The King's Earl

by M J Porter

  “We’ll move along when everyone does,” Leofric retorted, not for the first time. He was working his way through the many market stalls that had sprung up along the open roadways. The English people were pleased to trade with anyone, be they their Danish conquerors or their English neighbours and Leofric was amused to see it.

  He was less amused to see Earl Eilifr strutting through the market stalls, and despite himself, he backed up a little, trying to stay out of the man’s line of sight. As he did so, he stumbled into someone behind him, surprised when he felt strong arms around him. Only the slowly spreading grin on Orkning’s face stopped him from worrying about whom he’d inadvertently collided with.

  He righted himself and turned to face the open face of Thorkell, now Earl Thorkell and Cnut’s favourite figure at the Witan.

  “I see you’re trying to sneak in the hen house,” he spoke, his voice quiet for all his great size, his gaze sweeping the men and women around him so that it looked like he did little but pass the time of day with the stall holders.

  “My Lord,” Leofric stuttered, trying to think of a suitable reply but Thorkell merely grinned wider.

  “Your secret is safe with me Leofric, never fear. Your father is healing, I hope?” His voice showed no sign of whether his father’s behaviour irked him or not and so Leofric played along, as he knew he must.

  “He seemed a little improved two days ago, but his grief weighs too heavily on him.”

  “As it should,” Thorkell said with an even gentler tone. “He does well not to seek revenge against Cnut. Some see it as a weakness, but I think it’s a strength few men have.”

  His words made Leofric reassess the large man. He’d always been a little scared of him, his prowess, his ability to change sides almost as quickly as Eadric, only for him, at least, he’d managed to finish up on the right side of the king.

  “And Orkning, Olaf, you are the very image of your father at his age. I take it you’re both married and spawning new members of your family line. It would not do for the Horicssons to die out.”

  His voice held warm regard as he spoke and Leofric was reminded how small the world he inhabited was. Danish, English, the Northmen, men and women from all over the mainland of the continent, they all met and intermingled within England and no matter how far they sailed, they would always meet someone they knew at their destination.

  The other attendees of the market swirled around them as Thorkell side stepped to stand between a stall selling wooden bowls and another selling fine silks and rougher wools and fabrics.

  “I’m married my Lord,” Orkning responded, a glint in his eye. “I have two boys and another on the way,” he announced triumphantly, and Thorkell grinned to hear the pride in his voice.

  “Named well, I take it,” he pressed, and Orkning nodded once more.

  “Of course my Lord, one for my father and one for my uncle. This new one, well I might well give him an English name.”

  “And you Olaf?” Thorkell pressed, but Olaf only shook his head. He, like Leofwine, still wore his grief heavily and he had yet to find a warm bed to keep him close at night, although Leofric had his suspicions about whom Olaf would ultimately wed.

  “There’s always time to make children in the future,” Thorkell said his humour suddenly gone at the mention of the future. “I … I’m sorry for what happened,” he said, his words more angled towards Olaf than Leofric and Leofric understood why. Olaf and Northman had fought with Thorkell and also fought against Thorkell. They might not have had a great friendship, but the notoriety of battle followed the winners and the losers alike.

  Olaf didn’t respond but looked away, his eyes filling with water and the other men all glanced away. Olaf was bereft without his friend and Leofric openly acknowledged that he simply wasn’t his brother and could never replace him, not that he wanted to. Olaf and Northman had been together far more than he had with his brother and he knew Olaf’s grief was intense. For Leofric, it had faded to a dull and angrily thudding heart. He would have his revenge. One day. Olaf needed to have it now but knew he was helpless to act which only made everything so much worse.

  “Come,” Thorkell commanded, “I would speak to you somewhere less open.”

  Leofric followed the man through the crowd, Orkning speaking animatedly with some of Thorkell’s warriors who guarded him, but Olaf was sullen at his side. Leofric almost wished that Oscetel had escorted him. He would have been able to play this game of subterfuge better.

  They wound their way to a well-built hall, near to the outskirts of Oxford and Thorkell ducked inside the long wooden building, smoke dancing from the ventilation holes into the warming day. It was summer, but chill with it, as though it might rain, but hadn’t quite decided yet.

  Inside the hall, Thorkell indicated that he should sit at one of the benches close to the fire pit. Shrugging off his cloak, he did as he was commanded, noting that Orkning still spoke with a group of Thorkell’s warriors, whereas Olaf was silent at his side. His other three men had decided to wait outside. They’d chosen well.

  “I'd speak to you of your father,” Thorkell said, joining Leofric on the bench. “I'd also talk to you about the king’s wishes.”

  That made Leofric sit up a little straighter and Thorkell nodded to enforce the idea that the words had come directly from the king.

  “What of my father?” Leofric asked, thinking to deal with, possibly the most difficult part of the conversation first.

  “Your father and I,” and Thorkell’s voice dropped low as he spoke, “have often been on opposite sides in this war. I wanted to ensure he knew that I would be honoured if he would think of me as a friend, not an enemy.”

  Leofric was taken aback by the words, but not necessarily surprised. It seemed as though men wanted to be associated with Leofwine, well all of them apart from Eilifr.

  “My father sees very few men as his enemy, and those who are, as you know, he still tries to deal with fairly.”

  Thorkell nodded solemnly at the formal response and leant closer.

  “These aren’t words I’ve taken lightly, Leofric. I want you to tell your father I’m his friend, perhaps always have been, and that I will continue to be his friend no matter what happens.”

  Those words ran through Leofric’s mind as he sought for the meaning behind them, just as his father had always taught him to. For a man who was known for his straight and blunt approach to war and politics both, Leofric was surprised to hear the possible guile in Thorkell’s voice.

  “I’ll pass your message to my father. He’ll be pleased to hear it,” he spoke into the silence, but Thorkell’s eyes were conveying another message and Leofric reached for the actual meaning. What did Thorkell see happening in the future? Was there something he knew that had passed by Leofric and his father while they distanced themselves from the new king and his Witan?

  Thorkell nodded as he thought and Leofric nodded slowly back. Clearly, there was.

  “My father and I have kept quietly at first Deerhurst and then in the old house at Lichfield ever since Cnut became full king. We hear little and know even less,” he offered, and Thorkell stroked his mouth thoughtfully, looking off into the middle distance, considering his next words. Leofric wished to sit forward in his chair, let his interest show, but even in this house, it was clear that Thorkell assumed there were spies and men who might report their conversation and their thoughts.

  “I think you do right to do so. The king is … stabilising his government, trying to reconcile his warriors with those who already live in his new kingdom. It’s not an easy process, and neither should it be,” Thorkell continued, his voice slow. “The King is a talented young man, but, well, he too trusts people he perhaps shouldn’t and doesn’t trust men he perhaps should.”

  Leofric felt his face crease in concentration as he tried to untangle the knot of words that Thorkell was weaving. There was something pressing that Thorkell wanted to share with him, that much was clear, and yet at the same time,
he seemed unable to put a voice to his thoughts. Leofric realised he’d need to learn more to understand exactly what he meant.

  “I hear you’ve met with Eilifr and Hrani,” Thorkell said, moving away from him and drinking deeply from a glass vessel filled with the warm colours of a good wine from the far south. Leofric almost jumped at the change in volume and the course of the conversation. This, clearly, was something that could be overheard as far as Thorkell was concerned and yet it hadn’t been a pleasant meeting, and Leofric would need to heed the words he used, for fear they’d be understood and reported back to Eilifr.

  “Yes, both men came to the house. I fear Eilifr may not yet know the ways of the English. Hrani is happy to learn.” He hoped that was as tactful as he could be.

  “Eilifr is used to the wastelands of the far north. He’s travelled far and wide, as have I, but on him, it seems to have had a wholly different effect. He sees and he wants. I prefer to see and learn.”

  Leofric suppressed a small chuckle of amusement to hear Thorkell espouse quite so eloquently and in such a contrary way. The man who had been behind the great raid nearly a decade ago could just as easily be accused of taking what he wanted as opposed to learning about it all.

  “You doubt me?” Thorkell asked, and Leofric shook his head.

  “No, my Lord, not now.” That made Thorkell grin at him.

  “You are very like your father,” he offered, and Leofric took the compliment without pressing it further. Of course, he was like his father. His father had ensured he was raised to think and analyse, even when he hadn’t been tipped to be ealdorman in his place.

  “Hrani is an easier man, but deadly with his weapons and more than that, he hides his intent behind smiles and soft words. With Eilifr you always know exactly what you’re getting.”

  Leofric felt the warning in the words. Perhaps he needed to reconsider the outcome of their unsuccessful meeting. Perhaps it was Eilifr with his bluff and his anger that would make a better ally.

  “And you my Lord?”

  “I … I am a fair man,” was all he offered and Leofric wondered what he meant by that.

  “And you Leofric, you plan to be like your father? Or like your brother?”

  Leofric momentarily stilled. He didn’t like to hear his brother and his father spoken about as though they were different men. Northman had merely been able to do more than his father had, infiltrate to places his better-known father couldn’t go. He had been just as honourable and just as filled with life and love.

  “I’ll be one and the same,” he responded, surprised when his voice was languid, his words almost slurred, as though they didn’t burn on the way out of his throat.

  Thorkell raised a hairy eyebrow his way and imperceptibly nodded.

  “You do your brother an honour he doesn’t deserve when you say that,” he said without rancour.

  “My brother was in an unenviable position. He was forced there by his king, a man he worked for despite everything that has been said about him. He had nothing to gain by undermining the king or by playing people against each other.”

  “Your brother should have been stronger.”

  Leofric hiccupped a cough at those words and stood abruptly, his eyes raking over Orkning and Olaf at the same time. It was time they left.

  “My brother was a far stronger man than you or I will ever be or the king, and he paid for it with his life, and he’ll be remembered as a traitor. I hope you don’t share his fate.”

  With that Olaf pulled his brother towards the door, having overheard Leofric’s angry words and Leofric stumbled outside into the bright daylight. He felt as though he’d aged within the wooden frame of Thorkell’s hall. He’d thought he was trying to be his friend, but it appeared he was wrong once more.

  His men eyed him with surprise when he stopped to recover his breath, panting on the side of the road. A hand on his back and he spun in surprise to meet the smiling face of Olaf, a look so unfamiliar to him Leofric hardly recognised him. His eyes were bright, his face lifted by the unexpected smile.

  “You spoke well Leofric. Your brother would be pleased and your father proud.”

  “Is this what the future will be?” he asked plaintively, and Olaf could only nod a little sadly.

  “You’ll need to weave a path through the self-interests of men who think they know you when they only know of you. They know of your deeds, of your brother’s actions, of your father’s renown but they don’t know you.”

  It was no consolation, and yet it was all Olaf offered as they walked back towards the bustling market. Glances that passed from stallholder to stallholder, servant, slave and thegn alike, let Leofric know that everyone knew who he was and that they would be whispering behind his back or even in front of him for the remainder of his stay.

  He stood a little taller, held his chin high.

  He was the son of Ealdorman, now Earl Leofwine, the brother of Northman, and he was not here at the king’s request, but at his father’s. He had nothing to hide and everything to gain.

  He was not left alone for long to mull the wooden toys for sale for his nephews, and in the future, his child, before another came to seek him out. Leofric was almost pleased to see the next earl to single him out. Almost.

  “Young Leofric,” a high voice rang out and Leofric turned to stare into the brown eyes of the English Earl, Æthelweard. Pleased to see a face that was at least friendly and halfway to trustworthy, Leofric grinned at the man. He was more headstrong than his father by marriage had ever been, the always to be disappointed Æthelmær, the ealdorman who’d surrendered the western provinces to Swein in 1013 and been killed in 1015. Leofric almost liked him.

  “Earl Æthelweard,” Leofric responded with half a bow only to feel a hand clamped onto his shoulders once more.

  “No need for that my boy,” the man said. He was agile and vigorous, older than Leofric and only come to his earldom under the joint rule of Cnut and Edmund and then Cnut alone. Other than Earl Godwine, he was the only English man currently serving Cnut as an earl to still hold his power and to have kept his life.

  “Your father is ill I hear,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear and then he winked at Leofric. “Send him my regards and tell him I asked about him.”

  “I will, and my thanks,” Leofric stumbled, trying to play along with the game again. “Your wife is well?” he asked, feeling on slightly firmer ground there.

  The daughter of Æthelmær had never been a great beauty but she, as far as Leofric could ever tell, had inherited her grandfather’s thoughtful ways and intelligence.

  “When I left her she was well,” Æthelweard shouted loudly and then added in a quieter voice. “She works for Eadwig’s cause.” A little more used to the intrigue running through the market, the eyes on him, Leofric kept his face straight this time.

  “I will inform my father of that,” he said. “He’ll be … interested.” He wasn’t sure what word to use to describe the rebellion that Prince Eadwig was hatching.

  “I don’t doubt he will be, and now, promise you’ll come and eat with me tomorrow evening. I would make it tonight but the king has commanded a feast, and I must attend.”

  “I’d be honoured,” Leofric stated and then the man was gone in a whirl of clinking metal and soft linen cloak. Leofric steadied himself once more. He was starting to appreciate the stamina his father must have employed to survive at the Witan, and he was only in the market. He suddenly had a shocking view of what it would be like within the Witan itself.

  It was becoming increasing clear that Cnut, just as much as Æthelred had been, was surrounded by men who had their agendas to take into account.

  Having chosen a set of wooden animals for his two nephews, he turned away from the market wanting nothing more than to be hidden inside the hall he was staying within. But he was not to get his wish. Instead, he turned and met the beguiling eyes of Emma, the queen of two kings.

  She was surrounded by men protecting her, and with
a train of servants and other ladies, and yet she must have heard he was here for her eyes met his immediately and showed no surprise at all.

  She gestured for him to come to her and he bowed his head. He felt a feather-like touch on his head and raised himself to meet her sad but beautiful eyes.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she quietly said. “I’ve sent messengers to your mother and father, but I know they’re too grief-stricken to respond. When I heard you would be here, I had to come and seek you out personally.”

  Leofric quirked a quick smile. He couldn’t quite believe that the Queen had indeed come to find him. It was bizarre and wonderful all at the same time.

  “You have my thanks, my Lady. I’ll ensure my father knows of your words. They’ll comfort him.”

  “As they must,” she merely murmured, her eyes looking anywhere but at him. He assumed she was seeking someone out, or at least seeing who was watching their brief exchange.

  “Good luck with your new wife,” she finally said, and before Leofric could show any surprise that the Queen knew he was married, she continued. “I’m married once more. I find this new king to my liking,” she only said and swept passed him and on her way to the silk stall before them. Leofric moved quickly aside to miss the line of men and women who trailed after her, and when something was pressed into his hands by a lovely young woman with deep blue eyes, he simply took it as she intended, thinking nothing of it. Only when the queen’s party had all walked past him did he look down and see that in his hands he held a small golden cross on a chain, a symbol of the queen. Quickly, he took it and placed it around his neck and under his clothing.

  It seemed he’d been given another message from one of the people who held power in England. He was beginning to develop a wholly new understanding of his father’s enormous authority and influence.