by M J Porter
Thorkell sat on the other side of the king, whereas Godwine sat beside the king’s sister. It seemed the king had deemed it wise to keep the two men apart. The atmosphere inside the hall was congenial, everyone working hard to forget that Cnut hadn’t come to make peace, but war.
“Sister,” Cnut said, turning to Leofric. “I would introduce you to Leofric, son of Leofwine, the English Earl father once hated so much.”
Estrid’s eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Your father is a great man?” she queried, and Leofric grinned in response.
“He is yes, or he was. I’m afraid his time runs short now.”
“Ah, all the men who influenced my youth are falling victim to their age,” she said, sorrow on her face. “My father, your father, it seems as though only Thorkell remains, and he, I think, might just be immortal as the legends dictate.” She grinned as she spoke, her sorrow disappearing as quickly as it came. “It will be interesting to see who out of our generation earn themselves names that conjure up quite as much fear and respect as our fathers,” she said, and Leofric was taken aback by the words spoken about his father.
“It seems strange to hear his name spoken here as though you know him. He has only ever been my father to me.”
Both Cnut and Estrid smiled at him then.
“Your father’s name reverberated around this hall when we were children. Few, other than Olaf Tryggvason, earned such as vilified a position in our father’s view of the world. Your father was lucky enough to be given time to earn his respect. Olaf, well, for all that men say he is dead, so much has been said about his death that half the men in this hall would swear he yet lived, while the other half would call them fools. He’s earned himself greater renown in death than when alive. The skalds love nothing more than to weave a tale of how Olaf yet lives and will one day claim back Norway for himself.”
“Really?” Leofric asked, surprised. He’d not heard the rumours, and he always listened to any tale of Olaf. “You know,” he offered around a mouthful of food, “my father was gifted with a token from Olaf, a great one, the fur of a wolf. Is that the same wolf that was mentioned,” he fumbled for the right word because he didn’t want to use the word ‘trial’ and finally settled on “before?”
Now he felt the heat of Thorkell’s glare on him.
“You have it?” he said. “The fur?”
“Yes, he sent it to my father, with Finn, the scribe,” he offered as an explanation. “He taught me my letters and the old stories of your people. He yet lives, in my father’s household.”
“Why?” Thorkell demanded. Leofric wasn’t sure if he was amused or angry.
“Um, I think it was something to do with my father admiring it when they journeyed north. I don’t remember all the details. He used it to return a family heirloom that had been given to Olaf by the king, after the peace treaty of 994 or 995. I imagine that Olaf and Orkning probably know the story better than I do. They were much older than I was when Finn arrived.”
“Bastard,” Thorkell said, to no one in particular. “It would have been just like him to gift the fur to another. He always told me that he’d leave it to me if he should die before I did, and vice versa. I’ve often wondered where it went. Although, I suppose I can’t blame him. I did repudiate our alliance, and join with Swein and that ultimately lead to his death.”
“You think he did die then?” Estrid asked. Her eyes were as intrigued as a child’s. Leofric could only assume she’d grown up with the legends of Olaf and was almost as desperate for them to be true as she claimed half the men in her hall were.
“I know he died. I was there. I watched him go under the water, wearing his heavy fighting clothes, and with his hands on his weapons. There’s no way he could have survived. It’s just the fancy words of the skalds who want to earn their keep.”
Estrid’s face lost its animation, but still, Leofric was convinced she thought Olaf yet lived. He almost offered her a wink of conspiracy. He too liked the thought that Olaf still lived. He would ensure he told his father when he returned home.
Eventually, the conversation became more intimate between Cnut and his sister, and Leofric relaxed into the evening. The food was good, the mead stronger than he was used to. Thorkell came to sit beside him when Cnut and Estrid found a quieter place to speak confidentially.
“How is your father?” Thorkell asked.
“He ails. He doesn’t have long. Not at all. How do you do it Thorkell? You must be older than him.”
“I wasn’t injured as he was. I think it took a toll on him, but still, I feel that my time is coming to an end. I have sons and grandsons aplenty to come after me. But I think Cnut will struggle. He relies on me, on Earl Erik as well, and he’s a bloody old git as well. It’s time he looked to younger men, but he doesn’t see it. But I wanted to thank you, for doing all you could to make the king see sense. It made it tough in the end, but neither of us was to know that we were all being manipulated by the king and by Ulfr.”
“Thorkell, my father, wouldn’t believe what was being said about you, and neither would I. You and Cnut have had your disagreements in the past, but, well, we couldn’t see you trying to take England from him.”
“No, I prefer action to laws and ceremony. Still my thanks. You and your father spoke for me when it wasn’t popular to do so. But some advice for you, if you don’t mind an old man talking to you, Cnut will stand by Godwine. No matter what happens, and no matter how much he says he doesn’t, he feels secure with Godwine. He knows Godwine is self-serving and only interested in growing his landed interests, his power base, but he likes that.”
“Godwine is like Eadric,” Leofric commented sourly.
Thorkell nodded in agreement.
“He is, for all that he hates him. The irony isn’t lost on me. However, he fulfils a purpose, and the king is pleased with him. He has his complete loyalty, not like the other Earls, Eilifr and Hrani. He’s bound him to his family with the promise of an advantageous marriage.”
Leofric was watching Thorkell carefully. “Every man has his part to play?” he commented darkly.
He was beginning to agree with Thorkell’s assessment of events. He somehow knew that just like his father before him, he’d never be the sort of devious, self-serving man that made their way into the highest echelon of the king’s affections. He’d never be the man the king thought of first when he wanted a regent for his kingdom or a foster-father for his son. He almost thought he could live with that.
“Yes, they do. I was a warrior. Your father is a man of careful thought and understanding. He took the time to understand the raiders, to make a friend of Olaf, and even eventually of Swein. You’ll do the same. You’re easier to talk to than your brother ever was, and you don’t carry his hunger for everything. You could see it in Northman’s eyes. It made it easier for Eadric to be convinced that he was his man before your father.”
“What will I be?” Leofric asked. He was feeling the effects of the strong mead being served by Estrid, and he almost wished he could stop his mouth from speaking.
“You’ll be your own man. That’s a hard lesson to learn.” Thorkell chuckled once more, all traces of any earlier annoyance gone. “I can’t believe that bastard left the wolf’s fur to your father. We’ll have to ensure that the legend is elaborated upon to make it completely up to date.”
“I wish I’d met Olaf,” Leofric murmured. The mead was making him melancholy, as was Thorkell’s talking of men as though they were dead already.
“You’d have liked him, but probably been bloody scared of him. Surely Finn and Horic told you stories of him.”
“Oh yes they did, but most I didn’t believe.”
“You should have believed them. Olaf took actions saner men wouldn’t consider, and he had the luck of the Gods on his side as well. He was normally very successful. Tell your father of the legends that he yet lives, and also tell your father that I’m sorry I won’t see him again.”
“You’re
not returning to England at all?”
“No, I find that my sea legs are deserting me, although you mustn’t tell anyone so. I’ll stay here. I’ll do what I can for him in what time I do have left. My name and my past deeds will have to speak for me now.”
“Does the king know?”
“He suspects and that’s all he’ll ever do. He’s not very accepting of illness or weakness. Neither was Swein. That was why men were always so surprised by their friendship with your father. His injuries were so brutally laid bare, that there was no hiding from what had been done to him.”
“My father thinks his injuries account for his ability to see more than other men do. He says his loss of the one eye, meant he could see into men’s souls.”
“He sounds like a seer for the old Gods, but he might be right. I always thought he excelled in the way he spoke to men, bent them to their will.”
“I’ll tell him when I next see him. It’s important that I don’t delay in Denmark for too long. Do you think there will even be a battle?”
Here Thorkell sighed deeply, his brow furrowed as he swept his gaze over the other nobles assembled within the hall.
“I don’t know. So much of this has been smoke and air, rumour and counter-rumour. I don’t know whether Cnut has made his life more difficult for himself with his silly games, or whether he’s truly discovered whom he can and can’t trust. I was surprised to find Ulfr trying to set himself up in Cnut’s place. I would never have thought him capable of such forethought.”
“Could it be more of Cnut’s test?”
“It could, but I doubt it. Denmark is much like England. Enemies, men who think they have a better claim to the many petty kingdoms, surround it. Denmark is hard to defend. It’s spread over many islands, and on every island, a man could set himself up as a king. There’s no one to stop him. Cnut or whoever rules here can’t be everywhere at once. It’s not possible. But Ulfr is virtually king anyway.”
“Does he have allies?”
“He does yes, in the Swedish kingdoms, and in Norway if he chooses to. The problem is that everyone is bloody well related to someone else, and everyone has alliances they can call upon, and kin they can involve.”
Leofric heard the frustration in Thorkell’s voice and turned to him in surprise.
“You prefer it when men aren’t accountable to each other?”
“I prefer it when sex and politics don’t become entangled. It makes life much, much easier.” Thorkell laughed drunkenly as he spoke, sloshing some of his mead down his front.
Leofric looked along the long line of men and women stretched across the length of the hall. Thorkell might just be right in his conclusions. Apart from himself, everyone else was connected to the person next to him or her by some family relationship. He felt a little cold at the thought, and then he remembered the conversation with his father. It was better to be aloof from the royal family, far better not to have pretensions to the throne. That was, after all, why Cnut honoured his family so much.
Chapter 21
Leofric
Late AD1022
Jelling
The attack came in the morning when the men were still mostly asleep. A great crescendo of noise erupted from the quayside, and suddenly Leofric was awake and battle ready, his people already running to form a defensive line around the impromptu campsite that had sprung up.
Men called to each other and shouted for others to wake, and all the time, in the distance, Leofric was aware of the clash of metal on wood, of the sounds of men dying. He tasted the bile of last night’s mead and hastily forced a cup of water into his dry mouth. He imagined he could kill a man with just the raw taste in his mouth.
He was pleased he’d collapsed fully clothed into his bed. It meant he only needed to grab his byrnie and his weapons before dashing to the front of the attack.
By the time he made it to the shield wall between the campsite and the sea, he could already see Cnut amongst the men, shouting orders, and hastily organising the household troop with Eilifr and Godwine. He rushed to meet the king, and Cnut offered him a wry smile.
“Thorkell received a message this morning. It was delayed by three days by a storm far out to sea. It seems the stronghold of the Jomsvikings is under threat and they’ve also planned an assault on Jelling hoping to take advantage of his distractions. I don’t think it’s aimed at me. I think I’m either lucky or unlucky to be here right now. The ships in the harbour aren’t Ulfr’s fleet. We’ve been tricked.”
“It’s not Ulfr then?” Leofric asked, just to be sure, and he felt Eilifr’s fury directed at him, although he didn’t speak.
“Who knows,” the king answered, “but we’ll find out when they’re all dead, although if it is him, he’ll have been swayed by the new King of Sweden, Jakob Anund. I thought he was an ally. It seems I was wrong.”
“How many?” Leofric finally thought to ask. He was trying to decipher the emblem on the flags flying from the ships in the harbour, but they were just too far away.
“Enough, but not too many,” Thorkell answered a glint of amusement in his face. “No more questions. We fight now and dissect the battle later.”
So told, Leofric returned to his men. Orkning had organised them into their regular fighting formation behind the shield wall and was awaiting the opportunity to attack. He was licking his lips and looked to be enjoying the moment far too much. But then, Orkning had stayed sober the night before. He didn’t have the weight of an aching head to contend with.
“Who is it?” he called to Leofric.
“Jakob Anund,” he called back. The name sounded strange on his lips but Orkning spat onto the ground, and others muttered angrily to hear it.
“Bastard,” Orkning complained, although Leofric wasn’t convinced he meant it as a censorious comment.
If the enemy had thought to attack them unprepared, they’d only half succeeded. In whatever time Thorkell had been given to prepare, he’d managed to organise his men into ships, and they were long gone. The king had taken the opportunity to organise his household troops and prepare for the battle as well.
Within Jelling itself, Leofric could see that the town gates had been pulled tightly shut, and the men who regularly guarded it, stood ready before the gates, their weapons gleaming. Whatever this attack was about, it seemed it had been severely mistimed.
Then abruptly the wave of the battle crashed over Leofric, and he had no more time for thought.
He held his shield before him, standing shoulder to shoulder with Orkning on one side and Olaf on the other, with the rest of his men alert and to the side or behind him. The King hollered his name, and he and his men jogged to an opening gap in the shield wall, plugging it with a clash of wood on wood, the ends of his shield wall seeming to merge seamlessly with Cnut’s men to the left and Godwine’s people to the right.
He felt the crash as a reverberation through his shoulders, and suddenly he was laughing, as he’d heard Horic had often done in battle and he realised that he too possessed the joy of battle.
He grinned. This might be far more interesting than he’d been expecting it to be.
Leaning on his shield, his left shoulder holding it steady against the force of the man on the other side, he held his war hammer firmly in his hand. He’d never thought he’d fight with the hammer, but here, in the press of the battle, it seemed to be the weapon of choice.
The shouts of men up and down the line resounded in the early morning air, the panic and confusion of Cnut’s men vanishing now that everyone was battle ready. He even heard the voices of women and realised that he would face some of the mighty female warriors Horic had often spoken of in glowing praise. Even that didn’t daunt him. Anyone who attacked his king needed to be made to pay for his or her actions.
His attacker tried to snake his sword under the bottom of his shield, but Leofric bent down and used his hammer to deflect the blow. He didn’t need split calves. The blow of his hammer was so crushing that the edge of the s
word blade fractured and he howled with joy. Crap weapons would be no good against him.
The line of the shield wall took a step forward, and he kicked the shattered remains of the sword aside. He wanted to do more, but he was waiting for the command from the king. Over his head, stray arrows and spears flew, from both behind him and in front of him. He felt secure though with a shield above his head and one in front of him.
“The enemy is Swedish,” Orkning huffed. “I can hear them calling to each other.”
“Just Swedish?” Leofric asked, and Orkning nodded, his attention focused on whoever leant against his shield.
Then the cry from Cnut came, and it was time to attack in earnest.
Leofric lowered his shield and began trying to pull the shield away from his opponent, hacking on the front of the shield where he knew it would be weakest. Not at its centre, but upon the line of rivets close to the edge. Men never thought about the more vulnerable points of a weapon, only the pointy ends, as he liked to think of it. He’d long learned that it was better to attack men where they were weaker when it came to hand to hand combat.
He could feel the force of his blows on the shield, but it had little impact on him, although he could see splinters of the stained wood starting to fly under the onslaught of his attack. Abruptly he changed his tact, leaping up and landing a blow upon the shield above the man’s head. The warrior who was holding the shield was caught unaware, and the shield wavered, allowing Leofric to make a lightning-quick strike on the man’s head. He didn’t wear a traditional helm, and as the hammer bit down, Leofric knew he’d encountered flesh, not metal.
The man staggered, but Leofric was already back under the protection of his shield, ready to take advantage of the faltering man. He would either die where he stood, or he would make a menace of himself by standing and trying to fight when he was dazed and close to death.