by M J Porter
“Sheriff Leofric,” he neatly corrected. If the men already knew who he was, he thought there was little point in trying to pretend to be anything other. News of the king’s hasty naming him as an earl in secret wouldn’t have travelled this far north.
“I know the stories of your father’s journey to the northern lands, it seems your king knows them as well, come, king Olaf will speak with you out of courtesy, and not because he believes you come with news he truly wishes to hear. Orkning,” the man ended, and Orkning nodded a welcome and didn’t let the subterfuge continue any longer.
“My lord,” he said, inclining his head, “you don’t know this man but he’s the son of Axe, a man who once helped your own father.”
The image that Leofric had always held of the man his father had spoken about, leapt to the forefront of his mind, and he had to admit that the image of his son was very close to the one he’d held.
“Well met,” he said, extending his hand to the man before him. The man grunted, perhaps not unhappy to have been signalled out, although it was quite hard to tell.
“I heard many stories of your father,” Leofric added, grinning as he spoke. “I also see you should wear his name.”
Now the man did laugh, a hearty chuckle, and one that Leofric was pleased to hear. The northern men could sometimes be contrary although they seemed to prefer to smile. Leofric always knew he’d half won some acceptance when he made a north man laugh.
“And I many of your father’s and also of your own. Come, I’ll introduce you to Olaf. The men call me Axe as well, just so you know, although my name is Bjorn.”
Leofric stifled his grin at the man’s immediately relaxed attitude toward him. It seemed that with just a few words he might have almost won an ally.
As Axe walked in front of him, winding his way through the tables and people sprawled all along the edges of the great hall, Leofric watched him and also the other people within the hall.
They all appeared content, happy to be where they were, no matter the task they had set before them, whether it was eating, talking or working. The hall itself was very well constructed and although the wind had blown sharply inside, nothing moved or fluttered within the enclosed space.
It seemed, from an initial inspection, that king Olaf was both affluent and well liked, and yet that wasn’t what he’d been told about the grabbing, avaricious king, who would say anything to anyone if it brought him some advantage. But then, being within the great king’s hall probably meant that the people here were well liked by the king. No doubt those who hated him were excluded from his generosity and his table.
As Leofric walked closer and closer toward Olaf and his men, he tried to determine which was Olaf of the five. He had a vague recollection of the man, but only from a brief meeting when he’d been much younger and Olaf had temporarily helped Æthelred regain his kingship and drive Cnut from England. It seemed that the intervening ten years had played havoc with his recollection and also with the face of Olaf, for the man who walked to greet him was beyond any memory.
He must have been almost the same age as Leofric, but he’d clearly spent much time on board ships and he wore wrinkles where Leofric knew his skin was still smooth. A great moustache touched his upper lip, and above that, a slightly too narrow nose was exposed beneath deep green eyes. Leofric found the colour unusual amongst one of the northern people, but he kept his own opinion. Yet he held the thought that Olaf must have some blood from the more hospitable lands around Normandy or Frankia.
His lips were thin and so pale as to appear bloodless, and yet he was quick to open them and offer his welcome and the voice that boomed from between them was filled with half admiration and half annoyance at the interruption.
“My lord,” Axe said, keen to make the introduction, “this is Leofric, son of Ealdorman Leofwine.”
Recognition flashed across Olaf’s face and he reached out to grasp Leofric’s arm.
“Welcome to my home,” he said, gesticulating wildly around his hall, filling rapidly with intrigued people, come to see Leofric. The press of bodies within the hall became almost uncomfortable and yet Olaf didn’t seem to notice the sudden increase, or perhaps chose not to. Leofric felt heavily outnumbered and yet he resolved to keep his calm.
It would be far too easy for any within the hall to bring about his death, and yet he doubted, or hoped, that Olaf didn’t wish to make Cnut anymore of his enemy than he already was. Or maybe he did.
When Olaf gestured for Leofric to sit, he suddenly found his legs stiff and his tongue dry in his mouth. He thought that he could have done with the ale before he was invited to sit.
Stalling for the time in order to will his legs to move, he thanked Olaf for his hospitality and finally managed to stagger his way to the bench that had been made available for him. At least three of Olaf’s men had melted away into the growing crowd, and Leofric felt able to take a deep breath before he was encumbered with a bone cup and invited to eat and drink. The strength of people within the hall was growing and yet he felt no animosity from the majority of them, only from those closest to Olaf.
He imagined that men who visited his own hall initially felt the same, strangers amongst friends was always an uncomfortable position to find oneself in.
As soon as the first splash of liquid hit the back of his throat, he felt his legs return to normality. What was he so worried about? After all, Olaf wasn’t known for killing messengers for no reason. And yet Olaf had already made his animosity toward Cnut clear. In hindsight, it didn’t matter how many men he’d brought with him. Within the hall, the flick of a knife could end a man’s life easily enough, especially when he had only a handful of warriors and his enemy had his entire settlement gathered to gaze and stare at the Englishman.
Yet, as he drank slowly, savouring the good ale, and taking in the people before him, he again felt no animosity, certainly not before him, but there was something. Was it an underlying unease with their king or was it something else? Leofric hoped his own hall was more united and easy with itself when strangers visited it.
“So Sheriff Leofric,” and he tried not to cringe at the intended slight in the word of the warrior. It seemed that Olaf was unhappy that he’d only warranted a visit from a mere sheriff.
“My lord,” he offered, inclining his head in acknowledgement.
“Your king, Cnut, sends you here for what purpose? To treat, to determine your loyalty or simply to insult me.”
“I think no insult was intended my lord,” Leofric tried to counter, but Olaf was wearing an expression of faint anger.
“Does it not seem to you that he should have sent a man with more power to speak with a fellow king, or perhaps come himself?”
It seemed that there was to be no time for niceties in their exchange.
“King Cnut made it clear that no slight was intended, but rather a compliment. He wanted you to know that he sent one of his most trusted advisors and one not encumbered by any association with any of the great northern families. I’m an Englishman, with an English wife, an English child and the only north men I know are those in my entourage, but they are perhaps almost as English as I am,” Leofric tried to sound reassuring, encouraging even.
“Hah, you convince yourself of that reasoning if you want Sheriff, but I know Cnut. He means this as an insult and not just for me. He’s showing you how little you mean to him. He knows what I’ll do to any messenger I don’t much like.”
He felt the movement from Orkning at the threat but didn’t change his own stance. Olaf was just like all the other north men he’d ever met, full of challenge and bluff. If a north man truly meant to kill him, he’d do it rather than talk about; they’d be no cause to tell him it was about to happen.
“He does yes, and however you look at it, we both must simply be civil and have a conversation and then, if we still decide we hate each other, then we can decide the means of our deaths and sanction them accordingly.”
Now the threat was made, Leo
fric felt himself relax. He was used to the way of the Northmen, whether they be kings or not. He wasn’t about to let Olaf make him feel ineffectual and worse, scared.
Olaf’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary, but Leofric ignored the heat of that gaze and simply supped his ale and reached for a handful of well-cooked pork. The juices were rich and dribbled down his bearded chin but he let them. He needed to make it clear to Olaf that he wasn’t afraid of him and that no matter what he thought, he’d come to treat with him as an equal, representing Cnut around the bargaining table.
He thought that Horic, the old warrior who’d taught him so much about his own culture and ways, Orkning’s father would have been proud of his obduracy. It certainly took almost being a Northman to understand their bombastic manner.
Olaf grunted.
“Well, you’re an outspoken bastard. Are you sure Cnut sent you here to treat with me? It seems he might have sent you to incite me to war.”
Leofric shrugged at that and felt a quirk of anticipation playing at his lips. It seemed that Olaf would blunder his threats about his king and toward him, but would at least appreciate his own audacity.
“Time will tell my lord, but for now, I assure you, I come to treat, or at least to know your mind and determine if you and Cnut must always be enemies or if there’s the possibility of a friendship.”
“You waste no time, Leofric,” and Leofric was pleased that he’d dropped the word sheriff from his title, not that he wasn’t proud of his own appointment, but until Olaf accepted he held a position of strength and power, he knew there’d be no speaking to him about anything of importance.
“The raiding season is upon us all, at least it will be in the next week or two, and plans must be made and attacks formulated.”
He spoke as though he knew the mind of the king extremely well, and he thought he did, but he also didn’t offer honeyed words, which perhaps his father and his king might have preferred. No, he spoke knowing that whatever happened here, he had his warriors to support him, and if some unfortunate event befell him, the king would avenge his death and ensure that Olaf paid for his crimes against him.
He almost felt as powerful as when he’d stood on a battlefield in the past, holding his shield, sword and axe, ready to slay any who threatened his country or his family. He thought this expedition might well prove to be a valuable learning experience for him, no matter the eventual outcome, and he already sensed that no matter the pile of treasure, there would be a war between Olaf and Cnut. Too much had already soured their relationship to make it worth resurrecting.
“Rumours of your father’s bravery still run rampant around Shetland and the Orkney’s,” Olaf mused, and Leofric was temporarily thrown by the change in conversation. One moment they were talking about wars and death and the next of his father.
“He was a brave man,” Leofric acknowledged, without hesitation. Whatever his father may or may not have been, his persona as a loyal and supportive warrior had made a huge impact on the Northmen. They’d always respected him, even Swein. In fact, many had said that Swein’s desire to initially exact revenge upon him had been a sign of the great respect he’d held him in. Few Danish kings had ever bothered with an English ealdorman in the recent past and none had ever determined to kill him, over and above the ruling English king.
“He was a foolish man,” Olaf tried to counter, but Leofric simply laughed.
“I thought all men who sailed into the unknown, with little more than a ship full of men to keep them safe, were held in the greatest esteem by your people. I thought it was the very thing that so many of your warriors and shipmen dreamed of each night. My father was a brave man and he accomplished a great many things in his life, earning the ear of not one but two Danish kings, and even the great Olaf Tryggvason, who ruled this land before you.”
Leofric was proud of his speech and the more he argued with Olaf, the more he realised this was a spectator sport. The noise in the great hall was muted, whispered conversations from some, while others strained to hear the conversation between their king and this unlooked for Englishman. The thought amused Leofric. Many a battle had been fought with tongues and wit rather than with swords and shields. It was just unfortunate that the skalds thought less of the conversations and more of the bloody battles, such as that at Svolder.
“Olaf Tryggvason still lives,” Olaf offered then, a wry grin on his face, and Leofric hoped that some sort of impasse had been agreed upon.
“I’ve heard the same rumours,” Leofric agreed. “Do you believe them?”
“I believe that the people do. Olaf was a great king to them. He deserved a death as shrouded in mystery as the one he received. His body was never recovered!”
“No, he sank to the bottom of the sea, taking his weapons with him,” Leofric replied, his eyes half-closed in concentration as he thought about all the rumours he’d heard over the years.
“What do you think Cnut would do if he faced both myself and Olaf Tryggvason in battle?”
“Surely the man would be too old to even hold a sword these days,” Leofric mused slowly and Olaf nodded as he considered those words.
“But imagine the battle we’d have if Olaf Tryggvason was still the man he used to be, at the height of his powers.”
“Then you’d have no kingdom.”
“Well, yes, that’s something I’d not considered. Perhaps he’d have shared with me?”
“I doubt Olaf Tryggvason would have been the sort of man to share. It’s certainly not what my father thought. Although he did have his Christian faith. I understand he built a church here. I’d like to see it if possible,” Leofric asked but Olaf was only listening with half an ear and the noise in the hall had rebuilt. It seemed that the conversation that had passed between them had either not lived up to the expectations of those assembled here, or that Leofric had earned the right to speak with their king. He hoped it was both of those reasons combined.
“No, you have a point. So perhaps I should be grateful to Cnut’s father for seeing to Olaf Tryggvason’s death, although the other men and women of Norway don’t see it in that way. They resent his death and they resent feeling beholden to Denmark. They much prefer to have me as their king, after all, I am the great great grandson of a great Norwegian king.”
Leofric was faintly surprised that it had taken so long for Olaf to begin discussing his ancestry. He knew that his forefathers were a source of great interest to him, absolving him of his ambitious tendencies by allowing him to say that Norway was his birthright. Leofric knew bits and pieces of Harald Finehair’s accomplishments, but he’d ruled well over a century ago, if not nearer to two and he was accredited with being just as ruthless as his successor.
Men and women even said that it was his ruthlessness that had led to the colonisation of both Iceland and Greenland, far to the north, two countries that weren’t known for being hospitable but benefited from having no king to rule over people who were notoriously self-governing.
“Indeed my lord, your ancestry is great and terrifying in equal measure, just as Cnut’s is.” It was never a wasted breath to remind the Viking kings that they were all just about as bad as each other. Not a one of them lacked ambition or the desire to be known as the great king of the Viking’s ever.
“You speak your mind, don’t you?” Olaf countered once more and now Leofric laughed.
“It was my father’s greatest attribute. It pays kings and lords to have those within their following who don’t just tell them what they want to hear.”
Olaf considered that, an odd look on his face as he looked at the inhabitants of his hall. Leofric thought he might have spoken inappropriately, but Olaf quickly waved the conversation away.
“Have you met Anund Jakob yet?”
“No my lord, you were the closer to visit so I’ve come to you first.”
“But you mean to?” he pressed insistently, and Leofric nodded his agreement.
“He’s not to be bargained
with,” Olaf offered and Leofric was instantly intrigued that he’d offer him advice on how to conduct himself with his own ally, and by association, Cnut’s enemy.
“He’s a stubborn bastard, not like his father. He won’t listen to a single word you say. Damn, he hardly listens to a word I say and we’re allies, intent only on thwarting Cnut and his bloody ambitions.”
“Anund Jakob is related to Cnut? Will his family association mean nothing to him?”
“Fuck no. The relationship is so obscure, or so Anund tells himself, that he need not even acknowledge that his step-grandfather was Cnut’s own father. He thinks only of his father’s ambitions and nothing of his grandmother’s.”
“She yet lives then?” Leofric asked. He’d thought that Cnut’s stepmother was long dead, although he had to confess that he’d never actually thought to ask Cnut. He’d just assumed, as Cnut never spoke of her.
“She does yes, or at least I last heard that she did. She’s ancient so the winter might have claimed her life.”
Leofric wondered if it made any difference to Cnut that his father’s wife still lived. It seemed he relied heavily on his sisters but perhaps not on his stepmother. It could offer a way to create some sort of temporary alliance between the pair. And yet, it seemed that Anund Jakob cared little for the woman.
“Anund Jakob thinks only of how useless his father was, and how hard he’s had to battle to gain back his own land. He won’t want Cnut anywhere near him. Not now he has England. If anything, he sees it as an opportunity to claim Denmark for himself. That’s why he warred with the Jomsvikings. He knows that Thorkell was too closely allied with Cnut and that, despite their arguments, he’d do anything to protect Cnut’s empire.”
“Thorkell had a good death?” Leofric asked, intrigued.
“So the skald says, but they do like to play with their words, and make heroes out of men who little deserve the title.”
Leofric held back a smirk at the words. Olaf’s reputation spread far and wide by his skalds, was one of the main reasons that he was so feared. That reputation, as far as Leofric could determine, was built on little solid evidence. He was neither the great Christian that some tried to make him, not the great tyrant that others did.