The Earl of Mercia

by M J Porter

  He’d made long walks in his past, but this, this was truly the longest of them all. And perhaps, the most highly anticipated as well.

  In all honesty, he felt he should have done the walk nearly ten years ago, the moment his father died, and the moment that Cnut should have realized he needed the loyalty of the House of Leofwine to augment his kingship.

  But Cnut had always been a touch too arrogant, a little too sure of himself, and Leofric knew he’d be the same today. Words weren’t the only way the king spoke. He believed in actions just as much and it was only in those that Leofric would ever find the solace for his long delayed acceptance as Earl of Mercia.

  His family had endured much in the last few years, not least of which was the enmity of a certain family.

  He hoped all that was behind him now.

  In a well-remembered image of watching his father take his place at the Witan, he walked with his most trusted hound, Hund. Hund was far too young to have ever supported his father’s partial-sight, but her presence was a reminder of those trusty beasts his father had relied on more than he’d ever depended on a king or a queen to ensure he received the treatment he deserved and a sign of their longevity.

  Now he walked with the hound beneath his fingers, her elaborate collar bearing the family device of the two-headed eagle etched with precious jewels.

  Godgifu had spent a long time agonizing over his clothing for the day, trying to decide the correct shade of blue he wore, the most elaborate cut of his tunic, and the exact design on the embroidery that accompanied his tunic. Even his boots had been made for the occasion and they were so well padded with wool that he felt as though he walked on clouds and not on the wooden boards into the king’s hall.

  Hund had even been subjected to a firm bathing, brushing, grooming and combing, her intelligent eyes watching him all the time, just to be sure that her treatment had truly come at the bequest of her beloved master. He’d almost pitied her until his own time had come to be primed for the occasion.

  He had no idea how his wife had managed to arrange so much without him noticing, her own dress matching and complimenting his clothing, and the two-headed eagle added to her cloak and visible as both a necklace, an erring and on the twin edges of the gold and silver twisted bracelet she wore.

  She looked stunning. He doubted he looked quite as well turned out, but it wasn’t for lack of trying on his wife’s part and he’d thanked her for the attention she’d lavished on him.

  His father wouldn’t have spent as much time on his clothing and his appearance, but then Cnut was a very different man to the one that Leofwine had served for much of his life, and by the time Leofwine had served Cnut, Leofwine had been bent and twisted with his injuries and much had been accepted that wouldn’t be anymore.

  Godwine was known to spend a small fortune each year to ensure his clothing showed his wealth and his prestige and Cnut far surpassed even that, his queen, Emma, ensuring that he was always richly dressed at ceremonial occasions, as this was about to be.

  Not that it was a huge affair. In fact, far from it. There would only be the two earls in attendance, Godwine and himself, and four bishops, Æthelnoth of Canterbury, Ælfsige of Winchester, Æthelwold of Ramsay and Brithwig of Wells. There were also a scattering of the king’s thegns, and some of the lesser holy men.

  Leofric was quietly grateful for his less than dynamic appearance at the Witan. He could have had to speak his first words as an earl before an audience of a red, if not more, but instead it would be easily half that number, if not less, and it would be almost devoid of men from the northern lands.

  Malcolm of Scotland’s submission was still too new to allow the men of the household troops to disperse home. Siward kept a close eye on the north. He’d have his moment when he was officially made Earl, just as Leofric was now, when the kingdom to the north was more settled, if not peaceful. Until then, Leofric didn’t envy the man the hard part of keeping the borders safe and continuing to grow his relationship with Ealdred of Bamburgh. They’d made a good start, but there was still much that needed settling between them both.

  Finally, he found his seat at the front of the hall. His passing had occasioned no more than a stray comment, or even a welcome from those he’d walked past, all apart from Earl Godwine who watched him with an unreadable expression on his face from his own seat. Whether they were ultimately friend or foe would depend on how events played out in the future. Now wasn’t the time to worry about it and neither was it his responsibility to correct Godwine’s monumental errors.

  No, if they were ever to be allies, Godwine would need to make huge retributions for his despicable behavior, and that was only worth doing when Godwine was back in favor with the king, for now he was as good as banished while, unfortunately, still remaining as earl.

  Leofric sat quietly, ensuring his clothing hung as his wife had demanded it did, and then he settled his hound beside him and he waited, trying to be patient. The walk had been long, but he’s accomplished it and now he simply needed to wait for the king.

  His mouth felt dry at the thought and he swallowed, and tried to lick his lips but his tongue was parchment dry.

  Behind him, he could hear the shuffling of feet on the wooden floorboards, the scrape of trailing cloth over the same, and he wished that he’d arrived a little later, when the king and the queen were ready to enter into the hall. The wait was making his fear almost unbearable.

  To come all this way, to try and gain his father’s position for so long, and to suddenly fear those extra few moments made him laugh. He could do this. He had done this. There was nothing to worry about anymore. Or so he told himself.

  Behind him, he hoped his brother was watching him, ensuring he didn’t put a foot wrong. He wished he sat beside him, as he had done so on so many previous occasions, but his brother was to take his place as sheriff, a position he would never hold again.

  His eyes skimmed the front of the hall, where his king would shortly sit, perhaps with his queen at his side. He had an elaborately carved wooden chair and beside it a small table with a jug of ale or mead, and a small cup beside it. A smaller chair sat slightly further back, accompanied by a similar cup and jug, no doubt for the queen, or Harald.

  Emma had failed to be the stalwart supporter that Leofric had thought she’d be, but he thought much of that was because he’d never been the counter-balance to the vast power that Godwine had become. They’d both been forced to make alternative arrangements. He admired her, and he respected her as much as his father had, but he didn’t think he’d ever tie his future to hers as well not after her betrayal of him.

  Her apology had been sweet and well intentioned, but she should have been strong enough to prevent the situation from ever arising in the first place.

  She was a queen who understood politics well. Her experiences with Godwine would mean that she’d never passively accept anything again, not if she feared it would be detrimental to her. Leofric would need to be wary of her, especially as his family was now so intermingled with Cnut’s other wife, Ælfgifu.

  With his two wives, three sons and his daughter, Cnut had managed to bring England, Norway, Skåne, and Denmark firmly under his control. His accord with Malcolm of the Scots, was, hopefully, his final piece of statecraft.

  He thought sadly of Earl Hakon, dead for the last year. Norway should have been his to rule for the king, as his father had ruled it for Swein, but his life had been stolen from him in a shipwreck. A dazzling reminder of how cruel the sea could be, the very lifeblood that flowed through the veins of so many of the Viking men and women that Leofric knew and respected, and his death had brought about a whole new world of possibilities for Ælfgifu and Swein.

  Yet, as excited as he was about becoming earl of Mercia, he could see problems in the future, even if Cnut failed to see them.

  Cnut thought this was his crowning moment, when he wore his reimagined imperial crown before his earls, bishops and thegns, but for all the years he’d work
ed to rebuild his father’s lost empire, Leofric thought it could well crumbling down soon enough. It was, after all, built only on the power of Cnut’s personality, and his sons, at least as much as Leofric could tell, hadn’t inherited their father’s and certainly not, their grandfather’s personality, and Cnut didn’t seem to want them to either. He didn’t want his own achievements to be beaten.

  Kingdoms were personal little collections of power, or so Leofric had come to understand them. Men and women would think they knew what it took to rule, but they were often misguided. Success would only be built on the personalities of those who were in charge.

  At the moment England had a king who thought he was in his ascendant, who wanted to take the time to enjoy the fruits of his work, a queen who was jealous of the attention and responsibility lavished on her first husband’s wife and an earl who was too assured of himself even in disgrace.

  Leofric grunted and his hound raised her head from on top of her front paws and looked at him. He patted her head and offered shushing words of comfort. There was currently nothing to fear in the hall, not yet, but beneath the surface veneer of sheen that had been applied to their cobbled together empire, there was a rising mixture of unhappiness and unease, of men who thought they could rule without the oversight of their king, and a king who felt that none should rule without him. Not now he had the commitment and the capacity to live within England.

  Leofric had discussed the matter extensively with both his wife and his brothers. They almost understood his worries, but they were also far more positive. They saw his elevation to being earl as a massive advantage for the family. Leofric could only see it in a more sour light. He was going to be a very busy man in the future. There would be arguments to settle between family and earls, and more than that, there would be the need to ensure his patron and patroness didn’t become angry with him.

  His father would, perhaps, have relished the challenge of the words games and physical battles that hovered on the horizon, but Leofric questioned his ability to be as persuasive and open-minded as his father.

  Outright war didn’t threaten England, but a war between the ruling family might, especially if events went poorly in Denmark or Norway.

  Æthelred had been loath to use his family to help him rule. Cnut seemed almost too keen to do so, and he was relying on people who didn’t necessarily share his view of the future. He had sons who wanted to be kings, just as their father had been. The test would be if they could rule together.

  Leofric smirked at the thought of Cnut’s sister, Estrid, ruling in Denmark with Harthacnut. He’d always found her to be a very appealing woman, and she had the streak of Viking iron that seemed to run through every man, and almost every woman, he’d ever met from the northern lands. He thought Emma had a shred of it, he thought his own wife had more than a shred of it too, but it was Estrid who fully enshrined it. She would have made a good ruler, and her sons were rumored to be more in the mold of their grandfather, the mighty Swein Forkbeard, than any of Cnut’s sons.

  Leofric could almost wish that he was an ally of Estrid and not Ælfgifu’s, but, he was an English lord and he needed English allies, and they were hard to find in Cnut’s multi-cultural England.

  And if all else failed, he could never forget that the true heirs of Æthelred yet lived on the continent, his two sons by Emma reasonably safe and secure in Normandy. There were grandsons as well. Æthelred’s line wasn’t yet dead. No matter how much Cnut might like to think it was.

  So many possibilities? So many futures? Even as he sat and consoled himself with his own recognition as an earl, a sense of satisfaction settling over him, he knew just what lengths men and women would take in order to be in the position he was now within. All he’d ever wanted was the right to rule the lands his father had once ruled for his king, his father before him, and further back, through his grandfathers and great grandfathers. Many others looked at kingdoms as though they were open for the taking, somehow forgetting the years of strife and tension that had brought Cnut to their shores, forgetting what it took to be a conquering king.

  They saw only the results, not the intentions and not the vagaries of the passage of time, the part of luck and good fortune, of opportune deaths, and even more opportune births; of the effects that the wants and needs, desires of men and women could have on any carefully laid plans.

  Cnut had succeeded. He’d claimed the northern part of England for himself at St Ola’s Isle, under the guiding hand of his father. But only the subsequent death of Edmund had made him king of England, the death of his brother making him also king of Denmark, war giving him back Norway, and the capitulation of Anund Jakob returning Skåne to his control.

  Equally, more and more deaths might wrest the kingdoms from him. Should his son die in Denmark, he only had one more in reserve, and while his father was Danish, his mother was English through and through and she was already in Norway with her elder son.

  Leofric could barely consider it, but what if something befell Cnut? At any point since he became king he could have been struck down by plague or injury. That he hadn’t been was a happy coincidence, that might not last forever.

  He was dragged from his cloud of muddied thoughts and thinking by the growing quiet in the king’s hall. It could only mean that the king was finally making his appearance.

  He shook his head, dismissed his worries and thoughts for another time, a later time when they might, or might not have truly happened, and he tried to focus on the hear and now, on what he had done, no matter how he’d done it.

  He wasn’t a ruthless man but he was pragmatic enough to have wound his way through the coils of treachery and split loyalties at Cnut’s court.

  He’d ensured he became an earl, finally, and he was damn well going to enjoy it.

  The king swept into view. His clothing magnificent and regal. He’d employed one of the men who made the Emperor’s own clothes to make his own, to season them with just the required amount of gravitas, the right amount of wealth and practical-ness. Leofric took the time to admire the golden threads running through the cuffs of his tunic and across his broad chest, to note the understated but costly rubies that replaced the more usual wooden toggles and to gasp in awe at Cnut’s crown of stately grandeur. It wasn’t a new addition, it had been commissioned a few years before, but it was so intricately composed that Leofric never failed to be amazed by it.

  He knew of great goldsmiths, and great silversmiths, but even he couldn’t deny that the man who’d made the crown for Cnut had the guiding hand of Odin’s own craft-master at his command.

  Even his boots were regal, the leather threaded with jewels and golden threads. In his own rich clothing he felt like a poor man in relation to the king.

  Behind him walked the queen. She, too, was dressed as an empress. Her dress was layered by not one but two over-tunics, the first made of pale blue, the second, some shimmering material that caught the light of the candles and the sun both, reflecting off them so that she walked as though bathed in fire.

  Her hair was layered with tiny pin points of light that could only come from the smallest pieces of diamonds available and disguised the fact that her hair was beginning to turn to silver.

  As she walked with her husband to the front of the hall, she made eye contact with Leofric, as she had once before, when he’d returned her son to her and she’d been grateful and promised much, but had essentially been an ineffectual patron.

  She studied him intently and he wondered if she saw the shadow of his father etched into him, the older man she’d learned to trust implicitly, who’d always acted with the best of intentions, the greatest regard for the settling of honor.

  She’d failed to live up to his father’s expectations of her, and he had as well, forced to act counter to his wishes.

  A small smile curled her full lips, as though she was bestowing her approval on him for what he’d managed to accomplish.

  Perhaps they could work together in the future, as
he’d once thought they would, or perhaps Emma was already considering the future, thinking of her sons. Leofric was a powerful force behind Ælfgifu, perhaps Emma still hoped to turn him to her cause? The thought amused him. It seemed that even now he couldn’t quite stop thinking as a twisted courtier, as a man soured by his relationships with the court and its personalities.

  He’d not managed to maintain the aloofness his father had held; he’d not managed to not take matters to heart; to appreciate that men and women, even kings and queens made mistakes. He didn’t so much hold grudges, as remember every single occasion he’d been slighted and belittled.

  He was the son of Ealdorman Leofwine, Earl Leofwine, a man who’d been birthed during the fractious reigns of Æthelred’s uncle, who’d fought his way through physical injury to become the most respected of all of Æthelred’s ealdormen amongst the bishops and the people of England, if not in the actual Witan itself, that place taken by the disloyal and disingenuous Eadric.

  In just a few moments he would renew his commendatory oath to Cnut, pledge his life to the king as he’d done in essence ever since he’d become king in England, and his future would be assured.

  Or would it?

  He’d have the power and prestige he needed to ensure his family finally benefitted from their sacrifices, from the slights they’d received. He would become as powerful as Earl Godwine and his self-centered ways; he’d have the voice of the king as his back up within Mercia, in his dealings with the Welsh kingdoms, in his dealings with any king from anywhere.

  Unless he offended his king and lost his power, he’d never have to scrape around for allies again.

  He would be the earl of Mercia. The name of his father might fade in the memories of others as he forged his own path, finally.

  He would be the earl of Mercia with all its attendant responsibilities and rewards.

  He would be able to preserve the memory of his father, instead of living by it.

  But more than anything, when he spoke those words, he would have what should have been here’s nearly a decade ago.