‘What of them?’ Moir asked. ‘They can find other lords if you wish to travel. I want to spend my life making us happy and content, not other people.’
Making them happy. Ansithe smiled. She wanted that as well.
‘Guthmann will have been awarded lands, former Mercian lands which will need to be properly managed with a lord who cares about his people more than he cares about glory. And I can think of no one better than you to do it.’ She laid her head against his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat thrumming in her ear. ‘Those men deserve a chance to prove they are more than raiders who simply take whatever they want. They need to prove that they can help rebuild this land. You and I can ensure they have that chance.’
Moir titled her chin upwards so that she could drown in his eyes. ‘Your wish is my command, my lady Valkyrie.’
Epilogue
Early autumn AD 874, outside Derby—one of the five boroughs under Viking control after the peace treaty
Each day brought some new measure of happiness to Ansithe. After they reached Guthmann’s lands which Moir had been given as a wedding gift from Andvarr, Moir had built the longhouse into something to be proud of—something that was not quite of the North nor fully Mercian. The land which had been left to rot during the various wars had quickly turned productive. Instead of being silent, the woods rang with the sound of axes as the undergrowth was tamed and used to build houses for Moir’s men, including Bjartr, who with his father’s approval was determined to serve under Moir.
The day Ansithe had felt the baby quicken in her womb she burst into tears. Moir had held her until the storm passed, before asking softly why she had been willing to believe the worst of herself. She had had no answer and, holding her week-old son in her arms, she still didn’t.
‘If that isn’t the most beautiful sight in the entire world, I have no idea what is,’ Moir said, stopping short when he returned unexpectedly from the fields. ‘My son in the arms of my very clever wife.’
‘You are biased and I love you for saying it. But you should be overseeing getting the crops in.’
‘My only quarrel with you is your stubborn refusal to see how lovely you are, particularly today with Mathios in your arms.’ He dropped a kiss on her lips. ‘Remind me to return early often. Bjartr and the others are capable of working hard.’
Ansithe clutched Mathios tighter. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Palni sent word—Cedric has confessed to supplying the outlaws and to working with Guthmann to ensure the capture of your father and Leofwine.’
Ansithe stared at Moir in astonishment. ‘How did Palni uncover this?’
‘Cedric tried to recruit him to undermine Cynehild. Of all people! He felt Palni would be ripe for this sort of duplicitous behaviour being from the North.’
Ansithe burst out laughing. Moir placed another kiss on the end of her nose. ‘My sentiments entirely.’
‘Did Palni say anything else?’ she asked, lowering her voice so as not to wake their son. ‘How do my father and sisters fare?’
‘They were delighted to hear about Mathios and will visit soon. However, recently your father bleated noises about Cynehild and Elene finding husbands. Cynehild put him in his place. She mourns Leofwine and refuses to consider anything for either of them until she has returned his sword to their old lands. Only after that will she speak about future alliances. Palni promises to escort her and keep her from harm. They plan to visit here on their way back.’
Ansithe watched Mathios blow a milk bubble in his sleep. Cynehild certainly knew how to manage their father. ‘I wish Nerian had made an offer for Elene before he returned to Wessex to settle his father’s estate. We could have found him a place in our hall.’
‘I admire a man who wishes to make his own way in the world. If he is the right man for her, he will return. Now it is time this young man slept.’ Moir took Mathios from her and laid him in the cradle he’d carved this summer. Then he turned to Ansithe and raised her up into his arms. ‘And enough about others, I need some time with my wife.’
‘What are you thinking about?’ she whispered at the tenderness of his expression.
He stroked the hair from her forehead. ‘I once thought my destiny was never-ending war, but I was wrong. My true destiny is with you and caring for our growing family.’
‘It is destiny for us both.’
* * *
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Author Note
While it might seem incredible that bees could have been used as an effective weapon against the Vikings, Aethelflaed, the Lady of Mercians, and her supporters successfully used this technique in Chester in 891 to stop a Viking attack. I borrowed the technique because, as a beekeeper, it amused me.
We do not know much about Mercia, that slightly shadowy kingdom which centred around the British Midlands and included North London. Much of Anglo-Saxon history during this period concentrates on Wessex and its struggles rather than looking at the other kingdoms in Britain.
With regard to the Danes’ conquest of East Anglia in 870—surely a momentous event—we only know precisely thirty-five words from Anglo-Saxon chronicles circa 870: ‘The here rode over Mercia into East Anglia and took up winter settlement at Thetford. And that winter King Edmund fought with them and the Danes took victory and slew the King and took all the land.’
The ‘here’ are the Viking army and when Mercia is mentioned it is mainly in relation to Wessex.
Aethelflaed, of course, was Alfred’s daughter and is quite rightly celebrated as the woman who saved Britain.
It is unclear after 871, when the King departed, why the rulers of Mercia were so carefully styled Lord or Lady of Mercia rather than King or Queen. This could be because none of the royal line remained, or for some unknown reason. Much is lost to the mists of history. Or perhaps the historians have not sufficiently pieced everything together yet.
Also, we don’t really know about the relationship between the kingdoms. After Aethelflaed, her nephew Athelstan did unite England, but we don’t know the actual politics or if some people preferred the Northmen to their neighbours.
We do know that in approximately 871 a peace of sorts did happen. The King of Mercia fled and was replaced by Ceolburgh for a few years. History does not recount what happened to him. After him the Mercians did not have a king or queen, but a lord. The peace treaty established the five boroughs of the Vikings—modern-day Derby, Leicester, Stamford, Lincoln and Nottingham—and the peace gave Aelfred of Wessex time to build his burghs and plan his next move.
The next time the Vikings did not find conquering as straightforward, but the Vikings had conquered West Mercia and were planning to stay. The next two hundred years—until 1066, with the Viking defeat at Stamford Bridge—the Vikings and the Anglo-Saxons vied for control of the British Isles.
Primary sources dealing with this historical period remain scarce for many reasons and those which exist are generally highly biased accounts. Archaeology often raises more questions than it answers.
As ever, I have tried to be true to the time and any historical mistakes are my own.
If you are interested in this period, may I recommend the following books?
Adams, Max, Aelfred’s Britain: War and Peace in the Viking Age (Head of Zeus Ltd, London, 2017)
Ferguson, Robert, The Hammer and the Cross: A New History of the Vikings (Penguin Books, London, 2010)
Jesch, Judith, Women in the Viking Age (The Boydell Press, Woodbridge, Suffolk, 1991)
Magnusson, Magnus, KBE, The Vikings (Tempus Publishing, Stroud, Gloucestershire, 2003)
Oliver, Neil,
Vikings A History (Orion Books, 2012)
Parker, Philip, The Northmen’s Fury: A History of the Viking World (Jonathan Cape, London, 2014)
Rackham, Oliver, Trees & Woodland in the British Landscape: The Complete History of Britain’s Trees, Woods & Hedgerows (Phoenix Press, London, 2001)
Williams, Gareth, Pentz, Peter and Wemhoff, Matthias, eds, Vikings: Life and Legend (British Museum Press, London, 2014)
Williams, Thomas, Viking Britain: An Exploration (William Collins, London, 2017)
Keep reading for an excerpt from Her Rags-to-Riches Christmas by Laura Martin.
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Her Rags-to-Riches Christmas
by Laura Martin
Chapter One
Crouching down, George Fitzgerald took a handful of earth and let it trickle through his fingers. The earth here wasn’t like anywhere else in the world—and he’d stopped off in many countries during the long voyage back to Australia. It was thick and fertile and smelt of home. It felt good to be home, good to have the warmth of the sun on his face and the sound of the sea behind him. Three long years he’d been gone and now he was eager to get back to his farm, to get back to a normal life.
Sydney had changed in the time he’d been away. There were more buildings, more people, and as he walked away from the port he felt an optimism for his country that he hadn’t for a long time. It was as though people had finally realised this fledgling colony was here to stay and one day might be more than just a place to send those England had sentenced to transportation.
George was just crossing the road, heading north-west to start the long and dusty journey out of Sydney and back to his farm when he heard a scream so piercing it made him stop in his tracks. Five seconds passed and then ten, then there was another cry, even more desperate than the last. Another and another passed in quick succession, each followed by a loud sob.
Quickly he ran down the street, dodging the children playing and the women bustling through the town, rounding the corner just as he heard another agonised scream. He slowed as he came up against a small crowd, gathered around watching the spectacle in front of them, muttering uneasily. This time the crack of the whip was unmistakable, coming just a fraction of a second before the woman’s cry of pain.
George took in the scene. Tied to a post was a young woman, her age difficult to tell as her head was lolling forward, her face covered by thick tresses of hair. Her dress had been ripped at the back, exposing pale skin crisscrossed with the marks of the whip. Some of the lashes had broken the skin and blood dripped down in crimson droplets. The guard brandishing the whip had a serious expression on his face, but as he drew back his arm for another lash George could see he was relishing the power he held over the woman tied in front of him. She would get no mercy from that quarter.
Before the rational part of his brain could stop him, George sprang forward, parting the crowd and placing himself between the guard and the woman. He shot out a hand, grabbing the whip just before the guard could flick it, stopping it in mid-air. His hand was wrenched forward, but he managed to stand his ground, planting his feet firmly and bracing his shoulders.
For a moment the guard just looked at him with surprise.
‘Move away,’ he growled after a few seconds.
‘She’s had enough,’ George said, his voice calm and his manner polite, but he knew the guard would see the steel in his eyes.
‘What business is it of yours? Move away.’
‘I can’t do that. She’s had enough,’ George repeated.
With a snarl the guard yanked at the whip, trying to unbalance George and send him sprawling into the dirt, but George had a good hold on the leather now and pulled back just enough to show the guard he wasn’t going to be shifted easily.
‘I’ll whip you, too, don’t think I won’t.’
George had no doubt the guard would go through with the threat in a fit of anger.
‘Go fetch someone from the Governor’s office,’ he instructed a young lad standing at the front of the crowd. ‘There’ll be a coin in it for you.’
He watched as the boy scurried off, then turned his attention back to the man in front of him. The guard still hadn’t moved, but every so often would pull on his whip, trying to unbalance George from a distance. He wanted to check on the woman hanging from the whipping post, but did not dare turn around and take his eye off the threat in front of him.
There was a murmuring in the crowd and out of the corner of his eye he saw people step aside as a couple more guards pushed through, coming to investigate the commotion.
Within seconds he was surrounded by four large men, doing their best to tower over his six foot two frame, but failing.
‘Gentlemen...’ George said, knowing they were nothing of the sort. ‘Please step back. Someone from the Governor’s office will be here shortly to sort this mess out, but I wouldn’t want any of you to get hurt before he arrives.’
One of the guards laughed mirthlessly. ‘Let go of the whip, or you might find you are holding on to it with a broken arm.’
George sighed, cursing the protective instinct that had pushed him to interfere. He was a good fighter and strong from years of working on the fields. He had no doubt he could land a few punches if it came to it, but he was outnumbered five to one and that meant he could expect a pretty good beating. Perhaps a black eye or two. What a welcome back home he was receiving.
Smoothly, he dropped the whip for a fraction of a second, using the guard’s surprise to unbalance him, catching hold of the leather further down and yanking forward, pulling the first guard so he crashed into the body of one of the others. Ignoring the shouts of outrage, he swung his body round, landing a couple of punches on the jaws of two of the other guards before he felt them catch up to what was happening and pile on top of him. George was buried under the bodies and fists of five men, gasping for air and wondering if this foolhardy rescue would be his last when he heard a loud voice calling for order.
Slowly the men on top of him rose, not missing the opportunity to get in one or two more sneaky jabs on the way up.
George lay on the ground, looking up at the brilliant blue sky, contemplating if the dull ache in his chest meant one of his ribs was broken. He was out of breath and he could feel a warmth on his cheek which he suspected meant his eyebrow had been split open.
‘Mr Fitzgerald, if I’m not mistaken,’ a cultured voice said. ‘Australia’s prodigal son returns.’
George looked up, seeing only a silhouette against the sun, but took the proffered hand to pull him out of the dirt.
‘Colonel Hardcastle,’ George said, recognising the man who was now the Lieutenant Governor, second only to the Governor of New South Wales in status and rank. Hardcastle had been in Australia for almost a decade and George had known him from social and bureaucratic events before he’d taken his trip to England. The Colonel was a good man, if a little eccentric.
‘Tell me, what on earth did you do to anger so many of my guards?’
‘He interfered with the execution of my duty, sir,’ the first guard rushed to say.
‘Hmm. Mr Fitzgerald?’
‘He’s not wrong,’ George said with a shake of his head. ‘If his duty was to whip this poor w
oman half to death.’
All eyes turned to the woman still hanging lifelessly from the post a few feet away. Colonel Hardcastle stepped over to her, lifting her head as he crouched down as if to satisfy himself she was still breathing.
‘She’s a thief, sir,’ the guard said helpfully. ‘I caught her stealing. The punishment is whipping, fifty lashes.’
‘How many lashes has she had?’ Hardcastle asked.
‘Only six, sir.’
George watched as the other man’s eyebrows raised. To rip open her back in such a fashion with just six lashes spoke of the whip being wielded with an almighty force.
‘I think she’s had enough,’ Hardcastle said. ‘Where is she working?’
‘The laundry, sir.’
Again Hardcastle looked surprised. To get a place somewhere like the laundry the woman tied to the post must have been so far a well-behaved convict. The worst jobs, mainly those in the factories, were saved for the troublemakers, the best for those who followed the rules and toed the line.
‘What did she steal?’
‘Bread, sir.’
Hardcastle crouched down in front of the woman, shaking his head in regret.
‘Well, that’ll be her post gone now. Untie her, take her to the cells.’
George knew he should stay quiet. It was only his status as one of the wealthiest local landowners that had saved him from being whipped himself, but even so he couldn’t find it in himself to keep his mouth shut.
‘I’ll take her,’ he said quietly. As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them. He had no need for a convict worker, not a domestic at least. He always could use an extra pair of hands in the fields, but the petite woman tied to the post wasn’t going to be much help there. He was thinking with his heart again, not his head, feeling sorry for the woman who had been whipped so harshly. It was no doubt down to spending so much time away from his farm—soon he would need to start thinking like a business owner again.
A Deal With Her Rebel Viking (HQR Historical) Page 24
