by M J Porter
“Wulfstan can go to Earl Hrani. I’m keen to have a set of eyes peering over his shoulders.”
Neither of those posts was to the young men’s liking, and Leofric appreciated that one day their mother’s demands would be overridden, but now was not the time.
“And what should I do?” it was his niece who asked, her chin jutted out, displeased to be overlooked.
For a long moment, Leofric was unsure what he could do with the young woman. His sister smiled benignly at him, but he knew it would mean trouble if he could find no suitable position for Æthelflæd.
“Could you escort Wulfstan? I believe he’d benefit from your advice?” Æthelflæd grinned at Wulfstan with delight, and her older cousin shared her enjoyment. Wulfstan was not about to look at his younger cousin and see her as ineffectual. He’d experienced the sharp end of her tongue on too many occasions. Only then Leofric’s wife spoilt the delight of the younger generation.
“Yes, and while you’re there, keep your eye out for eligible brides and grooms. Earl Hrani has a large family. An alliance with him would be beneficial.” Leofric suppressed a smirk as the faces of his nephews, and his niece fell.
“Getting married isn’t quite as bad as you all think,” Ælfgar said quickly, daring his cousins to gainsay him, but it was his wife who did.
“That’s what you think. It’s only day two.”
As laughter swept over them all, Leofric took a moment to truly gaze at his family. Seated, they numbered no more than twenty, and yet their influence encompassed much of Mercia. For all that though, he feared it would never be enough. Not with Earl Godwine trying to win favours for his sons from the king at every available opportunity.
Leofric could only hope that his family’s long survival meant much to the people of Mercia, and also to their king. Without the House of Leofwine, Mercia could be unruly to govern, even with Harald, of Mercian decent, as their king. Especially when Harald’s eyes could only focus to the east, and never to the west, where the Mercians knew the real threat manifested.
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle Entry for AD1037
This year was Harald chosen king over all, and Harthacnut forsaken, because he stayed too long in Denmark; and then they drove out his mother Emma, the queen, without any kind of mercy, against the stormy winter: and she came then to Bruges beyond sea; and Baldwin the earl there received her, and there kept her the while she had need.
Chapter Twelve
AD1038 London Ælfgar
A rough shake of his arm and Ælfgar’s eyes opened, even though full dark echoed through his chamber and he could see little.
“Shush, My Love,” his wife’s voice was cold, chill, and he tried to find the pinpoints of her eyes, worry having his hand reaching for her before he’d processed her words.
“You must come, please,” there was such entreaty in her voice that he found himself on his feet without thought.
“Put this on,” she ordered, shoving some sort of material toward him, and it was then he remembered that he slept naked. Hastily, even though she’d not caused a candle to be lit, he ran the offered item through his hands and discovered it was a tunic. He shrugged it over his head, as Ælfgifu further offered him a pair of trousers as well. Next, boots were thrust at him, and only then did she lead him from their bedchamber.
He was trying to remember if they’d gone to bed together, but his memory was too sleep-adled. Not that he’d drunk before retiring for the night, far from it, in fact. No, he’d stayed chillingly sober as he’d watched the king descend into a drunken stupor. Yet again.
When the great earls were far from Harald, the strain of his position always showed. Ælfgar had thought to speak to his father about it, but he already shared too many of Harald’s secrets to expect his father to understand all of his worries and concerns.
Without the knowledge of Harald’s rages, and his secret marriage, it would be impossible to convince his father of what his real concerns were. He held out a hope that when a child was born of the union, Harald would cast off his aversion to making his marriage public, and would also relax more.
At the moment, knowing as he must, that should he lose his life, his half-brother would claim England as his own, and put all Harald’s efforts to the fire, Harald was incapable of enjoying what he’d sought all his life, the kingship, and the respect of all.
Ælfgar would have liked to demand to know what his wife’s actions meant, but he trusted her more than enough to merely follow in her footsteps. They went down a deserted hallway, where the only sounds he could hear were the snores of other visitors to the hall in London, and the occasional cry from the household troop on guard duty outside the hall, which seeped through the thick walls.
London yet slept, the deep sleep of the middle of the night, and as he shivered, he wished he yet drowsed as well.
Elgiva brought him to a stop in the great hall. It seemed deserted, as Ælfgar used what little light remained from the hearth, to peer around him. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for the hall to be devoid of all, even the servant who tended the fire all night long. On occasion, Harald had ordered everyone from the hall, as he drank himself ever deeper into the misery being king had visited upon him.
Ælfgar had little sympathy for him. To be King of England, Harald had perpetrated acts that even now disturbed Ælfgar. What Harald had allowed to be done to Lord Alfred, the most heinous. If Harald regretted it now, what did that mean for the men and women who’d also suffered?
Only, his wife didn’t lead him to the slumped figure of the king on the dais, but rather to a mass close to the hearth. Only then did Ælfgar hear the soft sound of sobbing, so broken that only if he listened closely could he even hear it, despite the silence of the room.
His heart sank at the noise, and then thudded into his boots, as his wife tenderly embraced the woman who moaned so feebly.
Even in the terrible light, he could see, far too easily, the angry bruises that marked her shoulders, and the blood that dripped from a terrible gash, both to her forehead and along the top of her left leg.
“Help me,” his wife pleaded, and immediately, Ælfgar bent to examine Alfifa.
“My Lady,” he whispered, “can you hear me?” Hard eyes met his own, as his wife tutted.
“She won’t speak. We must heal her.”
Ælfgar swallowed heavily. His wife was right. This was not the first time that Harald had vented his rage on the woman he supposedly loved, but it looked to have been the most vicious attack yet. He’d tried to convince Harald’s wife to leave him before, it was entirely within her rights to leave a marriage where she was forced to deny the marriage had taken place, let alone endure such beatings. But she’d always refused, even on his own wedding night.
Quickly Ælfgar considered what could be done now.
“We must take her from here,” he whispered heatedly. “She won’t survive much more of this.” His wife was working quickly to try and stem the bleeding, and tears sheeted her own eyes.
“The bastard,” Elgiva muttered as she worked, but she didn’t try and argue with him. For that he was grateful.
“I’ll speak with the door warden. Ensure he lets us leave here.”
“Where will we go?” his wife asked, suddenly alarmed, but Ælfgar was already walking away. He’d thought about this in the past. How would he remove the wife from the husband? He needed to do it quickly, and secretly, but he also had to cure the woman first. Her wounds were too great to be shoved on a horse and forced to ride into the darkness of night for the distance that Ælfgar wanted to take her.
“Good man,” he called as he opened the door a small crack. His words were met by the blinking eyes of the door warden.
“My Lord,” the man said, trying, and failing to cover that he’d been more than half asleep.
“What happened here?” Ælfgar demanded, and now the man looked decidedly uncomfortable in the flicker of the brands that lit the area between the gated enclosure and the door.
&nbs
p; “Don’t lie,” Ælfgar said before the man could even consider it.
“He was in a terrible rage. I,” and the man swallowed heavily. “I called to offer my assistance when the screams became so loud, but Harald offered me death if I entered. I, I had one of the servants find your wife,” he cringed as he spoke, but Ælfgar just nodded.
“I’ll take her from here. She needs a healer to see to her. I must have your word that you’ll keep this from Harald, should he ask you. Hopefully, he’ll wake when you’re long gone from your post and won’t remember who you are.”
“My Lord,” the man nodded in hasty agreement. “Please, do what you can for her.” His fingers tightened into a fist as he spoke. “Whether king or not, no man should treat a woman in such a way.” Rage infused the man’s face, and Ælfgar offered a swift prayer that the door warden was on their side without having to threaten him.
Returning to his wife, he bent and scooped the almost still form of Harald’s wife into his arms. So close to her, the smell of blood was overwhelming, and he gritted his teeth to fight his fury. Harald hadn’t learnt this from his father, Leofric, or even from his own father. Cnut had preferred to hurt his wives with his words and his absences, rather than his fists.
“Quickly, cover her with a cloak,” Ælfgar instructed his wife. As she rushed to fling her own cloak across her friend’s body, fearful eyes glanced back toward the slumbering king, loud snores coming from his still form.
“Ignore him,” Ælfgar instructed. “We must get her to a healer and then out of London. Quickly, open the door, the door warden won’t put up an argument.”
Elgiva sprinted to the door, standing and waiting for Ælfgar to reach her, before opening the door wide enough for him to slide through. Outside, the door warden had clearly spoken with the gate warden, and it too yawned open, unguarded so that none could be a witness to Ælfgar’s clandestine actions.
In the dim light from the lit brands, Ælfgar waited for his wife to close the door, and then together, they darted out of the gate, as quickly as they could. The thought that Harald might wake at any time dogged Ælfgar’s heels.
The streets were deserted, as though all feared to witness Ælfgar’s actions, and in the faint moonlight from a half moon, Ælfgar stepped carefully, and as quickly as he could.
In his arms, the small figure occasionally moaned but was mostly unaware of what happened. He shuddered in the chill wind that meandered along the roadway, as he looked for markers that would lead him where he needed to go.
There was little point in seeking out the monks close to the king’s halls. Ælfgar didn’t want to make it easy for Harald to track down his missing wife when he remembered she was gone. Neither did he want to make it easy for her to return to her husband.
At his side, his wife hurried to keep up with him, and he almost wished he’d sent her back to their chamber. Only he knew she wouldn’t have gone.
In his arms, the slight weight began to increase uncomfortably, and he cursed for not thinking to order a horse brought, as opposed to carrying her. But then, a horse would have drawn attention to what had happened, and what he planned to do now. The clatter of a horse’s hooved over the roadway was always noted by the nosy, no matter the time of night.
He didn’t want that.
A shout from in front of him and a shaft of light across the roadway made him freeze where he stood. A shape staggered from one of the buildings to his left, as he held his breath and trembling arms tight to his body. Luckily, whoever it was, could barely walk straight, let alone see into the dark gloom. The noise of the other’s wavering passage down the roadway allowed Ælfgar more freedom with his own movements. For a time, he didn’t need to consider where his feet landed, or whether he breathed too deeply.
When the figure wound its way from before him and into the door of another dwelling, he cursed once more, missing the opportunity to mask his movements.
“Where are we going?” his wife asked him urgently.
“To the nuns,” he replied through gritted teeth, unable to make out his wife’s face because of a stray cloud gliding past the moon. However, his words must have satisfied her, because she stepped in front of him, perhaps more confident of the way than he was.
Indeed, as she led, he was convinced that their speed increased, and he wished he’d thought of asking her to lead sooner.
When the cloud cover finally cleared the moon once more, Ælfgar was relieved to see the gateway of the nunnery before him. But now came the tricky part, they needed to gain admittance, and they needed to do so quickly and quietly.
In front of him, Elgiva approached the closed doorway, set into the Benedictine wall, and tapped as loudly as she dared on the well-seasoned wood of the door. He hardly dared breath as they waited, hoping someone would come to their aid.
In his arm, the wounded woman was stirring, and he feared she’d wake, only to scream in pain when she remembered her injuries.
Barely believing what he saw, the door swung open, just a little, and a small face, just the eyes showing, gazed at them for a brief moment, before swinging shut again. Only for it to open fully a mere moment later.
“Come in, My Lord,” the nun spoke, her voice soft and yet authoritative.
Ælfgar registered that she knew who he was, but was more concerned with his patient.
His wife babbled to the nun, as the door closed behind them. The sister ushered them into the main complex of the nunnery and church, through a small building lit by a single candle, and with a small prayer book open on a lectern.
“Come, I’ll lead you to the sick room, and wake Sister Cwenburh. She’s our healer.”
With precise movements, the nun led them across a small enclosure, swept clean of all detritus, and into a larger building, looming in the darkness. Ælfgar caught a swift glimpse of the nunnery’s Church as an outline against the moon, before he followed her into the building, and offered a speedy prayer that he’d done the right thing.
The infirmary was a compact building, made of wood, but with wicker partitions to allow the patients some privacy. A few snuffles and snorts could be heard from those who slept, as Ælfgar was directed to place Alfifa onto a spare bed.
It was an unpleasant experience. The blood from her wounds had started to clot, despite the severity of them, and where it had leaked from the impromptu bandages Elgiva had fashioned, it stuck to Ælfgar, and while he tried to place her on the bed, he found himself permanently attached to her.
The Sister quickly noticed Ælfgar's plight and tut-tutted.
“Wait, My Lord, I’ll get some warm water.” And so he hovered over the mumbling form of Alfifa as his wife watched him with haunted eyes. Neither spoke, almost as though to put a voice to their thoughts would make them more real.
Brusquely, the Sister reappeared, a small wooden bowl in her hand, and in the other some clean linens. With care, she manoeuvred her way behind Ælfgar, not easy between the confines of the wicker partitions, and eased between Alfifa’s head, and Ælgar’s own sweaty chest. She shook her head and tutted again and again, as she worked, her eyes scouring the wounds that had been inflicted on the woman lying on the bed.
With relief, the Sister instructed Ælfgar to rise, and he did so, finally free of his burden.
“Stay a moment longer. I’ll get Sister Cwenburh.”
Again, the Sister left Ælfgar and his wife alone, his wife quietly sobbing as she finally understood the full extent of her friend’s injuries. Harald, known for his rages against this woman, had shown his worse this time.
Ælfgar rounded the bed and cradled his wife in his arms. Yet, even with that comfort, she couldn’t take her eyes from the still form, as Ælfgar swallowed his own bile at the hideous wounds.
Harald had swiped Alfifa’s neck and left leg, but it seemed this had only been part of his attack upon her. Her face was already beginning to bruise, her lips puffy from the impact, and her arms were covered in bruises that flashed darkly in the light from the single
candle.
“Come,” the Sister said, when she returned, another at her side. Sister Cwenburh was a young woman, compassion already etched onto her clear face as she swept an assessing glance over her latest patient.
Guided by the Sister who’d assisted them so far, Ælfgar and his wife were led away, although not very far. At the centre of the infirmary, unseen because of the wrappings of wicker fencing, a small hearth gave off heat and provided somewhere for them to sit.
“You can remain here,” the Sister told them. “I’ll assist Sister Cwenburh, another has gone to guard the gate. I take it there’ll be no trouble?” The Sister spoke a caution, and Ælfgar found his voice at last.
“No, I assure you. We travelled by stealth and without horses so no one would see where we went.”
“Excellent, and now, stay here. I’ll return when I can tell you more.”
The words, now filled with warmth for Ælfgar’s caution and worry, eased his frantically beating heart. He didn’t fear the king’s wrath, no, he feared that the journey had been too long, and Alfifa would be beyond help.
But before she went, the Sister paused, as though reminded of something. Quickly she opened a wooden chest close to the hearth and pulled from it a bundle of fabric.
“Here,” she offered. “You might also suffer from shock. Keep warm until I can do more for you.”
The furs she offered, two of them, smelled of seasoned wood, and Ælfgar felt comforted by the familiar smell, as he slipped one of the furs around his wife’s shaking body, before taking the other for himself. Still, he pulled Elgiva tight to his side, inside his own cloak. The sweat of his exertions had kept him warm throughout their secretive walk. His wife had not had the same, and he feared for her, as her teeth chattered and frightened eyes looked his way. He should not have covered Alfifa with his wife’s cloak and then forced her to walk almost from one side of London to the next, without such a comfort.
“Shush,” he tried to console. “Close your eyes. We must wait for the Sisters to do their work before we worry more than we already are.”