The Earl's King
Page 9
“Then you’re not the source of information then?”
“Of course not, I’m a bloody trader, nothing else. I told her what I overheard, when I was at the Humber, trading, just after midwinter.”
“And what did you hear?”
“Some bloody Danes, complaining about taxes and war with Norway. They’d done a flit out of Ribe before they could be forced to cough up for Harthacnut’s war.”
“Who was the war against?” Ælfgar pressed. The man’s face was turning puce with rage at the continued questions.
“Bloody whoever is King of Norway. I can’t remember his damn name. It’ll be Olaf or something, it always is. Olaf so and so, or Olaf, son of so and so, or Olaf of the Blue-backside. I’ve no idea how you tell one man from the other when they all have the same bloody name.”
“Magnus?” Ælfwine interjected, and recognition immediately flashed over the man’s startled face.
“That’s the bugger. Yes, I told Lady Ælfgifu of what I’d overheard, nothing else. Why? What’s she been saying?”
It seemed the man was quickly recovering his senses, perhaps attuned to Lady Ælfgifu’s less than honest interpretation of the rumours brought to her.
“That Harthacnut is to attack England.”
Artair spluttered at that. “I never bleedin’ told her that. But she did send me gallons of ale for what I did tell her.”
Ælfgar’s mind was reeling. It seemed that if this was the man, that Lady Ælfgifu had leapt at his words, and perhaps, purposefully misrepresented them.”
“Did you tell her it was Norway that Harthacnut planned to attack?”
Ælfgar needed to help both Artair and Lady Ælfgifu from their predicament without either being punished by the king.
“I did yes, I told her what I heard, that Harthacnut was going to war against some man with Norse blood.”
“Did she ask you who the Norse-blooded man was?”
Again, Artair’s faced wrinkled in thought. Ælfgar was already at the point where he was beginning to think that Artair had passed on information that Lady Ælfgifu had merely misconstrued. It seemed an honest mistake. But whether the king and Lady Ælfgifu would see it like that, he wasn’t sure.
“No, she just smiled and sent me away with ale.”
“Then mount up, let’s go and straighten this confusion out,” Ælfgar commanded, and Artair stumbled to his horse.
“Did she try to poison me?” Artair demanded to know.
“I doubt it. I imagine she expected you to drink far less than you did.”
“What’s she been telling everyone?” Artair further demanded, but Ælfgar shook his head.
“You’ve nothing to fear, just come and say what you’ve told me, only before the king and earls Leofric and Godwine. Then, I’ll see you taken back to Northampton, and hopefully, your head will have cleared by then.”
“But I’m not dressed to address the king,” Artair squeaked.
“The king will see you as a trader forced to travel a long way at short notice. I wouldn’t worry too much.”
While Ælfgar knew the words were hardly comforting, exhaustion was causing his head to pound, and he was keen to hand the man over to his father. Leofric, he was sure, would know how to make the best of the muddled situation. Ælfgar merely craved sleep.
Chapter Nine
AD1037 London Leofric
Leofric had taken pity on Artair when he’d been delivered to him with little grace by his son and nephews.
Leofric had sent all the men to rest, while he’d had fresh clothes brought for Artair so that he could appear adequately clothed before his sovereign.
He’d quickly untangled the mess of Lady Ælfgifu’s assumptions, Artair’s as well, and now he strode with the man toward an audience with the king. Leofric had also availed Earl Godwine of the news, although Godwine didn’t look too pleased about such an easy solution.
Leofric refrained from asking after Sweyn. No doubt he’d return, eventually. Whether the son was chastened by his experience or not, Leofric hoped it would at least make him think more carefully about the words of others before he acted. The same would also help Earl Godwine.
The king was sitting at the front of his hall, his mother by his side, when Leofric bowed before him, Earl Godwine accompanying him, as well as Artair and Wulfstan, his nephew who’d not travelled back to Northampton, but had instead gained a full night’s sleep.
On the dais, confusion swept over Lady Ælfgifu’s face, before her eyes narrowed as she looked at Artair.
“Why have you brought Artair the trader before the king?” she demanded to know, and Leofric considered his words carefully, as he had been doing since he’d first realised the mistaken identity.
“Good, it pleases me that you know this man and name him. I understand he’s the one you learnt of events in Denmark from?” It was more a statement than a question.
“Yes, yes, he came to my home in Northampton, filled with stories of Harthacnut and his war.”
Artair was sweating beside Leofric, perhaps suddenly aware, himself, of what had happened.
“I believe, My Lord King, that your Lady Mother, and trader Artair, have been victims of a misunderstanding fostered between them. Artair,” and Leofric turned to him with a serious face that he hoped looked far from daunting. “Please tell the king, the words you spoke to Lady Ælfgifu.”
Swallowing convulsively, his eyes terrified, Artair bowed his head.
“I told her of a conversation I overhead, at the Humber, between some Danes. They were complaining of taxes being raised so Harthacnut could go to war against a man of Norse origins.”
“My Lady Ælfgifu,” Leofric turned to her, a steadying hand on Artair’s shoulder. “Who did you believe this man to be?” he enquired his tone that of a courtier’s.
“Trader Artair spoke of my son, of course. Of his Danish half-blood,” she spoke with a lightness of heart, as though this had proven all that she’d said, and relieved to be able to assure her son that she’d not lied.
“And you, Trader Artair, who did you mean when you spoke?”
For a moment, panic touched the man’s eyes.
“My Lord Leofric, My Lord King, I confess, I spoke not of the king, but of another man, the King of Norway. They tell me his name is Magnus.”
For a moment there was just silence, as Leofric had thought there might be, and then Lady Ælfgifu turned outraged eyes on Artair, as King Harald turned angry eyes on his mother.
“You didn’t even hear him say Harthacnut’s name?” Harald demanded harshly of his mother, his fist thumping the wooden table as he glared at her.
“My son, I,” Lady Ælfgifu looked dumbstruck as she fought for her composure. “He spoke Harthacnut’s name, I’m sure of it, and your own as well. Come Trader Artair, you lie when you speak as you do.” She looked to Artair with contempt, but Leofric steadied the man at his side, with a hand on his arm.
“Alas, My Lady Ælfgifu. I believe Trader Artair spoke as he thought correct and that you heard him as you thought correct, but in the end, you meant different men.”
Leofric hoped he injected just enough humour into his words to deplete the king’s rage both toward his mother and Trader Artair, and yet he wasn’t sure, as the king gestured for wine for himself only, and promptly dismissed the servant with an angry growl, without seeing to his mother’s comfort.
“You’ve made a fool of me, mother,” Harald complained, his voice strained, perhaps alluding more to the loss of hopes of raising an army to attack Harthacnut than to the actual confusion of names and people. Lady Ælfgifu, meanwhile, was glaring at Trader Artair, and the man quaked beside him, so much so that Leofric whispered for Wulfstan to escort Artair from the hall and ensure he was well tended. It would be unfortunate if he should be punished for what had happened.
“I brought you news of the rumours I’ve heard, as you commanded me to do.” Lady Ælfgifu whined, her tone becoming more aggrieved as she continued to speak.
“My Lord King,” Earl Godwine now tried to smooth the matter, his voice oozing with charm and self-confidence. Leofric winced, wishing the man would learn to keep quiet.
“My own son has gone to Denmark. He’ll return as soon as he can, and then we’ll have verified the truth of this rumour.”
If Earl Godwine thought to win favours with his honeyed words he failed.
“You misbelieved my mother so completely that you sent your son to Denmark, when the seas are so rough, as you’ve all been telling me, that no ship can sail?” anger and disbelief filled Harald’s voice.
“My Lord King, I thought it for the best,” Earl Godwine tried to hedge, although his eyes flashed dangerously, but Harald was on his feet by now, kicking out at any obstacle in his way. This included a woman Leofric recognised who sat neatly on a small stool, sewing in the light from the many candles on the king’s high table. Leofric winced as a blow sent her reeling across the wooden floor, linen flying one way, and her needle and thread the other, but before he could admonish the king’s for his actions, Harald had turned on Leofric.
“And you, you were so worried by my mother’s words that you sent to Northampton for the source of the news?”
“My Lord King, you’re the King of England. She cannot, and will not go to war on the intelligence from just one man. Especially when that source couldn’t be verified. Like the ship from Ribe on the quayside, news from Denmark is months old. Nothing can be decided until there’s up to date intelligence, and that will only come as soon as the weather clears.”
Leofric spoke to reason with his king, but Harald was beyond such clear thought.
“Both of my earls refuse to heed my mother’s warnings. Neither of you serves the kingdom as you should, neither of you.”
“My Lord King,” Earl Godwine tried to interject with the king, but Leofric knew better than to try, and instead suppressed a groan of impatience. Would Harald never understand that the threat his half-brother posed was only that, just a threat? Leofric couldn’t see how Harthacnut would ever be free to claim England, not while he fought to retain Cnut’s Empire, disintegrated once more into its constituent parts.
“I’ll not speak of this,” Harald shouted, spittle flying from his furious face, as he again moved and kicked the woman who’d been resettling herself on her small chair, a pained expression on her pretty young face, which might have been shadowed, or which might have shown the darkness of past bruising.
Leofric felt his attention wandering to her. He must find out who she was and remove her from the king’s presence.
“I’ll speak to no one of this, no one. All of you, Lady Mother, Earl Leofric and Earl Godwine, be gone from my presence. I’ve more important matters to attend to.”
As he spoke, Harald reclaimed his seat with a loud scrape of wood on wood and called for yet more wine.
Leofric would have preferred to clear the air with the king, and indeed Lady Ælfgifu, but he knew better than to force Harald to face up to his imagined fears.
Instead, he bowed to the king, sweeping Earl Godwine’s arm as he did so, in the hope that the other earl would heed the warning. But Earl Godwine was furious. Leofric could tell from his tense posture, and he refused to leave.
“When my son returns, My Lord King, we’ll know the truth of the rumours. And then My Lord King, I’ll have an apology from you,” Earl Godwine was as angry as his king, perhaps more so, for it was his son who’d risked his life in a perilous journey to Denmark.
“When your son returns, with news of war and the massing of ships and warriors in Denmark, I’ll have your apology, and much more besides,” King Harald almost screamed, and only then did they all make their escape from the hall.
Leofric cursed. What should have been a simple matter of a misunderstanding now had the potential to spiral wildly out of control, and as usual, it would fall to him to bring about a reconciliation or face ruin.
Chapter Ten
AD1037 Oxford Ælfgar
Elgiva glanced at him shyly from her place beside him on the dais.
Married in Oxford, amongst a great deal of fanfare, and with the king in attendance, Ælfgar felt very much as though the entire day had been for the benefit of everyone apart from him and his new wife.
He returned her smile, a beam lighting his face. They were married. It was done, what happened behind closed doors, or at the instigation of his mother, Lady Ælfgifu, the king, his father or Earl Godwine, was not his concern, not today.
His father had assured him, a stern look on his countenance, that the wedding was a day of celebration to be enjoyed. Ælfgar had thought his father about to make some ribald comment about the coming night, but thankfully, he’d refrained.
His father, a man who knew him too well.
Still, no matter his words, Ælfgar would have needed to be both deaf and blind not to have understood that much was going on during the wedding ceremony, as well as during the celebratory feast.
The events of a little earlier in the year, when Lady Ælfgifu had brought untested rumour to her son’s ear, and Harald, unknowing the information was dubious, had tried to force the earls to arm England against an attack, had had unfortunate repercussions.
Even now, Leofric had smirked to Ælfgar, there was no sight of Earl Godwine’s oldest son. The fool had rushed off to Denmark, paying twenty silver coins for the honour of getting there, but had not been seen since. Leofric could laugh about it. He’d been forced to haul Ælfwine to one side and advise him that the wily old ship’s captain had played him for a fool. Ælfgar knew that his father hadn’t yet made mention of his suspicions to Earl Godwine.
Earl Godwine, in the meantime, had waited, eagerly, for his son’s swift return, so that he could prove the king wrong. But, with the extended delay, his desire for revenge had fallen away to worry. Ælfgar would feel sorry for him, but there was no point. Godwine had many allies in Denmark, and no matter what, Sweyn would reappear, eventually.
But he did spare a thought for Lady Gytha, Sweyn’s mother. She had performed her tasks, as the earl’s wife, at the wedding, and now tried to eat heartily of the fine wedding feast, but the fact that she jumped at the arrival of every messenger or late arrival, proved that she pined for news of her firstborn son.
And while she tried not to show her worry, Earl Godwine grew ever more belligerent in his dealings with the king.
There was no denying that Harald did all he could to infuriate Earl Godwine. Their public argument, witnessed by so few, had still quickly become the subject of much gossip. Ælfgar doubted anyone in England didn’t know that the earl and his king were once more at loggerheads. It seemed that Earl Godwine and King Harald were destined to never truly trust each other.
While that benefited Ælfgar and his father, it also added a volatility that was difficult to predict. Even now, while Harald sat and drank heavily, his mother whispering to him about suitable brides, Harald glared at Earl Godwine, while Godwine did his best to ignore the king’s scrutiny, and enjoy himself.
His own father, who was trying to take pleasure in the wedding celebrations as he’d instructed his son to, was far from relaxed as he sat in his chair, beside Lady Godgifu. Of them all, his mother was in her element, and Ælfgar wished her happiness could always last. But, once the wedding was concluded, and the feast cleared away, she’d be itching for something else to keep her mind busy. Leofric had already warned his two older nephews of her probable intent whereas Ælfgar had taken a small bet with Orkning as to who would be the first of the brothers to succumb.
Indeed, the feast was filled to bursting with all of Ælfgar’s relatives. All of his aunts, uncles, and cousins had gathered for the festivity, as had the other earls and their families. All in all, it was a very passable attempt at a decent gathering. H
e was grateful to his mother for all her endeavours, even if he’d have been content with no one but his new wife, mother and father, and perhaps his cousins.
Even Brother Leofric had made the journey to Oxford, from his monastery in Peterborough, and his reunion with his mother, Aunt Ealdgyth, had been quite emotional.
Ælfgar hadn’t seen his cousin since the death of Lord Alfred. He was keen to speak with him, but for now, his duty was to his wife and new family.
At his side, Elgiva said his name, and he turned to her. She eyed him fondly, but he was quickly reminded that she was no Court novice.
“Your cousin will not be popular if he continues his pursuit of Earl Godwine’s oldest daughter.” Without meaning to, Ælfgar swivelled his head, dismayed when he saw that Elgiva was right. Wulfstan, without the sense he was born with, was engaged in conversation with the young Edith. From the flushed expressions on both their faces, it seemed they were both enjoying the flirting.
“Bloody hell,” Ælfgar muttered, trying to catch Ælfwine’s eye so that he could intervene. But Ælfwine was almost insensible besides him, his head resting on his crossed arms before him.
Ælfgar scanned the crowd. Who else could he rely on? His eye fell on his younger cousin, Æthelflæd, and he wondered if she’d be aware enough to understand what he was trying to indicate to her. It seemed not, as although she smiled at him, no doubt pleased that his eyes had sought hers amongst all the feasting, she made no move to interrupt her older cousin.
Yet, and as so often happened, Orkning came to Ælfgar’s assistance. Always alert to any danger, Orkning, dressed in all his finery for the occasion, had bent to speak to his niece, and had then caught Ælfgar’s eye. From long years of knowing each other, Orkning had quickly understood the source of Ælfgar’s agitation. With an aggrieved eye roll at Wulfstan’s antics, Orkning managed to insinuate himself into the conversation.