by M J Porter
The King's Earl
The Earls of Mercia Book 5
By MJ Porter
Copyright notice
Porter, M J
The King’s Earl: The Earls of Mercia Book 5
Copyright ©2015 (this edition 2017), Porter, M.J, Amazon edition
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
Cover design by MJ Porter
Cover image by File ID 36043424 | © Mr1805 | Dreamstime.com
Dedication
For the Woolletts (so many o’s, l’s and t’s).
Contents
The King's Earl
Dedication
Prologue
Anglo Saxon Chronicle For Ad1017
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle For AD1018
Chapter 7
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle For AD1019
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for AD1020
Text of charter naming Leofric c.AD1017-1030
Cnut’s Letter to the English AD1019/20
Chapter 16
Anglo Saxon Chronicle For AD1021
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle For AD1022
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle For AD1023
Historical notes
Cast of Characters
Meet the author
All Anglo Saxon Chronicle quotations are from an edition available on the internet for free at http://omacl.org/Anglo/part4.html. My preferred edition is that by M Swanton, which shows all the different versions concurrently, but it is within copyright.
Prologue
Cnut
King of England
AD1018
A sense of duty guided him and his horse on their journey. He was a young man. He’d done many things in his life that he should have regretted but never before had such sorrow at what he’d caused to happen bedevilled him. Not until now.
He’d tried to put his feelings into some perspective. All those actions he’d taken; men he’d tortured to death, women he’d terrified and warriors he’d stolen the life blood from. Not one of those actions affected him as much as the knowledge that he was to blame for the death of an innocent man, and one moreover, who’d been working for his kingship, not against it.
Grief and disgust drove his actions, that and the sure knowledge that he might very well have just made himself the fiercest enemy a man could have.
Leofwine of the Hwicce had earned the respect of kings, Vikings, bishops and perhaps, more importantly, the people he ruled and governed for his king – for him. Now.
Swein, his father, king before him of both Denmark and for the blink of an eye, England, had at first hated Leofwine, vowed his death and gone out of his way to bring it about. Then a change of heart, for Leofwine had earned, through his loyalty to his old king, the grudging respect of the King of Denmark. So much so that Leofwine had felt able to approach Swein directly, to travel across the sea and visit him in his lands, demanding he bring Thorkell and himself to heel. Swein might never have admitted it to anyone, but Harald had been there, and he’d told Cnut how much that had impressed their father, a lone man amongst enemies and no fear, none whatsoever.
He’d impressed his father with his strength and his inner belief, for his ways that so closely resembled the men from the northern lands.
Leofwine was a man of great friendship, unfailing loyalty, no matter what, and he, Cnut, had just executed his son under the false impression that he’d been a traitor.
It had astounded him at the time, the knowledge that Northman had been allied with Ealdorman Eadric, his own father’s sworn enemy. He really should have explored further, questioned the circumstances, but he’d been over excited at gaining the English throne and over zealous of securing it for himself. He’d never considered how Leofwine knew what he did about Eadric, about how he could seemingly interpret the man’s every movement.
He should have thought. He should have taken the time.
Now, grief hung around him; grief and remorse for actions he could never undo.
Earl Godwine had reassured him; told him he acted on what he knew and that it was Leofwine’s fault for keeping too many secrets. Cnut truly wished he could believe that but Godwine had always hated Eadric, blaming him for his father’s exile in 1009 and his disgrace. In this, as in nothing else, Godwine had given him flawed advice.
Cnut would need to be more careful in the future. Godwine, for all that he’d made himself indispensable, still worked for his own ends and they, it was now clear to see, were not always in line with the needs of the new king.
He’d left Godwine behind, at his Witan, and he rode slowly through the countryside, his countryside. He knew he was trying to do the right thing – to bring Leofwine back into his close circle – to reward him for his loyalty and sacrifice, but it wasn’t an easy task he set himself. He didn’t like to admit his faults, ever. It was a trait he’d inherited from his father.
In his mind he replayed the terrible events of six months earlier, when first Leofric and then Leofwine himself had come to plead for Northman’s life, to inform their king that it had all been a ruse. Northman had been nothing more than a witness to Eadric’s efforts at self-preservation, no matter the cost to others, and that he’d done so with his father’s understanding.
The younger brother, Leofric, had understood all too quickly what had befallen his older brother, but in his shock he’d been unable to move, to warn his father before he too had appeared before the king. Cnut closed his eyes to block the image from his mind but still it replayed inside his mind.
The words of entreaty from Leofwine had dropped like stones in a pond, sending out huge repercussions that Cnut knew he’d feel all his life. At the time had done little but lie stationary on the bottom of the pond, unable to move once they’d been spoken, unable to be taken back, and forever gnawing at Cnut’s conscious. Perhaps, after all, he was not a better man than Æthelred had been, falling victim in the first flight of his power to a mistake that could be his undoing.
With barely a word more, Leofwine had left Cnut’s presence and he’d not been seen since. The task of finding and unearthing the body of his dead son had fallen to the younger brother, Leofric, along with one of Godwine’s men, Godwine having refused to show anyone where the bodies had been discarded. Even now he felt that Cnut had acted correctly, that Northman had deserved to die for being complicit in Eadric’s duplicity and Earl Erik of Northumbria, the other man involved in the secrecy that had surrounded Ealdorman Eadric’s apprehension and execution, agreed with Godwine.
But Cnut knew better. He might well like Godwine and owe much of his success, just as his father had before him to Earl Erik, but it was Leofwine, the ageing, hal
f-blind warrior, whom he respected. Everyone in England valued him for his loyalty, honesty and his desire to do the right thing, no matter the personal cost.
And now Cnut needed to make reparation for the terrible wrong he’d done. No matter what it cost him, personally and politically. He didn’t want to be seen as weak within his new kingdom, but he harboured the belief that by making amends with Leofwine he was actually showing himself to be a stronger man that King Æthelred had ever been. He was going to admit his mistake, make a public apology, a public atonement.
He guided his horse through the countryside, his large quota of the household troop following him as he led the way. Here, in the heart of England, he was safe from the threat of violence, if not from the threat of his own nightmares.
He must find Leofwine and beg him for forgiveness.
He reined his horse in. The Abbey at Deerhurst was before him. He was where he needed to be. He took a great gulping breath, his heart racing in his chest. Men didn’t scare him, or worry him, but this, this meeting with Leofwine was just as personal a pilgrimage as it was a political one. He couldn’t fail. Not in this, and not now.
Anglo Saxon Chronicle For Ad1017
This year King (Cnut) Knute took to the whole government of England, and divided it into four parts: Wessex for himself, East-Anglia for Thurkyll (Thorkell), Mercia for Edric (Eadric), Northumbria for Eric (Erik). This year also was Alderman (Ealdorman) Edric (Eadric) slain at London, and Norman (Northman), son of Alderman (Ealdorman) Leofwin (Leofwine).
Chapter 1
Leofwine
AD1018
Deerhurst Abbey
He bowed his head low to the floor, uncaring how his neck and back muscles ached. It was a small penance to pay and one he would happily have done over and over again if only it could bring his son back to him. Now he could do little but pray for the men he’d lost in his life; his father, his mentor Wulfstan and now … well. He couldn’t bring himself even to think his son’s name let alone say it out loud.
The pain of his son’s execution was a dull throb that never seemed to leave him and left him robbed of both breath and energy. Waking each day was an agony. Those moments when he thought his son alive were too fleeting and the crushing realisation that he was dead was robbing him of any soothing effects from what little sleep he could gain.
The nights were interminable. The days were even longer. He spoke only when he had to and only in the bluntest of ways. He was grateful for the years of training his household servants, and household troops had, it meant he needed to do little but be a presence, a figurehead for them to serve.
Not that he was alone with his grief. His wife and his daughter by marriage were hallowed eyed shadows of their former selves; his young grandchildren scared and frightened by the somber-faced adults who surrounded them. They didn’t understand that they’d never see their father again. Not that he blamed them for their incomprehension. He didn’t understand it either.
He haunted the monastery at Deerhurst, feeling that his place was with the dead. Initially, the Abbot had tried to reason with him, but Leofwine had even tested his faith with his constant questions and lack of belief in his answers. Now the man left him to his grief and his recriminations. No one, not his wife or his children who yet lived, could drag him from his sorrow.
His long time friend, Osfrith, had left him well alone from the very beginning. Leofwine could almost smirk at that realisation, the sides of his mouth aching with the unfamiliar movement. All those years ago when Wulfstan had forced them to become friends had paid off, perhaps too well. Both men knew the rage that stirred within the other. Both men knew that neither words nor actions could help them come to terms with their grief. Only time would heal, and time was proving herself a slow moving bitch.
The flashing embers of his father’s gold and ruby cross caught his attention, and he sat back on bended knee to consider the piece of jewellery. Was it cursed? Had it been responsible for the ills that had befallen his family? Should he have never wished it back when the old king had bequeathed it to Olaf? Should he have never even given an indication of the grief that losing it had caused him?
He shook the thought away. He wasn’t so blind that he didn’t know that the only person to blame was himself. If he’d been less than he was, more devious, less loyal, more concerned with his own family and less with the kingdom and its people, his son wouldn’t be dead, with the stigma of traitor muttered before and after his name, by people who knew too little and shouted the loudest. It was those people who undid any inner peace he could find. It was those people who didn’t know and never would. It was those people who thought he should be pleased that he was no longer accountable for his treasonous son’s activities.
He’d interred his son’s body alongside that of his mother and father’s, with Wulfstan and Horic not far away. He’d taken to avoiding the swathe of disturbed ground in the cemetery; too worried by the pull and the allure that the place had over him, almost as though they were enticing him to join them – almost.
He knew it was his own dark thoughts that made him think as he did. His family would never beckon him on to death. Never.
So instead he knelt on the cold wooden floor, his family cross before him, and he prayed for his son’s salvation, his father’s, Wulfstan’s, Horic’s, his unknown mother. He tried to contain his rage and his anger, which fluctuated to numbness and a lack of understanding with the blink of an eye.
Why?
What a waste?
Why?
He ignored the shuffling feet along the floor. The Monks and the Abbot treated him as little more than a piece of furniture. He was so often there that few remembered to bow before him, to use the word Lord when they spoke to him. When they did talk to him, a rarity in itself, it was as though they spoke to one of their fellow monks. Leofwine almost enjoyed the informality – if only it hadn’t been gained at such a price.
Another settling beside him disturbed the still air beside him, but still, he didn’t turn to look, suppressing a smile of annoyance. It was just typical that no sooner had he thought about the Abbot’s unassuming ways than he should be there, trying to speak with him once more, convince him of his God’s love, the love of his king and the love of his family.
He knew his family loved him. There was no denying that.
The voice that spoke, “My Lord Leofwine,” was quiet, hesitant and Leofwine tasted anger and bile in equal measure.
Cnut.
Here in his church. How dare he?
Without moving his head, he spoke softly, trying to sound the reasoned courtier he was renowned for, but internally he quaked with rage. This was his sanctuary and Cnut had violated it.
“My Lord King.”
“My Lord Leofwine,” he spoke again and somehow Leofwine managed to sound reasonable, coherent, accepting.
“My Lord King,” he stuttered around the words, the force of his restrained anger making his breath come in short gasps, as though he’d been running and not simply kneeling on the floor of the Church.
“Please leave,” he gasped, his anger making his words clipped.
He felt the presence of another within the Church and recognised the soft shuffling sound as belonging to Osfrith. Once more he was struck by what a good friend he’d become. He’d entered to ensure he didn’t injure the king and the king heeded his requests. That the king came without bodyguards would also be the work of Osfrith. The king had no doubt insisted on entering and Osfrith would have no power to stop him, but he would any other man. He was, after all, Leofwine’s commanded man, his own thegn. He was a man of power in his own right.
“I only wish I could leave,” Cnut offered softly, his accent clipping the words, his answer making Leofwine shut his eyes in despair. He didn’t want to endanger his family anymore, but he could not speak to Cnut never again.
“I need you at the Witan,” Cnut said, his voice filled with pleading. Leofwine drew a ragged breath to speak, but Cnut was already
speaking.
“Forget that. I need you. The Witan will survive, but you, you’re important to me. You give my kingship legitimacy. Without you, I hear the names of Æthelred’s other surviving children discussed, even his young grandsons. I need you,” he ended plaintively. In his voice Leofwine heard the unease of a young man thrust upon the throne of England and now not knowing what to do with it; the voice of a child asking his father for help. Tears formed in his remaining eye.
It should be his son asking him for help. Not the murderer of his son.
Leofwine closed his eye and prayed for strength. He’d hoped this day would never come and yet he’d known it would. It had been inevitable.
Cnut had finally gained what he’d been striving for throughout his young life, and he had men aplenty to support him, but they were from his world, the land of Denmark and further afield, the men of the feared Jomsvikings. What he needed were English men to enforce his claim and to support him as he carved out his kingdom. He needed men and women who the English supported to in turn support him.
Leofwine reached out to fumble for the support of his walking stick. Since that fateful ride home, burdened with the knowledge that he must tell his wife of his failure, he’d walked with a limp from a nasty fall he’d taken when he’d reached Deerhurst. It had never healed, as though he too had taken an injury when the execution of his son had taken place; a physical one to match the emotional one.
The news had encased him like one of the ancient stone tombs, shut off from everyone else, he’d been aware of his heavy beating heart, his laboured breathing puffing before him and the news he held inside him, which he needed to, somehow, communicate with his wife.
Her pinched and tired face had gazed at him through the deepening darkness of the coming night, but her slumped shoulders had told him that she knew. She’d always been the more realistic, the better able to see the truth for what it was.
