by M J Porter
“He is, as you would expect, with mother, but Olaf, he’s suffering from the cold and the chill. They infect his old injuries and make him even more grumpy than normal. If it came to a fight, I think it’d be far safer to sit him in the corner than give him a sword or shield.”
Olaf smirked at the idea of his father doing that,
“I wouldn’t think you’d have much chance. The old fool would far rather meet his new God or his old ones, with a sword in his hand.”
“He would. That’s a certainty.”
Northman let the conversation flow around him. It felt good to be amongst friends and family. If only for a brief moment in time.
Chapter 45
AD1013 – Leofwine - London
His years weighed him down; responsibility, decisions, broken promises and a fickle Lord. He’d had so much joy in his life, and he thanked the Lord daily for his good fortune, but sometimes a niggle, and a doubt infected his mind. And sometimes he knew full well that he was a fool and that tricks were being played on him.
At the fire, he chatted with Thorkell, tales of Olaf that made him smile sadly with joy and remorse. He still wished he’d known him better, even now. He’d clearly been a mighty man, a great warrior. A bastard as well, but who wasn’t when you got to know them?
On this night of quiet conversation, he felt as though his world was changing, irrevocably. Something was coming soon, he knew it, and it would permanently scare him. Again.
He didn’t feel as though he’d recovered from losing Wulfstan yet.
He also knew that he’d survive it, but at what cost?
Northman entered his firelight, and Leofwine felt a weight lift from his chest. The boy was back. No longer a boy, a man now, fully-grown, strong, well mannered, well spoken and a father to boot. He’d been a fool to let his anger and frustrations with Eadric boil over so that they affected his relationship with his son.
Ideally, the arrival of his grandson and son should have elicited joy, but coupled with Eadric’s machinations and the death of Wulfstan, reason had been driven from his head. He’d felt driven mad with grief and anger, two emotions that sat as comfortably on him as bee stings. A niggle here and there following a moment of intense pain.
And his son had been the object he’d vented his frustration, anger and grief on, all these years of being balanced, all gone to waste in an ill-conceived moment.
But at least he’d been forgiven now. He’d made many overtures to Northman in attempts to reconcile, but none had been successful. He wondered what had brought about his change of heart now?
Walking past his oldest son, he reached out and touched him on his shoulder with a squeeze of welcome, love and thanks. Northman didn’t react in any way other than to crush his father’s hand within his own. The strength of the lad never failed to amaze him. Far stronger than he’d ever been, the very ripple of his muscles against the cloth of his tunic showing his strength. He loved just as fiercely, and Leofwine had been a fool to forget that.
Now, hopefully, they could forgive and forget. Now, when the kingdom was in such peril, it was vital that Northman be seen as a member of his father’s family. That way he would be covered by the accommodation that Swein had already presented Leofwine with. When the messenger from Swein had reached Leofwine on his way to London, he’d been unsure how to react. The injustice of it all had burnt too brightly, and yet, at the same time, the knowledge that his wife and sons, daughter and grandchild were safe had eased the ache of fear in his heart.
He was growing too old for the constant threats to have no impact on his wellbeing.
Æthelred sat slumped at the same table as earlier. Leofwine didn’t think he’d moved all day. He made a pitiful figure, a man more out of depth than Leofwine was and for all different reasons.
The firelight spluttered and sent ghostly shadows up and down the wooden walls of the hall. The light was unkind to the king’s haggard face, and Leofwine detoured, even if it was against his will.
“My king,” he began, sliding onto the wooden bench beside him.
“Leofwine,” the king said tiredly as if the word was an effort almost beyond him.
“The decision weighs too heavily on you,” Leofwine began, and then stopped, he felt as though his words were inadequate to voice the turmoil that the king was in.
“No, not really,” Æthelred surprised him by saying. “The decision has been made, in fact, it was made as soon as the conundrum presented itself. It’s the speaking of it that gives me pause for thought.”
Leofwine looked to the men who still supported their true king, noting the drained faces of all. It was inhuman to make battle during the winter season, but all had been happy to, in the name of their king. He wondered how many of them knew that the king had already decided to abdicate and gift the throne to Swein.
“Would you have me speak it for you? My Lord,” Leofwine asked, hating himself for saying the words but accepting that he would act for his king if he needed to.
“Leofwine, as ever, you’re too free to offer yourself for the unpleasant tasks. But my thanks all the same. I will do as I must, but perhaps tomorrow. Athelstan has ridden to find the queen at Winchester. He’ll bring her here as soon as he can, and then we’ll leave for her brother’s lands. You met him didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Leofwine said with consideration, it hadn’t been the most pleasant of experiences and on that day, Duke Richard, the second of that name, had made a fool of Leofwine and his king. Leofwine didn’t like to be reminded of that event, preparing to see the good that had come from the marriage of Æthelred to the young Emma. “He was a man sure of himself.”
A hearty chuckle escaped Æthelred’s mouth then,
“You always were excellent with words Leofwine, but again, my thanks for trying to make the situation as rosy as possible for me.”
“I hope that the rumours of Swein’s wound prove to be correct, and then in your absence, I can work for your reappointment.”
Now Æthelred fixed him with a firm stare, and Leofwine didn’t flinch from his probing gaze.
“Really, Leofwine. You would have me back, after the disasters the country has faced under my kingship?”
“It’s hardly your fault if Swein and Thorkell and Olaf and all the other Norsemen who’ve plagued our land have come under your reign. You’ve been my king all my life. I know of no other, and nor do I want to. You were anointed as my king and so, yes, I would have you back if I could. As would the country. I’m unsure of the magical powers that Swein has exerted over everyone else within your lands, but I can assure you, if any English man had a choice, they’d have their true king, not a usurper.”
Æthelred’s gaze finally shifted from Leofwine’s face. He reached out and grasped a wooden cup and drank his fill before he spoke again.
“If we should never meet again Leofwine, you have my thanks for all you’ve done during my reign. I know you worked for the good of your people and the good of the land, but your loyalty has been unswerving. Not many can say that. None other than my sons.”
“Then you must tell them that my Lord. You should thank your sons. They'd have governed your lands more wisely than your sons by marriage. They would have fought harder and for longer, even if faced with Swein and his son.” Leofwine spoke urgently, overjoyed finally to hear Æthelred speak so of his sons.
Æthelred slumped on his folded arms at those words.
“Hindsight is a wonderful attribute but one that gives me sleepless nights. My older sons, Athelstan and Edmund and Eadwig, they’re all good warriors, good with men. Perhaps too good. Perhaps I’ve always been a little jealous of them. And held them back. As you say, they deserved better. I can’t help feeling that I’ve only myself to blame. I rely too much on men who say what I want to hear.”
“Your sons have been athelings since their birth, but not king’s since they were eight. You should give yourself more credit as you should your sons. Although, I won’t deny that you’re correct in you
r assessment of yourself. Some dissent makes a man stronger.”
“Is that what you tell yourself about your oldest son?” the king asked, anger in his voice.
“Yes, I do. I’m just as much a fool when it comes to my son as you are with your own, but I’m not saying any different.”
The king laughed then, as Leofwine felt his anger rising.
“Men and their sons. Idiots, one and all,” Æthelred qualified his humour and his rancour, and went on,
“and daughters my Lord Leofwine. Daughters are somehow less trouble and more all at the same time. Daughters do things to your heart that sons do not do. Sons should be active in battle and strong against their enemies. Daughters should be comforting and soft and pliable. And well looked after by their husbands.” He finished on a snarl, his eyes looking at Eadric’s back where he sat with his men around the fire.
Leofwine had heard enough about Eadric’s treatment of the king’s daughter to sicken him, and he understood the king’s rage, but equally wondered how he’d let it happen in the first place. Daughters, should, he thought silently, be used for more than just political gain. Some measure of their happiness should always be guaranteed.
“But go now, be with your son. Enjoy your time together, and know this Leofwine, I do not envy you or feel jealous of you and your accord with Swein. More than anyone in this room, you’ve earned your right to govern your lands, and Swein, when he becomes king, will have a loyal follower in you. I command you to be loyal,” the king growled, his grief at what was to happen easy to hear.
“And when I return, whenever that may be, I’ll expect you to be waiting for me.”
With that the king stood, took a last lingering look at the men who’d stayed loyal to him, and retreated out the closed door, a flurry of chill wind coming with him. Leofwine imagined he knew where the king was going.
Chapter 46
December AD1013 – Northman – London
Again, he’d been sent as sentry to relieve Eadwig from his night time position. The morning was colder than the day before, and he pulled his cloak tighter to ward off the chill. It’d be a long day on duty, but he thought that it’d be his last.
The king had made his announcement in the early morning gloom, that he’d be seeking to renounce his claim to the throne and would be leaving the country. Swein was not welcome to it, but for the benefit of his people, he’d let the Danish king hold it.
He’d wished his men well, pointedly ignored the frustrated cry of Eadric, and the looks of dismay on his oldest son's face, and announced that if Swein didn’t send a messenger to him today, that he’d begin sending messengers out the next day. Other than the knowledge that Swein was in the Southwest of the country, none knew where he was precisely. None within London, that was.
Eadwig was grim when Northman informed him of the king’s decision, his cold and tired face looking even less lifelike as the implications of his actions sank in. Northman pitted him and respected him at the same time. All of the king’s sons were honourable. For all that Eadric had been desperate to associate himself as closely as possible with the king and his family, Northman was pleased to be distant. Any loyalty he had to give to the king was his to acknowledge as he wanted. No ties of family and blood forced him to accept the king.
When Eadwig had done, Olaf began to speak,
“I don’t much envy him anymore. To be the son of a deposed king can’t be any life. Not when the new king has his family and sons aplenty.”
“Yes, he’s gone from being a man with a chance at the throne to a man who’s simply a threat to the new king. I can’t imagine Swein going out of his way to ensure that Æthelred’s sons survive.”
“They’ll lose their lands?” Olaf asked.
“If they want to keep their lives they’ll have to lose everything, as will the king, the queen and anyone else too closely associated with the old regime.”
“What about you then? What will you do?”
“My wife and son are with my mother. I’ll bow my knee where I have to to keep them safe.”
“I knew you’d say that. Will you abandon Eadric then?”
“I doubt Eadric will slink away from this without a final play for power. It’ll be intriguing to watch him try and infiltrate the Danish king’s inner circle of advisors and friends.”
“And Thorkell, what of him?”
“He says he’ll go with Æthelred. He and the Danish king have become ardent enemies of late, and Thorkell doesn’t wish to go against him. After all, he is Cnut’s foster father.”
“Never stopped Eadric.”
“No, it didn’t but then, the Norsemen hold honour in different ways to some of the English men,” Northman commented drily, accepting Olaf’s assessment of the relationship between his foster father and his father. If only Eadric had been an honourable man, or the king less keen to please his favourite ealdorman. If only…
The day, as predicted was cold and slow and tiring. The men standing guard began the day full of gossip about the future, but as the day wore on with a light covering of snow falling, their interest waned, and as the afternoon sun slunk away, almost in embarrassment, Northman found his thoughts almost as frozen as the ground. There were too many variations that needed to be thought about, and he lacked the energy to follow them all through to their logical conclusion.
Finally, one of the men spotted a rider on the horizon, and the frigid men jumped to attention, mindful that hopefully, this was what they’d been waiting for.
One rider, covered in a deep fur cloak, finally came into view, and Northman stepped through the broken down wall to stand between the rider and London. Before the hood was thrown back, he knew whom he faced. Cnut, the Danish king’s son.
He’d not seen him since Oxford, but he recognised the bright blond hair and piercing eyes, now looking a little crueller than before, but then, Cnut had spent the intervening years with his foster father, Thorkell, raiding and slaughtering those of the English who came between them and their treasure. His part in the murder of the old archbishop was much talked about, but little proved, many saying that he’d still been in Denmark with his father. At that moment, though, Northman knew that Cnut must have been involved.
Cnut clearly recognised Northman, and he smiled in welcome, although it never quite reached his eyes.
“Are you the welcoming party?” he asked, condescendingly.
“Yes, if you need welcoming. Do you come with good news? Has your father seen sense and retreated?”
Cnut grinned a little manically then,
“No, but I hope that your king has. Now, if you would be so kind as to escort me to him.”
Cnut slid from his horse then, expecting Northman to do as he’d instructed, and it was at that moment that Northman recognised how truly difficult it was going to be to accept this youth’s father as king. What right did he have to the lands of the English? The right of conquest? That didn’t seem like the correct term to use. No bitter pitched battles to the death had taken place. Perhaps he’d be able to call it the harrying of England? That would belittle the achievement of the Danish king.
Shaking the thoughts aside, Northman stepped towards Cnut.
“Come, I’ll take your horse for you. Have you come alone?” he queried, peering into the deepening sunset.
“No, but only I’ve come this far. I knew I had nothing to fear.”
The men stirred at the casually flung words, and Olaf shushed them as Northman led Cnut through the men proudly standing to attention.
“Rumour has it that all the king’s warriors are now my father’s warriors, and that only fools and the blind stay with the king.”
Northman stopped abruptly then, and Cnut walked into him in the gloom where the reach of the fire and the brands did not reach.
“Cnut, I would suggest you step a little more carefully. Sadly, your informants have missed out a good number of warriors who even now surround the king.”
“If you’re talking about your
self Northman, I’d play yourself down a bit more. Great warriors must prove themselves before they can be proclaimed as heroes.”
“And king’s son’s should realise that killing old and defenceless old men doesn’t make them heroes either.”
In the darkness, Northman could see Cnut’s blazing eyes, and he enjoyed the thrill of upsetting the cocky upstart. He might well regret it in the future, but for you now, the little moment of triumph needed savouring.
“I suggest you ask those who were there for the correct details before you say things such as that,” Cnut blazed, his hand hovering over his sword.
“I have, Thorkell has told me the story.”
“Thorkell?” Cnut queried, clearly wrong-footed to hear the name, “Thorkell is here, with your king?” he could barely suppress his incredulity at the news.
“Yes, he is, with his ships and all bursting with men. He has been for more than a year.”
They’d begun walking again by now, but Cnut had lapsed into silence at the news.
“You were unaware of his allying himself with Æthelred?”
“No, but, well yes, completely unaware. My father is even now waiting for him on the Southern Coast.”
“He’ll be waiting a long time then.”
“Perhaps,” was all the reply he got, and then they arrived at the king’s Hall.
Northman made a note to himself that he must inform his father that Thorkell had not been as ignorant of the Danish king’s movements as he’d led them to believe.
News of Cnut’s arrival had preceded him, and as Northman pushed open the door, silence greeted him, apart from the crackle of the fire and a sharp blast of warm air. A squire ran hastily to him, and he handed the reins of Cnut’s horse to the boy and asked him to see to the beast with all care.
Inside the hall, Northman directed Cnut to walk behind him towards where the king had set himself up in as much royal grandeur as he could find within London. He sat on an elegant wooden chair, in beautifully decorated clothing that showed only at the cuffs of his deep fur cloak. Surrounding him were his two remaining ealdormen and his two second oldest sons. All that was missing was his wife and younger sons but they with Athelstan, the king, in his greatest moment of need, finally trusting his son with something vitally important to him.