Fertility Queen

By Val Manning

This exciting sequel to Falcon Queen follows a trail of murder, passion, love and intrigue as Queen Gunnhild of Norway fights to retain her power. Exiled to England and haunted by dire prophecy, she enlists her brother’s help in an attempt to re-establish her sons’ inheritance. In Denmark, her brother’s kingdom, she finds sanctuary but it is not until the sword of vengeance has cut its violent swathe across her heart that she is swept from the pit of grief and desolation to the crest of her dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emissary Publishing
• Release date: Sep 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005424473

Book preview

FERTILITY QUEEN

© Val Manning 1980

First published in Great Britain 1980

This exciting sequel to Falcon Queen follows a trail of murder, passion, love and intrigue as Queen Gunnhild of Norway fights to retain her power. Exiled to England and haunted by dire prophecy, she enlists her brother’s help in an attempt to re-establish her sons’ inheritance. In Denmark, her brother’s kingdom, she finds sanctuary but it is not until the sword of vengeance has cut its violent swathe across her heart that she is swept from the pit of grief and desolation to the crest of her dreams.

By the same author

Daughter of the Norse Gods

Valkyrie Queen

Queen of the Dragon Ships

Swanmaiden Queen

Falcon Queen

To

JASON

my wolf cub son

FOREWORD

This book is a sequel to Falcon Queen, and the same Foreword serves both novels, so I am repeating it here more or less as it stands.

Those of you who are following my series about famous Viking Queens will be aware of my passion for that era. This book, like those before it, is aimed at lifting the veil still further from the shadowy role of the female Viking.

Women of that time were often amorous, ambitious, courageous, enterprising, vengeful, spirited or proud. Perhaps Gunnhild, the woman who possessed all these qualities and who is the subject of this novel, was the most outstanding of them all. The only daughter of King Gorm of the Danes, she was also a sorceress of exceptional beauty.

There is no undisputed chronology for the 9th and 10th centuries, no unequivocal agreement concerning what is fact and what is myth or legend. For the purpose of this book I have followed the chronology which seemed to me most reasonable in the face of so much confusion and distortion in various documentary sources, relying largely, though not exclusively, on Gwyn Jones’ A History of the Vikings.

Where the sagas are concerned many historians doubt their veracity, but I believe they are the stuff of truth and I have followed them where it seemed pertinent to do so.

Two brief examples will give you some idea of the problems chronology raises.

Traditionally King Harald Finehair was held to be born in 850, but modern historians now put it nearer 865-70, a difference of fifteen to twenty years.

Egil’s Saga, The Heimskringla, and others, see King Athelstan still reigning in England in 948, whereas Athelstan died in 939 (Anglo-Saxon Chronicle), nine years earlier, before King Eirik came to York.

In the same way genealogies come into conflict.

The Heimskringla and other sources record Gunnhild as the daughter of Ozur Toti Halogaland in Norway, but it is generally accepted today that she was the daughter of King Gorm the Old of Denmark, and sister of Harald Bluetooth.

Even in the 20th century it is easy to become confused by the relationship of one person to another, the duplicity of names, the uncertainty of age, despite the fact that we have the advantages of birth registration, written records, family surnames, and swift communications.

The Vikings had no such advantages, and there was doubtless considerable confusion and opportunity for error when news took so much longer to travel from one place to another and was often impossible to check, and when facts had to be consigned to memory—often faulty or wishful memory at that!

Eirik, the son of King Harald Finehair, was known simply as Eirik Harald’s son, or Eirik Haraldsson, and, as was often the case, given a distinguishing name, so that he became Eirik Bloodaxe, or Eirik Bloodaxe Haraldsson. Harald, the son of Eirik, was known as Harald Eiriksson, or Harald Greycloak Eiriksson, there being no common name to link him with his grandparents, thus making it difficult to trace family connections.

The genealogies of the period are largely compiled from the memories of contemporary skalds, and consequently are often at variance.

I wish to acknowledge here the debt I owe to University College London for their kindness in providing source material; also the Viking Society for Northern Research, and the York Archaeological Trust.

I have endeavoured to trace an accurate path through the datelines, and to read what has not been written as well as what has. I have soaked my consciousness in the material to hand. I have, as an extra-sensory aid, sought Gunnhild’s inner soul across the void of centuries to enable me to set her story down in the manner she herself might have chosen to relate.

In the final analysis the chronology concerns me less than whether or not I have captured the spirit and the essence of the period, and in particular, of the subject of this book—Gunnhild, Fertility Queen.

PART 1

CLAWS OF THE CAT

ONE

VIRTUE BESIEGED

The instant I was proclaimed High Ruler of Norway alongside my beloved husband, King Eirik Bloodaxe, the Volva’s prophecy flowed like a quiet echo into my mind.

‘You are favoured indeed, for Freyja has singled you out for riches and renown. You will be fertile in wedlock, High Queen of Norway. . . .’

I sighed happily. Everything she had promised had come to pass. I had certainly proved fertile, birthing seven sons—and one daughter to follow me as High Priestess to Freyja, Goddess of Love and Fertility. There was every reason to believe that the Volva’s prediction at my wedding feast so many years ago would also prove right that I would be ‘a Queen in other lands, and a Mother of Kings’. Only the final divination seemed flawed, and for that I was grateful. ‘Your path is shadowed’, she had warned, but it scintillated with brilliance. ‘You seek and strive for something denied—a kingdom, a heritage—but in order to attain it blood must flow and heartache be endured’. Yet the kingdom and the heritage had been gifted to us under pleasant circumstances without struggle. King Harald Finehair, first King of all Norway, had abdicated after nigh on seventy years of rule in favour of his best loved son, Eirik Bloodaxe my husband. If there was heartache it sprang from joy.

Nevertheless a sinuous undercurrent of danger persisted in my mind, and a few weeks later when a trusted informant galloped into the courtyard of our Royal Hall in Rogaland, slithered from his sweating stallion and burst upon our presence with news of rebellion I recalled the Volva’s fateful words with unease.

My Lord King, your brother Halfdan-the-Black challenges your claim to the Overlordship of Norway. The Drontheim people have taken him for their High King and proclaim they will pay you no land dues when they owe allegiance only to Halfdan their chosen King. And Halfdan says he will meet any opposition with force.

Eirik was in an amiable mood quaffing plundered wine, reclining in his High Seat which was raised one step above my own, itself a step higher than each of his brother Kings who ruled under him. But as the travel-torn messenger gasped his news Eirik’s good humour exploded into fury.

He rose from his Throne Seat like a sudden storm at sea, smashing the tankard of wine against the walls, the red liquid splashing and staining the timbers like an angry wave of blood, a portent of war and wounds. Eirik’s molten blue eyes gleamed dangerously and the wild golden hair was like a gilded shield to herald battle. The noise and bustle of activity in the Great Hall ceased and all eyes were trained on Eirik. A low rumble like distant thunder rolled somewhere in the pit of his stomach, roared its way to his throat, and was discharged as a great bellow of rage.

"By Bloodaxe, Halfdan forgets himself!" he roared, hefting the great battle axe that was never far from his hand and from which he took his name, for Eirik’s prowess was so great that the foes whose gore had bathed the infamous weapon were countless dead.

The weary herald coughed and his voice cracked with dust and thirst as he announced hoarsely, My Lord, Halfdan-the-Black was well-named. His evil tongue declaims King Harald Finehair, your Father, as too old and senile to choose an heir to succeed him. He maintains Harald too witless and weak to defy your insistence to the heirship when you were ever in a position to force your influence upon him. I have neither eaten nor slept to bring you this news. His voice cracked to a halt.

Fetch ale and meat! Eirik roared at the cup-maids and serving-men who scuttled to do his bidding. Give no man cause to doubt the hospitality of Eirik Bloodaxe. When he has partaken of nourishment show him a pallet of straw. He turned to the man. When you are rested, gold and the choice of women shall be yours.

The man dismissed to his pleasures and rewards, Eirik addressed the company in the Hall. "King Harald himself proclaimed me his chosen successor when he was at the height of his glory and his Kingship, never once hesitating in the following years concerning the wisdom of that decision. Does that sound like a dithering old man?

"My Mother was Ragnhild the Mighty, daughter of King Eirik in Jutland for whom I was named.

"Gunnhild, my Queen, is the daughter of the late King Gorm of the Danes, and Harald Bluetooth, my brother-in- law, rules Denmark after his Father, providing Norway with a strong alliance as long as I am High King.

"If any man disputes my Overlordship let him seek counsel with my Father whose sageness increases with his years, whose nimble wits are a challenge for the quickest mind, and whose eighty years still stalk the earth when other men would thrice have met their bane!

"If he harbours doubts after that let him seek me out, and Bloodaxe will put his mind at rest."

He hurled the weapon from him with tremendous force as he spoke and men went pale with dread as it sliced the air with lethal force and tore a hunk of beef from a young warrior’s hands with expert precision as the youth raised it disrespectfully to his mouth during Eirik’s speech.

The youth started with shock and fright as the meat was pinned to the board by the giant quivering axe. And his eyes bulged. No word was spoken. None was needed. Should the youth be so foolish as to repeat the indiscretion, next time it would be his hand pinned to the table.

Eirik strode across, wrenched the axe free, glared fiercely at the livid youth and turned as a gruff voice distracted his attention.

None here disputes your right to the Kingship, Eirik. It is Halfdan who must be convinced.

Who speaks? Eirik called.

Berg-Onund of Ask, son-in-law to Bjorn the Yeoman who is Chieftain of Aurland in Sogn.

He moved forward, a large dominant man, whose eyes lingered upon me with veiled intimacy. I was accustomed to men’s sensual covetousness but Berg-Onund’s look was ruthless and predatory, a hard arrogant warrior who stirred my sexual responses and who spelled danger. Realising that he could prove a formidable ally and that only a woman such as I could hope to harness his power, I met his gaze with bold appraisal and the hint of a challenge. He smiled smugly and turned to face Eirik, nodding towards me as he continued speaking.

The Gods have long indicated their approval, Eirik. Ever since Gunnhild, your Queen and High Priestess to Freyja, arrived in Norway as your bride the land has been blessed with fertile crops and fruitfulness in men. My war host and I are at your disposal. Not a man here will deny or oppose your cause.

Eirik was by him in two long quick strides, grasping his arm and smiling broadly, the light blue eyes gleaming with battle-lust in the handsome face. Spoken like a true Viking, Berg-Onund. Your support is gladly obtained. Who else is with me in this?

The hail of men’s voices left Eirik in no doubt concerning his popularity. Wielding Bloodaxe aloft, the battle cry of his ancestors burst from his lips. Tur Aie! Halfdan shall rue his treason when he meets his death!

Every Viking in the Hall roared approval and allegiance as I watched proudly. Like a golden God, Eirik had rescued me from the Lapland sorcerers who abducted me to become a neophyte in the magic arts; seduced me as a virgin of fifteen summers; loved, wedded and seeded me with vigour and fruitfulness. He was audacious, dauntless and magnificent. It was natural men should follow him.

He was King of all Norway and he was my husband. His approval raised my spirits beyond the Nine Worlds and his displeasure caused me greater gloom than Hela, Queen of Death’s regions. From our first meeting I was enchanted, dominated and vanquished. Other men could rouse my senses, but only Eirik could master my heart. He, in his turn, had taken none other to his marriage-bed, though King Harald, his Father, had taken several wives, the last, Tora Most-Staff, when he was seventy years young and with whom he had begotten a son called Hakon. The memory of that man-child darkened my thoughts.

I had been instrumental in having the youngling Hakon sent to King Athelstan in England for fostering when it seemed he might threaten Eirik’s claim to the throne, but the dream that had prompted my intervention continued to haunt me like an unfulfilled omen.

Hakon had been birthed among the rocks of Hellen even as I dreamed it. A bolt of lightning had split the sky like a living sword, the hilt and handle glistering gold and the runic symbols Quernbiter inlaid in the blade.

A predatory wolf suddenly appeared from amongst the rocks wearing a gilded helmet inscribed with a scarlet axe, symbolic of Eirik Bloodaxe the wolfcoat warrior—my husband.

Before anyone could do anything, the man-child Hakon drew the sword Quernbiter from the sky, chased the full- grown wolf into the sea, and was instantly surrounded by a vast swelling host who paid him homage whilst the wolf swam swiftly beyond the horizon. And there the dream had faded out.

I pushed the clouded thoughts away. After all, Hakon had proved to be the migrant, not Eirik, and was even then being fostered by King Athelstan of England. Eirik had acceded to the Overlordship of Norway, and it was he, not Hakon, who reaped men’s homage. The tide of fate had been reversed and I could cast my doubts into the ocean which had swept Hakon away.

By the fates, we shall drive Halfdan out before the harvest, once I have gathered a force.

As Eirik’s boast intruded upon my anxieties I could not fail to notice the similarity between the Volva’s prophecy and the dream about Hakon. Both warned that a Kingdom might be lost. Whether the fight to regain it would be victorious had not been foretold. Already the succession was being challenged, Eirik opposed. I had once vowed to use every aid in my power to further Eirik’s cause. As High Queen of Norway and Freyja’s High Priestess my power and influence were considerable, and I reaffirmed the oath beneath my breath as Berg-Onund leered sideways at me and Eirik swore to slay Halfdan, his half-brother, or drive him out.

I tossed my head and shook back the long hair that fell in a natural point to my waist. I was unusual in my colouring, my hair being sable-hued and silken as a black falcon’s wing where my Danish descendants wore pale hair and light blue eyes. My eyes were a deep brilliant blue, my skin creamy- white, and I had known since childhood that I was striking in my beauty for men’s roving gaze admired