him what he wanted—’
‘Get away from me,’ Brynhild said, wading further upstream. ‘I want nothing more to do with you or your family.’
‘Don’t you turn your back on me!’ Gunhild felt fury boiling in her heart. ‘How dare you wash upstream from me. I am the daughter of our last king. I am the sister of the new king.’
‘You said we were equals a moment ago,’ Brynhild said, turning back to face Gunhild. ‘I was the queen of my realm! I am your queen. I am your superior.’
‘How dare you even think that!’ Gunhild said. She levelled her forefinger at the other woman. ‘You think you were a queen? By whose right? Tiwass? Jesus? You pronounced yourself a queen.’
Brynhild was staring at that forefinger. The black-haired woman suddenly reached out and grabbed Gunhild’s hand. She pulled it closer to her face and Gunhild realised she was examining the ring she wore.
‘Where did you get this?’ Brynhild said. She spoke in a quiet, even voice now.
‘Sigurd gave it to me,’ Gunhild said. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘When did he give it to you?’ Brynhild said.
‘Why, just a few weeks ago,’ Gunhild said, her brow furrowed, perplexed at yet another sudden shift of the other woman’s mood. ‘Just before your wedding.’
Brynhild let go of Gunhild’s hand, dropping it as if she had forgotten she was holding it. Her mouth was half open. Her dark eyes were empty, as if the fierce soul that blazed within her body had left it. Gunhild knew the old legends of the draugwass, the after-walkers, dead folk who returned from their graves to haunt the living. Looking at Brynhild now, she resembled exactly how Gunhild had imagined those dead yet walking creatures to be.
‘That is my ring,’ Brynhild said. ‘I laid it on the ledge for the challenger to pick up.’
She looked up, meeting Gunhild’s gaze.
‘I have been deceived,’ she said in the same, hollow tone. ‘It was not Gunderic who leapt the ravine. It was Sigurd. The whole thing was a lie.’
Gunhild gasped. She felt a pang of unease that – if this was true – Sigurd had not told her. At the same time she also felt a thrill of pride that in fact it had been her husband who had been the only one brave enough to meet the challenge.
‘So that is what Hagan’s idea was,’ she said, remembering the day at the chasm when Hagan had asked to speak to the king and Sigurd alone.
‘Hagan too?’ Brynhild said. There were now tears running down her cheeks. ‘All my so-called old friends: Hagan, you, Gunderic. All of you conspired to deceive me.’
‘We didn’t conspire,’ Gunhild said. ‘This is all just… accidental.’
‘I was not accidentally raped!’ Brynhild said, her lip curling into a snarl.
Brynhild waded to the shore. She pulled on her dress then turned around to face Gunhild.
‘Today I will lead my Valkyrjur into battle,’ she said. ‘We will kill many Huns. I will take my revenge for what was done to me at Vorbetomagus. Then—’
She looked up at the sky as if speaking to someone up there instead of Gunhild in the river.
‘Then I will take my revenge on all who have deceived me.’
She spun and stalked up the riverbank.
From the water Gunhild watched her go. Her previous feeling of contentment was gone.