by M J Porter
Oscetel waited for a beat and then opened his mouth to speak, “Apologies. Yes, Uhtred won the battle for the King or rather, as the messenger says, for himself and his people. Even now the good wives of Durham are beheading the Scots, combing their hair and washing their faces and leaving the heads on spikes for all to see. He rewards the women with a fat cow.”
Oscetel laughed at the news. “He’s a true Northumbrian man, never afraid to do to the Scots what they would do to us.”
Leofwine cocked an eyebrow at Oscetel, “Come, my Lord, even you must see the truth in that. Uhtred and his family have held their land for centuries, longer than almost any other family. They’re brought up on a diet of Scots for breakfast. There’ll never be peace with them, and the stupid fools will never stop raiding even though they win so rarely. I admire their continual optimism, as misplaced as it is.”
Shaking his unpleasant thoughts aside, he thought about Oscetel’s words. He was a true Mercian and had ties to this land that stretched further back than Leofwine’s own. The Northumbrians had long been their neighbours and so, he must assume, knew their temperament better than most.
“We would do well to learn from the Northumbrians. If the raiders are here for the long haul, and I fear they are, we must raise our children on a diet of blood and war. We must make them fear nothing and fight for what they believe in. As your sons do, the boys must train with the men, for if all the men fail it will be the boys and the women who hold Swein of Denmark and his men at bay. I almost pity them should they meet Horic’s wife.”
Oscetel laughed as he spoke, pushed up from his place on the bench and walked outside, taking the smell of sweat and iron with him. Leofwine appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood, but it hadn’t worked.
Beside him, Ǽthelflaed snaked her arm around his neck and then waddled to the chair that Oscetel had just vacated. She was hugely pregnant and he knew she was struggling to stay as mobile as she liked. He stood and kissed her lightly on the head before reseating himself.
“My Lord, you are again, beset with worries.”
He smiled wryly, “I am, my Lady. Are we to be formal throughout the conversation?”
She smiled at him warmly, and slapped at his hand, reaching out to take hold of her own.
“I thought a bit of normality and due respect might make you feel as though the world wasn’t crumbling beneath your feet.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but facts must be faced.”
“Yes, but not every moment of every day.”
“No, I suppose not. Did you want something?”
“Only to see you smile and your shoulders drop from their hunched position. Otherwise I’ll spend my night relaxing you, and with this huge child of yours in my belly, I think it’s time that you relaxed me.”
Her words did the trick and he laughed out loud.
“Have you thought of a name yet?”
“No, we have not.” She stressed the ‘we’.
“You mean I get a say? That’s a first.”
With mock anger she slapped at his chest.
“If you’re here when the child is born, I’ll let you name it. It’s not my fault if you’re never where you’re needed.”
He sobered at that. She was right – almost.
“I was there for Leofric, and still you named him.”
“Yes well, you weren’t supposed to remember that. Or you were to have been too much a gentleman to remind me. Either works for me.” She glanced at him as she spoke, her beauty highlighted by the fire before them, casting her features into relief, her hair splayed behind her like an angel’s halo.
“Come, turn around and I’ll rub your back for you. You look almost crippled over with pain. I suggest you grow them a little less well in future.”
“Really, Leofwine,” she huffed, rising to her feet and reseating herself so that her back was to him, “for a seemingly intelligent man, you do say the most stupid of things. It’s you who makes them so big. It’s nothing to do with me. You feed me up each time I’m with child, and then complain when little giants erupt from me.”
He supposed she had a point. All four of their children were hale and hearty, and by God’s will, none had succumbed to childhood illnesses. He was proud of his growing boys, Northman, Leofric and Godwine, and knew his wife was besotted with Ealdgyth – she was going to be as tyrannical as her mother when she grew to womanhood. She was already well used to getting her brothers to do as she commanded. He pitied whoever became her husband.
He let the gentle movement of rubbing his wife’s back distract him and felt calmness settle on him. He felt as though for the last ten years he and his wife had faced a growing list of difficulties and still, in their own little world, they were happy and content. Whatever came his way, he knew that with her stalwart support he would make it through.
1006 – Part 4
He reined his horse in so abruptly that mud clots flew through the air and landed with loud thuds on the ground before him.
In front of him, a vast host of men had assembled: the fyrd of Mercia.
So many men and not even the whole host of them, he thought. He’d asked his men to arrange a number of mustering points, and so he slid into Coventry expecting a multitude of men. Still, it was a shock to see so many swords, shields and axes in one place. And the men meant business. A quiet rage emanated from them, and he thought that in mere moments they could be roused to great anger. They were a potent force.
He’d already been to Derby and seen the fyrd there, given his orders and sent his men on their various errands to protect the land, some to the borders with Strathclyde, some to stand inconspicuously on the borders with the Danelaw, and yet more to guard the burhs and the people. He wouldn’t be caught unawares.
After Coventry, he would return to Lichfield and then travel towards the lands of the Ancient Britons, where the men of Shropshire and beyond were gathering. Or so he hoped. News had reached him that Eadric was planning on leading the men from his land, but Leofwine had heard no official word from King Æthelred, and until he did, he would continue as he’d planned. He didn’t much relish the thought of Eadric storming in and taking the honour for provisioning the men so well, but he was trying to be pragmatic; as long as the land was safe it little mattered who led. Or so he told himself.
Before him, the host of men fell silent, and he felt himself the focus of countless eyes. For the first time in years he felt conscious of his wounded face and held his hand firm on the reins of his horse to stop from touching it. These men were his to command and yet he knew too few of them. He was as curious about them as they were about him but he didn’t stare, unlike the men who bowed their heads briefly to acknowledge him before returning to their open staring.
Oscetel had travelled before him and had arrived with enough time to spare that he’d managed to gather all the commanders together to enable Leofwine to speak directly to them.
While others of his men mingled with the crowd, inspecting the equipment that the fyrd members had provided for themselves or been given, Leofwine dismounted from his horse and strode towards Oscetel. He was surrounded by a large group of men, from the young to the old, all looking smart in their war gear.
Leofwine held back a smirk at seeing the pompous stance of one of the older men, clearly enjoying the attention of the younger men, new to their posts, by whom he had been surrounded and were asking for advice on matters that concerned them about any coming battle.
Oscetel rolled his eyes as Leofwine drew closer, alluding to the rotund man at the centre of attention, and Leofwine smiled in welcome to cover his laughter. The older man reminded him of Northman at his most engaging, puffed up with his own self-belief. However, he doubted that this man would be quite as quickly deflated as Northman could, once reminded of who he was and his actual accomplishments.
Oscetel strolled forward and began to introduce the men.
“My Lord Leofwine, let me introduce you to Eadnoth, the King’s Reeve fo
r the area.”
The large man shuffled forward, a broad smile across his round face. He offered his arm in a handclasp and Leofwine reciprocated, looking over the man’s elegant tunic, wholly unsuited to any military action that may soon be coming.
“Well met, Eadnoth. You’ve gathered the men together well.”
Eadnoth was further visibly inflated at the words of praise, but before he could speak further, Leofwine turned aside; he was more interested in the young men and Oscetel would know it.
“And this is young Godwine and Brithwold, both commanding for the first time this year. They offer firm assurances that this will not be their first battle.”
“Indeed, where else have you encountered the raiders?”
Godwine coloured a little and Brithwold spoke first, “Well, my Lord, perhaps battle is too fine a word for the skirmish we had with some raiders who were travelling across our lands.”
“Any contact with the raiders will stand you in good stead, even if all you did was catch sight of them and drive them from your land.”
The men both straightened at the words.
“There was an entire ship full of the brutes, but they returned to their ship soon enough when they saw us.”
“And did you see them as men or as the enemy?” Leofwine asked.
“As both, my Lord; they are men but they are our enemy and as such just as fallible as we are.”
Leofwine nodded vigorously in agreement,
“And that’s perhaps the best lesson you’ll ever learn. The stories and rumours we hear of these men can be terrifying – and believe me, they’re terrifying to encounter in full battle. But like us, injuries will fell them or kill them, and at the back of their minds must always be the knowledge that if they want to return to their families and their homes, they must decide whether fight or flight is best.”
Leofwine felt the men who surrounded him still at his words and he wondered if he’d spoken incorrectly. The revelation to him that Swein of Denmark was just a man had been a liberating experience, but perhaps it was not so for everyone.
Godwine was the first to speak. “That’s an important lesson, my Lord, and one I’ll ensure that all I meet are made aware of. We mustn’t turn these men into the devil if it’s not necessary.”
His words were finely spoken, but his voice wavered a little and Leofwine felt a sense of foreboding. These men were young, barely tried and yet they had the security of the country to ensure. He wondered if the men were actually capable of it. Perhaps this was the problem with calling out the fyrd. The force might well be massive but the men, not used to military action, too timid to be truly useful.
Before he became mired in thought, Oscetel called him to attention and the rest of the afternoon was spent in a noisy training exercise not unlike that which had occurred before the Battle of Chester six years ago. He pitted his forces one against the other and saw how the commanders handled the different situations. What he saw did not fill him with fear, but neither was he convinced that this stretch of Mercia would be protected as it should be. Calling to Oscetel, he spoke a few brief words, and an agreement was reached that he’d work with the commanders for a few days more before setting the men on their respective paths to protect Mercia.
****
His return to Lichfield and his family was a muted affair. Ǽthelflaed was labouring to bring his new child into the world.
As he sat and waited through the long night, wincing at her cries and grateful that he’d not had to endure every one of the births, news arrived that Swein of Denmark had returned. He was focusing his attacks on Æthelred’s Wessex homeland. No matter his hatred for Leofwine, it appeared he was happy to torment the King with his sneaking attacks into the Wessex heartlands.
Leofwine hoped the fyrd would drive the raiding King Swein back but set out with all haste as soon as he could to visit the borderlands with the men of Powys. He was curious to see whether Eadric held his place there or whether he’d rushed to the King and was even now, busy defending the Wessex lands.
Although it pained him to leave his new son and jubilant wife, the new birth spurred him to greater efforts. His family would be protected, at all costs.
1006 – Part 5
Messengers from the King found him as he approached his meeting with the King of Powys near the old dyke. The news they brought was not good, but neither was it all bad. Swein of Denmark was busily attempting to infiltrate the old lands of the kingdom of Wessex, but for now, the fyrd were competently keeping them at bay. The King, however, was less than pleased with Leofwine.
Leofwine smiled his way through an interrogation by the messenger, who it soon transpired was a member of Eadric’s rapidly growing household.
“Well met, my Lord,” the immaculately dressed messenger started, but then his eyes narrowed, and his next question was no question at all.
“The King demands details of your movements and a full report of any incursions by the raiders. And I must say it’s taken me many extra days to reach you, here, in Eadric’s territory. I suggest you answer me quickly so that I can return to the King. He was anxious about your intentions before I left the court. I’d not be surprised that he now fears you dead and has replaced you.”
“And your name is?” Leofwine countered, forcing himself to calmness at the sharp tone of the man.
“I’m Wulfric, commended man of Eadric of Mercia, not that it’s any concern of yours.”
“And you have travelled all this way alone?” Leofwine could barely keep the surprise from his voice. The man, now free from his horse, laughed loudly at his words.
“I don’t fear the raiders, my Lord, not in the safe Mercian lands of my Lord Eadric; they should fear me. Have you not heard of my prowess? I was assured details of my encounters had spread far and wide.”
“Not to the Ealdorman of Mercia’s ears, no,” Leofwine countered, an amused half smile on his face. It appeared as though Eadric was drawn to men similar in mannerism to his own. Leofwine hoped that made for dull conversations.
The man faltered at the firm denial of who he was, and behind him Leofwine heard Oscetel chuckling quietly as he saw to his horse’s needs. Wulfric glanced sharply to Oscetel’s back with a look of annoyance.
“And where were you sent to look for me?” Leofwine asked, attempting to distract the man.
“Why to your home in Lichfield of course,” he stated as if it should be obvious.
“And who suggested you go there? Surely not the King, for he knows his instructions to me were to travel far and wide throughout Mercia.”
“Well, no, I think my instructions came from the King through Eadric. He was perhaps … mistaken about your current actions.”
“I should think he was,” Leofwine retorted, “and neither is it his place to demand to know what I’m doing. You’re clearly not the King’s messenger, and in light of the menace ravaging our lands, I find myself disinclined to inform you of what I am about and what my plans are. The King knows what he commanded, and he knows that I’ll follow his instructions.” His tone was benign enough, but he felt a steely resolve. How dare Eadric take it upon himself to have him chased around his lands like an errant child?
“And your master, he’s helping in the effort against the raiders?”
Wulfric, already uncomfortable that his half-truths had been discovered, paused a moment before responding, and that was all Leofwine needed to know.
“Eadric, of course, assists the King. Even now he is in attendance upon him and helping him with the war effort.” Wulfric puffed with pride as he spoke.
“So he’s not in the saddle then, chasing down Swein’s men? No, I think not,” he continued, not allowing Wulfric time to reply. “Eadric is dancing for the King and keeping his feet clean. If you wish to be your master’s messenger, I suggest you inform him that I’ve been surveying the lands of Shropshire, which he claims as his own, and I find the dyke in a terrible state of disrepair and relations with the lands of the Ancient Brit
ons to be less than cordial. Inform him, from me, that I’ll see to his lack, but that I’ll be advising the King when I next see him.”
By the time he finished speaking Leofwine’s anger was difficult to hold in place. With a curt nod towards Wulfric, Leofwine turned away to hide the angry tinge of his face. Oscetel had ceased his actions and was watching his Lord closely, ready to respond to any command he gave. Leofwine tried hard to smile at the man. Their long years together meant that Oscetel would have instantly realised the very real anger bubbling away inside him, but if it surprised him he didn’t show it. Instead, he signalled for his squire to lead Wulfric away.
“You’re well, my Lord?” he asked quietly. Leofwine could only nod his response as he worked to compose himself for the next unenviable task his King had set for him. In the distance, he could already make out a small group of riders coming towards him, some on horseback and some running alongside. This was the King he’d come to meet, or so he hoped.
Llewelyn, King of Powys, was a man of a similar age to Leofwine, and he rode with a calm confidence that Leofwine instantly appreciated. Here he was, come to meet a representative of a hostile King, to discuss a mutual enemy, but he looked calm and self-assured. Instantly, Leofwine knew that Llewelyn and he would at least be able to have a meaningful meeting.
Llewelyn dismounted from his horse and walked the last short distance to where Leofwine stood waiting for him, on what was officially the King of Powys’ land. He was a tall man, dressed as Leofwine was, in his byrnie and with his sword strapped to his back. He had a small and tidy beard and moustache, and his hair flowed to his neckline and was neatly cut, only recently, as the stark straight lines were still in evidence.
He held his hand out in welcome and Leofwine grabbed it, grateful that Llewelyn was happy just to meet with him without the need for any ceremony or pomp. They’d not met before, but had communicated via messengers in the years that Leofwine had guarded the Mercian border. Both, wrestling with external forces, had taken it upon themselves to meddle with the often uneasy accord at the borderlands.