King of the Norse

Acknowledgements

As with any work such as this, huge thanks must be given to all those who encouraged and helped me in my efforts to bring Hardrada's story to the page. Without the tireless support of Miika and all those at Next Chapter, I doubt this novel would ever have seen light again. To Jayne, my original, knowledgeable and witty editor, who helped polish every word and to Janice who encouraged me to carry on when I thought the whole world was against me. I am forever grateful to everyone who has helped in giving me the opportunity to place Harald before each and every lovely reader so that they may know something of the last and greatest of all Vikings.

This book is not history, but many of the incidents within the pages did happen. For those who wish to investigate further the life of Harald Sigurdson, I can recommend the work of John Marsden, and his biography of Hardrada, 'The Warrior's Way', an accessible and immensely readable account. It makes clear the sometimes rambling and confusing sagas, upon which I based this story, and guides the reader to a broader appreciation of just how great Hardrada really was.

For Janice, my true friends and the home I miss

England, early September, 1066

Landing

The wind cut like hounds' teeth, biting deep into the exposed flesh of Edgar's face and neck, and he screwed up his eyes in a gargoyle mask of misery. He stood on the headland; feet planted wide against a gale so strong it almost bowled him over, and stared out to sea. Amongst the boiling fury of the sea, the waves cutting up in a rage of spray and noise, he thought he saw a ship. A tiny dot, barely visible through the sheets of rain that lashed down, it could not possibly stay afloat much longer. He strained forward to get a better view, and witnessed his fears become reality. It was a ship, battling through the mad maelstrom, tossed and thrown as if it were a mere toy, fragile and flimsy. As he looked, the vessel reared up, seized by the waves to spin in wild, haphazard violence, control all ripped away.

The vessel came clean out of the water and slammed down again, with a crash louder than the roar of the boiling sea. Wooden sides shattered amongst the foam, and the ship yawned and pitched, and at last capsized, disappearing under the screaming water, to sink into the seething, swirling depths. Gone, consumed by the raging ocean.

Edgar dragged a hand across his face, bunched his shoulders, and turned away. If he believed there were people on board the stricken ship, he showed no sign of caring. Besides, how could anyone survive in that? Any cries of desperate men lost amongst the howling wind, hope lost. He put his head down and tramped through the sodden grass, putting all such thoughts from his mind. Life, for him and everyone he knew was hard, brutal and quick. No time to spend thinking about the deaths of others.

Deaths of others.

He was fifteen summer's old. As with everything, this was more guesswork than accurate calculation. He may have been sixteen-summers old for all he knew, perhaps even seventeen. As his mother had died two summers ago, he had no real way of checking. Father, who rarely came home, seemed infinitely old. A great bull of a man, massive shoulders, arms like tree trunks, a gnarled face framed by a wild beard that gave him a ferocious look. Eorl Hereward the people called him, if they spoke to him at all; most quaked in his presence. On the few occasions Edgar saw him, any words he may have wished to utter he kept inside. Hereward seemed like a man troubled, his face grim with concern, the lines cut deep around eyes lost in thought. So the villagers stayed away, and Edgar kept himself far in the background.

The small, bustling village lay in the bowl of a fertile valley, the various houses and outbuildings placed haphazardly in a crude circle, in the centre of which stood a large meeting hall. Edgar came over the far rise, the rain streaking down from a leaden sky, and shouldered through fellow villagers, all busy with the constant daily battle to survive. He drew the neck of his cloak tighter around his throat and scowled upwards. How long had it been since the sun last shone? Edgar couldn't remember. He knew the crops were in danger of being ruined, the ground so clogged with mud. Peas and beans might still grow, but the wheat. The wheat was something else.

He put his head down and moved on, stumbling almost at once into Roderic, the village elder, who swore at him, and threw out a backhanded blow, which Edgar nimbly dodged.

Look where you're going!

The old man turned away, bent forward against the lashing rain. Edgar moved on without a word. He had been about to tell Roderic of the ship, but the old man, always so quick to temper, annoyed him, so he left it. Why was it the old became so cantankerous? Was that how it was with age, he wondered. Other elderly folk appeared indifferent to life's grinding turn, but they seldom smiled, and Roderic least of all. Perhaps the responsibility of his position made him so tetchy? Edgar didn't care. Let him find out about the wrecked ship for himself, when the bloated bodies washed up on the beach.

He reached the house he shared with the sons of Stowell the baker, and ducked in through the doorway. He pulled off his sodden cloak and fell down in front of the fire to dry himself. Great clouds of steam rose from his clothes, and he drew up his knees and held them close to his body with arms that dripped moisture. It was supposed to be summer, or so the birds told him. So where had the sun gone? What did it mean?

A shadow fell over him and Edgar turned to see Gyrrth, a thegn of immense stature, filling the doorway. Almost as large as Edgar's father, Hereward, he grunted when he saw Edgar, and stepped inside. He kicked Edgar's discarded cloak. We must go, he said simply.

Edgar watched him move over to the far corner, where he rooted around amongst various objects stacked up there. Edgar coughed. Go? Go where?

King Harold has called a general muster of all the fyrrd. News has come of an invasion, in the far north. He swung round, hefting in his great hands a large, round shield together with two sturdy looking spears. We are to assemble over at Sparrow Hawk Hill, then march across to London.

Without warning, Gyrrth threw a spear sideways towards Edgar, who shot out his hand and caught it around the thick shaft. Gyrrth grunted, impressed. You'll do, he said, voice flat, without emotion.

Edgar turned the weapon and studied the metal point. My father always said that when I first saw battle, he would give me a sword.

Well, your father's not here. He went north at least two moons ago, when the reports came about the Norse bringing their black ships back to our land. Your father left with a group of housecarles to meet up with Lord Morcar to face those pagan scum. We've heard nothing since.

I know. Edgar did not want his voice to betray any of the emotions that rumbled away inside. His father's departure had been sudden, unexpected, and he'd left no word of where he was going, or why. Edgar suspected that something of enormous importance had occurred somewhere, but this was only a guess. He had no evidence to back it up, until now. Gyrrth's announcement suggested events were moving fast. Are we going to the north too, to find my father?

Gyrrth hawked and spat into the hard-packed earthen floor. Your father … no one knows what has happened, whether battle has been joined, lost or won. All we know is that the Norse are here. On our land.

When must we leave?

Now. Gyrrth scooped up Edgar's cloak and tossed it to him. Edgar caught it and held it out before the fire. Unless this cursed rain stops, our march will be longer still. I will try to acquire a horse, but I doubt if there will be any. Stowell had a pony, but he will use that for himself.

Stowell is also going?

Gyrrth gave the boy a measured look. "I told you, this is a general muster. Every man must be ready."

Edgar nodded, gathered the cloak over his still soaking shirt and shivered. How far do we have to go?

That is as much a mystery to me as to where all this rain comes from! All I know is that today we go to Sparrow Hawk Hill and there we will receive our instructions. Rumour has it that the king and his brothers will be there, together with many lords and earls of England, and their Housecarles.

It's serious then.

Boy, Gyrrth failed to keep the impatience from his voice. "It is more than serious – it is Vikings. The enemies of our blood."

Edgar watched the great man disappear outside and turned to stare at the fire. So, the king himself, Harold Godwinson, lord of all he surveyed, was come to call the people to arms. The Vikings, the Norse had returned. Why now? What force, what ambition had spurred them on, he wondered. It was common knowledge that for longer than Edgar had been alive, the Norsemen were no longer the power they once had been. He knew the stories, had listened to the elders talking around the campfires at night, tales of raids, terror and death. How an ancient king, Alfred, had tamed them and how a Viking had once sat on the throne of England: Cnut. The stories described him as a great man. But a confessor had restored the land to Saxon blood, and Godwinson gave it strength. And now, they were back, back to reclaim what they believed was theirs.

This land.

He dragged a hand over his face; a face still wet from the rain, and realized he was desperately tired. The call made, battle lines drawn across the dirt, he had no choice but to comply. Edgar stared into the flames and wondered what manner of man could bring the Norse back to greatness? A man who had to be great himself.

A man unlike any other.

One

The long journey north

The magnificent city of Constantinople, 1042.

We need more men, said Ulf, letting out his breath in a blast as he lowered the large box onto the stone floor of the quayside. Immediately, Haldor sat down on the box and leaned forward, putting his face into his hands. Ulf slapped him on the shoulder and said, Feeling like death, old friend?

Haldor barely looked up. Only when you are here.

Ulf chuckled. Nice to see you're still in a good mood. Well, he glanced towards his other companion who stood like a great tree, solid, inscrutable, what say you?

The port lay still and quiet, the only sound water gently lapping against the harbour walls, the occasional clink of coiled chains waiting for the return of ships. The endless blue stretched out towards the horizon, sea merging into sky. Empty. The eye of the world made blind.

Distant voices travelled across the quayside from far away. The city licked its wounds from the recent battle, soldiers and citizens alike mourning the fallen and the occasional wail reminding them all of how terrible the fight had been. But to Ulf's question, no answer came.

Harald Hardrada shifted his broad shoulders, turned and studied his older companion for a moment. Hardrada nevertheless looked every inch the veteran warrior, aged before his years. A young man in his mid-twenties, many believed him older, a lifetime of adventures having hardened his body to the consistency of seasoned oak. Enormous in stature, the muscles in his arms bulged like pieces of thick, coarse rope. He wore a simple hauberk of chainmail over a white, red-trimmed tunic and rough leggings lashed around the calves with leather thongs. He held a large two-headed axe in his fist, and a sheathed sword dangled from the broad leather waist belt. Tangled hair hung loose, draping over his face, caught by the breeze, ignored, eyes deep in thought. When he at last spoke, his voice sounded heavy and tired. This is not good. I had hoped that at least one ship might be here, but for there to be nothing… He turned again to survey the empty quayside. The port of Constantinople, one of the greatest cities on earth, usually teaming with life, ships coming and going from every corner of the world, dockworkers scurrying backwards and forwards, off-loading the merchandise from a hundred different lands. Grain and spices, silks and linen. Olive oil, fruit and vegetables. Gemstones, ore and flax, all of it maintaining the most magnificent Empire known to man. Constantine the Great's city, New Rome, capital of the world silenced by the excesses of a mad Emperor, overthrown and blinded before being banished. Where by Odin's beard have they all gone?

Probably got wind of the trouble. You know what these effete seamen are like, Ulf chuckled again, walked over, and stood beside his friend. Harald. We are not going to leave this day. Perhaps not for many days.

Damn your eyes, Ulf, if we don't… His voice trailed away, leaving thoughts unspoken.

Ulf, ever the prophet of doom, said, What, the Lady Zoe will have your balls?

Aye, she will at that. Yours too, perhaps. He sighed again. We'll all feel her wrath, in some way.

Leave me out of this, shouted Haldor from his seat on the box, I never coupled with her.

Not for want of trying, grinned Ulf. His features soon changed, becoming serious. We need men, Harald. A lot of men, if we are to break through the chains which protect the harbour and sail north. That is what you're thinking, yes? Hardrada grunted. Perhaps we could send out word, hire mercenaries?

Hardrada shook his head. I need loyal, willing warriors to follow me, not craven purse-robbers. My cause is just and I want them by my side because they accept me as king, not because I fill their pockets with Byzantine gold. He shook his head. No, they will come when I call – they are Varangian Norse. He slapped his thigh. I haven't travelled this far to be denied because of the fear and cowardice of others. Damn these Greeks; always looking out for themselves, thinking of ways to make more money. News of Michael's fall will have travelled to every corner of this creaking Empire and men will be looking farther afield to swear their allegiances now they think Byzantium is weak and leaderless.

Which it is.

Not for long, I'll wager. Maniakes no doubt has it all worked out. He pressed his fingers into his eyes for a few seconds before turning to Ulf. We'll go back to the city. I'll talk to Maniakes, come up with some sort of deal. He needs me, needs all of us. With the Scythians gone, the city is left undefended.

He has the Varangians, Harald. The City Guard too. Maniakes is a viper, you know that more than anyone. He will do whatever he can to keep himself in power, and he sees you as a threat, an obstacle to his ambition.

No, Hardrada shook his head again, he needs us, Ulf. He knows I command the respect of the Norse and will want me to lead the Varangians, return them to their former glory. Not as mercenaries, but as loyal soldiers to the Senate and Emperor, whoever that might be. Once we have established order, we will leave. Not as bandits, but as noble men.

Haldor gave a cough before raising his voice. In that case we will need to convince the General that your council is wise, and your honour absolute. Simple. He laughed, a harsh snap that resounded loudly across the empty port. That shouldn't be too difficult for a man like him, a twisting, loathsome liar.

Haldor hobbled across the stones to join them, hand clutching his side. He still suffered from his clash with the giant Scythian, Crethus. Harald studied the grimace set on his old friend's face, the drawn, yellow flesh, and did not like what he saw. What ails you, friend?

Ulf sighed, He caught a blow in the guts is all! For pity's sake, man, get yourself some wine, have a lie down.

Haldor ignored the barbed sarcasm and made a face at Hardrada. "Maniakes will not be easy to convince. You'll need Alexius on your side. He trusts you, and what's more he owes you."

Hardrada knew this to be true. Certainly, to have such a strong ally, the Holy Patriarch of the city, to vouch for his sincerity would prove priceless. Aye, you're right. I'll find a way to gain audience with him. He'll understand, will want Zoe back on the throne, but at the same time require security. Something I can provide. He reached out a hand and clutched Haldor's arm. More pressing is your need for rest, my friend. Where did he strike you?

Haldor shook his head, I'll be fine, I just need a few moments, no more. Like Ulf says, perhaps some wine.

"Where did he strike you?" repeated Hardrada, not wanting to keep the edge out of his voice. Haldor appeared weak, close to the edge of collapse, like a wet rag in Hardrada's hand. The huge Viking did not believe he had ever seen his old friend so frail before. It worried him more than he dared admit.

Haldor looked from one Viking to the other and shrugged. He gingerly pulled up his thin, woollen jerkin to reveal a large, angry sword cut that ran across his right side, just under the ribs. The skin hung down in an ugly flap and the swollen, mottled blue and green bruising around the wound pulsed horribly. Blood and pus seeped from the large, oozing slice in slow, thick trails.

Ulf sucked in his breath whilst Hardrada spoke in a voice not much above a whisper. You need that tended to. The wound is deep, and your ribs … they could be broken. If a bone has pierced your vitals…

Haldor gritted his teeth and readjusted his jerkin. I've had worse, I promise you. Like I said, just some rest is all I need.

You were always a stubborn oaf, said Ulf, unable to keep the concern from his voice.

Haldor smiled at his old friend, but it froze on his face, as his eyes grew dark. For the moment, I think we have other more pressing things to worry about.

The others turned to look in the direction of Haldor's gaze, towards the far end of the port.

Striding across the quay, a large group of fully armed Byzantine Royal Bodyguard marched in unison, their hobnailed boots crunching over the dressed stone, banners held aloft, bronze helmets glinting in the sun. At their head marched a young, resolute and determined-looking officer.

"Andreas," Hardrada hissed as they drew closer and he gripped the shaft of his axe as the ice ran through him and settled in the pit of his stomach.

Two

Nikolias, officer in the Imperial Guard, pulled off his helmet and wiped away the sweat from his brow. He watched the Lady Zoe move towards the Forum of Constantine. He had done his best to dissuade her, making it perfectly clear what awaited her; the terrible scenes of death and destruction, the masses of dispossessed, traumatised citizens, fearful, confused and desperate. She listened, steely-eyed, the determination obvious. Nothing he'd said made her change her mind.

The battle which raged through the forum and around the steps of the Royal Palace, furious and terrible, dead scattered everywhere, mangled flesh, headless corpses, limbs hacked and tossed into every corner only served to convince her of the need to address her people. The stench of decay clung to the very stones of the once fabled and magnificent city, but it seemed to Nikolias the Empress Zoe cared not a fig for such horrors. Her people needed her now more than ever, and her sense of duty overcame any feelings of revulsion or despair.

She glided serenely away, even refusing his offer to escort her, and her strength of character buoyed him up, made him realise this was a woman of great fortitude, grace and determination.

Zoe, Empress of Byzantium, wife of two dead Emperors, adoptive mother of a third knew her own mind and, despite every setback, she remained stalwart and confident in her abilities. Surrendering, Nikolias let his shoulders relax and turned to the men who helped fetch Zoe from the monastery where the previous Emperor Michael V had banished her. You are dismissed, lads. Go back to the barracks, await further orders.

The men exchanged uncertain looks before shuffling away. Nikolias watched them for a moment before he too made his way back to the complex of the Royal Palace.

It was as quiet as the grave, the buildings shrouded with gloom. A stark contrast to how it used to be, with courtiers scurrying back and forth, soldiers snapping to attention, heralds announcing the arrival and departures of a dozen emissaries. The ancient walls of the divine palace once rang with the sound of a thousand voices, proclaiming this as the centre of the world, the pulsing heart of the sacred Empire of Byzantium. Now, not even echoes remained, with nobody except the occasional corpse to grace those hallowed corridors.

From beyond the walls surrounding the complex came the sound of citizens returning to the Forum, no doubt anxious to know what would happen next. They had risen up against Michael, and many had paid the ultimate price. Nikolias, charged with bringing the Empress Zoe out of her enforced banishment to the monastery on the island of Prinkipo, missed the bulk of the fighting. News of the Varangian victory over the Scythians soon reached him, and the evidence lay all around in the bloody contorted lumps of mangled flesh amongst the marbled pillars of the palace. Citizens and soldiers, woman and children, the vicious struggle making no exception to rank or privilege. Members of the extended royal family, wives of dignitaries, sons and daughters of government officials, mixed with those of ordinary folk, broken bodies twisted in the unspeakable horror of their last few moments. Throats cut, abdomens ripped open, heads and limbs strewn wherever he looked.

He closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. Nikolias knew much about death, having fought many times before, but the realization that so many of the dead were children brought anguish and revulsion to the very pit of his being. He slumped down on the steps, glaring at the corpses of three or four Scythian soldiers. Never ones to baulk at the slaughter of the defenceless, the sight of them brought him a curious sense of joy. But the hideous signs of their handiwork, the murder of innocents so intimate, so close, proved his undoing. He put his face in his hands and wept.

It was some time before he found the courage to stand up and slip through the main doors.

What lured him to the palace he could not say. Curiosity, or something more. A constant, niggling concern played around inside his guts, refusing to leave; something, or someone guiding him here, urging him to continue. Although he attended mass, listened with hushed reverence to the Patriarchs and the priests as they chanted out their prayers, he believed religion was little more than a duty. If God did exist, Nikolias always wondered why He allowed so much suffering to continue. The priests told him, when he gathered the courage to ask them his question, it was mankind's fault. Apparently, God had given Man the freedom of choice. What he did, he did of his own volition, and justice would have to wait.

Mankind, mused Nikolias, had much to answer for. The hearts of men, blackened by corruption, jealousy, covetousness. These things led to the recent spate of killing, the vile excesses of Michael V, his brief but cruel reign seeming to mock every righteous corner of the glorious capital of Constantinople. New Rome, plunged into the mire of vice and sexual perversion. Was God's hand in any of it? The Emperor was God's chancellor on earth; what he did he did through the power and guidance of God. Was God now undoing the corruption, returning Zoe to power, bringing Nikolias here?

The vast corridors rang out with the sound of his hobnailed boots crunching across the marble floor, causing him to slacken his pace, move with caution. If any Scythians lurked amongst the shadows, he would be an easy target for a well-aimed arrow. He bunched his shoulders, his eyes roaming, peering into the shadowy depths. Pillars rose like a forest to the vast, ornate ceiling, the work of decades, a testament to the eternity of the glorious city. Nikolias remembered his history; over seven hundred years before, the greatest of all Emperors, Constantine, made the city his own. Whilst in the West the old Empire crumbled, Constantine secured his power base and removed external threats with extreme prejudice. Men like Nikolias helped quell internal revolts, bolstered up the reign of Emperors, and created the supreme power on earth. However, not all Emperors were the same. Nikolias knew Michael, more than any army ever could, undermined it all and almost brought disaster to everyone. Now, within a breath of the centre of power, Nikolias tightened the grip on is sheathed sword, ready to strike out at any sudden attack; stragglers of that corrupt and debauched ruler may still lurk in the gloom.

He turned a corner and stopped. Two Royal Guards lay dead against the towering double doors of one of the many royal apartments. One door yawned open, weak light flickering from within, and he moved closer, heart pounding in his ears, body tense. Nikolias drew his sword and used the point to ease the door open a little more. He gasped when he saw her.

Leoni.

She sat on the edge of the bed, head down, faced covered by her hands. Nikolias held his breath and gave the room a quick once-over before crossing to her.

A body, slumped over in the corner, came into view, head smashed to pieces and unrecognizable. Next to it a heavy, gold candelabrum, covered in congealed black blood, giving testament to what had occurred. With great care, Nikolias sheathed his sword and stepped up next to the girl.

He reached out to pull away her hands. Startled by the unexpected touch, Leoni's face snapped up, wide-eyed with terror. She squawked, hand flying to her mouth, and scurried backwards across the bed, lashing out with her feet, whimpering like a wounded animal.

Nikolias raised his hands, No, wait! He tried to keep his voice calm and reassuring, but he failed as Leoni slammed herself against the far wall, wrapping her arms around her knees and began to wail. I'm not here to hurt you, he said.

Breathing raggedly, uncontrolled, her eyes, red-rimmed with tears, flashed as she gasped, You keep away from me, God damn you!

Nikolias stepped back, lowering his hands. I promise you, I mean you no harm.

He studied her. She wore a long, cream-coloured silk shift, tiny threads of gold sewn through the material. The garment, virtually transparent, revealed every line of her young, slim body. Numerous tears speckled the bodice, merging to form larger damp smudges and without thinking he allowed his eyes to settled on them, for perhaps a moment too long. She drew her knees closer to her body. I am a servant of the Empress, so take care, she hissed.

He blinked, aware how his gaze might be misconstrued. He threw out his arms, No! No, I didn't mean…

Her body shook, terrified, her brave show seeping away. Nikolias tried a smile, and she answered it with a scowl. I know you, she said. You're that guard the General sent. Sent to keep me locked away, to seduce that vile man, the one they wanted to become Emperor? She shook her head wildly, growing braver as her features hardened. Well, he's gone – and I didn't seduce him, so there. I'm not Maniakes's little puppet any more, do you hear me? She clutched at the hem of her shift, bunching up the material in her fists. He's used me once too often, and I won't do it again, I tell you. What he forced me to do with Michael … Never again, you understand? So, you go and tell that to your precious general, if he's still alive.

I don't know who is alive or dead, I truly don't. Whilst the battle raged my mission lay elsewhere. The only thing I do know is that Zoe is about to present herself to the people.

"Zoe? Leoni's voice cracked, incredulous. But, but they sent her away. Michael, he banished her."

Like I said, I had my mission. To fetch her back. Nikolias shrugged, took a tentative step forward. She stiffened again, and he stopped. I don't know anything more. For all I know Michael too is dead. The city is quiet now, the fighting stopped. And the Scythians have gone, probably also dead, the whole scurrilous lot of them. So… He forced a smile. I am a sworn officer of the Imperial Guard, obligated to ensure the safety of her gracious highness the Empress, and all of her servants. He smiled again, and this time he saw no responding look of disdain. So, you're safe.

"Safe? She rubbed away at her face, drying away the traces of any remaining tears. No, anything but safe. If the General still lives, he'll want to know what happened with Constantine. She swung her legs off the bed and stood up, smoothing down the dress. She took in a shuddering breath, pausing to compose herself. He didn't send you?"

No. I just… He shrugged again, acutely conscious of her body beneath the silk, and glanced down at his feet. I … I needed to know.

Know? Know what?

Whether… He gestured around the room. So where is he? This Constantine?

I've no idea. He ran off, with Christina.

Nikolias frowned. Ran off? Where would he run to, he wondered. He nodded towards the corpse. Who was he?

Leoni shivered, holding herself, averting her eyes. I don't want to talk about it.

He grunted, looked around the room and saw what he wanted. He crossed over to where a shawl lay forgotten on the floor, picked it up and went to her. She tensed as he drew close, but relaxed a little as he brought the heavy material around her shoulders. You're cold, he said. And … You will need this if we are to go.

Go? Where am I supposed to go? The General… She shook her head. "My orders were very precise, and I have failed. I have served my usefulness now, and