A fortnight later, the overloaded knarr they were travelling on nosed its way into the harbour of Saint-Valery. France. Gunhild hugged herself. She’d leapt at the opportunity to leave home. No more Magnus, no more Leif, no more having her skin bruised by his punishing fingers. Come to think of it, no more Hallgerdur, and Gunhild felt a twinge of pity for her father, left on his own against those two. Instead, adventure beckoned and although her innards cramped at the thought of what lay ahead, she would never get another opportunity to see the world. And then there was Rolf, with those dark eyes of his marking him as very different from the men she usually met.
‘Will we be going to Paris?’ Gunhild asked Rolf, sitting as close to him as she dared. He was not always the easiest of companions, taking out on others the frustration caused by his damaged leg.
Rolf finished chewing his bread before replying. ‘Paris? Whatever for? This is where William has his ships, not somewhere up the Seine.’
‘Oh.’ She was disappointed. The little town spread out before them was dominated by two large round towers to the east, a squat church tower in its centre. A far cry from the imagined glories of Paris.
‘They’ve made a mess of things, haven’t they?’ Rolf gestured at the various ships that thronged the bay. New ships, for the most part, and yet several of them were under repair, the damage indicating they’d crashed into each other. ‘Seems these Normans have forgotten their ancient sea-faring skills.’ He chuckled. ‘Not that they’ll be going anywhere unless the wind turns.’
Gunhild squinted at the clear August sky and stuck up a finger: still a steady westerly wind. They’d been rowing for the last week, with Gunhild and Rolf taking their turns at the heavy oars.
When they disembarked, Rolf went first, crutch under one arm, his precious harp in an oilcloth bag slung over his shoulder. One bundle in his free hand, and he still managed the gangway on his own, waving away Gunhild’s offer to help.
She hurried after him, her belongings in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of the dagger her father had given her. Rolf slid her a look, his mouth quirking into a little smile.
‘Good to see you have my back.’ He studied her blade with evident interest. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘It’s from Spain. And I don’t think you need anyone to have your back.’ She pointed at his crutch. ‘I daresay you’re quite deadly with that.’
‘I am. People see someone with a limp, and they believe they can help themselves to whatever I have.’
‘Let them try.’ She moved closer. ‘Now there are two of us.’
‘Two?’ He smiled again – a miracle, almost: two smiles on the same day. ‘Woe betide Duke William.’
Gunhild followed him as he limped towards the town, biting back on the desire to help him negotiate the steep and slippery slope from the harbour. A proud man – a handsome man, assuming you looked more than once. After a quick glance at his crutch, very few did, and Gunhild could see in Rolf’s stance and set face that it hurt to be so dismissed. She moved closer to him, ignoring the pull of the shops, horizontal shutters standing wide open to display everything from cheese to the finest of silks. Cobbled streets, so many houses – Gunhild’s braids bounced as she turned this way and that.
‘This is nothing,’ Rolf said. ‘Compared to Constantinople, this is at most a dung pile.’
‘Miklagård,’ she breathed. ‘You’ve been there?’
‘Several times – my mother hails from there.’ He tugged gently at her braid. ‘One would think you’ve never seen a town before.’
‘Not like this. Lund doesn’t compare.’
‘Lund?’ He snorted. ‘Three streets and a crossroad at most.’
‘And a church.’
‘Ah, yes.’ There was a twinkle in his dark eyes. ‘We must not forget the church.’
They made their way down a winding street parallel to the waterfront.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, staring at the encroaching buildings, the narrow alleys that led off the main thoroughfare. She’d get lost in less than a heartbeat here!
Rolf hopped over an overflowing and stinking gutter, regained his balance, and lifted his crutch to point at the looming towers. ‘There.’
Gunhild came to a stop. For a long, long time she studied the walls, the towers and the heavy gates.
‘That William, he lives there?’ she asked in a hushed voice.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Thor’s balls!’ she exclaimed, her cheeks heating when he raised a brow. ‘I just meant…’ She sidled closer. ‘How on earth are we to stop a man so powerful he lives like that?’ She gestured at the castle. ‘And look at all his men!’
‘Who said it would be easy?’ Rolf led the way up towards the main gate. ‘And no one has tasked us with tearing down the castle – just the man.’
Gunhild gave him a long look but chose not to comment.
The men manning the castle gate waved them through, no more than a cursory glance at Rolf – a cripple elicited little interest – a far more curious gleam in their eyes as they studied Gunhild. She disliked being scrutinised by unknown men, and moved closer to Rolf. He took her hand, a warm, comforting hold.
They entered the crowded, sun-lit bailey. Here too were shops and tradesmen, the promising smell of warm bread mixing with that of horses and red-hot iron. A smith, an armourer, a fletcher – men trading in weapons rather than fripperies.
Other than the sturdy hall, the enclosed space contained a chapel and an assortment of timbered buildings hugging the walls. There were men everywhere, many of them men-at-arms, even more servants, rushing back and forth across the courtyard.
‘There must be more people here than in all of Lund,’ Gunhild said, liking that he had still not relinquished her hand.
‘Probably.’ He slid her a look. ‘Not saying much, is it?’
The sound of a horn filled the air and the ground shook under approaching horses. The gateway filled with riders, with horses that snorted and threw with their heads. In the lead rode a man dressed in garments of vivid blue. He drew his stallion to a halt and dismounted fluidly.
‘Is that William?’ Gunhild whispered. The man looked as impregnable as the castle, broader by far than Rolf, albeit that he was half a head shorter. Rolf nodded, no more.
The duke dragged a hand through his short hair, brows pulled together in a ferocious scowl as he berated the stable-boy for not being quick enough, the damned wind for remaining stubbornly from the west.
‘God’s will,’ one of his companions said, and William turned on him.
‘God’s will, Odo? Truly? If so, my dear lord bishop, you’d best spend your days on your knees and beseech Him to change his mind – soon!’ He made for the ornate door leading to the hall, his companions at his heels.
‘It might help if you added your voice to the prayers,’ Odo said.
‘Damn it!’ William kicked a dog out of his way. ‘And you don’t think I do? Every waking moment I pray – for the wind to change, for me to bring that traitorous, foresworn English earl to his knees.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Bishop Odo said with a grin. ‘I’m sure God will be pleased by your fervour – and piety.’
For an instant, William looked at the bishop as if he wanted to stake him. And then his features cracked into a broad smile. ‘I leave the pious stuff to you and Matilda. I am far better at the fervour.’
‘Who’s Matilda?’ Gunhild asked.
‘His wife.’ Rolf grinned. ‘She has him well-tamed, they say.’
Gunhild snorted. ‘Whoever suggests that man is tame is a fool.’ She lowered her voice. ‘How do we stop him?’
‘I have no idea – yet.’ Rolf shifted his shoulders. ‘I am sure we’ll come up with something.’
Four weeks later, and the Normans had repaired most of their ships. William had taken up permanent r
esidence in the castle, his men lived in camps on the outskirts of the little town, and the air reeked of open latrine pits and smoky fires. But no matter the constant prayers of the monks at the nearby abbey, no matter how often William strode back and forth along the shoreline staring out across the sea, the westerly wind prevailed.
‘Good thing,’ Gunhild said as they made for the hall and the evening meal. ‘Seeing as we still don’t know how to stop him.’
‘You could always lure him with your feminine wiles and then I could swoop in and kill him.’
‘Me?’ Gunhild squeaked.
‘He has noticed you.’ Rolf sounded gruff. ‘No wonder, seeing as you sit beside me every night as I sing, all that hair of yours unbound.’
Gunhild’s hands fluttered up to her hair. ‘Should I braid it?’ After years in Hallgerdur’s shadow, she enjoyed the novelty of being gawked at, men commenting on her fair hair, her blue eyes.
‘Leave it. You look beautiful.’ He took her hand, and she smiled inside at how his fingers tightened round hers. ‘I truly don’t know what Sven expected us to achieve.’ He sounded tired. ‘The only good thing is that there are plenty of others here with the same ambition we have – to thwart his invasion.’
‘There are?’
‘I’ve seen at least twelve Saxon spies. The French king must have a handful here as does the King of the Germans. Truth be told, it’s a miracle the duke is still alive, what with all these well-wishers. But then, William has ample practice in avoiding assassins. They started coming after him when he was but a child.’
‘Assassins? I’m not sure that is something I want to be.’
‘We may not have a choice.’ Rolf gnawed his lip. ‘The best thing would be to sink his ships, but he has more guards posted on his precious vessels than a pig has bristles.’
‘A distraction,’ Gunhild suggested. ‘A big distraction.’
‘Yes.’ Rolf turned towards the stables. ‘That might do it. A blaze threatening the horses, and while everyone is busy here, those ships can be dealt with.’
‘How would that work? You can’t move fast enough to…’ she choked off the rest.
‘No.’ He adjusted his crutch. ‘The cripple can’t rush for the ships, but the cripple can light a fire.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that – and I’ve never called you a cripple.’
‘That’s what I am, isn’t it?’ he said bitterly. ‘Useless and invisible.’
Gunhild tightened her grip on his hand. ‘Not to me.’
‘No?’ His eyes met hers.
‘Never.’ She held his gaze.
At long last, he cleared his throat. ‘I think we need to talk to our Saxon friends.’
‘Took some time to bring them aboard,’ Gunhild said some days later, her belly heaving with apprehension. This was it. She licked her lips, glanced at Rolf. A girl and a cripple – God help them!
‘The thing about spies is that they don’t like admitting to being spies,’ Rolf replied, guiding her across the bailey. Night was falling fast, and down by the main entrance the guards were shooing people out of the castle before shutting the gate for the night.
‘No wonder. Duke William finds out and he’ll…’ Gunhild mimed a closing noose around her neck.
‘Aye.’ Rolf cut her off, nodding a discreet greeting to Wulfric, a Saxon disguised as a monk who rushed for the gate, making for the harbour and his hidden comrades. Everything was ready. ‘After tonight it is over.’
Gunhild wiped her hands on her skirts. ‘May we both see tomorrow.’
‘Amen to that.’
She grasped the silver hammer that hung around her neck. ‘Thor guide us.’
Once the castle had settled down for the night, they rose from their hiding place in the stables. In absolute silence, they went along the walls, lighting candles at even intervals. Round each candle a heap of straw and rags dipped in oil.
They emerged from the stable, moving from one shadow to the other. When they reached the armoury, Gunhild spread her cloak to shield the flame Rolf ignited, blowing on it carefully until the bundle of rags in his hand caught fire. They threw it atop the heavy thatch, and soon enough the roof began to glow.
Rolf took her hand and led her towards the dark hall.
They were waiting just beside the entrance, when the shout went up.
‘Fire!’ someone yelled, and the roof of the armoury burst into flames, huge red things that licked the wall behind it.
The sentries at the entrance set off at a run, and Rolf moved fast, pulling Gunhild with him. In through the door, and he pressed her into a nook just as several men came thumping down the passage.
From the courtyard came loud orders, men yelling for water, for the gate to be opened. A horse neighed. Another shrieked in return, hooves crashed into walls, more frantic neighs. The stables were now on fire as well.
‘Go!’ Rolf whispered to Gunhild, and she hastened down the passage, screaming that the castle was on fire, and God help them all. Half-dressed men spilled from the hall, running for the door and the conflagration beyond.
‘Christ on his cross!’ someone exclaimed. ‘The horses, we must get them out.’
She came to a halt by the duke’s chamber. The door was flung open, two young men in nothing but their shirts rushing by her.
‘Fire!’ she screamed, clutching at the duke as he made as if to follow his men. ‘God’s judgement is upon us! This is His punishment!’
‘Shut up!’ Duke William shoved at her.
Gunhild clung to him. ‘God has seen your greed, my lord!’
His hands closed on her shoulders. ‘This is not God’s wrath, you fool, this is…’ He sniffed. ‘…You! This is you!’ His hands slid up her neck. ‘You smell of oil and smoke. Why, you treacherous wench, I’m going to…’ His hold tightened. Gunhild gargled. No air. She tried to scratch his face, kick at him, helpless as he strangled her. A shadow loomed behind him. The crutch went up, it came down. With a sickening crunch, it connected with William’s head. He toppled to the floor. Rolf swung again, and blood and other matter spattered her skirts.
‘Thor and Christ save us!’ Out, they had to get out! Gunhild scuttled down the narrow passage, Rolf at her heels. Men, coming the other way, calling for the duke, and Gunhild’s mouth was dry as tinder.
The courtyard was in chaos: panicked horses, men with buckets, smoke and fire. It hurt to inhale, the air stank of singed hair and roasting flesh, and the cobbles were slippery with water. Over by the gate, horses were milling about, surrounded by men who were trying to calm them down sufficiently to lead them across the narrow drawbridge.
‘We must…’ Gunhild said, just as someone screamed that the duke was dead.
‘There!’ a man yelled. ‘Catch the cripple and the girl!’
‘Run.’ Rolf pushed at her. ‘Flee.’
Gunhild grabbed hold of his hand. ‘Not without you.’ They hastened towards the gate, weaving a path between restless horses and shouting men.
‘Close the gate!’ someone yelled. ‘Stop them!’
Rolf cursed and increased his pace. Already, two of the sentries were trying to close the gate, but the horses neighed and bucked, kicked and jostled.
‘This way!’ Wulfric appeared beside them. In among the horses, and Gunhild held on to Rolf’s belt, terrified of these huge animals. An arrow whirred by, and Gunhild yelped.
‘Down!’ Wulfric yelled, and they were crawling on their hands and knees, making for the rapidly closing gate. ‘Faster!’ Wulfric hauled Rolf along. ‘Move, man!’ Gunhild slid outside, caught hold of Rolf’s hand and pulled. Wulfric tumbled after, and they were through, just as the gate banged shut.
‘Dearest God,’ Wulfric gasped, leading them down a narrow alley. ‘That was close.’
‘Not over yet.’ Rolf spoke through gritted teeth, hopping as fast as he could
.
‘They have other matters to handle.’ Wulfric grinned and pointed to the bay, where smoke and flames billowed upwards. ‘Like their burning ships.’
‘And their dead duke,’ Rolf said.
‘Dead? God be praised!’ Wulfric raised a fist heavenwards.
‘Or Thor,’ Gunhild added in an undertone. It was over. Tremors flew up her legs, her arms, and she staggered against a wall.
‘Gunhild?’ Rolf pulled her into a brief embrace, his lips pressing into her hair. ‘It is done.’
‘Done,’ she repeated. When he held out his hand, and she took it, following him into the protective darkness of the September night.
Author’s Note
When Edward the Confessor died many countries in Europe held their breath. The succession in England was an uncertain thing, with William of Normandy vociferously putting forward his own claim. In Denmark, Sven Estridsen kept his fingers crossed for his cousin Harold Godwinson – not only because blood is thicker than water, but also because Denmark and England had commercial interests in common. This is also why Sven, in 1069, joined forces with Edgar Atheling in an attempt to dislodge William. However, after capturing York Sven was bought-off by William and left Edgar to his fate. In 1074, Sven launched yet another invasion force, but by then William had consolidated his hold over England, and the attempt failed.
Sven was one of the first Danish kings to genuinely embrace the Christian faith. He had a personal relationship with Adam of Bremen and was one of the more enthusiastic church builders. The church of Dalby was begun around 1065 and carries the distinction of being one of the oldest stone churches in Sweden (although at the time, Dalby was in Denmark).
I have named my female lead Gunhild because of an apocryphal story about Sven: reputedly, Sven married a certain Gunhild, daughter of his Swedish foster father, Anund Jacob. The church was mightily upset by this union, and Sven was obliged to divorce his wife who went on to found a convent instead.
Why the church would have been upset by this marriage is unclear – until the full story emerges, as per which there were two Gunhilds involved. The first was Anund Jacob’s daughter, but she died very soon after the wedding, then Sven took as his wedded wife Gunhild’s mother – also a Gunhild. This was what had the church in knots, this is why Adam of Bremen forced Sven to divorce his wife, threatening him with eternal hellfire unless he complied. Sven did as asked, but never married again, no matter that he fathered well over twenty children.
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