by M J Porter
Leofric had spent much of the preceding six months trying to reorder the land that Eadric had governed, helping his widowed wife to keep the peace, helping his widowed niece to find somewhere to call her home. It had been gruelling, and in all that time he’d not had the presence of mind to consider how his father and his mother would feel about their dislocation. They held land in the territories that the two Danish Earl’s now ruled, and there were people who owed their allegiance, their commendation, only to Ealdorman Leofwine, or rather Earl Leofwine, not to their new Danish Earls.
He shook his head angrily. He couldn’t substitute the new word for the old one, and that was just the beginning of his problems with the new king.
He sighed audibly, and his mother made a move to come to him. He shook his head at her and raised himself from his stool and went to sit beside her instead. It had taken years for her to use it, but she was now happily ensconced within Wulfstan’s old chair, her years sitting on her heavily, as well as her grief and yet for all that she also seemed to be imbibed with the wisdom of the old man. Leofric still grieved for him, as he knew his father did. He was the only grandfather he’d ever truly known, his mother’s parents distancing themselves from the Ealdorman of the Hwicce and finally dying with little or no thought for their grandchildren, the people who they were Lord of, or the future.
He knew his mother was pleased they were dead. It made her life far easier not to ever have to consider them anymore. He also knew the people they’d once ruled were easier without them. They’d been demanding, unforgiving and uncaring, slow to take any actions and never once had they offered any words of encouragement to the men and women who’d farmed the land or served them their food.
Settling himself beside his mother, his oldest nephew came to stand before him. He was six years old now, a well-formed and intriguing little boy. Leofric almost remembered being the same age as him. He envied him his innocence while at the same time pitying him for his fatherless state. He had vowed to do all he could for the two boys his brother had brought into the world and been forced to leave fatherless.
“Uncle Leofric,” the young Wulfstan asked, and Leofric nodded to show he was listening.
“Will you teach me to speak to the hounds,” he asked, his young face very serious, his eyes bright with want and need. This was no spur of the moment question. Wulfstan would have thought about it long and hard, and Leofric smiled to hear him ask. Wulfstan had a very close relationship with his hound, but for some reason, all of the other hounds, even Healer and Cyneweard, refused to be taken in by his sweet nature and guile. He’d tried to explain why to the boy before, but it was clear he’d reached his conclusions on the matter.
“You have Wulfie,” he said, trying to prevent an in-depth discussion when it was apparent his mother wished to speak to him, and he wished to watch his father and the two Danish earls.
Wulfstan smiled to be reminded of his own hound. He and Wulfie were very close; they always had been.
“I know, but I wish to speak to the other hounds as well, as you do. Even Ealdgyth can speak to them.”
There was outrage in the boy’s voice, and both he and his mother grinned to hear it. Ealdgyth, as the only woman in their family apart from his own mother and his grandmother, was something of an enigma to the youngster. She had, as had been dictated by her own stubborn nature, been allowed to engage in all the same activities as her brothers, despite her mother’s protests. She was deadly with sword, shield and war axe, as well as being able to embroider and read Latin, but her greatest skill was with the hounds, which flocked to do her bidding. Wulfstan, just realising that Ealdgyth was different to other women, had decided for the time being to be irritated by her skills.
“I think you should choose a new hound from the litter,” Leofric reasoned, “Ealdgyth and I can then help you to train your own hound, and you’ll learn how to do it with the other animals.”
Wulfstan grinned at that resolution to his question, and Leofric realised it was what the small lad had been angling for all the time. He smiled at his winning ways. He could have just asked for a hound, but he was never quite that direct with his wants. Since his father’s death, he didn’t like to be denied anything he desired and had adopted some devious ways that would stand him in good stead in the atmosphere at the Witan. Leofric wasn’t fool enough to realise the behaviour could continue, but neither was he ready to cure him of it just yet.
Wulfstan skipped away to where Ealdgyth’s latest litter of pups was sleeping by the fire. They were barely days old, their eyes still closed, and Wulfstan frolicked amongst them, not realising just how tolerant the mother of the pups was to let him so close. Leofric shared a glance with Ealdgyth, but she was already overseeing her nephew and her hounds. She wouldn’t let any of them come to harm.
“He wanted you to say that,” his mother said to him, and Leofric grinned.
“I realize that now. He should have just asked.”
“Yes, but he won’t. He won’t run the risk of being disappointed, of being denied something that he so desperately wants.”
“Will he be okay?” he asked softly. He couldn’t imagine what losing a father would do to the lad. He would always have faint memories of Northman and Leofric was worried that might not be a good thing.
“Time will tell,” his mother said, not wholly reassuringly. “You’ll do all you can for him, and so will your brothers. Mildryth might well remarry,” she said in a half-whisper. They both knew that Mildryth would never remarry, even if she ever met anyone she loved again. Her association with the traitor doubly smeared her name Eadric and her husband.
She would probably live in obscurity if she could, only Leofwine and his mother wouldn’t allow that to happen. Never. She was certainly no longer desirable because of her family connections. Not like Æthelred’s daughters. They were proving a welcome diversion for Cnut’s men in the lands their now dead husbands had once ruled. In East Anglia and Northumbria Cnut’s men were married to the old king’s daughters. It was a good ploy on behalf of the king and the earls both.
The women were a sure way of ensuring continuity from the previous kingship but without the menace of military might. Just like Cnut had done with Æthelred’s second wife, Emma, whom he’d married against her wish, his own men were following his lead.
But not the two who were in conversation with his father. Those two had not been granted wives or gained them for themselves. No, the men who laid claim to his family’s land were, so Leofric assumed, lesser men. They had land to govern, but not as much as Earl Erik in Northumbria or Earl Thorkell in East Anglia, and they didn’t have the possibility of marrying for continuity, no for that they needed the goodwill of Ealdorman, now Earl, Leofwine. Leofric didn’t know whether his father planned on providing that support or not. He hoped he wouldn’t but realised he probably would.
Not that Leofric blamed his father. He would have done the same thing if circumstances had placed him in a similar position. Still, it upset and offended him. He wanted nothing more than to sit with his father, show his support, glower at the two men, but that was precisely what his father had asked him not to do.
“What must be done is hard enough to accomplish without causing bad blood between Hrani and Eilifr on top of it. I don’t wish to be their friends, but neither do I wish to be their enemies. We no longer govern these lands, and we must do what we can for the people who either once looked to us, and those who still do.”
Leofric had nodded to show he understood when his father had spoken to him, not that he agreed, and now he was experiencing all the difficulties he’d foreseen with the situation. His mother shared his anger and fear combined, and he knew his father was only mouthing the required platitudes and that he’d told Cnut he’d not appear at the Witan.
His father had his grief, and his pride and Leofric wasn’t sure how he was managing to be cordial to the men. His mother turned to watch the men, her eyes narrowing and Leofric feared he knew what was coming n
ext.
“Go and meet them,” she commanded softly, and he knew he couldn’t refuse her or deny the logic of her request. His father wanted him to speak for him at the Witan. He’d asked him, told him he could refuse, but he knew that the same streak of honour that had forged his father was within him. He wouldn’t be able to turn down his father’s request. It was a reasonable one after all. And yet? Well, he was not sure he fully agreed with his father’s actions. Either he was the earl, or he wasn’t, being half an earl would do no one any good.
He bowed his head to his mother, taking comfort from the chair his mother sat within. He might have been still a child when old Wulfstan died, but he knew the old man had been his father’s staunchest supporter and also his staunchest opponent. He had spoken out when others wouldn’t. He had been his father’s conscious on occasion and now, or so Leofric hoped, he would also be his own.
He squeezed the wooden arms on the chair, a movement that his mother noted with a wry smile. She too took comfort from knowing that Wulfstan felt so close when she was ensconced in his chair.
At the front of the hall, immaculately maintained despite the privations and grief that had filled his father and mother for much of the last year, his father was sat beside Oscetel, the two Danish men on his other side. Leofric noted them watching him, and squarely met their gaze. These men were no more significant than him. They had fought in a war that he and his father had tried to play to their own advantage, neither colluding with one side or another and once more it was the hand of death that had dealt victory or defeat, nothing else. It was as equally likely that Edmund would have been king in place of Cnut. It was as equally likely that he would have been the man in a position of power, these men sent scuttling back to Denmark.
He needed to remember that and also heed it. The men were Danish, the two of them professed allies of Cnut. One had fought with Thorkell during the great raids nearly a decade ago, one newly come to Cnut’s endeavour. They were both earls only by dint of their prowess in battle, nothing more. His father had warned him of the fickleness of any alliance they might have made with Cnut. Now more than ever, it was necessary to be allies but not allies all at the same time. It was imperative that he learnt to think as the northmen did. Alliances were not permanent. They could come and go at will.
It was Earl Eilifr that Leofric needed to do the most to meet the eyes of for it was he who eyed the family home near Deerhurst with acquisitive eyes. Almost as close to the king as it was possible to be, without being a member of his actual family, Eilifr was a man firmly between the age of Leofric and his father. He had fought with Thorkell when the great raiding army came, and his brother was married to Cnut’s sister. He was an uncle to the king’s nephews.
He was, as many of the norsemen were, well built and filled with menace that he masked under fine clothes and a small beard and long braided brown hair. His eyes, unusually, were green and when he stood, he towered over everyone else in the room, even Horic’s sons.
“Father,” Leofric said as he bowed his head to acknowledge Leofwine, and then turned to the other men, addressing each by their honorific and their first name.
Eilifr watched him as closely as he’d watched him and it was Hrani, the most affable of them all, who tried to smooth over the awkwardness of the situation. Leofric was surprised his father didn’t make the effort and then reconsidered. He was tired already, and his eyes were watching something further along the hall. He’d had enough of trying to be polite.
“Well met Leofric,” Hrani said, his words clear and easy, although his gaze swept between Eilifr and Leofwine. “I’m Earl Hrani.” He held his arm out, and Leofric clasped it in welcome. Eilifr, his eyes intently watching Leofric, allowed long moments to pass without speaking. Leofric didn’t introduce himself, waiting for the other man, as was only right. At the table, his father had stilled in anticipation of what was to come. Leofric realised this was a test, and not for him, but for Eilifr. Would he have been commanded by his king to act in a conciliatory manner towards the House of Leofwine, or not?
Time stretched but Leofric held his place, and finally, Eilifr too stood.
“I am Earl Eilifr,” he said, his voice booming and reverberating around the room. “Kinsman to the king.” But it was all too late and too drawn out. It was clear that Eilifr, a proud man, thought too much of his familial relationship with Cnut to think he had to watch his words with men he little knew and little regarded.
“An honour to meet you,” Leofric responded, aware that his father’s eyes had sharpened and narrowed at the lack of respect shown to his son.
“This is a fine hall,” Eilifr said as he regained his seat and Leofric tensed to hear those words but his father was there before him with his reply, almost as though he’d known the words would need to be spoken.
“Yes, it is. My family home, not one of the king’s to gift as he might see fit.” He kept his voice neutral as he spoke and Leofric suppressed a small smile.
This brother by marriage of the king apparently thought more of himself than even Cnut did. Leofric knew that his father wouldn’t tolerate any attempt to take more than he could, but he realised that Cnut’s men were probably unaware of the great history between the two families. It was one thing to marry into a family, it was quite another to earn the respect of not one, but two kings who ruled it.
“And now to business,” Leofwine said, interjecting into Leofric’s thoughts. Leofric wondered what the business was. Leofwine had said he would meet with the men, offer them advice and resolve to withdraw from his position as earl in the area as soon as he could. Other than that, Leofric didn’t know what his father’s plans would be.
“The king has demanded that you turn over the land of the Hwicce to me immediately,” Eilifr said. It was clear he had no tact, just the straightforward talking that Leofric had come to expect from the northmen. It brokered no argument, no discussion, just obedience.
“I have spoken with the king, Eilifr. I know what he expects,” Leofwine responded coolly. Whatever rage burned beneath him, he was keeping it in check. Leofric knew he would, but was still impressed by his father’s command of his emotions.
“Then why are you still here?” Eilifr further demanded, and Leofwine sighed deeply. Eilifr was failing the small tests Leofwine was using, and even Leofric could see it happening before it did.
“This is my land,” Leofwine said, “not yours and indeed, not even the king’s. That is why I’m still here. You must learn about the different rules of lordship that exist within England. If you don’t, you’ll forever be making decisions you have no right to make.” Leofwine’s voice had grown firmer as he’d spoken, any tremor disappearing as he spoke. “This is not Denmark. You would do well to learn that. I suggest you employ a priest or a sheriff, but someone who understands the ways of the English.”
Eilifr’s face darkened as Leofwine spoke, but Hrani interjected before anything could be said that could never be unsaid again.
“The English gift land in strange ways Eilifr. I’ve told you this before. As Leofwine says, this is his home, his father’s home. The charter granting the land has no stipulations involving returning the land to the king or paying rent for it. It is bookland. He owns it.”
Eilifr’s face darkened as Hrani spoke. It was clear that whatever conversation they’d had in the past, Eilifr had still expected this fine hall to become his own. It was, after all, a symbol of power within the ancient lands of the Hwicce. Leofwine observed the other man and Leofric watched both of them just as carefully.
“But you will not live here?” Eilifr pressed. Leofric understood his worries. If Leofwine stayed in their family home, he’d be an unwelcome presence within the land Eilifr was supposed to control for the king, a counter to his own power.
“I’ll live here. My family will live here. But you will govern.” Leofwine spoke simply, but Eilifr didn’t like any of the words he used.
“I’ll speak with the king about this,” he stuttered
, jumping to his feet and then, realising that Hrani didn’t share his outrage, returning to his seat, his face glowering with barely suppressed rage.
“The king understands and knows. I suggest you take the time to do the same,” Leofwine continued, his voice flat and emotionless. “And when I’m dead, my son will have this house, and his son after him. This, Earl Eilifr, is probably the only time you’ll be welcomed into my home. I suggest you mark it well and remember, my family and I have been here for many, many years and will be here for many, many more to come. You can’t threaten me for something that will never be yours.”
Hrani watched the interplay between the two men with some interest and Leofric watched him watching them. It seemed as though Hrani was a reasonable man, one who probably didn’t look for conflict everywhere. Leofric suddenly professed a hope that he and the man might one day be friends.
Hrani was older than Leofric, but he doubted by much and thought perhaps ten years at the most. He was probably a playmate of Cnut’s who’d grown with Cnut and now held power because he’d supported him in his war against England. Contrary to many of the northmen Leofric had ever met, he had a softer face, one less scoured by the oceans they loved to traverse, and one that was happier in the sun, for he held a slightly bronzed summer complexion. His eyes were clear and bright and yet muted all at the same time. Leofric imagined him to be a thinker and a watcher, not an instigator. He was more than likely the man that Cnut had sent to watch events in the borderlands with the Welsh because he’d see and tell him everything.
It would be better if Leofric could be friends with him. He just needed to ensure that he’d had nothing to do with his brother’s death first.
Hrani suddenly turned his gaze to meet Leofric’s own and he offered a small smile of exasperation. It seemed he was not fond of Eilifr either. He was clearly a valued member of Cnut’s inner circle, as was Eilifr. Cnut seemed able to use men with very different attitudes and temperaments, and with little or no art in diplomacy, to do his work for him. Leofric didn’t think allowing all and sundry to rule in his name was a good idea.