I was born way up North in the lands the Romans refer to as Germania as the only son of our tribe's chief. Much was expected of me since the combined blood of two esteemed warrior families runs through my veins - yet I couldn't live up to them.

Quite soon it became clear to my parents that I would not be elected as a warrior boy. According to custom, those boys form a separate group, a tribe within the tribe, along with a few selected elders to teach them the arts and crafts of battle, which are sacred to us.

By good fortune I was given into the hands of a travelling singer. To a Roman this might sound cruel, to us it is not. Being a singer is not as honourable as being a warrior (and sometimes the very gifted men are both), but is held in esteem nonetheless, since we are the ones who keep the lore alive, perform at the sacred festivals and preserve our history in songs.

Though we have a script, we rarely use it for mundane affairs. The symbols, called runes, are sacred to the God Odin, and are mostly used for sacred matters, so all our songs and lore are in our hearts rather than written down. Becoming a singer therefore means committing everything to memory.

As singers and musicians we were free to travel wherever it pleased us, and together with my master I went places most of my fellow tribesmen will most likely never see. My master had a high reputation and was never short of engagements, so consequently we travelled far and wide during the times the roads were passable.

After a few years under his wings he developed another kind of liking for me, and it was a natural thing for me to welcome his advances, since I was already having daydreams about him. One year after he had taken me to his bed, our way finally led us back to my village.

Other than me, my father was less than pleased when he guessed the nature of our relationship. He put a quick and ugly end to the affair which left me sore and bleeding on the inside as well as on the outside. Moreover I discovered how fast a man can run when he has reason to believe an enraged warrior is out to have his privates as a decoration for the middens.

Since I am as stubborn as my father, we fought it out and after a few rounds we stroke a deal. He was determined to have a grandchild to carry on his name and blood, and I was to provide him with one. After having done that, he said, I was free and on my own again - as long as I followed this, in his eyes embarrassing path far away from the village. My wife, for I was to marry, would remain under his protection.

I knew this was as far as he would go and agreed. I knew what his ire was about, as well as you probably do. It was not the fact that I had shared my body with a man, no, I know for a fact that my father has done the very same at more than one opportunity. To him my position had mattered, as it would have for almost everybody else, I suppose.

However, I wed my childhood friend Ragnhild. I didn't keep any secrets from her when it came to the nature of our marriage; as I had suspected she readily agreed - after all it provided her with a safe background to follow her own paths of love, undisturbed by annoying suitors. We made love as friends, and the result was a tiny little boy she named Olaf in honour of my father's father.

For some time after Olaf's birth I debated with myself whether I should stay or not, but I realised, that in the end I couldn't do it. So I left my tribe at the first stirrings of spring, and I have never returned. Ragnhild is nothing more than a fond memory of a true friend and sister in heart.

For some time I travelled through the north, made sure that I enjoyed myself excessively and found myself enough patrons along the way to gather the means for something I had dreamed of for years. I wanted to leave my native lands, I wanted to learn other songs, listen to other stories, start a new life. I wanted to sail over to ▶ Britannia.