Isabel Bruce, Queen of Norway

Today, we welcome Robert’s older sister to share her story with us. In the closing years of the 13th century, the Bruce family was one of the most powerful in Scotland and Isabel had a strategic role to play …

‘My name is Isabel but you may call me Isa. I was destined to become a queen. To be honest, it was the very last thing I desired, to leave my home and family, but I was groomed for greatness and expected nothing less. Scotland was in chaos for King Alexander had died without an heir and my grandfather was one of many who wished to be king, but it did not turn out the way he hoped. In the end, King Edward of England overtook Scotland and it was my younger brother, Robert, who took on the crown. It is not his story I wish to tell but my own.

I was the oldest of a great brood of children born to Lady Marjory of Carrick, a wild, unruly woman who followed her own path in life. Our family lived happily at Turnberry Castle until she died. I grew up that day, for her death was so sudden the shock of it rocked my world. A year later, my father, Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, took me to Norway to begin my new life.

My five brothers had already left home to be fostered with other noble families so the greatest wrench for me was to leave my sisters, some of whom were still very young. Christina, whom I called Kirsty — the sister closest to me in age and spirit, urged me to write to her.  And that is what happened.

To begin my story, I was frightened of the long voyage and what I would encounter at journey’s end. The Vikings had a fearsome reputation, for they had ravaged our land in the past, but Father assured me that they were a Christian nation and we had much in common. Only a few decades ago, they had attacked Scotland, but peace now reigned between our countries. Part of me was excited by the challenge, the rest was wretched with fear. What if I failed in my task — to strengthen my family’s standing and build its power base?

I was homesick! I missed so much — the household who had nurtured me, especially our old cook Mhairi; my horse and falcon; and the simple rhythms of our life. My new family had a different set of values and beliefs. They knew nothing of me or my ways. We had no shared memories. In truth, I missed the cloak of comfort, of familiar things.

After my marriage to King Eric, my path became clear. I had little choice but to put aside the old and accept my new life, embracing all the wonders it offered. I opened myself to all challenges — to learn the language; the history and culture. I chose persistence and resilience as my family and country had taught me and adjusted to my life in the busy town of Bergen. I dressed differently and ate foods that were strange to me, porpoise and whale and the like. As I grew to love the steep mountains and fjords, I had the sense of nestling into the landscape. I made friends and those friends became my new family.

In a few short years, King Eric died. My daughter and I remained strong and free in the land of the Viking, but all the while, dreadful events were overtaking my homeland and I held grave fears for my kinfolk’s safety …’

ROBERT the BRUCE – Hero or Villain?

Today the spotlight is on Robert the Bruce. Naturally, he holds a prominent role in my story about his sisters, and it is through their eyes that we see him grow into manhood and his role as king.

As a novelist, I love to speculate on the driving force behind a character’s actions, to imagine the joys and sorrows, the gnawing fear and towering aspirations. I’m not an historian, but many facts about Robert the Bruce are well-known and therefore open to discussion and debate; his actions are best measured, not against our values and beliefs, but within the rich context of his time.

Let’s dive head-first into the murky waters of betrayal! So often the memory of Robert the Bruce is sullied by claims that he was a wily betrayer ─ of King John Balliol; William Wallace; the Scots’ nation; the murdered John Comyn the Red. And let’s not forget, Robert’s second wife, Elizabeth de Burgh, and the fact that he had at least one mistress, during Elizabeth’s eight years of imprisonment, who bore him children. Other crimes railed against him include the savage treatment of his enemies ─ the brutal harrowing of Comyn lands and people in Galloway and in the north east ─ and the ill-famed invasion of Ireland.

Was he a selfish, murdering bastard who cared for nought but himself and the aggrandizement of his family’s interests? The answer comes as a resounding ‘Yes!’ on the part of his critics. But let’s take a step backwards and reflect, in a summary of sorts, on the context of Robert’s life and his character, and see where that takes us. In a roundabout way, in time, it will lead us to his sisters, for his decisions catapulted them into grave danger. No doubt they, too, cursed him when their spirits were raw.

•  Robert the Bruce was truly a flawed hero: the best kind from a literary point of view. He was a living, breathing man who made mistakes and sought to rectify them. He had to out-maneuver his enemies ─ not least the great Edward 1 and all the might and power of the English, as well as his enemies amongst the Scots ─ with few resources but his wits and an indomitable band of loyal supporters. His choices were simple, despite their innate complexity. ‘Adapt or Perish’ might have been his motto. His courage and persistence have never been doubted.  
• Medieval Scotland was not the country it is today, to state the obvious. Back then, its nationhood was in a state of flux, fractured by competing interests and beliefs. The ‘Celtic highlands versus the Anglo-Norman faction’ is much too simple a dichotomy ─ ‘the ragged poor versus the self-indulgent rich’, too shallow ─ for these reflect our one-dimensional perspective of hindsight. Suffice to say, Robert the Bruce was critical, in propelling Scotland forward towards its current sense of identity. If William Wallace was Scotland’s conscience, then Robert the Bruce was its grit and determination: some might even say its heart and soul.
• Robert was under the pump, but the punishment came so cruelly – the deaths of three of his brothers; his womenfolk incarcerated; the loss of lands and title, home and hearth, and his health suffered. Sympathy tilted his way. In true Judeo-Christian tradition, Robert was punished for his ‘so-called’ misdemeanors. And his detractors cheered!
• And then the epiphany, Robert metamorphosed into ‘Good King Robert 1 of Scotland’.  It has been said that the best judge of a man’s character is how he deals with power. During his solid reign of twenty three years, Robert brought Scotland from its oppressed state, via a second war with England, to freedom from physical, political, economic and social chaos. No mean feat, but his detractors put this down to storytellers of the day paid to ‘spin’ out the bad and replace it with good.

Amidst this medieval morality tale, who was the real Robert the Bruce? My novel seeks to follow Robert’s path in all its vivid, compelling complexity. You, the reader, must reach your own conclusions.

Blood Feuds and War!

Medieval Scotland – a more perilous place would be hard to imagine!

There are so many layers and convolutions to the polarizing events of the late 13th and early 14th centuries that to offer even a modest précis erodes clarity and drama from such intricate and calamitous times. I must confess to being stymied by such a task and can offer only a loose sketch to set the scene for the forthcoming interviews with Robert and his sisters. For a more robust and detailed account, delve into Professor Barrow’s esteemed work on Robert the Bruce.

Some describe the Scottish Wars of Independence as a civil war between the powerful Bruce and Comyn families. Could it be that simple? I  suspect not, but tempers were frayed by conflicting interests and volcanic personalities, and kinship links offered security and survival.

Let’s pick up the story…

Were the Bruces Anglo-Norman interlopers as is so often suggested? This claim seems wide of the mark for the Bruces had lived in Scotland for many generations, having befriended King David I and been given lands in Scotland’s southwest. Certainly, they were cross-border lords who owned estates both in Scotland and England, as many nobles did, and carried out high-level, administrative functions for both countries in times of peace. The family descended from David I and thus Robert’s grandfather could put forward his case to be King of Scots with confidence. But his rival claimant was John Balliol, kinsman of the Comyns – mortal enemies of the Bruce family.

Enter King Edward I of England…

He chose Balliol’s stronger legal claim over Bruce, thus igniting the fuse: simmering unrest and division followed. Robert’s father and grandfather refused to support Balliol for they deemed him a poor choice for king and no match for the fiery Edward. Balliol took the Bruce lands for his Comyn kinfolk and the Bruces were forced out of their rightful place in Scottish society. Doubt surrounded the English king’s motives: perhaps a divided Scotland, weakened by internal dissent, would best serve his interests. In time, he defeated the Scots in battle at Falkirk and executed Sir William Wallace most cruelly. More battles! More defeat! And the people of Berwick lay dead in their thousands. Later, Edward stripped King John Balliol of his royal powers and imprisoned him in the Tower, already heaving with Scottish prisoners.

The ancient Kingdom of Scots became a dominion of England, similar to Wales, crushed by the relentless might of a much larger, better-equipped and well-organized foe. Englishmen filled the castles and towns of Scotland and ran the country.

The stage was set for a new rebellion.

Enter Robert the Bruce…

Yesterday, we were left with one hell of a cliff hanger — King Alexander III of Scotland tumbled from the cliffs of Kinghorn. See what happens next? 

 ‘With the death of the king, many put forward their claims for the crown. One such claimant was old Robert Bruce (the Lord of Annandale and grandfather of Robert the Bruce) who became known as the Competitor. Rival factions threatened to split the country. The Scottish parliament sent envoys to seek out Edward I of England in far off Gascony in southern France, and ask for his advice and protection.’ 

 From our perspective, this seems a naïve act but back then …

‘Scotland’s relationship with England’s monarchs had been on favourable terms: respectful, but wary. Even Alexander III had been prepared to acknowledge, as did many Anglo-Scottish barons, King Edward’s overlordship. However, this extended only to their lands in England, not those in Scotland. Encroachment by their capricious neighbour was an ever-present danger. The country threatened to implode.‘

They even tried a treaty of sorts — to marry the royal heirs of England and Scotland and join the kingdoms. This was a tried and true formula. Did it work this time?

‘With the Treaty of Birgham, six-year-old Margaret, granddaughter of the deceased King of Scots and daughter of Eric II of Norway, was to marry Edward’s infant son. Some objected, concerned this marriage – where Margaret was, but a pawn to be used – could give the English king the pretext to interfere in the affairs of Scotland. Scottish and English nobles were sent to collect the child. During the voyage, the little Maid of Norway sickened and died. The year was 1290.’

Could it get any worse? Oh yes!

‘From that time on, battle lines were drawn by the attorneys and adjudicators of the thirteen claimants for the Scottish crown, delivering the complexities of claim and counter claim before a far-from-impartial judge: Edward of England. It was achieved by a piece of adroit political manoeuvring on his part, which would spell trouble for Scotland as an independent country.’

The legal battle came down to two claimants who were descended from an old Scottish king, David I. In the Anglo-Norman world of England and Scotland, rules of hereditary decreed who would be king. But Scotland was also a Celtic nation and the Celts had a different system. Civil war loomed for there were two families prepared to fight over the crown.

‘Principal amongst those claims was that of John Balliol who was perceived to have the most direct, and therefore senior hereditary right of primogeniture to the throne. His claim was supported by the closely-related and powerful Comyn family. One of their territories, the region of Galloway in southwest Scotland, bordered that of their long time rivals: the Bruce family, the Earls of Carrick and Lords of Annandale.’

Find out next time who wins…

Coming Soon!

Coming Soon!

Over the next few months, some of the key figures from ‘Sisters of The Bruce’ will be featured on this blog in a series of interviews. Read about their experiences first hand and ask your own questions as well. They’re a feisty bunch, so don’t hold back…

But first, forget Braveheart! Much too loose with the truth for me. Instead, let’s take a stroll through some of the key issues facing Scotland and the Bruce family.

Cast your mind back in time. Hear the beat of Scotland’s ancient heart…

‘Scotland was a land of rich and ancient beauty, coveted by many. Its wildness was matched by its people. They were a remarkable mix of races and creeds, both ancient and new: native Picts; Strathclyde Britons; Angles and Saxons from the Germanic continent; Celtic Gaels from Ireland; Vikings and Danes from across the cold North Sea; Flemings from Flanders and the feudal Normans, the newest arrivals, from France. These warriors, traders and settlers formed a loose conglomeration of layered cultures. It is hardly surprising this ill-meshed society was torn apart, often from within by bitter rivalry between families and further weakened by external wars. By the late thirteenth century, the volatile kingdom of Scots was as brittle as dry tinder, ready for the spark which would set it ablaze. Civil war threatened and, to the south, Scotland’s great neighbour flexed its muscles, flint-stone at the ready.

One bitter night in 1286, King Alexander III of Scotland crossed the storm-tossed Forth, making haste to lie with his beautiful French queen. Yolande de Dreux was his second wife, and there was no surviving male heir from this marriage. As his stallion tumbled from the cliffs of Kinghorn, so too had Scotland careened out of control…’

                                  

 

 

Excerpts from a Manuscript Appraisal by Karenlee Thompson

SISTERS OF THE BRUCE by J.M. HARVEY  (Available April 2013 through Matador/Troubador Publishing Ltd UK)

“This fictionalized account of the lives of Isa, Kirsty, Mary, Mathilda and Margaret – the sisters of Robert the Bruce – brings Scottish history to life, variously through nail-biting action sequences, breathtaking accounts of deprivation and heartbreak, and through the easier rhythmic epistolary conversations of the sisters which lend an immediacy to the narrative.

The juxtaposition of the everyday recounted in the sisters’ letters, with the raging wars of the period affords a glimpse into the past, an experience more profound and enjoyable than any history book could provide.

Readers with an interest in Scotland, Scottish history or history in general will find this an enjoyable read.  However, it would by no means be limited to that demographic.  As a reader, I have no particular interest in history or Scotland and was enticed more by the idea of the strength of these women who I knew nothing about. There is definite appeal to lovers of literary fiction also, through the epistolary form which allows for domestic intimacy alongside the sweeping catastrophic events of the Scottish Wars of Independence.

LANGUAGE AND TONE

With a deft touch, the author introduces the readers to the language of the time and place and keeps them there easily.  Each of the female characters maintains her own distinctive voice through her correspondences.

While much of the lives of the sisters may seem alien to our 21^st century sensitivities, other parts traverse time and space.

Such is the author’s skill in setting the scene, I received quite a thrill when I read a letter to Isa signed ‘your loving brother, Rob’ and then reminded myself that it is a work of fiction.

Mary’s time in the cage is told with such fierce brutality that we can feel her pain and her rage and humiliation, achingly brought forth here:- ‘To drift and fall effortlessly upon demand through time’s lucent barrier was her only path to freedom.’

The spirit, manners and social conditions of the age are imparted seamlessly in the sisters’ letters.

CONCLUSION

The reader grasps a sense of the enormous strength of the sisters early and the sentiments remain long after the final word.  Here is Mary’s almost unbearable pain as told by Mathilda in her letter to Isa:  At times, you can look into her eyes and see she is lost somewhere in a dark vale of sorrow and regret and unfathomable pain. 

Each of the sisters has suffered in her own way, some far more than others and I am grateful to the author for presenting them to us in a way that sees them loom as large as Robert the Bruce himself in our estimation.

The manuscript is rich in period detail and the author should be rightly proud of the way she has woven her research throughout the story as to appear effortless and natural.  Such subtlety results in a deeper understanding of thirteenth and fourteenth century Scottish history, without any overt awareness from the reader.

Sisters of The Bruce is an exceptional epic novel.  The extensive research involved shines through the narrative and I would highly recommend it not only to those interested in the history of Scotland but to anyone who enjoys reading about the strength and resilience of women.  It will also appeal to people (like me) who enjoy the intimacy of a story told through private fictional letters. It is a sprawling read of intimate domesticity and vast adventure, at once alien and familiar.”

Karenlee Thompson

Freelance writer, journalist and online reviewer.

Author of the novel ‘8 States of Catastrophe’

www.karenleethompson.com
www.karenleethompson.wordpress.com
karenleethompson@bigpond.com

Reality Bites

The weeks have passed and I am back in the swing of things. But the swings of my childhood – old, splintery planks attached to thick rope and straining posts – had an annoying habit of hitting me in the head when I was distracted. Now, when I least expect it, a stray memory of my time away in Sweden or Norway or Scotland brings a smile to my face. It’s soon followed by a dusty cloud of recognition: ‘play time’ is over. The swaying of reality – the errant clout in the head – must be endured and adjusting back to normal life takes time. Fresh new memories slip into place beside the old to form an integrated whole. Task complete: this writer yearns not for pastures new, but the peace that home brings.

My home represents space, light and air to me. At dawn on a crisp, winter’s morn, I wake to the iconic sound of kookaburras. Along an empty country road on my way to work, I catch sight of a herd of cattle – haze drifting from their warm, recumbent bodies in a frost-browned paddock. Though I’ve witnessed this many times before, I exhale a sigh of relief and pleasure at such a timeless pastoral scene. Some mornings, the valley is lost beneath a sea of mist with only a few solitary island hills visible, framed by the mountains beyond. And when the mist feathers upwards into the vivid blue, the heartsong of a thousand currawongs on the forested slopes rises with it.

At day’s end, I watch the valley shadows deepen. The sun dips beyond sight and the murky green of the border ranges shifts to indigo. The sky is tinged rose-gold. Clouds melt into a shimmering morass. We sit on our deck, glass of red in hand; watching the tiny bats frisk the soft air of dusk. Too soon, these elusive creatures are stolen from sight by the velvety night. Below us, the hills are sparsely sprinkled with the reassuring lights of other farmhouses. High above, the night sky offers a banner of starry treasures.

Soon, with the nights becoming warmer, we can expect to hear the assault of moths’ wings at our windows, thankfully screened, for some are a hand span across. At times, a few manage to escape inside and my slippered feet crunch on their finger-thick forms during the dim light of a 3am meander to the loo – the less idyllic side of country life in Australia along with bushfires,  snakes and other nasties. Nothing elicits more fear in a hill dweller that the stray curl of smoke rising from the forest floor or, closer to home, the sight of a black snake, caught in your peripheral vision as it slides silently into bushes beside the washing line. One must remain alert.

Dangers aside, there are joys aplenty in my life. Surrounded by space, light and air and a veritable feast of memories, I can settle now to the task of bringing Book Two of ‘Sisters of The Bruce’ to life.  It’s easy for this writer’s home is indeed her castle.

Scotland

Edinburgh is my spiritual home. To return always feels like a homecoming. Almost a decade ago, I came here with my husband and youngest son to live and work. It was a life changing experience – one which gave us many resoundingly-happy memories of the beauty of the city and its extraordinary people. As in the past, my hosts were gracious and kind and long suffering, taking me to old haunts and new.

Apart from reviewing past connections, I was keen to enjoy all the Festival Fringe could offer. But in the final two weeks of my journey, it was important to touch base with the foundation story of  ‘Sisters of The Bruce’.

Here are some of the small trips made, using Edinburgh as a base.

Central Scotland:

Stirling and its surrounds are a beautiful part of Scotland. I won’t bore you with copious descriptions, suffice to say that Scotland is God’s own country and Stirling sits at its southern core. The focus of our journey was the nearby Isle of Inchmahome and its priory. It is the resting place of the Mentieth family. Some of you will know its most famous son, Sir John Mentieth, by his reputation, as the man who engineered the capture of William  Wallace. But the long history of the Mentieth family has always been linked with the Stewart family, the great Stewards of Scotland, and later, Robert the Bruce.

Before King Edward I forced the hands of the Scottish nobles, the Mentieth family had always been Scottish patriots. Indeed, Sir John’s signature was later added to the Declaration of Arbroath. It’s an unpopular view today given the romantic mishmash and poor historical data in the movie ‘Braveheart’. That such a brave man as Wallace should have died in the manner that he did remains one of Scotland’s most enduring traumas, but this was the medieval age and men’s lives were held cheaply.

When Robert the Bruce gained power, he sought to unite the country. Sir John Menteith had remained firm in his suport of King Edward, but was brought back into the fold as it were, by the betrothal of Robert’s niece, Ellen of Mar, to his son, also named John. Ellen was the daughter of Kirsty Bruce, one time countess of Mar.

In visiting the priory, I hoped to  explore the connections between the Stewart, Mentieth and Bruce families. Within the chapel house, Sir Walter Menteith, known as ‘ballioch’ or freckled, and his wife lie entwined in a loving pose – the intimacy held within the stone carvings is evident, surprisingly delicate and most definitely heart-rending. Perhaps here in the old church, Ellen of Mar lies as well. The isle is an extraordinarily tranquil place, midst huge old firs, a watery loch and forested mountains.

Our journey took us to the village of Denny where a medieval hill fort was being constructed by a group of friendly, well-informed re-enactors. The palisade walls were constructed of newly-cut timber and the tents within the fort were manned by people exhibiting the craftmanship of the medieval period. Folk were able to try their hand at archery and throwing axes as well. Being able to see the dimensions of the fort was very interesting and offered me a realistic perspective.

Southwest Scotland:

Our next journey took us to Lochmaben and its castles, old and new, both Bruce strongholds. ‘Sisters’ tells their story. I had also wanted to see Torthorwald Castle for this was the family seat of the Carlyles and Robert’s youngest sister, Margaret, married Sir William de Carlyle. Next stop, Dumfries – where we followed the trail to the now defunct Greyfriars church. It was here that the murder of the Red Comyn took place. Many of you will already know this story, but if not, it is explored in all its complexity in my novel.

The Borders:

On a lovely sunny day, we found ourselves at the site of the Battle of Halidon Hill which was lost by the Scots in 1333. Hugh Ross, husband of Mathilda Bruce, died here along with many others. We walked the lanes and looked over the rolling hills where so much death had taken place. There were no echoes only the lonely cries of the seabirds. Retracing our steps, on our left lay the calm blue waters of the North Sea where several fishing boats went about their business; one hill farm was quite interesting for it had hundreds of low, arched huts for raising pigs.

Next stop, over the English border to Flodden where thousands of Scots died along with their king. The year was 1513.

After such sadness, the beautiful red sandstone abbey at Melrose was our destination, to pay our respects to Robert the Bruce, for it is believed that his heart is buried there in a lead chamber found on the site.

Dunfermline Abbey:

To refresh my memory, we travelled over the Forth Rd bridge to the Royal Kingdom of Fife to see its most famous abbey, burial place of Robert the Bruce.

Roslin Glen:

It’s always a treat to visit the stunning glen of Roslin, site of a Scots victory, with its 15th century chapel and much older castle, ancestral home of the Sinclair family. Having stayed in the castle many years ago, I was fortunate indeed to have my first ghost sighting down in the gloomy cellars. But now, my thoughts were on the connections with the Bruce family. Mathilda Bruce married the son of the Earl of Ross; several generations on, one of her descendants was the famous Sir Henry Sinclair, Earl of Orkney.

Travel is not all about history. At an old pub in the village, we had the best meal. Scots restaurants often serve pies with the meat and pastry separate – a fulsome, tasty mix served with a hearty dollop of mash and freshly-cooked vegetables. Most folk do not consider the origin of their meal, but pies are one of the older forms of cooked food – often served at markets – a kind of medieval takeaway and therefore worthy of my research.

Norway

After arriving late the previous night, I was due a lie-in. While I slept, my son explored the city for the first time. Oslo is centered around a harbour of restaurants and bars. Ferries lie ready to take visitors out to an outer island where there are several museums. One holds  the fabulous Gokstad Viking ship and other archeological finds such as those from a high status woman’s grave.

Later in the day, I took myself off to Akershus Fortress, built by King Magnus in the early 1300’s to replace Bergen as Norway’s capital. This was my second visit and I hoped to see inside the castle. I should have checked the schedules and had to be content with a few quick photos of the internal courtyard before the building closed – but not before a guide kindly pointed out the most significant rooms.

Here King Magnus entertained in style. Isa would have visited on important occasions in her role as dowager queen. In ‘Sisters’, a friendship develops quite naturally between Isa and Queen Euphemia given the latter’s literary interests and openness to the world around her. It was easy to imagine Isa and Effie walking the grounds or gazing out of the windows in the solid stone walls at the broad expanse of fjord below. Both had much in common, not least being unable to produce male heirs for their kingly husbands.

Around 1318, Magnus died whist in Tonsberg to the south and his body was transported by galley to his burial place at the Mariakirken on an inlet close by. He and Effie were interred in the church, but later the royal chapel at Akershus became their resting place. Mariakirken is now a ruin with just the low outline of the church visible. From my hotel window, there was a clear view of the ruins. It was here that Princess Ingebjorg and her cousin, Inga, married the two young dukes and I can only assume that Isa would have attended such an important state event and her only daughter’s wedding

In the grounds of Akershus Fortress, another museum told the story of the Norwegian resistance in WW2. To wander about the displays and see the old photos was very moving.

Norway in a Nutshell Tour:

The following morning, we were up early for our trip to Bergen. By transfering between buses,  trains and a ferry, we were able to see, in a short space of time, the highlights of a compact landscape – the high moors of bog and lake with a backdrop of snow-topped mountains; the Flam railway journey on an adhesion track; the Klossen waterfall with music and a maiden, presumably the spirit of the waterfall, dancing somewhat bizarrely up and down the hillside path; the astounding fjords; the steep bus ride down onto a small village and then the final leg of the journey, the train to Bergen. It was a long day, but worth the effort.

A Day in Bergen:

It was pelting down, and we did what all tourists do: we sought refuge in a museum. During my last visit, it rained, as so often happens in Bergen, and the Archeological Museum had been a great find. This time, the Hanseatic Museum proved ideal.

The Hanseatic League originated from German city states such as Lubeck and set up an effective trading network across northern Europe. In Bergen, the League was permitted to trade, but under restrictive conditions. The men were not permitted to socialize or intermarry and could only attend their own churches. The workers lived in harsh conditions, trading stock fish (dried sheets of cod) from the northern Lofoten Islands. Because of the high fire risk, the old wooden buildings were not heated and the men ate in a separate building. The Hansa came to Bergen around the time of King Eric in the late 13th century so Isa would have had an awareness of their activities. It was thought by King Magnus that his brother had been too lenient with them, allowing them to skim off a lot of the town’s wealth which should have gone into the royal coffers…

The wind was gusty, strong enough to disembowel our umbrellas. Across the road, the fish market proved to be great fun as we tried all the different tastes on offer. I was keen to find the site of the Kristkirke, the grand medieval church which had stood beside the castle at the end of the Bryggyn or wharf during the medieval period. Though there is nothing to support the idea, it seemed likely Isa would have been buried there, given her high status and long connection with Bergen. Perhaps, she lies near her countrywoman, Margaret, King Eric’s first wife and their daughter, the little Maid of Norway whose story is so critical to the history of Scotland…
At the Bergen airport, my son and I parted company. He returned to London whilst I headed north to Tromso via Trondheim to pick up my Hurtigruten cruise. As luck would have it, the clouds parted and the snow-capped mountains and rugged Lofoten Islands were clearly visible below.

Tromso lies within a broad fjord, surrounded on one side by a large mountain which has a cable car to take visitors to the top. To fill in the hours before my ship docked, I joined the happy, noisy locals in a beer.

Cruising the Norwegian Coast:

A few years back, my husband and I travelled on the Hurtigruten Coastal Steamer from Bergen to Alesund, taking in the mighty Geirangerfjord. So I was very keen to explore more of Norway’s northern coastline on this current trip.

In ‘Sisters’, Isa travels north by galley with her royal kinfolk on affairs of state and there is the capacity for her to do more of this in Book Two. With this broadly in mind, I chose to spend three days traveling from Tromso to Molde which takes in some spectacular and fascinating areas that are quite unique.

One of the great benefits of the Hurtigruten Cruises are the variety of optional bus or boat tours. They’re not free of course, but are worth it just for the unusual experiences they offer. I learnt so much for my research – these regions are rich in history from the Bronze and Iron Age   to the Viking period and on into the Middle Ages until now. If you want to know more, check the Hurtigruten website.

• A Taste of Vesteralen – exploring the landscape, culture and economy of the region. In a lovely bay, a church from the middle ages and an excellent museum about the Vikings of the region formed the core of our trip.
• Lofoten Islands – the mountain tops were shrouded in mist at times but the mix of sea, extraordinarily rugged islands and unique fishing villages with colourful houses and the typical red boat sheds was beyond stunning.
• Vega Islands – the people have gained Unesco rating for their unique, symbiotic lifestyle, caring for the migratory eider ducks in a non-intrusive way, providing  comfortable annual nesting places and protection from predators, so that they might harvest the down from the nests for use in doonas. The collection of down for warmth has been an ongoing source of trade since the Viking era.
• Trondheim and its Cathedral – Trondheim was once the capital of Norway in the early Middle ages. St Olav’s cathedral was the revered destination of the Pilgrims’ Way
• Atlantic Road –  using superb engineering and design, bridges were constructed to connect a number of islands. To explore the islands and countryside and one of the old stave churches was a huge treat. I finished my tour in the town of Molde, its panorama of 220 mountains proved elusive, but a few poked their heads through the cloud. Most of the mountains I have seen over the past few days have had snow drifts on them, perhaps due to the cooler than normal temperatures. From my hotel room window, the vista was jaw-droppingly beautiful with Molde’s little harbour and the broad expanse of the fjord backed by the row of mountains. I watched the Hurtigruten sail away and settled into the next stage of my journey.

South to Stavanger:

The flight from Molde to Stavanger, both very small airports, went via Bergen. I can’t exactly put my finger on why I came so far south, apart from some intuitive desire to see the path that Isa would most likely to have taken when she travelled to Oslo or further to Sweden.

Given more time, I would like to have explored the Haugesand area to the north with its Viking past. It was here in 872 that a significant battle took place where Harold Harfagre became the king of Norway, uniting the country. Three enormous scupltured swords mark the location.

Despite my initial doubts about what I might do in Stavanger, I was pleasantly surprised. A multicultural food fair, the annual Gladmat, was in full swing. Down at the harbour area, the old 18th century houses were dwarfed by two monstrous, white cruise ships. Tents lined the harbour offering treats of food, beer and wine. The place was buzzing. Its atmosphere was contagious. Soon, I was surrounded by sociable folk who were keen to explore the beautiful weather and glorious treats on offer.

When the huge ships blew their horns, haunting sounds even in the bright sunshine of the evening, and then sailed slowly out of the tiny harbour, I had a glimpse of what Stavanger actually looked like. It was very quaint and had a gentile air with its old coloured houses. A medieval cathedral sat at the town’s core on a rise. Behind it, a lake and parkland with walkways,  benches and flower beds were well used with families out picnicking and playing with their children in the sunshine.

Tonsberg:

That night, I caught a sleeper train to Tonsberg in the east, near Oslo Torp airport at Sandefjord. Once again I wondered whether I was of sound mind, exploring these relatively unknown places on my own. The sleeper cabin was so claustrophobically small that my newly-met travelling companions and I fell about laughing at the improbability of  sleeping at all. But I was so tired I fell asleep immediately.

Next morning, we were offloaded at Drammen to make our changes. Those going to Oslo went by bus for the tracks were being overhauled. I found my way to Tonsberg on the excellent local trains and had a splendid day exploring the huge mound above Tonsberg on which had stood one of the greatest fortresses in medieval Norway. I was very glad that I had made the effort. The 360 degree view of fjord and farmland was outstanding. It was so clear that you could even see out past a cluster of islands into the distant sea lanes. The castle was strategically sited to catch glimpses of any Swedish forces coming up the coast. I sat on a bench and soaked up the sun, listening to the quiet sounds around me – birds and insects and the faint echoes of the past.

A more recent tower stands there now and holds a museum dedicated to the period. A bronze sculpture, a great idea, showed the layout of the castle grounds in medieval times. The site is known as the birthplace of Princess Christina who became a Spanish princess in the 12th century.

A traditional cafe with a sod roof stood down the hill a way. It was recommended that I try a delicious Norwegian specialty of cinnamon porridge – a warm, creamy, slightly soured yohurt with cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top. I was very glad I did!

At the base of the hill, another museum told more of the town’s history. I had a number of hours to fill before my flight to Edinburgh so the museum’s light and airy cafe was the perfect place to sit and write my blog.

Norway and Sweden had exceeded my expectations, but it was time to move onto Scotland.

Sweden

The city of Stockholm has many parts and I have only ventured into a few. At Central Station, the express train arrives from Arlanda Airport which is much easier to negotiate than its French counterpart. The streets of the central shopping precinct have only a smattering of buildings from an older, more decorative period. On my way to the Old Town, I wandered down the pedestrian precinct, the Drottninggaten. The old city beckons with its shaded alleyways and pastel-coloured houses, offering the multiple dimensions of history, beauty and culture – far more interesting than a shopping mall. For those fascinated by the Vikings and later periods, the Historiska Museum has a gold hoard and some medieval gems. On the way back to the city centre, the old-style Salu Hall offers great delis, cheese counters and bakeries – all set in a busy, convivial atmosphere.

City Hall Reception:

I was fortunate, as part of my conference in Stockholm, to attend a reception in the City Hall. Situated by the water’s edge, the huge, red brick building has a Great Hall where the Nobel Prize reception is held each year. A marble stairway takes the visitor up a level where the most remarkable sight awaits in the grandest room of all. From floor to ceiling, golden mosaics tell stories from Swedish folklore. I was fortunate indeed to be amongst the large group of delegates, welcomed to the city in such fine style.

Evening Cruise to Birka:

During the dusk of long summer evenings, Stockholm is surrounded by shimmering reflections. Its archipelago is edged by soft green spruce on low, sometimes rocky, ridges. There are many isles – 25,000 – so the guide books tell me. Houses of all shapes and dimensions nestle amidst its foliage and paths lead down to clusters of small vessels moored beside private pontoons and tiny boat houses. Many of the barns and boathouses in Sweden are painted the same – a dark red colour. Historically, this was the cheapest quality of paint available, made from a mixture of cod liver oil, animal blood and iron or ferrous oxide.

Sailing boats glide by and children enjoy the late evening playing out in the green gardens sloping down to the water’s edge. I am on my way to Birka, home of Viking kings. The ferry cuts a noisy, white swathe through still green waters. I imagine galleys prowling these calm byways, stealthily muffled in times of conflict. The warriors might be bare-skinned for rowing or cloaked in furs. The horned helmets of Victorian dramatic taste would, of course, be absent, replaced with round fur hats pulled tight over long fair manes, tied back for ease…

In the distance, clouds bulge, ominous and dark, and a heavy downpour forms a broad, soft-grey curtain beneath. Within small, man-made harbours, white vessels nestle beside each other with sails furled. I cannot hear the chink of metal or the rhythmic slap of the waves but know it to be there all the same. The ferry moves on and the tiny harbour quickly disappears from sight.

I wonder what pulls me to these regions. Given that much of England, Scotland and Ireland was under the sway of Scandinavian warriors, traders and kings, perhaps some inherited cluster of ancient neurons directs my path. During my research into ‘Sisters of The Bruce’, the story began to sway in part towards Sweden…

In Book One, Isabel Bruce marries King Eric of Norway in 1292. She bears him a daughter, Ingebjorg. Eric dies from natural causes and Isabel (Isa) remains in Norway with her child whilst Eric’s brother, Magnus, becomes king. His queen, Euphemia, gives birth to a daughter – also named Ingebjorg, one might presume after the men’s Danish mother. To distinguish between the two, I shortened Isa’s daughter’s name to Inga.

The two girls grow up together and marry, in a joint ceremony, two brothers – Eric and Valdemar, dukes of neighboring Sweden. At that time, Sweden was an undeveloped nation in the sense of today’s nationhood: there was still a clear delineation between Norway, Denmark and Sweden though the boundaries shifted considerably over time and sections of today’s Sweden were under the sovereignty of either Norway or Denmark.

King Birger ruled Sweden. His younger brothers, Erik and Valdemar, were a troublesome pair, trying to wrest power from him. At one stage, they invaded Norway. To bring stability to the region through kinship, King Magnus of Norway betrothed his daughter and her cousin to the princes. The double marriage ceremony took place at the Mariakirken in Oslo, Norway’s new capital of the time. There is scant information available about the early lives of these young women, but their husbands attracted much comment and drama, as did Ingebjorg’s son, Magnus. At the Historiska Museum in Stockholm, there was little about this period apart from a magnificent belt buckle worn by Magnus’s wife, Blanche of Namur, at her wedding – fished out of a river by chance – and an engraved case believed to have held  the king’s crown…

The skies darken and the boat slows its heavy vibrations. We have arrived at Birka, an island shrouded in mystery. It lies protected along the inner waterways. Atop the rounded hills, Viking kings keep watch from their grave mounds.

Birka was once a busy farming community and port, trading in exclusive textiles, glass beakers, jewelry, pottery, wine and armory. From the Baltic came honey, linen, amber and beeswax. The craftsmen at Birka produced many goods for sale or exchange: bronze  jewelry, antler combs, glass beads and woolen materials. The most important Swedish imports were iron from the centre and furs from the northern forests. Many casting moulds for objects and manufactured glass used by craftsmen were found in Birka.

The farms on the island provided everything the community needed: grain for bread; meat, poultry and fish, along with berries and nuts. The museum offered a variety of beads, pottery, delicate green drinking vessels and bronze jewelry, replicas of those found on the island. A clever model depicted the community in its heyday.

A tour of the burial mounds, some surrounded by rocks in the outline of a boat, took us to the top of a hill and the original site of a fort. Below lay clear evidence of  the town ramparts, now grass-covered. I was fortunate to be visiting during a Viking fair where tents were set up selling handcrafts and jewelry, based on the old designs. The most dazzling part of the evening’s entertainment was a spectacular fire show. As dusk fell, huge bolts of molten fire were twirled around the inner circle of the crowd to the sinuous rhythms of medieval music beside the timeless waters of Birka.

Soon, it was time for the return journey to Stockholm. Beside the boat, flocks of gulls settled onto the dark, swaying waters. Along the shore, the lights of the many summer houses flickered amongst the firs. Agnetha – dark-haired beauty of Abba fame – has a mansion along these shores. Soon, the bright lights of Stockholm began to broaden into swathes. Low clouds threatened to shed their loads. Close to midnight, the path back to my hotel was silent and shadowed and I was relieved to have a few boisterous parties of post-prandial tourists join me along Drottninggaten.

A Visit to Skansen:

The open air museum and zoo known as Skansen lies on one of Stockholm’s islands. The conference organizers had arranged a cultural night and a ‘Tastes of Sweden’ dinner which was a wonderful chance to mix with my international social work colleagues.

Skansen has a zoo with Scandinavian animals within its open enclosures. There were wolves, bears, elks and reindeer, but the animals I was especially keen to see – for the very first  time – were the wolverines. In my novel, one of the characters is thrown from his horse-drawn wagon. The body of Erling, the comb maker, is found later in a poor state after being ravaged by a wolverine. Now, I could see the animal in its near-natural state with trees and shrubs, fallen logs and running water. To see the way it moved, its size, the thickness and colour of its unusual pelt helped fix in my mind how such an animal might live in the wild. With its broad foot-pads, it could easily run down a reindeer in the snow as well as scavenge upon dead or wounded animals…
If the road signs are to be believed, there are elks everywhere in rural Sweden. Beside the highways, the forests are fenced to keep deer, wild boar and elks from causing accidents. Here at Skansen, it was a pleasure to see the elks or moose, resting in the peaceful enclosures.

Sigtuna:

As the oldest town in Sweden, Sigtuna held an irresistible drawcard. The trip there took two hours and the journey, though in a different direction to Birka, held a similar landscape. One unique sight was a sea plane as well as a boat moored beside a large house. The town’s museum held some interesting pieces but the head of a Viking engraved on a piece of bone was the most noteworthy. It often features as an iconic piece in books and was surprisingly tiny in real life.

Sigtuna was home to the early medieval kings before Stockholm became the capital of Sweden for strategic and trade purposes. The region’s location made it a significant site for trade with the Baltic nations, though it was often raided by brigands from Russia. In the town, there were rune stones scattered here and there as well as several ruined medieval churches. Surrounded by painted picket fences and immaculate gardens, the picturesque houses were generally from the 17th and 18th centuries.
My visit to Sigtuna was certainly interesting but lacked the magic of the evening in Birka. However, it gave me an opportunity to trace the origins of the brother dukes. By the early 1300s, Stockholm had become the strategic focus of power and a castle was built on a central island. The current massive castle, Tre Kronor or Three Crowns, was constructed much later on the same site.

A day out in Stockholm:

Purely by chance, my son and I found ourselves at the National Museum. The imposing building set beside the water had a fabulous array of old and modern art. There were dramatic videos of faces, eyes and hands and a stunning exhibit of ‘slow’ crafts.

Two pieces stood out – a necklace constructed of egg shell halves and a dress made of tiny pieces of clear glass, drilled and wired together, which glittered as it rotated in the focus of a soft light. Afterwards, we caught a ferry around the inner archipelago out to a fortress, guarding the entrance to Lake Malaren. In the plush bar of the elegant ferry, after a few beers, we agreed our visit to Stockholm had been a huge success.

That night, we took ourselves off to the Ice Bar and had an expensive but fun thirty minutes in the unearthly, blue world of carved ice. Even wearing the leather overgarment and donning gloves, it was still very, very cold. The novelty of drinking from a glass of ice, filled with a vodka cocktail added to the experience. Once outside, we thawed out quickly: the atmosphere was quite balmy despite a light rain shower.

Road Trip around Southern Sweden:

The train trip from Stockholm down the east coast was relaxing. Endless forests of spruce, occasional lakes and small towns lined the route. It was from Kalmar that my son and I would begin our road trip.

Our first outing was to Oland –  a long, narrow island, accessible by bridge from Kalmar. My purpose in visiting this part of the country was to research Inga’s connection as the duchess of Oland. The island proved an excellent choice. We drove across the bridge and turned north…
Now much altered, Borgholm Castle only has a small section from the medieval period still intact, but this research was extremely useful nonetheless – in opening my mind up to the landscape in which my characters lived. I could imagine the duchess spending time here whilst Duke Valdemar was away fighting in wars. In the 1300’s, this area was crucial to Sweden’s security and would have been an important site, politically as well as economically, being on the trade routes with the Baltic states and the Hanseatic League. In 1318, Valdemar and Erik come to a bad end – captured by their brother, King Birger, during a banquet. They starved to death in the dungeons of Nykoping Castle. On our train ride, we passed through Nykoping which was only about an hour out of Stockholm.

Oland was a fabulous place to visit. I hadn’t expected to see so many burial mounds and stones circles along the roads and lanes from the island’s bronze age history. These mounds and stones would have been part of Inga’s experience on Oland and I wondered what she would have made of them.

In the far south of the island, the Iron Age fortress of Eketorp proved interesting, but very expensive being a stone re-creation, showing the actual dimensions from the time. It is difficult to imagine what a building or community might look in its ruined state so I appreciated the effort and passion that had gone into Eketorp’s construction.

Along the smaller roads and lane ways, cottages nestled within immaculate gardens and old white farm houses were dwarfed by huge red barns, necessary to house the animals in winter. It was understandable why so many Swedes might come here to holiday – to swim in the calm waters; to explore the country lanes and walk amongst the wildflowers and birds.

The old town of Kalmar has an interesting connection with Inga. In 1318, after the dukes were captured, the two duchesses signed a treaty at Kalmar Castle with a Danish duke and the archbishop of Lund to garner support for their husbands. It seems the two duchesses were not beyond making international alliances to free their husbands, but it was to no avail.  The women’s complex part in trying to build a power base through young Magnus, will be told in Book Two.

You might wonder how this research fits in with the story of the ‘Sisters of The Bruce’. It does, in part, through Isa. As the Dowager Queen of Norway and Inga’s mother, I felt sure  she would have been riveted by the goings-on in Sweden, especially where her daughter was concerned. She may even have visited her.

Towards the close of the 14th century, Kalmar Castle was also the site of a more well-known treaty – the political and economic union between Sweden, Norway and Denmark. The castle has been rebuilt in the renaissance style and there is little to remind us of its early medieval origins, but it is magnificent all the same.

Our road trip continued south though the stunning countryside around Ystad. For fans of the Swedish detective series, Wallander, the landscape will be familiar – rolling hills of green and amber crops stretched out. Pristine farm houses nestled beside massive red barns. It was  a calm, measured landscape. White sandy beaches graced the flat, southern coastline and it was not hard to imagine Baltic vessels pulling in, to ply their trade in the small communities amidst the low, grass-covered sand hills.

The southern region of Sweden, known as Skania, was Danish territory for a long time. As  a result, its cultural heritage seemed to be more closely allied, historically and linguistically, with Denmark. It was much fought over by both Norway and Sweden, given its strategic location. At one stage, Duchess Ingebjorg even waged war on the region on behalf of her son, Magnus, the hereditary king of Norway…
I had hoped to visit the site of the the biggest market during the medieval period at Skanor, at the south western tip of Sweden but, sadly, time was against us.

We based ourselves in the mellow, old university town of Lund, unusually quiet with many students on their summer break, but fortunately the beer was still flowing in the bars. The imposing 11th century Romanesque cathedral with its astrological clock was a focal point.

Before leaving the area, we made a slight digression to spend the day in Copenhagen, less than an hour by train from Lund over the bridge to Denmark. It seemed incredibly chaotic and busy after the peaceful, scholarly atmosphere of Lund. At the end of the day, I was pleased to return to Sweden.

North to Oslo:

Norway was our destination, but there were two important sites to visit on the way. Two forts – Varberg on the Swedish coast and a little way inland, Bohus near Kunghalv. In the early 1300’s, King Magnus of Norway built the latter at a time when the border of Norway reached just north of Gothenburg. These strategic fortresses or festnings reflected the instability of the medieval period and the changing borders, depending upon the power of Sweden’s neighboring countries.

Varberg Festning was an idyllic setting for picnickers making the most of the fine weather on the day of my visit. The massive fortress, now altered to match its role as a much later prison, was intimidating. It had been the home of the Duchess Ingebjorg, wife of Erik, and it was here that her son, Magnus, spent his early years.

She was close to her cousin and therefore it was reasonable to assume that Inga and her mother, may well have been her guests at some stage, especially as Oslo was only a relatively short journey away by boat.

By comparison, Bohus Castle was built on a outcrop of rock which dominated a bend in the River Gota. In earlier times, it had formed the border between Norway and Sweden. The northern area of Bohusland with its castle was willed to Duchess Ingebjorg on the death of her father, King Magnus of Norway. It was not hard to imagine her sailing up to the fortress in her galley. In the past, these broad river pathways had allowed the Vikings of old to conquer much of Europe from the Baltic to the Mediterranean

From Goteburg, we took the train north and crossed the Norwegian border to Oslo. The police and customs officials were conscientious individuals, bent on preventing any illegals from entering the country via the train journey. In sharp contrast, there were no border inspections at all between Sweden and Denmark, so the cultural difference was quite marked. I learnt later that Norway taxes alcohol and cigarettes so highly that these rules have to be closely enforced.

Visitors beware! Take a bottle of whisky with you into Norway for the cost of alcohol is beyond belief!