by M J Porter
Athelstan looked from his commander to Northman, thinking of what he’d been told, trying to reconcile it with what he knew his men were capable of.
“I agree. We’ll treat with the man. Sadly, it means he'll know that his movements are not unknown. That might panic him when he thinks he's here all unmarked. Northman, you'll accompany me and point out Thorkell to me, although, I understand his by-name, ‘Tall’ is not unwarranted.”
Northman glowed with pride at being so recognised by the atheling, and, mindful that he would need to know all the plans the three men were now making, stayed within the tent of the royal brothers, feeling now that he should be there after all.
During the morning, as the men argued and planned, more and more messengers arrived. There was still no word from Sandwich, but an outrider from the king shared his dismay that the Raiders were at Oxford. The king didn't command his son’s to attack, only to act in the best interests of their countrymen and their king.
And then finally, and only after a messenger had already approached the closed gates of Oxford, and demanded to speak with Thorkell to arrange the meeting, did news arrive from Sandwich. The outrider sent the night before had intercepted another messenger flying through the moonlit night on his way to the king.
The news was terrible. The ship-army had disbanded. The messenger knew nothing of the arrival of the Raiders. So late in the season, the commanders had taken the decision to send the men home to their farms.
Immediately Athelstan acted, calling the outriders back to him, and asking them to seek out those they’d encountered on their night time travels and command them to return to their ships at Sandwich. He sent another messenger to his father to let him know of this blow to their plans.
And then, composing himself, he motioned for five of his household troops to mount up and escort them to their arranged meeting with Thorkell. Edmund, he left behind to control the rest of the force should Thorkell play them false.
Accompanying them was Athelstan’s commander and the priest who’d journeyed with the force. He’d be able to provide the king with an accurate accounting of the words that passed between his son and Thorkell, and could also send more private messages in writing, illegible to many of the warriors.
Breaking free from the cover of the trees, they made their way carefully through the carefully planted fields, swaying with their crop that was in need of harvesting, and alighted on the road that ran to, and then through, Oxford.
Their intelligence told them that Thorkell had entered through the western gate, and they approached the southern one. It was further from the ships that were moored near to the western gate and would be a test of how much of Oxford Thorkell held.
The gate opened as they approached, and a similar sized group of men came forth. For the briefest moment, Northman caught the haunted faces of those inside Oxford, now captive at the hands of the Raiders. They looked scared and defiant all at the same time. Abruptly the gates slammed shut on the inhabitants, and Northman was facing Thorkell.
Nudging his horse forwards, he muttered softly to Athelstan of who the mighty warrior was, but it was clear that Athelstan had already made the connection.
He was a huge man, worthy of his name, and somehow he’d found the largest horse that Northman had ever seen. He was imposing and confident, flanked by a man who shared his stature, and another, slightly smaller, but still well muscled. The three were evidently warriors in more than just name.
Athelstan spoke first,
“I’m Athelstan, eldest son of the king of this land, Æthelred, and I’ve come to demand that you leave this place, return to your ships and leave our land.”
Thorkell didn’t react to the words, instead turning to glare at his brother. He walked his horse forwards so that he could speak more easily to his brother.
“My brother, Thorkell, is not as skilled in your language as he'd like. I am his brother, Hemming, and this is Eglaf,” he indicated the other man, “and the rest of the men are our warriors and you need not know their names. Not yet.”
Northman watched Hemming closely. He was dressed well, but a splatter of a darker fluid darkened the front of his byrnie. Northman quelled at the sight of so much blood casually worn. He quickly spoke to his brother in his native tongue, and Thorkell gave a small half-bow from his saddle.
“We decline to leave this land quite as soon as we’ve taken it. We have our own demands that you will hear?” Hemming queried.
‘We will hear them, but I will have to relay them to my father, the king.”
“And as you do so, we will stay here. This place, Oxford, is wealthy and comfortable. And now to our demands.”
Northman listened in fascination as the huge Norseman reeled through a list of demands.
“We will leave if we have enough gold to pay each man in our service. We calculate that we will need £30000 of silver.” He smiled then, a brief grunt of laughter. “We are not kings, and so we are a little cheaper than king Swein but no less lethal. We think you're getting a good deal.”
Again, he spoke to his brother and the other men, relaying his joke as they all chuckled aloud. Athelstan stiffened on his own horse, and Northman could almost feel his dismay at the mockery they made of his proud father.
“As well, we will need feeding while we’re on your lands, and the exchange of hostages is a given. We'll take you if the king allows it.”
Northman’s horse shifted under his weight, and he squeezed his legs tightly to still the beast, but the slight movement was enough for Thorkell to notice him. Walking his horse forward he sidled up to Northman, examining him keenly all the time. He spoke in a rush, and his brother translated just as quickly,
“You're the son of Leofwine, the man half-blinded by Swein in the Outer Isles?”
It was less a question than a statement, but Northman answered all the same.
“I am, my Lord. I'm surprised you remember me.”
Another swirl of words,
“I'm no Lord boy, but my thanks for your respectfulness. Is your father here? I'd much rather speak with him than the king’s son.”
A little flustered, Northman was unsure how to respond, other than truthfully.
“No my Lord, Thorkell. My father isn't here. He's busy governing his lands.”
A thoughtful look crossed Thorkell’s face. But he didn’t speak as it appeared his brother knew his mind too well.
“We'd like one of the hostages to be a member of Leofwine’s family. He's an honourable man and if we hold his son, and one of the king’s sons, I know that we'll resolve our little disagreement amicably.”
“And in the meantime, you'll harm no more people of Oxford?” Athelstan demanded, “Or reinforce your position here, or send for more men from London.”
The words were abruptly translated as Thorkell turned his horse and returned to his brother’s side. Northman was pleased he was no longer under such scrutiny.
“I see you’re well appraised of our movements, and yet we’ve met no resistance yet, other than from the people of London and the people of Oxford.”
Ignoring the barbed comment Athelstan watched Thorkell intently, although it was Hemming who spoke the words.
“We have an intricate network of intelligence. Never think that you’re movements are undetected.”
The man laughed at the implied threat and Athelstan stiffened at the apparent disrespect.
“And don’t forget that we, likewise, have our own network of intelligence, and I think, much of it unknown about by your king. But for now, we agree with your terms. We will await instructions from your king as you act in his name but not for him. We'll go back inside, and we will stay there. We give you seven days to return with your hostages.”
Arrogantly, he turned his back on his horse, speaking quickly to the others as he did so. Only one horse didn’t immediately turn, and Northman felt a start of recognition. Cnut. The Danish king’s son was with Thorkell, and he understood English as well as Hemming, if
not better.
Without thinking, he called to the young warrior, sat proudly on a dun coloured horse.
“Cnut, I bid you hello.” He ignored the glare from Athelstan for speaking and watched a variety of emotions flit across Cnut’s face.
“Northman,” he eventually replied, making it unclear whether he’d not remembered him, or had been deciding whether he should acknowledge the hello.
“You’ve grown,” Cnut continued, speaking like an old man who’d just met his grandchildren after some time apart.
Northman smirked as the image of Cnut as an old man raced through his mind, but responded warmly all the same.
“You haven’t, thankfully. I’d feared you would tower above Thorkell before you stopped growing.”
Around them, the men of both parties were listening to the young men exchange pleasantries, neither party calling their errant member to task.
“It’s been good to see you again,” Cnut said, starting to turn his horse away.
Thinking how best he could gain from this strange little exchange, Northman hastily spoke,
“Send my good wishes to your father as well, king Swein.”
Cnut turned a strange look his way, his eyes slightly unfocused.
“I will not be able to do that anytime soon, as he remains in Denmark, but I will let him know all the same when I do see him. And Northman, please extend the same courtesy to your own father from me.”
Then he turned aside and guided his horse back through the gates that opened as soon as he came close enough to him. Beside him, Hemming paused a moment and took a long look at Northman. He didn’t flinch from the scrutiny, but he little enjoyed it either. Thorkell used his distraction to walk his own horse towards Northman, pausing when they would have drawn level if he’d not been such a massive giant of a man.
“Northman,” he said thickly, working hard to form the sound, while his mouth turned upwards in appreciation, “Northman. A good name.”
Then he too turned away, and Northman was left reeling from their exchange. Whether he’d helped the atheling or not, he wasn’t sure, but he knew he’d been marked by these Raiders as surely as anything.
Back at their campsite later, Athelstan called Northman to him. Northman entered his tent nervously. He couldn’t help feeling that he’d acted incorrectly. He shouldn’t have spoken. He should have kept the knowledge to himself and told Athelstan later. Now Thorkell, Hemming and Cnut all knew, that he knew, that Cnut was amongst them. Cnut was a rich prize provided they could catch, and the enemy would be even more on their guard now that the English knew Cnut was with them.
“Northman,” Athelstan began from his small wooden camp chair, positioned to catch the warmth of the evening sun. “I wanted to thank you for your bravery earlier. It was brave of you to point out the Danish king’s son.”
“My thanks my Lord, I’d feared that I’d erred in my judgement.”
“Not at all. You gave us a little advantage when we needed one. These Raiders are arrogant, and it’s that which will cost them most dearly. It would have been well and good to know that Thorkell was the Danish king’s commander but to know he has the king’s son with him is priceless. It means that their actions here have the blessing of their king. That'll goad my father to action more than anything else. He'll not wish to pay more money to the man. Only two years ago he was sent from our shores with £36000. The king will pay no more. And we also know that your father and his men can defeat Swein and his. That's worth knowing.”
“I’m pleased I was of some assistance.”
Edmund glanced up from polishing his sword to glance at Northman.
“Your name is also known to Thorkell?”
“I think news of my father’s injury at the hands of Swein was spread far and wide by both Olaf Tryggvason, and then Swein himself. It’s no secret that my mother named me so that I'd avenge my father’s death.”
“Is that the reasoning for the name?”
“Oh yes, my Lord. My mother was adamant; my father's told me the story, and he didn’t try to deter her. After all, my name was my name by then.”
“So you’ve been marked from birth as someone who would avenge themselves against these Raiders.”
“I suppose you could look at it that way. But other men carry the name as well. I can’t see that they were all named for the same reason.”
Edmund smiled at his positive response, “I think you'd be surprised. While many are named for their ancestors, and by family tradition, these Raiders have caused untold distress to many families. I imagine that many sons would like to exact revenge for their father’s untimely death.”
Soberly Northman considered that. He’d been lucky. His father had returned alive if damaged.
“I wouldn’t like to think that my naming and the circumstances of my birth have marked the course of my life.”
“No, but it’s more than likely so. Take Athelstan and I. The king's sons both, but not the right sons for our father. Still, we were born as athelings, and we'll remain as such until we die, no matter what the king and the current queen try to do about it. We’re just as marked by our births as you.”
Athelstan grunted in agreement and then beckoned Northman closer.
“Come, sit with us. I’d like you to tell me more of your father. I know him, of course, in fact, there was a time I thought we were close allies, but then Eadric appeared, and your father lost much of his power base. I believe he grows ascendant now, and I’d like to know more of him.”
Honoured to be asked to stay with the athelings, Northman spent the night being plied with ale and questions, finally sleeping where he sat, his head curled on his arms on the table before them. The morning would bring his headache.
Chapter 18
AD1009 – Leofwine - Winchester
Agitation was evident in his every step. His limp, once so pronounced but almost missing for the last five years, was back with a vengeance, unbalancing him in his anger.
The bloody king! His plans to counter the new menace of Thorkell and the Danish king’s son included his own son, and he was outraged once more. Why not, in all good conscious, send that snake Eadric as their hostage? It wasn’t as if he was any use whatsoever at the king’s hall. And all knew of just how important he was to the king, his continuing attendance upon the king a sign of his favour.
Angrily, he stamped the thought from his mind. What could be worse than sending bloody Eadric to be Thorkell’s hostage? The idea of the devastation he could cause snapped Leofwine back from his angry rampage. Eadric sulked and skulked his way around the king’s hall at Winchester, unrepentant and determined to have his say with anyone who would ask him about it.
But his son, his second born son, as another victim of the king’s plans, was untenable, unthinkable, and yet, he knew it would happen.
With Northman still fostered by Eadric, despite his disgrace and Northman now being with the king’s son at their encampment outside Oxford, the king had need of another from Leofwine’s family, and he had decided on his second eldest son. At all of eleven years old, Leofric had been fostered by Horic until the king’s latest missive. Never far from home, both he and Æthelflæd had often spent time with him, and every summer so far he’d returned to his parent’s home for an extended stay, but this time he was to go as a guarantee of the king’s good intentions in reaching an agreement with Thorkell.
Leofwine could barely breathe at the prospect.
His king could be so flippant with him and so neglectful of him when it was not in his interests, and he knew that his precious second son would not be the king’s primary concern. No, the man who had almost enough sons to form his own household troop, who struggled to placate his queen and her desires for her children with those of his own full-grown children, would think nothing of leaving Leofric where he was, and of having him suffer the consequences if he displeased Thorkell.
Leofwine could only hope that Thorkell, the foster-father of Cnut, would have more parental
concerns for the boy. The treasonous thought swept through his mind unbidden, but with it, he began to relax. He knew there was truth in that idea. Thorkell, the warrior who they now understood to be a part of king Swein’s elite fighters, was rumoured to be an excellent foster-father to Cnut. He was kind, caring and mindful of the honour done to him in being chosen as his foster-father, and yet he was also prepared to let the boy grow under his care, and become the man he’d need to be if he was to succeed to his father’s throne.
Within their small room at Winchester, Oscetel and Horic watched Leofwine carefully. The pair were as outraged as their Lord but had realised even before the typically practical Leofwine, that there was never a choice in the matter. They’d taken some time to debate how long it would take for Leofwine to reach the same decision, and Horic was trying his hardest to hide his grin of delight for he had foreseen this and had won a small but beautiful dagger from Oscetel. One he’d long coveted.
Only four days had passed since the messenger from Athelstan, and the king had received Edmund. In that time he’d acted swiftly to have Leofwine sent for, and his son. The more permanent members of the king’s inner circle had spent the intervening time debating the demands of Thorkell and trying to determine whether they should firstly send the hostages as required, and secondly, what the implication was of Thorkell coming with such a massive fleet.
At the same time, greater intelligence was gathered. The number of ships in the combined fleet had been counted as fully one hundred, and the fleet at Sandwich had been fully stood down. The men who’d formed the ship-army were not to blame for their disbursement, but while they harvested the land they farmed, their neighbours would be called up for the land fyrd in the heartlands of the king’s old Wessex kingdom.
Those shipmen who made up the core of the king’s far smaller fleet hadn’t abandoned their posts when the fyrd ship-army had returned home, but they’d been too small to stop such a vast fleet. Instead, they’d chased Thorkell’s men to London, and now effectively barricaded them in, guarding the exit from the town. Again, no one had yet decided whether this was good tactics or not, but for now, it meant that every single member of the raiding army was contained in only one of three places. It was a good start.