by M J Porter
Unsurprisingly, Godwine looked relieved. But Leofric was sure the king was not yet finished.
“However,” and Leofric waited for it. “What you fail to account for is the fact that Lord Alfred was arrested in the summer four years ago. The previous king didn’t undergo his false ceremony until three years ago. I believe that’s correct?” As Harthacnut spoke, he turned to gaze at Beorn, as though unprepared to accept such confirmation from one of the many English nobility there. Beorn nodded solemnly in confirmation of the king’s question. The fact the answer came from Lord Godwine’s wife’s nephew, just another means by which Harthacnut was reinforcing his anger at his earl.
Lord Godwine’s stance changed at the assertion, and Leofric could detect that the earl was no longer as confident of his position as he had been. Leofric thought him a fool. Had Lord Godwine honestly thought the king would be unaware of such a fact? It was evident that Lord Godwine had believed he’d be incapable of putting together a simple chronological run of events in his mind.
“My Lord King,” Lord Godwine spoke without being invited to, and Leofric was not alone in hissing in outrage at the lack of protocol.
“Apologies,” Lord Godwine immediately bowed his head and stayed silent as he realised what he’d done, the hisses far from inaudible.
Harthacnut eyed the back of Lord Godwine’s head for about thirty breathes before speaking.
“I would hear the truth, Lord Godwine, not the lies.”
Lord Godwine glanced to the side, perhaps hoping to see support on Leofric’s face, but he kept his expression blank. Leofric and Harthacnut’s relationship was tenuous at best, he wouldn’t risk it all for Godwine, for the other earl would certainly never risk all for Leofric.
“It’s the truth, My Lord King. As my witnesses have testified to. The false king, Harald, had been declared King of Mercia, and he instructed me to apprehend Lord Alfred and hand him over to his uncle.”
“So your argument rests on the idea that you, as Earl of Wessex, carried out the attack and subsequent murder of my brother, because the King of Mercia bid you do so.” Harthacnut’s voice was filled with menace.
Leofric looked down at his hands, unable to keep the slight smirk of triumph from showing on his face. Lord Godwine’s arguments simply highlighted his treason more and more. Lord Godwine might think he was on trial for his part in the death of Lord Alfred, but there was a great deal more at stake, and he’d failed to appreciate that when mounting his defence.
“It was your own mother who invited Lord Alfred to England.” Lord Godwine seemed to become desperate.
“And yet you broke faith with my mother, and attacked her son, in fact, both of her sons, I’ve not forgotten what happened to Lord Edward. Why?”
“My Lord King?” Lord Godwine sounded perplexed at the question.
“Tell me why you killed my half-brother on my mother’s side, and yet showed support for the man who claimed to be my father’s child, and yet couldn’t have been? I thought you were my father’s staunchest ally? And a friend of my mother’s?”
Earl Godwine’s face curdled at the king’s words.
“My Lord King, I’m sure you understand that such matters are never as easy as they appear.”
“No, they rarely are, where revenge is concerned.”
“Revenge, My Lord King?”
“Yes, revenge on the children of King Æthelred, my mother’s first husband. Tell me why you hated my half-brothers so much, Earl Godwine, I would have the truth of the matter? Without that, I’ll have no choice but to banish you from England, and you and your family will lose all of your wealth and influence, and it will not matter to anyone that you were once my father’s greatest ally or even my cousin’s uncle. The Danes will not welcome you back either. They do not like disloyalty.”
A heavy silence filled the room, apart from those who strained to get a better view of the debating king and his earl.
Leofric kept his gaze evenly rested between the two, turned slightly in his chair so that his eyes could flicker from one to the other.
This was cruelty from the king, to force Lord Godwine to speak aloud what so many already knew, or suspected, and it didn’t bode well for the future, not at all.
Still Lord Godwine didn’t speak.
And then he did.
“Lord Alfred is your mother’s son, but his father was King Æthelred, and King Æthelred destroyed my father’s life and took his land on the advice of Ealdorman Eadric, who your own father executed for treason. Your father was a great king who took steps to undo the wrongs of King Æthelred’s reign.”
“I vowed to have my revenge on King Æthelred, and I did so. I supported your father and served him faithfully. I’ll not have one of Æthelred’s sons wear the crown of England again. Never.” Lord Godwine spoke clearly, and with conviction, not seeming to care that all heard his words, and that Lady Emma would no doubt be informed of them, in time.
“Well, at least that’s the truth,” Harthacnut spoke into the leaden silence, Lord Godwine’s face white with the realisation of what he’d done.
“You’re guilty of trying to murder the rightful king’s brother, and with being involved in his eventual death. You’ll pay the wergeld due for my brother’s death, and you’ll pay it quickly. Then you’ll carry out a penance, as I see fit, to atone for Lord Alfred’s murder, for it can be deemed nothing but murder, even if you didn’t make the killing blow.”
“You’ll retain your earldom, but your children will be barred from inheriting the title of Earl of Wessex, although they may keep those lands that belonged to your family before my father ruled England. My father treated you well and accorded you his greatest trust as his most loyal earl, even arranging your marriage with his sister by marriage. It will be as though those events didn’t happen as soon as you take your final breath. That is my verdict.”
Leofric knew his mouth had dropped open in shock at the words the king had spoken, whereas Lord Godwine seemed to sway on his feet, absorbing each new blow while his mouth opened and closed mutely. The king’s words had caused a stir to sweep through the assembled men and women, and Leofric knew he was not the only one to be in awe of the king’s skills in meting out a punishment that fit the crime.
Harthacnut had chosen to punish Lord Godwine severely, and yet none could argue that it was too high a price to pay for such treason.
“Archbishop Eadsige, when you’ve sat in judgement on your fellow holy men, the same punishment will be meted out to the perpetrators. Ensure it’s done soon. I’m impatient for the matter to be settled. My brother’s death was a tragedy, and I would be allowed to grieve for him, knowing that justice has been served.”
Without inviting further comment, Harthacnut stood from his royal chair and swept from the hall, followed by Beorn, Lord Otto and the three ship’s commanders.
No one else moved, no one.
And then slowly, a whisper of conversation began at the back of the hall, spreading closer to Leofric, until it felt as though everyone spoke at the same time, all determined to voice their opinions on what they’d just witnessed.
Leofric shut his open mouth and turned to gaze at Lord Godwine. He seemed to be unaware of his surroundings, even with his son, Sweyn tugging on his arm to get his attention.
Leofric saw a man broken by the new king, but more than that, he saw a man who would stop at nothing to reclaim that which the king had just taken from him.
Harthacnut might have hoped to dismantle Lord Godwine’s ambitions and plans for the future, but what he’d genuinely accomplished was to make Godwine hate him when he could have made him love him by being less focused on his own revenge.
Here were two men desperate to make themselves feel better about past events by punishing those they held accountable for them.
Lord Godwine had publicly admitted his hatred of King Æthelred and his admiration for King Cnut, but Harthacnut had failed to heed that. Instead, Harthacnut had restored Godwine to the position that
which had prevailed when Cnut had first come to England.
Leofric was only too aware from long experience of just what a dangerous man that would make Lord Godwine to the king, the kingdom, and to the House of Leofwine.
Chapter 4
AD1040
Ælfgar
He hauled on the reins of his horse, his mouth a twisted grimace.
What was this that he was being forced to participate in?
Ælfgar had known that it would be challenging to have Harthacnut as their king, but he’d not expected this. The thought turned his stomach and worried at his resolve.
His father had been excused from taking part in the desecration of King Harald’s body. Still, Ælfgar had determined to witness it all the same.
As part of their punishment for treason, Harthacnut had ordered Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric to be involved, and neither of the men was happy.
That Harthacnut wasn’t happy either confused Ælfgar. Why was he doing this if it would bring him no joy? Not that joy seemed to be a prime motivator for Harthacnut. Far from it, in fact.
Ælfgar was reminded of the sour faces of the Norse men he’d known throughout his life. Some, such as Olaf and Orkning, even Hrani, were men with a deep core, which, if uncovered, showed them not to be the heartless bastards they would sooner be betrayed as. Harthacnut was not of that ilk. Not at all.
While Harthacnut led the train of horses, with Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric behind him, he was also accompanied by a contingent of his shipmen, led by Lord Beorn, two of his ship’s commanders and also a wooden cart. Ælfgar knew what the cart was for, and it made him grimace every time his eyes fastened on it, which was often, for one of the wheels kept squeaking whenever it hit a rut in the road.
Not that the journey to St Peter’s Church took long. Before Ælfgar had truly had time to consider what the king was about, he was dismounting his horse, and following the line of men into the church. The voices of the monks, heard from outside fell abruptly silent as Ælfgar ran up the short flight of stone steps. He moved through the wooden doors that led into the interior, at the end of the line of the king and his Danish ship-men.
It was not the most magnificent of churches, with only the bottom half of the walls made from stone, and the rest of wood. Still, it was where King Harald had been buried in some honour, in memory that it had been his grandfather who’s kingship of England had been proclaimed from London. It wouldn’t be for much longer.
Ælfgar walked with quick steps over the stone laid floor, mindful of the occasional ill-fitting piece of masonry, to ensure he witnessed all that Harthacnut did.
The monks were horrified by the king’s arrival in their midst, and even more so when Lord Beorn produced a large hammer from a sack, he’d carried into the church and noisily disposed of on the floor.
“No, My Lord King, this is a holy place. It must not be corrupted.” The monk who spoke was an old man, his robes concealing a thin frame, his hands clasped before him as he spoke earnestly to the king.
“I am the king,” was Harthacnut’s immediate response. “This holy place is already corrupted by the body of the one who lays here, the man who should never have been king, and a man who was bastard born. I’ll take him, and then the church can be sanctified once more. The Bishop of London, Ælfweard, will see the ceremony is conducted quickly.” As he spoke, Harthacnut flicked his fingers, and the Danish ship-men surged forward, keen to begin their work. The monk looked on, mystified.
“You do not mean to rob us?” the monk asked.
“Only of a body,” Harthacnut’s reply was terse. Then the hammering began, more than one hammer having been taken from the sack, and Ælfgar’s eyes closed in shame at the action. The old monk scuttled away, swallowed up by the remainder of his brethren who cowered far from the king’s men. Their white eyes peered at the work of the burly ship-men, who’d come dressed for war, not understanding what was happening.
Removing the stone covering of the floor took too little time. While the smell of rich earth assaulted Ælfgar’s nostrils from the depths of the churches foundations, he refused to walk away. No, he didn’t need to be here, but here he was all the same. Ælfgar knew the king had no qualms about his actions. Harthacnut was doing this in the brightness of day. He wanted the whole of London to understand what he did, no doubt hoping that word of mouth would ensure all knew that King Harald was no longer buried in St Peter’s Church by the end of the day
Ælfgar knew it for what it was, a petty act of vengeance against a half-brother that Harthacnut had never acknowledged, and still hoped not to. Yet this act would reaffirm it far more than if Harthacnut had merely allowed the body to remain where it was.
People would realise the depths of the king’s anger toward Harald far more than if he’d even just accepted the dead man had been his half-brother.
But, as much as Harthacnut was trying to ignore his mother’s presence in England, this was a sign of just how similar the pair of them were. If Lady Emma could have done, she’d have forced Cnut to disown his older sons. That she was never able to showed that Cnut acknowledged them as his sons.
“Earl Godwine, assist the men.”
Harthacnut’s voice was strident. Earl Godwine had been standing with Archbishop Ælfric, the presence of the archbishop seeming to unsettle the monks as much as it did Ælfgar.
Ælfric shouldn’t be here. But then, Archbishop Ælfric did deserve to be punished. Not for his part in supporting King Harald over Harthacnut, but rather for his actions since Harthacnut had become king.
The ambitious churchman had quickly laid the blame at Bishop Lyfing of Worcester’s feet when giving his testimony before the Church Court for his part in Lord Alfred’s seizure. As Harthacnut had commanded, Bishop Lyfing had been deprived of his bishopric of Worcester when Ælfric had produced witnesses to confirm his words. Archbishop Ælfric had then been rewarded with the diocese of Worcester by the king, as well as retaining York.
Ælfgar had refused to try and untangle the web of lies that Archbishop Ælfric had spun around the king. His father had been furious. Ælfgar had merely consoled by saying that if the king could see through Lord Godwine’s lies, then it wouldn’t be long before the truth was known, and then Ælfric would be forced to face the king’s wrath for a second time.
Archbishop Ælfric’s presence at the removal of King Harald’s body was hard to determine. Was it a punishment, or was it a reward? Ælfgar hardly knew.
Ælfgar watched as five of Harthacnut’s men, assisted by a sweating Earl Godwine, hauled on ropes that brought the coffin up from the depths of the church foundations. The aroma was ripe. Harald had been dead for four months now. Ælfgar knew the mortal remains would not be in good condition. But that didn’t seem to bother Harthacnut.
As the wooden coffin was lifted once more to the floor of the church, Harthacnut gave a peremptory instruction, and two of his men took a bar of iron to force the lid clear. It landed with a resounding bang on the floor, smashing into three pieces as it did so.
Ælfgar swallowed heavily. This was not right.
“Is that him?” Harthacnut spat, peering into the coffin while speaking to Earl Godwine.
“Yes, My Lord King, that’s the body of the usurper.” Earl Godwine had shuffled forward three steps and peered inside, his face reflecting the horror of what he found within the coffin. Ælfgar could only imagine.
“Good. Have it wrapped in coarse cloth and brought to the cart. Usurpers don’t deserve a regal coffin in a royal church. We’ll ensure he receives the burial he should have had all along.”
Ælfgar was unsure of the king’s plans now that he had Harald’s body. Harthacnut had commanded Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric to have the body disinterred, what would happen to it now was unknown. Ælfgar assumed the king would simply have his half-brother buried in an unmarked grave, where he could never be mourned as a King of England. But, the fact that Harthacnut had removed the body from his coffin concerned Ælfgar g
reatly. Perhaps he had something else in mind.
While Earl Godwine bent to aid the men carrying out their king’s duty, Archbishop Ælfric hovered on the side of proceedings. Ælfgar watched all three men keenly, even the king.
Just what did Harthacnut have planned for King Harald’s body?
Only when the body had been carried through the church, the smell of decomposition bringing bile to Ælfgar’s mouth, did Harthacnut bow to the monks. The sharp movement belied about as much respect as the king would give to a stinking pile of horse manure, and then strode after, his hand over his nose. Ælfgar hurried to keep up with the king.
What Ælfgar expected to hear was the king ordering his men as to their next destination. Instead, he was greeted with silence while everyone mounted up. Ælfgar thought to cry out when he glimpsed Harald’s body hastily bundled into the back of the cart by the Danish ship-men, but he didn’t wish to draw attention to himself.
Harthacnut was more than likely aware that Ælfgar had joined this expedition. Still, as the king hadn’t forbidden him, or ordered him away, Ælfgar was content to stay. If his growing fears were correct, he needed to know exactly what happened to Harald’s body.
With no fanfare at all, the king mounted up. His men followed, as did, Earl Godwine and Archbishop Ælfric. The entire party began to ride, having not spoken a single word, not into London itself, but away from London. They went toward the ancient walls, and then out through the gate, and beyond, into the countryside where people were busy in the fields of what ripening crops there were. It had been too warm, all summer, and the usually lush growths had dwindled away, only the hardiest specimens surviving. Ælfgar knew the same was happening throughout Mercia.
Men, women and children stood to watch the royal party. No doubt they considered why the king journeyed with a decrepit cart, pulled by fine horses, and with what could only be a corpse clumsily arranged on the bed of that cart.