The Earl's King

by M J Porter

  “So, we know next to nothing about the governance of Denmark since Cnut’s death, other than she’s threatened by Norway. What of Cnut’s other dominions? Skåne for instance.”

  Earl Godwine shook his head now. “I hear even less. Jakob Anund still rules, but he supports King Magnus of Norway. What happens elsewhere, I simply don’t know, although I understand that Magnus’ half-Uncle is in exile amongst the Rus, just biding his time until he can return to Norway.”

  The king still spoke with his mother, as Leofric glanced toward the door. He was hoping his nephew would reappear soon but then decided the answer might take longer to determine than the short time he’d given him. Would the young man want to come back and say that there was no news from the quayside, in front of their king? Leofric doubted it and suddenly wished he’d made his intentions less clear.

  “Perhaps I should go to the quayside myself,” he mumbled softly. “Maybe we both should. The young men might wish to be circumspect with what they learn.”

  Earl Godwine laughed now.

  “My sons will return first. They’ll have no such compunction.”

  For a moment Leofric wanted to berate the arrogant earl but held his tongue. It might be a source of pride for Earl Godwine to know that his sons wouldn’t think of calling the king’s mother a liar, but Leofric hoped his nephew had learnt more tact.

  Still, it would be better for Leofric if Godwine’s sons returned first with whatever information they had. Instead, the blame fell on Earl Godwine than himself should the truth prove to be different to that offered by the king’s mother. He was already struggling enough to keep the king’s opinion of him favourable.

  A sullen silence fell within the hall. The king and his mother, partaking now of their wine, watched the two earls with similar expressions, as though daring the younger men to return with words that gainsaid Lady Ælfgifu’s.

  Again, Leofric’s thoughts turned to why Lady Ælfgifu would take such a risk. If Harthacnut weren’t raising a fleet, the king would look a fool for his worries. Or maybe she hoped that if the king were given the resources to counter an imaginary invasion, he’d then be able to attack Denmark himself.

  Leofric had never considered that possibility. But, Harald had been raised on the stories of his father’s martial glory. Was it too big a leap to think that England could invade Denmark?

  Was it something the English people would ever consider?

  While it might be pleasant to exact some revenge on the Danes for all the damage they’d inflicted on England since the first Viking attack over two hundred years ago, Leofric simply didn’t believe it was the nature of the English to attack Denmark.

  The English lived on an island, with some problematic neighbours. That was all the fighting that previous kings had been prepared to countenance. Nothing further. After all, the English fleet consisted of very few ships. What would it take to move so many men to Denmark? Far more vessels than the English currently had equipped for such an endeavour.

  And far more than even the largest geld raised could build. The English, unlike the Danes, were not a nation of sea-travellers.

  No, Leofric dismissed the thought. Harald didn’t wish to invade Denmark. But he undoubtedly wished to do something that involved warriors and his half-brother’s humiliation or death.

  The door opened then, admitting a streak of sunlight, and as Earl Godwine had said, it was one of his son’s who stepped through the door first. Even though the king must have been aware of his return, the returning youth went straight to his father and whispered to him.

  Leofric couldn’t hear what was said, as Godwine had taken himself to the side of the blazing hearth, but it seemed the news was good, for the other man smiled.

  Thanking his son, the younger man turned to leave once more. It seemed his task wasn’t yet done.

  “My Lord King,” Earl Godwine approached Harald and Lady Ælfgifu, a small bow as he did so for interrupting them, while Leofric strode to stand beside him. Leofric didn’t know what the news was, but he hoped it would be delivered with some tact.

  “My son tells me that a ship is just in the process of docking. He believes it’s from Ribe. His brother is waiting to make contact with the crew, and will return when they know more.”

  “And what else have they learned,” Lady Ælfgifu asked, her tone waspish.

  “Little, My Lady. There are few in the quayside today. The seas are still too rough for many to attempt a crossing. The traders are preparing to leave as soon as the weather improves. They think it might be another week.” Earl Godwine managed to speak with his Court polish, with little or no nuance to his voice, and with only a hint of his suspicions regarding Lady Ælfgifu’s informant.

  Yet, although he had such paltry information to hand, it was in itself telling. A lone ship from Ribe and no other ships captains or traders prepared to yet leave the quayside. It did not bode well for Lady Ælfgifu’s ship’s captain risking such a journey from Denmark. If indeed he had.

  But Earl Godwine held his tongue as he bowed and returned to the hearth. Leofric quirked a raised eyebrow at Lady Ælfgifu, as though daring her to continue with her lies, but she snatched her gaze from his scrutiny. Leofric too took a seat close to the hearth, but away from Earl Godwine. He didn’t wish to speak to anyone.

  Leofric didn’t appreciate being made to look a fool and neither did he think that Lady Ælfgifu was fair to the people of England. Did she really care so little for England that she’d force a war on them they didn’t need? It angered Leofric. Had her experiences of governing so poorly in Norway not made her more circumspect in her dealings with the English? His ears weren’t deaf to the names she’d earned in Norway. They hadn’t been complimentary.

  It wasn’t the death of her son that had brought about the end of their joint rule. Instead, they’d been summoned home, by Cnut, in disgrace, and replaced by Earl Hakon.

  Suddenly, Leofric could sit still no longer, and calling for his cloak from an attentive servant, he stepped outside into the bright, if cold, day. A breeze ruffled his cloak as he secured it in position, bringing with it the tang of the river. As two of his household troop strode to meet him, he indicated that the gate should be opened so that he could escape into London itself, and away from the king’s palace.

  As he strode, Leofric considered what he’d witnessed that day. The atmosphere in the king’s hall wasn’t toxic, but it was unpleasant. Harald needed to rule without the aid of his mother. If Harald commanded England go to war against an imaginary foe, on the advice of his mother, it would make a laughing stock of him. Perhaps that knowledge weighed heavily on Harald. Leofric only wished he knew more about his foster-son’s thinking now that he was king.

  Without speaking, Leofric wound his way through the walkways and passed the shops and houses that abutted the roadway, and onto the quayside.

  Before he reached the quayside, he had to make his way through London’s wall. It was an ancient structure, much repaired and in places, much burnt from previous attacks, and also from unwelcome fires that occasionally flared inside the walls, caused by clumsiness. Still, it held firm, and it had prevented more attacks than had managed to penetrate inside London itself.

  Although the gate was opened for the people of London to move freely to and from the bustling quayside, six men were guarding the gateway. They stood watching everyone passing with an intense gaze, and those making their way back into London came under greater scrutiny than those leaving. It seemed that Harald, and London, were taking no chances that Harthacnut may send warriors masquerading as traders to claim his kingdom back.

  London was too often the destination for Viking attackers, no more so than for Cnut. Cnut had tried to claim London for himself on many occasions as he’d made a play for the kingdom of England. His father had won London’s loyalty with a treaty. Cnut had been forced to risk a considerable number of attacks, and when they’d failed he’d punished London for its disloyalty on becoming king.

  I
t had taken many, many years for London and Cnut to be accepting of each other.

  Harald didn’t have the same uneasy relationship with London and its denizens and had chosen London as the centre of his kingdom. It was much to be preferred to Winchester, deep in Wessex territory and under the firm command of Earl Godwine.

  Out on the Thames, the water was buffeted by the steady breeze, and here, outside the protection of the walls, an icy wind blew that permeated Leofric’s thick clothes. He pulled his cloak ever tighter, keen to stay warm, and took in the scene before him.

  The quayside always appeared disorderly to him, and yet he knew that the traders, ships captains, and those who collected the trading taxes for the king, all thought the arrangements made perfect sense, from the thriving market to the wooden sheds where the ships could be worked on during the winter season.

  Leofric swept the mass of people with a practised eye, searching for his nephew and also for the ship from Ribe that Earl Godwine’s son had mentioned.

  It was always possible to detect the newest arrivals on the quayside. Those ships were the ones that were mugged by tax officials, men and women keen to trade and those who just wanted news and to know how the journey had been.

  Leofric then searched for a place of vantage, finding one to the left side of the busy gateway, raised on the small bank beside the quayside. With his two men to either side of him, he searched and looked for the answers he sought from his stationary position.

  Yet, he was honest enough with himself to know that his answers wouldn’t come from anyone here. Leofric was convinced that Lady Ælfgifu had been misled, or had just blatantly lied. He didn’t believe England was in any danger, not yet. It just wasn’t possible.

  So, how would he deal with the situation when he returned to his king’s side?

  “My Lord,” a voice called for his attention, and one of his household troop, Godwulf, stepped forward to prevent the man from getting too close. The voice belonged to a smartly dressed individual, with a rosy face, no doubt from the wind, and with light hair and a beard that looked as though they’d been tangled by a journey at sea. He didn’t envy the man when he tried to brush either and found them knotted with sea salt as well as by the wind.

  But Leofric didn’t know the man and stayed alert to any danger while indicating to Godwulf that the man could step closer.

  “My Lord Leofric, I’ve something for you,” the voice of the stranger dropped to a whisper, as he hastily thrust a rolled vellum toward Leofric.

  Without thinking, Leofric reached his hand out to take it, only for Godwulf to stop him, by stepping in front of the stranger and taking the vellum himself.

  “Where’s this from?” Godwulf asked, the vellum in his hand as he peered at it and then, for some reason, sniffed at it, although he didn’t try and open it.

  The messenger held his ground and his tongue, his eyes steady with resolve, and firmly on Leofric, behind Godwulf’s massive frame.

  “I was asked to ensure this was safely delivered to Earl Leofric. I, it,” the man stumbled a little, a hint of his accent coming to the fore, and suddenly Leofric knew who the message was from.

  “Have you come from Bruges?” Leofric asked, dropping his voice, and the messenger nodded, relief flooding his face.

  “Then you have my thanks,” reaching out, Leofric took the vellum from his warrior and handed a few silver coins to the messenger as payment for his discretion. All the same, Leofric glanced around, keen to know if the exchange was being monitored by anyone.

  “You have my sincere thanks,” Leofric offered, keen to read what Lady Emma had thought fit to send to him, but knowing it couldn’t be done here.

  “If you wish to send a reply, I’ll be here tomorrow, at this time,” the messenger added, bowing his head, and moving off into the crowd of people surging away from the quayside.

  Leofric thought to call the man back, to ask him when he’d arrived in England, and how, but by the time he’d glanced up from his consideration of the vellum, the messenger had merged back into the crowd around them. Ælfwine was also at his side.

  His nephew’s face was troubled but showed no surprise at finding his Uncle on the quayside as well.

  “Only two ships have docked in the last five days. One from Bruges, and one from Hull. Everyone I ask says the seas have been too rough for any to venture out. Well apart from the few mad bastards who have,” Ælfwine spoke with a lilt to his speech. Leofric assumed he’d enjoyed some quite interesting conversations with the ship’s captains he’d encountered. Shipmen, as Leofric knew well, could be a strange breed. They spent too long alone, with nothing but the sea and the wind for company, and they were outspoken when called upon to have an opinion. They also believed in an entire host of strange and wonderful godly creatures and beasts who saw to their luck while out at sea.

  The solitude turned some men introspective, and others the exact opposite.

  “Earl Godwine’s sons have been dogging my heels,” Ælfwine didn’t exactly complain, but it was clear he wasn’t happy. “They’ve no idea how to speak to these men, and yet I thought their grandfather was a ship’s captain?”

  “Yes, but, they’ve been raised in Wessex, not on the sea. It makes a huge difference. And probably, Earl Godwine doesn’t really speak of his father that much.”

  “Hum,” Ælfwine replied, and Leofric hoped he was thinking of Earl Godwine’s father being banished for alleged treason and not of his own father, murdered for the same crime, by none other than Earl Godwine.

  “Anyway, everyone says that the Danes are mad bastards if they’re out in this weather. The ship from Burges limped into the harbour with half the ship men vomiting over the side. It’s not the right time to travel, not with these bloody storms.” As he spoke, Ælfwine swept his cloak tight to his body. The wind was valiantly attempting to snatch it away and send it spiralling into the sky with all the other detritus of the quayside.

  And yet, Leofric thought, Lady Emma had been forced to travel much earlier in the season. He hoped her journey hadn’t been as horrific as the shipmen were implying now.

  “Who was that, anyway?” his nephew asked, pointing where the messenger had disappeared into the crowd.

  “News, I believe, from Lady Emma. No doubt just to tell me she’s settled in Bruges.”

  A flash of interest sparked in Ælfwine’s eyes, but he knew better than to ask. If he needed to know, Leofric would tell him. It had always been the same.

  “I’ll go back and speak to the ship from Ribe,” Ælfwine offered, carefully making his way back to the quayside where the newest arrival tossed violently in the wash from the main river. Leofric watched his progress, his conversation with a few of the men, and then his quick return to his side. All the time, Earl Godwine’s two sons were also trying to speak with the crew of the ship, but they had little success as they simply managed to get in the way of the shipmen who were trying to unload their boat quickly so that they could shelter from the storm.

  “Bloody hell, that wind’s cold,” Ælfwine complained standing against the stone wall of London beside his Uncle.

  “The ship from Ribe has no news of Harthacnut. But there’s a man who wishes to speak to you, Uncle Leofric. There, he’s following me.”

  Leofric peered into the thinning crowd and saw the eager eyes of another watching him. The man wore a sealskin cloak wrapped tightly around him, and strode comfortably over the wet quayside. A Dane, or so Leofric decided. Few could walk with that much confidence having just docked on dry land, and especially when the journey had been so difficult.

  “My Lord Leofric,” the man rolled the name, as though ensuring it was correct, and turned to Ælfwine with raised eyebrows, as though to test him. “Might I have a word, in private,” the stranger asked, also taking in the silent figures of Leofric’s escort.

  “Do I know you?” Leofric asked, surprised to be approached by two strangers so closely together.

  “No, My Lord, but I’ve come from Ribe
, as you no doubt know. I’ve news for you. But it’s only for your ears.”

  Leofric nodded then and indicated that the three men who stood with him should step away from a little. Ælfwine did so easily, Godwulf with poor grace.

  “I didn’t know I had friends in Ribe,” Leofric began, testing the man’s knowledge.

  “My name is Sigtrid, sworn ally to Lady Estrid Svendsdattar.”

  Ah, perhaps Leofric did have friends in Ribe after all.

  “She’s keen for you to have this,” Sigtrid handed over a small token as he spoke. Leofric turned the small carving over in his hand, almost unsurprised that it was an image of his family’s emblem of the two-headed eagle, only with Danish overtures. The shape looked more insidious than Leofric would have liked, but it was a delightful piece, all the same, made from whale ivory or something similar. He knew he’d treasure the piece no matter the nature of it coming into his hands.

  “My thanks,” he offered, turning to gaze at Sigtrid with less suspicion.

  “Lady Estrid bids me say this to you, and only to you.”

  “And what is her message.”

  Here Sigtrid smiled as though pleased by his interest.

  “She says you’ll always have an ally in Denmark, never forget that.”

  The words startled Leofric. Was Lady Estrid truly still his ally, even now?

  “Ah, she said you would look shocked. She bids you remember that she is her brother’s sister, a daughter of Swein Forkbeard. She’s well versed in the art of politics.”

  “Then I’m grateful for her understanding,” Leofric said, turning the eagle in his hands as he looked down, trying to master his expression.

  “When did you leave Ribe?” Leofric suddenly thought to ask.

  “Ah, some months ago. We’ve been trading all the way down the coastline before we made a dart across the narrow sea. The weather’s been terrible. My apologies that this has taken so long to reach you.”

  “Then you know nothing of Harthacnut’s intentions toward England?”

  “No, My Lord, apologies. When we left, King Magnus was still a bloody pain.”