Shield breaker, p.2
Shield Breaker, page 2
‘Well?’ she asked.
No patience, but then Edgar had long since learned to expect none where his mother was concerned.
‘We have the support of the Ceann Mor.’ Edgar brandished the valuable weapon, before buckling the belt around his waist.
‘Do not grow complacent because you have been gifted a bauble, Edgar. You may have struck an alliance with this man, but he might not stay loyal forever.’
Edgar glanced over, seeing that despite his words, Máel was showing Gospatric little attention. In fact he seemed more captivated by Margret as she charmed him with some tale or other. It was as though the Great Chieftain had never conversed with such an engaging woman before.
‘Fear not, mother. There might be a way I will have his loyalty for the rest of time. Or until I have the crown. Whichever comes first.’
PART ONE
BETRAYER
1
Dublin, Éire, February 1068
The white sail fluttered in the wind as the tiny ship cruised into the bay. Above shone a bright midday sun, but the sea breeze was biting, the cloak around Styrkar’s shoulders doing little to shield him from the chill breath of winter.
He glanced across at his sailing companions. One stood at the tiller, eyes fixed on the city that surrounded the bay. Two more sat facing Styrkar, hands on their oars as they prepared to guide the boat into harbour when the sail had done its work. Not a word had been uttered by any of them as they crossed the sea from England. Styrkar was at peace with that, in no mood for conversation himself.
Though he did not know any of their names it was obvious from their bearing, and the close-set eyes they all shared, that they were brothers. As Styrkar thought on that, it suddenly filled him with sadness.
Soon he would be reunited with three more brothers, who were his kin in all but blood. He would meet them as a long-lost friend before stabbing each of them in the back and betraying the memory of the father they shared. Despite struggling with what he had to do, Styrkar knew he had no choice in it.
The sudden screech of a gull tore him from sullen thoughts. Glancing up he watched the birds wheeling all about the coastline. Would that he had their freedom, that he could fly away and never return, but there were grim deeds to be dealt before that day would come.
Lowering his head, he looked down at the sword across his lap. He had held tight to King Harold’s seax for the entire journey and it felt heavy in his grip, reminding him of the weight of this burden. He was not only betraying his brothers, but also the man who had treated him like a son. But Harold was dead and gone. For now, Styrkar had to think about the living. About Gisela. He was her only hope for salvation and he could not let familial loyalty fill him with doubt.
As the ship cruised into harbour, the brothers furled the sail and used their oars to guide it toward the shore. Men at the dock caught the mooring ropes and tied them off, and Styrkar got the impression this was a well-practised routine.
Two of the brothers began to unload what cargo they had brought with them – bales of cloth and wooden barrels – and Styrkar turned to the eldest of the shipmen.
‘How long do I have before you return to England?’ he asked.
The grim-looking sailor shrugged. ‘We’re paid to stay and wait as long as it takes,’ he replied.
Styrkar had no idea how long that might be, or even if he would succeed. Still, it was reassuring to know there might at least be one way to escape if his treachery was discovered.
He stepped onto the jetty, pulling the cloak tight around him. The harbour was busy, mostly with fishing vessels, but there were a few foreign ships among them. Styrkar recognised the dragon prows of longboats, and among the crowd were a mix of shaggy locals alongside braid-haired Danes and Norse. They were not here to raid, but to trade, and Styrkar could see their sorry looking cargos. Slaves lined the dockside, each lashed together at wrists and neck. Styrkar was suddenly reminded of his own sorry beginnings in thrall to King Harald so many years ago, but he could not bring himself to feel any sorrow for these wretches. He had his task to think on.
The busy harbour led to a sprawling settlement, thatched houses packed together and stretching into the distance. Styrkar was struck by the stench, as shit and piss from man and animal flowed along the streets to run off into the sea. For a moment he wondered how he might begin to find this King Diarmait, and through him Harold’s sons, but as he scanned the rooftops he saw one building towering above the rest. Even from the bay he could tell it was a vast longhouse – where better to enquire after the King of Dublin?
He made his way through the busy streets, passing traders, slavers, warriors and farmers. At various points he had to step aside to let drovers wrangle their animals. A waddling gaggle of geese, an unruly herd of pigs, even a huge bull, bigger than Styrkar had ever laid eyes on, all passed him on the narrow roads.
No one seemed to pay him any mind, and it was clear that Dublin was a city used to visitors of all kinds. Hopefully that would stand him in good stead, and a single stranger would not be pegged for a Frankish spy.
When finally the great longhouse was in sight, he paused some distance away. Every fibre of him screamed that this was wrong, and he found it hard to walk those final few steps to the entrance, but Styrkar knew he was just delaying the inevitable.
He viewed the huge wooden doors, carved with symbols in a foreign language, the script etched among the tentacles of some great sea beast. Four warriors stood guard, shields and spears held at the ready, watching vigilantly for anyone who might intrude on the longhouse. It was obvious they were king’s men – their helms polished, green cloaks embroidered with the same swirling patterns that adorned their shields. They would have intimidated any ordinary man coming here with malicious intent, but Styrkar was no ordinary man.
Raising his head, he strode out from the shadows and walked across the muddy thoroughfare. The warriors saw him coming and raised their shields to bar the red-haired giant’s approach.
‘Hold there, big man,’ said the most senior among them, his greying beard braided into two points. ‘You’ve no business here. This is the house of King Diarmait Mac Mael. High King of Éire.’
‘Then this is exactly where my business lies,’ Styrkar replied. ‘I would speak with the king on a matter of importance.’
‘What kind of matter?’
Styrkar regarded the men, sensing their unease. ‘I’d say that’s between me and him.’
One of the younger warriors stepped forward threateningly, tipping the point of his spear toward Styrkar’s throat, but the veteran nudged him with his shield.
‘Let’s all keep steady now, shall we,’ he said, accent thick and voice calm. Styrkar appreciated such a man being in charge; an old hand ready to keep the peace rather than a hot-headed youth. ‘What’s your name, traveller?’
‘My name is Styrkar. Sworn housecarl of Harold Godwinson. Bonded to his service and the service of his kinsmen.’
The veteran nodded. ‘I know King Harold’s sons. I take it they will vouch for you?’
‘Bring them here and you will see for yourself.’
With a nod from the veteran, one of the king’s men ran off along the street. ‘Very well,’ the warrior said. ‘You will see the king, but not with that.’ He gestured to the seax Styrkar still held in his grip.
For a moment Styrkar considered arguing – it was his master’s precious weapon after all – but there was no use in being obstinate. If he was to have these men trust him he had to do as they asked.
Once he had handed the seax over, the veteran pushed open the doors to the longhouse and led the way inside. There was a sound of muffled conversation as Styrkar entered the dark confines. A fire burned in a pit at the centre of the hall and his stomach grumbled as he smelled fresh roasted pig. Thegns lounged about the place, their clothes an array of colours, gold and silver trinkets adorning their necks, wrists and fingers. Some looked up curiously as Styrkar was led through the hall, others standing ready in case of danger.
At the far end, Styrkar could see King Diarmait seated on a wooden throne. The closer he came to it, the more he could discern of the intricate carvings that adorned that seat. Diarmait looked up from a conversation he was having with two men. They leaned in close, one a warrior with thick bands about his arms, the other perhaps a reeve of some kind, a jewelled clasp glittering on his cloak. When he saw Styrkar being led closer, the king dismissed them both with a gesture of his hand.
‘And who is this?’ King Diarmait asked. His nose was broken, little left of it after it had been smashed so many times. Despite his brutal visage, his eyes were keen and bright blue like a summer sky.
‘He says he is—’
Styrkar stepped forward in front of the man, in no mood to let anyone else speak for him.
‘I am Styrkar,’ he announced. ‘Called the Red Wolf. Housecarl to Harold Godwinson, the last true king of England.’
‘He brought this, my king,’ the veteran said, handing the seax to Diarmait.
As he examined the weapon, Styrkar tried to weigh up the High King. The man was old, but still held himself with dignity. His brow was severe but there was intelligence in those bright eyes. Styrkar had met many such men in his time, some cruel, some clever. Which one this High King was he could not yet tell.
Diarmait slowly looked up from the weapon. ‘This is indeed the sword of King Harold. But you are not the Red Wolf. He died at Senlac Hill more than a year ago.’
The three warriors surrounding him tensed, one raising his shield and bracing his spear, the tip aimed at Styrkar’s heart.
‘I was at Senlac,’ Styrkar replied, ignoring the imminent threat. ‘I watched my king perish alongside his brothers. Faced the storm of arrows and heard the thunder of hooves as our numbers were culled by the Frankish onslaught. But as you can see, it was not my time to die.’
Diarmait raised an eyebrow. ‘Your time might well come soon if you don’t prove the truth of your words.’
As the king spoke, Styrkar’s eye was drawn to the row of banners arrayed behind him. Among those he did not recognise was a torn and threadbare pennant, a fighting man displayed on its filth-stained cloth. Harold’s war banner, most likely brought here by his sons and gifted to Diarmait as a mark of respect.
Styrkar took a step forward, the men around him bracing their spears to block his path. ‘You have the war banner of King Harold in your hall. A banner I have fought beneath more than once. Who other than someone faithful to the king who carried it would recognise such a symbol?’
Diarmait rubbed at his chin, still unsure of the truth in Styrkar’s claim. There were other warriors surrounding him now, hanging back in the shadows. Behind him he heard the sharp, slow ring of a sword being stripped from its sheath. Styrkar had no weapon to hand; there was no chance he could survive if they attacked.
‘Styrkar!’
The voice called out from the far end of the longhouse. Styrkar turned to see Godwin rushing toward him, Magnus and Edmund not far behind.
As Godwin hugged him, Styrkar saw the warriors surrounding them lower their weapons.
‘Brother,’ Magnus said joining in Godwin’s embrace. The young lad had grown since Styrkar had last seen him and was now as tall and strong as his older brothers.
Edmund hung back, offering a nod rather than giving such a boisterous greeting.
‘It seems you speak the truth,’ Diarmait said. He stood from his throne and took a step towards them. ‘Welcome to Dublin, Styrkar the Red Wolf. It is my honour to host a man of such repute.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Godwin asked. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I was wounded after the battle,’ Styrkar replied. ‘When I recovered I came to join with you as soon as I could. To win back the crown for the Haroldson line.’
‘And he brings this,’ Diarmait said, handing Harold’s seax to Godwin.
‘Our father’s sword,’ said Godwin, pulling the blade free of the sheath, looking in wonder as it winked in the firelight. ‘How did you come by it?’
‘Your mother…’ Styrkar replied. The thought of her stung him like an arrow to the heart, not just because of the painful memory of her death, but because of what he was here to do. She had saved him and shown him nothing but kindness, and here he was ready to betray her sons.
‘Where is she?’ Magnus asked. ‘And Ulf? And our sisters?’
Styrkar swallowed, at first unable to find the words. ‘Edith is… Your mother is dead. Your sisters sent to abbeys, your brother taken by William, to where I do not know. When Edith lost her family it was more than she could bear. She took her own life.’
Magnus took a step back, shaking his head, his eyes already filling with tears as he trembled with rage. With a howl he picked up a stool, smashing it against a pillar. Edmund was quickly by his side, holding him about the shoulders and whispering words of solace.
Godwin took Styrkar by the arm, his expression grave. ‘I’m sure you did all you could, brother.’
As Godwin said the word ‘brother’ Styrkar had to grit his teeth against the pain of it.
‘It was not enough,’ he replied.
‘Fear not,’ Godwin continued, a determined look to his eyes. ‘We will have our reckoning. William will not sit easy upon his throne for long. With the help of King Diarmait we will return to our home and reap such vengeance as England has never seen. Your arrival is a good omen, Styrkar. With you at our side none will stand against us.’
‘And when will that be?’ Styrkar asked, eager to know what Godwin’s plan was so he could be done with this deception and return to Gisela.
‘All in good time,’ Godwin said, turning to the king. ‘For now, you will find King Diarmait a welcoming and generous host.’
‘Aye,’ Diarmait said. ‘My house is your house, Styrkar. And tonight we will feast in celebration of your arrival. And to mourn Queen Edith.’
‘And I am grateful for it,’ Styrkar said as a cheer went up from the surrounding thegns.
‘Thank you for this,’ Godwin said, holding the seax to his chest. ‘Despite the cruel tidings you bring, it is truly a blessing that you have come.’
Styrkar could not answer, but then what would he say? He had come under the guise of friendship to betray his own brothers. He was the worst kind of oath breaker… a deceiver to his kin.
Yet still he would stay and drink and feast, and when the time came he would find out what he had to, and then flee this place like the traitor he was.
2
Cantocheheve, England, February 1068
She clung to the bucket as though her life depended on it. Gisela’s head span as she retched, desperately trying to stifle the noise, but there was no way you could throw your guts up and stay quiet at the same time. She could only hope anyone listening thought she was vomiting from fear… not that she was with child.
It had started the morning after Styrkar left. She had hoped beyond hope that she was just stricken with some illness, but deep inside Gisela knew what ailed her. There was a moment of joy at the realisation, and fleetingly she wondered how Styrkar might react when he found out, but that notion had quickly dissipated like smoke on the breeze to be replaced by grim reality. She was a prisoner of the Franks. Of Ronan. This was the last thing she needed.
Gisela heaved into the bucket once more. The tepid gruel she had eaten the night before had already come up. Now all that remained inside her was bile, and it dribbled from her lips into the bucket. She managed to take a breath as the nausea abated slightly, listening for anyone heeding the sound of her sickness. All was silent. Outside she could hear the soldiers going about their business, ignorant of her malady. Or perhaps they didn’t care. Either reason was a blessing.
She pulled herself to her feet, breathing deep as she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Her head still swam with dizziness and fear but she fought against it. Gisela could not give in to the bleakness of her circumstances. She had to cling onto the hope that Styrkar would succeed in his task and return to her swiftly. Whether Ronan would keep his side of the bargain was anyone’s guess, but their only chance was to do as he commanded. What might follow was out of both their hands.
When she had gathered her wits she moved to the shuttered window. Opening it she gazed across the small coastal fort. It had once been the home of an English magnate, but now was filled with Frankish knights. There were some signs of the previous occupants and the meagre belongings they had left behind. Their flight must have been in haste, as the small room still had blankets and even spare clothes strewn about the place. Gisela saw a child’s doll abandoned in one corner, and she was suddenly gripped with grief at what might become of her own child if Styrkar failed in his task. Would it even be born before she was murdered by Ronan or one of his men?
She walked to the corner, getting a grip on her faculties, feeling somewhat better now the sickness had passed. The doll had been crafted with care, the stitching neat, and when she picked it up she saw its dress had been embroidered with silken thread.
What had become of its previous owner she had no idea, but she could only wish them Godspeed. If they were fortunate, they would be miles away from here.
She knelt in the light that streamed through the window, gripped the doll in her hand, and began to pray. Her lips moved silently as she begged for salvation, begged for Styrkar’s safe return and that her child would be born healthy. The Franks might be savage warriors, but they were Christians too. Surely they would not be so brutal as to harm a child. Was that a hope too far? Even as she prayed, Gisela knew it was.
‘I would never have pegged you as a God-fearing woman, Gisela of Flanders.’
She opened her eyes, seeing Ronan standing at the doorway. He looked amused as he watched her praying, as though he already knew it was a waste of her time.
Gisela rose to her feet, hiding the doll in the folds of her kirtle. ‘Are you so surprised to see me at prayer?’
