by M J Porter
Again, both of his cousins looked at him with wide eyes.
They were not often at court, through their own choice as much as Lord Leofric’s. Ælfgar knew most of their concerns were with harvests and maintaining law and order for his father, but they always liked to know all the sordid details.
“The sly old bastard,” it was Ælfwine who spoke, a slither of admiration in his voice. “Earl Godwine could have learned a few lessons from Archbishop Ælfric in how to redirect the king’s wrath.”
Ælfgar chuckled at the words, but his eyes had fallen on his small children, and he leapt to see to Burgheard’s need. The lad was happily toddling along on his own two feet, as he worked his way along the line Ælfgar and his cousins had formed beside the hearth.
Wulfstan watched his cousin’s son with a certain wistfulness, but Ælfwine merely encouraged the boy, his hands out ready to catch him if he should stumble. It seemed that this was one of Burgheard’s usual games now that he’d learned to walk.
“And have you two decided on a marriage yet?” Ælfgar enjoyed the groaning that greeted his words, as Burgheard startled at the laughter that burbled from his father’s mouth, Burgheard tottering, as though he would fall backwards.
Ælfgar leapt to his feet, scooped up his son, a number of the family hounds also winding their way between his knees, and made for the open door.
“Come on, one of you needs to report to me on how affairs go in Oxford, and I need to see the crops for myself. You both may as well come with me.” With only small groans of a complaint, Wulfstan and Ælfwine stood and made their way toward him. Ælfgar grinned again, still enjoying his cousins’ discomfort, but knowing it was well past time for the two to have married.
He would need to give it some thought.
The house and outlying buildings, as well as the bramble hedges, had all suffered in the fierce gale that had claimed Earl Eilifr’s life the previous year. Ælfgar strode from one end of the house to the other, examining the repair work that had needed to wait for the summer weather to be completed. Burgheard squirmed in his arms, hanging down so that one of the hounds could lick his fingers, making the boy giggle every time.
Distracted, Ælfgar handed his son down to the ground, a sharp command to all the dogs to ‘leave’ him alone, not that they all heeded it. But, the hounds were used to his tottering son, and while he knew Elgiva worried about Burgheard, Ælfgar had no such fears.
The hounds were all related to his grandfather’s first hound, all those years ago. They all had experience of small children. While the hounds could be fast when they needed to be, much of the time, they were content to tussle amongst themselves, and that often included Burgheard as well. Already Eadwine was starting to pull himself to his feet, and it wouldn’t be long until the hounds had two new young masters, instead of just the one.
“It looks good,” Ælfgar congratulated his cousins when he’d finished peering upwards, and they both grinned. Ælfgar would have thought them long past caring about what anyone thought of their work, but evidently not.
“On a less pleasant note, you need to be aware that the cost of grain has more than doubled. People already fear a lean winter, and it’s not helped by King Harthacnut’s new taxes.”
Ælfgar nodded unhappily at Ælfwine’s statement.
“It’s not gone unnoticed. Even the king has complained about the cost of his feasts. Of course, it’s his damn geld that’s adding to the problem.”
“Won’t he renegotiate it?”
“No, Harthacnut already complains it wasn’t enough. Only half of his ship-army has received their due. The rest, he is adamant, need to be maintained in case there’s war in England or in Denmark, and they need to be paid for, by the English.”
“Is there going to be war in England?” Wulfstan asked with concern, his forehead furrowing in consternation.
“I can’t see how, unless against the fucking Welsh.”
The death of their uncle the previous year was still a raw wound for all of them, and Ælfgar knew that Godwine Leofwinesson was convinced that there would be more attacks on the borderlands. Although he’d journeyed to Bruges to escort Harthacnut to England, Uncle Godwine had returned to his properties, and those of his dead brother’s on the border, as soon as he could.
“Then, yes, there’ll probably be war,” Ælfwine said with a fervent glint in his eye. They were all keen to obtain further retribution against Gruffydd Ap Llywelyn. The small retaliatory attack had not been enough. It might never be enough.
“Then will there be war in Denmark?” Wulfstan pressed.
“It’s impossible to know. Harthacnut does not speak of Denmark, even when he’s asked. His cousin rules there, in his name. There are messages exchanged between the two of them, but the men who act as messengers are tight-lipped. My father is hoping that Lady Estrid will inform him of matters in Denmark, as she has done in the past, but you might end up knowing more, as might Orkning.”
Ælfwine grimaced, his young face scrunched against the bright sunlight, as he peered into the distance, seemingly distracted by something happening in one of the outlying fields. Ælfgar turned to look but could see nothing, and then Ælfwine turned away anyway, dismissing whatever his concern was.
“I don’t like the uneasiness,” Ælfwine stated, turning to face Ælfgar. “It feels as though, in this heat, anything could happen, and it could all escalate quickly. Like in the land of the Scots. King Donnchaid Mac Crinain tried to attack Durham, was repelled by Earl Siward, and the next thing he knows, he’s bloody dead at the hands of Macbethad Mac Findlaich far to the north.”
“I agree,” Ælfgar nodded as he spoke. “The only advantage we have, at the moment, is that other than Harthacnut, who could be king? Lord Edward? Potentially, but he has no army at his back, and is unlikely to ever have one. Unless of course, his mother provides him with one, and I can’t imagine that happening any time soon.”
“Lady Emma is in as much disgrace with her son as Earl Godwine, and again, I can’t see her managing to earn her son’s respect. Neither can I see Earl Godwine and Lady Emma allying against Harthacnut. She hates Earl Godwine, and not just because he was entangled in the death of Lord Alfred.”
“No, it is all strange and I agree with you, nothing seems resolved or settled. But we shall see what happens, and of course, do our best to benefit from Earl Godwine’s disgrace in the meantime.”
“And what will Lord Leofric do?”
Here Ælfgar paused, to consider his reply. In all honesty, he didn’t honestly know what his father would do.
“He’ll do what our family have always done. We’ll watch and wait, and we’ll only act if we must. And, in the meantime, we’ll hope for a better solution to present itself.” Ælfgar was not always sure he approved of his father’s patient stance. Yet, it couldn’t be denied that the House of Leofwine had survived since his grandfather had been created Ealdorman of the Hwicce, nearly fifty years ago.
No other noble family in England could make such a claim. Not even the ruling families of the House of Wessex and Gorm. The House of Wessex had collapsed under the onslaught of the House of Gorm, having survived for hundreds of years. Ælfgar couldn’t foresee the House of Wessex ever being restored to its position of strength. Not now.
Such longevity could only continue for their family by following his father’s example, even if it was frustrating sometimes.
His cousins’ watched him, understanding in their eyes.
They were all young, and they were all keen, but the knowledge of what had happened to Uncle Northman was never far from their minds. His cousins had grown up without a father because of Northman’s execution. They felt the loss keenly even though Leofric had done all he could for them.
They wouldn’t risk feeling the wrath of a king when it was always possible to earn their respect, with just a little bit of thought.
Anglo Saxon Chronicle Entry for AD1040
This year died King Harold. Then sent they after Ha
rthacnut to Bruges; thinking that they did well. And he then came hither with sixty ships before midsummer, and then imposed a very heavy tribute, so that it could hardly be levied; that was eight marks for each rower, and all were then averse to him who before had desired him; and moreover he did nothing royal during his whole reign. He caused the dead Harald to be taken up, and had him cast into a fen.
Chapter 8
AD1041
Leofric
“My Lord King,” the messenger found them in Winchester, his face pinched with worry, while his movements were jerky, as though angry.
Leofric looked at the man keenly. What new problem was this? He almost didn’t wish to know, and he could tell that Harthacnut was just as angry at yet another interruption.
“What is it, good man?” It was Leofric who spoke, aware the king wouldn’t. Not until his temper was under control.
Harthacnut had been in England for months, but still, he had no affinity for the English, and much of the time he spoke in Danish. Leofric was pleased he’d spent so much of his life around people who spoke Danish. It enabled him to understand everything he king said.
“My Lord King,” Leofric glanced at Harthacnut, waiting to see if he would react, and when the king failed to, Leofric spoke.
“The king is listening. Please, tell us what news you have.”
Lord Godwine sat close to the king, his eyes anywhere but on the messenger. Leofric thought him craven to pretend nothing was happening but held his tongue. Harthacnut still only tolerated Lord Godwine. Nothing the earl did truly pleased his king, and Lady Gytha had refused to have anything more to do with her nephew. What should have been a considerable advantage for Lord Godwine, the family connection, was only hampering his endeavours.
“The people of Worcester have risen against the king. Reeves Bjorn and Liofa have been murdered.” Leofric gasped at the words, shock driving all words from his mouth. Surely, the man could have made such a startling announcement less abruptly.
Leofric dared not look at Harthacnut. He knew what the king would be thinking, only surprised that the order hadn’t yet been given to ride to Worcester. Harthacnut would take these murders personally. And Worcester was part of Mercia. Even if, for the time being, it fell under the command of Earl Hrani, Harthacnut would blame Leofric for what had happened, even though Leofric was here, with Harthacnut, in Winchester. He couldn’t have been much further away from the eruption of violence.
“Tell me everything?” Leofric finally managed to speak into the shocked silence, refusing to turn and see the smug expression he imagined now lined Lord Godwine’s face. The man would be too pleased that this new problem wasn’t his fault. It was rare.
“My Lord?” the messenger looked unsure of what to say.
“Tell me what happened. Tell me how it happened.” Leofric would have liked to add ‘tell me why it happened,’ but knew that Harthacnut would not allow that question. The geld Harthacnut had inflicted on his people had been harsh, especially in light of last year’s drought, a poor harvest and the current wet weather. It meant the new growing season had been slow to begin. The grain prices of last year had been too high for most to afford, even Harthacnut had complained.
“Reeves Liofa and Bjorn were preparing to gather the geld from the inhabitants of Worcester. There were some ugly scenes when some couldn’t afford to pay the tax, and the reeves began stripping them of their valuables, and ordered the bailiffs to their homes to take objects in place of coins.”
The man paused then. Leofric wondered if he was thinking of how he would have acted in the same position. Perhaps he just collected his thoughts as he stood before them all, in his fine cloak and tunic, the scent of horse a heady aroma, his belly full, and no hint of poverty about.
“When the reeves saw that little more than cook pots had been gathered, they announced that the children of those who couldn’t pay would be sold as slaves. The townspeople took up any object they could find, and advanced on the two reeves in retaliation.” The messenger’s voice was filled with horror for the actions. It wasn’t helping the plight of the people of Worcester.
“The household warriors were too few to hold back so many. The reeves were taken from the main hall, and met their deaths amidst a violent mob, in the streets of Worcester.”
Leofric grimaced. The story sounded terrible, but also far from rare. That the reeves had threatened to sell children into slavery shocked Leofric, but he doubted the king would feel the same way.
Harthacnut saw only the coin or lack of it. He seemed incapable of considering the consequences for those he taxed so heavily, to pay for something that wasn’t even needed. Not anymore.
“The bodies were treated dishonourably before the abbot intervened, and the monks from the monastery came, and took away the broken men.”
“Did you see the bodies?” Only now did Harthacnut speak, his toneless voice far worse than one that held fury. Leofric wished the king had asked after the well-being of his household warriors, or even the people of Worcester, but that was not the way that Harthacnut’s mind worked.
“My Lord King,” the man bowed reverentially. “They were beyond recognition. I’ve never seen such ferocity before. It looked as though they’d been hacked apart with blunt weapons. The wounds I saw,” the messenger grimaced in memory. “Were horrific. The men didn’t enjoy a pleasant death. They would have died in agony. Better to have been butchered by the bloody Norwegians than the English.”
Leofric frowned once more at the messenger’s incendiary language. Who had thought to send this man? He’d never heard any messenger speak in such a way and it was heaping fuel onto the already burning hatred that would have infected Harthacnut. Only then did he turn to view his king, trying to avoid Lord Godwine’s eye once more.
Harthacnut’s face was impassive as ever, and yet Leofric could sense the anger washing from him. The geld, so Harthacnut believed, should have been manageable by all. The delay and complications in collecting it had bedevilled the beginning of Harthacnut’s reign. In the end, Harthacnut had been forced to borrow money from his earls to send the final ships from his invasion force home. Only ten ships remained in England crewed by the Danish, although the king already had sixteen English ships to command as he chose.
Leofric doubted he’d ever see the money he’d forwarded to the king again.
Lord Godwine didn’t share that opinion. He constantly pushed the king regarding his repayment. It was probably the only reason that the king allowed Lord Godwine to remain as his counsellor. It could never be denied that Lord Godwine was a wealthy man. Leofric had also heard worrying reports of how Earl Godwine was forcing the people of Wessex to pay their share before the king’s reeves arrived. It was a mess, and Leofric, while shocked at the murder of the king’s reeves, knew the king was only to blame.
Harthacnut was immobile for but a moment, but when he spoke Leofric flinched.
“Earl Leofric, this place is yours to command for me?”
“Worcester is a part of Mercia, but Worcester is Earl Hrani’s. It lies close to the border with the Welsh.” Leofric offered the explanation because he knew that Harthacnut was still unsure of his new kingdom’s layout.
“Did your brother once serve as its sheriff?” Leofric felt a stab at grief at such a reminder of his brother’s murder. It was still a raw wound; one he feared would never heal.
“No, My Lord King. Eadwine was the sheriff of Shropshire before his death. I was sheriff of Worcester before your father made me the Earl of Mercia. I believe Earl Hrani appointed a new sheriff to replace me. I’m sure his name will come to me if I think about it.”
Harthacnut’s silence spoke volumes, and still, Lord Godwine looked superior, even though Worcester wasn’t Leofric’s concern. Leofric would have liked nothing better than to wipe the expression from Godwine’s face. He’d taken pains not to revel in Lord Godwine’s disgrace. It seemed he’d not be accorded the same respect.
“We’ll ride to Worcester. Inform
Earl Hrani he’s to meet me there. I’ll exact revenge on the unruly inhabitants, and lay waste their settlement and fields. And then I’ll sell into slavery any who still refuse to pay.” Harthacnut was moving toward the door as he spoke, his voice rich with the command, and his armrings jangling together, a reminder that Harthacnut was a man used to violence.
“Now, My Lord King?” Thankfully it was Lord Godwine who spoke, his surprise rippling through the words.
“Yes, it is to be now. Immediately. The people of Worcester will serve as an example to all those who tarry in paying their geld. If they’re lucky, I’ll not torch the place, but leave their homes standing.”
“My Lord King,” Leofric’s voice cut through the king’s words, the complaint evident in his tone.
“You have something to say, Earl Leofric?”
“Yes, My Lord King. The people of Worcester haven’t acted without provocation. They have acted outside the King’s Writ, I don’t deny that, but such as you suggest will cause greater hardship. Your people will die from hunger.” Leofric didn’t say what he was truly thinking, that more people would die from hunger.
“If they do not pay their geld, then they’re not my people. And why do you excuse them?”
“I didn’t excuse them. I said they acted outside the King’s Writ, but we mustn’t compound the problem.”
“You would have me be lenient when they kill men who represent me?” Harthacnut’s voice thrummed with derision and barely concealed anger, as he paused from his headlong dash to glare at Leofric. He exhibited a rare show of emotion, proving just how much these deaths personally affected him.