Honour is All Read online

  HONOUR IS ALL

  Book Three

  in the Shieldmaiden Trilogy

  By

  Marianne Whiting

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017

  Octavo House

  West Bute Street

  Cardiff

  CF10 5LJ

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Copyright © Marianne Whiting 2017

  The right of Marianne Whiting to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.

  eISBN 9781682996263

  Thus the warrior shapes

  the world with his sword

  and words fly like eagles

  to tell of his might

  But a wandering sword

  Is doomed to break

  And eagles are plucked

  from the sky in mid-flight

  Extract from Det Eviga by Esaias Tegner (1782-1846)

  Freely translated from Swedish by the author.

  List of Characters

  King Aedred, King of Wessex, aspires to be King of All England.

  Aluinn, servant woman. Mother of Ole and Inga. Her eldest son died in a fire at Becklund.

  Anlaf Sithricson, (Cuaran), King of Dublin, King of Jorvik 941–44 and 949–952.

  Anlaf Yngvarson of Rannerdale, Sigrid’s sworn man, married to Ragnar’s sister Gyda.

  Jarl Arnkeld, powerful jarl of Orkney.

  Brother Ansgar, monk and scribe to Archbishop Wolfstan.

  Brother Bothwid, monk in a small religious community at Crosthwaite nr Keswick.

  Cerdic the Briton aka Flatnose, freed thrall turned warrior sworn to Ragnar.

  Cinedred, disgraced widow of Lawman Mord Lambason of Keskadale.

  Cub (Varg Njalson), Kirsten’s son by a deceased son of Lawman Mord Lambason.

  Father Cuthred, priest at Crosthwaite.

  Dunmail ab Owain, King of Cumbria and Strathclyde.

  King Eirik Haraldson (Bloodaxe), King of Jorvik 937, 947–48 and 952–54.

  Eysten Mordson of Keskadale, sole surviving son of Lawman Mord Lambason.

  Gerda Kohlsdaughter, Kohl Ivarson’s daughter, taken as fostring by Sigrid.

  Gudred Eirikson, one of Eirik Bloodaxe’s sons with Queen Gunnhild.

  Gudrun Ragnarsdaughter, Sigrid’s daughter.

  Queen Gunnhild Gormsdaughter, Eirik Bloodaxe’s wife.

  Gyda Sweinsdaughter, Ragnar’s sister, married to Anlaf Yngvarson of Rannerdale.

  Haeric, son of Eirik Bloodaxe.

  Harald Ragnarson, Sigrid’s second son.

  Helle, orphan who with her sister sought Sigrid’s protection and became part of Sigrid’s hird.

  Inga, daughter of Aluinn and Cerdic, Ole’s sister and Harald’s friend.

  Kirsten, Sigrid’s Norwegian servant-girl, a healer, mother of Cub (Varg Njalson).

  Kjeld Gunnarson, brother of Sigrid’s first husband Hauk, Sigrid’s deadly enemy.

  Kohl Ivarson of Greethwaite Farm, Gerda’s father.

  Kveldulf Ragnarson, Sigrid’s eldest son, named for her father.

  Lothar the Frankian, Ragnar’s blood-brother, runs Ragnar’s farm at Buttermere.

  Lydia, Thrall woman from Galicia, belonged to Sigrid’s first husband Hauk, killed Sigrid’s servant Ingefried and was executed by Sigrid. Her children by Kjeld Gunnarson Maria, Jesus (re-named Veste), Anna (re-named Nanna), were born thralls. Maria died after setting fire to Becklund. The other two were freed and acknowledged by Kjeld as his children.

  Nanna Kjeldsdaughter, Kjeld Gunnarson’s youngest child.

  Ole, Aluinn and Cerdic’s son, Inga’s brother, Harald’s friend.

  Olvir, Sigrid’s orphaned nephew and fostring, adopted by her and Ragnar.

  Orm Yngvarson, Anlaf Yngvarson’s brother, sworn to Ragnar.

  Osred, Vida’s son, friends with Cub and Gudrun.

  Ragnar Sweinson, Sigrid’s husband.

  Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter, Shieldmaiden.

  Swein Lotharson, Thora’s son by Lothar the Frankian.

  Thora Sweinsdaughter, Ragnar’s sister, married to Lothar the Frankian, farms Buttermere Farm for Ragnar.

  Thorstein Ragnarson, Sigrid’s youngest child.

  Unn Ingolfsdaughter, Sigrid’s fostring, known for her fierce temper.

  Varg the Varangian, old warrior sworn to Sigrid.

  Vida, servant at Becklund.

  Veste, Kjeld Gunnarson’s son, Nanna’s brother.

  Wolfstan I, Archbishop of York 931–952.

  Ylva Flamehair, Sigrid’s sworn warrior.

  Chapter 1

  Bad Omen

  May 947

  There was nowhere to hide. Two men, neither of whom I wished to meet, came riding, each with their own hird in tow. One standard bore the silver cross on a red and green background: Archbishop Wulfstan, an honour but not one I coveted. With him, a chieftain whose standard bore a black raven in full flight. I had heard rumours that Eirik Haraldson, the one they called Bloodaxe, was back in Northumbria. Here he was with Archbishop Wulfstan, the self-appointed king-maker for Jorvik. And they were headed for Becklund, my farm.

  I sighed and levered myself out of my seat. I was close to confinement and huge. At least nobody was going to ask me to fight for them. Not that Wulfstan would anyway. He was horrified that I, a woman, carried sword and shield into battle at the head of my own group of warriors. As for Eirik, one-time King of Norway and once for a short spell King of Jorvik, he was my mother’s half-brother and, on the sole occasion I met him, he imprisoned me with the aim of using me as a peace-weaver in an arranged marriage. All this was a long time ago but I had no reason to believe that his appearance at my farm was good news.

  I went out to greet the visitors. I put one hand on the small of my back, partly for support, partly to exaggerate my condition. If I thought that would make them cut their visit short I was wrong. The Archbishop beamed with jovial pleasure when he saw me.

  ‘Sigrid Kveldulf’s daughter, I thank the Good Lord that I find you looking so well. I note you are in a blessed state. Don’t bother to kneel, please.’ He presented his hand with the ring I was supposed to kiss. As usual I ignored it. He knew I would and his smile didn’t change. ‘We shall not impose on your hospitality for long. Oh – ale, good. Thank you, thank you.’ He emptied the horn I handed him, wiped the froth from his clean shaven chin with the back of his hand and sighed with pleasure.

  My other visitor dismounted and drank from the replenished welcome-ale. His beard had turned grey but with his thin nose and bored expression he was as I remembered him. I made a weak attempt at a curtsy and he nodded.

  ‘Welcome, Uncle,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, Niece. I’m afraid I fail to recall if we’ve met before.’ I didn’t believe him but if that’s how he wanted to avoid embarrassment between us that suited me fine. He looked around.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he said, nodding towards the stable where Varg came out, limping on his wooden leg, leading one of our young stallions. Eirik’s narrowed eyes told me that he knew the answer so there was no avoiding the question.

  ‘Varg the Varangian he’s called. He’s my sworn man.’ Eirik made no comment but his lips were pressed together in a thin line. Oh Varg, I thought, what part of your
past has just caught up with you and why have you not told me?

  ***

  Whatever I felt about this visit I had to make a show of my status as a well-to-do landowner. So I ordered a feast worthy of the Archbishop and the royal visitor. A flurry of activity produced smoked meat, fish, rich broth and bread washed down with wine served in glass beakers for Wulfstan and Eirik, while their men had plenty of ale and mead to drink from large horns. Wulfstan nodded with appreciation and complimented me on both the fare and my home.

  ‘A hall worthy of a chieftain,’ he said. I couldn’t help feeling pleased at his praise. From my place in the high seat on the dais I could see that the extra trestle-tables allowed every man in the two hirds a comfortable space. The platforms along the sides of the hall made soft, warm seating with pelts and straw-filled bolsters. It looked like a proper mead hall. I took pleasure in telling Wulfstan about the woven wall-hangings with their motifs of gods and warriors.

  My uncle had eaten in silence but now he emptied his beaker, burped and said:

  ‘Where is your husband, Niece?’ Wulfstan looked a little irritated at the interruption but nodded.

  ‘Yes, we hope to enlist Ragnar Sweinson’s support for your royal uncle’s claim to the Kingdom of Jorvik. We have a need of his word at your local Thing and, of course, his sword, should it be necessary.’

  I almost laughed. So it was Ragnar they wanted. Who did I think I was? I may have established myself as a warrior and landowner among the Cumbrian Norse. I may have my own farm and a good reputation locally. I was listened to at our Thing, I had a say in discussions and a vote in decisions. But to Wulfstan I would never be anyone other than Ragnar’s wife, whose royal lineage sometimes made her a useful pawn in his game.

  ‘Ragnar is a-viking somewhere out West. I don’t know when to expect him. As you know, these expeditions can be unpredictable.’ I hoped it didn’t show how relieved I was that Ragnar was away and that I didn’t even have to lie about it.

  The day was ending and my servants and thralls arrived for their evening meal. It was getting crowded and some of them took their bowls to find seats away from the main part of the hall. Varg arrived leaning on his crutch. I pointed to a space at the end of a row. But he didn’t notice me. He stared at Eirik and he’d gone quite pale. His hand moved to where his sword would be, had he carried it. He hobbled a step back and surveyed the hall. One of Eirik’s men, a red-haired warrior with a scar across his face, stopped eating. He looked at Varg then at Eirik who nodded as if in response to a question.

  Varg bore the stamp of a man who faced reckoning for old deeds. He took another step back. Then he turned and disappeared in the direction of the wapenshouse. I watched, appalled. Surely he didn’t intend to arm himself in my hall, the one place where his safety was guaranteed. He couldn’t mean to insult me by showing such lack of trust in my ability to keep the peace. And how would he fight with a sword anyway, one-legged as he was?

  All around the hall people were eating, drinking and talking. Only I, Eirik and the scarred warrior seemed to have noticed Varg leaving. The warrior made to rise but Eirik put his hand up and he sat down again. My stomach contracted with tension and I could hardly hear what the Archbishop was saying. After a while Varg re-appeared but not, as I had feared, with his sword but with a leather pouch which he held in front of his chest like a shield. He made his way between the two rows of tables until he reached the dais. He faced Eirik and said:

  ‘Eirik Haraldson, many years have passed since we last met but I know you have recognised me. I see no need for lengthy talk. There’s bad blood between us and I wish to offer fair compensation for the part I played in the killing of your son.’ He reached over and put the pouch on the table in front of Eirik. It came to rest with the kind of clinking sound only solid silver makes. All across the hall, where sucking, slurping and burping had mixed with talk and laughter, there was now not a sound to be heard. Spoons and knives came to rest on the tables. The air was tense with expectation. My mind swirled. I held on to the table for support. The responsibility of being the mistress of the hall pressed on my shoulders like a quern-stone. I turned to Eirik and tried to keep my voice steady.

  ‘Uncle, this sworn man of mine is offering compensation for a deed of which I am ignorant. Will you tell me what this is about?’ Eirik said nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the scar-faced warrior stand and, knife in hand, move towards Varg. Two of my warrior women, Ylva Flamehair and Unn the Untamed, managed to get between them. Eirik pretended not to notice. It was the Archbishop who spoke:

  ‘Get back to your seat, Haeric. Show respect for Sigrid Kveldulfsdaughter in whose hall you are a guest enjoying hospitality and safety.’ The man stopped, scowled and looked at Eirik for guidance. Eirik nodded at him and he sat down but all the time with his eyes fixed on Varg. A thrall sidled up to Ylva and Unn with their swords. Some of Eirik’s men stirred. The air suddenly tingled with hostility.

  ‘Uncle, who is this warrior,’ I asked, ‘and why does he disturb the peace of my hall?’

  ‘One of my sons,’ said Eirik. ‘I suppose that makes him your cousin.’ I looked at the brute and reflected that I had yet to meet a relative I didn’t distrust on sight. I pointed to the pouch that sat among goblets and bowls on the table.

  ‘You have been offered weregeld, Uncle. Will you accept it as compensation for your loss?’ He picked up his goblet and drank of the wine. For a moment I thought he would ignore my question. Then he reached out and took the pouch. He weighed it in his hand. He undid the strap and looked inside.

  ‘Not enough,’ he said, ‘not for my son.’ I took one of my gold arm-rings and handed it to him. He raised one eyebrow. I said:

  ‘Take this and any horse, save my own, from my stable.’ Eirik looked at me and my stomach went into knots again. Eventually he nodded. A deep sigh of relief stole from my chest. I thought the matter settled. It might have been if Varg hadn’t turned and bared his filed teeth at Haeric. Haeric roared and made to rise. Ylva and Unn put their hands on his shoulders and pushed him down. He shook them off. There was a scuffle. Two of my servants came to the aid of my women. Between them they twisted Haeric’s arms behind his back. His head was pushed down but he managed to look up at Eirik.

  ‘My brother’s blood!’ he shouted. ‘My honour. I want the blood of his killer. No weregeld. Retribution!’ A wooden bowl hit him on the head and, with a surprised look on his face, he slid on to the floor. Men among Eirik’s hird began to pull out weapons hidden in their clothing; a small axe from a wide sleeve, a short sword from under a tunic, a sawn-off spear from a trouser-leg. Ylva and Unn drew their swords. My other three warrior women arrived fully armed. Servants and thralls scrambled for whatever implements were at hand. More of Eirik’s hird got up. They moved towards Varg, who had produced a sword from Odin knows where. He swung it in front of him while supporting himself with one hand on the high table. I reached for Dragonclaw which hung with my shield on the wall behind the high seat. Hayforks, scythes and sickles appeared and were put to work. Our guests smashed table tops and trestles and hewed around them. In an instant, the mead hall I had been so proud of, descended into a battle ground. Varg, wobbling on his wooden leg, howled like the Wulfhedne he used to be. Eirik’s men roared their battle cry: ‘Feed the raven’. My five warrior women shouted our Cumbrian chant: ‘You all belong to Odin.’ Wulfstan climbed on to the table and tried to stop the fighting. He was ignored even by his own men, who fought some on Eirik’s side, some on the side of my household while some just joined in for the sheer joy of it.

  Bowls, horns, table legs, food and dog droppings flew around the hall, thrown with or, sometimes it seemed, without purpose and aim. Blood flowed. A warrior in a blue tunic was hit in the face and slid gracefully under the table. Another screamed as he was knifed in the back. The scent of blood drove my hounds mad and they entered the affray, growling, barking and biting friends and enemies alike. In my condition I couldn’t get out from behind the table and th
e only people within reach of Dragonclaw were Wulfstan and Eirik so I waved my blade above my head and shouted encouragement to my household.

  It was, of course, an outrage. A member of my household goading and provoking men who had come as guests entitled to safety and hospitality. It could have ended in blood-bath, disgrace and a lawsuit. But, in the middle of it all, I cried out in pain, my waters broke and the imminent arrival of my son Thorstein overshadowed all else.

  I was told later that my scream had interrupted the fighting long enough for the Archbishop to use his considerable vocal force to gain control. He all but excommunicated Eirik’s whole crew. He got his own hird to disarm them. All that passed me by. I was bundled into the sauna by my servant woman and given the usual concoction of henbane, shepherd’s purse and sage to help me through the long hours that it always took me to bear a new son. When I came to, late the next day, with a ferocious thirst and my head full of demons battling to get out, I learned that my two unwelcome visitors had left with their unruly hirds and one of my prize stallions.

  I have had the misfortune to come into contact with several kings. I am related to three of them. Harald Finehair was my grandfather. Eirik Bloodaxe was one of the twenty or so sons that Harald acknowledged. Eirik was named Bloodaxe because people said he killed some of his brothers in order to gain the crown of Norway. When I met him and his witch of a wife, he’d been ousted by another of my uncles, his youngest half-brother Hakon. Hakon was called “The Good”. This good King Hakon killed my father, blinded my brother and abducted my mother who was his half-sister. I have no reason to feel attached to either of my two royal uncles.

  Nor do I take any pride in the number of times I have risked my life in the service of kings. Every time I thought I fought for something worthwhile, for retribution and justice, or for Cumbria and our way of life here. But it all turned out to be for the ambition of some king or other.

  So I had determined not to get involved in any more struggles on behalf of kings. Instead I devoted myself to my farm, the new horses we bred at Becklund and my family. Ragnar, on the other hand, was a warrior and spurned the life of a farmer. His departure on another raid had irked me. But when the Archbishop and King Eirik arrived I began to think maybe my gods had planned for Ragnar to be absent. That was good, the last thing I wanted was for Ragnar to get tangled up in some scheme of theirs.