by M J Porter
Leofwine’s voice had grown angrier as he’d spoken. He could almost have laughed at himself for getting so upset about such a trivial thing; only he knew it wasn’t trivial. He knew because Leofric had once told him angrily, that his name didn’t appear in the Chronicle, that the men who wrote it saw little of value in what he did and what he’d done for his kingdom.
They spoke of men who committed treachery, of men murdered for treason, and of those who died in battle, but never of him. Not once. It didn’t concern him that his name would never appear, but it bothered him almost to the point of distraction to think that his son’s notoriety would be written in the strange ink of the monks and that for thousands of years to come, men and women would think Northman had been a treasonous bastard.
Cnut looked uncomfortable as he reconsidered his answer. Leofwine watched him intently, knowing that his scrutiny was unsettling Cnut. Let it, he thought. It was about time that Cnut stopped seeing Leofwine’s tragedy through his own eyes and considered what it meant.
He nodded decisively.
“I will do as you ask,” he said. “It is right to set the matters down correctly. I’m sure Archbishop Wulfstan will think of the correct order of words.”
Leofwine let out his breath to hear those words. The matter had apparently been causing him more upset than he’d realised, just a matter of three or four words, but the damage would never be undone if they were written and passed into prosperity.
“My thanks my Lord,” Leofwine managed to utter and suddenly he was tired and weak, his legs wobbling so much beneath him that he looked around a little desperately for somewhere to sit. He didn’t want to fall. Not again. As though conjured from thin air, Oscetel was suddenly behind him, one of the other men carrying a stool for him to sit on.
He grinned tiredly in thanks, grateful to sink down, so that his head was on a level with the concerned gaze of his faithful hound Healer, his second hound now joining him. Cyneweard was not the sort of hound to sit and wait for her master through his long days of praying, and she’d taken to spending her time outside with Oscetel. Whenever he emerged from the church, Cyneweard was beside him, her expression always a little worried until she could assure herself that her master was hale and hearty. The animal’s compassion for him was almost as intense as the scrutiny his wife placed him under.
Behind Oscetel, Leofwine could see Cnut’s household troops milling about and hear the stomping and snorting of the horses.
“I see you didn’t come alone,” he commented, “although why you’d expect a war from me, I’ve no idea.”
Cnut’s previously stony face cracked at the caustic words.
“My men, I fear, are keen to keep me in one piece. They follow me whether I want them to or not.”
Leofwine heard the suppressed annoyance in Cnut’s voice.
“You are their king,” he uttered softly, and Cnut nodded once, decisively, to show he understood.
“I am, and I will be a good one,” he said, “no matter what some of the English think. Unfortunately, I must anger my subjects and raise a geld to pay off the shipmen who came with me to claim my throne.”
Leofwine had been aware of this. He gratefully took a cup of mead from one of the monks, who also served Cnut before bowing away, and he drank deeply. He didn’t think he’d spoken this much in half a year.
“How will you present it to the people?” he asked. He was curious about that. Cnut was many things, other than just the man who’d allowed his son to be killed. Leofwine couldn’t deny that he did have a hold over people when he spoke to them. He was a young, vigorous man, and many were in awe of just that fact, let alone that he was also intelligent and good looking. He could see him easily being the husband of more than just the two women he already had.
“I don’t know yet. I think I must mention that it’s better if the shipmen are gone, that the country needs to return to peace without any threats from the northmen but that the men who helped make me a king need to be paid for their efforts.”
Leofwine chuckled at that.
“So you will make them see that paying them to leave is better than allowing them to stay.”
“Yes, I will. Why? Do you disagree? Do you have another idea?”
“No, but the English might wonder why you pay some men to leave, and make others their ealdormen, sorry earls. I can’t get used to the new title.” Leofwine shook his head irritably at making the mistake.
“I hadn’t considered that,” Cnut said. “Perhaps I should let my earls devise their own plans and see who manages the best.”
Leofwine shrugged a shoulder at that. It would be a good way of seeing if the men who were now Earls knew how to rule or not.
“How much have you promised?” he asked, realising that this he hadn’t heard.
“£82000,” Cnut said bluntly, with no hint of an apology in his voice. It was, as Leofwine knew, a huge sum and yet one that the English could pay and would pay for peace.
“Speak to Archbishop Wulfstan,” he cautioned. “He’ll know how to phrase it correctly.”
“He’s clever with his words,” Cnut responded, absorbing the advice from Leofwine.
“He is clever with everything to do with speaking and writing. You would do well to learn from him.”
“Indeed, it seems as though I have more to learn than I thought possible.”
“You wanted to be a king, but you were a warrior. Now you’re a king you’ll need to learn to think less like a warrior and more like a king. Now go, please. I’m old and tired, and I’ve spoken more today than I have since … well, we all know since when. I will do what I can Cnut, but I promise nothing other than that I will try.”
Cnut bowed his head to Leofwine as he handed his drinking cup to Oscetel.
“You honour me with your consideration. I’ll be in touch soon. I must arrange to meet with your wife.”
“Yes, you must. But not yet. I’ll send word when it’s suitable,” Leofwine offered, “and my Lord,” and Cnut turned back from walking away and glanced at Leofwine.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive the actions that took my son away from me. I can only try to live with you as you are now.”
Cnut stilled at the words, and Leofwine realised he’d expected this all along.
“My thanks, Earl Leofwine, my appreciation,” Cnut said, turning to walk away. Leofwine watched him go with hunger in his eyes. This should have been his triumph as much as Cnut’s. He’d made his promise to Swein all those years ago. He’d made his promise to his old king and his sons as well. And he’d kept them.
When had they ever fulfilled their promises to him?
Chapter 2
Leofric
AD1018
Deerhurst
His father and mother both watched him with interested eyes, and he swallowed heavily. This was it. Finally, after a winter of delays, he was going to speak his intentions to his parents. It worried him and excited him in equal measure.
He knew he was old enough, the match a good one, but he didn’t want his parents hating him for thinking of his future when they were locked in the past.
Not that there was anything he could now do to change it. He’d resolved to marry, had found a good bride, and then his brother had died. Now he needed to fulfil his promises to the young woman he loved, and make his parents proud in equal measure.
It was a delicate balancing act.
“Leofric, you asked to speak with us,” his father asked. His eyes were tired and hooded but since he’d spoken to Cnut some spark of his former self had started to force its way past the hurt and the pain of his son’s death.
“I do father, mother,” he said, bowing to his shallow eyed mother. His father was not alone in his grief, not at all.
“I …” words failed him, and then his father smiled at him, real joy there, mirrored in the eyes of his mother.
“Would it make it easier if I said we know what you wish to speak about and approve?” his mother asked softl
y, and Leofric, feeling like a drowning man who’d been thrown a raft to keep him afloat, nodded energetically.
“I wish to marry Godgifu of Northampton,” he managed to push past his dry throat. No matter if his parents did know, it was still a complicated truth for him to handle.
“She is willing to have you?” his mother pressed, and once more he nodded, too energetically, suddenly feeling as though his head might well never stop it’s bobbing.
“You’ve spoken to her parents?” his father asked, and this was the stumbling block.
“I had my Lord father, yes. But then, well then …” He hoped he didn’t need to go on and he saw in his father’s eyes that he immediately grasped the problem.
“Her father is unhappy to continue with the union now,” he uttered, not a question.
“Yes, he says, it’s not … honourable. But, well, it’s a little late for matters of honour to play a part in the arrangement.”
Again his father instinctively understood, while his mother looked at him with faintly shocked eyes. He shrugged apologetically, but her stern expression didn’t lessen.
“We’ll speak to her father. Tomorrow, we will arrange a marriage contract he’d be a fool to turn down. We’ll ensure the wedding takes place within the next two weeks.” She said, her tone warm for all that it was censorious at the same time.
“I … we …”
“There is no reason for the details Leofric. Your father and I know lust and love. I’m pleased that you know your responsibilities. I hope she’ll make a good wife for you, and that your child will be strong and healthy. Now, be gone with you. I need to speak with your father.”
Leofric bowed again, his legs feeling rubbery in the aftermath of one of the hardest conversations he’d ever had in his short life, and yet one that had gone far better than he’d thought it would.
He stumbled to his chair, Orkning watching him with a wry smile, while Olaf watched him with a hopeful expression. It had been Orkning that he’d first confided in, and Olaf who’d forced him to speak with his parents. He’d been correct to do so. Godgifu deserved to be married before it was too late. He only hoped his parents could accomplish what he’d so far failed to bring to fruition.
He’d met Godgifu the previous year, in Gloucester. It had been a day of surprises for him, just as much as it had been for her, and he’d been able to think about little but her since then, until his brother’s death had robbed him of the surety of her parent’s acceptance of him as their son-in-law. All winter he’d worried and whimpered his way through his grief and his dismay that he might never marry her. Finally, he’d resolved to speak with her, assure himself that she wanted her future with him, just as they’d talked about, only things had gone too far, and now he found himself about to become a father and without the support of his father.
He’d had no choice but to speak to his parents, and he could assume that he had either Olaf or Orkning to thank for informing his parents already about his activities, probably Olaf. In his grief for Northman, he’d become less likely to take risks, and more concerned with ensuring open communications between people. It made sense, especially after Northman’s death.
He was pleased and terrified in equal measure. He watched his brother’s sons, and he knew he wanted his own to stand guard over and protect, to ensure they had a future.
“Went better than you hoped?” Olaf asked him, almost smiling, but not quite.
“You, I assume?” he asked, but Olaf shook his head.
“No, not me. My older brother. He seems to have become responsible as he ages.”
Orkning grinned at that, for him the movement spontaneous and genuine.
“No, I just wouldn’t want you to miss out on the delights of sleepless nights, and piss down your front,” he quipped, and Leofric knew then that it had been him. Just like his father, Horic, he seemed to find being a father thrilling, enjoying everything with a genuine smile and a heart filled with love for his children.
“It won’t be easy though,” he cautioned, for a moment his face serious. “Women never are, and children aren’t either. But you’re starting in the right place,” he offered with a shrug, as suddenly both of Northman’s sons and his own two children seemed to glue themselves around his tight frame, with cries of ‘war’ on their lips.
“It seems I have important work to do,” he laughed, striding towards the main door of the hall without any rancour in his voice. Leofric watched him leave with some envy, and then he felt eyes on him and turned to meet the soft eyes of his mother, understanding written all over her face.
He would have his bride, and his child, and hopefully, sooner rather than later. The fact that the king has personally made amends to Leofwine was widely known, and he could only hope that Godgifu’s parents were also aware that the House of Leofwine was no longer considered outcast by the king.
He watched the northern men with, he hoped, apathy in his eyes. He didn’t want them to realise just how much it burned within him to have them in his home, speaking to his father, as though he were their equal when one had sympathy and one hatred in their eyes.
His father would hate the sympathy if he were even aware of it, and although he had sunken eyes, and he’d grown weak and frail since his older son’s death, Leofric didn’t doubt that his mind was as sharp as it had ever been. He would know, probably better than the men he faced, their exact thoughts on his current predicament.
Leofric sighed deeply, his mother catching his melancholic anger and offering him a weak smile of sympathy. She was more intent on watching her grandsons gambol around the hall than on the two strangers in their midst and yet she was perhaps even more aware of them than Leofric was, her interest in the boys a deeply affected response. To her, they were truly intruders, the only saving grace being that at least bloody Godwine wasn’t with them. Leofric didn’t know how he’d ever reconcile himself to Earl Godwine. Now, rumour had it Earl Erik had played a part in his brother’s death as well; it made him wonder if he could trust any of the earls. His father must surely feel the same.
His mother sat proudly, her clothes rich and well made, the expensive cream cloth of her gown off-setting her pallid complexion and adding some shadows and light to her pale, wispy hair, turning to grey and white in equal part. Regal and beautiful. Leofric thought his mother beautiful, even more so than the Queen because of her quiet ways.
His gaze swung once more to the men before him. He’d tried to push the blame for his brother’s death away from Godwine and place it firmly on the shoulders of Eadric. But it never quite held. Neither could he blame the king. Not if he wanted to keep his position and his sanity.
No, it was almost as though he could blame no one except his brother for what had happened to him, and that would never do. He’d loved his older brother, admired him, been jealous of him, and now he missed him more than he’d thought possible.
They’d spent the majority of the last ten years apart, and yet he’d always felt comforted to know that he had an older brother out there, looking out for him, an older brother who would strive to be the ealdorman in the place of their father if he died. Now he had no buffer. If anyone was going to be an ealdorman, or rather an earl, as the northmen had taken to calling themselves, it was going to be him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
Even in the six months since his brother’s death, that was the kindest word to use, even thinking murder made his blood boil and his anger resurface, he’d tried to no avail to realign his thinking, make himself realise what he would now be. He hadn’t succeeded and now seeing these men within his home, knowing that Cnut had placed them in positions of responsibility, he saw his possible future ebbing away anyway. These men would have their own families, their sons, and for as long as Cnut remained king, and Leofric genuinely thought it would be for a very long time, there was little left for him to rule.
His father had been pushed back, almost a stranger within his own father’s home, the land of the ancient Hwiccan people
no longer his to rule and govern, even though Cnut had personally come and begged him to return to his role within the Witan. Leofric wondered how his father had even tolerated Cnut coming to speak with him, the man responsible for his son’s death. Leofric doubted he’d have been able to let him walk away with his life, let alone with an agreement that he might be able to return to the Witan given enough time. No matter that he was a king, his rage would still have won out.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the men. He was unsure what he thought of either of them, but it was Eilifr’s presence that upset Leofric the most. This was the man Cnut had sent to hold sway within his land, the land his father had governed on behalf of the king for almost his entire life.
Leofric couldn’t understand Cnut’s motivations. Did he not trust his father and yet beg for his assistance all at the same time or was it merely that Cnut trusted Leofwine so much he wanted him stationed within the majority of Eadric’s old lands? Whilst he might no longer be the Ealdorman or even the Earl of the Hwicce, he was still an earl, if not of his normal lands then of the majority of Eadric’s old lands. His reach stretched from the borders with the Welsh to the borders with the Northumbrians to the North and the East Angles to the East? Or was Cnut’s motivation nothing to do with his father at all, but instead more to do with the personalities of the two men at the front of the hall?
Leofric didn’t know and wondered if he could bring himself to care enough. No, that was wrong. He wondered if he could bring himself to desire to understand the king’s motives enough.
In the light of Cnut’s kingship, Leofwine was a greater man than he’d been since the birth of Leofric, but to gain it, he’d lost a son, and now he needed to move from his family home. It was an honour and a dishonour all at the same time, and he knew his father felt it keenly, but like Leofric, he didn’t know whether to care or not. It had been a long six months without Northman, and it wasn’t getting any easier.