Viking Enemy

by M J Porter

  Viking Enemy

  M J Porter

  © M J Porter 2017

  M J Porter has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This edition published by Endeavour Media Ltd in 2017.

  Dedication

  For my history teachers and lecturers for their passion and for academic historians everywhere, who spend their lives producing a dry and dusty tome filled with knowledge that they hope someone, one day, will appreciate for its true value. Today might just be your lucky day!

  Special mention for Miss Dyson, history teacher, for her easy acceptance of my late burgeoning passion for all things Elizabethan, and for Dr Maund, history lecturer, for inspiring me with her passion for the Anglo-Saxons, the early Welsh kingdoms and the Vikings.

  Table of Contents

  1000 – Part 1

  1000 – Part 2

  1000 – Part 3

  1000 – Part 4

  1000 – Part 5

  1001 – Part 1

  1001 – Part 2

  1001 – Part 3

  1001 – Part 4

  1001 – Part 5

  1002 – Part 1

  1002 – Part 2

  1002 – Part 3

  1003

  1004 – Part 1

  1004 – Part 2

  1004 – Part 3

  1004 – Part 4

  1005

  1006 – Part 1

  1006 – Part 2

  1006 – Part 3

  1006 – Part 4

  1006 – Part 5

  1006 – Part 6

  1006 – Part 7

  1006 – Part 8

  1006 – Part 9

  England: The Second Viking Age

  Five ealdormen bestride King Æthelred II’s Witan offering wise counsel while serving their King as his representative in the old Saxon Kingdoms, united now for nearly fifty years.

  Leofwine, Ealdorman of the Hwicce, has proved himself in the Battle of Strathclyde and won the support of his King, Æthelred II, but the spectre of Swein, King of Denmark, the man who partially blinded him five years before, has suddenly become a harrowing reality with the death of King Olaf of Norway at his hands.

  As the Viking raids intensify under Swein of Denmark’s command, conflict at the King’s Witan and amongst his councillors grows and Leofwine finds himself still treading a difficult path between loyalty and the twisted self-interests of the men the King insists on surrounding himself with, even going so far as to replace unsuitable men with those who are even more ineffectual.

  Can Leofwine weather more storms and grow his own power base, or will his King, once and for all, lose patience with his broken Ealdorman? And will Swein of Denmark finally exact his revenge on Leofwine?

  1000 – Part 1

  Leofwine sat on his camp chair, feet propped on his dog lying at his feet. Mud and grime still streaked his face and he’d not removed any of his fighting equipment apart from his helm, which lay discarded upside down on the floor.

  Rain dripped incessantly outside, a steady torrent that pounded in his head in time to his over fast heartbeat. His eyes were shut as he reclined on the chair, paying scant regard to its precarious position. On any other day, he might have cared that he was only a dog’s favour from falling on his arse on the mud-splattered flooring. Not today.

  But he didn’t sleep, instead seeing every image of the recent battle before him, and every possible outcome of the future that had just been snatched from him. He knew he needed to face his King, inform him of the words of Swein of Denmark, and usually he would have sprung smartly to attention. Not now, though. His King didn’t realise how personal the threat to Leofwine was. The words may well have been that Swein of Denmark was coming for England. However, the audience had been Leofwine, and that meant the threat was applied specifically to him.

  They’d stumbled back into camp, bone-weary and dripping wet from the heavy shower that had covered them only a short distance from their original camp. It had drenched them instantly, as it seemed could only happen in the mountainous region in which they were currently residing. Wulfstan had barely been sitting in his horse’s saddle as he passed in and out of consciousness with the pain of his wound.

  Leofwine felt sick just watching him. A cold fear had overcome him as he’d watched his friend and surrogate father fade from his typical hale colouring to a deathly pale blue as if the very life was seeping from him with each plodding step of the tired and similarly drenched horse.

  He’d insisted on Wulfstan being carried to his tent and stripped of his filthy, dirty clothing before being laid on his camp bed as soon as they’d stumbled into their previous day’s camp. Those who’d not heard the stray horseman’s message were jubilant and had joyfully skipped to their shelters.

  Their healer had been waiting expectantly for them and had cleaned and bound the shoulder wound as Wulfstan had uttered faint protestations, only falling into deep unconsciousness when the pain had engulfed him. His snores now filled the small space, and rather than being annoyed, Leofwine was finding comfort from the noise. Wulfstan’s echoing snores coupled with the drumming rain made the tent feel noisy and lived in, and was a valiant effort to distract him from his unsettling thoughts.

  The healer had spoken words of reassurance, but all the same, he’d had the camp priest come and perform rites for his friend. It had made him ill even to consider his commander was dying, but he knew he needed to face the possibility. The healer had looked at him in disbelief at the words of the priest and that more than anything else had made him think he might have overreacted, and his friend would be well.

  Outside the tent, the camp had turned quiet and strangely subdued. His men had retired to their shared tents to sleep off the battle and mourn those they’d lost. There was little point in doing anything else. While the rain fell as heavily as it did anyone stepping outside was soaked instantaneously. It felt a little surreal: to go from the heat and intensity of battle to a rain-induced silence. He could hear nothing other than Wulfstan’s heavy snores and his own slightly too-fast breathing.

  He craved the calm of sleep but found it would not come, even with the aid of a bit too much mead. He’d tried thinking of Ǽthelflaed, knowing that normally she brought peace to his mind, but that didn’t do the trick either. If anything, it made it worse because it reminded him of his two young boys and his baby growing even now inside her. He idly wondered if this one would be a boy or a girl. Not that it mattered, but he thought his wife would like a girl, someone to teach how to run a house and keep the men in check and someone to buy ribbons and delicate clothing for.

  Still his heart raced and his head pounded with the falling rain. He knew what he needed to do. He needed to talk to someone and speak out loud the fears that were running through his head. Normally he would have turned to Wulfstan, but he was incapacitated and Horic, his next choice, was overseeing the men, allowing them to drown their sorrows or their triumph without getting out of hand. He should be with him, but Horic had insisted he stay and watch Wulfstan. Leofwine had a suspicion that his man knew how hard it would be to smile and join in the rejoicing or the grieving. He was grateful for his insight.

  There was only one option available to him, and that was to seek the King. He hesitated, though. He didn’t want to face his wrath just yet. Pulling the gifted wolf pelt nearer to his chin, he closed his eye and inhaled deeply of the slightly musty smell that being carried around in a travel pack had imbued the fur with. It was an almost pleasant smell, reminding him of his journey across the sea to the Shetlands, with a man now long since dead, who had remembered him from across the waves. Leofwine wondered whether it had been with guilt or fondness that Olaf had remembered him. Had he blam
ed himself for the injury inflicted by his enemy? Or had he given it no thought at all?

  Leofwine decided that guilt must have guided his actions – why else send the scribe and the fur to a man he’d little known, and possibly, little regarded. He reached for the fur now, his cold and weary body craving some warmth. As the fur unwound from its tight bundle, a loud clatter rattled through the tent and Leofwine looked down to the wet floor, amazement on his face. Hunter eyed him with annoyance for his noise but as he reached down to scoop up the item that had fallen there, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. How had Olaf of Norway even known the cross had belonged to him – to his father before him? He felt humbled once more by the friendship he’d not realised he’d had. His hand splayed over the cross, an attempt at comfort despite his fears, a stray moment of comfort to overlay his deep-seated fears.

  The cross wasn’t changed at all, if anything, shining brighter than it ever had done before. He was amazed, staring at the intricate heavy gold and the rubies that marked its four arms. His eyes feasted on the glory of the workmanship and the pride his father had felt in his family’s position and wealth.

  A commotion at the door to his tent startled him and sent Hunter scurrying forwards, upending him as he’d feared, on the floor, the chair a twisted tangle beneath him, the cross forgotten as it once more cluttered to the floor. Hunter turned to look at him questioningly not fully understanding what had happened to make him fall on the ground. Leofwine shrugged and pulled himself to his feet, his upper arms and thighs tweaking in pain from the heavy usage they’d taken earlier.

  Hunter slipped through the partially opened door outside into the rain and returned straight away. He didn’t blame her. He strode a few paces forward and released more toggles on the inside of the door. He could vaguely make out voices and wondered who was there.

  Swinging the fabric door wide, he caught a whiff in his nostrils of the goose grease rubbed into the canvas and gagged slightly. It might keep his tent dry, but the smell was overpowering.

  The camp appeared quiet all around him but then he realised, through the low-lying clouds and thick fog, that there was someone standing there: the King’s oldest son, Athelstan.

  He too still wore his battle equipment and bowed deeply to Leofwine.

  “Leofwine, I’m sorry to disturb you, but my father would like to see you … if it’s convenient?”

  There was a question in the words, but too slight to not be instantly obeyed.

  “Of course, of course, I’ll come straight away. Let me just call for someone to watch over Wulfstan.” His voice was a little crackly from lack of use. He turned back into the tent to consider picking up the cross, returned to him after so many years, but he shrugged the thought aside; no one would find it where it lay hidden in mud beneath the camp bed.

  “Wulfstan? Your commander?” Athelstan queried.

  “Yes, he has a nasty shoulder injury, although the healer assures me it’ll heal well and quickly,” Leofwine replied, busily righting the upended stool.

  “Excellent. He’s a talented warrior.”

  “Yes – and a fine friend.”

  Athelstan didn’t respond to his almost whispered reply, instead standing just inside the open doorway to keep out of the incessant downpour.

  While Athelstan stood and waited, Leofwine walked to the nearest tent, splashing through the rapidly-forming puddles, and called Oscetel to him, explaining what was needed. The man looked as exhausted as Leofwine felt, but looking from the figure of King’s son to his own Lord, he obeyed without question for which Leofwine was grateful.

  Stamping through the quickly-forming mud was less than pleasant as they made their way towards the King’s camp. Athelstan didn’t speak, and Leofwine was grateful for Hunter at his side, as she skilfully manoeuvred them around tent posts and abandoned equipment, hidden from his partial sight by the gloom of the rain.

  Leofwine assumed the King wanted to know who the messenger was and what they’d wanted, but he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he simply wanted him to pray with him, as he’d asked earlier. Athelstan gave nothing away with his body language, and Leofwine tasted sour bile in his mead-infused mouth. He didn’t know if he should be eager to see his King, or reticent.

  When the pair arrived at the King’s tent, Leofwine could clearly make out the voice of the King’s priest raised in prayer, and he immediately found comfort in the words. It was a familiar and calming sound.

  Athelstan ushered him inside the tent, and they both sank to their knees where a piece of stray tent material had been laid down to shield them and the King from the water pooling in every available dip of the uneven ground. The King didn’t look up from his prayers, and neither did the priest; Leofwine listened to his gradually slowing heartbeat as the familiar words spoken by the priest swept over him.

  He, his King and his possible future King, stayed kneeling for the entire length of the Mass, as the priest praised their Lord and offered long prayers of thanks for their victory. Leofwine was consoled by the words of the holy man and relaxed for the first time since he’d been met by Finn and heard the unwelcome news he carried.

  The pounding of the rain eased into background noise, and when the words of the priest finally died away and he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see that a meal had been brought into the tent and laid out on the small camp table. Darkness had fallen too, meaning candles and lamps had been lit. The King’s second oldest son, Ecgberht, was standing quietly in the corner, his eyes closed as he listened to the priest.

  As soon as the soft voice faded away, Ecgberht sprang to attention, attentive upon his father, serving him in the position of squire. Æthelred acknowledged the arrival of his son as he stood and then sat down on a camp stool close to where the food had been laid. He gestured for his oldest son and for Leofwine to join him on the two other stools, and Leofwine hobbled a little painfully over towards the offered seat. He’d been kneeling for so long that his battle-weary muscles had stiffened, and he reached downwards for Hunter to steady himself on the uneven ground.

  His King did him the courtesy of not noticing his infirmness as he waved his priest away to other duties and drank deeply from a small drinking horn. He passed it to his son, who then offered it to Leofwine. He took a small sip of the deep red liquid and tasted a wine from the southern vineries, delicately spiced and warmed a little to combat the chilly air.

  The King sat with a smile on his face as he helped himself to the small selection of meats and loaves of bread. Leofwine assumed that they’d been provided by the Reeve of Chester’s cooks, as there was no way to roast the fine meats and cook the dark bread in the campfires. He too helped himself to some finely sliced beef and a large piece of bread and ate quickly and with precise movements. He was suddenly starving but mindful of his host he curbed his hunger. Athelstan was not as inhibited, and Leofwine smiled to see the youth cram so much food into his mouth. The King too watched with amusement and then gestured his second son to eat as well. The two boys ate so quickly that both the King and Leofwine belatedly grabbed for a few more slices of meat before it was all gone.

  The two lads bickered in silence as they fought over every morsel on the table, uncaring of the company they kept. When Athelstan succeeded in snatching the last piece of slightly burnt pork, the King shooed the two boys away with a faintly withering look. They stumbled from the tent out into the continuing rainstorm without so much as a backwards glance, finally giving voice to their argument.

  A small brazier burnt a little smokily to the far side of the tent sending out tantalising fingers of warmth which only served to remind Leofwine of just how wet he was. He would have liked nothing better than to slink back to his tent, check on Wulfstan and change his clothes, but it was clear that the King had something on his mind, or he would not have called only Leofwine to him, nor sent his sons away.

  Leofwine feared he knew that somehow the King had learnt about his visitor and that he was sitting patiently, waiting for him to con
fess. Leofwine felt uncomfortable with the knowledge and knew that he needed to speak first.

  The King sat pensively. His clothes had long been changed, and he was clearly not suffering from the discomfort of wet and sticky clothing. He was well dressed in a rich tunic, finely embroidered around its edges in an interlocking curving design. The gold thread caught the light of the candles and dazzled Leofwine’s tired and weary eye.

  “My King, I fear …” Leofwine finally uttered softly.

  “I know of what you speak already. Don’t worry my friend. The messenger carried a message for me as well, and I waylaid him before he could get to you. I assume you have seen to his comfort.” The King’s tone was querying and held no trace of anger or annoyance. Leofwine was temporarily stumped, and it took him a moment longer than normal to process the words.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Finn is even now amongst the men of my household troops. I think he thinks he’s staying there as well.” He spoke with a smile on his frozen face. Finn had slunk inside the tent that housed Horic and his cronies, quickly finding the furthest spot from the tent opening to lay down his bag of possessions with a wary glance towards Leofwine that had almost dared him to tell him to move. Leofwine had left him alone, too concerned with how Wulfstan was faring in his tent to worry about the rest of Olaf’s message concerning the man. Perhaps he could find space for a scribe in his household after all.

  “Did Finn inform you of Swein’s words?” Leofwine asked hesitantly, wanting to be sure that his King knew everything.

  “Regarding England? Yes, he did.”

  “Doesn’t that concern you?”

  The King looked at him searchingly now and Leofwine felt suddenly exposed, as though his King could see all his fears etched plainly on his person.

  “Well, it should, I know. However, before I left the South I was approached by another, and I’m finding it difficult to reconcile what the two men are telling me or asking me.”