Kingship Accursed: Torleif Haraldssons' Saga, #4

By Egil R. R. Moe

Life on the islet of Rushen is proving a trial for Torleif. He is oppressed by his father's lust for power, and the people of Man resent Harald's influence over his son. They demand their rights, as they have done so many times before throughout history, and this time it is Torleif's uncle, Ivar, who must step into the breach when the Manx rebel. Will he oppose his brother and nephew and strip them of power, taking the throne for himself?

Fenella, meanwhile, continues to fight desperately to win the birthright for her sons. Luckily, her knowledge of herbs and healing is unequaled. She does her best to influence Torleif to acknowledge her sons, but will her strategy succeed before he gets Magnhild with child?

Alexander, King of Scots, has not forgotten his plans to seized power over the Sudreys. At last he manages to persuade the King of Norway, Magnus Haakonsson, to sell him the kingdom for a pittance, but will this prove acceptable to the Norwegian settlers and the Manx, or will it lead to conflict?

The Norse, the Scots and English all have claims to the throne of Man, and  this turbulent time sees the birth of Hallstein, son of Torleif, son of Harald, King of the Sudreys.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Egil R. R. Moe
• Release date: Dec 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393684909

Egil R. R. Moe

Egil R. R. Moe is an established author.  KINGSHIP is his first historical novel series, and what a novel it is, packed with thrills and intrigue from start to finish! Based on historical events from medieval times in Scandinavia and the Kingdom of the Isles, it introduces us to real historical figures. Egil’s enthusiasm for his subject and his in-depth knowledge of the period are unequaled. He has even personally participated in jousts – and has hosted four European Jousting Championships in Denmark.

Book preview

Torleif Haraldsson’s Saga

Kingship

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Accursed

Egil R. R. Moe

Series Title: Torleif Haraldsson’s Saga

Book title: Kingship

Volume 4: Accursed

Author: Egil R. R. Moe

Illustrator: Philip A. Olsen

Cover Design: Camilla Helene Sandmo

Editor: Stine I. Braseth Ellingsen

Translator: Jennifer Kewley Draskau

Editorial: The Polished Pen, Maxann Dobson

Illustrations inside book: Tore Høyem & Marlene Berg Nilsen

First published in Norwegian: 2010 in hardcover

First published as e-book in Norwegian for tablet and kindle: 2018

Translated edition published for tablet and kindle, and POD: 2019

Copyright by Sogesmia publishing and Egil R. R. Moe

Scotland and the Sudereys

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Isle of Man

The descendants of Godred Crowan

1268

There was fear in his eyes as he met those black eyes. The way they scolded him from under bushy eyebrows, glaring hatefully from their deep sockets. The burning sensation in his back told him they were fixed on him again.

If only he dared turn around and meet the man’s stare, but his fear was too great. Those eyes stabbed fiery daggers at him, wielded by demons breathing down his neck when he ran through the hallways of the castle, and if he turned around to look ... well, that made it so.

He had to get away. He was not safe here. If only he had been back at Dunstaffnage with his grandfather—Shennayr would keep him safe.

Maria

The winter had been hard, but at last the thaw set in and the cold gave way to spring. She wished the melted snow from the mountains could wash away all the problems that had accrued throughout the dark days. She never experienced such a winter before. The cold weather had set in early and lasted right through the first days of April. Now, in May, the sun should have warmed the fields until they stood green and fertile, but she could still see patches of snow when a breath of wind disturbed the fog’s firm grip on the mountains.

There was no warmth in the house, and she was not enjoying living there as she had done when Magnus reigned as king. It had been a time of peace, but now people were muttering in every nook and cranny. Her new husband suppressed any suggestion of rebellion with great brutality. They lit all the fires, yet the warmth reached no further than the palms of her shaking hands as she stretched them out towards the flickering flames. She was so numb that her body no longer noticed the cold. No amount of clothing defended against the clammy cold air that surrounded them on all sides. This shaking had become part of her, something she could neither stop nor prevent. The same applied to her fear. At the sound of a door opening, she jumped, suspecting the approach of some unknown enemy. Crouched in fear, she was wary of all such unfamiliar noises. Doors creaking on their hinges, stealthy footsteps in the dark, the clattering of weapons on stone and steel. All seemed to her omens of impending doom.

Shall I fetch more furs for you, my lady? her maid whispered from her nook by the hearth. Maria forced herself to meet her eyes. The young girl rose and hurried out of the big oaken door, closing it behind her. For a moment while the door was open, sombre voices from the knights’ hall, discussing important matters, reached her ears, but they fell silent as the servant hastened through the hall. Maria shuddered. This marriage had turned out badly, both for herself and for her child. Malise, the Lord of Strathearn and also her father’s ally, was power hungry; he had presented quite a different character when he was courting her. Now she realised that the alliance her father contracted had, as its sole purpose, enhanced the power of his clan and his own dominance.

Maria rose from her chair, crept over to the door, and placed her ear against the wood. She could hear the men mumbling. Then they fell silent again, and shortly afterwards, Doona pushed the door open. Maria dodged just in time to avoid being hit in the face by the door. Doona’s face was ashen, and she dropped the furs on the ground with trembling hands. Impulsively, she grabbed Maria’s arm, pulled her further into the ladies’ room, and whispered in her ear, The master was speaking of your son, my lady. You must make haste and send him away. The master was talking of having him slain.

Oh, Lord my God. The marrow of her bones froze. What are you saying, girl? What have you heard? She realised she had spoken too loudly. The girl grew even paler and began to quake. Maria helped her to a bench and sat down beside her.

The master can hear you, Doona whispered, tears running down her cheeks.

That cannot be right. You must have misunderstood. Maria looked the girl in the eye and saw that she spoke the truth, but she refused to believe it. It cannot be true. She must have misunderstood. A misunderstanding, that was all.

Doona collected herself and continued, The master said he might arrange something when you send Godred away into fostering. She looked hard at Maria. As soon as they saw me, my lady, they fell silent, and the master sent me a glare that made my blood run cold. Oh no! She plunged her face in her hands and sobbed so her whole body shook.

What is wrong, child? Maria grabbed her, but they were both struck by the same dreadful thought. Malise will have her life for this.

Now we shall go out together and find Godred. He must leave this place immediately.

Doona shook her head but rose listlessly. I dare not, she sobbed. He will keep me back, and then ... She did not complete her sentence, nor did she need to.

Maria knew how matters stood. Yet she would do all in her power to prevent it. I shall protect you, she said firmly, seizing the girl’s hand, leading her to the door, hiding her face behind one hand. Maria pushed the door open resolutely.

Malise and his men sat at the table. A dagger stuck quivering in the tabletop between them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her husband glaring at her, and she reached no further than the middle of the room before his voice caused her to stop. Where are you taking her?

Crushed, Maria cursed her own stupidity, listening to the repressed voice in her head. She did not answer, and he exploited her silence to give an order, as always happened; he forced his will through.

She must pay for her disobedience, he barked with a cruel smile. Just leave her here. 

Maria drew up her shoulders. Slowly, she turned and faced Malise’s hawk-like glare under his dark, protruding eyebrows while Doona sobbed and pressed close to her for protection. If my servant has behaved inappropriately, I shall give her fitting punishment, she whispered through her clenched teeth. How has she offended my husband? she said ingratiatingly, meanwhile pushing the girl closer towards the door as she spoke and placing herself in front of her.

Malise did not reply. The hairless square face she hated glowered back at her, and he grunted. If only he had been a kindly man like Magnus—mild, indulgent, and loving, it would have been so much easier to accept his sweaty malodorous body when he lay upon her, panting and drooling. Doubtless he does not wish to lose the battle of words before his men? she thought. All the lord’s subjects, who flattered him and did their utmost to please him, now stared at him as he rose to his feet. He wanted to approach her, and she cherished all the times she had contradicted him.  The thought gave her strength to withstand the blows he dealt her so lovingly when they were alone. So he knows I dare stand up to him!

Malise hesitated, then he plumped down heavily in his seat, grabbed his flagon, and drank it to the lees. Then he muttered something incomprehensible.

Maria seized her opportunity to make herself scarce. Sweat running down her neck and between her shoulder blades, she turned away from the men and propelled Doona before her towards the door and down the narrow steep spiral stairs.

The girl broke into noisy weeping when they reached the courtyard and started up the stairs to the guardroom. The armour-clad men in there stared at them in astonishment as they hurried through the guardroom and out into freedom and the cool afternoon breeze sweeping in to the islet from the south. Two of the soldiers rose and followed them downstairs.

Maria took her servant along, first down to the harbour where her children were, then up to the stables by the palisade gate. The children ran ahead, thrilled at the prospect of going for a ride.

The stables were a long building made of planks, constructed next to the palisade, with a timber roof which the men on the palisade walked on. At either end of the rectangular building there was a large opening. A stable boy emerged from the nearest opening, leading a horse which he tethered to the hitching post outside the stables.

Bring us horses right away, she commanded. He flashed her a defiant blue glare beneath the long mane of hair that framed his oval face, but he bowed his head humbly and disappeared into the stables without speaking. The soldiers followed him into the stables and saddled up horses for themselves. They were under constant orders to accompany her wheresoever she should go. They were Malise’s men; they reported to him, and they would take no order from her. 

While they waited for the groom to saddle the horses, Maria stole furtive glances back towards the castle. The cold grey stone pile lay silent and expressionless, revealing no hint of the storm, which—she was sure—was raging inside its walls. The fluttering banner on the castle roof showed that a different storm was blowing, and in the east the sky was dark and menacing. Before the hour was out, the rain would pour down in torrents.

The stable boy came out leading two horses in each hand, and he held their heads while they mounted. Calmly and apparently composed, they set the horses walking out through the open gate. Her guards followed at a respectful distance.

The wind was increasing, and they reached the abbey just as the first raindrops swept in from the sea, the ice-cold water lashing their faces. The walls of the nunnery had risen round the stone houses. With rising anticipation and indescribable joy, she dismounted and walked dignified towards the opening in the wall. It seemed the workers had finished hastily as the gathering storm was approaching.

Inside the wall, under the roof, they stood sheltered from the cold wind that blew in over the walls, which were still low and not yet complete. Maria looked about her and recognised every house that rose from the ground, exactly as the master builder had sketched for her on his wax tablet. The abbey courtyard, the chapel, the abbess’s residence, and the refectory. Just like the monks’ abbey of Rushen, yet different too. As Queen of Mann, she had given her seal of approval to the drawings and had donated abundant sums to the construction. This was the fruit of her efforts, and she was glad to see its progress.

She smiled at the workers, who recognised her and returned her greeting. She stopped in front of the door and waited until one soldier continued past her and used the iron hammer on the door. As they stood waiting, the first claps of thunder rolled over the sky. A little later, a nun opened the porthole, and a face stared out at her. Was there something familiar about the sharp eyes peering from under the coif? Those bright blue eyes beneath the strong eyebrows? The nun’s expression changed from one of severe piety to warmth and rather surprised recognition. She closed the porthole again, then she opened the door, revealing the ash-grey woollen robe with its black cape and hood of her vocation. Maria entered, quickly followed by Doona, Affrica, and Godred.

Ragnhild

Ragnhild concealed the hatred that burned beneath her skin when, covering her defiance with a feigned friendly smile, she stared into the eyes of Maria, the widow of King Magnus of Mann. She was also daughter to Eogan of Argyll, the man who had threatened the peace of Mann for years. Ah, her blood was boiling, but, as the nunnery’s cellarer, she had to bite her tongue and hold her peace. She bowed and banged the door shut in the faces of the two soldiers, showing that they had to remain outside. Although they had not tried to follow, she let them taste the draught from the heavy oak door as it shut.

With a brief smile of satisfaction, she turned to meet the scrutiny of the first lady of Mann. King Alexander named her husband, Malise of Strathearn, governor—not king of Mann—but that made no difference. His word was now law in the island, and he was not a temperate man, as he had already shown. Ragnhild curtseyed and bowed her head, trying to maintain her friendly smile. Lady Mary, she asked, what brings my lady here to this unfinished cloister?

You are the lady Ragnhild, are you not? came the reply, quick and direct.

Ragnhild expected Maria to recognise her. She bowed her head even more and verified. Now Sister Ragnhild. Abbey cellarer, she added, for this was a not an inconsequential position. Did she notice the change in her tone, a new edge, when Maria asked her to escort her and her entourage to the abbess? Ragnhild thought so. She complied.

When the door to the abbess’s apartments closed, Ragnhild stood outside for a moment, as though straining her ears to catch the low voices conversing behind the heavy door, even though she knew full well its soundproof qualities. She pulled herself together and escorted the children and the servant girl to the abbey courtyard and invited them to sit down on a bench. It surprised her to see how big they had grown, and also rather amazed her because Maria had not sent her son into fostering. There had been a glint of horror in the lady’s eyes. Is she afraid for her children? Perhaps Malise sees them as a threat? As a new idea began to form in her mind, she made her way to the larder to fetch something for the children to eat. When the guests had received bread and milk, she poured sour milk into a bowl and took it out to the soldiers. The rain was pouring down, and they pressed themselves against the stone wall, taking shelter under the eaves over the door. She met their eyes as she handed them the bowl, but averted her gaze when she saw how they scrutinised her.

I regret that I cannot offer you wine, she said tersely, waiting until they emptied the bowl. It is thirsty work, riding the dusty road from Rushen, she added. And if the lady wishes to remain here for some time, it would appear that the way home will be both wet and long.

At her words the two men looked at each other. A flash of lightning lit up the whole area and revealed the house by the roadside, where the masons and carpenters were sheltering from the storm. Suddenly, darkness descended, although it was full day. The prospect of the ride home in the downpour with lightning crashing over their heads was making the men uneasy.

I can offer you accommodation with the workmen, she said hurriedly. Only simple straw mattresses on low couches in the common room, but you would have a roof over your heads and woollen blankets to keep you warm. The horses can go in the paddock outside with the carriage horses.

The two men exchanged glances again. With determined steps, they set off to take care of their horses.

Pleased with herself, Ragnhild walked back to the abbey courtyard and collected the children, who were no longer sitting on the bench. She hustled them over to the guest house, hushing their chatter and extracting information from them about their feelings towards their stepfather. Their brief answers gave her so much more than she dared hope for. Then she returned to the cellars and filled up a carafe with wine from the barrel, set bread and cheese upon a platter, returned to the abbess’s cell, and knocked on the door. After a pause she pushed the bolt aside and entered, knowing she was stepping over an invisible line, but hoping they would forgive her boldness.

She went over to the table, set down the platter, and remained standing there, awaiting either a rebuke or permission to speak. 

The abbess regarded her. This is out of order, Sister Ragnhild, but I understand you have something to say. Are you going to unburden yourself standing there, or will you pull up the stool and have a seat?

Ragnhild lowered her eyes and did as the abbess suggested, but first she took two glasses from the cupboard and set them on the table. She poured the wine and then sat down, hands folded in her lap. She waited for permission to speak and received it.

What is it you have on your heart, my sister? The abbess’s tone had grown milder.

She respects my good advice, and she has surely guessed that what I have to say is important. Ragnhild lifted her head and sent the abbess a brief glance of gratitude before she turned to Maria. I understand that this is difficult for you, my lady, she began.

Maria flushed with anger and her eyes flashed daggers at Ragnhild. That is none of your affair! she snapped, but Ragnhild continued unperturbed.

Lord Malise is a hard and ambitious man, and I can understand that he might consider your child a threat to his position.

Do I have to suffer this prattle from a nun? Maria glared at the abbess.

You remember that you are in God’s house, my lady. Sister Ragnhild has never given bad counsel. You would do well to listen to what she has to say, the abbess replied, nodding to Ragnhild to continue.

Since Godred is the rightful heir to the throne, Ragnhild continued, I understand your concern about what measures Lord Malise might take to rid himself of this threat. 

Maria leapt up from her chair in indignation and fury, but before she spoke, the abbess raised a hand, and she changed her mind and sat down again.

In any other house you would have lost your tongue for spouting such nonsense, she hissed, struggling to repress her rage.

Ragnhild looked her square in the eye. She saw the hatred in them and a chill ran down her spine. I can help you, my lady. That is what I am trying to tell you. The reaction was immediate.

I expect no help from you and yours, unless it is to your own advantage, Maria fumed. Tell me what is in it for you, and then I will tell you whether or not I wish to listen to your counsel.

There are no flies on her. Nor had she expected to win Maria easily over either. Ragnhild shook her head. I am not doing this for my benefit, she replied. I, too, am a mother. Even though I have now entered our Lord’s service and renounced my former life, that does not mean I do not have a mother’s feelings or that I do not know the despair of a mother who fears to lose that which she holds most dear.

Maria’s mouth twitched and Ragnhild had a brief glimpse of another, gentler aspect of her character in her eyes.

She continued, when nobody else broke the silence. My son is a great man in the parish of St. Bridget, in the north. A position he has attained through years of hard work as a tenant farmer on a small holding, and later through fighting for his king, Good King Magnus. Your first husband, my lady. He fought in the battles against the Scots. And now, he is a champion for the people of Mann and Manx legislation. He is a righteous man who is not afraid to stand up for himself and his own, and all the north is behind him, should he put his foot down. I dare say even Malise would not dare deny him or defy him, unless he had the support of all the Scottish forces. She refrained from listing Torleif’s deeds from the time before Magnus became king. That would have added fuel to Maria’s hatred and made it impossible to achieve her aim. 

Maria did not interrupt, but her silence convinced Ragnhild that her words had had their effect. Let Torleif foster Godred, she said. He will learn much of value regarding customs and usage, how to run a farm, both large and small, and much regarding the use of weapons and battle. Torleif has won fame for his prowess on the battlefield. He is a knight and trained by the greatest knight of his day, Lord Ivar, who now, for the third time, has gone crusading for the glory of God. Godred will have the support of all the north and learn how to treat his people with respect and pass judgement with a firm hand. Thus he will gather the whole country behind him should Malise incline more to the side of the Scots than that of the Manx.

She fell silent, pleased with her speech, turning over and over in her mind the thought of how this would benefit Torleif.

Maria cleared her throat but did not speak. At last, it was the abbess who broke the silence. If you are still unsure what to believe, also seek the advice of Abbot Donald of Rushen.

Ragnhild shook herself and was about to answer but held her tongue. I can make sure the Abbot Donald supports my view, she thought. She rose, offering to lead Maria to Rushen. I have business there anywhere with the cellarer Aedan, she said, and she knew all would turn out for the best.

But what of Affrica? Maria exclaimed. 

Ragnhild met the abbess’s gaze, and the two women exchanged an almost invisible nod.

Affrica may remain with us, the abbess said. She has stayed with us before, and she is familiar with the rule of the abbey. She can continue the training she has already begun, and the future will show what she chooses when she comes to the crossroads of her life.

Ragnhild hid her secret smile of delight. This was fair counsel, both for Maria and for herself. There was no doubt that God had sent this woman to her for a reason.

Fenella

It was the barking of the dog that brought her out into the yard. She knew people were coming. Cobie, uist! she hushed him, but the dog did not obey her. She ran forward to the corner of the stable where he stood barking, head stretched out, and she saw a cart approaching up the hill from Bride. Her shoulders relaxed in relief when she realised there was no danger. A monk was driving the two horses up the gentle slope. They seemed to be in a hurry, for both horses were wet with sweat. Beside the monk sat a figure who wore the same ash-grey monk’s habit, but without a scapular. There was something familiar about his appearance, but Fenella was more interested in the richly dressed woman sitting in the cart and the boy at her side. There was something about the way she kept glancing back, as though expecting that at any moment someone would appear in pursuit of them.

The dog continued his threatening barking, and she tried again to quieten him. Uist! She sent him away again. When the wagon rolled into the yard, she waited until it stopped before she went up to it. The monk greeted her, but she was wondering about the woman. There was something familiar about her and about the boy at her side. He was about Lodin’s age. Could it be? But before the thought was complete, the hunched figure sitting beside the monk straightened up and sniffed at her.

You smell just the same as ever, the grating voice came from the depths of his hood, and an icy shiver ran down her spine.

Harald? She took a step back and shuddered as he tugged his hood back and revealed his ravaged face. A terrible rage arose within her. What are you doing here? Have you come to ruin everything for us yet again? Her loathing for this man who had been such a destructive force in her life overcame her, and she scorned to conceal it.

The monk helped the woman out of the wagon. The boy, tall and slim, jumped down beside her. His short dark hair framed a square face she recognised. The woman shot her a sharp, but not unfriendly, glance, and extended a hand. Fenella took it, with a deep curtesy. It is she! And the boy is her son, the royal heir. Godred! Lady Maria, she murmured. You honour us, she added. What is the governor’s wife doing here? What does she want? Does she not know who we are?

Thank you, the first lady said. Is Torleif at home? she asked.

Fenella shook her head. He is down at the pier, launching the ships, she explained. He will be back this evening. Do you have time to wait? Fenella immediately regretted her words. It was not seemly to keep the governor’s wife waiting. She was about to apologise, but Maria glanced round with a worried expression. At last the boy stopped gripping his mother’s gown and sat down to stroke the dog which had come up to them.

Can you send word to him? the lady asked tersely. 

Of course, Fenella replied. May I invite you in for a bite? The lady of the house is within and will entertain you while I send one of the boys to run for the master.

The governor’s wife looked at her, as though only now realising that Fenella was not the lady of the house.

Who are you, then? she demanded. The fury that had seized Fenella when she recognised Harald returned in force. I am his concubine, she declared, tossing her head in defiance. And the mother of all his children, she added, for safety’s sake. For the lady of the house cannot have children, you see. How she longed to say those words, but refrained.

Harald clambered down from the cart without help while they were speaking. He stole up to Fenella and sniffed at her again. Well, Fenella, he bared his brown teeth in a grin. Do you think we shall get this farm in order at last, then?

She recoiled from his presence. You can go inside with them, Harald, she stammered. I shall send for Torleif. She turned her back on them and ran round the house. I shall fetch him myself. The thought of waiting upon the old man was unbearable. So she ran to the paddock and caught the mare, Magnhild’s horse, threw a rope about her neck, and led her out. She tied the rope round the mare’s nose and vaulted up on to her back, pressing her heels to the animal’s sides. The mare was glad to run and galloped off down the track. Fenella had no trouble riding her, even without saddle or stirrups. This was how she preferred to ride. To feel the horse’s warm back between her bare legs.

Her head was full of thoughts and worries as she charged down the road towards Bride. Such a strange winter this had been! Unfortunately, Magnhild had not succumbed to the poison. She had lost the child, but not her life. Torleif had been furious. This was not the first baby Magnhild had not borne to term. He had ranted and raved about curses and Scottish witches and wanted Fenella to help him lift the curse. As if she could have done so!