by M J Porter
He gazed into the distance, noticing the stray white cloud that showed the silhouette of where Leofric surged ahead. Hopefully, he’d make it in time. He had to. It was unlikely that he would.
Damn Cnut. Damn Thorkell and God damn all the other Jarls from the lands of the Danish king. They didn’t know. They had no idea how much they owed to Northman. He was not, contrary to what they all thought, a traitor. He’d merely been playing the part of Eadric’s ally. Only playing.
Even after all these years, Leofwine couldn’t think of the man with any affection, or any understanding either. He changed tack with the wind. He did only what was best for him, and now, at long last and at the hands of their new king he was finally going to receive his punishment. He'd stolen countless lives through one or more of his inadequate and badly constructed ploys to gain himself the gratitude of kings or would be kings and to build his reputation at the expense of absolutely everyone else’s. It was time he paid for his crimes.
He only hoped that Eadric went first, or that Northman thought to protest his innocence, to delay what the King had planned.
A chill hand squeezed his heart. His son wouldn’t speak out for himself. He wouldn’t want others to think he was a liar. He wouldn’t want men to think that he’d go to his grave with denial of his involvement on his lips. He’d want to take the punishment for what men perceived he’d done, no matter his innocence.
An angry curse wrenched from Leofwine’s mouth, and he spurred his horse on despite its obvious exhaustion. The poor beast would be un-rideable for weeks after this excursion in the chill, damp morning.
Damn the messenger for only arriving today. He said he’d become lost in the treacherous mountains, but Leofwine thought he might perhaps have delayed on purpose. Perhaps the king had been trying to spare him from seeing the ultimate price being paid for his treachery.
Abruptly, he realised that the king had done this on purpose to shield his loyal ealdorman, not to punish him.
Damn the man. He’d never understood the relationship between Leofwine and his eldest son. Leofwine feared that it would now all prove to be too little and far too late.
He cursed himself for an idiot and a fool. Now, at his moment of greatest need, he instinctively knew that he was going to find the king thought far less of him than he’d always hoped. Far less of him than he deserved.
His throat filled with bile and fear.
He knew he’d be too late.
He knew he’d not save his son. Not this time.
On he rode, his face set like the stone the ancients had used to craft statues in their great halls, his shoulders tense, his age a curse. He’d promised Æthelflæd, and he couldn’t let her down. Not over this!
Every curve in the river, every dip in the land, he hoped would reveal London, but it didn’t. The day passed too quickly, the sun going from it’s rising to its zenith, and still, he didn’t reach his destination. He dared not stop, daren’t even take a swig of water from his water carrier. His focus was entirely on only one thing. He must reach London.
Leofric had quickly faded from his sight, and Leofwine held the belief close to his chest that Leofric would appeal on his behalf, that Cnut would listen to the man he’d become friends with. Surely he’d listen to the words the brother spoke? His own family might be riven with discord, but surely he must know that it wasn’t normal. He had to listen to Leofric because he wasn’t going to make it on time. He knew it with a dull certainty that forced him to recognise his stiff back, his frozen fingers and his clenched jaw.
Finally, and only as the sun was noticeably lowering did the ancient town of London come into view around a curve in the Thames River. Leofwine could have wept with joy but he needed to reach wherever Cnut was residing first, and only then could he relax his anxious demeanour. He felt confident that it would be within the same building that his father had not long since proclaimed himself king, the one he’d claimed as his own when he’d become king. So he guided his exhausted horse towards the old wall and slipped through in the same spot that Cnut had once come, to make his demands upon the old king Æthelred, on behalf of his father.
His arrogance that day should have been a warning even to Leofwine, but instead, he’d been awed by the young man, almost desperate to allow him and his father to rule over England. He hoped he'd not made a terrible mistake in calling Swein and Cnut his friends.
News of his arrival spread quickly before him, and he saw the shocked faces of those who looked his way. That should have been all he needed to know, but still, he hoped, and he prayed to his God, over and over again.
Please let him be in time.
As he closed on the king’s hall, his mouth was filled with ashes, his throat aching with his suppressed fears, and yet somehow, he still walked tall and proud.
People had spilt from the hall to watch his approach, but he met no one's eye. If he didn’t make eye contact, they couldn’t tell him what he didn’t want to hear.
The doorway was open, the way clear, and he strode inside, his eyes seeking out the view of his sons, hoping they would stand together, tall and proud as he’d made them, righteous in their knowledge of the innocence of each other.
He didn’t see them; instead, a movement caught his eye at the front of the hall. Cnut. He stood, his face shocked and understanding in equal measure, his bearing regal and kingly, his assurance in whom he was easy to see.
Leofwine swept before the king, still not having found Leofric or his warriors, and he knelt in one fluid movement.
“My Lord,” he began, but Cnut cut him off.
“You’re too late to honey my judgement. It’s been given. Traitor, My Lord. Your son was a traitor.”
Leofwine stood without permission and met the eye of his new king boldly, not sure he understood what he was hearing.
“My Lord, my son is no traitor.”
“No, my Lord Leofwine, your son was a traitor.”
Leofwine felt a hand on his arm and turned to look at Leofric, his face streaked with grief. Behind him, he felt the gentle touch of another and turned to see archbishop Wulfstan, his face blazing with anger, and at his other side Oscetel, his oldest friend, was supporting him. He’d not realised he swayed where he stood until he felt their strength adding to his own. His hound at his feet, with his eyes on his master.
“My son is no traitor my Lord, and you will bring him before me now.”
Cnut’s face twisted in consternation at Leofwine’s obstinacy.
“Ealdorman Leofwine, I say once more, your son was a traitor, and he’s been punished.”
Anger, hot and pulsing swept through Leofwine and he was suddenly able to stand unaided, his step towards Cnut decisive and deadly for he still wore all his weapons, none having thought to take them from him when he’d entered the hall, all too stunned by his sudden appearance.
“My son, King Cnut,” he menaced, his voice bristling and reverberating loudly around the huge hall, “is the source of every piece of information we’ve ever received about Eadric and his scheming ways. My son,” and somehow his voice was even louder, ringing in the still room, “is the man who risked his life every damn day to prevent Eadric from ripping this country apart. My son is the man I most admire in this entire hall, and my son will be brought before me now.”
His voice rang strong as a drawn sword, and Cnut’s face bleached of colour at Leofwine’s words, his uneasiness easy to read on his face.
“No, my Lord,” Cnut tried again, “your son was a traitor.”
“My son was working for the good of his family, the good of his people and the good of this land. In everything he did, he laboured to prevent Eadric from making more serious mistakes. He toiled to keep Eadric from terrorising this land. Now bring him to me.” Leofwine was roaring now, like an old boar trapped and with no way to escape his certain death; an old beast that knew he could shout all he wanted to for he’d never be able to again.
Cnut stumbled to his chair, tripping on his elaborate rob
es as he did so, their delicate fur edgings and jewel encrusted sleeves unsuitable for this sudden confrontation. Leofwine noted that Godwine stepped protectively towards Cnut, but Cnut waved him away. At least the king was honourable enough to stand his ground before him.
“My Lord, your son Northman, is dead at my command.”
The words were simple, their message anything but. Leofwine looked at Cnut without comprehension.
“My Lord, your son Northman, is dead at my command,” he repeated, his voice raised and echoing through the hall.
A howl of rage roared from Leofwine’s throat, setting the dust free from the overhead rafters, and testing Cnut’s eyes to ensure he spoke the truth, he allowed his grief to subsume him, for his rigid control to melt away in the face of such devastating news.
He felt tears slide from his eyes. His son, his eldest boy. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d first cradled him in his arms, his little piece of perfectness to push away the fears of his own injuries and disfigurements and now he was dead, gone, at the machinations of Eadric and two king’s who’d never trusted him as they should.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t trust himself anymore.
He merely turned and walked from the king’s hall.
He’d never be returning.
Historical Notes
Events in England during this crucial three-year period are fragmentary and open to many different interpretations. Whatever the truth of Eadric’s and Northman’s relationship, it can’t be denied that their deaths on Cnut’s order are mentioned in the same breath in the Anglo Saxon Chronicle, and yet, Northman’s innocence is also quickly asserted. The relationship I’ve postulated between them is pure literary invention, and yet the truth was more than likely somewhat similar.
The entry for the Anglo Saxon Chronicle for the year 1016 is huge, in all the versions that have survived to this day. Compare it to any other year (for instance the one after) and the feeling that something truly monumental happened is easy to infer, as is the possibility that the people who wrote the chronicles in their monasteries had been building up to this event for some years. The doom and gloom that infects the ASC is palpable – something is going to change, something monumental. It would be very interesting to know if, perhaps, other versions of the ASC did exist but were replaced with an ‘official’ version when Cnut became king. But I’ll have to explain that at the end of the next book, otherwise I’ll spoil the story. If you do read the ASC for 1016 you will find that according to the source, there were many more confrontations and many more attempts by Cnut to claim London. I think five assaults on London would have been a little tedious and so I removed a few, in the hopes that the scribes of the ASC are simply being hyperbolic! Five, I ask you. You would have thought he’d get the hint.
The motivation for writing the Earls of Mercia series stemmed from a desire to offer Æthelred some rehabilitation in the eyes of history fans everywhere, and to focus on the family of Ealdorman Leofwine, a family who did something no other Anglo-Saxon family did, apart from the royal family, that is, staying in power for longer than a handful of years. It was never my intention to cast Eadric in his role of villain (a role he’s enjoyed for as long as Æthelred has been known as the ‘unready’ (a play on words on his name)) but, he does come across as a double-crossing git and so I’ve had to keep him as one. Æthelred doesn’t come out of this squeaky clean and I don’t think he can be totally rehabilitated, and neither do I wish to do that anymore, but I think some understanding of him makes his mistakes appear a little more understandable. Cnut and Swein were a monumental, totally focused pair of men and they wanted England. All of her, and they were determined to get her.
Cast of Characters
This story could have had a cast of thousands, but as I’m terrible with names, I’ve tried to keep it a reasonable amount of men and women, hounds and babies.
I apologise for the oft-repeated names. That was the way it was at the time, and the number of Olaf’s drives me to distraction (especially when they’re all trying to be King of Norway!)
Leofwine’s Family
Leofwine, Ealdorman of the Hwicce
His hounds – Hunter, Hammer and Cyneweard
Æthelflæd, his wife
Northman, his oldest son born AD996
Marries Mildryth in AD1011 – two sons born AD1012 – Wulfstan and AD1014 - Ælfwine
Leofric, his son born AD998
Ealdgyth, his daughter born AD1000
Godwine, his son born AD1002
Eadwine, his son born AD1006
Wulfie, Wulfstan’s hound
Beauty, Leofric’s hound
Misc
Morcar (Mercian thegn)
Sigeforth (Mercian thegn)
Hudd
Judith
Kings/Princes
Æthelred II
Swein of Denmark
Cnut of Denmark
Athelstan (son of Æthelred and his first wife)
Edmund (son of Æthelred and his first wife)
The Court
Athelstan (the king’s son with his first wife – dies AD1014)
Edmund (the king’s son with his first wife)
Emma (king’s second wife – renamed from Ælfgifu – mother of Edward and Alfred)
Wulfhilda – king’s daughter – marries Ulfcytel of East Anglia
Edith – king’s daughter – marries Eadric of Mercia
Eadwig (brother of Edmund and Athelstan)
Ealdorman Eadric’s household
Edith, his wife, the king’s daughter by his first wife
Æthelric (his father, dies)
Ælthelmær (his brother)
Mildryth (his niece) marries Northman, son of Leofwine
Ealdormen
Ælfric (of Hampshire – Kent, Sussex, Surrey and Berkshire and Wiltshire)
Leofwine (of the Hwicce)
Eadric (of the Mercians) (marries Edith – the king’s daughter)
Ulfcytel of the East Angles (from 1004 marries Wulfhilda – king’s daughter)
Uhtred (of Northumbria marries Ælfgfu - the king’s daughter)
Æthelmær of the Western Provinces
Godric
Leofwine’s Household
Wulfstan (commended man and war leader/dies 1012)
Horic (commended man and second in command) his wife, Agata
Orkning (his son)
Olaf (his son)
Oscetel (part of the warband/household troop)
Lyfing (part of the warband/household troop)
Ælfhun (part of the warband/householt troop)
Hammer (Leofwine’s hound/dies AD1015)
Cywnweard (Leofwine’s hound from AD1015)
Raiders and Kings
Thorkell the Tall, King Swein’s commander
Cnut, King Swein’s son
Marries Ælfgifu of Northampton (daughter of Ealdorman of Northumbria – murdered by Eadric in AD1006, when he also blinds her brothers) Their son, Swein born AD1015.
Swein (King of Denmark, Norway and England)
Harald his son and regent in Denmark
Erik of Norway
Olaf
Ragnar
Harold
Sigurd
Halfdan
Meet the Author
M J Porter is an author of fantasy (viking age/dragon themed) and historical fiction (Anglo-Saxon, Vikings and the British Isles as a whole before the Norman Conquest), born in the old Mercian kingdom at some point since the end of Anglo-Saxon England. I write A LOT. You've been warned! Find me at https://mjporterauthor.com and @coloursofunison on twitter.
Books by M J Porter (in series reading order)
Gods and Kings Series (seventh century Britain)
Pagan Warrior
Pagan King
Warrior King
The Tenth Century
The Lady of Mercia’s Daughter
A Conspiracy of Kings (coming soon)
Kingmaker
&nb
sp; The King’s Daughters
Chronicles of the English (tenth century Britain)
Brunanburh
Of Kings and Half-Kings
The Second English King
The Mercian Brexit (can be read as a prequel to The First Queen of England)
The First queen of England (can be read as a prequel to The Earls of Mercia) Audio book available
The First queen of England Part 2 Audio book available
The First queen of England Part 3
The King’s Mother (can be read as a sequel to The First Queen, or a prequel to The Earls of Mercia series)
The Queen Dowager
Once A Queen
The Earls of Mercia
The Earl of Mercia’s Father
The Danish King’s Enemy
Swein: The Danish King
Northman Part 1
Northman Part 2
Cnut: The Conqueror
Wulfstan: An Anglo-Saxon Thegn
The King’s Earl
The Earl of Mercia
The English Earl
The Earl’s King
Viking King
The Dragon of Unison (fantasy based on Viking Age Iceland)
Hidden Dragon
Dragon Gone
Dragon Alone
Dragon Ally
Dragon Lost
Dragon Bond
As JE Porter
The Innkeeper