Promises of the Runes

Book 0: Runes

by Christina Courtenay

Genres: Viking Romance; Fantasy action & adventure; Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

Brimming with romance, adventure and vivid historical detail, Christina Courtenay does for the Vikings what Diana Gabaldon's Outlander and Clanlans does for Scottish history.

The long-awaited story of Ivar Thoresson, foster brother of Linnea and Madison Berger, is told in Promises of the Runes - available now!
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He travelled through time to capture her heart.
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Just some of the rich praise for Christina Courtenay's pacy, evocative and romantic novels including Echoes of the Runes and The Runes of Destiny, out now:

'Seals Christina Courtenay's crown as the Queen of Viking Romance' CATHERINE MILLER

'This epic romance is sure to sweep you off your feet!' TAKE A BREAK

'An absorbing story, fast-paced and vividly imagined' PAMELA HARTSHORNE

'A love story and an adventure, all rolled up inside a huge amount of intricately-detailed, well-researched history. Thoroughly enjoyable' KATHLEEN MCGURL

'Christina Courtenay is guaranteed to carry me off to another place and time in a way that no other author succeeds in doing' SUE MOORCROFT

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: April 13, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

When Ivar came to, he found himself face down in a mound of springy moss, his cheek slightly damp from its inherent moisture. The nausea and dizziness still roiling inside him slowly died down, and he pushed himself on to his knees.

‘Jesus! That was horrible,’ he muttered. But it had worked! At least, he thought so. He’d travelled through time, and now that he was here, he could barely believe it.

Linnea had warned him about the side-effects that day when they’d attempted to time-travel together, but he hadn’t realised it would be quite this bad. He’d never felt anything like it; it was like being inside a tornado and unable to escape. Or one of those weird fairground rides where you stood against the wall of a rotating cylinder until it spun so fast you were plastered to the sides without your feet touching the ground. And much worse than when he’d had that strange vision in the museum storeroom.

‘Yuck!’

Taking a few steadying breaths, he clambered to his feet and picked up the sack that contained his spare clothing. He’d brought three extra shirts, two woollen tunics, a spare pair each of linen and woollen trousers, several pairs of socks, and some mittens and a hat. Right now he was wearing more of the same, covered by a cloak fastened on one shoulder with a small bronze brooch. At his belt hung a vicious knife honed to perfect sharpness, a pouch full of silver and gold, and another with things like a sewing kit and a crude razor. A hone stone was also attached to the belt, as well as an axe, hanging heavily on his hip. In addition, his fingers were covered in gold and silver rings, and he wore quite a collection of silver armbands, mostly concealed by the sleeves of his tunic. It felt weird – he wasn’t normally a jewellery kind of guy – but needs must, as they were the local currency. He hoped he’d come prepared for everything.

He took in his surroundings. It would seem he’d ended up at the edge of a forest, and before him lay a settlement. It was prosperous, judging by the size of the main hall and the large number of outbuildings. He admired the slightly curved outline of the hall’s roof and the carvings around the doorway. The craftsmanship was exquisite and aesthetically pleasing, the patterns typically Viking in style. The sight of them sent a thrill through him, as they proved that he’d ended up in roughly the right time period. He would have liked to study them in detail, but now was not the time.

There were people going about their daily business, dressed in what he considered the right type of clothing for this era. Another sign that his time-travelling had been a success. As he emerged from the shade of the trees, a few of them threw him surprised glances. He supposed most visitors arrived by boat rather than on foot. There was one medium-sized ship – again, the correct shape and build for this period – and several smaller boats tied up by a jetty to his right. It would appear the ship was being readied for a journey, as there was a steady stream of items being loaded.

Ivar hesitated, then headed up the hill towards the main hall. He figured that would be the best place to start, as he could confirm that he’d ended up in the right era, and announce his presence in the least suspicious manner possible.

Just as he reached the large double doors, which stood open, a man emerged. He was huge; taller than Ivar by several inches, and broad across the shoulders. He had a shock of white-blond hair, reminiscent of Haakon’s but much longer, and his piercing blue gaze immediately fastened on Ivar with a frown.

‘Greetings,’ he said politely. ‘I am Haukr inn hvíti and this is my domain. Who might you be?’

A little thrill raced through Ivar as he recognised the name – Haukr the White. It was one he was very familiar with from his youth. Back when he was only fourteen, Haakon and Mia had done an archaeological dig in this area, and they’d found a rune stone with the names of the Viking occupants of the site, including Haukr. Ivar couldn’t believe he’d been fortunate enough to run into this particular man first. What amazing good luck!

He had decided not to embrace the Viking tradition of taking on his father’s name as a surname, as he’d hated the man. Instead of Hrolfsson – his father had been Rolf in Swedish, which would have been Hrolf in Old Norse – he’d keep the name he had grown up with. He therefore replied, ‘I am Ivar Thoresson, of no particular abode. I seek a kinsman, Thorald. I believe he resides here.’

His Old Norse was pretty good, if not perfect, and this was a sentence he’d rehearsed many times. He hoped it didn’t sound too demanding or impolite. He didn’t know this Thorald’s surname, which was a shame, as the name could be a common one, but Linnea hadn’t told him what it might be. She’d probably never asked.

Ivar had spent years listening to speculation about the man. His father had been obsessed with what he was convinced was their family’s Viking heritage, and had spent ages trying to learn more about this supposed ancestor. All he really had to go on was a sword that had been handed down from father to son through the generations, as well as a handful of stories that had been passed down as well. The sword had an inscription that read: I am Man-Slayer. Thorald carries me, but there were no further clues. Despite the fact that Ivar had generally avoided his father like the plague, the stories about Thorald had caught his imagination. He’d found himself listening in spite of himself, fascinated by a man who could inspire such tales. He must have been exceptional, and the desire to meet him had grown.

When he had first realised that time travel was possible, the idea of meeting Thorald had taken shape. Then Linnea had mentioned someone of that name in passing; a neighbour of hers in the past. It had seemed like too much of a coincidence. Ivar wanted to grab the chance to confirm the man’s existence, and perhaps to see for himself what had made him worthy of remembrance. Of course, it could all be a pack of lies, or tall tales, but now he’d know for sure.

Haukr brought his musings to a halt with what sounded like a snort of disbelief.

‘As far as I know, Thorald has no kin.’ The giant crossed his arms over a massive chest and narrowed his eyes at Ivar, tilting his head to one side and regarding him for what seemed like ages. Those blue orbs bored into Ivar’s as if the man was trying to look into his very soul. Finally he said, ‘Come, let us go for a walk.’

‘Er . . . why?’ Ivar wasn’t sure he wanted to go anywhere with this man. If he didn’t believe him to be Thorald’s kin, he might simply beat him to a pulp, or even kill him. And fit though Ivar was, he very much doubted he could best Haukr in a fight, no matter what he tried.

‘We need to talk in private,’ the Viking hissed.

Without waiting for a reply, he strode off towards a meadow at the back of the hall, where a herd of cows were grazing contentedly in the early autumn sunshine. They were smaller than the breeds Ivar was used to, and seemed to come in varying colours, but they looked healthy and well fed.

Once they were out of earshot of the other people in the settlement, Haukr rounded on him. ‘You’re . . . from the future, aren’t you? Your speech is slightly strange and you’ve appeared out of nowhere. If you’d arrived by ship, someone would have informed me.’

Ivar blinked. ‘What? How . . . ?’ The man’s words were totally unexpected and rendered him more or less speechless. He hadn’t thought that anyone other than Linnea and Sara’s husbands would be aware that time travel existed. The shock of Haukr’s accusation reverberated through him. How the hell was he supposed to answer him without knowing what his thoughts on the matter were?

‘Listen, I assume you know Hrafn Eskilsson,’ Haukr continued. ‘He is one of my closest friends, so he entrusted his secret to me. I have, in fact, seen him vanish with my own eyes. I do not pretend to understand how it is done, and I am not much in favour of trolldomr. Magic, or rather the people who practise it, are not to be trusted, in my opinion. But I am aware that it exists and I need to know why you are here before I can allow you to see Thorald. He is my right-hand man and my foster-brother, and I value him highly.’ There was no let-up in the big man’s frown.

‘I mean him no harm, I swear.’ Ivar held up his hands in the universal gesture of peace. ‘Yes, I am from the future. I am a descendant of his. I have a foster-family too. Hrafn’s wife Linnea is my foster-sister, but I am the last of my own line and no longer have any blood relatives in my time. Therefore I wished to meet Thorald. He . . . he is all I have left.’

That was technically true, but he would never be without family as long as Haakon and Mia and their children were around. Haukr didn’t need to know that, though. Nor would Ivar tell him that the idea of finding Thorald had taken root and grown until he’d been compelled to act on it. It had become an obsession, and he would never have any peace of mind until he’d at least tried.

Haukr regarded him in silence, as if trying to judge what manner of man he might be. ‘You’re Linnea’s brother? Hmm. I assume you wouldn’t claim as much unless you were sure she would confirm it.’

‘She would, and Hrafn will vouch for me too, I promise you. If you wish to ask them before taking my word, I will understand.’

‘No, no, I believe you, but how will you explain your presence here? As far as Thorald knows, he has no family.’ He gave Ivar another piercing look. ‘I will admit you are strikingly similar in appearance. He might accept the possibility.’

Ivar shrugged. ‘A very distant connection?’ He’d rehearsed this part as well. ‘A cousin on his mother’s side who told me on her deathbed that Thorald was my kin?’

‘Very well. You will have to prove yourself somehow. Show him you’re someone he can depend on. It will take time and patience. I warn you, he’s not one to trust easily. Do you still wish to try?’

Ivar nodded. The way he saw it, he had no choice. He’d come this far and he wasn’t backing down now. This was something he needed to do, and if Thorald never accepted him, so be it. At least he would have made an attempt. And he would be able to observe and learn about everyday Viking life at the same time, which was his other reason for wanting to come here. It was a chance no archaeologist could possibly turn down.

Haukr studied him for a moment, as if assessing him and weighing up his options. ‘You are sure you have no purpose here other than to become acquainted with your kinsman?’

The image of a young woman with red-gold hair rose up inside Ivar’s mind, as it had done frequently in the last few days, but he suppressed it. He had no way of knowing what the vision had meant, or even if she was of this time. Judging by her clothing, she could be – those tortoise brooches were distinctly Viking age. If he was supposed to be part of her life in any way, only time would tell. It wasn’t his priority right now.

‘No, you have my oath on it. If anything, I would do my utmost to protect Thorald, because if he should die without issue, I assume I will not exist.’ He hoped the man already had children, but if not, Ivar would need to make sure Thorald stayed alive long enough to father some.

Haukr nodded curtly. ‘Very well. I believe you to be sincere. But rest assured that if any harm were to come to Thorald, I will hunt you down to the ends of Miðgarðr and beyond, and you’ll rue the day.’

‘Understood.’

‘Good, then let us go back.’

Skiringssal, Vestfold, Haustmánuðr AD 875

The king’s main hall was noisy and crowded, the fug of smoke, cooking smells and damp wool like a tangible wall as Ellisif entered with Ingibjorg and the other heiresses. She recoiled slightly and tried to take shallow breaths in order to avoid breathing it in. Her stomach was already queasy with nerves; she didn’t need anything else to add to that. They went to take their places at a table halfway down the length of one wall, but before she’d had a chance to sit down, her arm was snagged and she was pulled roughly round to bounce against a hard chest.

‘You’re to come with me. Father wants you next to him.’

She looked up into the face of one of Kári’s sons – which one, she had no idea. The man had at least five of them, so she’d been told, all by different wives and concubines. She’d seen them loitering around the place. This one had his father’s rather prominent nose and cold stare, but otherwise was nothing like the older man in appearance. He took a step back, as if he didn’t want to stand too close to her, but he didn’t let go of her arm. She shook herself loose.

‘Why?’ She glared at him. Could she not be left in peace at least until after the wedding?

He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Why do you think? It is customary for betrothed couples to sit together, is it not?’

‘I haven’t agreed to any such thing, no matter what the king might have said.’

There was a flicker of something in the depths of his eyes – pity, and a grudging respect perhaps – but he shook his head as if she was deluded.

‘We both know that makes no difference. Come.’

He walked off without checking to see if she was following, as if he trusted her not to be stupid enough to resist. That, more than anything, made her do as he said. He was right, after all, and refusing to play along now would only raise suspicion. Perhaps get her punished or – the gods forbid – locked up. Then she would never be able to escape.

As they reached a table much closer to the king’s, Kári’s son stopped. ‘Here she is, Father,’ he grunted, nodding at her.

‘Good. Sit, woman.’

Kári gestured with a half-eaten roast rib and indicated a place on the bench next to him. Ellisif sank down, trying her best to keep some distance between them. It was almost impossible, however, with so many people crammed into the hall. A young man squeezed in on her other side and seemed to have no compunction about pushing her closer to her intended. Gritting her teeth, she swallowed down her revulsion.

The man made her skin crawl.

It wasn’t merely the fact that Kári was so much older than her, with a face that had been ravaged by time. Jowly, with ruddy cheeks criss-crossed with visible veins and a nose that was red with large pores, he had the visage of someone who had lived a hard life. Much worse, though, was the look in his eyes as he glanced at her. A strange mixture of disapproval and lust that made her want to shudder, especially as his gaze lingered over the swell of her breasts. He leaned closer and his foul breath hit her, making her want to shrink away from him.

‘You’ll do,’ he told her with a smirk. ‘And I’ll soon have you tamed, so you can take that haughty expression off your face right now.’

His large hand landed on her thigh under the table, and he gripped it hard, squeezing her flesh until it burned. She hissed in a breath but didn’t cry out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, but her defiance served merely to amuse him, judging by the chuckle she heard.

‘Eat,’ he ordered. ‘I prefer women with a bit of flesh on their bones. You’re too thin by half.’

She didn’t care what his preferences were, but helped herself to some food in order to have something to do. In truth, she wasn’t hungry and only managed to swallow a small amount. When his hand returned to fondle her leg, moving dangerously close to the junction between her thighs, she froze and stopped eating altogether.

‘What’s the matter? Not a shy maiden, are you?’ Kári guffawed and pawed at her some more, his stubby fingers digging into her. ‘I would have thought þjódólfr had broken you in by now.’

As if I’m a brood mare to be tamed! Bile rose in her throat, and she had visions of stabbing his hand with her eating knife, but she held still. She’d learned early on in her previous marriage that resistance only made things worse. And it wasn’t as though the man could bed her right now in the middle of the king’s hall. He was only trying to provoke her.

She pretended indifference and took a sip of her ale, swallowing past the lump of misery that was rising in her throat. Kári might think he had the upper hand, but if anything, his actions this evening had only strengthened her resolve. One way or another, she’d escape. Nothing would make her marry the hateful man. Thankfully, he soon tired of the game and removed his hand as he focused on chatting to the man seated on his left. Ellisif drew a sigh of relief and took a bite of flatbread, chewing slowly.

The young man on her other side nudged her with his shoulder to gain her attention. ‘I’m Ketill, the youngest of Father’s offspring. Most people call me Kell. You’re Ellisif, his new wife-to-be?’

‘Yes.’ She was surprised that he had the manners to introduce himself, and regarded him out of the corner of her eye. Perhaps she had been wrong to think Kári had raised all his sons to be oafs like himself. Now that she studied him properly, Kell seemed rather young – eighteen or nineteen winters at the most – although he was big for his age. He was peering at her intently, but there was nothing except curiosity in the blue depths of his eyes.

He refilled her ale mug from a nearby pitcher. ‘So where exactly are your holdings?’

‘Rogaland. Not far from Hafrsfjordr. I thought your father would have told you.’

Kell snorted and lowered his voice. ‘He doesn’t tell me anything. I’m the runt. I merely do as I’m bid.’

‘I see.’ She had the feeling he imagined they were both in the same boat here, as she would soon be at his father’s beck and call as well. Or so he thought.

‘Should I call you Mother?’ he asked.

‘What? No!’ The thought of being this boy’s stepmother was ridiculous. When she turned to him to say as much, she caught the twinkle in his eyes and realised he was joking.

He chuckled, a much nicer sound than the one his father had made earlier. ‘Do not worry, I wouldn’t presume. And you have my oath that I will try to help you in any way I can. Not that anyone really pays attention to me, but still . . .’

‘Thank you.’ Ellisif was touched at his offer and almost sorry that she wouldn’t be getting to know him better. From what she could tell, he was sincere, and she didn’t doubt he would have tried to assist her if she asked. A shame that the only thing she really wanted wasn’t something he could be part of – running as far away from his father as possible.

Kári left her alone for the rest of the meal and Kell didn’t say anything else either. When it was over, the younger man stood up and escorted her back to the other women, leaving her with Ingibjorg.

‘I will see you soon,’ he said, before melting into the throng of people making their way outside.

‘Sadly not,’ she muttered, but so quietly he didn’t hear her.

A pity she hadn’t been asked to marry Kell. Young though he was, he would have made a much better husband than his father ever would, of that she was sure.





Haukr had been right. Meeting Thorald for the first time was a bit like staring at himself in a wonky mirror. There was more than a passing resemblance between them, and people might have assumed the two of them were brothers. From what Ivar had gathered, his ancestor was actually younger than himself at this point in time – eight and twenty winters, Haukr had told him – but because life was tougher in Viking times, he imagined they looked about the same age.

‘A kinsman, you say?’ Thorald’s scowl was not encouraging as the introductions were made, but with Haukr backing him up, Ivar felt relatively safe as he launched into his lies.

‘That’s what I was told, and your jarl here seems to think we resemble each other.’ He shrugged. ‘My mother’s cousin could have been wrong, but as I have no one else, I thought it worth my while to come and seek you out.’

Thorald glanced at his chieftain and rubbed his chin as if he was mulling it over. ‘I suppose it could be true. I never knew anyone on my mother’s side of the family. She died birthing me. My father brought me to Birkiþorp before I could walk and left me with Haukr’s parents. He died soon afterwards as well. I have been here ever since.’ He fixed Ivar with a penetrating gaze. ‘And you are just passing by?’

‘Well, actually I was hoping there might be a more permanent place for me here, at least for a while. I have nowhere else to live right now and I’m willing to do almost anything.’ Secretly he hoped that wouldn’t mean shovelling manure or some such lowly task. He added, ‘I could go a-viking, of course, but thought I would visit you first.’

‘You sound as though you’ve already been abroad,’ Thorald commented. ‘There’s something about your speech . . .’

Ivar had anticipated this and Haukr had already noticed it as well. He knew that despite all his Old Norse lessons, there were bound to be words he didn’t know or grammar he got wrong. ‘I was raised mainly by foreign thrall women.’ He tried to make light of the matter by smiling and holding out his hands in a ‘what can you do?’ type of gesture. ‘I think their way of speaking rubbed off on me, but I’ll try to do better.’

‘Hmm.’ His kinsman’s expression told him he wasn’t convinced, but it was the only explanation Ivar could come up with for now.

‘You can train with us tomorrow and we shall see how well you handle yourself in a fight,’ Haukr decreed, clapping Ivar on the back. ‘Now let us all go and have our nattverðr. Ceri won’t want to be kept waiting.’

Ceri was clearly his wife, and Ivar had to hide a smile of triumph. He’d already known that before he arrived here as well, and not because Linnea had told him. The rune stone that Mia and Haakon had found mentioned both Haukr and Ceri along with a daughter called Jorun, and it was extraordinary to think that he was now meeting them. He took a moment to allow the unreality of it all to wash over him. This was the ninth century and he was here actually talking to people whose bones he’d seen in a grave back in his own time. That was nigh-on impossible to get your head round.

‘Come, sit next to me this evening. I want to hear what training you’ve done.’ Haukr pointed to the other end of the large hall, where a petite woman with dark chestnut-coloured curls waited in one of the two carved chairs set out in the place of honour. Ivar did a double-take. For a moment there, he’d thought Mia had also travelled back through time. Blinking, he realised this had to be Ceri. Her features were not really the same as Mia’s, merely vaguely similar at a distance. The hair and colouring were a close match, though.

‘Thank you,’ he said, following the jarl. Thorald walked behind them, and Ivar was sure the man’s gaze was boring into him, but he pretended to be calm.

So far, so good. He’d arrived safely, he hadn’t been killed on sight, and now it was up to him to make this work. Thank goodness for Haukr’s support; that certainly helped.

As he took a seat between the jarl and Thorald, a little girl who had to be around ten or eleven peered round Ceri with blatant curiosity. Haukr noticed and smiled. ‘That’s my daughter, Jorun,’ he told Ivar. ‘She is mostly deaf, but if you look at her and speak slowly, she’ll understand you, and you will soon become used to her speech.’ He pointed to a child of about four sitting next to her. ‘And that is our son, Cadoc. We also have a daughter, Aase, and a two-month-old baby boy, Bryn. They’re both asleep already. At least, we hope so.’ He glanced fondly at his wife, who returned his gaze with a warm one of her own.

Ivar smiled and waved at the children. ‘I am Ivar,’ he said, making sure he exaggerated his pronunciation so that Jorun could catch his words. When he winked at her, she giggled, while the boy simply stared at him with big, solemn eyes.

‘You like children?’ Haukr held out a wooden mug for a servant to fill with ale, and Ivar followed suit.

‘Yes, very much so.’

‘You should marry, then, like my friend here has recently done.’ The man grinned at Thorald, a teasing glint in his eyes. ‘And here comes his beloved, Askhild Ásbjornsdóttir. Evening, cousin.’ He turned back to Ivar. ‘She’s a relative of mine, although I forget how, exactly, as is her brother, Álrik.’

A woman who seemed to be a few years younger than Thorald took her place next to her husband. If they’d not been married for long, they obviously didn’t have children yet. That gave Ivar a twinge of unease but strengthened his determination to stick around and make sure the man lived long enough to father a whole brood of them. The way he was looking at Askhild, that shouldn’t be a problem. As soon as she’d appeared, it was clear he had eyes for no one else. Still, life was a lot more precarious in Viking times and anything could happen to either of them.

Introductions were made, reluctantly on Thorald’s part, but Askhild didn’t question Ivar’s story. It was clear his ancestor wasn’t so easily persuaded, but the man couldn’t be blamed for that. Had he accepted it too readily, that would have been strange.

The food arrived. Despite the fact that it was plentiful, it wasn’t the sort of fare Ivar was used to. Never a fusspot, he ate whatever was put in front of him with gratitude. His mother had died young, and for years he’d had to survive on microwave dinners or takeaways, as his father had never been interested in cooking. He’d mostly been out attending business dinners and Ivar was left to fend for himself, which was why, even many years later, he appreciated it very much whenever someone cooked for him.

While eating and trying to keep up his end of the conversation, he let his gaze roam the hall. It was an impressive building and fairly new, judging by the colour of the beams and upright posts, which weren’t blackened by age or soot. He remembered that Haakon and Mia’s dig had uncovered the fact that the original hall had burned down and a new one had been erected in its place. Presumably this was the second one. He’d have to try and find out what had happened to the older version.

Benches lined the room on two sides, all covered with furs and cushions to sit and sleep on. Woven and embroidered hangings covered the walls, colourful to the point of being garish, and on the end wall behind them hung an assortment of circular shields. In the centre of the room was a huge hearth built of stone, with several cauldrons suspended above it. The smoke from the fire permeated the atmosphere, but as it mostly rose towards the rafters, it didn’t make it difficult to breathe. He caught lots of other scents too – wool, damp soil and cooking, as well as the odour of animals and humans in close proximity. It was an assault on his senses, but his nose adjusted gradually and he grew used to it.

I’m here! I’m really here, in the ninth century!

He wanted to jump up and down like a little kid, shouting with joy. It was unreal, magical, but he’d been dreaming of this for ages now. Joy bubbled up inside him. He’d succeeded and the adventure had begun. But when he noticed his kinsman’s pensive gaze on him, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy. The man was clearly suspicious, and rightly so. It would take a huge effort to win him over, but Ivar was determined to try. He’d do anything to be allowed to stay here for a while, which was why his ears pricked up at the mention of travel.

‘You are going somewhere?’ he asked Thorald, leaning forward slightly so that he could see the man’s expression.

‘Yes. We are going to Hörðaland to take back Álrik’s domains.’ Thorald pointed to a teenager sitting on the other side of his wife. ‘Their uncle has usurped them, thinking the boy too weak to fight him, but he has new kin now and I will not let the matter rest until justice . . .