The Earl's King

by M J Porter

  “A sum, comparable with those paid in the past.”

  This brought some general whispering and agreement from all, only for Earl Godwine to stand. His face was pensive once more.

  “But if we make the offer, Harthacnut could be insulted if we offer too little, and if we offer too much, he might still wish to negotiate, and then the sum will be higher still.”

  “What then would you suggest?” Leofric asked. He held his voice steady. After all, Earl Godwine’s words weren’t necessarily a criticism.

  “I believe we should wait for Harthacnut to raise the issue, not just offer it outright.”

  “Won’t that also anger him?”

  Leofric focused on Earl Godwine, and not the people assembled before them. It was as though only they spoke, in conversation, perhaps before a hearth or with ale in hand.

  Earl Godwine turned reflective at the words.

  “It might be impossible not to annoy Harthacnut,” Leofric conceded as the silence continued.

  “Possibly,” Earl Godwine agreed. “But it would be best if the effort was made.”

  “How many ships form his army?” Leofric asked, turning to the assembly now. He was sure someone would know the answer amongst them. He put aside that he already knew the number. It was better to involve as many as possible.

  “Sixty or sixty-two,” it was the fresh-faced Sweyn Godwinesson who answered from amongst the assembled to the rear of the hall. Leofric, while struggling in the past to determine the differences between him and his next oldest brother, had devised a way of telling them apart. It was all about the eyes and the stance.

  Sweyn Godwinesson was well aware of his position. He flaunted it whenever he could. No doubt, he’d have enjoyed announcing the answer to Leofric’s question, perhaps even doing so to humiliate the man who was a constant thorn in his father’s side.

  “Near enough five thousand men then?” the number, despite the fact he knew it, surprised Leofric when he said it aloud. How had Harthacnut managed to entice so many to support him, when his military campaign against Norway had ended in treaty, not victory?

  “I’d suggest £15,000 as a figure that shows the Witan’s commitment to peace and the welcoming of our new king.”

  The sum, while not huge, was considerable. Leofric looked into the hopeful faces of those before him. No doubt they calculated how much their own levies would be, and if they could afford it. Leofric knew he could, but spared a thought for those who would have begun the New Year with plans for investments and new building projects. They couldn’t have envisaged that their funds would be depleted on winning over a new king of England.

  “It will not be enough,” Earl Godwine stated. “Harthacnut will demand more.” There was no note of rancour in his voice as he spoke. For a moment Leofric considered the possibility that Earl Godwine already knew Harthacnut’s demands. Perhaps, after all, the ties of family had allowed Earl Godwine to retain the good wishes of the young man he’d once supported as king of England, until it was politic for him not to.

  “My Lords,” it was Bishop Ælfweard who stood and spoke. “I’d add a caution. The portents for the coming year are poor. Already, heat begins to bake the land. I’m fearful of a famine year. I’ve been receiving worrying reports from those far to the South of here. Barely had Easter passed than the weather turned unseasonably warm. The wineries are the only who seem content with the warmth.”

  Leofric considered the words of the bishop. It was true. The weather had been warm, but to worry of famine, already? Was the bishop wise, or merely trying to dissuade the Witan from demanding too much.

  Yet there was a thunder of acclaim for the words, and Leofric gazed into the suddenly worried faces of a people who needed good harvests to flourish. There was little point in having good silver pennies adorned with King Harald’s image if there was no grain to buy.

  “It’s worth considering,” Leofric concurred. “If the harvest fails, Harthacnut will be king over hungry people. Best that they keep their wealth to themselves.”

  Yet Earl Godwine grimaced. “It’s too early to make dire predictions,” he complained. “Winter is barely gone. I’m sure the rain will return soon. Do we really wish to risk our new king’s wrath because we’re fearful of rumbling bellies?”

  Leofric shook his head at the words. There spoke a man who’d never known real hunger. Once more there was a murmur of discontentment.

  “I suggest our delegates make the offer, whether on the demands of Harthacnut or through their own deliberations of £15,000. They can increase it to £20,000 if they feel it necessary, but I’m content the sum is, currently, manageable and not a disrespectful amount.”

  “And if it must go higher?” Earl Godwine spoke with some urgency. It was clear he wasn’t convinced Harthacnut would accept.

  “The delegates must speak with the mind of the Witan foremost. And the Witan must govern for all of England, at the moment. We’re without a king, but we’re not without our responsibilities for the prosperity of England.”

  “I know a war would, probably, be more costly to us. But, a war might still come. King Magnus may follow Harthacnut to England, may make further demands on him. Gruffydd and Donnchaid Mac Crinain might yet savage the borders. The English can’t pay all they have when war might, or might not, still come.”

  “I simply don’t wish our delegates to falter because they’ve reached the agreed amount too soon. Perhaps we should give them those figures as a guide, not a demand.”

  Leofric felt uneasy at the thought. None there would purposefully wish to impose unreasonable demands on the English, but, caught in the spur of the moment, under the scrutiny of a vengeful young man, it was just possible that the compensation stipulated could spiral beyond the reach of all but the more wealthy nobility.

  Leofric forbore to answer, turning instead to gauge the reaction from those within the hall at Oxford. The doors at the end of the hallway had been opened to allow some desultory breeze to blow through the too warm room.

  The tide of change had turned once more, and while Leofric knew Harthacnut’s reinstatement might prove worthwhile to his cause, on the wain under King Harald, he couldn’t be assured of anything, other than the changing of the seasons, and the need for the English to have a king who valued her.

  That was not always the primary concern of the Danish men. They quested after England’s wealth with little thought for the processes involved in garnering it.

  Discussion once more sprang up amongst the assembly, as Leofric hesitated before them all, Earl Godwine at his side. Earl Godwine’s jaw was held tense, his posture that of a man under pressure, and Leofric considered the other earl’s dilemma once more.

  Earl Godwine was held accountable for the death of Lord Alfred, Harthacnut’s half-brother. Earl Godwine had gone from supporting Harthacnut to abandoning him when Harthacnut had stayed away from England for too long. Earl Godwine had turned his back on Lady Emma, Harthacnut’s mother. Not that the pair didn’t share a difficult relationship. Indeed, Harthacnut’s seeking out of his mother now was most out of character for him.

  All in all, it seemed as though, no matter what Earl Godwine did, he’d be damned by Harthacnut.

  Leofric then considered his own position. As foster-father to Harald, his support of the older brother as king was at least understandable, even putting aside Cnut’s final conversation with him. Harald had been in England. Harthacnut had not.

  Harald had been a Mercian, as was Leofric, and he’d won the support of all of Mercia.

  Leofric had risked much in trying to protect Lord Alfred.

  Leofric’s priorities might have been split, but he’d not compromised himself. A longtime ally of Lady Ælfgifu, he’d also held true to his family’s long-standing friendship with Lady Emma, as tricky as it had been to balance the two.

  In the end, Leofric had earned the enmity of King Harald with his approach to life under the middle of Cnut’s sons, but he’d not veered from his intentions. Never
. He’d done what needed to be done.

  It was likely that Harthacnut would appreciate some of his actions, if not all of them. As his father’s son, Harthacnut would understand the ambiguity of all that had happened in the last five years.

  Perhaps, after all, Leofric had less to fear than Earl Godwine. Not that he could be smug about it. Earl Godwine would ingratiate himself with Harthacnut, as he’d even managed with King Harald, and Godwine still had too many sons to his name.

  It was one of the king’s thegns who eventually commanded the attention of everyone. An older man, dressed as befitted his rank, Leofric knew Osgod Clapa well. He was known for being a wily man, never willingly beaten, and yet magnanimous if it should happen.

  “The consensus is that the delegates should not be constrained by a figure to offer the king, but that they should, of course, ensure the burden is not too onerous.” He swung his head as he spoke, his hand as well, taking in the array of bobbing heads.

  Earl Godwine was quick to respond. “Agreed,” he almost bellowed in Leofric’s ear, while Leofric nodded his own agreement.

  “Where should the king be welcomed back to England? Should he choose to come?” Earl Siward spoke the question, and again it was a worthy one.

  “Sandwich,” Earl Godwine stated, with no room for argument. “It was from Sandwich that Cnut once began his invasion of England. The symmetry will appeal to Harthacnut, although he will, of course, come in peace.” Not that Earl Godwine’s tone offered much assurance of that.

  It was lost on no one that Sandwich was also a part of Earl Godwine’s domain. It was evident he meant to have the first attempt at winning Harthacnut to his side.

  Yet Leofric felt he needed to add something, as unhappy as he was with the proposal.

  “London would not be diplomatic,” Leofric cautioned. “It’s closely connected with King Harald and his reign. I imagine that Harthacnut would take that as an insult, as he would if Gainsborough was suggested, or Northampton.”

  Both places had been stalwart supporters of Harthacnut’s father and grandfather, and yet they were also too intimately connected with King Harald and his mother.

  “It must be Sandwich,” Earl Godwine restated. “It’s the closest port to Bruges.”

  The debate was not artfully arranged, and yet Leofric saw that there was little point in arguing the point further. Sandwich, while in Wessex, was the closest port to Bruges, regardless of where Cnut had once begun his own invasion of England.

  “Then it’s settled,” Archbishop Eadsige confirmed, standing to bring the meeting to an end. It was, Leofric realised, a strange affair with no king to dismiss his counsellors.

  As the meeting broke up, Leofric watched the movements of all, those speaking with each other, and those going out of their way to avoid one another. The English Witan was a hotbed of debate and arguments that were resolved through compromise, and sometimes the will of the king. Leofric was not sure how Harthacnut would respond to such an imposition upon him.

  The kings of Denmark had no Witan to guide them. They ruled with their sword and their shield, through the might of their character and the ability to compel men and women to do as commanded. England would not take kindly to similar methods.

  Chapter Thirty

  June AD1040 Sandwich Ælfgar

  The fleet was sighted long before it was able to make landfall.

  News of Harthacnut’s acceptance of the Witan’s request had quickly spread, but it had taken some time to organise Harthacnut’s relocation to England. In that time, many of the nobles and their attendants had gathered at Sandwich, keen to be the first to win the favour of their new king. And perhaps, Ælfgar thought ruefully, to judge him. For Harthacnut was a stranger to almost all. Himself included.

  The men who’d gone to petition Harthacnut to be England’s king were due to return with him, on the ships that he’d brought together to invade England and force King Harald to war. Yet Orkning, as ever resourceful, and accompanying his Uncle, Godwine Leofwinesson, had returned to England before all.

  Orkning had been filled with foreboding for the future. Harthacnut, he warned, was not a gentle leader. Neither was his treatment of his mother all that it should be, although, Orkning had commented, it was unlikely that the English would see the rage he held against her.

  No, Orkning had cautioned, Harthacnut would not be a balm to soothe the fraught undercurrents since Cnut’s death. Far from it, in fact.

  His father had listened carefully to Orkning, as always, and had seemed serene with the dire warnings. Orkning, on the other hand, had paced and wrung his hands, within the hall they’d taken shelter in while they waited for the king’s arrival.

  Only then had Orkning placed a vellum into Leofric’s hands, and only then, had he ceased his pacing.

  “Lady Emma, the Queen Dowager, or the King’s Mother, or however I’m to name her, recognised me. She bid me bring this to you. I haven’t read it.”

  “How was she?” his father asked. Leofric’s face was filled with concern, while beside his father, Lady Godgifu had pulled a long face of annoyance and rolled her eyes. If the atmosphere in the room hadn’t been so tense, Ælfgar might have laughed at his mother’s poor humour.

  With King Harald’s death, she too had lost much of her influence, although not all of it. Before, Leofric had relied on her to assist him with his relationship with Lady Ælfgifu and also with King Harald. Now, it would be Leofric who was responsible for salvaging the family’s fortunes, and Lady Emma, and his own honour, were the means to do so.

  Lady Godgifu would no doubt come to her senses in time, but Ælfgar pitied his father. His mother was not an easy woman when frustrated. She’d enjoyed, rather too much, having Leofric in her debt.

  “My Lord.” And Leofric glared at Orkning.

  “Leofric,” Orkning mouthed, earning himself a glare from Lady Godgifu who had chosen to disapprove of that lack of protocol because she was in a sour mood. Orkning tried hard to ignore Lady Godgifu. Ælfgar thought him a brave man to do so.

  “As I said, I’m not sure that the king and his mother are as reconciled as it might appear. Harthacnut is a harsh youth. In general, I’d say that exile has done Lady Emma some good. She’s in robust health, her tongue acerbic, and her mood ripe for challenge, but she’s much under the sway of her son. Still, she’s sent you this. I imagine it’ll tell you more.”

  Leofric opened the vellum then, cracking the seal that had held the rolled document tightly shut, and squinted at what he saw.

  Ælfgar had wondered if he’d keep it to himself, but Leofric had begun to speak, sharing it with all of them without time to ensure Lady Emma didn’t write to chastise or embarrass.

  “My Lord Leofric,” the letter was formal enough. “Bruges, On this day, June 10th 1040.”

  “I write in friendship, as I have done throughout my long exile, and when able to ensure my words would be heard or read only by yourself.

  My exile is at an end, and my son will be king. All is as it should be.

  And yet, my son is proud of his heritage and wrathful of the failure of the English to herald him as their king. There will be a reckoning.

  My son is unused to the steadying words of anyone other than his Aunt and cousin, and I don’t believe that he’ll be open to advise from the nobility of England, or even of myself.

  I write, in friendship, to advise you that my son, however, holds you in high regard for your efforts toward my son, Lord Alfred, savagely attacked on the orders of King Harald and with the connivance of Earl Godwine.

  My son will take his revenge on England. Be sure to ensure you’re well prepared and never tire of reminding him of your support for Lord Alfred and for me, and Lord Edward.”

  At the end of the words, Leofric had looked pensive, Orkning even more so, whereas Lady Godgifu had rolled her eyes.

  “Already, the House of Swein makes its demands on you.” Lady Godgifu angry eyes had settled on her husband, and uncharacteristically Leofric ha
d snapped a reply.

  “The House of Swein has never stopped, Lady Wife, of that you’re fully aware.”

  So now Ælfgar was in attendance upon his father in Sandwich, waiting for Harthacnut to step from his ship.

  The seventy-eight ships, sixteen from the English ship-army, including Leofric’s own craft, and sixty-two from Harthacnut’s force, had made a spectacular sight as they’d floated toward the English shore.

  A myriad of colours had flashed from the sails, few alike, apart from those in the English ship-army which all carried the Wessex wyvern. Leofric’s own ship had been festooned with the Mercian earl’s double-headed eagle picked out in rich russet against a background of bleached canvas.

  Ælfgar had swelled with pride on seeing the ship but had then raced to the quayside in time to see Harthacnut disembark.

  In his mind he still visualised Harthacnut as the petulant child he’d once been. It was a shock to realise that the assured young man walking toward the massed earls of England was indeed Harthacnut.

  There was no denying that his father had been Cnut. Harthacnut walked the same way and carried himself with the same self-assurance.

  That he came dressed for battle did not escape Ælfgar’s notice, either.

  Harthacnut may have been denied his attack on England, but he was happy to intimate that whether as a warrior or an invited king, he’d have taken England by force, should Harald have still lived.

  Harthacnut walked alone, a ceremonial cloak covering his back although it was little needed as the unrelenting sun beat down on them all. The predictions of a drought and famine year were quickly becoming realised.

  Behind him, Ælfgar could see Lady Emma, dressed as regally as ever, and beside her walked another man. He shared Harthacnut’s sharp features, but Ælfgar didn’t know who he was. If asked he would have thought him Harthacnut’s other cousin, the brother to his regent in Denmark, but he wasn’t sure. It might equally be someone else.