Kingship Throne Thief

By Egil R. R. Moe

The Norse settlers in the Sudreys have enjoyed good times for a few years. But change is in the air. In a dramatic shipwreck, the king, the queen, the bishops and the flower of the nobility all lose their lives. The island kingdom finds itself all at once without government or leaders.

Young Torleif is thrown into a conflict he is ill-prep

• Language: English
• Publisher: Egil Ryen Moe
• Release date: Dec 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9788293626022

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

Map of Scotland and the Sudereys.

Map of the Isle of Man

The descendants of Godred Crowan

1248

The long ship that forced its way through the storm over the Solund Sea had ridden out worse storms than this. The oarsmen, familiar with the ship’s movements, knew how to row with the wind. The waves towered above the gunwales, soaking the crew, but they could not tear the ship asunder. She had borne men over the Solund Sea many times in just as foul weather. But this time she was bearing a king to his kingdom, and his bride to her new land. Bishops, priests, noblemen, knights, and king’s men crowded her decks. Men who were never to return home. Not a single man would survive this voyage.

The serpent raged through the storm—black as night, swift as the Cormorant. Men clutched their brows, blocking out the storm and the gale, straining to confirm what they had seen. A second later the boards exploded, planks shattered. The water poured in, flooding every space. One last wave washed over them, and then all traces of the longship were gone.

And the Serpent returned to its lair, satiated with the deaths of men.

Torleif

Torleif paced back and forth along the beach in Bornaskitaig. The sun was sinking on the horizon behind Lewis, and the island appeared as a dark streak in the distance, with sharp peaks silhouetted against the flaming sky like the teeth in the maw of some savage beast. The houses in Rhenigsdale, where his brothers lived under the care of their foster father—their uncle Godred Crook-back—lay shrouded in the same darkness that surrounded the isle as the sun set.

Torleif stopped and stared out over the sea at the glowing disk as the predator’s fangs devoured it. How long would his father be away? Would he not soon return? Autumn was so far advanced that the winter storms might, at any moment, hurl the waves against the shores, stripping them of seaweed and kelp. Nobody should sail these coastal waters at this time of year.

He picked up a stone, weighed it in his hand, and flung it out over the bay as far as he could. A seagull flew by, shrieking into the wind. Torleif spat at it.

Damn you! he yelled, yet he knew it was not the gull he cursed. Then he heard footsteps behind him on the sand and spun round to face the intruder. It was, as he had surmised, his mother. The wind tugged at her robe and caused her headdress to dance about her head. Today, too, she wore the colours of the earth, and as always, the keys to the homestead dangled from her belt. She placed a hand over them to stop their jangling.

Come in and have supper, she invited.

Torleif stared at her. He felt a sudden stab of anger against her. It’s your fault! He spat the words at her, for he would never dare express his inner thoughts to her. Why did you drive my father away from our home?

She turned her gaze over the sea, as though seeking answers out there in the haze, where the mountains of Lewis rose out of the waves like distant grey giants. Now the dying sun bathed the sea with fire before it gave up the struggle against the coming night and disappeared behind the mountains. From the surface of the sea, a mist swelled and spread a moist blanket across the face of the water. Soon, the Trotternish disappeared, concealed in the steam stirred up by the restless sleep of the Midgard serpent.

Just below the Trotternish loomed a strong palisade that encircled the buildings of Kilmuir, protecting them from both wind and the weapons of their enemies.

He won’t come home again, Torleif continued, when his mother did not respond to his accusation. You drove him away! As his courage grew, forcing the words from him, his voice rose until it echoed the gull’s piercing falsetto when he had hurled the stone at it. Why do you hate him? Torleif expected her to reply with a harshness to match his own, but when she looked at him, her eyes were mild.

Oh, Torleif, she whispered, I don’t hate him. I could never hate him. But what he did to us—to you ... she added, falling silent.

What do you mean? he wanted to ask, but the words stuck in his throat, and his thoughts spread like a spider’s web through his head. Wild and reckless, they were trapped in the net, until he threw them into her face.

So prove you love him, he roared. Torleif spun around from her on his heel, no longer able to look at his mother. Now he found the courage to speak his mind. All I know is that you drove him away with all your needling. And you tell me you don’t hate him?

But she made no reply.

Can’t she even answer? Or does she not have one? So he had been right: she hated his father.

The gull soared on the wind, peering down at them. Further out over the bay, other gulls bobbed and floated in the same dance on the strengthening westerly. The breakers rolling in over the shore soaked Torleif’s leather shoes, but he paid it no mind. When he turned to face her, she was already on her way back towards the homestead.

So she lets me down too. Torleif had nothing else to do but to follow her home.

William

William laid his large hand on the lad’s shoulder and bent to whisper in his ear. The spacious stone hall’s good acoustics made sound reach, and this was not the moment to be noticed. The king sat in his high seat in the Breida Hall in Bergen. Before him stood noblemen of the first, second, and third rank, his treasurers and sheriffs, while a squire brought wine and poured it into the king’s silver-plated drinking horn.

Mark them well, Audun, William whispered. Mark the conduct of those two strangers.

The brown-haired boy looked up at him, wide eyed, then turned his attention back to the hall. The two strangers and their companions strode across the stone floor towards the high seat as though they were the sons of kings. They might have been brothers, from their demeanour.

William was one of the king’s chief officers, but today there were no duties to carry out for the king. He was given a new page to train, and now he wanted to show the lad how to behave in the king's presence and his court. He himself had entered the king’s service at eight. His uncle was a close associate of Duke Skule, but he lost his life when he waged a war on the king, eight years before. Even though his uncle was fighting on the enemy side, William had become a king’s man.

There are many ways in which a man may gain enemies, the king said to him, but even more ways in which he may win friends. Now, remembering the king’s wise words, William could not help but smile.

William was slender and as tall as his father, but broad of shoulder like his uncle, and too thin—even though he came from a wealthy home, Torgar on the coast of Helgeland, where his family owned large tracts of land and did not lack for wealth. It was almost as though his body did not make the best use of the food and drink he consumed. He ate like a wolf and drank like a fish, without gaining weight. Yet he possessed great physical strength and lifted heavier loads than most men, and no man he pursued ever escaped.

His green robe reached below the knee as was proper. Beneath it he wore a pale yellow shirt. His hosen were brown, and on his feet he wore short leather shoes. He carried no sword in the Breida Hall. A few days earlier, he had cut his dark hair short, and the nape of his neck felt naked. He liked his hair long, but the current fashion was short hair.

William’s skin had a dusky hue, and his beard grew thick. He had to shave twice daily to conform to the court’s standards of seemliness. When he was away from court, he would let it grow for a whole week, only shaving it off on Sundays before he went to Mass. But when he was at the king’s court, he had to shave his growth every day.

William let his hand rest on the shoulder of young Audun of Jølster. This was part of the boy’s training. Audun needed to learn how matters were conducted between great men, and he had never witnessed behaviour like that of these nobles. At the sight of their attire, the lips of the assembled nobles and squires twitched, yet they bore their garments with such grace that none dared shame them.

One was tall and slim, with long flaming red hair and a great moustache. The other was shorter, with a mane of long black hair. Both wore leather hosen, rolled down to mid-calf in a most unseemly fashion. The length of cloth they had wound about their midriffs, one end flung over their shoulder, was a tartan—someone had informed William. Beneath it they wore only a linen shirt. No breeches, no under-breeches. Nor did either wear a headdress. A broad belt held their garments in place, and a simple silver brooch on the left shoulder prevented their clothing from falling apart.

There was silence in the hall. In the dim light the exquisite colours of their tartans glowed. The tartan worn by the red-haired man was moss green, blended with lighter and darker shades of green; lines of grey, blue, and red divided the tartan into squares. The finishing touch was a thin gold thread woven in large squares.

The other one wore a tartan with much brighter colours. They called to mind a heather heathland in full bloom. Red fields divided with squares of moss green, blue, and white, but red was the dominant colour.

The two men stopped a fair distance from the king, their backs straight, heads held high. Their followers stopped just behind them. Einar the Herald presented them.

Lord, here are the Princes Eogan and Dugald, come from the Sudreys, to greet you.

The two men dropped to their left knees and bowed their heads to the floor. The king fussed with his own robe.

Could it be that he thought the splendour of their dress put his own to shame? William wondered. He had noticed the king’s expression change fleetingly as he studied the men with interest.

The guests rose and stood proud, their left hands grasping their right wrists in a firm grip to show they would not raise their swords against the king. This was in reality a token gesture of respect since they had already left their weapons in the armoury.

The red-haired spoke first. Lord King, he said in a tongue just about comprehensible. My name is Eogan, son of King Dugald, your vassal king on Mull, son of Sommerled, and Lord of Argyll.

No sooner had he finished speaking than the other man spoke up. Lord King, I am Dugald, son of King Rory of Kintyre, your vassal king there, son of Sommerled, Lord of Argyll. We bring you, Lord King, fine gifts from our country.

Their attendants stepped forward. Prince Eogan’s squire bore a great sword wrapped in cloth of the same colour as the prince’s clothing. The other bore a broad black belt with an embossed dagger in a scabbard. Prince Eogan uncovered the hilt of the sword. Head bowed, he offered it to the king. Audun gasped at the sight of the mighty weapon.

Hush, lad, William warned, gripping his shoulder so hard that the boy flinched.

A squire took the gifts and presented them to the king, who uncovered the blade and gazed at the sword, his eyes gleaming with excitement. The blade was longer than what was common for the Norwegians.

That sword is longer than you, lad, William growled in his husky voice.

The king addressed his herald, who translated his message. Einar Sverke had been to the Sudreys and could speak the princes’ language.

The king gives you thank for your fine gifts and invites the princes to name their errand. The king raised his hand, and Einar fell silent.

We remark you speak your names strangely, the king said graciously. If we pronounce them incorrectly, we beg you to forgive us and correct our errors. The king seated himself before them and tweaked his coif so that more of his fine hair became visible. You say your name was Prince Eogan of Argyll, son of Dugald, he said with a smile. Would you mind if we were to call you Prince Jon Dugaldsson, according to the custom of our land? The king waited patiently while they translated his words. The strangers nodded and spoke quietly to Einar, who then translated their meaning for the king.

The princes will be known by names easy to speak for us Norwegians. This is the princes’ wish, in order that none may accuse them of ill will.

William bent to whisper in Audun’s ear. Such is the courtly conduct one must observe when visiting a king.

Young Audun nodded.

Lord King, said Prince Jon. I speak for us both. He bowed briefly to his red-haired companion and continued. Both our fathers passed away this winter, and our request to you, Lord King, is that you should permit us to take the oath as your vassal kings after our fathers. Such is the desire of our people.

In the hall, men put their heads together, muttering, but the king nodded and took his time before answering.

Your request is but right and honourable, the king said. If God wills, your wishes will be granted, but we would ask that you enter our service, so that we may come to know you better. For it is not appropriate for us to hand out vassal kingships to persons unknown to us, for we cannot know whether they swear in good faith or with a heart full of deceit. For none may know what lies concealed in the mind of a stranger, he replied.

It took the squire a while to translate this for the princes, who clearly were not pleased by the king’s answer. They conferred and bowed to the king.

It will be a great honour for us to serve you, Lord King, Prince Jon said tersely. He held his head high—and to William of Torgar, it seemed he tossed it slightly.

King Haakon did not appear to notice. In winter's course, through our system of maritime conscription, we have raised forces to sail to Denmark and recapture lands which belong to us, the king said.

Hearing these words, William let young Audun feel the pressure of his hand. He wanted the boy to learn how arrogance was punished.

It is our wish that the princes shall sail with us and make their names known throughout the kingdom.

The pair nodded again, and the king smiled, pleased with their response.

Then later we shall welcome you as guests to our table, he concluded with a gesture of dismissal. They bowed one final time and left the hall in the same dignified fashion as they had entered.

Audun looked up at his tall mentor. I don’t understand, he murmured.

William nodded and leaned closer. The king is mounting an attack against the Danes, he replied. He needs all the men he can muster for this campaign, and the princes from the Sudreys are warriors. The two princes entreated the king’s favour; they asked him to make them vassal kings, promising to obey his commands if he did so. William let his words sink in before he continued. To enjoy such favour from the king will mean a great deal to those two when they return home to their own country, and if they could win his favour simply by giving the king gifts of a sword and a dagger, then the royal favour was cheaply bought.

The boy nodded his head. But now they may have to pay for it with their lives, he said in trepidation.

William nodded. And I imagine they will have to attack the Danes with great ferocity to convince the King of their worth as warriors, he replied. He took the boy by the arm and escorted him from the Breida Hall. We must find other clothing, he said. It is time for weapons practice.

At that moment, he saw Cecilia, the king’s daughter, entering, and he gestured for the boy to fall in behind so he could meet her. William thought her beauty otherworldly. Her long fair hair bound up under her headdress, but he had seen her without it, and he knew how the curly locks cascaded down her back when she allowed them to flow free in the wind. As she swept past him, her grey-green eyes sparkled. Her scent filled his nostrils, making his head spin.

God give you good day, sir, she greeted him. He gave her a deep courtly bow, but kept his mouth shut. That summer the King of the Sudreys, Aralt Olafsson, had married Cecilia, Haakon’s daughter. The wedding had taken place in Bergen, and soon afterwards, a great fire had razed the town. The people predicted the marriage to be ill omened, for people had interpreted the fire as a sign that the kingdom would disintegrate.

God, how beautiful she is, and how good she smells.

Audun pinched his arm, reminding him of his duty. You should take care, Sir William, his page warned. Somebody might notice.

It was true, and he pushed the boy out through the door.

Come along, Audun, he growled, sotto voce. We shall be late for the weapons practice with all your dawdling. William’s cheeks burning with shame, he left the Breida Hall.

Gunnhild

A narrow beam of moonlight shone down through a chink in the gable, down upon a huge stocky man who was having a hard night. Sleep had eluded him at first, but then it refused to release him. In its grip, nightmares tormented him; pearls of sweat covered his whole body, broke out in pearls of sweat, his long, black, grey-streaked hair, soaked. He had long since thrown off his covering of animal skins, and his concubine had left his bed in search of peace. She was happy to share his bed when he was awake, but his nightmares were too much for her.

His body perspired from the damp straw in the mattress, and he wanted to rise from the depths of his dream, but he had no power over his own mind. All night long he waged war, and only when the day dawned did he find rest. The raging ocean waves could no longer reach him, but the memory of his vision haunted him still.

Gunnhild rose from the bench by the fireside and looked at him. Though she was his concubine, she also loved him. She pitied him when the nightmares tormented him so, but she knew when they faded he would sleep well and long. When the evening came he would be ravenous and thirsty for ale, so she must prepare suitable provisions.

Late the next day, Ivar pulled in to the bay. Gunnhild heard his loud voice ringing against the cliffs. The men formed the sail into a roof over the ship. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw this—their only guests would be Ivar and his closest attendants. The warriors would stay with the ship. She stood in the doorway and watched them as they collected driftwood and lit a fire, while their lord stared back at her, standing there with his hands on his hips. A shiver coursed through her body, and she thought it was more from fear than from pleasure.

Ivar

Ivar strode briskly towards the house, followed by two young men wearing armour and helmets, their swords girded. He carried his own helmet under his arm and let his long, fair hair dance in the evening breeze. Halfway to the house, he stopped and looked back at the bay and his ship, the Gannet, an old 20-seater that served him well. She lay well protected in the clear green water. The cliffs shielded the bay from the wild raging seas beyond. Already smoke rose from the fires down below, and though there was a light drizzle in the air, the night would be as stormy as the previous one. They had lay in the lee off Fair Isle, awaiting King Aralt Olafsson’s ship, but when he did not arrive, Ivar thought it best to seek shelter from the storms ravaging the Solund Sea that autumn. Fair Isle with her steep hills rising out of the sea was not the ideal place to lie when mighty autumn tempests swept across the sea, and the weather changing for the worse. Ivar gave up waiting and docked into harbour in Jarlshof. There he would meet up with his friend, Harald Godredsson. Gunnhild inherited Jarlshof, and she lived there alone with a freeman called Tore and two slaves. She had been Harald’s concubine for many years. He spent more time with her than he did at home with Ragnhild and his children. 

Ivar turned towards the house on the hill. A typical dwelling of the Shetland islanders, built into the hillside, with a southerly aspect, and stone walls. The roof was constructed from timber and turf. To the left, on a small knoll, stood the barn built into the earthen bank, also with a turf roof—the ruins of a homestead built by a people from ancient times. Then the Norsemen came and constructed new buildings but left the old ruined houses alone. Those who once inhabited this place had been gone for so long that nobody knew anything about them. Only the ruins of their dwellings bore witness to their presence. The round houses built into the earth and supported by stone walls but with no roof had survived. Gunnhild’s people had constructed a roof of wickerwork and bark with turf laid over one of them. Inside there were two pens, one for sheep and the other for her five cows. Nowadays few folk came by, and the nearest homestead lay many miles away.

She stood there on the step, just before the door, her eyes watching him. That he could not see Harald at her side showed that he was drinking again—like he always did when he lacked an alternative occupation. Ivar remembered that Harald had sworn against his king when he was commanded to stay home. King Aralt Olafsson had sailed from the Sudreys, first to England and then to Norway, two years before, refusing to have Harald, his foster father, with him. The two namesakes were friends and in agreement. Where one went, the other followed, but this time Harald Godredsson had to stay home. Ivar speculated that King Aralt did not want his older half-brothers to gain too much influence during his absence, so he had sent Harald to sow discord between them. Such was his trust in his brothers. Now he should have returned home after his marriage to Cecilia, Haakon’s daughter, but the ship had not yet arrived.

Ivar was a handsome man, and despite his nickname ‘Old,’ he looked younger than his true age, only a few years younger than Harald, who was forty-eight this year. He was broad of shoulder, and his powerful arms were those of an oarsman. His raiment was costly, its colours glowing. His surcoat was red, decorated with the same white symbol that adorned the Gannet’s sail: a naked leg, cut off at the hip, its knee bent, pointing to the west.

The woman whom he had studied so intently on his way up to the houses met him on the grassy slope. She swung her skirts and bowed courteously to him.

Welcome, Lord Ivar, she said sweetly. 

Gunnhild, my pretty lass, he chortled, as though she belonged to him. How is the old fox? Is he up? The sun is sinking in the west, and there are hens in the yard wanting plucking, I see. He roared with laughter and stretched out his hands towards her as if he were about to embrace her. The squires who stood behind him looked embarrassed. They cast their eyes down, studying the grass, and hot colour spread across their cheeks.

You ever have new squires, she said, her tone serious. Do they put the knight to shame? She gazed at him, seeking an answer. Is that why he repeatedly comes here with new squires? she asked, when he did not reply. Or does he treat them so harshly that they flee from him under the cover of darkness? Now her voice held an edge of mockery. 

Is he up and about, your Harald, or is he stilling draining the dregs of the bitter draught? He shoved her aside. 

She understood his meaning, but it was water off a duck’s back. She had never let such talk bother her. 

See for yourself, she said sweetly. After I had finished with him, nightmares tormented him the rest of the night. When morning came he was exhausted, and I have not troubled to notice him since. She turned and ran down towards the ship, light of foot, revealing the milk-white flesh above her legs. 

She was bare legged, and at the sight Ivar’s throat went dry. He ran his tongue over his lips, which were white with sea salt. God, how he wanted her, but he would not betray his friend in such a fashion. 

Return to the ship and wait for me there, he said, sending the squires after her. He spoke as he always did, his tone harsh and impersonal. He did not want to know them too well. They would leave him before soon, anyway. Ivar placed his hand on the hilt to steady his sword and turned towards the house.

The low, heavy, wooden door swung open, creaking loudly. He paused on the threshold and let the sun in. At first he saw nothing. The room lay in darkness, and his eyes had to adapt. The old boards creaked as his lord tossed and turned on the couch. Harald leaned over the side and vomited into a tuft of heather on the floor. Ivar threw a lump of turf onto the fireplace. The fire blazed, flames greedily licking the dry roots, filling the murky room with light.

Harald sat up, swung his legs out onto the floor, and used a bucket of water to wash his face, hawking and spitting to clear his throat. Ivar sat down on a bench by the fireside and leaned against one of the posts supporting the roof. He stared at the man sitting on the sleeping couch and studied the room where he had passed so many hours. The earthen floor was dry and cold. The roof was supported by eight posts, dug well down into the hillside and reinforced with stones and gravel. The roof, of woven withies, was covered in many layers of birch bark and two layers of turf, the first topside down, the other the reverse. A great beam stood ready to be used to bar the door, and the peephole above the fireplace could be opened and closed using a pole. Two small portholes in the wall allowed the light in when they were open.

Ivar got to his feet and opened the shutters to let in the last of the daylight. He bent down and peered outside. The porthole was an arrow slit, widest on the inside and only a narrow opening on the other.

Sounds behind him suggested that Harald was rising and moving to the fireplace. Ivar returned to his place and leaned his back against the post again. Sunbeams from the portholes in the wall poured into the room. One found Harald sitting on the bench, bent over, his face plunged in his great fists, revealing him in all his weakness. He brushed the hair off his forehead so it hung down over his chest. He was naked, and Ivar quickly averted his eyes. Harald sat tense as a bowstring, spitting on the earthen floor. 

The king is dead, he rasped. I had a message from him last night.

Ivar sat up straight. What did you say? he muttered. Harald often saw visions, some of which had proved to be accurate predictions. Is this the way you greet your blood brother? he demanded. I hope you are wrong. Ivar guessed it was just the ale talking, but a jolt of anxiety shot up through his back. The Relic Celebrations were only three days away. The celebrations marked the end of summer, and already the king had been expected for many weeks. 

The king is dead, Harald repeated, stressing the last word, as though confirming the truth. He struggled to his feet, bracing one great fist against the roof post, and moved to the fireside. Shivering, he stretched out his hands to the fire to warm them. Ivar rose and took the woollen cape from the peg on the post against which he had been leaning. He spread it over his friend’s shoulders.

Tell me about your vision, he demanded, sitting down beside Harald. A ray of sunlight shone in his face, and he half-closed his eyes.

Fetch me more drink, Harald hissed. I am athirst. And tell Gunnhild to bring me some salt meat. You shall hear everything when I have stilled the devil burrowing in my guts. Harald held both hands over his belly and kneaded it vigorously. 

Ivar stood up again. Best do as the lord commands. When he is in this mood, one must simply placate him. He hated having to kowtow to his friend when he was like this. He himself was cautious when it came to strong drink, both ale and mead. He had never cared for the latter; the day after always found him feeling melancholy. 

Though proud of his bloodline, he had refused his share of the inheritance, preferring to take silver and seek his own fortune. But the path he chose under a false moon had in the end led him to being obliged to swear allegiance to Harald, who saved his life from highwaymen. Not that his oath had caused him suffering, but he was landless and owned nothing in the world apart from his ship, a few chests containing good clothes, and his armour and weapons. 

Though rich in silver, he was land-poor. Ivar had no wife, and—as far as he knew—no sons. He intended to change this situation soon, for he had proposed to the fairest maid in all the Sudreys, and her father had given his consent. 

Ivar filled the ale bowl from the barrel in the larder, which was built into the room. Take this for your thirst, he said, handing Harald the bowl. 

Harald lifted it to his lips and drank greedily. He gulped down the ale as though he had been thirsting for weeks. Ale trickled out of the corners of his mouth and ran down into his beard. He slammed the empty bowl down on the table and gasped for breath.

You are miserly with the drink, he snapped and gestured to Ivar to fill the bowl again. 

Ivar did as his lord bade him before he called for Gunnhild. He could see her, down in the bay, talking to his men. He waved and shouted again, ashamed to be seen running to fetch the woman of the house as though he himself were a servant. What the devil is she doing down there? It is unseemly for the woman of the house to run about, chatting with my warriors. Enraged, he was about to shout again when she looked up at him and waved, so he refrained. Then she came racing barefoot up the hillside. Breathless and pink-cheeked, she stood tall before him. 

What is the lord’s will? she asked—still with that undertone of mockery in her voice.

Salt meat, butter and bread, he hissed. And Gunnhild ... In one bound he was close to her. He seized her by the arm. He saw the pain and fear in her eyes, but there was something else, too. Something that kindled a fire in him. His heart leapt within his breast, hammering, so his eyes glazed over as they did when he tasted blood in the heat of battle. You can make a fool of your lord, he said through clenched teeth, his spittle showering her face, but with me you shall behave like the whore you are. 

Red-faced, she struggled to free herself from his grip. There were tears in her eyes. Not of pain, but of anger. Yes, Lord Ivar, she hissed. So I am his whore, but he comes to me of his own accord, so do not think me less worthy than I am. I am his concubine only because he already had a wife. Had it been otherwise, I should now be the mistress of Kilmuir. She made another effort to struggle free, and Ivar let her go. She rubbed her arm where he had gripped her. He had upset her, and the knowledge inflamed his lust.

He is thy lord, also, Ivar, she continued. Defiantly, she refrained from addressing him formally. If thou offend me or hurt me, and I should happen to mention it to him ... what then?

She did not elaborate. He understood very well what she meant, and she was right. She moved a step closer to the door and stared into his eyes. He reached out a hand to her, and his fingers gently stroked her hair.

I could be good to you, Gunnhild, he whispered. 

She slipped into the house and disappeared from sight. He swore under his breath, spun on his heel, and left for the privy house. The stink assailed his nostrils, and he fumbled underneath his robe and short breeks—managed, more or less, before it was too late. He emitted a sigh of relief and silently cursed his own temper and arrogance. She knows how to light my fire, that strumpet. And then I want her. One would think she was well aware of it and revelled in the knowledge. He went outside, took a deep breath of the fresh sea air, and tasted it with his tongue. There’s a storm on the way, just as he said, Thorarinn. Good thing we are not lying off Fair Isle, he thought. Before nightfall, the rain will be torrential. He bowed his head to enter the house. The door was low beneath the roof, with a high threshold, giving excellent protection against wind and weather and blocking the entrance against ill-intentioned visitors.

Harald had put on his chemise and robe. He was sitting eating salt meat and bread, resting both elbows on the board that Gunnhild had laid across two trestles. Now and then, he swilled down his food with ale. Ivar adjusted his sword belt and sat down opposite Harald.

Will you not offer me a sip of your ale, Harald? he said, with feigned amiability. Or have you grown miserly?

Harald stopped, mid-mouthful. What in the devil’s name do you mean, Ivar? When did you ever know me to be miserly? A grin spread across his face as he pushed the ale bowl across the table with both hands. Here, help yourself to whatever is mine. Be my guest.

Ivar, alert to the undertone in his voice, wondered whether this was a friendly invitation or a challenge. He raised the bowl to his lips and drank