by M J Porter
Leofric dropped his shield and kicked the man’s shield. It wavered for a moment and then gave, the man falling behind his shield and allowing a gap to open up in the shield wall.
Leofric took advantage before the breach could be repaired, aiming his hammer at the man behind his dead enemy. He still held his shield above the head of the dead man, and Leofric met the eyes of his enemy for the first time. The man’s eyes had registered their shock before Leofric used his hammer to step forward and pierce the man across his chest and then across his neck, Orkning offering the final killing blowing with a slice of his sword across the man’s neck.
The enemy fell to his knees, his shield crashing down on top of him, hastening his death as the huge boss impacted his head.
Leofric grimaced at the wet sounds, but then he was following Orkning into the press of the enemy. More of his men filled in the shield wall spaces that had opened up with his and Orkning’s passing, and he knew that if he and Orkning died here, the shield wall would still hold.
Slashing with his hammer, he attacked viciously and without thought. There were fewer men than he’d thought there would be. He could see light through the back of the shield wall, see the sea crashing on the coastline behind him. He thought it would only be the work of a few more moments before the men were running back to their ships, their defeat a sure thing.
Orkning bellowed his battle joy beside him, and the pair worked as a team, the one watching the other’s back, slashing with their weapon of choice and driving men further and further back.
He met the eyes of every single man he killed, watching with satisfaction as their blood dripped onto the ground. He shouted his father’s name as he killed. He wanted the people to know who’d killed them.
His hammer was slick in his hands, blood snaking halfway up his arm, sweat mixing with the blood of dead men, and still he fought his way to the back of the shield wall.
He could no longer hear anything other than the rush of his blood coursing through his body, his heart beating loudly, but calmly in his ear.
This was what it meant to fight an actual enemy. He could almost understand Orkning’s delight in battle now.
Before him a gap opened up as another man stumbled to his knees, his hands trying to hold his sliced neck in place, his body already slick with his blood, and his tongue thick with the stuff as it choked him. He took a moment to stare at the shoreline. Men were retreating, running for their ships and he was momentarily torn. Should he follow the men, return to the fray or torch the ships?
“My Lord,” Orkning called, and Leofric met the man’s eyes. He was still fighting against the Swedish shield wall, but the majority of his men had poured through the breach, and he was safe to run after the enemy.
He looked around, looking for a way to gut the ships, prevent the men from leaving. His eyes fastened on a smoldering fire that must have been set by the men on guard duty the night before. He rushed to it, trying to clear his eyes of sweat and blood so that he could focus. Uncaring of the heat, he reached into the heart of the fire and pulled out a burning plank of wood. He grinned when it still burned away from the fire, and he ran to the closest ship, rushing into the shallow water to where he knew the sail would be furled inside the hull.
He hurled the burning brand into the ship and was rewarded with the sound of the sail instantly igniting. Men hollered in fear, but it didn’t stop others from trying to float the ship out to sea.
He waded back to the collection of about eight men who were all trying to force the large craft back into the water. He used his hammer to attack the back of the first unprotected man, a gurgle escaping from the man as he sank to his knees. The next man, a small, wiry individual, was still holding his dagger as he tried to push the ship into the sea. He stepped away from the other men, a grin on his face.
“I’m going to enjoy this you English bastard,” he said, but Leofric was too quick for him. He’d long discarded his shield and now held his dagger in one hand, his hammer in the other. He fainted with his dagger, and as the man tried to counter the blow, he dug the hammer deeply into his taunting face, the nose smashing under pressure, the man crying with dismay as the front of his face concaved.
He too tumbled into the salty spray of the ocean.
He felt a hand on his back then and turned, both weapons raised to see who tried to attack him, but it was Orkning, frighteningly clad in blood and muck from the sandy beach.
“My Lord,” he shouted, trying to make himself heard over Leofric’s battle rage. “We’ve won my Lord, look, everyone is retreating or dead.”
Leofric did look then; his attention distracted from the men he’d been trying to stop escaping.
Along the shoreline, he could see ten ships limping out to sea, warriors either on board or swimming beside the ships as they tried to make their escape. The ship he’d fired was merrily ablaze, and the other warriors had ceased their efforts to escape, defeat on their faces as Olaf oversaw them being apprehended.
Further along, he could see Cnut watching him from his vantage point. He’d found a horse and was seeing the extent of the damage and counting how many men had escaped.
He offered Leofric a small wave, his expression showing some surprise. Leofric acknowledged him with a pump of his arm, the battle rage starting to fade from his body. He could feel his legs starting to shake beneath him, and he thought he needed to return to the shoreline before he too tumbled into the bloody waves that surrounded him.
“You fought excellently,” Orkning said, his admiration clear to hear. “I’d not have expected it from you, my Lord.”
“I blame the bastard who taught me to fight,” he offered with a wry smile. They both knew it had been Horic who’d honed his skills. Wulfstan had shown him how to hold a weapon, angle a weapon for the greatest impact. His father had taught him how to use a shield and a sword, but it was Horic and his hammer’s that had truly shown Leofric how to fight.
“I do as well my Lord. The king saw as well. Your reputation will be greatly enhanced.”
Leofric could only nod, exhaustion setting in. His clothing was soaked and felt heavy against his body.
Sensing he was spent, Orkning shoved him to the shoreline, and then hauled him back to higher ground. He could see dead men wherever he looked, though luckily few that he recognised.
“Well done my Lord,” Olaf offered, jogging toward him. He’d taken the prisoners to be guarded by the rest of his men.
“A few injuries, but nothing serious. The men fight well when we have a need to.” He sounded impressed despite himself. It had been many years since the household troops had truly had to fight for their lives. Leofric was pleased that no one had let his or her skills lapse in the intervening time.
“Excellent. Congratulate the men. I’ll go and see the king,” he uttered with exhaustion, stumbling as he walked along the shoreline. The king was busy directing men, shouting orders to his warriors, and giving instructions to Godwine and Eilifr. Leofric thought that both men looked as though they’d had no part to play in the shield wall. Their clothing was immaculate, and not one dark spot of blood marred their byrnies.
Leofric looked down at himself. He was blood splattered and encrusted with whatever flotsam he’d picked up from his dunk in the sea. Cnut stopped what he was doing, slid from his horse and walked toward him.
“Leofric, well fought and my thanks, and your men as well. You made easy work of the attack. As far as I can tell it wasn’t aimed at us, but at Ulfr. I think that was why he ran away. He had warning of the attack. At least that’s what I’m starting to decipher.”
“Are there more elsewhere?” Leofric asked, “or is this Anund with the men.”
“No, Anund sent his brother here as his proxy. He’s gone to attack the Jomsvikings. He sees them as a greater threat than I am.” Here Cnut smirked sardonically. It was evident he didn’t like being perceived as a lesser threat.
“We will go and support Thorkell?” he asked. Now that he had
tasted battle, he was keen for more.
“Ah, if only Leofric. Thorkell must fight alone. I have no alliance with the Jomsvikings, only an understanding of sorts and even then, it’s with Thorkell not the rest of the men. I must stay here, set the kingdom to rights, and I would ask you to return home, with a message for my wife to make haste and send Harthacnut to Denmark. We must all hope that your father has worked his charm on my stubborn wife.”
“My Lord King?” he queried. Leofric could feel a crushing sense of disappointment at being sent home so soon. He was sure there had to be more to this than the king was revealing to him. Just who was it that had been causing problems within Denmark or this time? The king seemed to think it was all over now; that this one small skirmish would set everything to rights.
The king fixed him with a stern glare.
“Think of your father. You have years yet to make war on men. I don’t believe you have years left with your father. I would rather you were with him than here in Denmark. And I need a favour from you. I need you to tell him …” Cnut stumbled as he thought of the words. “Give him my thanks. He laboured for me, and I never repaid him as I should have done. Thank him. Tell him he was an honourable man, both towards King Æthelred and me. Tell him for me.”
Leofric nodded soberly at the king’s words. He was right, of course, he was right. He’d said he’d only be gone as long as it took Cnut to calm Denmark. His father had agreed, but with some sadness on his face. He’d not been convinced he’d yet live when his son returned. He needed to leap at the opportunity the king was giving him now.
“My thanks, my Lord,” he acknowledged. “I’ll do as you ask and return home. I will tell him your words, but are you sure Denmark is calm now and ready to go back to your rule?”
“Yes, I’m quite convinced. I need to spend more time here, work out who was conspiring with whom, but to all intents and purposes, Denmark is mine once more, and Harthacnut and Earl Thorkell will rule it for me.”
“We must stay and bury the dead?” Leofric asked, staring at the collection of dead bodies that littered the ground. He was trying to order his thoughts, but it was all suddenly too much. This battle had been too easy. Surely it could only be a portent of greater trouble to come? Surely.
“No, you must rest for the remainder of the day and be gone tomorrow. And Leofric, my thanks once more.” The king was smiling at him, but Leofric could barely return the smile. He had too many conflicting emotions running through his exhausted body. He barely noticed the king pulling one of his arm rings loose and fastening it around his trembling arms.
Only when the king slapped him hard on the back as he embraced him did Leofric even realise that he was being acknowledged as a warrior. Perhaps the battle was the final step he’d needed to take to merit himself a place at the king’s side. A place he’d earned himself and not one his father had secured for him.
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle For AD1022
This year went King Knute (Cnut) out with his ships to the Isle of Wight.
Chapter 22
Leofwine
Early AD1023
Deerhurst
His daughter murmured at his side, but he could hardly concentrate on what she said. All that mattered was that he was where he wanted to be, ensconced on his bed in the home he’d shared with his wife and his children throughout his long life.
He’d once thought he’d die in a cold dark tomb that had been raised to ancestors so long ago that no one could remember them.
He was pleased that instead, he would breathe his last here. It was all the reward he needed for his long life labouring for his kingdom and his children. He could only wish that Northman were with him, not just his younger sons and his daughter, but he was long reconciled to his son’s untimely death. He hoped he’d see him again soon and that he wouldn’t hate his father for reconciling with the king.
Then his thoughts flew away from him once more, and he simply listened to his daughter. Her voice was calm, soft, so like his wife, and every so often she squeezed his hands to let him know she was there.
In the last few weeks his sight had abruptly left him. He’d always wondered how he’d managed to keep his sight after his injury. Now he realised it must have been given in exchange for his service to his country and his king. Now that he could no longer offer anything but the idle wonderings of an old man, his sight was gone. The queen had sent him home, her soft words as kind as his daughter’s. He’d known as she kissed his forehead that he’d never see the queen again. He’d been sad but resolved to it.
He was pleased he could no longer see. He didn’t want to see the hurt and pain etched onto the faces of his children and his grandchildren. He’d done all he could for them. He hoped they built on his successes, and learned from his mistakes, but he would have no further part to play in their lives. He’d done all he could.
He could only hope now that he managed to hang on until Leofric returned.
He felt the door open, a soft breeze blow over his face, and then he heard a stronger voice, and he struggled to sit upright in his bed, despite his lack of strength and inability to see.
Leofric conjured as though by thought. He’d made it back from Denmark in one piece. He’d hoped Leofric would but as his breaths had grown more laboured he’d worried that he might not see his bright son again and never hear his voice.
“Father,” Leofric said, a rough hand on his own, his daughter’s hands trying to still his feeble attempts. Leofwine reached out to grasp his son, running his hand up his arm and feeling the smooth metal that engulfed it now.
“You fought well then?” he asked. “The king was pleased with you?”
“Yes father,” Leofric said, his voice was strained.
“Don’t worry son. I’m glad you’re here now, but there was no need for you to watch an old man on his path to death. I’m pleased you had great success. Denmark, it is secure now.”
A stifled sob from his daughter and he knew she would berate him for his fixation on the kingdom if she could.
“Yes father,” Leofric uttered. “The king and the kingdom are safe. You can go now. The king informed me,” and here his voice quivered, “that you’d done your duty to his house and your previous king. He thanked you.”
Leofwine smiled to hear those words. He knew that his son lied, that something more was at play, but he trusted his son enough to know that it wasn’t worth spending his last few moments dwelling on it.”
“Bring Eadwine and Godwine,” he said instead. He could already feel his chest growing heavy, each breath becoming almost too much for him to snatch, but first he had a duty to attend to, a happy one, but a duty all the same.
He heard his younger sons entering the room and reached out to take their hands, his daughter’s as well. This was it. This was his family. He’d fathered these children, tried to make them safe and happy and now he would leave them. But first, there was just one more sentence he needed to speak.
He struggled momentarily, and his daughter cried in grief thinking him dead, but he managed to force the words past his lips.
“I love you all, and I’m proud you are my children.”
His breath caught, and he knew he’d breathed his last.
Epilogue
King Cnut
Late AD1023
Deerhurst
It was grief once more that drove him ever onwards. It was one thing to fight for a kingdom, another to come home to the death of a much loved, revered and simply liked man, but that was the news that had greeted him on his return to England. Leofwine, the last bastion of King Æthelred’s reign, was dead. Emma had told him with sadness in her eyes.
He thought he should have been pleased to finally be rid of a lasting reminder that Æthelred had not been the utterly incompetent king he’d since tried to make him out to be, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.
Leofwine, a man who’d earned his father’s enmity, and then his grudging respect and then somehow his love, who had always dealt h
onourably with him and his father, his wife, his sons. Everyone. Leofwine had taught him about the English, eased his way into his place as king of the English and he’d not even known how much his king was in his debt.
He should have told him, but there had never been the time, and now it was too late. He’d never wanted to accept that a day would come when he wouldn’t be there.
He told himself it was his speed that caused the tears to fall from his eyes, but he knew better. He would grieve for the man.
His wife had not been surprised by his abrupt departure. She’d been able to prepare herself for the inevitable. Away in Denmark for much of the winter, he’d had no such warning. He was pleased he’d sent Leofric home now. He only hoped that he’d arrived in time. He’d heard of storms and rough crossings. Emma hadn’t been able to tell him Leofric had returned and the worry gnawed at him.
He needed to pray for Leofwine. The distance diminished quickly, the speed of his horse surprising even him, and far sooner than he’d hoped, he came within sight of the church at Deerhurst. He’d not been here since he’d sought out Leofwine after his wife’s death. A wave of dizziness threatened to sweep him from his horse as he tried to reconcile events from that day with the reality of today, with the death of the staid older man.
Stifling a sob, he regained his composure and sped his horse the last short distance. From outside the Church, he could hear nothing but silence and ignored the startled cry of the novice he thrust the reins of his horse toward. He might just have managed to arrive on time for the funeral even though he could see not one of Leofwine’s warriors standing guard outside the Church. He hoped they were all within, that England was peaceful enough to let men grieve for their lost Lord.
He stilled his breathing and his heartbeat and then pushed open the heavy wooden door, pleased when the hinges didn’t betray his movements. He could hear the dulcet tone of someone speaking from the Bible, and he hastened to find himself somewhere to stand.