by M J Porter
It was not often that the King made such a public display of his displeasure and his anger. It was a shocking reminder that he was their King, and although he ruled with the support of his Witan, he could displace and remove his men as he saw fit.
Beside him, Wulfstan gripped tightly on Leofwine’s thigh, willing him to let the King have his moment without interfering. Leofwine couldn’t meet his eyes, shame flooding him that he would sit idly by while the King ruined the lives of his faithful men, all on a whim that he had somehow been betrayed. Internally he cursed the man. Why hadn’t he made more effort to keep Ælfhelm by his side? Why had he not pursued the idea of allowing the men in the northern lands some leeway in the taxes they must pay?
With the commotion over and some peace restored to the Witan, the King spent long moments looking over those who now served him. Leofwine and Ælfric were his solitary ealdormen, although Ulfcytel also sat with them, the commander of the army in the eastern lands, bound through marriage to his King and yet not quite an ealdorman. Behind them sat the King’s remaining older sons, the four of them sitting forward, attentive to their father, the space between Athelstan and Edmund speaking of the King’s loss.
And yet further on sat those of the royal officials who’d not been touched by this turmoil, and there were few of them and few that Leofwine could name – Æthelmaer, Ǽthelwold, Ǽlfgar and Godwine, not much more than names to Leofwine. He knew of them from their time together as royal officials but the last ten years seemed to stretch empty between them, almost as if he’d become an ealdorman and had left them behind. He now looked at them with intrigue, wondering what the years had done to them as men. Were they still who they once had been or had time wrought changes on them that couldn’t be seen on the surface?
Æthelmaer was a good-looking man and sat as smartly as the ǽthelings before him. He was beautifully dressed in a tunic with neat embroidery around the cuffs and neck and yet there was something about him that disturbed Leofwine. Did he look a little too pleased with himself?
Ǽthelwold was a much older man, a remnant of the time when Leofwine had sat amongst the royal officials before his King raised him to his ealdormany and saw fit to send him across the seas to be blinded.
Ǽlfgar was another remnant, but he was closer to Leofwine in age. He looked fit and healthy and was alleged to be keen with his sword and his hammer. He enjoyed a good battle although he’d not often faced the raiders in any huge numbers.
And Godwine was another of Leofwine’s generation. He was a good man, not often speaking up against the King, but as reliable as they came. If the King had ordered him to kill a convent full of nuns, he would have done it without compunction. His unquestioning nature left Leofwine disturbed on occasion and clearly the King as well, for he’d never risen from his position to anything greater.
There was a vast host of faces that Leofwine little knew, and he cursed himself for not spending more time cultivating alliances. If the King called him to answer for any deeds seen as untimely, he was aware that none would stand up for him. Not even Athelstan who he’d once hoped saw him as more than his father’s servant. He vowed that if at the end of the year he still had the King’s goodwill, he would spend his winter months making friends with any who would have him.
As the King’s voice penetrated his thoughts, he turned back to stare at the man who’d suddenly become an unknown quantity to him.
“And now my Lords and gentlemen, we must turn our minds to more pleasant tasks. As you all know, Swein of Denmark and his men left our shores last year when the famine was at its worst. This year, they’ll be back. Already I’ve heard from Swein of his intention to return unless we pay him forty thousand pounds to stay away.”
There was, understandably, an outcry at those words, and Æthelred held his hand up to restore quiet, “I entirely agree. The thieving bastards have taken enough of what is ours and have done little to earn it. I’m therefore calling out the fyrds of the Mercian lands and the heartlands of my family, Wessex. As before, we’ll arrange for small troops to be spread across the land and they’ll watch and wait for the Northmen. As soon as they’re upon us, the troops will inform the rest of the fyrd, and they’ll march to defeat them. We’ll make a stand. We’ll drive them from our shores as God did last year, with his less than generous harvest.”
Grins and looks of apprehension touched the faces of the King’s councillors and then a slow clap of support started and worked its way around the less than crowded room.
King Æthelred smiled as he watched to see who supported him and who did not. Belatedly Leofwine began to clap and nodded to show Oscetel, Wulfstan and Horic that they must do the same. Æthelred looked on with his eyebrow raised quizzically and a contemptuous smile upon his lips. Leofwine nodded towards his King, but he’d turned away, his interest on those men who he could yet raise to positions of greater prominence. His eyes seemed to fasten on one particular person, and Leofwine followed his line of sight. A boy no older than seventeen years stood on his feet, a look of delight on his face as his King looked at him. He was clearly a warrior, his clothing a little shoddy, but his sword was at his waist, gleaming brightly, and a jewel nestled within its scabbard caught and reflected the flames of the candles, hinting at his prowess in battle.
Beside him, Horic whispered, “Uhtred, from the far north. He is – and even I must say it – a fine warrior and happy to spend his life killing those from across the border. I think the King may have designs on him for Northumbria.”
“What? He intends to replace Ealdorman Ælfhelm so soon?”
“Rumour has it, my Lord; and he’ll make a fine replacement. He’s regrettably a little stupid. He does as he’s told without thought and never seems to regret anything. If the King told him to jump off a cliff, I think he probably would.”
Leofwine turned to glare at Horic, who was chuckling quietly to himself,
“The King seems to have devised a new ploy. If all the men he surrounds himself with can’t think for themselves, then they can only ever follow the King’s orders. Perhaps, my Lord, I could suggest a lesson in how to never think again.”
Leofwine’s glower relaxed into a half smile.
“I think you may have the best of me, Horic. Thinking has always been the cause of my trouble. Clearly, something you don’t suffer with!”
Horic roared with laughter at the words, not caring that the King fixed him with a penetrating stare.
“You’re to do my thinking for me, as once Olaf of Norway did, and to be honest these days it’s mostly my wife.”
Wiping tears from his eyes, Horic turned to Oscetel who looked as stern-faced as the King, “What do you think?”
Oscetel watched the King as he spoke.
“I think you might have the right of it, about your wife at least,” Oscetel spoke slowly and gravely, his words contrary to how he uttered them and even Leofwine felt a grin spread across his tight face.
“But, with a herd of you look-alikes running around your farm, I’m not surprised. For all your brawn and bravery, without a little bit of thought and common sense you, my good man, would starve even as your fields grow dense and ripen and your animals grow full and fat.”
Horic’s laughter dried up abruptly.
“Well, when you put it like that you might be right,” Horic muttered darkly, fixing Oscetel with a less than congenial stare before turning back to Leofwine.
“My Lord, I agree, someone must do the thinking, but I can assure you it’s not always our King.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. “Don’t let the King rule us too much. Perhaps a little more contrition in your actions and all will be well.”
Beside them, Wulfstan hadn’t spoken, his eyes a little glazed. Leofwine nudged him and a semi-snore erupted from his mouth that had Horic chuckling again,
“Wulfstan, I’m sorry if all this discussion bores you.” Leofwine spoke quietly, as his friend turned to look at him blankly.
“Why, have I missed something?”
Wulfstan looked stricken and then his face darkened,
“I’m afraid I grow a little too weary of court politics in my old age. The King is no fool and yet his decisions are often poor. He gives too little power to his sons and too much to men who are foolish but who amuse him. I’ve been watching the same mistakes since he was a small boy.”
Wulfstan spoke so quietly that Leofwine strained to hear him. “I’m part of a group of councillors who are now all long-dead, and sometimes I wish I were too. He’s a wise and just King and yet his words today fill me with sadness, as they should you. Horic has the right of it: follow a little blindly, but keep your wits about you. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll return to my ruminations.”
Leofwine looked at Wulfstan with sadness. Just as with Hunter, the spectre of death was creeping slowly over his oldest friend, and he was too stubborn to see it. He should have let him stay at home, but he’d wanted his closest supporters with him. With Horic, Wulfstan and Oscetel behind him, he always felt empowered. Perhaps from now on he would let Wulfstan do a little less and give a bit more to his oldest son. He didn’t want to make the same mistakes that his King was making.
His King, happy with the decisions he’d made, rose to leave the Witan but turned back at the last moment and stood for a moment. “We are all of us warriors in our own ways. Let’s show these Northmen what it means to be proud of our land and ready to die for it.”
A cheer greeted his words as he walked out, and a small smile played on his lips. For all that, Leofwine thought he looked unhappy, weighed down by fears and worries that never seemed to leave him. Perhaps being the King of a country always under the threat of attack was more a trial than Leofwine had thought.
1006 – Part 3
Swein of Denmark arrived back in England to the news of attacks in the North from the Scots and a King who now had fewer ealdormen than at any point in his reign. While Swein would, through his spies, know that the King had called out the fyrd of Mercia and Wessex, he would also know that the kingdom was riven by strife and division as the repercussions of the King’s decisions at the Witan were still being felt up and down the country.
Leofwine had returned to Deerhurst after the Witan, collected his wife and children, and leaving Horic once again to see to the safety of his ancestral home had departed for the Mercian lands. Regardless of his King’s thoughts on the matter, he knew that he would defend the kingdom well.
Almost as soon as he arrived in Lichfield, leaving an ill and grumpy Wulfstan to Horic’s tender ministrations, news from the North came in the form of a messenger. He jumped from his horse where Leofwine stood surveying a training session in which Northman was playing a part; he was a good strong young boy, smart with his choice of attack and defence, and Leofwine enjoyed watching him outfox the older boys in the war band who served as squires for his men.
“My Lord Leofwine,” the messenger spoke, ducking his head. He was travel-stained and his horse looked weary. Signalling to Leofric, who stood rapt with attention watching the fighting with his father, that he should take the horse away for some food and water, he turned his full attention to the man.
“I’m Aldric, my Lord, Uhtred sent me to inform the King and his people of an attack on the land near Durham.”
Leofwine hid his shock well, “And who attacks?”
“The Scots, my Lord. About six thousand of them, or so Uhtred reckons.”
Leofwine relaxed a little. The Scots – that was at least a familiar menace.
“And how does Uhtred fare?”
The messenger cracked a smile across his mud-splattered face. “Well, my Lord, he has an eye for how to exploit every weakness and of course he knows most of those who’ve risen against the King, and that helps too.”
Belatedly he ushered Aldric inside his house for refreshment and noted that the man limped.
“And you, did you assist in the attacks?”
“Regrettably, I wounded my leg some time ago, in a border skirmish. Since then I’ve served Uhtred as one of his messengers. It’s easier to ride than to walk.”
“I don’t doubt that at all. Well, come, take refreshment and tell me what your instructions are from here. Are you to seek the King or would you prefer one of my men to do that?”
“If you could, my Lord, then I can return to Uhtred. I’d not want to miss out on all the action.”
Leofwine grinned at the bloodthirsty lust of the man.
“When I left, Uhtred was offering the women of Durham a fine fat cow in exchange for one of the Scots’ heads, cleaned and mounted on a stake for all to see. I’d not want to return when the heads are all rotted away.”
A grimace of disgust swept briefly across Leofwine’s face, and Aldric laughed.
“I didn’t think you’d have a soft heart, my Lord, for the bloody Scots.”
“I don’t, but still, when a man is dead he should be buried and not displayed as if he were a toy. It’s the way of our religion.”
“They’ll be buried eventually, my Lord, don’t fret so. When the heads have all rotted and the birds have finished pecking out the eyes, they’ll be buried in a pit. Mind, I don’t think they’ll be reunited with their bodies,” he added as the thought struck him.
Aldric spoke with a slight accent, easy enough for Leofwine to understand, and as he drank from a large cup of mead and grabbed at a meal Ǽthelflaed had produced from somewhere, spittle and food flew from his mouth as he laughed at the tender heart of the Ealdorman of Mercia. Leofwine tried to enjoy the grim joy of killing the enemy, but couldn’t stop himself from thinking how he would feel if it was his sons or his father whose head was spitted and laid out for all to see.
Calling to Leofric again, he asked his young son to inform the men that a messenger was needed.
“Do you have word of where the King may be keeping his court?” he asked Aldric.
Aldric glanced at him for long enough to shake his head as he chewed and swallowed as fast as physically possible.
“Did Uhtred not provision you before you left?”
Aldric looked contrite for a moment, “He did, my Lord, but I confess, on my travels I came across a family in need and rather than take succour from them, I gave them my own.”
Leofwine laughed at the man’s rueful tone, “Who are you, to be quibbling about my soft heart?”
Aldric laughed long and hard at his words, “My Lord, I think you’ve the right of me after all. I don’t suppose you have any to spare for me to take back the way I came, do you?”
Ǽthelflaed, eavesdropping from her spot by the open fire, had already signalled for one of her maids to put together some rations for the messenger, and so Leofwine merely nodded in compliance.
“Do you have any other news, other than the victory?”
“Well, yes, my Lord. I can tell you everything that has happened in Northumbria in the last few months, if you care to listen.”
“Yes, go ahead. I’ve heard little since the last Witan. How does Ealdorman Ælfhelm fare?”
“My Lord, you’re behind with your news. I’m afraid that Ælfhelm is dead and, rumour has it, murdered at the request of the King.”
Outrage consumed Leofwine,
“And from who have you heard this?”
“It’s common knowledge throughout the lands above the Humber. That is why Uhtred has taken command of the fyrd. Ælfhelm is dead at the hands, or so rumour has it, of a certain Eadric who is said to be high in the King’s estimations, and his sons are twice blinded – useless to all, if you’ll beg my pardon for saying so.”
Leofwine closed his one good eye in sympathy. To be blinded entirely was a torment he couldn’t imagine. He suffered enough with his one eye and his dog. To have no comfort of even the smallest amount of sight was terrifying.
“Aye, my Lord …” Aldric spoke quietly into the silence that had fallen at his pronouncement,
“… I’d not wish it on anyone. There is outrage in the Northern lands. Æthelred is lucky that Uhtred is so committed to his land and his people and prepared to step into the breach to save them. His thoughts are not, I’m afraid to admit, of helping the King.”
Leofwine acknowledged the words with a slow nod of his head. The King had allowed things to progress too far, and if Eadric had been the man responsible for the actual murder of Ealdorman Ælfhelm and the blinding of his sons, he feared his King had found too willing an accomplice to his desperate actions.
Aldric took his leave a short time later, desperate to get back. He was laden with food for his journey and for any in need he found as he travelled. Leofwine knew the story he told was a familiar one. The land had yet to fully recover from last year’s famine, and he knew the people would only mend when the land did. It was going to take time that many didn’t have.
Ǽthelflaed was marshalling their supplies as best she could, aware that they must help where they could. The Church was acting in a similar way. Any who had excess were asked to donate to someone with less than them. Anything from a chicken to a cow to a smattering of barley was gratefully received by any who had nothing. Leofwine had been pleased by the support each and everyone had given to others, but still he knew there were areas of deprivation where no one had anything. He’d tried to discover all such villages but was unsure if he’d been successful. His land was a maze of tiny farms and hidden villages over every hill and under every mountain and, frustratingly, the records kept by the Church were not complete. Not everyone could be accounted for in a population that swelled and retracted with the weather and the harvest.
Oscetel wandered through the hall, looking for his Lord. On seeing him, he sat and watched him intently. Leofwine, lost in thought didn’t notice him until he spoke a greeting.
“What news, my Lord?”
Leofwine focused on him and grimaced.
“The Scots raid the Northumbrian lands; the King allegedly killed Ealdorman Ælfhelm and his sons are blinded. I wonder where his daughters are …?” His voice trailed off as he spoke.