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  The Betrothed Sister

  Carol McGrath

  It is September 1068. Thea, also known as Gytha, the elder daughter of King Harold II, travels with her brothers and grandmother into exile, carrying revenge in her heart. She is soon betrothed to a prince of Kiev. Will her betrothal and marriage bring her happiness as she confronts enemies from inside and outside Russian territories. Will she prove herself the courageous princess she surely is, win her princely husband’s respect and establish her independence in a society protective towards its women.

  The Betrothed Sister is the third in Carol McGrath’s Daughters of Hastings series.

  Published by

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Carol McGrath

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-68146-078-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  If the bones remain the flesh will come again

  A Russian proverb and a meditation on historical fiction

  This book is dedicated to my son, Tyrone, and Veronica, his partner.

  Acknowledgements

  The first of these goes to my fabulous editor Jay Dixon, and, Jay, I appreciate how hard you have worked on editing all three manuscripts with me. Thank you to Rod Fine for suggesting the title The Betrothed Sister. A very special thank you to the Neohori Writing Group in Greece where I wrote much of the actual manuscript, having researched the background in primary and secondary sources in England, often in The Bodleian Library, Oxford. Brenda, Mel and Theresa – your input in the manuscript’s early stages was invaluable. Thank you, Tim Matthews, for the map and family tree you have designed to illustrate Thea’s journeys. Thank you, Rebecca Hazell, for your notes and advice on Medieval Russia. Thank you to the RNA for their support of my writing throughout the years. Thank you, Patrick, my darling husband, for your trusty and steadfast support and for believing in me. Thank you, Accent Press, especially to Hazel, Stephanie, Beth and Greg for all your hard work to bring my novels to readers. Finally, thank you, dear readers, for reviews and for reading these novels, sometimes more than once. They could not happen without you.

  The Offices of the Russian Church

  Matins

  Dawn

  Prime

  The First Hour

  Terce

  The Third Hour

  Sext

  Noon and the Sixth Hour

  Nones

  Between 2.00 and 3.00, the Ninth Hour

  Vespers

  Late afternoon

  Compline

  Before 7.00, early night.

  Prologue

  Kiev, 1105

  My needle slides through the convent’s silence as I draw it in and out of my tapestry for the last times. When I stitch the edges with this golden thread it will be finished.

  I have sought a life of contemplation in my final years but as happens with the old, my memory flits beyond this cloth where my story is laid out in embroidery silks. I remember the past, but these days I lose sight of the present. A Danish cunning woman once predicted that the land of the Rus would bring me a noble husband and beautiful children. And so it has come to pass because you, my children, have been my joy and Vladimir a truly beloved husband.

  Study my embroidery after I am returned to the earth, children mine. My betrothal, my wedding and in those tiny blue and red crosses you can see your name days. Come closer and examine the margins; for if you do, you will discover the story of your mother’s adventurous life. Here you can discern fleeing ships, snow-topped trees, pine forests inhabited by bears and wolves, fortress towers and the great cities where we have dwelled. And you will find me, too, amongst the orchards and meadows – my soul a thing of air, a bird, a bee or a moth that draws towards a bright candle. And there are rose gardens, which enclose secrets that only you, my children, who know my heart so well, can interpret.

  Yet, this is not only my story. It possesses the voices of others. Look, there is Padar, the Godwin poet, holding Gabriel, his magical Frankish sword. He will speak to you of his part in my tale. See Gytha, your great-grandmother, whom I loved with all my heart, hidden amongst the dragon ships that carried us from England to the land of the Danes. Gudrun, too, my dearest friend, will speak of her love for the poet. See her seated by her loom.

  Let me explain. I must point you to the beginning of that journey that brought me as a betrothed exile into the land of the Rus and to your father’s bed.

  Contents

  Part One Exile

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Part Two Betrothal

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Part Three Marriage

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  Short Bibliography

  Carol McGrath

  The Daughters of Hastings Trilogy

  Part One

  Exile

  And here Gytha, mother of Harold, travelled away to the island of Flatholm, and the wives of many good people with her, and lived there for a certain time, and so went from there across the sea to St Omer.

  The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, The Worcester Manuscript, 1067, translated and edited by Michael Swanton, 1996.

  And in the middle of this year [1068] Harold’s sons came by surprise from Ireland into the mouth of the Avon with a raiding ship-army, and straightway raided across all that region; then went to Bristol and wanted to break down the town but the townsfolk fought hard against them; and when they could not gain anything from the town, they went to the ships with what they had plundered, and thus they went to Somerset.

  The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, The Worcester Manuscript, 1068, translated and edited by Michael Swanton, 1996.

  1

  Flatholm, September 1068

  A pale moon was reflected in the still water that lay along the island’s shoreline.

  Thea took a step closer to the water’s edge and for a moment glanced up at the night sky. She stared down at the reflection of the moon that lay on the surface of the sea. For a moment all was silent. It was as if the world had paused to take a breath.

  Edmund touched her hand. ‘Hurry,’ he said. ‘Grandmother is waiting in the boat for us.’

  Accepting her brother’s help, his hand guiding her elbow, Thea ventured into the shallows. She lifted her skirts high in the hope that the wat
er would not drench her gown and allowed Edmund to lift her into the skiff. Taking a place in the stern beside her grandmother, Countess Gytha, she leaned back against the last chest of Godwin treasure. A sense of relief swept through her. They were finally setting out.

  Thea’s grandmother sat stiff-backed and silent waiting for the boat to cast off, her stony gaze reaching forwards towards the two dragon-shaped vessels that had remained out in the bay as the women made ready to leave their island sanctuary. All that day Countess Gytha had not spoken, not since her grandsons had sailed to them in the shadowy morning light, and had told her about their defeat in Somerset and of her youngest grandson Magnus’s death in his first battle.

  Godwin and Edmund told her they must leave immediately. Thea had watched the broken-hearted but stoical Gytha staring out to sea from the monastery cliff-side, leaning on her eagle-headed stick as the boys and their Danish oarsmen had worked hard all day long, sweat running in ribbons down their bared backs, shifting chest after chest out to the anchored ships. They must catch the evening tide and sail away into exile in Flanders before the Normans changed their minds about allowing them safe passage out and, instead, attacked their ships and seized their treasure. Now, as well as one sturdy oak chest on their skiff, other coffers containing valuable items were already stowed on board the Wave-Prancer, the second of the two great ships that would carry the band of noblewomen and their children and maids to Flanders.

  Later, Gytha turned around and left the cliff path. She entered the monastery and took up a position by the north window, looking out to sea.

  To Thea’s relief, Countess Gytha, once the task had been completed, left off her watching from the monastery’s north window, attempted to eat a good dinner and at last she, too, made ready for her departure. Embracing the abbot who had cared for them since winter, the countess had smiled sadly as she presented him with a valuable relic, a fragile snip of the Virgin’s veil. This holy object was contained inside a small crystal-and-gold reliquary box which she had smuggled from Exeter after the siege, when she and her daughter Hilda, Thea and their women and children had been banished to Flatholm to await exile.

  Thea knew that leaving England would bring Grandmother Gytha immense pain. Losing Magnus left a hollow in her own heart which was already brimming with sadness for the death of her father at Senlac, the viciously thorough conquest of their land by the Normans, and her mother Elditha’s decision to enter a monastery. Her thoughts moved like quicksilver through the night sky above. My sister Gunnhild is trapped with Aunt Edith at Wilton Abbey. My little brother is a Norman hostage hidden away in one of their dark castles, and now that the Normans have killed Magnus, Godwin and Edmund are all the brothers I have left. So, with those thoughts, Thea looked away from the island of Flatholm, glad to leave days there that had been endlessly marked by prayer and the work of a small monastery.

  Though Flatholm had been their home for only six months, since Exeter had fallen to the enemy, she had tried hard to make the best of it. She had gardened, applied herself to her embroidery and told stories to a small group of children belonging to the noblewomen accompanying them into exile. She had even discovered other tales, stories older than those she already knew, from a strange bearded monk who came to visit them from Denmark carrying word to the women of her brothers’ summer campaign. He had brought them hope, if only for a short time.

  Thea glanced up at the thin, fragile moon. Despite all that had happened since the Normans stole England, anticipation gripped her. By the time that moon grew fat again they would be settled in their new home. She moved her lips in prayer to her name-day saint, St Theodosia. ‘Gracious lady, grant us a warm hall, fine furniture and new clothing, and take a care for my brother Magnus.’ Surely her saint would answer her prayer.

  Yet, Thea did not confess to her saint her deepest and most secret wish. She wanted revenge on William the Bastard. She wanted revenge not only on him but on his whole House for his destruction of her father, the kidnap of her brother Ulf by William, her mother’s seclusion and the murder of her brother, Magnus. If St Theodosia knew what lay in her heart, she knew it already. Thea wanted vengeance and until she had it, her life would never be complete again. One day, the Bastard, William of Normandy, false king of England, would die an ignoble death, unloved by his children and preferably in great pain because she, Thea, daughter of the great King Harold, wanted him to suffer for what he had done to her family. And, she added this to her thought – one day she would marry a warrior prince who hated the Normans as much as she did and who would help her brothers recover their kingdom.

  She started. Voices were falling towards them, dropping from the direction of the cliff below the monastery, coming closer. She twisted round to see the rest of their women following a monk who was swinging a lantern. Their ladies, who were wrapped in their warmest woollen mantles, came in a snaking line down the cliff path to the beach. All of them, even the five children, were carrying small bundles. When the group reached the shingle the women gathered up cloaks and skirts and, bunching the escaping thick material into their hands, they began wading out to climb into the fleet of skiffs. Edmund and Padar, their warrior poet, took an arm here and a hand there. They lifted the older women, swinging in turn each of a tiny band of confused children from one to the other over the lapping water. Finally they deposited the women and their offspring into the assorted fishing craft that would ferry them to the big-sailed ships which were to carry them over the Narrow Sea.

  The women’s exile had been arranged months before by Aunt Edith, England’s dowager queen, wife to King Edward, whom some called Confessor because he spent so much of his life in prayer. Because of her influence, King William had promised then this safe passage. Of course, Thea mused, he would promise anything that would rid himself of the Godwin threat and hold onto Aunt Edith’s goodwill. If he retained Edith’s goodwill he might get England’s sheriffs and officials on his side, those who had the running of shires in the days of King Edward. Thea could not understand why her aunt was so devoted to Uncle Edward. She shuddered. Never would she wed with such a frost-bitten one, never, not even to please the family.

  A final splash threw salty spray into her eyes. She blinked it away, looked around and saw that the skiffs were full. Padar climbed over two rowing benches and sat opposite them, squeezed in on the end of the third bench, wrapped in his old sealskin cloak. He grunted a greeting, and received a glimmer of a smile from Gytha. Edmund came down the rowing boat. He placed an arm about Padar’s shoulders. ‘Look after them as we cast off, my friend.’ Once, it seemed long ago but it was only a year since, Padar had protected her mother and now he promised that he would protect them.

  Grandmother Gytha seized Thea’s hand and spoke for the first time since Prime. ‘Soon we shall be in Baldwin’s court. Just think how he will welcome us with honour. His family was always friendly to us Godwins.’

  ‘Will he be friendly, Countess?’ Padar asked, taking his watchful eyes from the shoreline. Raising a bushy eyebrow and leaning forward, lowering his voice, he said, ‘Will he really be a friend to you? I’d leave your coffers under guard when we reach St Omer. You’ll not breathe a word about it, my lady Countess, either, if you are wise. Given half a chance, Baldwin will be like a crow ready to scourge the wheat field. He seeks the best opportunity. He straddles loyalties.’

  Gytha narrowed her eyes, nodded and glanced at Edmund who had taken up oars. ‘The boys will need it if they are to get back our kingdom.’ She turned to Thea and patted her knee. ‘You will need help, too, if you are to marry well. Fifteen, my girl, and high time we found you a match.’

  Thea thought to herself that her brothers would use most of the coin and treasures they possessed to buy ships and weapons. But she would need a dowry if one day she were to marry well. She thought for a moment of the day Grandmother had lifted the lids of her treasure coffers and revealed the great family treasure she was hiding in the cellars under the palace in Exeter – the jewels, the
gold and silver, Thea’s father’s valuable books, priceless tapestries, reliquaries of precious crystal – there was more than enough for her brothers’ war on the Normans. There had best be some left for her too.

  She watched the waves roll about their craft as the oars beat on water and the dragon ships drew closer. How would Godwin get them off the rowing boats and up into those enormous ships? The ships’ walls were as high as a giant’s reach.

  A loud greeting echoed over the sea. Glancing high above her perch Thea saw Godwin waiting at the nearer ship’s side. He shouted down to them, ‘Grandmother first. Edmund, keep the boat still as you can. I am coming down. I shall carry her up the ladder myself.’ Before Gytha could protest, Godwin was on the rope ladder and climbing down to them. He jumped into the skiff, and lifted Gytha as if she were a bundle of fine light wool. ‘Hold tight, Grandmother. That’s it, arms around my neck,’ he urged.

  Gytha laughed as Godwin reached out and grasped the hanging thick knotted rope with one hand, his other arm hugging the countess, and began shimmying up it. Gytha clung to him, holding on as if her life depended on it, her skinny legs wrapped around his middle as he climbed the knotted rope one hand reaching above the other. At the top two of his warriors reached out to lift her into the safety of the dragon ship. She was fearless.

  Thea glanced at the dark waters below.

  ‘You next, sister,’ Edmund said. ‘Can you climb unaided?’

  She nodded. As she made ready to grasp the rope ladder, Gytha, apparently unaffected by her journey upwards into the dragon ship, stood safely with Godwin supporting her on a rowing bench inside.

  Countess Gytha called down, ‘Girl, bring my stick with you. I’ll need it to steady myself and smash a few sea serpents.’

  Padar reached up and handed Thea the eagle-headed stick. Her ascent would be even more dangerous now there was this in one of her hands. Thea climbed, holding on precariously with her left hand, her arm aching. She held the stick up to Godwin who was leaning over the side waiting to help her over the top. He took it and turned to his grandmother with a ‘Here it is, Grandmother. Let Gunulf help you down onto the bench before you fall and break something.’