by M J Porter
Yet, he was determined to carry on. A messenger had brought news of a sighting of Gruffydd near to the ancient dyke, and Leofric was determined to catch sight of the man responsible for his brother’s death, and also, for the current state of disharmony that ran throughout England.
Beside him, Orkning, and thirty members of his household troop trailed in his wake. None complained about the wind, but it was a menace. Any man in his right mind would have turned back, but Leofric wasn’t in his right mind, he knew that. Neither were his men.
Up and down the border, he and earls Hrani and Eilifr were countering the threat posed by Gruffydd. Despite the king’s wishes, the earls had all elected to travel to where they thought they could do the most good, and where the threat was the greatest.
While the wind blew, men and women, hunched indoors, spoke of their fears, allowing them to multiply and manifest, and Leofric quite understood.
To the North, Earl Siward and his father by marriage, the self-styled Earl of Bamburgh, patrolled the border with the Scots, Siward sure that his previous victory would only excite the Scots to take their revenge, just as the Mercian earls tried to do against the Welsh.
Leofric was grim-faced but determined. His brother had been mutilated in death, and his king cared nothing for it. Foster-son or not, Leofric’s own family came first, in this. Always.
“My Lord,” Orkning, his hair blowing wildly in the wind, pointed onwards. “The dyke, I can see it.”
Rising in front of them, Leofric saw the ancient dyke, the traditional meeting place of the Earls of Mercia and their erstwhile Welsh allies, or enemies.
Squinting, Leofric peered into the sullen day. Grey clouds, heavy with rain, scudded too quickly across the gloomy sky. Leofric knew it was no day for an attack, but if he could catch Gruffydd unawares, he’d take any risks he needed to. His men agreed, and that was why they acted as they would on any typical day, fanning out to hunt for signs of the enemy, while guarding to the front and the rear, as well. They’d not be caught unawares.
Messengers had ridden to him every day for the last two weeks from the king. Leofric had ignored each and every one of them. The king’s priorities were no longer his own.
Leofric spared a moment of remorse for his son. In Oxford to recover from his ordeal, it would be Ælfgar who bore the brunt of the king’s fury, and yet Leofric doubted his son felt any rage toward his father at such a tactic. Instead, he just wished that he too had been allowed to ride out to face Gruffydd. But of all who’d returned from the dead, only Orkning had been allowed to join this new expedition.
Orkning, a man of few words, wouldn’t allow his emotions to cloud his judgement, no matter his fond regard for Lord Eadwine.
So Leofric rode, his remaining brother with him, Godwine, with a face like fury. None there had anything but avenging Lord Eadwine on their minds. None.
“My Lord,” Orkning, despite his family ties insisted on using Leofric’s title. Leofric squinted at his man.
“Yes,” Leofric almost had to shout to have his words heard above the roar of the wind.
“This isn’t safe,” Orkning cautioned, but at the same time, he pointed into the distance, just inside the Welsh border. What had caught Orkning’s eye was a thin stream of smoke, being blown fiercely into the grey sky, so fast it was almost impossible to tell.
Tracking the smoke to its source, Leofric understood why Orkning had both pointed it out and advised that it wasn’t a wise choice for him to have made.
In the near distance, a swathe of trees covered the landscape, rocking vigorously in the wind, as one. The sight reminded Leofric of a storm at sea, with the waves foaming before the ship.
“No doubt Gruffydd’s men,” Leofric called, as Orkning nodded.
“They won’t be expecting us,” Godwine shouted, also having seen the tendril of smoke.
“Not in this weather,” Leofric roared back at him. By now, all of the men had seen what Orkning’s eyes had first picked out. They looked to Leofric for instructions.
“Four men remain here, to aid a retreat if it proves necessary, ten men to close in, with Orkning and I. Godwine, you take the rest of the men and circle from behind.”
Leofric had to shout his instructions, the roar of the wind too rough for any but those closest to him to hear. Instead, men passed the message on one to another, while Leofric ordered his men with flicks of his fingers. No one complained, even when, with a mighty howl, a colossal branch ripped free from one of the trees and rushed toward them.
They scattered, some with a sharp slap to the rears of their animals, and some with barely time to spare.
“Fuck,” Leofric spat, his heart racing with the speed of the wind. Yet, that didn’t deter him. With sharp hand movements, he sent his men on their way. Godwine leads those he commanded quickly into the trees, the horses being led by his men as they picked their way through the tree roots, and falling branches.
Leofric lingered, wanting to give his brother time to get into position, and knowing that it would be impossible to send him any signal to ensure the time was right. Instead, turning his horse into the wind, he made his way to the deep dyke, and there settled in the relative safety of the deep cut in the land, as though a giant had sliced through with a dull blade.
Grasses grew over what had once been a deep line with a built-up ridge on the Welsh side, but still, the locals maintained the dyke as best they could. It seemed like very little, and yet in the minds of both the English and the Welsh of Powys and Gwynedd, this was where one kingdom ended and another began, as it had in the ancient times of Mercia.
Leofric allowed his eyes to close, and his thoughts to clear, as he waited. Fury had guided too many of his steps of late, rage and grief. His wife was wrathful toward him because of Lady Ælfgifu’s attitude toward her following Leofric’s refusal to enact Harald’s wishes, but Leofric cared not at all. His wife needed to understand that there was more to an alliance than always doing what the other person wanted. Lady Ælfgifu, like her youngest son, and indeed, her husband before that, simply took and never gave anything in return.
Vengeance for his brother’s death guided Leofric now.
A tap on the arm and Leofric was instantly alert.
“It’s time,” Orkning calculated, and Leofric felt his heart race. He’d not felt so alive since news of the attack at Welshpool had reached him.
The four men tasked with keeping to the English side of the dyke, watched with sullen, if understanding eyes, as Leofric, Orkning and the remainder of the men, made last checks and ensured they had all they needed. Their horses would remain in the dyke, shielded as much as they could be from the monstrous storm.
With swift eyes, Leofric appraised his men. They were well armed. Whatever happened next, none would say that their commended lord had stinted on their weapons and training. Now it came down only to skill and to just what they found hidden in the tree line.
Given the go-ahead to rise from the dyke by those who watched it, Leofric nodded his thanks and set off at as quick a pace as it was possible to achieve under the assault of the wind. He held himself low to the ground, instead of straight, relying on the fact that none would be anticipating an attack in such conditions, rather than any assurance that he’d not be struck down.
Yet, he and his fellow warriors made it to the tree line, seeking shelter from the billowing wind, without incident. Here, the swaying of the trees took on the sound of iron on linden wood, and Leofric hoped that was a good sign.
The gloom of the day permeated quickly into the tree line so that in only a handful of steps, he could see no more than five steps in front of him. But Leofric didn’t need to look for he could smell the smoke.
Using hand signals, he directed Orkning and the rest of the men, so that they spread out in a rough semi-circle as they moved through the woods. The moaning sound of the wind was punctuated with the crack of broken branches, and more than once, Leofric had to leap clear of a rapidly descending tree limb.
<
br /> It kept him alert until he finally saw the source of the smoke.
A fire, built amongst the relative safety of the trees, cast an orange glow over a group of no more than twenty men. They huddled in small groups, their horses tethered behind them, as they sat out the storm.
The smell of cooking pottage assault Leofric’s nostrils, as he caught a glimpse of movement behind the horses. Peering closer at the men, he looked for any sign that they were Mercian, but no tell-tale banners were showing the sigils of any of the Mercian lords. Instead, Leofric listened, hoping to catch a word or two that the men shouted, one from the other.
It was hard, with the sound of the storm above their heads, but he was patient. Being within the trees, while not precisely wise, was better than being on the exposed land under cultivation and in easy sight of the enemy.
Stepping ever closer, Leofric searched with his eyes and his ears, finally coming to rest on the pile of shields close to the horses. Oblong shapes were staked into the ground, and Leofric knew then that he faced the Welsh, not the Mercians, and certainly not the Danes, who all favoured round shields.
With satisfaction, Leofric caught Orkning’s eye, his hand outstretched before him so that all knew to attack. With coordination that surprised him, given the gloom, Leofric surged forward, followed by all of his men. Flashes of iron caught his eye, as he focused on a man standing close to the fire with his hands outstretched trying to snatch some warmth.
Swathed in a cloak, Leofric didn’t know if the man wore his byrnie or not, but the element of surprise should be all that was needed.
As the storm once more surged through the swaying trees, Leofric struck the unsuspecting man with the force of his charge, so that the man tumbled to the ground, a surprised expression on his face.
Not wishing to kill the man immediately, Leofric stood over him, his seax threatening, as he searched the man for weapons of his own. Panic and confusion were quickly replaced by understanding and rage on the face of his enemy.
“Who are you?” Leofric seethed.
“Why are you in Powys, Lord Leofric?” the man countered. Around them, battles were being fought amongst all the other men, but for now, Leofric’s men yet lived.
“I come seeking my enemy. Who are you?”
The man, held on his back by the menace of Leofric’s weapons, and the strangled cries of those around him falling to their fates, spat sharply to the side.
“I think you know, Lord Leofric. King Gruffydd has set his traps, and now you’ve sprung them.”
“Is Gruffydd here?” Leofric demanded to know, wanting to caution his men, but fearing to look away from the enemy.
“Why would a king be sheltering in a forest?” the man spoke with contempt, but Leofric was unconvinced. Having swept the man with a quick gaze, he now appreciated the quality of his clothes, and weapons, that lay out of reach to either side of him.
“Who are you?” Leofric demanded once more, bending to hold his seax closer to the exposed neck of his captive.
“Not who you want me to be, but I’ll die for my king if I must. It is, after all, the honourable thing to do.”
Leofric kicked the man, disgusted to find him so determined to gloat, despite his dire predicament. Even now, the enemy, those who still lived, were being shepherded into a tight group and stripped of all their assets.
“My Lord,” it was Orkning who spoke, a streak of blood on his helm. “I’ve found a man more willing to converse than your fellow there.”
Leofric licked his lips, nodding at Orkning’s words. It felt wrong to kill a man who was weaponless, and yet his exulting was almost too much to bear.
“Tie him up,” Leofric commanded, reversing his seax so that he struck the exposed nose of his enemy with it, rather than with the sharpened blade. A welter of blood erupted, as the man’s eyes crossed and he slumped into the exposed earth.
Sweat trickled down Leofric’s face, from the sudden warmth of the fire, as he turned to examine the man that his brother hovered close to. This man too was well dressed, his shining leather boots speaking of the labour of slaves, and not a fighting man.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice menacing as he stepped close enough to the defenceless man to smell his breath.
No matter his fine clothes, this man had none of the contempt of his first captive.
“My name is Rhodri, I’m sworn to Gruffydd ap Llewelyn.”
“And where is King Gruffydd?”
“Further South.”
The news wasn’t what Leofric hoped to hear.
“Bastard,” he cursed. And then he changed tack.
“Were you in Welshpool?” Leofric asked the question because the cloak the man wore was abruptly vividly familiar to him.
“I fought with my king, yes.” The man was suddenly filled with pride.
“And did you kill the Mercians?”
“I killed three. And took my share of the spoils.”
As he spoke, the enemy shrugged his shoulders, as though trying to draw attention to his cloak. Leofric tasted bile, as his seax shot across the man’s neck, blood spurting to cover his face.
Angry and deflated, Leofric turned to Orkning.
“Kill them all,” he bellowed. “Kill every last mother fucker one of them.”
It might not bring his brother back, ever, but at least there’d be fewer Welsh to fight when he finally caught up with bloody King Gruffydd.
Chapter Twenty-Three
AD1039 Oxford Ælfgar
Ælfgar winced as yet another shriek of crashing timbers reached his ears.
Outside the wind moaned and groaned, and inside the hall of his childhood, his wife moaned alongside it. It was no time to birth a child, not in the middle of such a ferocious storm, but it seemed that Elgiva was being left with little choice.
Somehow, the birthing woman had been brought to the hall, despite the terrible winds and the destruction being wrought on Oxford. She and his mother were huddled within the room to the far end of the hall. He’d not been barred from entering, but rather, Burgheard had been thrust into his hands, and his older child required all of his attention.
The boy didn’t like the wind, and every time he nodded off to sleep, he woke with a raucous shriek that only stopped when his father held him tight to his chest, while two of the House of Leofwine hounds, sat one to either side of him. Ælfgar was sick of their meaty breath, but thankful that between the three of them, they could almost calm his son.
The door was tightly bared to the outside world, but despite that, he could hear a persistent banging and looked angrily toward it.
“Open the door for whoever the fool outside is,” he issued the instruction tersely. He’d made it clear the door wasn’t to be opened, and now he’d been forced back on his word. It made his temper even sharper.
With a strange sucking sound, the door was forced open into the howling wind, and a fraught character stepped inside. His door warden was ready, a blade in his hand, to determine if the man were an enemy or not. The horrified screech of the stranger could be heard over the wind.
“From Earl Eilifr,” the man bellowed, throwing back his hood so that his face could be seen.
“Aye, so you are,” Eadsige countered, lowering his blade.
Perplexed, Ælfgar stood, his son in his arms, and made his way to the man. Somehow Burgheard slumbered in his arms, but Ælfgar wasn’t prepared to hand him to the woman who nursed him although she hesitantly offered. He knew his son would wake immediately if they attempted such a manoeuvre.
“What news?” he asked the messenger.
“Earl Eilifr is dead,” the man offered without preamble, still shaking from his less than welcoming admission to the hall.
“What?” of anything the man could have said, Ælfgar hadn’t been expecting that.
“Killed by the storm. I’m to inform the king, but I’ve lost my way in the middle of the storm. I can’t see anything, and I’m only pleased I arrived in Oxford when I did. My h
orse is half dead.”
Ælfgar indicated to his servant that the man should be offered food and ale.
“What happened?” he asked. He was still trying to process the news.
“His hall collapsed, or rather, the one end of it did. He was trapped beneath the wooden struts and then a fire spread. There was nothing anyone could do.”
Ælfgar hissed softly through his teeth. It was no way for a man to die.
“By the Gods,” he cursed, resorting to a favourite of Orkning’s. “The poor bastard.”
“Aye, My Lord. None would want to die in the firey reaches of such an inferno.”
“My Lord,” another voice called to him, and he turned to meet the jubilant gaze of his mother.
“A son, Eadwine,” in her arms she cradled his new son, as Ælfgar looked at her in surprise.
“So soon?”
“Aye, son, so soon. Elgiva is well. Go and see.” Such joy covered his mother’s face, that for the moment he forgot all about Eilifr’s death, stumbling after his mother as she led him back to Elgiva.
Even over the shrieks of the wood and the clattering of miscellaneous objects hitting the hall’s walls, he could hear his wife’s laughter, and his heart warmed.
Entering the private space of the room, he found Elgiva’s smiling face.
“My Lord,” she said, laughter on her face. “Well, he was an altogether different proposition to your first son.”
“Eadwine?” he asked, choking a little as he spoke. Only then did the laughter lines on his wife’s face drop.
“Who else could he be named for?” she asked, worry on her sweating face.
“No one,” Ælfgar agreed, scooping his new baby into his arms, so that held both Burgheard and Eadwine tight, as he gently settled on the bed beside his wife. Ælfgar reached down to kiss the soft forehead of his new son, and then turned to Elgiva, and mirrored the movement.
“I hope he doesn’t prove to be as much of a handful as this damn storm,” Lady Godgifu complained, wincing at the crash of some other heavy objects hitting the ground outside.
