by M J Porter
“You were honoured by the king for his bravery and yet, in every word and conversation we’ve ever had, I’ve heard him telling me his thoughts, and guiding you as he would have done had he still been here. He was far wiser and far more honourable than even I understood at the time. And that blood flows through both of you. You should be proud of him and what he did for you, and you should take that knowledge and use it to temper your every action.”
Northman listened attentively to Wulfstan’s words, privileged to hear them.
“And my father? Who killed him?” Leofwine asked in a voice barely above a whisper. He earned himself a sharp stare from Wulfstan, denial evident in his face.
“I don’t believe, for even a moment, that you left without knowing that he was actually dead,” Leofwine added cajolingly.
“No, my Lord, I didn’t. I saw the warrior who cut your father down in the prime of his life, but I think you already know who it was.”
“Olaf,” Leofwine spoke decisively, the confirmation of a half-formed idea on his lips.
“Yes, Lord Leofwine, it was Olaf. You’re one-time ally and the man who led you to danger and then ensured your survival.”
“I don’t deny that, and I even think he felt some remorse for his actions, otherwise why gift me back my father’s cross.”
From a wrapped piece of cloth that Northman hadn’t even realised his father was holding, he pulled forth a spectacular massive golden cross, so heavy it caused the veins on his father’s hands to strain with effort. The blood red rubies flashed tantalisingly in the glow from the fire, and unintentionally Northman reached out to run his hands over the cross.
“You should honour your father by restoring that to the Church,” Wulfstan commented without rancour.
“I know, but until today, I wasn’t ready to hear the words that would confirm its provenance.”
“Olaf was an exceptional enemy, and an even more praiseworthy friend,” Wulfstan offered as confirmation of their conversation.
“And that’s the king’s problem. He’s used to enemies who become honourable friends. What he can’t understand are the fine enemies who persist in staying enemies.”
Wulfstan chuckled at the summing up of the king’s woes as Leofwine placed the cross within his son’s outstretched hands with a shrug of encouragement. The cross was monumentally heavy, and Northman was amazed by the great weight of gold that must have gone into its construction.
“No, and neither can he understand that friends are not always honourable.”
“There’s a lesson to be learnt, lad,” Wulfstan offered, turning towards Northman.
“And what is that lesson?” he asked, only listening with half an ear to the reminiscing of his father and the old man.
“When you tell me, you let me know,” Wulfstan retorted while Leofwine rolled his eyes a little at the irrelevant answer.
“I think son, that Wulfstan is warning you that it’s not always easy to differentiate between your enemies and your friends. A wolf can wear sheep’s clothing. Never forget that. Olaf killed my father, and yet, he saved my life and remembered what had gone before, gifting back to me something of great value that Finn more than likely had to steal to return to me. He made Finn take a huge risk, but his intentions were honourable.”
“I’d be a little more succinct than that if I had to be. Our friends might be our enemies, and our enemies our friends. It’s a hard lesson to learn.” Wulfstan commented sourly.
“And why should I learn it?” Northman asked, a little defiantly, a little fearfully. Suddenly he knew what his father was going to say to him.
“I think that Eadric will demand that you be fostered by him, as some bargaining counter for my good behaviour.”
“And you want me to go?” Northman screeched in fear, standing abruptly, and only just catching the golden cross before it tumbled to the floor.
“No, not at all. I don’t want you to go. I’ll fight for you to stay here if you will it. You know that son. But no, I trust you to go, as my son, and as the grandson of my father. You’ve honour within you, and you’ll want to do this.” His father’s voice was sad, resigned to the words he spoke, and before Northman could deny it; jump up and down with anger at his father’s abandonment of him to the man who’d usurped his position in the Mercian lands, Northman realised that his father was right. He would want to do this. He would want to be honourable and act in a way so counter to anything that Eadric would ever do.
Nodding in acceptance, he handed the cross reverentially to his father and sat back down.
“And before I go, you’ll make me your commended man. In secret.”
Wulfstan gasped at the words, and Leofwine’s face scrunched in grief, but he answered levelly enough.
“I will, son. But, I’ll hold you to that oath, and you better remember that.”
Satisfied that his father, a man of his word, and Wulfstan, a man of his oath, would do as he demanded, he went to sit amongst the group of children one last time. He felt himself suddenly inducted to the world of men, but for now, and while the sky was dark, and the snow fell, he could think himself a child again, even if only for a short space of time.
He wasn’t to know that behind him, his father shook with pride and grief, his mother with anguish and joy, and old Wulfstan, with memories of another young lad, so many years ago, who’d understood honour even before he’d learned to raise a wooden sword.
Chapter 6
AD1007 – Northman
The pride he’d felt in his father’s words to him carried him through the next few days so that he gave no thought to how he’d actually fare in Eadric’s household. Clearly, Wulfstan and his father were entrusting him with a great honour but eventually, his fear won through, and he found himself seeking out his mother.
She was busy in discussions with Agata, about Leofric’s fosterage, but she took one look at his face and turned her full attention to him. Agata melted away with a sympathetic look on her face, and for the first time, Northman felt traitor tears form in his eyes.
The snowstorm had continued in vengeance after their brief trip, and snow liberally covered the ground in all directions preventing any from leaving the house. Horic had managed to curb his frustration at being cooped up inside but only by becoming embroiled in a ferocious debate with Oscetel about the best fighting techniques to employ against the Raiders from the North. Late into each night, they could be heard discussing tactics and each morning Horic woke and continued where they’d left off.
“Northman, what is it?” his mother asked calmly, beckoning him to pull a stool closer to her.
“I … I don’t know really.”
She smiled at his hopeless shrug and leant forward towards him.
“You know that your father wouldn’t ask this of you if he didn’t think you were capable. I know that might not bring you much comfort now, and your fear is well justified, but you should be aware that Eadric will treat you respectfully and as he would his own children.”
Northman felt himself shrug a little hopelessly at his mother’s words.
“But, he doesn’t have any children,” eventually burst forth from his mouth and his mother nodded in understanding.
“And you’re worried that he’ll have you to practise on and then learn from his mistakes?”
“No, I'm afraid he’ll have no idea how to raise children and that he’ll just expect me to act as a man should and allow no mistakes.”
This time, his mother considered her words before she responded.
“I imagine that he’ll be married before he requests you again, and as he hopes to wed one of the king’s own daughters, I would suggest that he’ll be kind in his treatment of you. After all, he may well have the ear of the king, but the girls are strong women, determined and set in their ways. They had their grandmother as an example of how royal women should live, and Elfrida, no matter what’s whispered about her now, was a wise and just woman.”
Northman stared at his mo
ther as he processed her words. They made sense to him, and he suddenly realised that he would be answerable to more than just Eadric, even if he were his to foster. As within their own household, there would be household troops and commended men, maids and cooks, farmers and metal workers. He’d be able to find allies wherever he needed them.
“Does that make you feel a little more confident?” she queried into his silence.
“Yes, I’d not considered anyone other than Eadric when I thought about it. But you’re right. There will be others who I’ll be able to turn to.”
“And Northman,” his mother added, as he stood to walk away. “Remember that you’ll still be our son, and our own followers, whenever they cross paths with Eadric’s household, will be looking to ensure you’re cared for and treated as you should be. It’s not as if you’ll disappear behind the closed doors of his household.”
Chapter 7
Early Summer AD1007 – Leofwine
The winter was long and slow, providing adequate time for Leofwine to spend time with his oldest son, and teach him the skills he’d need to survive in the household of Eadric. As much as he’d usually welcomed the thaw and the return of the lighter days, this year, he found himself pleased when the weather stayed viciously cold, and the lambs began to arrive in the midst of a ferocious snowstorm.
Eventually, though, and despite his hopes that the warmer weather would never come, a week of pleasant weather arrived along with the Easter festival, and deciding, out of mere spite more than anything else, to leave Northman at home, he travelled to meet the king at his Easter Witan. His heart grew heavier with each step of his horse’s hooves, but he was in for a surprise. For when he arrived at Winchester, Eadric was nowhere to be seen.
Neither did he appear during the three-day duration of the Witan meeting, nor the Easter masses that seemed to be a requisite for each morning and evening. The quiet questioning of Athelstan revealed the news that Eadric had been unable to attend the summons of the king. There was some half-hearted attempt at an excuse but to all intents and purposes, it appeared as though Eadric had refused his king. For the remainder of the early summer, Leofwine smirked with joy whenever he considered his king’s angry and twisted face and had almost forgotten about the plan’s Eadric had for Northman when he attended upon the king again at the height of the summer.
Sadly, Eadric was dancing his attendance upon the king and proudly showing off his soon to be wife. Leofwine tasted bile from the moment he spied out Eadric and his pleasure at now being one of only a few ealdormen his king relied on was quickly diluted when it became apparent that Eadric's opinions were once more swaying the king.
Biting back his anger, Leofwine settled back to watch Eadric work. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Eadric had absented himself from the Easter Witan with the express intention of not being asked to deliver the geld he’d convinced the king to pay Swein and his men. Instead, that task had gone to Leofwine, so that after the Easter Witan he’d returned home only to collect together his share of the tax that was due before repeating his journey towards the coast of the Isle of Wight.
Along the way, he’d been met by representatives from Ælfric of Hampshire and by Athelstan and his brother, Edmund. They were to act as the king’s representatives when they met with Swein.
Leofwine was unsure how he’d felt about meeting him again. He’d hoped on their last meeting when Swein had released him from the blood feud, and he’d sent him running with his tail between his legs back to his ships, that he’d never see the man again. The king’s decision to buy him off sat uneasily with him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that by giving him geld now they were sending out the wrong message. Once again, it was as if everything he did for the king ended up running counter to the prevailing wind.
The weather had been beautiful on their journey, making it far more pleasant than their mad dash to the coast in the middle of winter and their slower ride home with the first snowfall. The company had been reasonable as well, and when they’d met Swein at the prearranged location of Southampton, a contingent of the king’s household troops had already arrived.
Swein was his usual swaggering self, and Leofwine knew a moment of premonition. Yes, he might have decided that he’d leave England’s shores on receipt of his geld, but Leofwine knew that this would not be the last they saw of him.
Too confident in his demeanour, he’d been to the point when he’d noticed Leofwine amongst the dignitaries who’d come to ensure he left as agreed.
“My Lord Leofwine, we meet again I see.”
“King Swein,” Leofwine had offered, his head a little bowed, but not enough to take his eye from Swein’s contemptuous face.
“I think that your king is, perhaps, not quite as dedicated as you in driving me from your lands. His methods certainly make a return here quite tempting.” His voice was smug with delight and Leofwine worked hard to let the words pass him by without penetrating his resolve.
“As with your one-time ally, Olaf of Norway, I’m here to ensure that you know that England will not pay any more geld to you. Our coffers are near to empty and our land, still not yet recovered from the famine that last time caused you to flee the land so promptly.”
“There was little need for me to starve along with your slaves and holy men,” he’d countered quickly, his accent a little twisted as he spoke in ire. Leofwine noted that it seemed a bit too easy to break through his smug deportment.
“But perhaps a little less weight on your stomach and you’d have had more success in the battle against me at the turning of the year.” Leofwine had shocked himself with his petty outburst, but Swein had surprised him by laughing at the jibe.
“You made an excellent adversary Leofwine. Your sword was always as sharp as your tongue. And now I'd like to introduce you to my son, Cnut.”
From amongst the large delegation of men who’d accompanied Swein to this meeting, a slight youth stepped forwards. He was no more than sixteen years of age, and yet already, he sported a fine collection of armrings on both arms. He nodded smartly to Leofwine and Athelstan before standing at his father’s side.
“He’s an exceptional warrior for all that his years are few,” Swein spoke, the pride in his son clear to hear.
“He fought with you when we last met?” Leofwine queried, seeking confirmation of his hazy recollection of the battle.
“Yes, he did. Perhaps, after all, your eyesight is not such an impediment as you would believe,” Swein offered by way of confirmation.
“I’m sure I’d see better with two eyes, but that is irrelevant now. As you say, I’ve adjusted and grown used to my injury.”
Swein nodded absentmindedly as Leofwine spoke, and he belatedly realised that his attention was taken up with someone behind him. Turning, he looked to see who held the Danish king’s attention and his eyes alighted on Northman and a smirk of pride tugged at his lips.
“And this my Lord, is my son, Northman.”
Northman stepped forwards confidently, his face a careful mask of indifference, just as Wulfstan had taught him, even though his introduction to the Danish king was an impromptu action. Swein eyed him carefully before he spoke.
“He has your looks that’s for sure. And perhaps your cockiness as well. But his name, that’s an interesting choice.”
Leofwine smiled wide then, enjoying what was about to come.
“I was away when he was born, Swein, after the altercation on Shetland. I’m sure you recall. My wife named him in my absence, and she chose a name to mark him so that he would seek vengeance for my death. You’re perhaps lucky that I returned alive.”
Swein eyes lit with fire at the reminder of their skirmish, and he fixed Leofwine with a penetrating stare.
“A son’s vengeance for his father is always far keener than a man’s revenge for himself. As you say, I think the old Gods and the new bless me that you returned alive. I would not fancy my chances in a few years time against your son.”
“I’m gl
ad too that he doesn’t have to spend his adult life seeking you out. Vengeance is not the best way to spend your time.”
At his father’s side, Cnut was also watching Northman intently. There were a handful of years separating the two, Cnut just bordering on manhood, while Northman stood a little ways back from it. As the two boy’s stared at each other, Leofwine felt a crushing moment of premonition on what the future might hold for the two, but he swept it aside angrily. His king was strong and would remain so, and after him, he had skilled sons to govern in his stead. There was no need for Northman and Cnut even to meet again, past this day. Provided Swein left and never returned.
“And now to other business, I think,” Swein spoke, although his eyes never left Northman’s face. Leofwine wondered what he looked for there. Northman held his place well, never flinching from the gaze and finally Swein’s face broke into a broad smile.
“I like him Leofwine. Would you allow me to gift him with something to remember me by? Not something too incendiary. Perhaps a small knife or ring, as settlement of our debt?”
Secretly amused by the Danish king’s response to the physical appearance of the boy who could very easily have spent his adult life hunting him to his death, he nodded to show he accepted the man’s offer. In a bizarre exchange, he watched his son receive a small knife from the man who was even then receiving an almost endless array of chests heaped high with the geld his king had agreed to pay him to leave the lands of the English.
Swein crossed the invisible boundary, which until then, had been separating them, and in all seriousness spoke quietly to Northman and handed him his trophy.
Swein’s son, Cnut, stood idly by, watching his father, an unfathomable expression on his face, compelling Leofwine to speak.
“Cnut, I too would like to settle any debt that may have arisen from the animosity between your father and I. Would you also accept a small gift from me.”