by M J Porter
“I allowed the Lady her wishes in the burial of her son. I would do the same for any grieving mother, especially one about to be banished from her home of over thirty years.”
“You’ve always been too soft-hearted,” Earl Godwine scoffed from the king’s right, but Leofric held his tongue, and kept the heat from his face.
“And how is it that Earl Godwine is so well informed of my movements for the past month?” Leofric asked, the taunt in the rise of his eyebrows aimed squarely at Godwine.
“He had men shadowing your movements,” the king offered, as though the answer were obvious. “He didn’t like having the enemy at large within his own lands that he rules for the Crown.”
“Of course,” Leofric agreed. He wasn’t surprised that Godwine hadn’t spoken to the king of his meeting with Lady Emma before his banishment. He chose not to share the information either. The king and the earl were only just reconciled, and Leofric wasn’t sure he wanted to contend with any further arguments.
“Where has she gone?” Harald demanded to know, and Leofric groaned.
“She’s sought refuge with Count Baldwin. It’s no secret.”
“She’s not gone to her son, Harthacnut, or her other son, Lord Edward then, in Normandy?” Harald was too interested in the answer, his tone sharp, as Leofric shook his head.
“I don’t know her reasoning. Just that she asked me to organise a ship to Flanders.”
For a moment Leofric wondered why Earl Godwine hadn’t shared this information. Or perhaps he had, and the king tested his loyalties, or perhaps Godwine had genuinely not known. Either way, Leofric was surprised by the omission.
“She sent word to Harthacnut before she left?” Harald asked, his question punctuated with swigs from a glass goblet coloured red and glowing in the candlelight and light from the huge hearth.
“Not as far as I know. The King's wife had only a few women with her. I doubt she sent word to anyone. Even Count Baldwin might not appreciate her appearance.”
“No, he might not, if I have my way,” Harald threatened, but he was looking thoughtful rather than wrathful. For now.
“So she didn’t return to Normandy, to Edward her son, or to Denmark, to Harthacnut, also her son, or indeed, to any of her other relatives, in the Vexin or wherever it is. She means to stand alone?” Still the king pressed, desperate to know the thoughts of his father’s wife.
“My Lord King. I went to her with the body of her dead son, with the news that she was banished from England. She was in no fit state to plot her future. I think she chose to go where she might find a warm welcome. Where she would be honoured as the former queen of England. I can’t imagine that either of her sons would be pleased to see her. Not when she’s failed them both.” A tinge of iron marked Leofric’s voice, and for a moment he thought his king would let the matter go.
But Earl Godwine had sown discord in the young man’s mind.
“And yet she still knew how to play you, My Lord, to get what she wanted,” Harald’s tone was far from conciliatory, and Leofric tried to hold his temper in check, which was threatening to flare, despite his best intentions. Harald was not innocent in Lady Emma’s banishment. Far from it.
Only the arrival of a young woman prevented the situation from escalating. Leofric watched with interest as Harald greeted the girl.
Leofric recognised her as she caught the king’s attention, and he thought hard, keen to concentrate on anything but the king’s apparent anger toward him.
She was an enticing looking young woman, perhaps a similar age to Harald, and it was clear the two knew each other. She dipped low to the king, but he bid her rise with a smile, and hastily arranged for her to sit beside him.
Leofric approved of the arrangement, as he shuffled his chair along the wooden dais. He didn’t wish to argue with the king anymore.
She thanked Leofric with a quick glance, and in her eyes, he saw far more than he expected. She knew Harald, and she knew his mind. Her act in coming between Leofric and the king had been deliberate.
Yet, he had no idea who she was. Neither, it seemed, did Earl Godwine, who watched on with an angry tilt to his own mouth. He was evidently disappointed that the king had forgotten his argument with Leofric.
Settling to his meal with more zeal, Leofric scanned the crowd for those he knew. His son and the rest of the men who’d escorted him to Exeter with Lady Emma were making their way into the hall. They’d seen to their own horses, before entering the king’s hall, and Leofric wished he’d had the same excuse.
He didn’t miss his son’s double-take of surprise at finding his father already beside the king, and neither did he miss his son’s evident interest in the young woman to his side.
She spoke to the king now, her soft voice countering his own deeper one, as they laughed.
“A pretty young thing,” a voice said beside him, and Leofric turned to face Earl Eilifr once more.
“A friend of the king’s?” Leofric asked, but it seemed that Eilifr didn’t know the woman either.
“The king is displeased with you, or so it seems,” Eilifr complained, and Leofric nodded. He didn’t enjoy a harmonious relationship with his foster-son. He never had.
“No doubt his mother will be equally angered by my actions toward Lady Emma.”
“She’ll just be pleased that Lady Emma’s gone and that you orchestrated it. I wouldn’t worry too much about her.”
There was wisdom in Eilifr’s words. Lady Ælfgifu, thanks to the friendship she shared with his wife, was sometimes easier to please than her son. Still, Leofric wasn’t convinced this would be one of those occasions.
“The king doesn’t often consider his mother’s wishes,” Leofric rejoined sourly. The king and his mother were only allies by necessity. Leofric doubted that Harald would ever forgive his mother for travelling with her older son to Norway while leaving Harald in England, under the care of Leofric.
“No, the king doesn’t often factor in anyone’s wishes but his own,” Eilifr agreed quietly, as Leofric nodded and devoured his meal.
Harald was not the easiest of men to deal with. He was prickly about his birth, his father, his mother and his half-brothers. He didn’t like to be reminded that he was Leofric’s foster-son, but neither did he want it to be ignored. Leofric quickly grew tired of his testy ways. His son was far more tolerant of his foster-brother.
“What’s the feast for?” Leofric finally thought to ask, and Eilifr shook his head
“I’ve no idea. The king simply invited me to join him. I’m not entirely sure he needed a reason, but maybe it had something to do with Lady Emma’s banishment.”
Leofric’s face once more curdled, and his stomach turned queasily. He didn’t want to toast the exile of a woman he’d known almost all his life. If such news was worthy of a feast then Leofric was once more disappointed in his foster-son.
He would need to learn to be more diplomatic, and soon.
“What did the king say to you about affairs with the Welsh?”
“Nothing, he said now was the time to feast, not talk politics. He asked me to speak with him tomorrow.”
A wry chuckle escaped from Leofric’s mouth at Eilifr’s dismissal. It seemed it was fine to discuss Leofric’s perceived failings regarding Lady Emma at a feast, but not something that might threaten the stability of the kingdom and mean that war could follow soon.
“Then let’s hope the king drinks less than normal and can attend to his duties come the morning,” Leofric offered sullenly. He’d not expected to be received by the king with so many complaints. Bloody Earl Godwine. It seemed he was always in the way.
Chapter Two
AD1037 London -Ælfgar
His father had been summoned to a meeting with the king and earls Hrani, Eilifr and Godwine. Ælfgar was pleased that his presence wasn’t needed. He was sure he’d find out just as much as his father, by merely mingling with the other, younger men, at Harald’s hall in London.
There were times he
pitied his foster-brother his allies now that he was king. Today wasn’t one of those times. His father had told him about the king’s angry words last night, and Ælfgar bubbled with a rage he rarely experienced.
Ælfgar knew his foster-brother almost too well, and that meant he’d anticipated the king’s anger regarding his father’s treatment of Lady Emma. That didn’t mean Ælfgar wasn’t disappointed by it, for he was. Harald needed to be led by those who wished him no harm. Earl Godwine definitely didn’t fall into that category.
As Ælfgar meandered around outside the king’s hall in London, he heard the shouts of men and women from the quayside and river Thames to his right. It was a blustery day, the words being carried to him on the wind making it seem as though he was taking part in the conversation. He smiled a little at the stray thought.
Ælfgar enjoyed being on a ship. The sense of freedom was akin to riding a horse at full gallop. Only there could all worries, all sense of responsibility melt away, only to reappear with the sighting of land.
“Young Ælfgar,” he heard his name being called and turned to meet the smiling face of Lady Ælfgifu. He bowed his head low to her, trying to mirror her evident pleasure at seeing him.
Harald’s mother was one of his own mother’s dearest friends. While it seemed to mean Lady Ælfgifu had a proprietorial claim on him, Ælfgar gained nothing in return but the expectation that he’d do anything she asked of him.
“My Lady,” he greeted, forcing his face into a smile of welcome, as he took in her present mood. She was, as so often the case, dressed to extol her wealth. Her gown, despite it being just a typical day, shimmered with precious jewels, right down to the twin brooches that shone with blinding intensity in the sunlight. Such diamonds he’d expect to find threaded into her hair, not on an everyday item that was so often mislaid and lost as a brooch.
Lady Ælfgifu was still a reasonably attractive woman, but her hair shone with the silver of age, and her eyes were heavily creased when she spoke. Her lips were set in a hardline that morning, despite her pleased voice at finding him. It seemed he was in for a rough conversation.
“You’ve returned from the South,” she asked, a tendril of iron entering her voice. The feud and hatred between Lady Ælfgifu and Lady Emma was no secret, and Ælfgifu did nothing to keep the joy from her voice that Emma was finally banished from English shores, hopefully never to be seen again.
“Yes, My Lady. She’s crossed the Narrow Sea.”
Ælfgar always struggled to know how to refer to Lady Emma in Ælfgifu’s presence. Any of the usual names and titles would have caused offence – Queen Emma, King’s Cnut’s wife, King Æthelred’s wife, even just Queen would have caused a stiffening in Ælfgifu’s sometimes easy manner, for she should have been Cnut’s queen, not Emma. Cnut had promised her as much, and Ælfgifu’s memory stretched far back into the past, and the hurt over such a slight had never healed.
“Then good riddance to a menace,” she tried to make her voice light, but there was too much hurt on her face for it to work. Ælfgar knew a moment of swift sorrow for the life that Ælfgifu had been denied.
King Cnut had been neither a gentle leader for England nor a considerate husband. The two families of Lady Ælfgifu’s and his own, were not the only two to have suffered under the Danish king.
“And now we must speak of more pleasant matters. Your mother sends word that you wish to marry.” Lady Ælfgifu’s voice had warmed, as Ælfgar felt himself blush.
Ælfgar knew, of course, he knew that the arranging of his marriage wouldn’t be a private matter, but still wished he’d given the older women of the Court less to be pleased about. Perhaps, after all, he should have just run away with the woman he loved, rather than go through the rigmarole of having the union agreed by the king, and his mother.
“Lady Elgiva will be a good match for you, both politically and in matters of the heart.” The woman he loved belonged to a family that had long been linked with Lady Ælfgifu’s own. There was a blood tie but overriding all that was the desire for revenge against King Æthelred, who’d played his part in the murders of men he should have let live, Lady Ælfgifu and Lady Elgiva’s fathers.
“My thanks, I trust the King is happy to agree to the marriage?” This could prove the only difficulty in the match. For all that Harald was king, and his foster-brother, that didn’t prevent a rivalry from forming between them. Harald enjoyed women, too much, and Ælfgar worried that he’d refuse permission for the marriage because Ælfgar’s intended bride had refused Harald’s attentions on more than one occasion. Or so she’d told him.
“The King will be pleased his foster-brother has chosen such a politically astute wife. We’re all victims of the weaknesses of King Æthelred. Between us, we’ll ensure that his like never again attains the throne of England.”
Ælfgar nodded. There was little more he could say. There was never any point in arguing with Lady Ælfgifu about her perceptions of events during King Æthelred’s reign. Ælfgar tried to place himself in her position, but it was difficult.
He’d never known Lady Ælfgifu’s father, murdered long before he was born, or even his intended bride’s father, for Lord Morcar had also been killed many, many years ago. To continually be reminded of the two men was a conversation he could well do without. It was almost impossible for him to miss people he’d never known as anything more than a fragment of someone else’s memory.
“The King’s marriage worries me though,” as she spoke, Lady Ælfgifu threaded her arm through Ælfgar’s and indicated that they should walk on a way. He knew there was no way for him to escape this conversation, not now.
“I’m sure the King will marry when he finds the right woman,” Ælfgar tried to mollify, but Lady Ælfgifu was already shaking her head to deny his words.
“He tells me he has no interest in marriage. I remind him that he must have children to rule after him, but that sends him into a rage. He demands to know why I must think of the future when he’s barely warmed his arse on his father’s throne.” Lady Ælfgifu attempted to laugh away the comment, but Ælfgar knew better.
In fact, he knew far too much about his foster-brother, much of which he couldn’t recount to Harald’s birth mother. It always made him resentful. Ælfgar had little love for his foster-brother, and even less when his honour and position was compromised by such persistent questioning by his mother.
“Who would Harald marry?” Ælfgar thought to ask as a means of distracting Lady Ælfgifu from her general moaning. “Who would you approve of?” he spoke to entice Lady Ælfgifu away from her contrary mood.
“I believe the King should have a bride from one of the ruling houses on the Continent, perhaps even a woman from the far Northern tribes between Norway and the land of the Rus.”
Ælfgar almost choked in surprise at such a sentiment but managed to hold his tongue. Lady Ælfgifu had quickly forgotten how unpopular she was in that region. Her tenure as Regent of Norway with her older son, Swein, had ended in disaster.
“Would that not prove difficult? Surely Harald must be related to many of the eligible women. His grandfather had many children, and they all married well.”
“Ah, I’m sure that there must be someone Harald isn’t related to. Perhaps I should find out?” she mused, coming to a stop as a handful of horsemen rode through the street they walked down. The wind blew strongly, but they were mostly shielded by the buildings to either side of them, although the floating cloaks of the horsemen warned that it was only an illusion of calm.
“Would that not take a great deal of time?” Ælfgar asked. He needed to move her thoughts away from such a union. It would only end in disaster should he allow her to send emissaries to the Courts of the Northern Tribes. Ælfgar knew he’d need to warn his father.
“And of course, there’s the problem of King Magnus and King Harthacnut’s war to contend with.”
She laughed, a brittle sound that made Ælfgar wince and wish he’d held his tongue.
“It
seems you don’t like my suggestions,” she remarked, and Ælfgar swallowed thickly. His mother was much the better person for Lady Ælfgifu to be having this conversation with.
“I would have thought that speed was essential to organising the marriage. As you say, Harald must have an heir. At the moment Harthacnut is his heir. I can’t imagine that’s to his liking.”
Ælfgar didn’t need to mention that it wasn’t to hers either. He could tell, from the tensing of her threaded arm through his own, that he was right to offer the caution. Harald was Lady Ælfgifu’s only surviving child. Should he die without issue, all that she’d worked so hard to achieve would be gone between one breath and the next.
“No, and neither is it for the good of England,” she offered, her voice too bright.
“Then I’d suggest a woman of English birth, at the most a daughter of one of the Welsh kings.”
“If only you had been graced with a sister,” Lady Ælfgifu taunted, and in those words, she gave away too much of herself. She would never have said as much to his mother’s face, but it didn’t stop her thinking it. Ælfgar stored the information away. He must never let his mother know of Lady Ælfgifu’s slights.
“And of course, your cousin doesn’t have quite such an impeccable bloodline as yourself.” Ælfgar held to himself that Æthelflæd wouldn’t be happy with Harald for a husband. She knew him too well from Harald’s time as Leofric’s foster-son.
“What of the other Mercian Earls? Surely Hrani or Eilifr have daughters or nieces who’d be suitable wives?” He was determined to ignore Lady Ælfgifu’s slurs on his cousin’s birth, she was half-Danish, just as Harald was. Lady Ælfgifu could be a bitch when she wanted to be.
“Eilifr is, of course, far too closely allied with bloody Earl Godwine. I couldn’t allow my son to marry anyone who might have such divided loyalties. And anyway, his brother was a treasonous bastard. I believe the union would be totally unsuitable, even if there were an eligible daughter. Hrani has only sons, I believe,” she continued, her voice trailing off as she spoke, as though lost in thought.