Kingship Betrayal

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 a 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?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Egil R. R. Moe
• Release date: Dec 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463631836

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

Betrayal

Egil R. R. Moe

Translated by

Jennifer Kewley Draskau

Series Title: Torleif Haraldsson’s Saga

Book title: Kingship

Volume 2: Bound by Blood

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

ISBN:

Contents

Map 1

Map 2

Descendant’s

1266

Torleif

Ragnhild

Magnhild

Ivar

Gunnhild

Fenella

Ivar

Torleif

Ivar

Fenella

Harald

Ragnhild

Ivar

Maria

Torleif

Ivar

Ragnhild

Gunnhild

Fenella

Torleif

Ivar

Maria

Harald

Ivar

Maria

Magnhild

Torleif

1267

Fenella

Torleif

Ivar

Gunnhild

Ivar

Fenella

Magnhild

Fenella

Ivar

Torleif

Ivar

Torleif

Magnhild

Torleif

Fenella

Torleif

Fenella

Torleif

Magnhild

Fenella

Torleif

Scotland and the Sudreys

Isle of Man

The descendants of Godred Crowan

1266

The gull perching on one leg on the north-east corner of the castle’s crenelated battlements turned his head suddenly towards the south. It observed the watchman as he trudged around the castle wall. Soon the man reached the corner where the bird perched. The gull gathered himself up, ready to launch himself into flight. The grey-blue sky flushed pink as the dawn rose in the east. The sun thrust its glowing edge over the face of the sea and embarked on its long climb towards the midday zenith. The guard stopped and turned to face the dawn. Observing the blazing vault of the sky, he raised a hand to shield his eyes against the brightness of the rising sun.

An icy shriek fit to freeze the marrow arose from within the limestone walls, seizing man and bird with terror. The cry came again. The gull could stand it no longer. He flung himself off the wall, releasing a splash of guano that daubed the grey stones lower down the wall. On the chilly autumn wind, the gull soared into the face of the rising sun, rather burning up all at once than consigning itself to the eternal fires of hell.

The guard dropped his shoulders and resumed his endless tour around the rooftop. There was nothing to fear. He knew full well whence the cries came. Harald Godredsson was having nightmares again. Every night the man relived the agonies of his torture when he was a prisoner in Bergen. Soon the sun stood high over the sea. His watch was over and all was well.

Torleif

The sun, blazing down from its noontide zenith, baked the grey limestone building towering over Rushen Bay. The sea gleamed blue in the sunlight. The cries of the gulls trumpeted out over the bay as Torleif stood on the ramparts, gazing eastward towards Langness. Today he had donned a kirtle of darkest blue, falling to below the knee, as the fashion was when his father seized the kingship in Mann—the seat of the ruler of all the Sudreys. A mild breeze was blowing from the north, somewhat unusual in Mann, where the prevailing wind was southwest. He bore neither cape nor coif, and he relished the sensation as the wind ruffled his hair. In his childhood, men wore their hair long and sported beards, but times had changed. Nowadays the custom was for short hair and smoothly shaven chins.

His low leather shoes were ideal for walking across stone floors. They were made of soft natural leather, with a blue edging to the seams. The belt which bound the kirtle at his waist was the same colour as the shoes he wore, and the bag and purse hanging from his belt had the same blue-edged seams. Torleif left off his mantle and his headgear, his own little private protest against current courtly fashion.

The watchman making his rounds on the roof kept a respectful distance. It was four weeks since Torleif’s marriage, four weeks since the people acclaimed him as their monarch and the fair Magnhild became his queen. He smiled, remembering that auspicious day, recalling the procession to the church, the crowd who cheered them on the steps of the church, the sumptuous banquet, the music, the dancing—and most especially, the stroll down to the pier by the light of the moon. He still shuddered when he remembered how frightened they had been when the throng of revellers bore them off for the bedding. The night had been black as pitch, and the sight of all those flickering torches approaching was terrifying. But these were good memories. Four weeks of bliss and delight until it was time to return to the cares of everyday life.

The shriek of a gull swooping down from above startled Torleif out of his reverie. He caught sight of a ship’s mast, towering up beyond Langness, approaching the islet. On what errand? The fear of foemen was ever close to the surface in these restless times.

As the ship slowly pursued her southerly course towards the tip of Langness, before rounding the point and sailing into Rushen Bay, Torleif took yet another turn round the ramparts and surveyed his realm. Today both North and South Barrule showed their best, with Snaefell rising between them. To the west the land was fertile; the farmsteads were large and prosperous. To the south lay the slate quarries, where land and sea met. The green inlet that surrounded the islet and the moor beyond, protected the castle from attack from the west; it also served as a freshwater spring and a habitat for deer and wading birds. A rich larder for the Lord of Mann. Even the two ancient roundhouses in the heathland's midst looked as though they belonged there, memorials to a bygone age, though now dilapidated. The posts had once supported a thatched roof of withies, long since crumbled away, swallowed up by the moor, like the walls. The wooden posts would probably survive for many years yet, but the moor would ultimately engulf them.

Torleif, at 38, was King of the Sudreys at last—that kingdom which his father had held, and, long before him, by his grandfather Godred. Now at last he understood the truth of the old saying that victory comes to he who waits. On this occasion it was the passing of time that placed the power in his hands. And while he waited to come into his throne, he had learned about the life of a tenant farmer. He built up a tenant smallholding from nothing, making it prosperous. He had run his smallholding at the same time as fulfilling his duty to his landlord, four weeks’ labour a year, and he also fought under the king’s banner against the marauding Scots, thereby winning much honour.

By dint of hard work, endurance through adversity and poverty, and by showing his skill as a warrior, he had won the hearts of the people and the throne. He was their rightful king, unlike his father, who had seized the throne through assassination.

The sharp tooth of time had carved Torleif’s face and left its stamp on his mind, forging the man. He had more lines now, and his mouth was less ready to break into a smile. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were deeper, and his hair was going grey—whether or not he liked it—but he still felt strong in wind and limb; he still had the playful thoughts of a young man.  Years of hard labour had given him broad shoulders and bulging upper arms. The fists that gripped the hilt of his sword were hefty and powerful.

Torleif peered down at the courtyard four storeys below. The guard room looked cramped from here because the larder on the east wall stood on pillars and concealed half of it.

A serving girl was just coming out of the larder with her basket. She had been collecting food for the midday meal. He would have to send her for more since it seemed they were about to receive guests on the islet.

The knights’ hall lay full-length towards the south, seven metres wide. The roof fell steeply from the battlements, down towards the courtyard. The portion of the castle that faced west was four metres wide. There, on the third floor, he had his apartments. Under the lord’s chamber lay the former chapel, now used as a chamber and occupied by Harald and Ragnhild, his parents.

An external tower on the north wall ensured a safe entrance into the castle and also accommodated the garrison which guarded them. Visitors had to climb up a long staircase to the door. A passageway from the watchtower led through the wall into the second floor, and a staircase in the wall inside led down to the courtyard. It was Harald Olafsson who had designed the plans for the castle, but when Torleif took charge of the building work while his father was away in Norway, he had altered the plans. The changes he made were not great, but he felt they were significant. He had placed the battlements a storey higher than the buildings inside, and he had built the watchtower a storey higher than planned and introduced two extra spiral staircases in the north wall, which made it possible to run all round the interior of the castle. The master-builders’ plans had included only one spiral staircase leading from the knights’ hall on the third floor to the people’s hall below. With the two extra stairways in the north wall, the watchmen who guarded the courtyard could reach the battlements, as could the lord of the castle, whose apartments were on the third floor. There was no access to the second floor via the chamber which lay behind the people’s hall, for the chamber served as a chapel. His father had grumbled that they should open the chamber up so that there was access to the stairway also, but Torleif contended that other construction plans were more important. They had demolished the old larder outside and used the stone for constructing a new gatehouse tower where the road to the islet breached the palisade. Later, he intended to replace the wooden palisade with stone too.

Torleif turned back towards Rushen Bay. The longship came gliding round Langness, steering towards him over the shining sea. The oarsmen heaved their backs to the labour, so the oars moved in time with the song of the helmsman. The ship struck a chord in his memory, recalling Ivar’s longship, the Gannet, but she bore no sail and no shield line along the gunwales. Silently, she crossed the bay. Her reflection in the water mirrored her, so it seemed two longships were sailing side by side. It was unlike Ivar to approach in this way; he always liked to make an entrance, with his red and white shields boldly displayed, but not today—but it was he who was approaching the mouth of the river and the harbour by the islet. Ivar stood at the foot of the mast.

Standing there surveying your kingdom? Harald growled behind him.

Torleif jumped, startled. He swung round to meet his father’s vacant white eyes. The old man leaned on the stair post. Did you drag yourself up here on your own? he asked.

Do you think your father is incapable of discovering the layout of your house because he lacks the eyes to see? The answer came sharply. Harald was probing his way with his stick. The distance to the edge was over two metres, and there was no inside wall on the rampart to prevent him from plummeting down to the courtyard.

Should I help tip him over? The thought was as monstrous as it was seductive, offering the solution to all his torments.

Do not forget that I have the Sight, Harald remarked.

Torleif flinched and moved towards the old man.

Give me your hand and help me, Harald commanded.

Torleif complied.

What are you looking for, day in and day out? His father’s voice was harsh and rasping, the result of six years spent rotting in the dungeons of Bergen. The torturer had carved up Harald, paring away until there remained only a misshapen ghost of the man, and the ghastly process had stripped his soul of the last shreds of goodness. Only devilry remained. Devilry and evil. A chill ran down his spine as Torleif reluctantly grasped his father’s hand and helped him on to the ramparts.

Ivar is coming, he said. Harald made no reply. The crippled old man stretched to reach over the battlements, placing both hands on the stone as he sniffed the air. He placed his staff crosswise before him, and the hand that gripped it clutched the wood so hard as though he would squeeze the very sap out if it. I felt it in my waters, the old warrior muttered into his beard, dropping his head. Harald’s fifty-sixth birthday had come this autumn, yet the torturer’s harsh hand had robbed him of any vestige of youth.

Will you not be glad to see him? Torleif ventured, but received no reply. Can it be sorrow that afflicts him thus? Shall we go down to the pier and meet him? he tried, cheerfully.

My body aches, lad. Harald buckled. His back bent with age and pain, his shoulders hunched as if all strength had left him. There are times I think it is all over for me, he mumbled.

Torleif placed a cautious hand on his father’s arm, intending to lead him back to the staircase.

But then I feel Old Nick shaking me, Harald said more sharply. I cannot permit this, Torleif. I know that it is you who is the king— He broke off, but continued after a brief pause. But it is my kingdom you hold, he hissed. And it is my inheritance you have taken. You will inherit me, yes, but not in my lifetime.

Torleif kept his silence, hugging his fury to him.

You do not answer me, Harald said. But then I sensed you would not. His tone was mocking.

Stand here if you wish, Torleif said, almost adding, unless you step out and tumble over into the courtyard, but he doubted that even such a fall would kill his father. When even the torturer of Bergen had failed to break him, how would a fall of a mere twenty metres do so? He also feared his father’s second sight would reveal his innermost thoughts.

Watch out for that one, Torleif. Harald’s tone was easier as Torleif led him across. Are you leading me to the staircase?

Torleif led the old man towards the steep, narrow, spiral stairway. He escorted him through the courtyard, intending to take him down to meet Ivar’s ship.

Harald made a feeble protest. Rather take me into the hall, he murmured. It is more seemly for me to receive my brother there than to go running down to the pier and stand there like a numbskull as he puts in to land.

Torleif dutifully escorted his father to the courtyard. I’m glad you are stronger now, since we moved into the castle. You are climbing these stairs with ease, he said.

Down in the courtyard they encountered Lodin, with Thord scampering at his heels. The boys scurried about them. Father! Lodin cried. At six years old, already he mastered two languages; Fenella insisted on teaching the boys her mother tongue. She was standing on the steps with Kolbjorn in her arms, surveying them with a grim expression.

I can manage myself now, Harald snapped. Fenella will see to me.

Torleif shooed the boys from the courtyard. See that your grandfather makes it up the stairs, he instructed them. He checked that they were doing as he had told them, cast a last glance at their mother standing on the threshold, and ran back up the stairs again. He needed to escape from the walls that hemmed him in, get away from his father and Fenella.

The guard on duty at the top of the staircase stood up straight and saluted him. Good morrow, lord.

Torleif returned his greeting with a nod and ran down the familiar well-trodden pathway of beaten earth that led to the pier at the mouth of the river. He cast a glance at the old long house that nestled close to the palisade by the gate. Now serfs and day labourers dwelt in the building which once had housed kings. With long strides, he loped down to the quayside at the river’s mouth and the watchtower that guarded it. It was low tide, and the muddy sandbanks of the Silverburn showed grey and brown where the river met the sea. His own ship, Ognarbranden, lay moored to the quay, but there was room for a ship to berth astern of her.

The Gannet glided in towards the mouth of the river, her oars dipping into the water in time to the song of the helmsman. When he stopped singing, the oarsmen lifted their oars from the water and let the longship slip into the pier. Ivar stood in the bows. He cast a line to Torleif, who caught it in the air and hauled in the slack, fasting the rope to the nearest post. Aft, the helmsman secured the ship’s stern to a mooring post out in the river. Two twenty-oar vessels were too long for the pier, and half of the Gannet lay out in the river's mouth.

Ivar swung his legs over the gunwale and climbed on to the pier, making heavy work of clambering ashore—he who used to beach his vessel and put out gangplanks.

Torleif shrugged and went up to greet him. Ivar, you surprise me, he said, beaming.

In response, the knight threw wide his arms and embraced Torleif, squeezing his ribs, lifting him up so it forced the air out of him. Ivar was over 50 years old, and his body bore many a battle scar, but still he was as strong as an ox. He set Torleif down again and extended a helping hand to his wife to assist her on to the pier.

My lord king, Gunnhild said, curtseying. 

Torleif's cheeks reddened. You need not address me so formally, Lady Gunnhild, he said.

Ivar protested. Why should she not address you with all courtesy? he growled, a smile playing around his lips.

Is one to expect the patter of tiny footsteps at the castle soon? Gunnhild enquired.

Torleif laughed in return. You know it is too soon to speak of such matters, he replied.

Oh, say not so, the knight said. It is more than a month since the wedding. She must know whether she has been unclean or whether her courses have ceased?

Ivar studied him, while Torleif's cheeks turned red. Come, he said, a little too abruptly. My father awaits you in the knights’ hall. Doubtless, he is sitting with a horn of ale close at hand. He may well have emptied it several times already.

Something wrong? Ivar looked surprised. He flung off his mantle, soaked with salt spray, and tossed it back aboard the ship, where a member of the crew took care. Then he helped his wife with her own cape. As always, he was wearing red garments beneath his cape. Even his travelling clothes bore trimmings and buttons in that colour, and likewise his belt with the leather bag and purse.

Torleif’s mouth twisted in a wry spontaneous smile. Wrong? he asked. Why should there be anything wrong?

Ivar shook his head and shrugged his shoulders under his short, strong neck. The scars on his face came not from sword or axe, but it was conflict that had set these marks upon his countenance. Around his mouth and nose the lines were like deep ravines in a rugged landscape, and the eyes, once so gentle and good-humoured, were now hard as flint. Are things not well between you and Magnhild? Ivar persisted.

Torleif shook his head and gave him a bashful smile. Oh, Ivar, he purred, in his eagerness forgetting the correct form of address—he who had promised to maintain the honour of his uncle! "Lord Ivar, he corrected himself, all is well between Magnhild and myself."

But there is something wrong, Ivar insisted, forcing it out of him.

I do not know whether it is a good thing that Fenella is still around, Torleif blurted out.

Ivar looked sternly at him. There will always be trouble where there are two women beneath one roof, he rumbled. They walked towards the castle.

Might I speak my mind? Gunnhild asked, her tone modest yet resolved. She waited to see if they would object to her intervention, but Torleif just stared at her, so she went on. This is not the life for which we brought Magnhild up.

I do not understand that you allow yourself to indulge this virtue, Ivar remarked.

Virtue? Torleif demanded.

That you should take care of her through life and death, he replied.

They had reached the steps up to the gatehouse. Ivar took Gunnhild’s arm in a firm grip, and she said no more. Now she had spoken her piece, she kept a courteous silence while the men talked.

She has given me three sons, Torleif said in Fenella’s defence.

Three sons whom you have not yet acknowledged, Ivar retorted.

Again, Torleif’s cheeks reddened.

It doesn’t exist, Ivar declared. 

What? Torleif demanded.

The solution you are looking for. No such solution exists. Send them away. His voice was hard as iron. Or else acknowledge those boys, he added in a softer tone, as the silence between them became oppressive.

We shall see, he replied, running up the last steps to the tiled floor at the top of the stairs. Ivar could not keep up with him. That gammy knee of his is giving the old man trouble. Torleif waited for them by the well in the courtyard. He offered the knight a drink of water. Ivar accepted the water, drinking deep.

It is better to have a bellyful of water if one does not wish to drink too much of the lord’s ale, he said. The water here leaves a flavour on your tongue, he added after sipping again.

The momentary tension between them appeared to be over. It comes from the moor, he explained. Moorland water keeps well, and there is enough round the islet.

I remember we filled barrels with this water before we set sail for Bergen all those years ago, Ivar agreed, murmuring. It remained fresh until the barrels were empty.

Torleif drank up the last drop and gestured for them to precede him up the stairs. Inside, they mounted the spiral stairs to the knights’ hall on the third floor. The fire was lit in the hearth, and the warmth spread across the room and into the very stones. Harald sat at the long table at the end of the hall. In his hand he held a drinking horn of glass. Just as Torleif had expected.

Harald raised the horn in a toast, greeting them. What brings this wreck to the king’s hall? he growled. Lady Gunnhild, he greeted her without pausing, his tone still unfriendly.

Nothing more than a desire to see my family, Ivar replied curtly.

Torleif escorted Gunnhild to the door at the end of the hall, where the ladies’ apartments were.

Do you bring news, or are you come to indulge your envy for my situation? Harald continued.

Torleif opened the door, and the lady passed through it with a brief nod, but there was a touch of sympathy in the glance she sent him. His mother, Ragnhild, was sitting in the ladies’ chamber with Magnhild and Fenella, all busy at their tablet looms, weaving. Torleif closed the door and turned. Ivar was standing, hands on hips. His eyes ablaze.

What manner of welcome is this? Ivar fumed. I had thought my brother would receive me more kindly, but I see I was wrong, now he is no longer afraid to call me brother?

The words seemed to strike Harald like a blow from a lance. His face grew pale and his mouth fell open in dismay. Then he collected himself and rose to his feet. Never did I fear calling you brother, Ivar, he snarled. It was you who dishonoured our honour.

Harald returned the blow, for his words struck the knight just as powerfully, spurring the aggressive giant into violent action. Ivar hurled himself across the table in fury. He locked his hands round Harald’s throat. The blind man struggled to free himself. As he threw himself backwards, Harald dragged the knight across the table. Torleif sprinted forwards, seized one of Ivar’s hands and wrested it away from his father’s throat. Ivar relaxed his grasp and got back on his feet. The great table stood between them like a wall.

Torleif glared at each of them outraged. This is my house, and there will be no fighting in it, either with weapons or with words, he roared. A smothered gasp from the doorway made him spin round. Ragnhild stood there, her hands covering her face. Terror had drained all trace of colour from her chalk white countenance. He gestured to her to leave, and reluctantly she withdrew. Torleif turned back to the two quarrelling men. Sit down, both of you, he ordered, his voice quivering. Drink and make up. Let us resolve this dispute in peace.

Harald stared with blank eyes at him. Ivar bowed his shoulders, bent down, and righted the overturned bench so he could sit down. Harald sat too but kept his head turned towards his friend, on his guard, as though fearing a new attack.

Ragnhild’s maid came in to ask whether any of the gentlemen required food or drink bringing, and Torleif sent her to fetch ale. The atmosphere in the hall was still oppressive, and nobody spoke before they had set the ale on the table.

How can we find a solution to this dispute? Torleif asked.

He blames me for our quarrels, Ivar said, looking at Torleif. Then he turned on his brother. But it was you, Harald, that inherited our father’s power.

I inherited nothing, Harald shouted back. "If you had not run off to Outremer, Father would have lived. Instead, you took his armour, his best sword, and his warhorse