by M J Porter
“It was your land, my Lord,” Eadric squeaked into the silence.
Æthelred ran his hand over his bearded face as he contemplated Eadric. His face was bland, but his eyes danced with anger and flashed violently in the reflected glow from the fire. Leofwine shuffled forwards on his bench, forgetting the dampness permeating his clothing.
“My land to do with as I please?” only it wasn’t a question. “Did you have the claims on the estate examined before you acted?”
“No, my Lord, I know they’re your lands.”
“And how do you ‘know’ that?” the king queried perilously softly.
“Because they fall within the boundaries of your demesne.”
“And you’ve just told me that Wulfnoth is a descendant of a man who was once close to the royal family. Did it not cross your mind that the lands may well have been a gift made by one of the kings that Athelstan Half-King served and that they would, therefore, be close to royal lands?”
Silence greeted the words. It was evident that Eadric had given the matter no thought.
“Did you seek the view of the monks?”
“Yes, my Lord, but they told me the land was theirs now and so it didn’t matter who it had belonged to.”
“And did you listen to their words?”
Another silence,
“No, my Lord, I didn’t. As with all things I was acting in your best interests,” he said, looking directly at the king with the strength returning to his voice. Always, the king was more tolerant if those accused of wrongdoing could make their case to his benefit. This time, Leofwine didn’t think it was going to work. And certainly hoped it wasn’t.
“My best interests were in keeping my ship army together, as you well know, not in having it dispersed in some irrelevant argument about who owns what, when I own everything anyway and wouldn’t have objected to the transfer, even if it was my land, which it isn’t.” The king’s voice had fallen to a harsh whisper as he spoke, and Eadric, caught under his king’s harsh glare had begun to fidget like a child being chastised by his parent.
“My Lord, you have my sincere apologies for any … error that may have occurred.”
The king barked at that understating of events, continuing to glare at Eadric.
Long moments passed, the sense of expectation built and not one person in that room dared breath. This was it, the moment they’d all been waiting for. Eadric would triumph, and if he did, Leofwine knew that his ambitions would never be contained again. Either that or he would be exiled from the king’s presence. Banished, if he was lucky. Executed if he was not.
Eadric took a deep breath as if to speak but Æthelred glared at him so he subsided back into silence. And then the king spoke, his voice thick and heavy with emotion.
“You’ve disappointed me Eadric. Of all my men, I had hopes that you shared my thoughts and hopes for my people and my land. You, as you say, are my son by marriage, father of my grandson and you should be striving to make this kingdom free from terror. For the boy's future, if not your own. And yet you don’t. You work against me, and I can’t tolerate that.”
A murmur of approval swept the room, but Leofwine knew that the king was about to qualify his statement.
“Yet, your work as ealdorman is efficient, sometimes too much so. And I’ll not disturb my people again by removing you from your post.”
The whispers grew in volume as everyone realised that the king wasn’t about to dismiss Eadric altogether.
“But, I'd rather have you in my sights, than not, so that I can keep a firm watch on what you’re doing. You’re now detained at my pleasure. You'll have my daughter brought to my hall at Winchester, and for the next, say half a year, you will stand in daily attendance upon me. You will do all I ask, and in your absence, the reeves will govern Mercia for me.”
Leofwine approved of the king’s sanctions, for all that he was dismayed that Eadric had not been charged with treason there and then and banished. But then, the banishment of Leofsige and his subsequent alliance with Swein had soured the king from that punishment. Far better to have him where he could be seen.
“And your brother, he will rebuild my ships, at his cost. All thirty-six of them that were damaged and are now missing in the summer storm. You'll rebuild my other twenty that Wulfnoth took. This is my decision. Do you accept it?”
Eadric was like a man drowning at sea, weighed down by his shield and sword, the colour drained from his face. Any moment now he looked as though he might tumble to the floor.
As he tried to compose himself, he seemed incapable of speech and the king looked at him expectantly, waiting for his agreement.
Surely Eadric would give it, Leofwine thought. Surely he wouldn’t make a further mockery of the king.
“My thanks my Lord,” he finally uttered, his voice lifeless, all defiance fled, and Leofwine knew what it was to experience the granting of all his wishes, only to be sickened by how he felt now. To see the man so deflated was demeaning, and so damaging to his future, and yet, what else could the king have done. Eadric had defied him. His motives had been purely malicious. He’s worked to undermine everything that the king had been working towards for over a year.
A murmur of approval rang through the hall, and Æthelred looked straight at Leofwine. He stood stiffly in response. His king had need of him now.
“My Lord, I think your mercy is evident in your decision, and I congratulate and endorse it,” he said into the slowly building swell of conversation. Eadric didn’t even turn to look at him. He knew who spoke. There was no need to acknowledge him.
Quickly Ulfcytel and Uhtred uttered similar words and the king, while not looking pleased with the outcome, gracefully accepted their consensus.
Leofwine wondered how Eadric was to finance the ships that needed rebuilding, how Brihtric was? But they were not his concerns. Instead, he sought out his oldest son and saw him sitting with Olaf and the two hounds. The heads of the four of them were bowed close together, and Leofwine couldn’t see how he’d reacted to the news.
At his side, Ulfcytel and Uhtred spoke in low voices to each other, but he ignored them, watching Eadric carefully. No longer under the king’s scrutiny, Eadric sank to his bench, lifeless, bereft. Leofwine wondered sardonically just how long this blow to his pretensions would cripple him. He didn’t think it would be long.
Chapter 17
AD1009 – Northman – Winchester
Being at the king’s hall at Winchester was a holiday compared to his time with Eadric in Shropshire. Eadric was quiet and contained in his ways. His every action angled to regain the king’s trust. Northman knew it wasn’t working anywhere near as well as Eadric had hoped, and that was good. While Eadric cowered and simpered before the king, struggling to raise the funds to rebuild the king’s lost ships, Northman was free to join in with the training of the king’s household troops. His long weeks of training were making him stronger, fitter, and lethal with a sword or a war hammer.
Olaf trained as hard as he did, both happily falling into their sleeping sacks at night exhausted but a pleasant exhaustion from physical exertion, not from having to watch what they said and whom they said it to.
Northman felt happy and content. This sort of fostering was much more to his liking.
And in his time at the king’s hall, he’d come into daily contact with the king’s oldest sons, Athelstan and Edmund. They trained their own men with the king’s and while there were rumblings of discord between the king and his oldest son’s, the men of all the household troops didn’t let it have any impact on their training. When the Raiders next struck, they knew they needed to fight as a cohesive force, no matter that Athelstan thought his father too lenient, and Æthelred thought his son too harsh, while Edmund watched Eadric like a hawk.
He’d not seen his father since the meeting at Sandwich, but he was a step closer to home in Winchester, and he knew that if he’d asked Eadric he’d have let him journey home. He just didn’t want to. Not right now. Th
ere was a feeling every morning that the news would come of attackers that day, and Northman wanted to be in the troops sent to rout them, the final barrier if the Raiders ships managed to make their way through the king’s reconstituted ship army, still depleted but whole other than that.
He could almost taste the need for battle when he ate. He was ready, and he was willing.
Olaf shared his lust for battle glory. They’d been training their whole lives for this, and they were as prepared as they could be. Even Athelstan had complimented their fighting techniques and praise from him was rare and to be treasured. All the men said the same.
The days were hot and sweaty, the nights cooled by a gentle breeze, and it was that breeze that finally brought the Raiders to their shores. A vast fleet. A fleet so huge that none could count it. And heading that fleet was the man Northman had glimpsed when he met Swein, Thorkell the Tall or at least the hot and sweaty messenger said it was him.
News of the arrival of the ships at London was greeted with a fierce dismay. Where was the ship-army? What had happened?
Roused from their beds early one late summer’s day, Northman felt a surge of excitement, fear and trepidation. Eadric, as the king had commanded, was forced to remain with him, but his men were not so constrained, lead as they were by Athelstan and Edmund in his disgrace. Collecting their supplies, they mounted their horses and began to ride to where they understood Thorkell to be attacking, London.
The men were orderly, calm, and keen even to face this new threat. No news had yet reached them of how the ship-army had managed, all they knew for certain was that a new threat had struck at Sandwich and had then rapidly turned to attack London. Most had interpreted that as a good sign, hoping that the ship-army had prevented this new pretender to their land from making landfall.
Olaf was happily optimistic as the priest offered blessings before they rode away from the king’s hall. Northman swallowed his fear, the acceptance of what was happening not passing him by quite as easily as Olaf. The untested ship army, against a raiding fleet? He lacked conviction that they’d be effective first time round. Not that he didn’t hope they would be. But still, he wasn’t convinced.
The household troops, swelled by the ranks of Athelstan and Edmund’s men numbered in their hundreds. A sizeable force. But no one knew just how many Raiders there were. Not this time.
They found Thorkell long before they reached London, stumbling upon him at Oxford, having ridden the mighty Thames all the way inland.
Thankfully, outriders had returned with the news that a vast fleet of ships moored at Oxford, and they’d prevented the army from stumbling upon Thorkell unawares. Athelstan called together a hasty conference. They knew this land well. How could they best hem Thorkell in or drive him out?
The church bells at Oxford were ringing, signalling the attack, but by the time the discussion was done with, an ominous silence had fallen, causing everyone to wonder what had happened. Athelstan called for calm, sending out yet more outriders to try and determine what had happened, although the smell of burning flesh in the air was all some of them needed to know that an attack had already occurred.
A messenger appeared, the news was not good.
“My Lord Athelstan”, he gasped, sweat from his quick return running freely down his face in the hot weather.
“Oxford has been attacked, overrun. As we speak, Thorkell and his men are turning the town’s defences against us.”
Athelstan looked grim at the news, Northman having managed to work his way through the press of men so that he could listen first hand to decisions being made about his future. Olaf had attempted to sneak through the press of men with him but had become trapped between the imposing figures of two of Athelstan’s greatest warriors. He’d cast a look of despair at Northman when he’d turned to look for him, and Northman had pressed on without him. Better one of them knew what was happening than none of them.
“How many do they number?” Edmund asked as though reckoning the number of enemies was an everyday occurrence.
“I'd say at least five full ships have come this far, and possibly others have come on land. There are a significant number of horses inside the fortifications.”
“And how big are the ships?”
“As big as those that our ship-men have constructed. I'd say at least sixty men to each ship. So a start of three hundred men, before any reinforcements are factored in.”
“That’s a larger number than I was expecting,” Athelstan pondered, and yet, Northman couldn’t help noticing, the news didn’t seem to phase him.
The English household troops and even the fyrds were the most prepared they’d ever been, and the commanders had confidence in them. Northman wondered if the discussion would be quite so calm if they numbered merely thirty with rusty old weapons and no hope of raising more troops.
“There are some dead, my Lord, but not as many as I'd have feared, and they seem to be getting a Christian burial.”
“Then, what is that smell of burning?” Edmund queried.
“Well, they're burning their own casualties, as is their way.”
Silence fell amongst those assembled, and a grumble worked its way to the back of the crowd. Those who knew the king’s sons well were shrugging free of their packs, and dumping them on the ground. Northman wasn’t sure whether that implied that they were attacking immediately, or preparing to stay put for the night.
Athelstan and Edmund glanced at each other and turned to their most trusted and battle hardened warrior, a man called Sired. He nodded at some unspoken words, and Athelstan turned to the men who surrounded him.
“Pull back, before we make camp. We need to assess the situation. I need to know which gate they’ve breached before we act further. The king will be most unhappy if Thorkell attacks his mint but I imagine that was why they came to Oxford. Rumours of its high status must have been much discussed, not to mention the recent founding of the two new Churches. We need to know what’s happened at London and Sandwich.”
Edmund nodded in agreement, and the men found themselves remounting and retracing their steps.
This wasn't what Northman had expected. He’d hoped to come riding in and attack. The thought of delaying the attack made him nervous. He’d need to steel his resolve all over again.
The brothers arranged for outriders to ride as far and as fast as they could before nightfall and return with as much detail as they could. Another set of riders raced to the king, Sandwich and of course London. For now, they had only one thing in their favour. Thorkell seemed to be unaware of their lightning quick response.
Northman occupied his mind for the rest of that day with the routine of camp life. No fires were lit, as they didn’t want to alert Thorkell to their presence, so instead they ate provisions from the king’s kitchen – the bread baked overnight and meats that had been cooked and allowed to cool. It was a good meal, but he hoped that the next day they'd either move on or attack. His nerves knotted his stomach.
Early the next morning, Northman woke to a gentle sun on his face, and the quiet conversation of serious men. Glancing from where he lay on the soft grass to where the king’s son had spent the night, in their tent, he noticed a group of men milling around. They could only be the returned outriders.
Waking abruptly, he strode to the athelings tent, intent on listening to the news.
“My Lord,” a dishevelled youth spoke first, “I made it as far as London, and travelled all night to get back. The news is bad, my Lords. The ship army is vast, almost beyond counting. This small force is just that, a small force. More ships are moving along the Thames. They don’t hold London, but they're amassed there in huge numbers, with some of the ships choosing to risk passing the closed gates, with most succeeding.”
Another outrider spoke then,
“I didn’t make it as far as London, but I followed the Thames as closely as I could. I came across four separate groupings of men upon the shore. I'd say another ten ships are already on t
heir way to Oxford and might arrive at any time.”
“And our ship army?” Athelstan queried, “is there news yet of where they are?”
“No, my Lord, although … and I hesitate to mention this. I did come across some other camps, but they were filled with English men. I fear they may have begun to disperse from the ship-army, after all, their time will be done by now if they were only members of the fyrd.”
Edmund shot the messenger a veiled glare at the words,
“I hadn’t considered that,” he said, far more blandly than Northman would have expected from his look. But perhaps, after all, Edmund was enough of a man not to blame those who brought him the unpleasant news.
“Did you come across just the one camp of English men?”
“No, my Lord, at least two. I was unsure if I should approach them, and so I didn’t. I suppose it's just as possible that the men are on the way to Sandwich, to fulfil their obligations to the fyrd, but the season is late, and everyone is thinking of the harvest after all the good weather we’ve enjoyed. “
Nodding as he thought, Athelstan looked a little bleakly to where small wisps of smoke could be seen rising in the predawn light.
“Do you think it hopeless to attack them?” he asked aloud, to no one in particular.
Edmund didn’t respond, and the commander spoke gravely,
“It seems as though we’re greatly outnumbered, but that shouldn’t stop us. If we can take advantage of them while they’re separated, we could do some serious damage.”
A faint smile began to tug on Northman’s face. The commander was a cunning man. Perhaps he would infuse the athelings with enthusiasm for the hard task ahead.
“Then we should attack Oxford and drive them out?” Edmund queried.
“We must yes. But first, we should try a little bit of diplomacy. Tempt this Thorkell to show his face. I’m not unaware of him, and I know young Northman here,” Northman jumped a little at the mention of his name, thinking his presence had been un-noted, “also knows of the man. Perhaps we'll first determine how many other commanders make up their army, and what their plans are.”