Viking Enemy

by M J Porter

  It was good to be home, he thought, as finally sated, his wife slept safely within his arms. He only hoped that the peace won on the battlefield would hold for many years to come.

  1000 – Part 5

  His time at home flew in a riotous disharmony of screaming babies, raucous boys and noisy dogs. Wulfstan allowed himself to wallow with his injury. Leofwine felt he worked hard at restoring the order that his absence and those of the men of the fyrd had temporarily caused. He hoped the ending of the year would be a calm affair, with a good harvest and a joy to the darkening days that called him to his bed early and allowed him to linger there throughout long lazy mornings.

  Ǽthelflaed had relented after a week of him being home and told him his daughter’s name was Ealdgyth, a beautiful name meaning ‘old battle’. He’d laughed along with Ǽthelflaed at her fortuitous naming of all their children and had not shared with her the fears he harboured that the barely ‘old’ battle of the year would not be the last. He wondered if perhaps Leofric – his ‘dear power’ – would prove to be short-lived too. Perhaps, after all, it was Northman who had the right of it, with his name and his mother’s vow of retaliation against the men who’d wounded his father.

  Finn, Olaf’s one-time scribe, had insinuated himself into the household in a not entirely unwelcome way. His stories amused the two small boys and all the other children as well and occasionally, when none of the children realised, Finn even managed to teach them a little too. He was versed in the old Gods of the North and the Christian God too, and he could weave tales sophisticated enough that somehow the Christian God always won but only with the aid of the old Gods. Leofwine wondered for how long he’d been telling the same stories, and if the easy assimilation of the two religions was why he’d found such favour with Olaf.

  Finn might have arrived road-weary and dishevelled, but he’d cleaned up quickly and looked every part the lordly scribe. When he’d grown comfortable in his new position, and come to realise that Leofwine had every intention of allowing him to stay, he’d even relaxed enough to fill them in on Olaf’s exploits since they’d last met.

  He regaled them with the stories of the wooden church Olaf had built in his capital, Trondheim, dedicated with an enormous golden cross festooned with bright rubies. He also told them of Olaf’s attempts to find a new wife and of the escalation in the dispute between Swein of Denmark and Olaf which had come to a bloody end when Olaf had tried to court Swein’s sister against her brother’s wishes. Horic had roared with laughter when he’d learned of Olaf’s incendiary activities, muttering on about how he always liked to tempt his fate. He’d sobered when he’d realised that Olaf had finally met his match and his end in just such a way.

  ****

  Wulfstan was well enough to escort him on his journey through the crisping morning when it was time to attend the Witan. Oscetel was in attendance as well. Horic he’d ordered to guard his wife and family, and Horic had brought his wife along with him; she was the only woman Leofwine knew who was allowed to order his young wife around, and he thought that after three births in five years, years which had not been the most peaceful, she needed a bit of being told what to do so that her health didn’t suffer. She also didn’t need to attend the often contentious Witan.

  The King had called them together at Bath, the old Roman town, because it was close to the land that Pallig was being gifted with. Leofwine also hoped that it was because Bath had seen the consecration of past Kings and had a rich heritage that would highlight to Pallig the longevity of the English Kings. He was not too sure that the King would have realised the connection.

  Still, it was a move that Leofwine approved of, and he expected the Witan to pass quickly; he didn’t wish to spend any more time away from his home. As such he’d chosen to make the journey in a single day. It was rough going on them all, leaving in the dark tendrils of dawn and arriving long after the low winter sun had set, but at least it meant less time with his fellow ealdormen before the convening of the Witan. He wanted to spend as little time as possible anywhere near Leofsige and the more than likely equally noxious Pallig.

  He found shelter with an acquaintance within the settlement and woke early the next day, ready to face his King and the unknown stranger from the Northern lands, kin to the man who’d vowed to kill him, Pallig of Denmark. It was not an appetising thought, and he ate little before leaving for the monastery where the King was staying with those of his family and entourage he’d brought with him.

  A deep frost had fallen during the night and Leofwine shivered through his cloak in the early morning light, his horse delicately picking his way along the roadway to avoid the odd deep puddle of chilled water.

  Wulfstan had spoken little on the journey yesterday but appeared to be well and had not fallen from his saddle when they’d arrived as he had when they’d returned from the North. Leofwine was wise enough not to offer any comment that might set his friend either decrying his continued concern or moaning that he was still in pain. Oscetel was gawping like a young man as he finally saw Bath in the daylight. Leofwine was amused by his apparent interest in the place and vowed that they would, at some point, find time to explore the ruins during the next few days.

  The voices of the monks raised in prayer greeted them as they approached the monastery and one of the monks, accompanied by two of the King’s men, directed them to where they needed to be. By the time they walked through the gates of the monastery, they’d already passed twenty members of the King’s household troop monitoring the coming and going of the King’s men. Their appearance had raised a lukewarm greeting from Athelstan, and Leofwine had been concerned to note the worry lines that already graced the young boy’s face. Clearly, Athelstan was as unhappy with the King’s current policy as Leofwine was.

  Once inside the austere monastic church, Leofwine, devoid of all weaponry, made a point of noting who was in attendance. He was not surprised to notice that all the current ealdormen were there, curious no doubt to see what this Pallig had that he’d been offered a position they’d spent years and years vying for. Æthelmaer, the previous ealdorman’s son, was also in attendance and not just because his main home was close to Bath. He wore a frown of thought that he often directed towards a knot of men and women who were stood close to the front of the Church, where the choir stalls were screened from view, and from where soft voices rose and fell in prayer.

  Leofwine shivered. The monastery was known for its stringent adherence to the Benedictine rule and clearly providing warmth for any guests to their church was not of high importance. In places, small braziers had been placed, and it was around these that the men of the Witan clustered, speaking quietly, their breath misting before them.

  The King was not yet amongst his councillors, and neither were the churchmen who would begin the day’s events with, no doubt, a long and detailed sermon on something they felt the King and his men should give more thought to. Leofwine did not dislike Ælfric of Canterbury, the man who he’d been informed was to lead them that day. In fact, he held the man in awe. His strict observance of his principles had allowed the monastery to be held up as a pinnacle of how those within the monastic community should act and behave. That his hermit-like activities had been rewarded by the bestowal of the Archbishopric of Canterbury brought a small smile to Leofwine’s face. He wondered if the man would rather have remained a hermit.

  He had an almost personal tie to Leofwine as well. His training had begun at Deerhurst, and Leofwine’s own Abbot often spoke of the man who he held in high esteem and attempted to emulate. Thankfully, Ælfric was more generous with heat.

  Leofwine noticed that the prayer was slowing imperceptibly, and he hastened to find a seat where he was close enough to some source of warmth that he would not fidget uncontrollably throughout what would be a long day.

  The King entered the church in a swish of luxurious fabric and spices, a cheerful grin on his face in stark contrast to the scowl upon Athelstan’s own, following closely behind. Thre
e of the other athelings walked behind their father, and then their grandmother walked in.

  Leofwine was amazed to see that age had not yet marked her. Like Wulfstan, she carried her years well. Her eyes were always bright, and somehow her hair had never faded to grey but hung in intricate thick brown plaits down her back, where it was not contained within a delicate lace veil.

  The King and his family quickly took seats near the front of the church just as the churchmen began their slow procession from behind the closed-off stalls. Ælfric was richly attired in the clothes of an archbishop, and although his face looked severe, he smiled in welcome to his King and the Witan. Leofwine smiled back when he caught his appraising eyes on him. It was always best to respect the churchmen for they held much power in their own way.

  The service and sermon were far shorter than Leofwine expected, the Archbishop offering a small sermon on the bounty of the Harvest in his lilting tones before stepping away and allowing his King to take centre stage. It was clear he was not intent on sermonising to men who’d come to talk business, not God’s words.

  Æthelred spoke sparingly. His voice filled with an excitement he could barely repress and then Pallig was introduced to them all. The Archbishop stepped forward then, in his arms an intricately decorated wooden box containing the King’s favourite saint’s relics, a slither of Christ’s Cross collected by King Athelstan, his great-uncle.

  Pallig’s voice was loud, his accent clear to hear as he spoke the words of commendation, his hand on the relics the Archbishop held out to him.

  “By the Lord and these holy relics, I pledge to be loyal and true to Æthelred, and love all that he loves, and hate all that he hates, in accordance with God’s rights and my noble obligations; and never, willingly and intentionally, in word or deed, do anything that is hateful to him; on condition that he keep me as was our agreement, when I subjected myself to him and chose his service.”

  Leofwine was unsure whether the man understood all of the words he spoke. Lordship amongst the English was very different to that between the Northmen. And then he closed his eye in grief as he heard the heavy accent of Pallig trip over the oath of a commanded man, mangling the words. The King made little of the mismatched words, but Leofwine knew that Pallig would. He would use it as an excuse to slide out of his obligations to the King. Leofwine tasted bile in his mouth. All his hard work and persuasions to ensure the King was perceived as a powerful force that Swein of Denmark, and other raiders who eyed England with covetous eyes would fear, would now come to nothing.

  Once the formality was done, the meeting immediately dispersed as the other ealdormen vied to be introduced to Pallig.

  Leofwine sat still through it all, thinking and watching. Pallig was a well-built man, with long light brown hair falling down his shoulders and overflowing onto his luxurious white fur cloak. His cloak was clasped shut with a bright jewel that glinted in the candles of the church and made Leofwine’s eye tear if he looked too keenly.

  Pallig wore his clothing easily and moved with confidence that Leofwine envied. However, when he fixed his chilly ice blue eyes on Leofwine, he knew that the man had been specifically searching the church for him and him alone. Momentarily Pallig paused, eyeing Leofwine with interest but no emotion. Pallig didn’t even flinch at the ruin of his face, although he stared at it with no apology.

  Leofwine returned his stare in equal force, taking in the man’s long shaggy beard and the tight line of a mouth. His face showed no laughter lines and Leofwine doubted that the man ever smiled. His face appeared to be carved from the finest marble.

  Pallig abruptly turned around, to approach the King while Leofwine watched him with interest. He had a fair understanding of Pallig’s intentions at the court of his King, and he wondered how the man had managed to convince the King that he would be honourable. His gorgeous clothing, his easy confidence and his piercing eyes were surely just a ruse by Swein of Denmark to infiltrate England. As Pallig clasped the hand of first the sly Ealdorman Leofsige and then the traitorous Ealdorman Ælfric, Leofwine knew it would be soon.

  1001 – Part 1

  Leofwine was roughly shaken from his sleep by small urgent hands. He shooed whichever son it was away from him, but still the little hands shook him, and in the semi-dark, he opened his eyes to be greeted by the terrified face of Northman. His eyes were bright white in the dark, and his lower lip was trembling. Leofwine held his arms out to his son, but the lad backed away.

  “You must come,” he lisped, his voice trying to be quiet but sounding incredibly loud in the early morning silence. Only, Leofwine noted, it was not quite as silent as it should be. From outside he could hear the angry shouts of men and he thrust himself free of his wolf pelt to follow his son. He stopped briefly to grab his cloak and threw it quickly around his shoulders. Noting that his son was wearing little but his bedclothes, Leofwine pulled him inside his cloak and picked him up. His son’s rigid body untensed at his father’s touch. Hunter, instantly alert, wound her way carefully in front of her master and his son.

  Once inside the common room, where the snores of the maids and the cook and the men of the household troop were loud enough to mask conversation, Leofwine grilled his son gently.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There are men at the gate. Oscetel is speaking to them but they sound angry and Oscetel is frightened, and when he saw me wandering around he told me to come and get you.”

  “Good lad,” he said reassuringly to his son. “Do you want to come and see the men, though, or do you want to stay here and go back to bed?” Even with his urgent need to see what all the noise was about, he thought to question his son. The lad was brave beyond his years, but there were still things that frightened him.

  Northman considered for a while and then nodded solemnly, “I’ll come.”

  Outside, in the chilly early morning, there was a swathe of lit lanterns near the closed enclosure of Leofwine’s property. They made it difficult for him to see who stood at his gate seeking entrance. However, the angry voices of whomever Oscetel was keeping at bay were easy to hear.

  Oscetel turned to his Lord with relief when Leofwine appeared, and hastily introduced the men,

  “The King has sent his High Reeve to you to inform you of a raid on the Southern coast. He demands admittance but, my Lord, I do not know the man and he speaks with a Northern accent.”

  Leofwine immediately understood Oscetel’s dilemma when the man on the huge dark horse before them began speaking. His accent was far thicker than even Horic’s, and Leofwine didn’t recognise him either, cursing his limited sight. Behind the stranger were a small mass of mounted men, muttering quietly to themselves, but not one of them used Leofwine’s language.

  “How long have you been the King’s Reeve?”

  “I carry a letter with his seal on, if that’s any help.” The man curtly ignored Leofwine’s question as he thrust a piece of vellum forwards in his gloved hand.

  Oscetel sighed in annoyance, “Why did you not show me that?”

  “The King said it was for the Ealdorman, and you, clearly, are not the Ealdorman.” The stranger’s tone was smugly irritating where it cut through his accent.

  “Well, no I’m not, but it would have saved time and arguments.”

  “It’s good to test the resolve of the household troops, Ealdorman Leofwine,” and the man turned towards where Leofwine was attempting to read his missive from the King in the faint glow of one of the lanterns, “You’re to be commended for the loyalty and vigilance of your men. The King would do well to surround himself with such as you have.” Leofwine noted the man’s words with a wry smile as he saw Oscetel relax at the praise.

  “Indeed Reeve? Sorry, I don’t think you mentioned your name?”

  “I’m Ragnor, from Norway. I’ve served the King for many years but in the far South. I do not often come to the Witan. I prefer to guard my King’s ship army and his lands with my own eyes, rather than trusting them to the less than watc
hful men who call themselves his Reeves elsewhere.”

  “But he has called you to his do his bidding now?”

  “Yes, he has. There are raiders massing in the lands near the Isle of Wight. Rumour has it that there will be hundreds, if not thousands of them. I’ve already seen many with my own eyes and alerted the King accordingly. He’s called out the fyrd, but he has need of his Ealdormen too. I’m instructed to send you to the King at Oxford and then seek out Pallig and also Æthelmaer of the Western Provinces. It will be a fleeting visit, I think. The King wishes to garner opinion on the response he should make and then he’ll command you to act accordingly.”

  Leofwine bit back his unease at the news.

  “These men you have seen, are they staying on the coast?”

  “No, my Lord, they’re raiding far and wide. They seem to mean business. I think this attack has been coordinated beyond anything we’ve seen since Olaf of Norway and Swein of Denmark struck six years ago.”

  Leofwine suppressed his facial expression but couldn’t stop himself from clutching his son more tightly to his body, as if he could ward him from the news.

  “I’d suggest that you leave as soon as possible. Take some of your best men with you and leave the others here to guard your home. I’d not call out your fyrd yet, but I’d send word to your commended men that the raiders are coming. And now my Lord, if you will accept my apology for my abruptness, I must be about the King’s business.”

  “With thanks for your honesty,” Leofwine called to the rapidly departing back of the small troop of men the messenger rode with.

  He turned back to enter his house. His steps felt heavy as he called Oscetel to him. This was not the sort of news he expected to be woken with.