The Earl's King

by M J Porter

  “So our return may still mean war?” Orkning spoke the words gravely, as Hrani nodded.

  “It’s still early enough in the season to raise the fyrd, have all the border levies cross into the Welsh kingdoms and lay waste the people and the land.”

  Ælfgar shook his head.

  “If we know it was only the king of Gwynedd, as he tries to claim Powys, we must punish that kingdom, not the others.”

  “Aah, you have more reason than the king, even as bedraggled and heart sore as you must be. Even your father has called for calm. He’s a broken man, but even he won’t allow a whole nation to be put to the sword to avenge his much loved only son.”

  “Is there news from Denmark?” Ælfgar thought to ask. Surely if Harthacnut had caused this disturbance on the border, he would have thought to take advantage of everyone’s new preoccupation.

  “Not as far as I know, but the king is filled with foreboding.”

  “And what do you know, Earl Hrani? You must have contacts and family in Denmark still. What do they tell you?”

  Hrani shrugged his shoulders at the question, not offended in any way.

  “They tell me that peace with Magnus of Norway is likely, and soon, and they tell me that even now Harthacnut makes long-delayed overtures of friendship to his mother, in Bruges.”

  “It’s not impossible then?” Orkning interjected. “King Harald might be correct to have such worries?”

  “He might, yes, but such paranoia blinds him to other possibilities. While Harald looks to Denmark for his enemy, he should, by rights, be looking to Gruffydd Ap Llywelyn and Donnchaid Mac Crinain.”

  “A concerted attack, on England?” The thought shocked Ælfgar, and yet he realised it shouldn’t. Even Cnut had been forced to battle on the border with the kingdom of the Scots. The border kings were ever opportunistic when they perceived the English were weak.

  A heavy silence hung between the men as they dolefully considered the possibilities.

  “And you, My Lord, will you ride into Powys now? Carry out the king’s commands?”

  “I’ll ride the border, I’ll not step foot inside it. I’ll not risk a confrontation when worse may yet be coming.”

  Ælfgar nodded at the staid words. They were those of a man used to ruling a county close to the often-disputed border. His Uncle Eadwine would have cautioned the same, and so too would his father.

  Ælfgar lapsed into silence. His belly full, he was starting to itch from the encrusted muck of a month in the saddle.

  “Come, Lord Ælfgar,” Hrani said, noticing his discomfort. “I’ve servants ready to assist you with bathing, and a bed for you to sleep within. Tomorrow will be soon enough to worry about the kingdom of England.” There was kindness in Earl Hrani’s voice, and while Ælfgar would have preferred to argue, to rush to his wife and his father, he knew it was beyond him.

  “My thanks,” he replied, being helped to his feet. “Tomorrow I’ll consider all that must be done.”

  “And you won’t be alone in that,” Earl Hrani consoled, his warm expression dropping away to worry.

  Chapter Nineteen

  AD1039 Worcester Leofric

  Godgifu was stoic at his side. Her face was impassive, that of his young daughter by marriage the only one to show the true grief they were all feeling.

  Leofric was unable to decide what grieved him more, the loss of his brother, nephews, or that of his son. And yet? Well, a faint thread of hope still hummed deep within him. His brother’s decapitated body had been shoved across the border and brought to Shrewsbury. As had that of the other four lords commanding the attack. As terrible as the fate of his brother had been, that Ælfgar, Wulfstan and Ælfwine hadn’t also been treated in such a way, gave Leofric some hope that they might yet live.

  It was a small and mean hope, one he couldn’t voice, to anyone, for fear of them laughing at his folly, but one he held close all the same.

  The body of his brother had since been treated with far more decency, and Leofric’s next place to visit, after Worcester, was Deerhurst. His brother would be buried with the rest of his family, as was his right.

  He’d been joined by his remaining brother, Godwine, at Worcester, and yet they’d not really spoken. Grief made words impossible, as did the sure knowledge that Leofric was sure that Godwine also held out hope that the younger men still lived.

  Every time a rider approached their hall, both men glanced hopefully toward the door, only to be disappointed when it was little more than a messenger from the king, or some worry from those closer to the border.

  Leofric feared all-out war with the Welsh. It had been many years since anything other than sporadic raiding and opportunistic attacks had taken place. Indeed, no concerted effort had been made to harry England since before his father’s time. But all that could change and would change if King Harald had his wishes.

  The king had sent no messenger with sympathy for the outcome of the battle. No, all Leofric had received were demands for action to be taken, and petulant requests that he must now support Harald in his requests to fund Magnus’ attacks on Harthacnut.

  Leofric found he little cared for his king’s wishes. Not anymore.

  “My Lord,” a shouted voice caught his attention, and Leofric stood, suddenly hopeful and terrified all at the same time. It wasn’t lost on him that at his side, Godwine did the exact same.

  “My Lord,” the voice came again, high and exuberant, and yet the messenger was still not within his hall. Impatiently, Leofric strode from the dais, the space before him clearing quickly of all who might hinder his steps. Godwine trailed in his wake.

  “My Lord, I bring good news, from Lord Hrani,” the messenger and Leofric met in the doorway as the door wardens moved to allow the dusty man inside. He smiled, his lips flashing red from his grimy face, his teeth coated in the muck of the road.

  “My Lord, your son, and your nephews, and Orkning, they live, My Lord. They live.” At the news, hoped for and yet never voiced, Leofric gripped the man’s arms.

  “Truly, tell me, truly. Does Ælfgar live, and Wulfstan and Ælfwine and Orkning? Tell me, tell me all. The rest of my men?”

  Still in the doorway, and with no possibility of going backwards or forward, so many suddenly wanting to hear what he said, the messenger, enjoying bringing such good news, nodded vigorously.

  “By my oath, My Lord. I’ve seen them myself. They’re road weary but well, all of them. Fourteen men in total. Lord Ælfgar led the men into Hereford. My Lord Hrani bid me ride as fast as I could to reach you, to hunt you down wherever you were. I assure you, My Lord, your son lives and is well.”

  Leofric, overcome with emotion, hugged the man, tears of joy streaming down his face.

  “My thanks good sir,” he almost roared in the messenger’s ear, releasing him from the embrace with an apology. “My thanks,” said once more, turning to those assembled in his hall.

  “My wife, my love, our son yet lives,” Leofric shouted. “Lady Elgiva, your husband yet lives and my beloved nephews as well, and Orkning. Orkning is yet alive!”

  His wife watched him in disbelief as he embraced his brother, and then strode to her side, tears of joy streaming down his face.

  “Bring ale and food, and let us celebrate,” Leofric called, turning to Godgifu with delight. She watched him carefully, as though not understanding the words, while at her side, Lady Elgiva, wept great sobbing tears onto the form of her son, clutched tightly in her arms, as he slept, not understanding that he was no longer an orphan.

  “My Love,” when Godgifu still failed to respond, Leofric took to his knee before her, reaching out to grip her cold, lifeless hands.

  “Our son lives. He’s survived.” At those gentle words, a dam broke within his wife, and she sobbed, a great wracking noise that all there heard and were surprised by. Godgifu had never been the most outwardly caring of mother’s. That she loved her son had never been disputed, but her way of showing it had often caused others to raise their eye
brows in surprise and whisper about the boy, pitying him his cold-hearted mother.

  Leofric clutched his wife to him, as he too sobbed, the knowledge that his son and nephews lived, against all the odds, almost too much for him to absorb. And Orkning. Thought lost once in the past, he couldn’t believe that Orkning yet lived.

  His son, his life, his future, all was suddenly restored.

  And yet, his brother was most assuredly dead, and that gave Leofric pause for thought, even as he sobbed with joy.

  Had his brother, his much-loved brother, sacrificed his own life to ensure that Ælfgar and his cousins returned to Mercia?

  It wouldn’t surprise Leofric to know that was the truth of the matter.

  The hall in Worcester, so mournful only moments ago, still rumbled with the good news of Ælfgar’s survival, and Leofric knew that the information would spread far and wide, quickly. How soon it reached the ears of Gruffydd was a matter he worried about briefly, before forgetting all about it.

  Gruffydd had made a firm enemy for himself when he attacked the Mercian men near Welshpool. The king might think this the work of Harthacnut, but Leofric doubted it. Instead, he saw in the attack the chance for Gruffydd to make a name for himself amongst the Welsh. They were always keen for a king who would attack the English, rather than ally with them.

  After a night of celebration, and a hasty messenger dispatched to Hereford to inform Ælfgar of his Uncle’s funeral at Deerhurst, Leofric made his own way to his old family home of Deerhurst.

  His sister, Ealdgyth, knew to expect Leofric, Godgifu, Godwine and Elgiva and another messenger raced along the well-known trackways ahead of Leofric and his escort, to inform her that Ælfgar, Wulfstan and Ælfwine yet lived, as well as Orkning, her brother by marriage. Lady Mildryth would also know that her sons lived when the messenger arrived.

  Godgifu, after her show of emotion in the great hall of Worcester, had remained high-spirited. Leofric was surprised by her total change of demeanour and knew he wasn’t alone in wondering what it meant. Even Lady Elgiva had asked him about it. He’d shaken his head on her question.

  “I don’t know. Let’s enjoy it while it lasts,” he’d suggested, and his son’s young wife had agreed with a joyous smile.

  Lady Elgiva, of them all, had known his brother the least. Lord Eadwine was almost more a name to her than a real person, and for that reason, he excused her when she smiled the entire way to Deerhurst. She would be attending the funeral of a man she’d only met once or twice since her marriage to Ælfgar.

  While Leofric grieved a much-loved brother, Lady Elgiva simply looked forward to being back together with her husband.

  It was within sight of Deerhurst that Leofric was reunited with his son. His household troop, riding fully armed in light of the recent attacks, were vigilant as they journeyed from Worcester to Deerhurst, and the horsemen had long been sighted when the small group finally rode close enough for Leofric to see his son in the flesh.

  Sliding from his horse, no matter that the animal still moved, Leofric rushed to Godgifu’s side so that she too could greet her son, returned from the dead. Lady Elgiva also stumbled from her horse, almost dropping her small son in the excitement.

  It was Godgifu who reached her son first. Her beautiful dresses, so carefully chosen by her that morning, were disregarded as she rushed through a deep muddy puddle to Ælfgar’s side. Leofric watched in amusement as Ælfgar was enveloped by his slight mother, the two extremes making him wonder how such a small woman could birth such a giant of a man. Yet, he couldn’t hold back for long, rushing to embrace his nephews and his son, Orkning and their fellow riders, all at the same time.

  In the rush of the reuniting, none mentioned Lord Eadwine, and Leofric was pleased. There was more than enough time to grieve his brother.

  “Uncle Leofric,” Wulfstan exulted. “It’s good to see you,” he exclaimed, and Leofric nodded, his throat momentarily too tight for words.

  “Uncle,” Ælfwine also called the two brothers, so identical in looks as well as nature, turning to him with laughter lines on their faces.

  “We got lost,” Wulfstan exclaimed.

  “Repeatedly,” Ælfwine added with a hiccup of apology.

  “Your son doesn’t know east from west,” Ælfwine quipped again, tears pouring down his face.

  “It’s good to see you. It’s a miracle, a true gift,” Leofric cried. Godgifu had already spoken to him of how they must pay for the return of their son, and Leofric had agreed with all of her plans, no matter the cost to him of the churches she wished to endow.

  “He never paid enough attention to his lessons,” Leofric joked with his nephews, crying as he did so and then Orkning was embracing him.

  “You must stop doing this,” Leofric laughed, tears covering his cheeks, as Orkning and he gripped each other tightly.

  “You should know you can’t rid of me that easily,” Orkning tried to joke, but there was sorrow laced in his voice.

  “I’ll keep trying, all the same,” Leofric retorted, trying to erase the melancholy.

  “And your nephews are correct, Ælfgar has no concept of east or west. I’ve never met a man with a worse sense of direction.”

  Ælfgar, surrounded by his mother, wife, and son, had no opportunity to respond, as the four men laughed at his expense.

  Leofric rushed then, to greet the rest of his men, and welcome them back to Mercia. The messenger from Hereford hadn’t known the names of the survivors, and it was a relief to see so many faces he knew well. These men had all ridden with his son, been members of his household troop, and Leofric, while mourning all those who’d lost their lives, was relieved to see them even so. Eadsige, Godwulf and Winhus would take time to recover, but their eyes shone with the joy of being alive and being reunited with their lord and other comrades.

  Only then, when the men were being reunited with their own friends and allies, was Leofric able to get anywhere near Ælfgar.

  “Father,” his son called to him, striding from the embrace of his mother and wife, although he dangled his son in his arms, the young boy gurgling with delight.

  “Father,” Ælfgar said once more, standing before him. “I’m sorry for the worry,” he said, “for Uncle Eadwine.”

  “He made you swear an oath, didn’t he?” Leofric demanded, overjoyed to see his son, and wanting to understand all at the same time.

  “Yes, the bastard. He made us all swear. He. I. I’m sorry father, it was a well-planned attack by the Welsh.” Leofric heard the rage in his son’s voice, at both the Welsh and at Eadwine.

  For a moment, Leofric felt his throat tighten once more. Before him he saw not a man, but rather his small son, a child no less, apologising for something he had no control over.

  “Your Uncle secured the future of our House. He would have done the same if I’d been with him. He was ever conscious that our father’s name must continue.” Still, his son’s face held regret, and Leofric took the four steps that separated them in a single bound and threw his arms around his son and grandson once more.

  “We’ll mourn your Uncle,” he breathed into his son’s neck. “But first, we’ll celebrate your survival, and then we’ll take our revenge.”

  Chapter Twenty

  AD1039 Deerhurst Ælfgar

  Ælfgar shuddered before the altar in Deerhurst.

  His Uncle’s coffin had made the journey before the rest of the family had arrived. He’d not gaze upon his Uncle’s face again. No, the coffin had been sealed, but he’d heard of the terrible deed inflicted upon Eadwine’s corpse. No man should suffer such a fate, especially not when dead.

  The church of Deerhurst Abbey held many memories for Ælfgar, few of them as sombre as this occasion, but yet, his grandfather and grandmother were buried here, his Uncle Northman, whom he’d never met, as well. The ghosts of the House of Leofwine stalked the holy place, and Ælfgar could feel it, in the prickling of the small hairs on the back of his neck.

  In his arms, he cradled
his young son, unaware of what was happening around him, and yet included to witness the burial all the same.

  His wife still wept whenever she glanced at him, and Ælfgar echoed her sentiment of disbelieve at his survival. How easily it could have been him who lay in the coffin before them all. If not for some fast thinking, and his Uncle’s command that he must fight at the rear of their force, there might be four coffins before the high altar, not the single one.

  Lady Mildryth, the mother of Wulfstan and Ælfwine, watched her sons with hooded eyes. She’d been deprived of their father on the orders of a king. Northman lay in eternal rest close to his mother and father. Ælfgar had always thought her a strong person, capable of facing all the harsh realities that life could inflict upon a woman. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that had Wulfstan or Ælfwine lost their lives, or indeed if both of them had, Lady Mildryth would have succumbed to the sadness that haunted her even now.

  Neither was Mildryth alone in being thankful during the funeral ceremony. Olaf had been reunited with his brother Orkning, in a display as touching as that between Leofric and Orkning. They’d been friends and allies, relatives as well, for many, many years.

  Around the feet of all within the church, the hounds of Mercia also expressed their own sorrows. Ælfgar wondered if any other church allowed hounds so much leeway, but their behaviour, as ever, was impeccable. Since Ealdorman Leofwine had first made use of a hound’s eyes in place of his own, the animals had been synonymous with the House of Leofwine and would continue to be so.

  The words of the Abbot brought some comfort to Ælfgar. Whatever terrible death had befallen his Uncle, he’d died doing what he’d lived his life doing; protecting Mercia and more specifically, the future of the House of Leofwine.