Shield breaker, p.1
Shield Breaker, page 1
Also by Richard Cullen
The Wolf of Kings Series
Oath Bound
Steelhaven (as R S Ford)
Herald of the Storm
The Shattered Crown
Lord of Ashes
War of the Archons (as R S Ford)
A Demon in Silver
Hangman’s Gate
Spear of Malice
The Age of Uprising (as R S Ford)
Engines of Empire
SHIELD BREAKER
THe Wolf of Kings Book Two
Richard Cullen
An Aries book
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Richard Cullen, 2022
The moral right of Richard Cullen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (PB): 9781801102070
ISBN (E): 9781801102063
Cover design: Mark Swan
Head of Zeus Ltd
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5–8 Hardwick Street
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Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Place Names
Prologue: Scóine, Alba, January 1068
Part One: Betrayer
Chapter 1: Dublin, Éire, February 1068
Chapter 2: Cantocheheve, England, February 1068
Chapter 3: Dublin, Éire, February 1068
Chapter 4: Dublin, Éire, March 1068
Chapter 5: Dublin, Éire, March 1068
Chapter 6: Exonia, England, April 1068
Chapter 7: Dublin, Éire, April 1068
Chapter 8: Laoighse, Éire, April 1068
Chapter 9: Wiltescire, England, April 1068
Chapter 10: Dublin, Éire, May 1068
Chapter 11: Ludenburgh, England, May 1068
Chapter 12: Dunster, England, May 1068
Chapter 13: Lintone, England, June 1068
Chapter 14: Tantone, England, June 1068
Chapter 15: Berencestra, England, June 1068
Chapter 16: Wain’s Hill, England, June 1068
Chapter 17: Banesberie, England, June 1068
Chapter 18: Bledone, England, June 1068
Chapter 19: Waruic, England, June 1068
Chapter 20: Tantone, England, July 1068
Chapter 21: Waruic, England, July 1068
Chapter 22: Tantone, England, August 1068
Chapter 23: Waruic, England, September 1068
Part Two: The Aetheling
Chapter 24: Waruic, England, November 1068
Chapter 25: Tantone, England, November 1068
Chapter 26: Waruic, England, December 1068
Chapter 27: Grimeshou, England, December 1068
Chapter 28: Tantone, England, December 1068
Chapter 29: Yorke, England, December 1068
Chapter 30: Glestingaburg, England, December 1068
Chapter 31: Hagenesse, England, January 1069
Chapter 32: Waruic, England, January 1069
Chapter 33: Berewyke, England, January 1069
Chapter 34: Middeltun, England, January 1069
Chapter 35: Segerston Heugh, England, January 1069
Chapter 36: Dun Holm, England, January 1069
Chapter 37: Dun Holm, England, January 1069
Chapter 38: Dun Holm, England, January 1069
Chapter 39: Yorke, England, February 1069
Chapter 40: Yorke, England, February 1069
Chapter 41: Yorke, England, March 1069
Chapter 42: Yorke, England, March 1069
Chapter 43: Oleslec, England, March 1069
Chapter 44: Glossary
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
We have experienced the truth of this prophecy, for England has become the habitation of outsiders and the dominion of foreigners. Today, no Englishman is earl, bishop, or abbott, and newcomers gnaw away at the riches and very innards of England; nor is there any hope for an end of this misery.
— William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum
Place Names
Alba – Scotland
Ánslo – Oslo
Banesberie – Banbury
Berchastede – Berkhamsted
Berencestra – Bicester
Berewyke – Barwick-in-Elmet
Bledone – Bleadon
Bretagne – Brittany
Brygstow – Bristol
Cantocheheve – Quantoxhead
Cornualge – Cornwall
Dublin
Dunheved – Launceston
Dun Holm – Durham
Dunster
Efor – Yorkshire
Éire – Ireland
Exonia – Exeter
Glestingaburg – Glastonbury
Grimeshou – Grimesthorpe
Hagenesse – Hackness
Haxebi – Haxby
Hereford
Laoighse – Portlaoise
Lintone – Linton
Ludenburgh – London
Middeltun – Middleton
Oleslec – Ulleskelf
Scóine – Scone
Segerston Heugh – Sacriston
Sumersete – Somerset
Waruic – Warwick
Wiltescire – Wiltshire
Yorke – York
PROLOGUE
Scóine, Alba, January 1068
He would have been a king, but the crown was torn away from his grasp before he had a chance to touch its gilded edge. Edgar had stood as proudly as he was able when the witan elected him their monarch. Thegns and magnates had roared their approval, but he knew it was all for show. They had chosen him aright, but only for his youth and naivety. He would have been a puppet on the throne, a tool for the wielding of other men. Little more than a year on, and the one they called Aetheling was naïve no longer.
His ship had sailed north along the coast, then down the firth to the river that cut a path to this notorious seat of power in Alba. As it cruised to the jetty he could only feel the ignominy of it. He, the chosen king of England, being forced to prostrate himself at the feet of another ruler. To beg for aid in order to take back what was rightfully his. But he would not kneel forever.
No sooner had the ship landed and its mooring been fixed than he leapt ashore, feeling his legs tremble on solid ground after so long at sea. The brisk air of Alba chilled him, but he had foregone a cloak. These savage northerners could smell the stink of weakness, and Edgar would not offer them the merest whiff.
He turned to help his mother down from the boat, and she gratefully took his hand. Though she had put a brave face on this, her reservations were obvious in the dark shadow of concern that marred her features. They waited as the boatmen helped his sisters ashore, closely followed by Gospatric. The ealdorman had a grim look to his narrow face, but then he had reason to be troubled. He was an earl dispossessed of an earldom. A powerful man with no power. Edgar knew full well he had only presented himself as an ally, and promised to help regain the crown, for his own betterment. Nevertheless, in a land of few friends, Edgar would have to accept help where it was offered. He could only hope the man they had come to meet would make a more trustworthy ally than this Saxon lord.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ Gospatric said, clapping Edgar on the shoulder. ‘Trust me, I have known Máel for many years, and he is no friend of the Franks. This is the wisest course.’
Edgar nodded his agreement, but was given no solace by Gospatric’s mention of ‘trust’. Could he really trust anyone in these savage times?
They struck north from the jetty, along a path that cut through an open glen. Edgar didn’t have to go far before they saw men waiting for them atop the hill ahead. There were five of them, each as stout and implacable as the surrounding land, their furs blowing in the breeze, their hair as wild and rampant as Alba itself.
Gospatric stepped forward, sharing brief words with the men in the Gàidhlig tongue. They laughed, eyeing Edgar with little respect before beckoning him to follow. Not for the first time he wondered if this was some kind of trap, if he had led his mother and sisters into needless peril, but what fear could Alba hold that the rest of the country did not? If Edgar was to take his rightful crown he would have to show more conviction.
He turned to make sure his mother and sisters were still close. Though whipped by the wind, the lady Agatha had a firm set to her jaw. Behind her Cristina looked skittish, eyes flitting to left and right as though she expected an ambush to burst from the ground she walked on. In contrast, his sister Margret bore that serene look to her face that always gave Edgar little impression of what she was thinking.
His mother increased her pace, grasping his arm as they followed their guides to the brow of the hill.
‘Are you prepared for what we might face?’ she asked in the language of the Rus, lest they be overheard. ‘Those men look every inch the barbarians we have been warned to expect. At best we might be offered no sanctuary. At worst…’ She left that consequence to hang in the cold air.
‘Gospatric has reassured me we are safe in the court of Alba.’
‘I believe that man less than the Franks.’
‘Belief is all we have to rely on right now,’ Edgar replied, though he hated to admit it. ‘We need allies, and this is our best chance to secure them.’
‘And what of your sisters?’ Agatha said. Edgar could sense the fear in her usually calm tone.
‘I will see no harm come to them. We have been greeted by warriors, mother. Most likely it is a show of strength, nothing more.’
Edgar could only hope that was true. It reminded him of another display of power he had been privy to, when the newly crowned king had offered ‘invitations’ to the great and good of England. Magnates like Edwin and his brother Morcar, Gospatric himself and his cousin Waltheof, even the Archbishop Stigand, along with Edgar, had been taken to the Dukedom of Normandy. There, William had celebrated his victory, along with displaying his defeated English prisoners, to the roar of the crowd. They had been treated like visiting dignitaries, wined and fed on the finest of fare. Persuaded that it was in their best interest, and the interest of their people, to accept the rule of William and the passing of power to a new regime of ealdormen from foreign shores.
Of course they had agreed, but what other choice was there? Such hospitality was thinly veiled in threat. Accept and be rewarded. Defy and burn along with the country. So of course, the Saxons had accepted with a toasting of wine and cheers for their new king. Edgar had been more surprised than any that King William had believed these treacherous Saxons. If he had known them like Edgar did, he would have realised they would never accept him as their new lord and master. England had been a country riven by division and internecine warfare long before the Normans and the Bretons and the Flemish set foot on its soil. Edgar knew full well that even had he been given the throne, as promised at Berchastede, he would have spent the rest of his reign quelling the ambitions of the very men who had sat him there.
When Edgar saw the huge fort rising from beyond the ridge, all thoughts of past kings suddenly fled, to be replaced by the meeting of a new one. Just beyond the palisade he could see a grim building, half cathedral, half longhall – a monument to the power of the kings of Alba. Outside the gate to the fort more men waited.
As he drew closer, Edgar could see they were bedecked in furs, beards and hair braided. From a distance, he thought that the size of them was perhaps a trick of the light but when he came within ten yards he realised that each one was huge – a bear in human form.
Gospatric stopped some feet in front of them and Edgar came to stand by his side. One of the warriors, his hair red but flecked with grey, took a step forward.
‘Greetings to you all,’ he said in thick accented English. ‘Welcome to the seat of Máel Coluim, son of Donnchada, the Ceann Mor of Alba.’
With that he stood back and the biggest of their number strode forward. Though he wore no crown, around his neck hung a thick chain of iron, bronze bands about his wrists and rings of gold adorning every finger. From the deference shown by his fellows, Edgar knew this could only be the king they had come to beseech.
Before Edgar could thank him for his audience, Gospatric stepped up to the man with a wide smile on his face. ‘Great Chieftain,’ said the ealdorman. ‘It has been too long.’
They grasped one another like long-lost brothers, but it still did little to calm Edgar’s nerves. It was all he could do to stop himself shivering and he only hoped that it would appear the cold, and not fear, made him tremble so. When they had done with their greeting, Máel stepped toward Edgar, offering his hand in a more formal greeting. Edgar took it, feeling the strength of that grip. This man was a formidable one and no mistake, his dark hair combed and oiled, his face a monolith of granite, bearing the scars of his victories. He glared down at Edgar impassively, before raising one scarred brow.
‘You should have worn a cloak, lad. It’s bloody freezing.’
As though to labour the point, the fur of Máel’s cloak ruffled in the wind. Was it wolf? It looked like bear, though there had been no such beasts on these shores for hundreds of years. No matter, it still gave him the appearance of a mighty warrior, and one in front of which Edgar was keenly aware of his inferiority.
‘You have my gratitude, Great Chieftain. For allowing myself and my family to take refuge, and for meeting with me.’
‘Ach, I’m glad of it. The Franks move ever northward in their quest to bring these islands to heel. Their intentions on the kingdoms of Alba are plain to see for anyone with eyes. I would be thankful for English allies at my side.’ He clapped a meaty hand to Edgar’s back and directed him through the open gate of the fort. ‘The Saxons I know. The Franks I know not.’
Of that there was no doubt. For centuries the kingdoms of England and Alba had fought like dogs back and forth across their borders, but they had also traded in times of peace. Edgar knew better than anyone that it was conquest, and not peace, that interested King William the most.
‘Were I to sit on the throne of England, there would be only shared respect between our kingdoms,’ Edgar said as he walked ahead of their procession and along the road to the great hall. ‘Things would be as they were during the most cordial days of our two ancient lands. Better, in fact. You would have to fear no invasion.’
Máel’s brow darkened slightly at Edgar’s words. ‘We do not fear a fight with the Franks, lad.’
‘No. I did not mean that—’
A grin crossed Máel’s bearded face and he clapped Edgar on the back with a heavy palm. ‘I know what you meant. But if we hope to put things back as they were, neither of us should expect it to be bloodless.’
They had reached a patch of open ground, with a hillock that rose to a flat peak. Atop it was a carved red stone laid flat in its centre. Edgar could only think it some kind of pagan idol, left in pride of place.
‘I do not fear war either, Máel. My grandfather was a king who fought for his crown. I am in no doubt I will have to do the same. Though I have much respect for your fearsome reputation, I do not ask that you take the crown for me. Merely aid me in this time of need, and I will remember it when I sit on the throne.’
Máel turned to face him with a solemn look. ‘You think you have the will to take it and hold it, lad? You think you can defy this Frankish duke and all his noble lords? His knights?’
Edgar glared back with as much grim certitude as he could muster. ‘I know I have been a puppet in the plays of other men for too long. Now it is my time. I will claim what is mine or I will fall.’
A warm smile crossed Máel’s lips, much to Edgar’s relief, and he gestured to the red stone. ‘This is sacred to my people. The Clach na Cinneamhain. No king of Alba can proclaim himself as king unless crowned upon it.’
Edgar nodded at the insinuation. ‘And no one will accept my claim to the English throne unless I take it for myself.’
‘You have a wise head on those young shoulders, Edgar Aetheling. And perhaps you may yet make a good king. So I will help you, in any way I can. Tonight we will feast as friends, and vow that friendship lasts after you are crowned. But first you have an enemy to defeat.’ He unbuckled the sword at his belt. It was a beautiful weapon, jewelled at the hilt and wide in the blade. ‘So to help you do the deed, and as a gesture of my support, you shall have this.’
Edgar marvelled at the gift, pulling the rune-carved steel from the scabbard and staring in awe at its craftsmanship.
‘You have my thanks, Great Chieftain. Someday I will work out how to repay you for such generosity.’
Máel cast a brief glance over one shoulder, to where Edgar’s mother and sisters stood. ‘Aye. Someday I might well ask for something in return.’ He looked back, his face now serious once more. ‘But for now I must speak with Gospatric. You know how these English earls need much attention.’
‘That I do,’ Edgar replied, and with that Máel left him with his sword.
No sooner had he gone than Agatha approached, her face more concerned than ever, despite the obvious display of alliance Edgar now held in his hands.
