44: A love story

Once upon a time, many centuries ago, a fearsome Viking took a shine to a fair maiden.

Not that he’d been looking for love; it just hit him out of the blue, the way these things often do. There he was, minding his own business when – pow! – the feeling struck him like an arrow straight to his heart; quickly, ruthlessly and unexpectedly.

He recognised the tactic. Whoever had held the bow operated like a Viking war band. And, just like a team of Norse raiders, the culprit had then disappeared into thin air.

So there he was, high on horseback among comrades on his way to the encampment, reeling from the blow. Luckily, his unit hadn’t noticed the young woman, who had melted into the undergrowth as soon as she had spotted them. They’d been looking the other way, eyeing up the half-hidden hovel where she probably lived and deciding it wasn’t worth the effort and delay.

He’d only caught a fleeting glimpse of the newly discovered centre of his universe. Predictably, she was pretty, and – as luck would have it – she seemed nearly his age; tall, slender and fleet-footed.

Fair enough, he’d come across plenty of such women, so why this one? Why indeed, and yet, Bjørn was smitten. The way she didn’t seem scared, maybe; that glint in her eyes, the determined set of her chin as she appeared to assess the invaders, probably in hopes of spotting a detail that would precipitate their downfall.

Clearly no pushover. He liked that in a wench.

***

She wouldn’t have expected to run into them on this forsaken forest trail. The Viking camp was more than an hour’s ride away, and coming from wherever the raiders had left their longships, it was far easier to reach by following the banks of the river.

The track was much wider, for one. Successive war parties had been using the camp for several years as a base for their raids, broadening what had once been a narrow lane into a firmly beaten path.

Who knows, maybe this lot were hoping to find somewhere to loot without having to travel too far. Not that there was much left to find, after a decade or so of their greedy presence. Or maybe they were out hunting. Your guess is as good as mine, but there they were, as large as life and twice as hairy.

***

As soon as Bjørn got the chance, he returned to the forest. It took him a while to locate the woman’s home, and once he got there he wasn’t sure what to do.

Just do something, his inner critic admonished. Anything. Get on with it. You’re a warrior, not a weather vane: you can’t just stand there until the wind changes.

So he tied his mount’s reins to a tree and went in for a closer look.

Viewed from the trail, the cabin had seemed pitiful – a ramshackle arrangement of branches and mud, with a massive hole in the rotting shingle roof.

All a ruse, as it turned out when he walked around the corner in search of a door. What had appeared to be a putrid hovel was, in fact, a tiny, yet comfortable cottage concealed by a screen of pretend decay. Just one window, to the right of the door, but it appeared to have a curtain, and there were roses growing up the façade. The stoop was neatly brushed, and the bushes in front of it had been cleared to make way for a small garden.

As he approached, the young woman appeared in the door, pointing a sword at his chest with a manifestly untrained grip. The weapon was too heavy for her; she was far likelier to hurt herself by dropping it on her foot than to injure an opponent, but it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

He backed away to the edge of the yard, placed his axe on the ground and took his helmet off. They stared at each other for a while before he left. Even if they had had a language in common, what could he have said? Sorry for the raids and the pillaging and all the rest of it; I’m actually sick of it but what choice do I have?

***

He returned every day bearing small gifts. A few apples, a bunch of flowers, a pretty comb that he had carved from an antler, but she never relented. It took both her hands to point the heavy blade at his huge frame, but point it she would.

In fairness, he seemed perfectly civil. And he was no hardship to behold, with his tempestuous red hair and broad shoulders, but she was well placed to know that appearances can be deceiving also in men.

She never accepted the gifts. The growing pile at the edge of the yard remained untouched, the blooms had wilted, the fruit was showing first signs of mould. He needed help, and there was only one potential ally he could think of.

***

“OK, Bjørn from Bjørgvin, I’ll talk you up with her,” said the goddess who floated in front of him, a few feet above ground. “But if she’s still not interested then, you’re on your own. I won’t make her.”

“I am grateful, Lady Freyja,” replied the warrior, who was still in shock that his summoning had even worked. There she was, with her exquisite gold necklace and her cloak of falcon feathers, reclining in the fabled chariot pulled by two cats.

“I have a better idea,” said the moggie on the right, which then proceeded to confer with its mistress and its team mate in thought.

“Why not,” the goddess conceded. “That could actually work.”

She had not quite finished her sentence when a young short-haired tabby appeared right between his boots.

“Very few women can resist a cute fur baby, and my cats need good, discreet homes for their offspring,” the goddess explained. “Give your beloved this bundle of joy. Remember to look strong and gentle and vulnerable when you hand this little miracle over, and she might just adopt you as well.”

The warrior scooped up the puss, which decided to nestle in the crook of his arm, purring away.

“One more thing,” the lady added. “All cats are fabulous, but these have special powers. They are even more of a blessing to the households that they grace. If this woman takes you on, the skill to bond with this kitty’s future offspring will pass through your bloodline to all daughters born with your name. So teach your descendants to treat their girls well or their cat luck may quickly run out.”

***

When he arrived in the woman’s garden the following day, he didn’t just drop all of his weapons along with his helmet. He also removed as much of his protective clothing as decency would allow. Holding her gaze, he slowly walked over to where she stood in the doorway brandishing her weapon. She didn’t recoil even when he caught the tip of her sword with two fingers and placed it right on his heart.

Basically, that did it. The kitten was merely icing on the cake.

***

“Don’t let him leave today,” the kitten warned its new mistress a few heady days later. “Something’s afoot.”

“I can’t just lock him up, can I? Look at the size of him! My door isn’t strong enough to hold him back.”

“Find a way or you will regret it.”

She found a way. A sleeping draught and a cosy nest in a large haystack, just in case one of his comrades came looking.

None of them did. A few hours later, the Battle of the Dyle was over. It didn’t end well for the Vikings.

***

Bjørn, when he woke, wasn’t best pleased. Because, of course, if he’d been able to join in, he would have single-handedly changed the course of history, n’est-ce pas, or failing that he’d now be feasting with his friends in Valhalla.

The kitten didn’t even attempt to translate all this nonsense. Valhalla can wait, it pointed out sharply, and meanwhile get over yourself. You have a whole new life waiting for you here. Embrace it.

Eventually, he came to his senses. The woman soon sported the twin tortoise brooches of a married Viking woman, and before long their first daughter was born. As we release the memory of the little family to the mists of time, look how tenderly he is bending over the crib, handing his child the first of many carved toys. Vikings do know a thing or two about woodworking.