by M J Porter
“My Lords,” Harthacnut’s voice held the edge of command as he stopped, abruptly before the great earls of England. His English was clipped by his years in Denmark. All four of them had taken to their knees, and behind the throng scrambled to do the same. Ælfgar crouched low, wishing he could raise his head to see just how Harthacnut was reacting to the submission of the English nation.
“You may rise,” the imperial voice commanded.
“My Lord King,” unsurprisingly it was Earl Godwine who spoke. Ælfgar saw rage flicker over Harthacnut’s visage, and an even more hate-filled glare emanated from Lady Emma. Ælfgar groaned. Earl Godwine should have allowed his father to speak for the English.
“Earl Godwine,” Harthacnut looked the earl over slowly, painstakingly. Ælfgar wished he could see the earl’s face. He doubted Godwine was pleased by the scrutiny, or the instant dismissal, even though Godwine’s wife had been an influential member of the delegation to Bruges.
“Earl Leofric,” Harthacnut turned instead to his father, and Ælfgar waited for some sort of outburst from the man. “You’ve changed little. I’m pleased to see you keep your waist trim enough to fit your byrnie.”
The words carried far, and Ælfgar was unsure whether they were meant in jest or as a reminder of some long-ago slight.
“And you, My Lord King, have changed a great deal.” At this, a small smirk graced Harthacnut’s face, and he stepped to Leofric’s side. Ælfgar was unsure what Harthacnut meant to do, and knew a moment of worry before it evaporated.
The two men clasped forearms, as equals perhaps, or as king to his subject. Ælfgar was unsure, but at least his father hadn’t been dismissed by Harthacnut with barely a word.
After the arm-clasp, Harthacnut leaned in close to Leofric, and Ælfgar stiffened in fear. Whatever Harthacnut whispered to Leofric, his father took it in his stride.
“My Lord King, you’re most right welcome to England. And I’d introduce you to the other earls, although, I believe you may know Earl Hrani rather well.”
Leofric had taken a step to join Harthacnut, so that it almost appeared as though he’d stepped from the sea-going craft as well, and was not a native to England, but it allowed Leofric to see precisely what Harthacnut saw.
“Yes, I’d meet my earls, and then no doubt, there’s a celebration planned for the arrival of England’s legitimate king.”
“Of course, My Lord King, within the very hall where I once was feasted by your father.” The words were bravely spoken by Leofric, and also held a caution. One that Harthacnut didn’t seem to pick up on, instead turning to be introduced to Earls Thuri and Siward.
At that point, with the four men speaking of small matters, only for their own ears, Ælfgar’s interest was caught by the arrival of Earl Godwine’s wife.
Lady Gytha had not been included in the body of the main group surrounding Harthacnut, unlike his Uncle, who now shadowed his father. But as Lady Emma waited patiently for her son, as did Bishop Ælfweard and other members of the delegation party, Gytha could be seen making her way toward Earl Godwine, Sweyn beside her.
Lady Gytha was not often at Court. She spent much of her time pregnant, even now. Earl Godwine was keen to have as many children as possible with which to grow his empire, yet Gytha was influential, especially in Wessex.
Now she appeared, attired as a lady of great wealth, and yet there was rage on her face. Whatever had happened in Bruges, it had not been to the advantage of Earl Godwine. Even his wife’s inclusion in the delegation had failed to ease the path for her duplicitous husband. That much was clear from Harthacnut’s dismissive greeting.
As Lady Gytha tried to forge a path to her husband, she was stopped by none other than Lady Emma. Ælfgar watched with intrigue as Lady Emma slapped her hand on Lady Gytha’s arm, forcefully. In full flurry, Gytha was brought up short, her son almost crashing into the back of her at the sudden cessation of all movement.
Lady Emma leaned toward Gytha, whispering something that Ælfgar would have loved to overhear. Especially considering Gytha’s reaction.
Where before she’d looked furious and desperate to get to her husband. Her face was suddenly bleached of all colour, as she tried, but failed, to disappear back into the huddle of people who’d escorted Harthacnut from his ship.
Ælfgar doubted he was the only person to have witnessed what had happened, but as Harthacnut turned to face the English once more, all eyes turned to him.
Yet, Harthacnut made no speech, rather indicating to Leofric that he should escort Lady Emma to the celebratory feast, while Harthacnut turned to converse with three other men.
The men were decidedly Danish. There was no denying their fair colouring, rugged beards and well-developed musculature. These men were, or so Ælfgar decided, the commanders of Harthacnut’s ship-army.
At Harthacnut’s words, one of the men summoned another to his side and exchanged words with him. Ælfgar had no idea what was said but watched as the man turned to force his way back toward the ships still at anchor.
There was room for only ten of the attendant vessels to slide against the quayside of Sandwich. But as was so often the case, that hadn’t prevented more of the ships from coming ashore. Ropes had been passed to lash the ships together, and now more than thirty vessels, most still filled with their ship-men, waited for the king’s orders.
It seemed that these were about to be given.
Orkning had assured Leofric that half the ships would be dispersed as soon as Harthacnut had been welcomed to England as its rightful king, but Ælfgar hadn’t expected the order to be given quite so quickly. Yet, it was clear that was what was happening.
As Ælfgar watched, trying to hold his position despite the press of bodies keen to have sight of Harthacnut, the commander, spoke with men from one ship, and then another. The instructions were quickly passed back and forth, and some with a disappointed glance toward Sandwich, turned to the task of readying the ships to return to the sea.
“Where are they going?” Ælfgar asked, but no one answered. He hoped that they were returning to Denmark, but maybe not. Ælfgar doubted the men had been paid for their services, as little as they’d done, and he didn’t think that Harthacnut would want shiploads of unpaid ship-men anywhere near his precious Denmark.
Belatedly, Ælfgar realised that most had moved off, to follow the king to the hall where the feast was waiting. Few remained on the quayside. The ship’s captains were busy about their work, some coming ashore, others making ready to sail away.
A conversation carried to him on the wind, and although Ælfgar barely listened, eventually the words began to have an import, and he turned in surprise.
Earl Godwine had lingered on the quayside, and now he spoke with his wife, her face flushed with anger, while behind her, his son paced. Sweyn’s face wore a mixture of fury and disbelief, and although Ælfgar suddenly wished himself anywhere but here, eavesdropping as it were, he couldn’t help but hear what was said.
“He will not forgive you,” Lady Gytha said, her tone filled with irritation. It was apparent she’d already said this many times, but that her husband was determined to argue with her about it.
It even appeared as though Sweyn had lost patience with his father.
“My mother doesn’t lie to you. You’ll have to accept it,” Sweyn uttered, spittle flying from his mouth in a fury.
“Don’t speak to me like that.” Earl Godwine interrupted his tirade against his wife to fix his son with a glare.
“I’ll speak to you like that if I must. And you must not speak to my dear mother in such a way. She’s not to blame for this unholy mess.”
As if aware that their voices were getting louder, Earl Godwine peered around, as though staring into the distance, and Ælfgar took it as the time to move on. Anyway, he was sure he’d heard more than enough.
Now he just needed to know what it was that Harthacnut had said to his father on their first meeting for many years. He had a hope that the House of Leofwine mi
ght have fared better than Earl Godwine and his family, but he really wasn’t sure.
Ælfgar strode toward the huddle of people who were slowly dispersing, those not invited to the feast thinking about making their way to the king’s coronation already. It was to take place within the week at Kingston. As he did so, Ælfgar smiled ruefully to himself. He could admit, in his own mind, that he’d expected Harthacnut to single him out for special treatment. Despite the passage of years, when both had grown to men, Ælfgar had been a childhood friend and ally of Harthacnut.
How the king should have known him, Ælfgar didn’t know, but he’d thought he would, all the same. He chuckled at his folly.
At the hall door, Ælfgar had to fight his way through a mass of people keen to see the king, even though they weren’t invited to the feast. Pulling his tunic in place, he eventually, and with the help of the door warden, propelled himself inside the hall, where Harthacnut was busily eating, as were those of the English, and the Danish who’d been invited to this more intimate welcome.
Ælfgar turned to hunt for his father and found him sitting on the raised dais, in a position of honour, and yet far removed from the king. Harthacnut had his mother to one side of him, and to the other, the three commanders of his ship-army had been instructed to sit. They spoke at length, Harthacnut barely paying attention to his mother, and even less to the people before him.
Ælfgar was surprised. He’d not known what to expect of Harthacnut and considered that the disdain being shown by his new king was perhaps because of fear or worry at his reception. Yet Harthacnut was at ease. There was no hint of strain in his loose arm, raising a glass goblet to his lips, or even in the way he turned his back on his mother.
If anything, it was Lady Emma who shone with unease.
When Lady Emma had left for Bruges, she’d been weakened by the failure of both of her sons with Æthelred to claim the English kingdom. She’d seemed frail and yet determined.
Now Ælfgar was unsure what to make of her.
By rights he thought she should have been filled with renewed vigour, almost crowing over the English. But she wasn’t.
Certainly, she was dressed as every inch a queen. Her hair elaborately styled around her head, jewels flashing from her dress brooches and from amongst her hair. Her dress, in the heat, shimmering of luxurious silks, and yet, it was also evident that Harthacnut was all but ignoring her.
Instead, she spoke softly to the bishop of London, Ælfweard. Ælfweard, of all the negotiators, had been honoured with a place on the king’s dais. Ælfgar wondered why that was, as he sought and found his own seat close to the front, and found his father’s eyes.
There was no reprimand for his late arrival, merely a quizzical look as though Leofric wondered what could have kept his son from the feast. Indeed, as he was greeted by those around him, in slightly muted voices, Ælfgar considered he’d made much less of an entrance than Earl Godwine. The earl was having to forge his own path inside, through the press of bodies, and had raised his voice loudly in a complaint so that all could hear.
A sudden silence fell, and all eyes turned to Earl Godwine, his wife, and his son. Even the king’s. Ælfgar considered the possibility that in the face of his disinterest, Harthacnut was actually quickly assessing everyone behind his hooded eyes.
Ælfgar expected the king to speak, perhaps to rebuke his tardy earl, but instead, he turned back to his conversation. One of the smartly liveried servants rushed to Earl Godwine’s side and began to direct him toward the table in front of Ælfgar’s, while Earl Godwine walked to mount the dais, even though all could see there was no room for him. Whether there ever had been, and Harthacnut had ordered it filled, Ælfgar didn’t know because he too had been late to the feast.
Once more, and from the far side of the hall, a furious row broke out between Earl Godwine and the poor servant. The words were too muffled to hear, but the hisses and complaints were easy to distinguish.
Ælfgar paused, with his drinking cup halfway to his lips, as Harthacnut stood. Not quietly, not at all, as his heavy wooden chair tipped backwards and crashed onto the wood flooring.
All smatterings of conversation ceased once more, all eyes turning to the new king.
Harthacnut wore his kingship well, if dispassionately. Cold eyes glared at Earl Godwine, while Harthacnut’s war belt glimmered with the menace of a warrior, his seax not a ceremonial one, but one that had been nicked and damaged in battle.
“If you do not wish to be here, you may leave,” Harthacnut announced, his voice a rumble. At this, Earl Godwine fixed his new king with a stare.
“I’ll join you, My Lord King, but this servant is trying to seat me in the wrong place.” Earl Godwine’s voice was filled with apology and carried the polish of a courtier.
“No, I believe he’s not,” Harthacnut retorted, also pointing to the very obvious space for Earl Godwine, Lady Gytha and Sweyn on the table where his other oldest children already sat, Harold and Edith.
“My Lord King?” Earl Godwine demanded, his features contorting into the rage he’d exhibited when speaking to his wife and son only moments ago.
“I’ve honoured a number of English with a place at my table. You’ll sit beneath me. As is the correct protocol.”
Earl Godwine was torn. He’d been publicly humiliated twice by his new king, both on the quayside, and now, during the feast. His face was furious, his eyebrows knit together in wrath, but Earl Godwine had few options available to him.
Should he storm from the hall, it was doubtful he’d ever restore his relationship with Harthacnut. Then he and his family would lose all that they’d worked to amass, and still hoped to. If he accepted the king’s orders, he was accepting the rebuke of the king. His king. The son of his ally and someone he must have thought would honour him and his family.
“Hurry Earl Godwine, the food is getting cold.”
At those words, and as Harthacnut reclaimed the seat that had been righted for him by attendant servants, Godwine scowled, but made his way to the indicated place in bad grace.
A murmur of conversation swept through the assembly, and while most watched Earl Godwine make as much fuss as possible, Ælfgar watched Harthacnut.
The king once more seemed to be paying no attention to events in his own hall, and yet Ælfgar could detect, even from where he sat, that the king’s pulse ran hot along his neck. It seemed that Harthacnut was furious. Whether it was with Earl Godwine or the English as a whole, Ælfgar was unsure. He wanted it to be Earl Godwine who infuriated the king. But then, he still didn’t know what Harthacnut had said to his father, only that Leofric had begun to act as the king’s host, and now sat on the dais, along with Earls Siward, Hrani and Thuri, but not Godwine.
It was a most public statement, but Ælfgar doubted anything was as it appeared.
When Earl Godwine finally sat, his wife beside him, his son beside her, some sort of semblance was restored to the feast, but it was a muted conversation that welled.
Harthacnut had, it seemed, still not spoken to his new subjects. He’d come ashore, met his earls, dismissed some of his ship-army, and now feasted. Although whether he tasted the food, Ælfgar was unsure. Certainly, no sign of pleasure passed over his face.
As Ælfgar ate, the baked sea fish adding a delicious saltiness to a meal he knew well, his mind was busy, trying to determine what everything he’d just witnessed meant.
Harthacnut had come to England. He’d accepted the arguments of the delegation, and although the geld he wished to inflict was high, it was not as high as it could have been. Neither had Harthacnut retained his entire ship-army once he was safely in England. But, he did not seem content to be here. Far from it in fact. Even his mother seemed dismayed.
This was not at all how Ælfgar had envisaged the arrival of England’s new king. He’d thought there’d be speeches and congratulatory welcomes. He’d thought Harthacnut would be delighted to finally have England as his own, to ultimately be able to lay claim to his high
ly esteemed father’s empire of Denmark and England.
Maybe Harthacnut was overawed? Ælfgar tried to think charitably, but he couldn’t help thinking that he tricked himself. The only emotion that Harthacnut had so far shown was rage, specifically at Earl Godwine.
Around him, the murmurs of conversation were bare whispers as those speaking to neighbours tried to ensure no one heard what they said.
There were concerned faces, some burned by the sun from waiting for the king to arrive, others rosy with the heat.
The food was excellent, the wine and ale as well, and yet everyone in that hall seemed to be on edge, waiting for something to happen. The new king seemed unconcerned with such things. He ate, and he drank, and then, when the feast came to an end, he spoke once more to his ship’s commanders and stood to leave.
Wood scratched on wood as everyone followed suit, but Harthacnut stepped down from the dais and strode toward the door with only his ship’s commanders as company.
The door wardens had finally managed to clear the mass from the doorway, and Harthacnut exited with ease. In his wake, conversation thrummed, but no one made to follow him, not even Lady Emma. She watched her son with troubled eyes, while she maintained the pretence of her conversation with the bishop of London.
Leofric caught his son’s eye, and Ælfgar wound his way through others starting to leave the feast and met his father just to the side of the dais. Leofric, always vigilant to the eyes of others, turned his back to the hall.
“What was all that about?” Ælfgar whispered with some urgency.
“The king, it seems, is a mercurial character,” his father replied, worry evident in his voice.
“You seem to be much favoured,” Ælfgar tried to reassure, but his father was already shaking his head, his eyes narrowing as he considered his next words.
“The king has come to claim England. I don’t think he comes to claim the heart of the English.”
The words made little sense to Ælgar, and he tried a different tact.
“What did Harthacnut whisper to you, when you met again?” Ælfgar was sure the answer to the king’s strange behaviour could be accounted for, if only he knew.