by M J Porter
He wondered if any of them had slept and decided that they hadn’t. They all looked weary with defiance, hemmed into London, the only place to still hold true to their anointed king, Æthelred. Nowhere else had held out against the ravaging of king Swein of Denmark and his well-disciplined and ruthless housetroops.
The other ealdormen, Uhtred and Ulfcytel, had wasted no time in declaring their allegiance to Swein. Not that Northman blamed them. Swein’s combined force was almost too vast to comprehend, and every single man amongst them was a fully trained warrior. Not for any of them would the tricks work that could sometimes be played against the less well-trained fyrd, or the men from above the old wall. And it wasn’t as if Æthelred had worked to endear himself to his sons by marriage. Eadric had put into motion Thorkell’s earlier attacks upon the lands of the East Anglians, and then, to salt the wound, Æthelred had allied with Thorkell. And Uhtred was no happier with the king either.
They had of course known of Swein’s vast recruitment campaign, and the building of his four military bases to house those men and their families who he’d decided to train as elite warriors. Thorkell had brought some of them with him when he’d first attacked four years ago, but never in their wildest dreams could they have imagined that Swein would unleash the entire brutal strength of them against England, not when he’d worked to save England from Thorkell’s depravations. Although, as Northman had to keep reminding himself, that was not common knowledge.
He’d seen and been a part of many battles and skirmishes this year. Since the summer when the first attack had landed at Sandwich, Swein had swept through the East Anglian lands and as far as the River Humber. On land and sea, he’d shown his prowess as a warrior and Northman had seen at first hand just how ruthless the Danish king and his well trained, and well-armed men could be. And now he held Gainsborough as his own, and much else of England besides.
Thorkell was the only one of them all who’d truly appreciated the implied threat behind Swein’s actions when he’d landed at Sandwich in August. He’d realised that he was just as much a target as the English king, a threat to Swein’s command now that he was so closely allied with the English king. Without Thorkell’s quick actions the king could have been chased from his land in Swein’s first attack. It was a war for survival now, pure and simple, and Northman, as the other men did, knew that they’d lost it long ago.
Now they spoke of the best course of actions, and the king, looking frail beyond his forty-five years, still unbelieving of the change that had come upon him unbidden and unlooked for, seemed unable to comprehend what had happened and what must happen.
“My Lord, if we fight again, it'll be a bloody battle, our small force against the might of Swein’s specially trained household troops and his vicious ship-men. Or you can leave quietly, now when you have the chance, taking your wife and your children with you, and you can seek shelter with your brother-in-law and hopefully, regroup. Rumour has it that Swein has been wounded, some say mortally. Perhaps, after all, our God may intercede for us.” Eadric’s tone was cajoling, almost pleading for his king to do this thing for him. Eadric had no taste for battle and blood, once more leaving that to the other men of the land, Leofwine, Uhtred and Ulfcytel, at least until the last two defected to the opposition.
Beside him, Northman watched his father’s face collapse at the bold statements. He didn't deny them, they all knew them to be true, and he also knew that of them all in that room, there was only him who had nothing to fear. Yes, he’d fought for his king against Swein, had sent members of his household troops to try and stay Swein’s hand, and yet somehow, Swein held faithful to his words of many years ago when he’d promised friendship. Whether Leofwine chose Æthelred now, or Swein, he was assured of his position, not one of the others could say the same.
Not that Eadric hadn’t tried to double bluff the two competing king’s, it was just that he’d tried to bribe the Danish king for his loyalty and the Danish king had not appreciated that. Out of them all, he was the man who seemed most scared now. He looked set to lose everything. The Five Boroughs had submitted, Northumbria had submitted, and now the north-western thegns were close to submitting. Eadric would be left with no land if Swein won, and he’d be left without his life if Æthelred didn’t slink away with his tail between his legs. For Eadric, a battle now would be catastrophic. He had no ability in combat, his failure to engage against the Raiders in the lands of Dyfed last year had made that clear for all to see.
Northman watched him carefully. His plans lay in disarray and for once, Northman felt a faint stirring of sympathy for him. Like the king, he couldn’t have predicted what was to happen. There’d been no portents of the disaster threatening them all. Not even Thorkell, the man who’d once been a confidant of the Danish king, could have predicted such swift and total success.
Northman glanced at the man. He was battle scarred but that just added to his imposing nature. He wondered if the rumours were true, that it was sheer jealousy that drove Swein to attack England, and not jealousy of Æthelred, but rather his one-time ally, Thorkell.
Last night he’d decided they must be, after all, his father had received his life-changing wound when Swein had lashed out at his one-time ally, Olaf. The unfairness of the situation was difficult for Northman to reconcile. His land was under ferocious attack because Thorkell had been so successful at raiding and being bought off and Swein now saw him as a threat to the security of his lands. Why couldn’t Swein have attacked Thorkell on Thorkell’s land? Why desolate England if revenge was the motive? Or even jealously?
He hadn’t heard Æthelred’s reply to Eadric’s words, too caught up in his thoughts, but then Olaf nudged him. He’d stayed awake throughout the discussion and now nodded his head to where his father was pointedly looking at him.
Northman looked away. He didn’t want to meet the gaze of his father, or his younger brother Leofric, also grown to manhood while they’d been separated. He knew it was foolish to continue with their argument, but he couldn’t bring himself to either make an apology or accept one. His father had abandoned him a long time ago, into the clutches of Eadric, and now he struggled to look to his father as his father.
He felt his father’s eyes on him, and his face flushed angrily. What had he expected when he’d sent him away, that he’d not learn to become a part of Eadric’s family?
The oath he’d sworn as a young boy to his father hung like a heavy chain around his neck. He wished he’d never spoken it. His honour, such a unique thing to him when he’d been younger, was now more elastic. He didn’t think he shared his father’s special dispensation, being classified as one of Eadric’s adherents, one of those who’d held London against Swein’s initial attack and who sheltered there now. If he had to he’d go into exile with Eadric and the king; he’d never see his father again, or his mother.
Eadric called his name, and he stood on his tired legs and slumped towards where his lord, uncle by marriage and foster-father sat on a hard wooden bench surrounding the remnants of a once strong wooden table. Before them was a piece of a script with a diagram etched onto it clearly showing the defences of London and where they’d been breached and damaged. It didn’t look at all hopeless. He imagined they could hold out here for months if not years, but without the support of the rest of the English lands it was difficult to know if it was a worthwhile endeavour.
Eadric’s face was twisted as he glanced at Northman, now a man for all that he didn’t regard him as one in any way apart from in matters of warcraft. He’d had the king reward him for his prowess in battle earlier in the year but still treated him as little more than a servant. Northman held his words. For now.
“Here,” he pointed on the script, “take your men and watch this part of the defences. Don’t let anyone out, and don’t speak to any messengers that Swein might send.”
Bowing he accepted his orders and turned away from the table, anything to avoid his father’s eye. Outside, he breathed deeply of the bitterly
chilly air and coughed as a waft of wet smoke covered him. Between the persistent drizzle and the bitter cold, the walkways were slippery and difficult to manoeuvre and littered with puddles and mud. It had been a miserable few weeks, and it didn’t look as though it was going to get any better.
The hall they’d been within was magnificent and well-maintained, the smaller buildings around it just as well cared for. Indeed, until Northman found his way to the place that Eadric had commanded him to, he could see little damage to the structure of the houses and businesses that made up London. Swein and his horde of men had not managed to get amongst the houses that littered the town in a tidy sprawl. To all intents and purposes, life continued as normal. It was the rest of the lands of the English that existed in a crazed state of preparedness or attack or submission.
“Northman, you must make amends to your father,” Olaf began his familiar call for reunification. Annoyed, as he always was when Olaf spoke to him of a matter he thought was bitterly personal, he stopped abruptly, and Olaf slammed into his back.
“Apologies Northman,” he muttered softly, more than aware that his desire for peace between his friend and his father was rupturing his friendship.
“What would you do if your father died in battle, today or tomorrow?”
“He won’t though will he,” Northman responded, his anger infusing his words as he spoke through gritted teeth. “He’s the only one of us who has nothing to lose here. Nothing at all.”
‘Northman, you know it’s hardly his fault if Swein is so accommodating.”
“Well, I say it is his fault. He should never have become friends with the bastard. It wasn’t his place to do so.”
“He did have to be part blinded, and endure years of threats before he got to that position,” Olaf recited his time-worn argument, and Northman felt his temper flare, and then die, for once actually listening to the words. His father had endured more than most. Perhaps he was harsh to blame him for his misfortunes and then good fortunes. Indeed, it couldn’t ever have been predicted.
Still, it riled. Eadric was facing ruin just for not being injured and being partly blinded. He’d worked wonders for the king, pulling together as many followers as he could, serving his king, providing him with grandchildren to carry on his line, and yet he was going to lose everything.
And then he shook his head at his pitiful attempts at resurrecting the terrible image of Eadric. He was only here with the king now because no one else would have him. He’d stolen from monasteries. He’d taken a cut from the taxes collected by the king and used them to enrich himself, and he’d used the king’s daughter as little more than a birthing cow. He had no affection for her and never said a kind word to her. Or at least he hadn’t, not until a few days ago when the king had himself seen his daughter for the first time in many, many years.
The king had been dismayed to see his once beautiful daughter looking so worn down by years of constant childbearing. If Eadric hadn’t been one of his few allies still standing, he knew that Æthelred would have banished him for the cruel way he’d treated his daughter.
And yet for all that Northman knew that his loyalty was split between his father and foster-father. His oath tied him to his father, but he’d spent too much time with Eadric not to feel something for him. Even if he couldn’t put a name to what it was. It had been hate for many years, and it certainly wasn’t respect, but it was something.
“My father shouldn’t have reacted as he did,” Northman answered, and not for the first time.
Northman knew he sounded petulant even to his ears, but he couldn’t stop himself. What did it matter if his wife was a niece of Eadric, daughter of the long disgraced Brihtric? All that mattered to him was that he loved her and wanted to be with her. It wasn’t as if the marriage brought the two families into any closer alliance than they already were. That had been sealed when Leofwine had agreed to his son being fostered by Eadric.
He knew the thing that angered him most was his father’s rejection of his grandson. If only he’d smiled, or willingly taken the small bundle into his arms, Northman felt he could have forgiven him anything. His mother had done just that, her joy at seeing her firstborn with his own firstborn too great to be contained. She’d taken to his wife with good humour as well. But his father, he’d taken some time to come around to the whole thing already being accomplished.
Northman had been shocked and surprised, so used to relying on his father for always accepting his decisions. It had been disappointing, and even the knowledge that Leofwine had been mourning the death of his father figure, Wulfstan, had not made Northman think any more kindly towards his father. If anything his anger had increased. Why had his father not informed him that Wulfstan was so dreadfully frail?
His men followed him quietly as he strode to the place Eadric had deemed he should guard. Olaf had lapsed into silence. He was a faithful hound, occasionally a little snappy but quick to subside into his expected subservience if he was unsuccessful in his attempts to garner a reaction. He’d happily returned to Northman when he’d been given his war band, and served him faithfully, if without his father’s flair for the unexpected.
At the lookout, he found another of the king’s sons, Eadwig, with his household troop. He greeted Northman sombrely, pleased that someone had remembered he couldn’t stand on guard all day long, but reluctant to leave all the same.
“Any decisions yet?” he asked with a little enthusiasm as he gathered his small force of twenty men together, while Northman’s deployed into the positions they’d been guarding.
“No, but Eadric is trying to convince your father again.”
Nodding in understanding, Eadwig walked away with his men without speaking again. Northman watched him go with interest. The king had been blessed with many sons, but slowly over the passing years, the number had dwindled. He was now short of two of them, Edgar and Ecgberht had succumbed to the regular infections and maladies that often swept the land. A strange premonition swept over Northman whenever he saw Eadwig, but he was young and healthy, not that Edgar and Ecgberht hadn’t been. He shook it away in annoyance blaming the darkness for his flights of fancy.
His father had been far luckier in continuing his lineage. None of his brothers or sister had failed to make it out of childhood. No, now all he had to worry about was one of them dying in battle.
Defeated by his thoughts, Northman realised that he had no choice. He’d have to make amends to his father. He couldn’t imagine dying here without seeing his son again, and he knew he couldn’t inflict the same on his father.
So resolved, Northman took his post, watching the land keenly towards the south-west. It was from there that word was expected to come from Swein, perhaps with his demands or possibly with his army. Northman didn’t know, and neither did the king.
Later that night, back in the hall where they were all sheltering together, Northman was dismayed to find that although he’d been absent the entire time the sun had shone on the short dreary day, no decision had been made. The king still hoped that some other resolution could be reached. Not even the words of the archbishop Wulfstan had swayed him. Not even the thought of salvation for his people. No, in a moment of stubbornness, Æthelred had decided that as small as his troops were, they must fight for his kingdom, or at least, that was how his silence had been interpreted. The king hadn't spoken throughout the short day. Not once.
Northman admired the resolve of the old man, and the haggard countenances of the others, apart from Eadric, showed that they too admired their king. So many years he’d seen them through one strife or another, it seemed ludicrous to think that this time, some intervention would not arrive. What form it would take, no one knew, but in his heart, Northman prayed that the rumours of Swein’s injuries were right and that soon, he’d be dead and life could return to normal.
Thorkell had sought the company of his father, and although Northman had fully intended to speak with his father as soon as he returned, he found himself hesi
tating. His brother Leofric saw him, however, and beckoned him over. Their friendship hadn’t been affected by their time apart, or by his rift with his father. In fact, if anything, they’d grown a little closer.
“Brother, what brings you here?”
“I wanted to speak to father.”
“Well don’t let me stop you. In fact, come, he and Thorkell are reminiscing about old Olaf, join them. Father will take that as all the apology needed.”
Northman knew it to be true, but hesitated again, until Olaf quietly walked behind him, and forced him to take the few steps required to sit at the table and benches his father had commandeered.
Leofwine immediately noticed his oldest son’s presence but didn’t speak. Never a man for making a scene, he only waited to make eye contact before turning his full attention to Thorkell.
“See, I told you,” Leofric whispered, not quietly, and for the first time since the high summer, Northman felt the tension in his shoulders relax. His father, after all, was as little to blame as the rest of them for the events now unfolding.
The evening passed calmly enough, the fire burning bright and pure as it warded off the chill outside air. The food was, for now at least, readily available, and for a disconcerting moment, Northman could imagine himself at the king’s Witan, not holed up in London waiting to see what Swein would do next.
“Mother, she is well?” he asked his brother as they shared a drinking horn.
“Yes, everyone is well brother, including your son and wife. As you would imagine father left many of his household troops to guard them, but unless one of Swein’s minions get loose, she’s in no danger. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that Swein has intentionally visited her to show that he has peaceful intentions to those who look to father and mother as their Lord.”
“And Horic, what of him?” Olaf asked. Northman wondered how many times Olaf had almost asked Leofric the question before he’d remembered that it’d be disloyal to seek out the brother of his Lord.
