by M J Porter
Leofric clearly approved of Ealdgyth’s actions, for he’d never brought her to task for undermining her family, and yet, there were occasions that Ælfgar knew his father would have happily berated her. She governed through the rule of law and upheld the rights of all, even when that meant ruling against her brothers and nephews.
Ælfgar couldn’t help but admire her but was also glad she wasn’t his wife. He preferred a quieter home life than his father, or his Uncle Olaf enjoyed. He thought there was a reason that his cousin, Brother Leofric, had chosen the celibate life of a monk.
Alfifa ghosted into view, and Ælfgar ceased his thoughts. She was still pale from her injuries, but her face was alight with a faint glow.
“I like it,” she said, a smile of thanks on her face. “I’ll be happy here, when all is as I want it.”
Raised as the pampered daughter of a member of the Mercian nobility, and then married to the king, Ælfgar spared a thought for Alfifa’s expectations and the reality of what life had given her.
“When the child is born, we can reconsider if it’s unsuitable,” he stated, feeling he needed to make it clear that this wasn’t all the future had to offer her.
“No, it’ll be perfect,” Alfifa countered, only a faint wobble to her chin, as Elgiva rushed to her friend’s side and embraced her.
“I can already picture our children playing here,” Elgiva consoled. “They’ll learn to plant and grow herbs in the small garden, and they’ll run in the field, and no doubt, hide in the barn. It will be a childhood like our own.”
“Then you won’t abandon me?” Alfifa trembled, as Ælfgar turned aside, sorrow in his steps. He knew his wife would never abandon Alfifa, just as the House of Leofwine would never abandon England and her kings. No matter what they did.
Chapter Fifteen
Summer AD1038 Oxford Leofric
Leofric stared into the heart of the cooking fire, burning in a desultory manner, because it was warm outside, and the servants were loath to make it even warmer inside the hall.
Around him, there was little activity. Most had opted to find tasks that required their immediate attention outside, but Leofric was minded to stay within, avoiding the glare of the sun and the sheen of sweat that would quickly cover him.
If he stayed still, Leofric had decided that he’d not sweat and not need to bathe to clear himself of the dust of summer fields, slowly parching in the heat.
The land needed rain, and he couldn’t help thinking that a thunderstorm would break soon. It was just too close for it not to. Maybe, when that happened, he’d be able to stand without sweating, and think without needing to pace, only to sweat some more.
In his hand, Leofric held a missive, signed in the king’s name, demanding his attendance at London. Leofric was minded to remain in Oxford. London would be ripe with the smells of the summer and the Thames, and he wrinkled his nose just thinking about it.
The king’s choice of London meant that Earl Godwine would be attending the meeting. Earl Godwine was never keen to be far from his lands in Wessex, and likewise, King Harald stayed as far away from those Wessex lands as possible, even though the heart of the English kingdom was Winchester.
Leofric would go wherever his king commanded him to go, even if he wished not to. The thread of duty and honour that ran through him was too persuasive. Just like his father before him.
The cries of a small baby brought a small smile to his face. His grandson, Burgheard, no more than a babe was visiting with Lady Elgiva, while Ælfgar once more rode the borderlands with his Uncles. The babe was as hot and fractious as Leofric felt, and he had great sympathy for everyone tending the child, and even the baby himself.
Hopefully, the storm would break soon. It needed to.
“My Lord,” his door warden caught his attention, and with a groan, Leofric stood and walked toward him, rolling the king’s parchment tightly in his hand. He would have liked to feed it to the fire, but the joy of the act would have been too short-lived to ease his disquiet.
“What is it Eadsige?”
“I’ve watched a man ride too and fro past the hall on many occasions this morning. Here he comes again?”
Leofric peered outside into the harsh sunlight, and quickly made out a horse and rider, slowly making their way past the gate to his hall in Oxford.
The man was watching the hall intently, relying on his horse to steer clear of people who might step into the way of the animal, as they made their way into or out of Oxford.
“Has he approached the gate?” Leofric asked. He didn’t recognise the man, who sat very upright in his saddle. Neither did he recognise the horse, although he admired the beautiful animal immediately. Leofric might not know the man, but he was wealthy. That much was clear to see.
“I keep thinking he will, and then he doesn’t.”
With a sigh for his discarded plans of doing nothing, Leofric stepped outside. The heat of the sun immediately bore down on him, and the stifling temperature made it hard to form any moisture in his mouth, as he continued toward the gate, all the same.
He didn’t know the horse or the rider, but it was possible they’d been informed that they must only speak with Earl Leofric, as the trader on London quayside last year. With that in mind, Leofric strolled toward the gate.
Two of his household troop stood before the gate, somehow managing to stay cool despite the oppressive heat. Leofric envied them.
“Good day,” he called to Winhus and Scirwold.
“My Lord,” they responded in unison, their surprise at seeing him outside easy to hear in their voices.
“Eadsige is concerned about that rider, on the large chestnut stallion.”
“He’s certainly been this way on many occasions this morning, and I can fathom no reason why,” Winhus agreed. His voice held the hint of interest, but not too much, and Leofric nodded. It was too hot to worry about anyone who just seemed to be minding their own business, and not bothering the House of Leofwine.
“I must assume he needs to speak to me. I’ll step through the gateway, examine the wicker fence or something,” he fluttered his hand as he spoke. Leofric wanted nothing more than to return to the shade of his hall.
“Stay close, My Lord,” Scirwold demanded, holding the gate open just wide enough for Leofric to step through. As he did so, Leofric fingered his belt, just to be sure he wasn’t unarmed. The point of his seax was a comfort to him, as he stepped clear of the well-guarded enclosure.
Leofric lingered by the gate, but there was no sign of the rider, and so, with another sigh, he stepped onto the trackway and began to meander his way around the boundaries of his property.
In the heat of the summer, the dirt of the trackway was cracked and jagged, gaping open as though in a mockery of an open mouth, inviting water in. Leofric shook his head in concern.
He’d not known a summer so warm since his childhood. He ran a finger around the neckline of his tunic, grimacing at the sweat that had already formed. He’d welcome the return of winter storms if only the weather would break.
As he grumbled and complained to himself, Leofric was suddenly aware that another had joined him.
“My Lord Leofric,” the man bowed low, and tried, but failed to hide his Danish accent.
“Good day, to whom do I speak?” Leofric took in the man’s stance. He was a warrior, that much was evident from the muscles bulging beneath the fabric of his tunic, to the way his hand constantly sought the comfort of his seax on his weapons belt. He had piercing blue eyes that spilt his intelligence, even before he spoke. Leofric thought the man a daunting prospect.
“I’m Æffa. I was told only to speak to you. I’ve been waiting all morning, and much of yesterday.”
“Then my apologies, my door warden has only just drawn my attention to you.”
“I was told to wait as long as it took,” Æffa grunted.
“Who sent you?”
“Lady Estrid.” The name was only half a surprise to Leofric. He’d thought
the trader last year had been all he’d hear from her, while the possibility of war between Denmark and England lingered on.
“Lady Estrid?” he questioned, just to be sure, but the man nodded, just once, concisely. The horse nudged Æffa’s arm at the answer, distracting Leofric as he tried to grasp his scattered thoughts.
“You’ve found shelter for the night?” Leofric thought to ask, but Æffa ignored the question.
“I’m to share my message with you, and depart with all haste. There’s a ship waiting for me, and I must arrive in three days, or they’ll leave without me.”
“Then please, tell me her message.”
The man’s closed his eyes, and his face smooth as he collected his thoughts. Leofric waited patiently. Æffa’s actions reminded him of one of the skald’s, who memorised all of their tales so that they could share them in the feasting halls when men and women drank too much and wished to be reminded of past victories, glories and mighty warriors who had died heroic deaths.
“Lord Leofric, please accept the words of Æffa, a trusted friend and ally and one of my huscarl. I’m reminded of our time together searching for Orkning, and the red-haired woman we met in the Inn.” Leofric assumed those words were to assure him that the message was indeed from Estrid and that she must have run out of whalebone carved two-headed eagles to send to him.
“I’ve reason to fear for England, and specifically for your family. Earls Godwine and Eilifr are in frequent contact with my nephew, Harthacnut. They tell him all that happens at the English Court. They say that Harald is weak and they’ll bend the knee as soon as Harthacnut returns to England.”
“Lady Emma also emplores her son to attack England and states that Earl Godwine will support Harthacnut, as he promised to when my brother died. Harthacnut makes plans to have the English turn against Harald and to make the continuation of his kingship impossible. Harthacnut is secretive about his plans. I’ve sent Æffa as you must assist me in ensuring that Cnut’s sons do not fight each other. My brother would not forgive me if one of his sons brought about the death of the other.”
Leofric listened with mounting worry. It was one thing to hear the rumours of traders and ship’s captains, but quite another to be informed by Lady Estrid of how matters really stood in Denmark.
“I also fear my sons will be driven apart by their cousins. Harthacnut expects their support and offers nothing in return so that Svein seeks battle riches elsewhere. Harald communicates secretly with Beorn, promising him riches in England should he turn aside from Harthacnut, and undermine his power in Denmark.”
“Is that the complete message?” Leofric asked Æffa, when the man ceased speaking. He hoped it was. Surely it couldn’t get much worse than that.
“The rest she bid me tell you is that Denmark and Norway remain at war. King Magnus has too many allies, including Anund Jacob of Sweden, and too many Norwegians hate Cnut for Harthacnut to ever rule there. Magnus has an enemy, but he’s banished to the land of the Rus. She doubts Harald Hardrada will return to Norway anyway time soon. But that is common knowledge.”
“And what else have you determined from travelling through England?”
Æffa squinted in the bright glare of the sun as he considered the question seriously.
“England is peaceful and calm. Trade flourishes, even in this heat, and no one even thinks to question the right of Harald to be king. The English do not want a war.”
“And this is what you will tell Lady Estrid?”
“I will, My Lord, and of course, I can also send her your words, I’ll memorise them and repeat them to her as you speak them to me now.”
Leofric had expected no less but didn’t know how to reply.
“Lady Estrid,” he began, as Æffa repeated the words without speaking, only his lips moving. “I thank you for risking Æffa’s life to send words of events in Denmark. Harald rules well, and England is peaceful and safe. Cnut would be proud of his son.” The words offered were nothing that would have a man killed if they were overheard, but Leofric knew he must speak his mind to retain the good favour of Estrid.
“The King is increasingly paranoid about Harthacnut, and also about Lord Edward, Æthelred and Emma’s surviving son, and Edward the Exile, the surviving child of King Edmund Ironside. He fears his kingdom is not safe while they live. Yet the king refuses to marry and name an heir, and there is unease as to who will rule if the king should die suddenly.”
Leofric stumbled to a stop as he spoke. There was little more than he could say, not without enough time to fully consider his worries and fears for the future.
“I’m increasingly marginalised at the Witan, and my son is shown no preference for the king’s favour. Lady Ælfgifu is an ally only because of the love she has for my wife and son.”
Æffa remained silent, as though waiting for more, but Leofric shook his head.
“I’m reminded of the blue colour of your dress when we first met,” Leofric finished, and Æffa nodded smartly again, apparently keen to be gone.
“Should Lady Estrid command your services again, I’d have you know that I have a son, Ælfgar, who can be trusted with her words, if I’m not to be found, and also two men, Olaf and Orkning, the sons of Horic, who once fought for Olaf Tryggvason. They would take your message, or assist you, if you should have need of it.”
“You have my thanks,” Æffa rumbled, turning to his horse.
“Here, good man, take this pouch of coin. It should ease you through the trading centres and avoid too many questions from being asked. And, also, should you come to England again, a horse of less breeding will not draw the eye.” Leofric offered the gentle retort for the animal was too beautiful for any but a Lord or King’s Thegn to ride. Æffa grumbled.
“I’m taking him home with me. A man sold him to me, I’m sure he was too drunk or he would have negotiated better. If I should return to England, I’ll not allow my heart to be taken by such a beautiful animal again.”
Without even the hint of a smile on his lips at his words, Æffa turned his horse toward the east and mounted him. Leofric watched him go with puzzlement.
The bonds of family had always been strained amongst the children and grandchildren of Swein, and yet he couldn’t help but think that of them all, Lady Estrid perhaps understood the perils better than anyone.
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle Entry for AD1038
This year died Æthelnoth, the good archbishop, on the Kalends of November, and a little after, Æthelric bishop in Sussex, and then before Christmas, Briteagus bishop in Worcestershire, and soon after, Ælfric bishop in East-Anglia.
Chapter Sixteen
AD1039 Powys Ælfgar
Fear coursed through Ælfgar’s body. An unfamiliar experience and an unpleasant one combined.
His father had agreed to him assisting his Uncle Eadwine on this expedition into Wales, and more specifically Powys, because he’d believed the threat from the warring factions was slight, more a rumbling of a possible attack than anything else, based on the experience of the last two years.
So far, that had proved to be the case, but now, as Ælfgar rode with his cousins, Ælfwine and Wulftsan, Orkning slightly before them, he could feel that something tangible had changed. Neither was he alone. His two cousins, usually so keen to tease, had long since lapsed into silence as the horses made their way along the twisting track cut into the hillside.
So far, they’d faced no real opposition. The people of Powys had watched them ride through their land with haunted faces, and the pinch of fear, but nothing else. No rival horsemen had come to greet them, and neither had the king of Powys sent an emissary to demand to know their plans.
No, it was as though the men and women of Powys had waited, just as the English had, a sense of unspecified peril ensuring that relations between the two sides had, until now, been biddable.
His Uncle Eadwine, and his fellow commanders, Thurkill, Ælfgeat, Leofgar and Eadbald, under the instructions of the king, had ridden into Powys with purposefu
lness. The attacks on the English border had been consistent for nearly two years, and the king had finally been persuaded to take some action, other than just allowing the boundaries to be ridden. It had looked as though only the show of force would be enough to stop any future attacks, but that was no longer the case.
No, as Ælfgar once more peered into the distance, both in front and behind him, he swallowed thickly. He couldn’t help feeling as though he was being watched. Sweat dripped down his shoulder blades, and even the jangle of his own horse’s harness had him tightening his hand on the reins as he feared the sudden arrival of enemy riders.
Beneath him, his horse was uneasy, no doubt detecting his rider’s disquiet.
“So the forward scouts have reported nothing?” Wulfstan raised Orkning, and not for the first time. Wulfstan’s quivering voice revealed his fear.
Orkning’s reply was terse. His voice showing resolve, nothing more.
“No, nephew, nothing. They say the path is clear to England, and there’s nothing to fear.”
“And you believe them?” Ælfwine muttered in a subdued voice. He was not genuinely questioning the loyalty of the forward scouts, but his fear was endemic.
Orkning, his nerves as frayed as the younger men’s, turned in his saddle and glared at Ælfwine.
“Such thoughts should be kept inside your head. It will do no good to spread unease even further.” As Orkning spoke, his voice softened a little, and Ælfgar glanced at him in surprise. Orkning was his father’s most trusted man, the leader of his household troops, and their Uncle through the marriage of Aunt Ealdgyth to his brother. While Ælfgar and his cousins had always known Orkning, he’d always manifested in their lives as the burly Norse warrior, with his gruff voice and hard edges. To hear such softness in his voice was more worrying than the threat of attack that hung over their heads, because it confirmed, to Ælfgar, that they were right to be fearful.
