by M J Porter
“Come,” he said, calling his men to him. Olaf looked at him with relief, although Orkning groaned a little.
“I’ve had enough for now. I’ll return to the hall. You can stay or come, I don’t mind, but if you wait, keep your wits about you.”
They trailed their way back through the market, Leofric’s head bowed low as he went. He didn’t want anyone else to speak with him until he’d had time to settle his thoughts. He finally understood why his father had asked him to come here, not commanded him. This task took more skill and resolve than he could have imagined.
Chapter 5
Leofric
AD1018
Oxford
A knock at the door early the next morning had Leofric groaning in his bed. His head was still filled with words and glances, intended slights and illusions from the men and women he’d spoken to the day before. He certainly didn’t want to endure anymore that day.
It fell to Olaf to receive whoever was visiting, being the only man dressed and awake and he walked towards Leofric’s prostate form with a twisted grin on his face.
“A messenger from the king himself,” he offered, and Leofric groaned once more but pushed himself to his feet and padded over to the man in his elaborate clothes, and sporting even finer weapons. He wasn’t someone that Leofric recognised, and when he spoke, he realised why. He had a Danish accent, and Leofric assumed must be one of the famed household troops that Cnut surrounded himself with.
“Good morning Leofric, son of Leofwine. The king has asked for you to attend upon him at the Witan today. It starts shortly. Please be there promptly.”
The man didn’t wait for a response and Leofric couldn’t have given one even if he’d wanted to because his mouth had fallen open in shock. He’d not come here to attend the Witan, merely to watch those who did. He hoped his father wouldn’t be angry because it was impossible for him to refuse a direct command from the king, especially when he was already in Oxford.
He rushed back to his bed and dressed quickly, kicking the rest of his men to wakefulness and informing them of where he’d be that day. Orkning was pleased, Olaf less so and even Leofric didn’t know how he felt about the whole thing, he only hoped he’d be allowed to slink in and sit amongst the men of the council as opposed to amongst the thegns and earls. His presence was still supposed to be a secret although it was now perhaps one of the worst kept ones.
“You can stay here Olaf,” he said to the man, but his brother’s friend was already finding his court clothing and forcing his tunic over his head.
“You’ll not walk in alone,” he quietly stated, and Leofric felt some comfort in those words. He didn’t want to go at all. To have Orkning and Olaf at his side might make the experience more bearable.
The day was bright, holding the promise of heat later for all that the ground was damp underfoot and the grasses left wet streaks over his shoes. Leofric could feel his heart beating frantically in his ears, and he agonised over just how many times his brother had felt the same apprehension when attending upon the old king and his fickle ealdorman, Eadric.
They followed the well-dressed men who all walked in a general direction towards the large church. Once there, they turned aside, and Leofric found himself walking towards the king’s hall. Suddenly he remembered that he might have been here before when he was much smaller. Perhaps.
Walking into the king’s hall felt like treading water with iron rings around his ankles, and he tackled it the same way, taking a deep breath, keeping his legs moving and then quickly rushing to the seats at the back of the vast space. The hall was mostly full already, and Leofric didn’t notice any unnecessary eyes on him, but only when he was in position did he take a breath and glance fully around him. He’d not been seen by anyone he’d rather not have to make polite conversation with, and as that included most of the men who were now earls and also some of the more influential religious men, he felt as though he’d done rather well.
He especially didn’t want to be noted by Archbishop Wulfstan. He’d long been a friend of his family, but he knew he disapproved of his father distancing himself from the kingship at such a critical time.
Archbishop Wulfstan had considered his father to be a firm supporter of his policies and priorities for the kingdom. It was a great pity the Archbishop didn’t seem to have shared the same desire to be associated quite so closely with Leofwine when the matter of Northman’s execution had been discussed. Not that he’d been alone. Many could have spoken for Northman, but they’d either been dead, too scared to do so or had simply not cared enough.
Cnut was a hard man to please because he still didn’t feel safe on his throne. Too many other athelings held a better claim than he did. King Æthelred, for all that four of his sons were already dead, had still birthed many more, and some of them had their own children as well. The ancient lineage of Wessex was still strong, even if Cnut held the throne for now.
With Olaf and Orkning at his side, he raised his head and looked at the assembled men and women. There were many, many new faces and far too few that he recognised. It finally made him realise how complete the removal of Æthelred and his older sons had been. The last few years had robbed more than just his family of beloved family members; fathers, sons and brother had all perished in the fighting. In many ways, his family had survived well. Leofwine, the head of the household, had endured and more than that, was a favourite of Cnut’s even if he didn’t want to be. The irony wasn’t lost on Leofric.
At his side, Orkning was providing a running commentary of men he knew as they entered the Church and Leofric was reminded of his friend’s mixed heritage. He seemed wholly English to Leofric, but he’d been born and spent much of his youth in Denmark. He knew men by sight that Leofric had never met before.
“That’s Thorth,” he said, his head bowed towards a middle-aged man who’d just entered the venue. “Father fought with him. Said he was a right bastard with a shield and sword, but not too bad provided he was unarmed.” When Orkning spoke of his father and his opinions, Leofric could hear the old man in his head, and the words offered him comfort. He might not have Horic, Wulfstan or even his older brother with him, but he needed to remember that parts of them all lived on in the people who yet lived and who supported him and his family.
Leofric studied Thorth carefully. He’d heard about him. He was one of Cnut’s men, but not raised quite as high as those who’d become earls. He’d helped Cnut replenish and provide for the Trelleborg fortresses that they’d all heard so much about. His ability to magic supplies, both men and food, from previously unknown sources was well known. It was also clear, from the large quantity of precious jewels weaving their way through his clothing that he’d been repaid well for any sacrifices he’d made and hardships he might have endured.
“Father said he’s a sly one,” Orkning continued, and Leofric nodded to tell him he should carry on. Orkning had an amazing ability to remember inane bits of trivia about people. It could be both illuminating for the individual who was being educated and annoying for the one being spoken about.
“And who’s that?” Leofric asked, noting a thin man walking amongst the assembled men. He walked as though he had a spear up his back, keeping him upright. Orkning chuckled darkly.
“That’s Tovi; some call him the proud. I’m sure you can probably work out for yourself why they do that.”
“What does he do for Cnut?”
“Like Thorth, a bit of everything. He’s reliable but not powerful enough to be made an earl. Not yet. Maybe with time. But you know, the Danes don’t much like families who insinuate themselves into the court. They much prefer men with a long pedigree of serving their king’s even if they’ve only had kings for a short time as you English measure it.”
It was then that the hall quieted and the King made his entrance. Leofric tried not to watch the proud young man, the one responsible for his brother’s death, but he failed completely. It was impossible not to be swept up in the majesty of the
young king. For too long Leofric had been forced to look upon an old man as his king, a man who’d not been ineffectual, but who’d failed to live up to some of the ideals Leofric felt he should have had.
Athelstan and Edmund, Æthelred’s oldest sons, had been admirable men, closer in age to Leofric, worthy of his respect, but they’d died too soon, the pair of them. To look upon Cnut now was to see something that even stirred excitement within Leofric, despite his anger towards him.
Cnut walked with the jaunt of triumph and the air of youth. His clothes fit him effortlessly, accentuating his tall, lithe figure, his fighting physique, and as he walked amongst the Witan, the eyes of everyone were drawn to him, and he repaid many of those with a glance of his bright eyes, even Leofric, who he noted with a slightly raised eyebrow.
He was everything that Leofric felt a king should be, and that was only in looks.
He wanted to hate him, as his father seemed to, but he knew that he’d never be able to continue his family’s feud with him. Even now he wanted to do nothing more than beg for his family’s forgiveness, apologise for his brother’s treasonous ways. Only then Cnut’s gaze released him, and Leofric felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. What sort of man must his father be to enable him to endure that look, that fundamental belief in himself? All over again he was reminded of whom his father was. A great man, perhaps better that King Æthelred had ever been, and perhaps better than King Swein. Now he just needed to see if he would be a better man than King Cnut as well.
The Queen trailed behind her husband, her hair ablaze with summer flowers and the sparkle of carefully woven golden threads. Even with her older years than Cnut, she almost outshone him. She was a beautiful woman. His father had always said the same. She too fixed Leofric with a friendly smile, and he hazarded a guess that it was she who’d called for him, although using the king’s name to ensure he came. No doubt the day would unfold so that he knew exactly to whom he owed the mixed favour.
In her arms, she carried a baby, and Leofric stored the information away to tell his father. It had been expected that the Queen would quickly give the new king a son and he wondered if she’d managed just such a feat already, after barely a year of marriage. Not that he should have been surprised by the knowledge. His own wife grew daily with his child, and he’d been married for far less time than the Queen and the King.
On and on came other men, the earls filing in behind their king, the great archbishops and bishops doing the same. It was a new custom for the Witan and one that Leofric was not sure he liked as he endured gaze after gaze from men who knew who he was, but not vice versa.
Olaf was silent at his side, but he nodded every so often to men he must have known. It seemed as though Leofric was going to need to call upon the knowledge that both of Horic’s sons carried with them if he was to survive the day at the Witan.
Eventually, silence rang throughout the hall, and it lasted for so long that Leofric almost felt the need to strain forward and find out what was happening. Only Orkning’s steadying hand on his arm kept him in place. He caught his eye. Perhaps this was another Danish technique he’d have to become accustomed to.
Finally, Cnut’s voice rang out.
“Welcome to this gathering,” the king’s voice was soft and definite, not overly loud, but still somehow reaching the back of the hall. It was just quiet enough that everyone needed to hold very still to hear.
“We will discuss many things, but most importantly we’ll ensure peace ensues between England and Denmark. My brother, King Harald, has sent words of entreaty for a lasting peace, and I’ve echoed his words. But first, first, we have to discuss matters of money and taxes and how England will guard itself against further attacks.”
Leofric listened carefully. Trying to remember as much information as he could.
“Firstly, I would welcome all my friends and comrades from Denmark. We have accomplished a great thing in England, and with your support, we’ll continue to do so.”
There was a roar of approval from every Danish person within the hall, and even the Queen deigned to smile a little, even though her new husband spoke of the destruction of her first one. Leofric admired her resolve and wondered what the personal cost to her was because despite her words yesterday, she had lost her two firstborn sons when Cnut became king. It was a reminder that it wasn’t only his family who had suffered.
When the cheering died down, Cnut spoke once more, his face more serious.
“And to the men and women,” he added with a tilt of his head towards his new wife. “of England. I would like to thank you for welcoming us, and providing continuity. I will not be a hard king, but, I will be the king of England, and I will rule, within the established procedures, as I should.”
Leofric raised his voice in a hum of agreement, just as the other English were doing. It was evident Cnut expected some acknowledgement of his words.
“And to the holy men and women,” he continued, turning to face the row of bishops and archbishops, Archbishop Wulfstan foremost amongst them all, his wise face watching with intelligent eyes, “I assure you, I don’t come to steal away your religion. I wish to embrace it as fully as I can, but, and this is my specific order, I'll tolerate the beliefs of other men from the Danish lands, and I would implore you to do the same. England is a land of the Christian God, but it must tolerate those who have yet to be … educated in the laws of the Christian God.”
The mutter of approval was more sedate this time, but heartfelt all the same. Leofric watched Cnut with interest where he stood, proudly, at the front of the hall, his expression serious but keen. He almost reminded him of one of the hounds; anxious to be let off its leash but too aware that it could only do so when it received the correct command.
For now, at least, he seemed keen to please everyone. Leofric knew only too well that it wouldn’t last. As king, he would have to make decisions that would prove unpopular with some. He’d need to walk the delicate line between working for the greater good and satisfying those who were his closest supporters. Leofric held out the hope that Cnut would prove more skilled in that regard than other men, but only time would tell.
Cnut sat then, apparently feeling that he’d spoken all the words needed to his assembled councillors. Leofric was intrigued. He’d expected him to talk about money and fines, not religion and peace. Only then Thorkell stood from his place at the front of the hall, his large build difficult to miss.
“My Lord King if I might speak,” he began, bowing to the king and his new wife. Leofric couldn’t see his face until he half turned to face back down the long hall. He too paused for a long moment then, allowing people to focus on him and ponder his words.
“Your entreaties for peace are to be lauded, but I wish to speak, I hope for the last time,” he said with a wry smile on his old face, sunbaked and weathered by too many years at sea. “Of war and the payment for your army and your warriors, those this country will not need to keep it safe now that you are the acknowledged king, and you have an heir to succeed you, and hopefully, many more to follow. We must pay the men to leave, or they will cause harm and devastation, as we know men bred only for war will do when the war is done.”
His eyes sparkled, even from such a distance, and Leofric forgetting yesterday’s conversation was reminded that he’d always been in awe of Thorkell, the mighty warrior, who, like Eadric, had played the game of switching loyalties, only with far more success. More than likely his leadership of the legendary Jomsvikings helped. He might well not rule a kingdom, but he had a host of shipmen ready to act if he commanded them. It was a testament to his enduring power that even though he’d spent much of the last decade attacking England, or fighting for her king, he still kept his position of power within the Jomsvikings.
Cnut nodded in thanks for the words, and also grinned with delight when Thorkell mentioned his son. The joy on his face reminded Leofric so strongly of his older brother’s joy at the birth of his children that for a moment bitterness f
illed his mouth. Men, they all wanted the same thing, provided no other stepped in their way or tried to take it from them. He hoped he’d soon wear the same grin of delight.
“We will speak of a geld and a re-striking of the coinage system first. Although it pains me to tax my new subjects, Thorkell speaks correctly; the men must be paid to leave. And they are my loyal men. They risked their lives to fight for me, and that means a high price must be paid.”
There were faint groans of dismay but surprisingly, no one spoke out against the king’s words. Leofric was astounded. Were the remaining English men and women so easily cowed? Only the queen looked ill at ease. He knew, and so it appeared, did the queen, the vast amount that the king was about to demand from his people. “But I won’t be sending all the men home. I plan to retain some of the shipmen, as I must, to keep the shores of England safe from any other who believes they can claim this land. The men will be paid from the geld the last king raised to pay his troops and then I will have men to guard me wherever I am.”
This time, the hum of activity was greatest from the mass of English men and women. Leofric was equally surprised by the king’s decision. There had been no standing force of men within England before. King Æthelred had attempted such a move, but it had only been in the last years of his reign, and it had crumpled with his death. But, as Leofric knew from discussions with his father. There was a precedent for a land force within the land of the Danish King, those housed within the Trelleborg forts.
Thorkell sat then, his words done, and Leofric waited for the sums of money the King spoke of to be discussed further, but instead another of his Earl’s stood, the older Erik. Leofric waited to hear his words.
“My Lord King,” he began, inclining his head towards the queen as well. He was a more mature man, really more a friend of Cnut’s father than his son, but he’d turned his allegiance to Cnut on the death of Swein. For now, he held sway in the far northern lands, controlling the area that Ealdorman Uhtred had governed for his father-in-law, King Æthelred, before his death in battle.