by M J Porter
His words were low, carrying only just to her ears, but she nodded and did as she was bid. It was so unlike his outspoken wife that he almost choked in surprise. Never before had she followed his wishes. He sent a silent prayer that it never had recourse to happen again. It was a terrible reminder of just what they’d seen and endured that night.
Ælfgar tried to take his own advice, as his wife’s shaking gradually ceased, and he listened, without being able to decipher individual words, to the two Sisters about their business. But, the fire dancing before his eyes, seemed to mock him, and so he waited, and he hoped, and only when Sister Cwenburh came to his side, a gentle shake to wake him, did he even realise he’d been asleep.
“We’ve done what we can for her. She’s lost much blood and will be weak. For now, she sleeps, and that’s good. The body will heal while she sleeps, and then, when she’s awake once more, I’ll truly know how she fares and what her chances are. Her wounds were, luckily, shallow. That means they bled a great deal, but have done no lasting damage. They should heal quickly, provided she rests, and they are kept clean and dry.”
There was the hint of a question on her lips, Ælfgar could tell, but the Sister shook her head, seemingly dismissing it, deciding that not knowing was better. “What should we do, when she’s well once more?”
Ælfgar nodded. He’d been giving the matter a great deal of thought.
“I’ll arrange for her to leave London in secrecy. Take her back to her home.”
Here the Sister nodded, understanding again in her voice.
“You must know then, before you decide where to take her, that she’s with child. It’s early yet, but I hope the baby will survive the mother’s ordeal.”
Ælfgar nodded his head at the news, as though he’d somehow been expecting it. Still, he swallowed heavily before replying.
“My wife and I are not without some means. We’ll do all we can for the woman and the child. You have my sincerest thanks for what you’ve done for her.”
Sister Cwenburh pursed her lips.
“It’s my duty to help those in need. But all the same, we must wait and see if it’s God will that she survive. You must know, it’s nearly dawn. Do you need to be gone from here?”
Ælfgar hadn’t considered how they would return to the king’s palace, and now worry consumed him. There was no point in getting Alfifa out without the king’s notice if they were discovered sneaking back in.
“Do we have time to return before the sun rises?” Ælfgar asked, thinking quickly.
“Perhaps, but you’re covered in the blood of the woman,” Sister Cwenburh advised him. “It might elicit some questions.”
Ælfgar sighed softly. At his side, his wife slept on, although her body still shivered occasionally.
“I can return more swiftly than Elgiva. I’ll go, and then return for her when the sun rises. Hopefully, I’ll not be seen.”
Sister Cwenburh nodded, as though she thought the idea a good one, but still she hesitated. Her next words didn’t surprise Ælfgar.
“Ensure the King doesn’t come knocking on our door. We can’t deny him should he come. Perhaps, one of your men, maybe two, could escort you back and remain within the enclosure. I’d not normally countenance armed men on the site of her nunnery, but there might be a need.”
Ælfgar considered the question a reasonable one, as he gently lowered his wife fully onto the bench beside the hearth they’d been sharing. She moaned a little in her sleep but didn’t wake, as he brushed her hair behind her right ear.
“As soon as the woman is able to be moved, I’ll do so. I’ll not endanger anyone further,” he promised, standing, and suddenly appreciating how small the diminutive nun was.
“My Lord,” she agreed, before reaching out and gripping his arm.
“I’m pleased you considered our nunnery in a moment of such need. It’s an honour for us.”
Ælfgar smiled a sad-tight thing and swallowed a well of emotion before responding.
“You do good works here. I should be the one thanking you, and not vice versa.”
Before he left the infirmary, Sister Cwenburh allowed him to see Alfifa.
The young woman was pale on the bed she laid on, her arms outside the fur, and her neck kept clear at the top as well. He could see where poultices had been applied to the wounds, whereas something had been smeared over the developing bruises.
Alfifa’s blond hair shone on the pillow that supported her head, but Ælfgar winced to see the blood stains that still marred it.
“Bastard,” he muttered beneath his breath, while Sister Cwenburh stayed silent at his side. He had no need to hear her opinion, he could sense it in the gentle touches that had been used to ensure Alfifa lay comfortably while she slept.
Outside, he shivered in the early morning air, clamping his teeth shut on their chattering. With only a thin cloak around his shoulders, the journey back would be unpleasant, and even more so because although he’d barely slept, his aching arms and back, legs as well, were aching with each and every step he took.
Ælfgar followed Sister Cwenburh back to the building that led to the door he’d entered by earlier, and there met the curious eyes of an even younger woman. Not that she spoke, instead, she quickly worked the catches and giant key that held the gate closed and opened it a little into the roadway beside the gated enclosure.
Ælfgar nodded once more and made to rush out.
“When you return, come to the back entrance. You’ll be seen by fewer people. Don’t follow this roadway, when you return, come down the one that runs opposite to it. I’ll tell the Sister there to expect your return later this evening, just before sundown.”
Ælfgar nodded, understanding that these were instructions he must follow for the good of all of them.
Without another word, he stepped into the roadway, peering around to ensure he wasn’t observed.
There was always someone keen to make a coin for informing on the movements of the nobility.
But, the roadway appeared deserted, as though the frigid wind blowing along its length had enticed everyone to remain in their beds for that little bit longer, despite the hint of a sunrise smudging the horizon. Pulling his cloak over his head, and tight against his body, Ælfgar directed himself toward the palace. Hopefully, the journey would be accomplished more quickly than the one to get to the Nunnery.
Yet, the wind was against Ælfgar, as he squinted into the stiff gale, trying to shield his eyes from dust and particles that blew their merry way toward the east side of London. He continually lowered his head to avoid the menace of the wind, only to be unable to see the way forward.
The cold tore through his cloak, and into his tired arms and legs, so that the journey back to the palace took just as long as the one away from it, and he arrived as sunlight was just beginning to illuminate the wooden enclosure surrounding the palace complex, the gates and palisade still skulking in shadows.
Ælfgar’s brain felt muddled, and yet, even as he felt relief at having arrived at his destination, he also knew that he couldn’t demand admittance in his current state. Exhausted, he shuddered his way down a side street and took a moment to try and gather his thoughts.
His clothes were sheeted in blood that his cloak barely covered, and he couldn’t think of a single reason to explain his current state other than the truth. And that, he knew, could never be told.
A hand on his shoulder, and he uttered a muted shriek, too tired to even cry out if he was about to be deprived of what little he had.
“My Lord, come. I’ve been waiting for you. I knew it would be hard to regain entry to the palace. Put this around your shoulders, and follow me. My name’s Creoda.”
The door warden from the previous night, his eyes staring bleakly from a bleached face, handed Ælfgar another cloak, this one black as night, and much larger than the one he wore.
As Ælfgar felt it settle around his shoulders, his teeth began to chatter in earnest, and he understood that the even
ts of the night were catching up with him.
“She lives,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper, and the door warden nodded, and swallowed thickly. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words poured forth.
Ælfgar nodded his head.
“I know,” both of them felt terrible guilt for what had happened, and yet, they’d both been powerless to stop Harald.
“Follow me. I’ve put it about that I’m expecting a visitor that I vouch for. The current gate warden will let you pass. Just try and keep yourself covered.”
Ælfgar grunted to show he understood and trailed in the wake of the other man.
As he approached the gate, he caught sight of the door to the king’s hall, but it was still tightly shut. Whether the king still slept in there or not, Ælfgar didn’t know, but there was no hue and cry around the palace, so it boded well that he did.
Belatedly Ælfgar considered the mess that must have been left behind. Blood on the floor near the hearth, and no doubt, blood in other places as well. He should have thought and ordered the floor scrubbed clean, but it was too late now.
True to his word, the current gate warden allowed Ælfgar to pass with only the most desultory of looks.
“Bloody cold,” the man asked, shivering into his own fur cloak, and Ælfgar nodded from inside the hood that covered his face. The movement was exaggerated because of the swathe of the cloak, but it prevented him from speaking, and that was important.
He doubted many men wouldn’t recognise Lord Ælfgar’s voice if they heard it.
His ally led him away from the king’s hall, and to the rear of a wooden building. Ushering him inside, Ælfgar looked around, trying to decide where he was.
“We keep the equipment in here,” Creoda explained. “I’ve got a new tunic for you,” as he spoke, he rifled his hand through a hemp sack and brought forth one of Ælfgar’s more mundane tunics. “I’m sorry, I went to your room and took it.”
Ælfgar, struggling from his soiled tunic, spoke as he lifted it above his head.
“I’m grateful. You’ve thought more about this than I have.”
As his head appeared once more through the top of the tunic, his eyes met the door wardens.
“I should have done something,” the man moaned, and Ælfgar nodded.
“Yes, but you have now. The King would have been wrathful if you’d tried to intervene. You could have been wounded as well, and she might have been killed.”
Ælfgar tried to think of a way to console the man, other than with the harsh truth, but struggled.
“I too should have done something, long ago. But now, we can set it all right, and protect her.”
Creoda nodded at the thought, a light entering his eyes.
“You’ll not bring her back to the palace?” Creodda demanded to know, and Ælfgar nodded.
“As soon as she’s well enough, I’ll remove her from London.”
“I would come with you, My Lord,” Creoda demanded, but Ælfgar shook his head.
“No, you must stay here. If you just left, the king would eventually work out why, and you’d never be free from his questions when you returned to his service. No, let me arrange it, and I’ll ensure you see her before she leaves.”
Creoda looked about to argue, but the arrival of two other men stopped their conversation.
“Bloody hell, that wind is fierce,” the one called to the other, barely giving Ælfgar and Creoda a second glance as they strode into the wooden building.
Ælfgar was unsure if the men recognised him, but they were engrossed in their own complaints after a long night of guard duty, and so he hoped not. Hastily, he stepped outside, the horizon a welter of pinks and oranges, with barely a cloud in the sky. They’d all been blown far away, or so he thought with a wry smile for the memory of his unpleasant journey back to the palace.
“I’ll return to my chamber. Appear when I should, and instruct my men to return and collect Lady Elgiva.”
Creoda nodded.
“I arranged for the floor to be scrubbed. The king slept on, but I guarded the two servants who assisted me. I,” and here he hesitated, but Ælfgar had an inkling of what the problem might be.
“I’ll have the coins sent to you,” Ælfgar stated. “It was good to buy their silence, if only for today.”
Before they parted, Creoda reached out and grabbed Ælfgar’s arm.
“My Lord, why would he do such a thing, to a woman he loves? I heard him say as much before he turned violent.”
Ælfgar shook his head.
“I’ve no idea, and I’ll not excuse it. We need to be vigilant, ensure no one else falls victim to his rages.”
Far from happy with Ælfgar’s answer, Creoda wound his way to the building the household troop used as their own, as Ælfgar turned to make his own way back to his bedchamber.
He felt as though he could sleep for a week, but first, well first, he needed to set a few events in motion. It was going to be a long day.
Chapter Thirteen
AD1038 London Ælfgar
Despite his best intentions, Ælfgar returned to his bedchamber, disturbed from being woken so early, and collapsed onto the bed.
It creaked beneath his weight, allowing the soft smell of his wife to envelop him, and before he knew it, his eyes were closed, and he slept.
Not that it was for long. The king’s palace was really only quiet in the dying darkness of each night, and Ælfgar woke, groggy, and more than a little disgusted with himself for sleeping.
Despite his cleanish tunic, the smell of blood clung to him, and as he rubbed his hand over his face, small dried brown flakes sheeted down his face.
He leapt from his bed, suddenly desperate to be entirely clean.
He felt polluted by the king’s actions of the night before. He wished to confront the king, demand to know what the fuck was the matter with him. But he didn’t want to answer Harald’s questions, not if he meant to keep the king’s wife safe from the king’s reach.
Ælfgar’s foster brother was not the man his father thought he was, and rage cursed through Ælfgar’s body, as he found water and cleaned himself as well as he could by stripping entirely naked in his cold bedchamber, and then donning clean clothes.
Leofric hoped that Harald would prove to be as honourable as his father, and grandfather before him. But Harald wasn’t. No, Harald bore the burn of his almost complete rejection by his father, open and exposed. He’d not ask any to heal him, preferring instead to feel the itch when it tried to heal, and scratch it until the wound opened again, allowing it to fester time and time again.
Ælfgar found it strange that instead of blaming Cnut, Harald had always laid the blame firmly at his mother’s feet. He blamed the abandoned Lady Ælfgifu for what had befallen him, and more, he also attributed the same to Lady Emma. No matter what he knew to be the contrary, Harald was convinced that Lady Emma had enticed his father from his marriage bed, and forced another marriage upon him.
In his own mind, Harald thought the marriage of Lady Emma and his father unlawful, and the offspring from that marriage, as illegitimate. Harald believed Harthacnut had no right to rule Denmark, let alone England.
Harald’s thoughts toward Lady Emma’s children, born from the earlier union with King Æthelred, were just as illegitimate, or so he thought, dismissing the claims of Lord Edward with ease, as well as the sons of Lady Goda, Emma’s grandchildren. The only real claim Harald would even consider was that of Edward the Exile, son of Edmund Ironside, and therefore a member of the House of Wessex from a legitimate and first marriage. Or so Harald had explained to Ælfgar, one night when they’d both drunk too much, when they’d been little more than youthful boys.
It wasn’t lost on Ælfgar that his own wife’s mother had once been an ally of Edmund Ironside’s wife. And he knew, although he refused to tell his father as much, that his wife’s mother was still in contact with the good lady, even in Hungary, where she and her son now lived.
Rumour had it tha
t Cnut had entrusted the killing of the two sons of Edmund Ironside to Jacob Anund of Sweden, but that rather than soil his blade, Jacob Anund had sent them, and their mother into exile, first to the land of the Rus and then into Hungary, when Rus proved to be inhospitable to them.
Ælfgar was unaware of the intricacies of the arrangement, but not killing the children of Edmund Ironside had been an effective tool for Jacob Anund, a way of ensuring his independence from Cnut. Few even remembered that the children had even been born and that one still lived, no doubt with his own children by now.
Ælfgar thought it foolish to so conveniently forget all others who had a claim to the English kingdom, other than Harald, Harthacnut and Lord Edward. As the premature death of Cnut, and his oldest son, Swein, had shown, there was no certainty in the future, none at all.
Clean, if cold, Ælfgar strode from his bedchamber once more. He’d chosen warm clothes and a thick cloak for the day. His legs, arms and back ached miserably, and he hoped the heat would sooth away his aches and pains better than a warm bath. He had no time for such a thing.
Around him, the palace complex was fully awake. Servants rushed about, fulfilling their duties, the sound of the household troop at their practice could be heard in the clash of wooden, and iron weapons, and the hum of general conversation could be detected, even above the moaning of the wind, that had sprung up once more.
Ælfgar grumbled as he made his way to the king’s hall. His stomach rumbled menacingly, and he needed to eat, and see what state Harald was in that day.
Gaining admittance to the hall, he squinted into the room. It was brightly lit with candles and a raging fire in the central hearth. Many men and women sat or talked in small groups, breaking their fast with mugs of watered down ale or water, but he saw no sight of the king.
Ælfgar strode to where his own men ate, on a table as close to the hearth as possible. Occasionally they were covered by the smoke from the fire, caught out by the wind blowing from a different direction to normal, that prevented it from escaping through the smoke holes far above their heads, but at least it was warm, if smoky.
