The Viking’s Gift
A Novella
Anna Markland
Copyright © 2019 by Anna Markland
Kindle Edition
Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books from Dragonblade Publishing
Dedication
More Anna Markland
Harthacanute
Roswitha
Horses and Sheep
Worcester
Godric
I Only Wish
Inexplicable Forces
Responsibility
Wherever You Go
Jomsborg
Lucky Girl
Ancient Rituals
Thor and Sif
The Bride to Bless
Witnesses
About Anna
Dedicated to the City of Worcester, England
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I Conquest—Ram & Mabelle, Rhodri & Rhonwen
II Defiance—Hugh & Devona, Antoine & Sybilla
III Redemption—Caedmon & Agneta
IV Vengeance—Ronan & Rhoni
V Birthright—Adam & Rosamunda, Denis & Paulina
VI Star-Crossed—Robert & Dorianne, Baudoin & Carys
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If Love Dares Enough—Hugh & Devona, Antoine & Sybilla
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Harthacanute
England, December 1041 AD
Wulfram increased his pace in an effort to ward off the winter chill. “What does our glorious king want with us now?” he complained to his adopted brother as they made their way to court. “He hasn’t bothered to summon us since we helped bring his fleet ashore.”
Sandor clamped a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to halt. “Patience, little brother. Guard your tongue. These walls have ears. It’s rumored Harthacanute has spies everywhere.”
Wulfram shrugged off Sandor’s hand and resumed his brisk pace. “Ignoring us is an insult to our father. The Governor of Jomsborg sent his sons to captain ships for Harthacanute’s invasion, and we’ve been stuck in England for eighteen months without a word of thanks or leave to return home.”
Sandor sneered, his breath hanging on the cold air. “Some invasion. Canute’s son was so afraid there’d be opposition to his claim on his father’s English throne he brought sixty-two ships from Denmark. Ridiculous considering he’d been invited after King Harald’s death.”
Wulfram thought back. “What a sight though, you must agree, scores of Viking ships coming ashore at Sandwich seven days before Midsummer.”
Sandor kept pace. “Ja, he was welcomed then, but now the English hate him. The glorious summer has turned to a winter of discontent.”
Wulfram lowered his voice. “This year’s poor harvests have made matters worse, on top of which he’s imposed crippling taxes to pay for his grand fleet, among other things.”
Sandor agreed. “We’ve received no recompense, however, and are obliged to foot the bills for our crew’s wages. We are not Danes, but the English don’t know the difference. We are hated too. And, let’s face it, the new fleet will be used to rid Harthacanute of his rivals in Norway and Denmark.”
Wulfram shook his head. “I doubt our king even knows Jomsborg is in the Baltic. His rule is a far cry from the tales about the wise King Canute that father tells.”
“The English earls had become used to a king ruling in council, with the advice of his chief men,” Sandor added. “His son is an autocrat who does what he wants and they resent him for it.”
Wulfram clenched his jaw. “Especially since he and his mother seem more intent on avenging the late King Harald’s murder of Alfred the Aetheling than on the wellbeing of the people.”
Sandor grimaced. “I’ve seen some gruesome things in my lifetime, but Emma of Normandy’s insistence Harald’s rotting corpse be dug up so it could be beheaded and then disposed of in a sewer.
“Ja, you’re right. I want to go home to warm my wife’s bed and spoil my children. They’ll miss their papa at Yuletide.”
Wulfram sympathised, but felt a twinge of envy—there was no one waiting for him in Jomsborg. “I suppose when I eventually get home I’ll have to begin the search for a wife.”
Sandor slapped him on the back. “You’ve plenty of time. I was five and twenty when I wed Inga, older than you are now.”
“Only by one year,” Wulfram retorted. “Truth is, no woman has taken my fancy.”
“You’re too picky,” Sandor replied. “Because you want what our parents have.”
“All of you found the right mate. Why not me?”
The air inside the royal enclosure was still cold, but at least they were out of the incessant east wind. Guards at the doors of the king’s antechamber scowled them to silence. Wulfram paced, pondering the notion of finding a woman he loved and who loved him in return. He decided he must be getting old. Marriage had never seemed very important, but recently he’d been thinking a lot about siring children. He hoped the summons meant they were going home, but, if that was the case, it was unlikely he’d find a bride in England, as his father had. Sigmar Alvarsen never stopped boasting of his luck reuniting with his beloved Audra again after many years apart.
They squared their shoulders when the double doors groaned open and they were ushered into the king’s presence.
It had been more than a year since Wulfram had seen Canute’s son. The gaunt man slumped in the ornately carved chair bore scant resemblance to the confident Harthacanute who’d come ashore at Sandwich. The king was obviously ill, his skin sallow, his breathing labored. Regal robes hung on the skeletal form of a once well-muscled warrior.
“Elf-shot,” Sandor whispered as they bowed.
Wulfram didn’t believe in elves, but his disbelief had been sorely challenged by what he’d heard of the death of the king’s half-brother, his predecessor on the throne. Harald’s skin had apparently turned black. What else but elfin magic could have brought about such a thing?
Harthacanute squinted, as if he couldn’t see them clearly. “Are you the Jomsvikings?” he rasped.
Wulfram replied, “Ja, Sire, Wulfram Sigmarsen and Sandor Wulframsen, sons of Sigmar Alvarsen, Governor of Jomsborg.”
The monarch stared at them as if trying to comprehend how two brothers could have different last names, and why the younger man spoke when usually the older brother had that right. However, Wulfram deemed it an inopportune moment to explain that his parents had adopted Sandor as a boy.
A coughing fit seized the king when he opened his mouth to speak. He waved away an attendant who sought to assist, using the hem of his outer robe to wipe his mouth after the racking cough subsided. It was impossible not to notice the blood smeared on the garment.
“Anger eats at my lungs,” the king finally croaked. “As if it wasn’t enough the cursed Bishop of Worcester was complicit in the murder of my half-brother, now the people of that town have killed two of my tax collectors. They must be punished.”
Wulfram risked a glance at Sandor who seemed equally perplexed as to what this had to do with them. He found it surprising only two of the collectors sent to extort the heavy taxes had been murdered, but decided it would be wiser to keep his mouth shut.
Harthacanute brandished a fist, revealing a near-fleshless arm when the sleeve of his robe slipped to his elbow. “You will go to Earl Leofric of Mercia and tell him Wor
cester is to be razed and every inhabitant therein slaughtered.”
This wasn’t the journey they’d anticipated, but it would be suicide to argue with a man who was obviously close to death and whose thirst for blood smacked of lunacy.
“We will do as you bid, Sire,” Wulfram replied, wondering what the chances were of surviving Leofric’s outrage. In this season of goodwill, the earl was expected to destroy his priory town and the people of his own tribal kingdom.
Roswitha
With frozen fingers, Roswitha of Pershore hefted the last bundle of nettle-cloth onto the handcart under the watchful eye of her crippled stepfather. Kennald the Weaver sat on a large flat stone close by the ice-covered retting pond.
“I would accompany ye, if I could,” he lamented, coming to his feet with the aid of the wooden crutches he’d been obliged to use since the royal tax collectors had broken both his legs.
Roswitha knelt by the side of the pond, broke the thin layer of ice with a stick, and dipped her nettle-stung hands into the frigid water. Since the untimely death of her mother, she’d been tasked with gathering the plants and retting the fibers from the stems. It was only by the grace of God that Kennald’s loom produced a smooth durable cloth from a noxious weed.
The cold water numbed her hands further, but brought a measure of relief to the infernal itching. She stood, dabbed her hands dry on the hem of her skirts and pecked a kiss on her stepfather’s cheek. They’d scarcely exchanged a word prior to her mother’s demise. Deprived of his wife as the target of his temper, he’d taken to bullying Roswitha, and his fits of anger were more frequent now. It was only a matter of time before she felt the force of his fists.
However, she was determined to be a dutiful daughter to a man she barely knew and didn’t like. He’d suffered terribly from the tax collectors’ beating and would likely never walk without crutches again. “All shall be well,” she said, wishing she was as confident as she tried to sound. “There is no choice but to take your fine cloth to the Yuletide fair in Worcester.”
“Cursed taxes,” he replied. “Aye, Worcester is the only market where ye’ll make enough to pay the Danish king. No wonder folk hereabouts have slain two of his henchmen, hopefully the same bastards who maimed me.”
Roswitha glanced around. Her family, descended from the ancient Hwicce tribe, had lived in Pershore for generations, but a person never knew who might be listening. Theirs wasn’t the only retting pond fed by the Avon. “Don’t fret,” she reassured him, “Delwyn the Shepherd is coming with me to pull the cart.”