Daughter Of The Norse Gods

By Val Manning

In the ninth century, as the lights of Christian civilization burned bravely in an England threatened by the dragon ships of the sea-devils, a girl called Astrid, torn between her Saxon upbringing and the wilder call of her blood, is plunged into the struggle between Saxon and Viking.
Kidnapped by raiders, forced to assume a male identity, she finds herself a vital link in the conflict for supremacy between two alien cultures. Set against a background of intrigue and violence, Astrid’s search for the truth about herself is complicated by her growing passion for the gentle Krodin, the Viking leader, and the division between her twin loyalties. Moving from England to Norway, the story unfolds in a clash of roaring seas, heathen Vikings and the camp of King Alfred whose future is strangely bound up with the heroine at war with her own nature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emissary Publishing
• Release date: Nov 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463804346

Book preview

Table of Contents

Start

Books Consulted

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

© Val Manning 1973

First published in Great Britain 1973

To my parents, Marjorie and Harry, for the promise I once made and the love we have always shared.

DAUGHTER OF THE NORSE GODS

In the ninth century, as the lights of Christian civilization burned bravely in an England threatened by the dragon ships of the sea-devils, a girl called Astrid, torn between her Saxon upbringing and the wilder call of her blood, is plunged into the struggle between Saxon and Viking.

Kidnapped by raiders, forced to assume a male identity, she finds herself a vital link in the conflict for supremacy between two alien cultures. Set against a background of intrigue and violence, Astrid’s search for the truth about herself is complicated by her growing passion for the gentle Krodin, the Viking leader, and the division between her twin loyalties. Moving from England to Norway, the story unfolds in a clash of roaring seas, heathen Vikings and the camp of King Alfred whose future is strangely bound up with the heroine at war with her own nature.

Books Consulted

The Anglo-Saxons by David Wilson

The Beginnings of English Society by Dorothy Whitelock

Life and Times of Alfred the Great by C. Plummer, M.A.

Asser’s Life of King Alfred

Anglo-Saxon Chronicle

England Before the Norman Conquest by Charles Oman

Makers of the Realm by Arthur Bryant

The Anglo-Saxons by R. R. Sellman

A Social History of England from 55 B.C. to A.D. 1215 by Ralph Arnold

A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, Vol I, Birth of Britain by Winston S. Churchill

Everyday Life in Roman and Anglo-Saxon Times by Marjorie and C. H. B. Quennell

The Vikings by Johannes Brondsted

Gods and Myths of Northern Europe by H. R. Ellis Davidson

The Heimskringla, Part 2 (Sagas of the Norse Kings) by Snorri Sturluson

Vikings at Home and Abroad by D. R. Barker

The Vikings by G. L. Proctor

Saga Book of the Viking Society

PROLOGUE

ASTRID, kneeling by the rush bed where her mother lay, leaned forward to catch her faintly whispered words.

The baby which would have been your brother never breathed, Astrid. But soon, God willing, I shall join him in spirit.

No, Mother! Astrid cried. No! Perhaps the torment was mirrored in her eyes. Perhaps her mother could read the anguish in her mind, but whatever the reason, Hilde took her daughter’s strong fingers in her weak ones, saying, Poor Astrid. You think I cannot see how restless you are, how uncertain? I know you, my Astrid, because you are in my likeness. Your father is a good man and I am fortunate he took me for wife, but I often had feelings like yours.

Fortunate, Mother? Astrid was puzzled, for it seemed to her it was her father who was blessed. Without Hilde and her talent with the loom they would be no better off than other churls.

I would rather not have this talk, Astrid. And now there seems less need for it than when my Mother spoke to me the same way. But seeing how unhappy you are, I hope it will help you to understand yourself. Oswald will make you a good husband, and you will be a good wife once you can come to terms with the spirit inside you.

Astrid gently kissed the pale, sparsely freckled cheek, saying, Mother, you will get well. You must. I love you so and no one else understands. Father is kind but impatient. Sometimes . . . sometimes I wish I were a boy! The words were out, Astrid having shocked even herself. Lowering her eyes, she waited for Hilde to scold her. But all her mother said was, I know, Astrid. I know. And now I will tell you what it is your right to know, though it may cause you some distress. Astrid waited, hugging her breath tightly to her, strangely aware of a great significance in the moment. Yet, whatever her mother had to tell her, she knew she could support it.

You know, do you not, that our shores have often been invaded by Viking raiders—pagans, who do not worship the one true God as we do.

Astrid nodded.

"Well, when Britta, my mother—your grandmother—was a young girl, only a little older than yourself, there came to this place a Viking host. They plundered and killed and set fire to the huts, taking the livestock for themselves and the young as slaves. Britta was favoured by their chief, a great hulk of a man with long, flame-coloured hair, a thick beard and a drooping moustache. He did not wait till he was aboard his ship, but wanted her straight away. Screaming, she fought him, but he was too strong for her. Perhaps he would have taken her with him, but suddenly there came a mighty thunder and darkness over the place. Fearing that Thor, their god, was angered, they went as quickly as they had come, leaving Britta on the ground, shocked and crying bitterly.

"No man would take her as wife. Though she told me later, she would have had no man who offered, lest her child should suffer. I was that child, sweet Astrid. The other children taunted me, calling me ‘Viking brat’ and worse.

It seemed unlikely I would know wedlock either. And then the Viking blood would have died out. There was no dowry and no father to give me respect. But then I began to work the loom for Britta and developed a skill unequalled in the village. This earned me that respect. Edwin, your father, was attracted by my looks and red hair. His first wife had died of a wasting disease and there was no mother for two-year-old Ceolnoth. Edwin took me for wife and you came to us a year later. You are much like me, my dear.

Astrid glanced keenly at Hilde’s dark-red hair, lank now after childbirth and damp with perspiration. But the light blue eyes were still bright, so that even in illness she was arresting to the eye. It was not strange that Astrid should have a similar colour, though hers seemed to have something of her father’s darkness about it too. The thick, reddish-brown locks, the colour of rich earth freshly turned, were cut short so that the lice could more easily be combed out. But the eyebrows over the woad-blue eyes were much lighter in colour; more flame than brown, so that the overall appearance was a strange one. The small nose, bridged by one or two almost gold freckles, was insignificant, but the mouth, too big for the small face, was undeniable. It was uptilted, and when she smiled it lit her whole face like a crescent moon on a dark night, emphasising the stirring beauty of her tall, slender figure. And she was tall. Taller than Edwin, her father. Taller even than Oswald, who was bigger and stronger than Edwin, and to whom she was promised. The son of Muca, the thegn, Oswald was much sought after by the young women in the village, yet Astrid’s heart did not leap at the thought of her future husband.

Take this! Hilde’s urgent tone penetrated Astrid’s thoughts, and in confusion she took the silver medallion and chain from her mother. Promise me you will always wear it. It has not helped me, but I feel a strangeness in my bones that it is God’s will you should wear it. Britta, my mother, gave it to me. She found it by her side after the Vikings had fled. It must have fallen in the struggle. Now I pass it to you. Promise me Astrid. Promise me, before God, that you will always wear and keep it.

I promise, Mother. And I am glad you told me—about Britta I mean. I know now why I feel so different from the others in the village.

Courage, Astrid. You are a good girl and I am proud of you. When I am gone my spirit will be with you still. Go now. I am tired, and you have much to think on.

Gently, Astrid kissed her, laid the slender palm on the rush bed as tears flooded her eyes, rolling on to the small, hard- worked hand, then walked quickly to the door. She looked back at Hilde’s wan face, serene now, just catching the whisper, Don’t cry, my love. I will be in good hands soon, as the bright eyes closed in sleep.

CHAPTER ONE

DRESSED in Ceolnoth’s old cast-offs, Astrid walked slowly away from the settlement of huts and barns, seeking silence for her thoughts. Ceolnoth frowned on her habit of wearing his outworn clothes. Her father, too, disapproved. But they tolerated it for her mother’s sake. They both loved Hilde, and though they could not understand Astrid’s obsession, they loved her too.

Astrid bit her lip as she realised that soon her carefree ways must end. It would not do for the wife of the thegn’s son to be seen wearing her brother’s dark-green woollen tunic over shirt and breeches cut off at the knee and tied at the waist by a leather thong. Soon she would be wearing a fine linen undergarment and a tunic reaching to the floor. She might even have two tunics, the first with long sleeves, the second over it with shorter, wider sleeves. Then there would be a gay mantle hanging down at back and front. And a silk wrap would cover her head. In fact, Astrid reflected, she would be stifled by clothes, required to bend to Oswald’s will at all times and have no freedom of her own.

Now, as she sought her favourite oak cranny, she realised why she was so beset by restlessness and the quick temper she fought hard to control, recognising for the first time that her restlessness stemmed from boredom and a wild inborn spirit, the anger that often rose in her being born of pride. She had proud blood in her veins. She did not dwell on the other side of the picture; did not even consider how the Vikings burned villages, slaughtered with fiendish glee when the mood was on them or killed an enemy slowly, laughing at his screams. She was, after all, her father’s daughter too. And he was a good man.

Sitting at last in the fork of the large oak tree, she thoughtfully fingered her strange medallion on its silver wrought chain.

Her woad-blue eyes moved restlessly around her, finally coming to rest on the small Saxon enclosure which was about ten hides distant—the length of ten family holdings—that was her home. There, only a short while ago, Hilde, her mother, had given her the chain she was now caressing.

They were lucky to have their own enclosure, she thought. Lucky for churls, freemen though they were. True, it was only a miniature of Muca Cynric’s, the thegn of the village to whom the farmers, including Edwin, her father, pledged their loyalty, for he was their lord. Muca’s large hall with its huts and barns encircled by a strong stockade was a grand place in comparison with their own, its smaller huts encircled only by a hedge. Muca’s hall was a solid log-built affair, wide and high. It was so big that all his retainers could eat and sleep there. There were long benches by the walls and in the middle of one of them was the ‘high-seat’ where Muca sat and slept. Long trestle tables for meals were placed in front of the benches. In the centre space in winter was a great log fire, the smoke of which had to worm its own way out as in Edwin’s smaller hall.

Edwin had told Astrid all about the feasts he attended there. How they would sit on the benches or the earth strewn with straw or rushes, telling and retelling old legends, adventures or poems. How they would sing and drink ale and mead after the feasting. How sometimes they would even take the shields and weapons hung on the walls and mime old battles or sagas of bygone heroes. Astrid’s father enjoyed those times and Astrid, listening to him, would feel a strange stirring, an uneasy yearning. How she wished she was a boy! Yet it was not seemly for a woman to hunger after manly exploits; at fourteen she was not yet a woman but would be soon, her mother assured her.

Still, they were better off than most churls, the majority of whom had only a small, rectangular hut, its floor dug down a foot or two below the ground so the pitched roof could rest directly on the earth or a low mud wall. In them movement was restricted, the farmers and their families suffering greatly from damp and dirt. More than most, their joints stiffened early in life, making existence difficult, and sometimes impossible. For if a man cannot work he cannot live.

It was, Astrid thought, her mother’s weaving skills as much as anything which had helped increase their fortune. Earls and thegns many days’ ride away knew of Hilde’s ways with the cloth, and of her fine weaving of the bright yarns. Astrid was pleased she had learnt her mother’s talent so well. She had learnt much else, too, she thought, idly turning the silver medallion in her hand and examining it curiously.

With a start she saw that the fine filigree work was a superb sketch of a man’s head—a Viking head, long, flowing mane lost in the wild beard and drooping moustache. Was this then the man to whom it belonged? The man who caused Britta to conceive Hilde, her mother? A winged helmet on the head left no doubts as to his trade; his face was aggressively fierce. Quickly, Astrid turned it over. The other side was no less impressive, showing the proud dragon prow of a Viking ship, and there were one or two strange marks beneath it.

Deftly, she placed it around her neck and drew on the harp she took from the strong, cloth shoulder bag she had made. Her skilful weaving of a fine piece of scarlet cloth threaded with gold for a rich thegn’s wife some days’ ride away had earned her the harp. Edwin, her father, had grumbled that livestock would have been more welcome. But Hilde had gently rebuked him, saying it was after all Astrid’s own work, and as she was a fine skald, knowing a great number of poems, why should she not have it. It would make good company for her young, keen voice. Later, Edwin was glad. He often praised her fine singing, enjoyed her strumming, and continuously asked her to retell the old legend poems, his favourites.

She sang softly to herself now, and as she finished, a cool spring breeze blew among the treetops. Astrid shivered. As quickly, her whole body seemed chilled by a numb dampness. The birds stopped twittering. She felt another breath, colder, stronger, than before; then it left her. The birds began to sing, and she heard a strange musical sound. It seemed to be plucked from the very air around her, yet she could not swear it was not in her own mind, though she knew very well whose nightingale throat it came from; softly contented, sweet perfection, ethereal. Astrid wept then. For suddenly she knew that the only person who really understood her was dead.

Hilde! Hilde! she cried softly. A cool, caressing wind touched her hair and forehead, just as Hilde might have done in a thoughtful moment. Soon Astrid wiped her tears away, soothed by the gentle breezes, and whispered, God take you, Hilde. God keep you.

But there was no more time for thinking or crying, for a shout beyond the settlement alerted her mind as urgently as would a snapping twig. She listened, still as a stone, as she strove to catch the sentinel’s cry. There was only a slight breeze but it wafted the terrible warning to her straining ears.

The Vikings are coming! Run! Run for your lives!

Immediately there was panic. Women and children fled into the forest. Farmers strove to drive their livestock in the same direction. The blacksmith was handing out iron tools to those who had none; axes, spears, knives, adzes, bars, hammers, anything that a man could use. There was shouting and screaming. People and animals fell over one another, running in countless directions. The men banded together just as the first glimpse of the