“Did you not say something of persuading your Archbishops that your beloved brother ought to be canonised?” she said to Æthelred, knowing well he had said no such thing. “I recall you musing on whether the eighteenth day of March be declared, in future, as his feast day?”
There were subtle ways of setting ideas into an anxious mind. “It is fitting that you should mourn his passing—it shows your compassion—and as fitting that you should bring about his raising to eternal holy glory.”
Æthelred’s head was pounding, his throat felt dry, and his stomach was churning. For three consecutive nights, vivid and lurid dreams of daggers and death had haunted him. In all three, a youth’s face, pleading for help as he lay dying. But if the truth were told, Æthelred had not objected to taking up the crown from that pool of blood, to putting it, straightway, on his head. Did not miss his brother, who had been a pompous brat in life. Have him canonised? How Edward would have gloated at the idea! A higher rank than King, a saint. But if Edward were to become a saint, would he forgive the losing of an earthly crown? Would he, perhaps, settle to rest in peace and leave his living brother alone?
It was a good idea. Æthelred was glad he had thought of it.
37
May 1008—Enham
Enham, to the north of Andover in Hampshire, had been chosen especially for this White Sunday calling of the spring Witenagemot, the King’s council. Attending, in addition to Æthelred, Emma, and the royal sons, were both Archbishops, four and ten Bishops, six and ten Abbots, six Ealdormen, and four and forty Thegns who held various administrative offices. By council standards an impressive group, only duplicated at Easter and occasionally Christmas. Spiritually and politically, England was in a state of upheaval. God, in despair, had turned His back on them all.
The assembly hoped, though doubted, that Æthelred would make some sensible decisions at this council. The resentment that Eadric Streona had been awarded all he desired while more worthy men were passed by was gaining ground, although the shrugs and whispers were not loudly voiced.
Foremost in all minds was the fear of the wrath of God. This council was for the special purpose of promoting a renewal of Christianity throughout the land. The Antichrist had been released into the world of men, and doom was fast approaching. For England, that ending would be coming in the form of the í-víking warships and in the battleaxes of death. General belief was that unless God could be appeased and Æthelred could bring sanity into his rule, all would very soon be lost.
“We congratulate you, my Lord King,” said Eadric Streona, being the next to stand and speak, “for agreeing to abolish the Danelaw custom practised in the northern lands of this, our realm. It was right to do away with a law by which a charge of murder could be brought against an innocent and not be challenged by trial of ordeal once any one person had sworn an oath on behalf of the victim against the accused. It is to be hoped that further disreputable Danish iniquities shall also, soon, be gone?”
Murmurs of agreement, resentfully offered as it was the unpopular Streona who had preempted the address. Uhtred, now made Ealdorman of Northumbria—Bernicia, and Deira combined—stood abruptly, not to protest, as he too agreed it had been a particularly vile law, which had been in sore need of reform, but at Eadric Streona’s pretentious attitude.
“I too add my appreciation of such wisdom, but I question what right the Ealdorman of Mercia has to presume his Mid Land customs and traditions are necessarily proper, over our northern ways? I remind council that we are not all heathen savages north of the Humber.” Pointedly, he located Archbishop Wulfstan, who, although tutored for a life within the Church from an early age at the desolate fenland abbey of Ely, was a man dedicated to his diocese of York.
Wulfstan, perceiving a hostile retort from Streona, smiled amicably back at Uhtred and answered with humour, a suitable tactic to diffuse argument. “I am sorry to say there are some here, my Lord of Northumbria, who believe everyone outside his own town or village to be of a heathen nature!” He paused for the laughter to die down, then continued on to more pressing matters.
“My Lords,” he said, then half bowed towards Emma, “madam, we are here for the purpose of our collective welfare. This meeting place of Enham has been selected as a sanctuary for peace and a prospect of hope. Does its name not mean the ‘Place of Lambs’? Are we not, during this council, to adopt the lamb of the field and the Lamb of God as our symbols of hope and salvation?”
Æthelred flapped his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, Archbishop, I appreciate your spiritual enthusiasm, but may we not first proceed with matters of council? Where is that Danishman, Tori?”
He beckoned forward a stout-bellied man from the rear of the meeting hall. “You wish to purchase the estates of Beckley and Horton in Oxford-Shire, I understand? Tell me, why should I sell valuable land to an incomer Dane?”
Tori bowed, smiled. “Because I am a merchantman who is reaching old age, and I would prefer to enjoy retirement. My three sons now run my business, and I wish to give up shipboard life and become a settled landowner.”
“Is there not land in Denmark for you?” Eadric Streona interrupted.
“Plenty, sir, but a devout Christian is not always made welcome among the pagan farmsteads of my homeland.” The Dane spread his hands, showing the nodules and swellings of advanced joint ache. “Many with my profound Christian belief have found new homes in the far southern lands, where the warmer days ease the pain of our old bones, but I have no wish to travel so far. Engla Lond will be sufficient for me, and my gold will be enough for you to equip and crew several ships. I offer, also, my knowledge of Thorkell the Tall. Would the intended plans of Swein Forkbeard’s second in command not be of use to you?”
Several men of the council shuffled in their seats, notable among them Ulfkell of East Anglia. “We already have word of him,” he said, rising to his feet, aware that as a Thegn he was not always accredited with the same respect he would be offered were he to be made Ealdorman. An awareness that galled like an ill-fitting harness. “It is said that Thorkell has disagreed with Forkbeard, that they have fallen out of friendship?”
Tori laughed, his head back, his painful hands resting on his broad hips. “If that is what you believe, then you English are indeed poorly informed! Thorkell is a courageous and capable man. I have heard of none better than he on the battlefield, not even Swein himself, who values his commander as if he were a son.”
Bouncing to his feet, Eadric Streona again interrupted. “Heard? Heard of none better? Have you not seen for yourself?”
The Dane was not a man easily riled to anger, but with considerable restraint he answered the insult. “I am a merchantman; my talent is for creating a profit from trade. I am not as adept with an axe as I am with a tally stick, and I have not spent my years amassing my wealth in order to toss it away on a battlefield. I leave the fighting to those who are good at it, and do my part by furnishing braver men than I with armour, weapons, and ships.”
Several listeners grinned, appreciating a man who could get the better of Streona.
“However, Swein is a man who has much employment to keep him occupied. He rules more than Denmark alone, is finding that multiple rule is no easy task.”
Æthelred leant forward, his chin cupped in his palm, his elbow propped on his knee, a mild grin lifting his lips. “There is a saying that an ambitious man may bite off more meat than his teeth can chew. If Swein is finding it difficult to hold on to his conquests, I cannot say I feel pity for his predicament.”
Tori smiled wryly. “It is not for me to talk of his temporary dilemma, but when a King has a man like Thorkell to trust implicitly, then that King is a man to be envied. Knowing his back is securely protected, a man, whether he be Thegn, Jarl, or King, is able to look boldly in more than one direction at a time.”
Thegn Wulfnoth spoke up: “My Lord, you have ordered ships to be built of a number never before met under any King of England. We are gathered here to discuss ways of defea
ting the scourge of the Danes when next they come. It will not be this year, perhaps not the next, but when they do come, it shall be Thorkell who leads them, not Swein, and he will be more formidable than any other Dane who has tried to take England for his own.”
Superciliously, Eadric spat at his feet. “I am not afraid; let him come! Let Thorkell meet with our ships and our armies; let him see what real fighting is!”
Several men cheered, but Tori interrupted. “You do not fear Thorkell the Tall? Then you are a fool. Thorkell has a point of honour to prove, not to you, but to Forkbeard. If he is to be entrusted with England’s conquest, then he must show he is capable of doing it. He will either succeed or die.”
Once again Streona shrugged in answer. “Then he shall die.” He expected concurrence and agreement, received only silence, even from Æthelred.
“You may purchase the land you require, Tori.” With a grim smile Æthelred added, “Although I suspect you would not desire Thorkell to come within an arrow distance of it. I doubt he is a man who takes kindly to deserters.”
Tori bowed, ignored the jibe, for it was justified. “I dislike the man, sir, as much as he dislikes me. I have no wish to be near him whether in Denmark or England.” He turned, left the hall, pleased with the bargain he had made.
Archbishop Wulfstan stood, made no sound or movement, merely waited for silence to gradually resettle. Financing royal needs was all well and good, but without God’s provenance there was no advantage to long-term planning.
“Unless we repent our sins, we face a peril more mighty than Thorkell the Tall. I, in conjunction with my Lord Archbishop Alfheah of Canterbury, wish to establish a new, Christian law code.”
Alfheah inclined his head, acknowledging Wulfstan’s courtesy, appreciating the inclusion. In point of fact, the notion was entirely the Archbishop of York’s; he was more experienced in the practicalities of politics, Alfheah being more spiritually adept.
Wulfstan was an imposing figure. At four and thirty years, his hair had already turned white, his face become craggy and lined—features of acquired wisdom, not of age or weariness. If anyone could divert the wrath of God and bring salvation to His people, then the he was the man to do it.
“We are about to face the possibility of death and destruction by the hand of God through the Viking sea pirate. It may be that not one of us will survive this curse God is to send to punish us for the sins and transgressions that we, miserable men, have committed against Him.” For effect, Wulfstan pointed his finger at every man present, his eyes making individual contact as his gaze moved slowly from man to man. “We shall do public penance for our wrongdoings. We shall commit ourselves to strict attendance to church, making our way barefoot in procession. Psalms and prayers shall constantly be on our lips and in our minds. We shall honour God and show Him we regret and repent.”
Æthelred’s youngest sons had been seated in a corner to the side of the royal dais. Emma had not thought it prudent to bring them into council, but Æthelred had been adamant. At her protest, he had retorted, “I will have my sons with me. How else will they learn the ways of state?”
Not by sitting, growing bored in a council chamber, Emma had argued, but Æthelred would never listen to practicality.
Two-year-old Alfred, recently suckled and content with a belly full of milk, was drowsing in his nurse’s arms, but Wymarc was finding it difficult to keep Edward distracted and busy. He had discovered his voice, independence, and an ability to disrupt the affairs of adults by using an irritating, high-pitched tone that grated on ear and nerve. He did not want to amuse himself quietly with his wooden animals. Most definitely did not want to sit still. All he wanted to do was be outside in the sunshine with the lambs. Wymarc, attempting to entertain him by bouncing him on her knees, made a grab for his arm as he wriggled from her hold and ran, astonishingly fast, away from her. His boots thundering on the chequered red and green tiles, he dashed for the door, shrieking his laughter at the excitement of breaking loose, his shrill voice shouting, “I want to see the lambs! I want to play with the lambs!”
Red-faced, Wymarc hurried after him. Æthelred, annoyed, berated Emma, “For God’s sake, woman! Can you not control your children?”
Furious with both Edward and Æthelred, Emma stood, retorting heatedly, “They are your children as much as mine. Do you not frequently take delight in reminding me that sons are the assets of their fathers, not their mothers?” She walked with upright dignity from the hall, steadfastly ignoring the gloating expression that had suffused Athelstan’s smirking face.
38
June 1009—Sandwich
If five and ten years was old enough to show the first sprouting of a beard and moustache, then it was certainly old enough to take an interest in the administration of the council and in the prospect of fighting the Danes. The boy Godwine Wulfnothsson, on the brink of manhood, was intrigued by both, for the lure of adventure and for his friendship, that had strengthened over the years, with the Ætheling Edmund. Their pleasure in each other’s company had not proven false for either of them, the elder boy happily sharing his own first forays into the mysteries of manhood with the younger.
Edmund and Godwine were everything friends should be: someone to brawl or laugh with when spirits were high; someone to shout at when anger steamed over, or to share grieving sorrows with. Someone to discuss the merits of women and horses, hounds and hawks. A true friend did not ask questions when answers could not be given, did not take offence at blustered bad tempers or lengthy and sullen silences. Loyalty was the measure of a friend, but whether their friendship was going to survive the next few stormy months remained to be seen. And whether Godwine’s maturing courage was sufficient in quantity to carry him through the outcome.
Although his feelings for Edmund were stout and unbendable, Godwine had never felt the same ease with Athelstan; he admired and respected him, but trusted him, as his father, Wulfnoth, did? Ah, that was another matter. Even Edmund admitted occasionally, usually when too much ale had addled his brain, that he would not trust his brother a further distance than he could piss. The point was, however, when it came to the future safety of England, who could be trusted more to ensure its well-being? The King or his eldest son?
Two hundred ships rode at anchor in Sandwich harbour, manned by one thousand five hundred men. They had assembled, with hope and expectation, as April burst with a shower of blossom into May. Now it was almost the end of June. Eight weeks and not one single ship had made sail. Excited hope had soon turned to boredom, expectation to disillusionment. Already, men were using the few short hours of darkness to slide away home. It would not be too long before men did so openly, in broad daylight, and in large groups, not in furtive ones and twos. Tension and temper were mounting. In Æthelred’s household it did not take the talents of a seer to predict an eruption would come between Athelstan and Eadric Streona of Mercia before long.
“It will be sheer stupidity to take half the fleet up the Thames to London!” Athelstan stood before the Ealdorman, his anger surging upwards with his incredulity. “We built this fleet with the express purpose of blockading the south coast.”
Thorkell’s muster was reported as being almost twice the size of the English—if it were true and the Dane made a successful landfall, then England, as an English land, could be finished. Had they all forgotten the warnings of God’s wrath? Of apocalypse and destruction?
“We must use our ships to their best effect—out at sea.” Athelstan swung round, despairing. Was no one listening to good common sense? He pointed with a grand gesture towards the mass of ships, roped one to the other. They slept, their masts down, the square russet, saffron, or blue sails furled, oars at rest. To an eye that knew nothing of the sea they appeared as no more than a host of abandoned boats bobbing on an incoming tide, but to one born with a saline tang in his blood, they were the death shadows of the scyp fyrd. With the wind billowing and the spindrift leaping against the keel, with the strength of men driving
the oars to “lift her,” each craft could come instantly and superbly alive, as lithe as a dolphin, as proud and graceful as a swan. As potentially lethal as an adder.
These warships were lighter than traders’ crafts, more manoeuvrable than the lumbering hulks of merchant ships, faster than fishing skips. With a master who knew the sea and all its changeable moods, and a crew who would caress their ship with a love and tenderness far greater than anything shared with a woman, a longship could become a weapon to equal any axe or sword. But no craft could be made to sing without the skill of one who knew how to coax the tune into life. The men called to join the fleet were no less skilled than any seafaring í-víking Dane—the question, as yet unanswered, could Æthelred use his scyp fyrd to its best effect? In Athelstan’s opinion, if his father continued listening to this imbecile land-crawler, Streona, the answer was a definite no.
His anger bursting, his bellow louder than the gulls swooping and screeching overhead for the new catch brought in by the coastal fishermen, Athelstan cried out in his frustration. “What do you know of the sea? You puke when ferrying across the mildest of rivers!”
Eadric responded with anger. How dare this boy insult his integrity? “I grant I do not have the skill of a sailor, but then neither do you, Athelstan!”
“No, I have not personally commanded a ship, but unlike you I am not too proud to listen to the judgement of those who have!”
The retorts were starting to fly like fire arrows released from a siege bow. Men loitering nearby turned, interested: local men mending fishing nets, merchants and traders buying and selling their wares along the quay, men of the scyp fyrd idling away their time in the brothels, taverns, and ale houses. Sandwich was a busy harbour town that included the status of a King’s palace, a centre for trade, justice, legislation, the collection of taxes—and the safe keeping of the King’s fleet. The River Stour, the wool trade, and an abundance of herring had heightened its importance through the years. Of its three hundred or so dwellings, the prime buildings were now occupied by wool merchants. As a diplomatic move to gain more Church approval, Æthelred was considering selling the borough to Archbishop Alfheah of Christchurch, Canterbury, but at present the revenue of fifteen thousand pounds per annum for herring came in too useful. The monks would have to continue with the enjoyment of their share of the wool that provided all their clothing.
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