The Earl's King

by M J Porter

  “Me too,” Elgiva smiled softly.

  “A storm and a birth,” Godgifu beamed at her daughter. “What else could this day bring?” Ælfgar held his tongue. He didn’t want to upset the good humour by informing them of Eilifr’s death. That could come later, when his swell of joy had dimmed enough for him to sorrow for the Danish lord. Only then would he consider his foster-brother’s next move.

  Only then would he worry that he’d be passed over for the now vacant earldom.

  His foster-brother was not likely to reward the House of Leofwine. Not now that there were two sons for the new generation, and not while his father defied the king.

  The end of the storm, at some point during the night, meant that Ælfgar woke from his slumber even more disorientated than he might have been. No sound permeated the hall, nothing but the snores of exhausted bodies, his wife and sons together. Gingerly, he stepped from his bed, cursing as he tripped over one of the guard hounds, making his way into the main room of the hall.

  Even here no one yet stirred.

  Hesitantly, he reached for his boots, and a cloak, and removed the reinforced barricade from the door. The wind of the last two days had been terrible. He almost feared to look outside but knew he must.

  With a screech of raging wood that made Ælfgar wince, he gingerly opened the door, peering to the side and above to check that nothing was about to fall on him. Convinced he was safe, at least in the entranceway, he pulled the door shut after him, but not before three of the hounds joined him.

  They, like him, seemed to sense that they were peering out on a new world. Whereas they would typically run free, keen to be about their early morning business, they lingered at his side, ears down and soft whines coming from them.

  Ælfgar could understand why.

  The sun shone brightly, huge in a pale blue sky, with a few puffy white clouds. Of the grey, angry sky of the great gale of the last two days and night, there was no sign. None at all.

  Looking upwards was fine, but when he stepped from the entranceway and looked at ground level, the destruction was evident to see.

  Nothing that hadn’t been tied down, and much else besides, had been uprooted and strewn wherever the storm had chosen to discard it.

  A stray piece of linen was wedged under a fallen branch, a wooden cart had been upended and smashed onto the hard ground so that three of the wheels hung off it at odd angles, and one was simply missing altogether.

  Ælfgar strode out into the yard of his family’s home in Oxford braced for more and worse.

  The small dwelling he’d spent his wedding night within still stood, but half of the roof had caved in, and a small puff of grey smoke rose into the sky. Quickly, he made his way to the building.

  “Hello,” he called. “Is there anyone inside?”

  He listened carefully, and one of the hounds sniffed delicately and made a small circle of the building before returning to his side. He rubbed the animal’s snout.

  “No, no one inside? Good,” he muttered, before turning to the next structure.

  The stables, a sturdy construction, seemed to stand unscathed, apart from a large branch that had become tangled in the wooden struts to the left-hand side. Ælfgar walked to it and gave it a gentle nudge, but the branch was stuck firm.

  “It’ll have to be sawn away,” he spoke out loud, and then walked into the stables.

  All of the horses had been rushed inside when the storm had begun. Now they watched him with fear-crazed eyes, more than one kicking angrily at closed stable doors. He understood their unease, as he walked down the aisle, speaking to each animal as he went, running his eyes over the animals to check for injuries and to ensure the building was still sound.

  Outside once more, he moved to clear the wicker fence that blocked the pathway to the gate around the property, noticing as he did so that much of the small fence was missing. It had been picked up and tossed around by the wind and now lay discarded and mingled with other detritus.

  Discarded bowls and wooden cups appeared amongst the wreckage of the wicker, and Ælfgar picked one up, distractedly turning the cup in his hand. It was a domestic item, and he knew it was a terrible sign.

  Peering up and down the roadway, he was struck by how quiet it was. No one was about their business yet that day, as he gazed down the roadway toward Oxford. He needed to go into Oxford itself, see the damage there. He doubted all dwellings still stood, and no doubt, Eilifr wouldn't be the only fatality.

  The reminder of Eilifr’s death gave Ælfgar pause for thought.

  In the rage of the storm and the birth of his son, he’s given only a brief thought to the future. But Eilifr was dead, his father and the king estranged. That meant that Harald wouldn’t bequeath the earldom to Ælfgar. He knew it without even considering it as a real possibility. Who then would Harald reward?

  Ælfgar’s face curdled at the thought. Surely not bloody Sweyn Godwinesson. The man was a fool and an idiot, and no matter what Godwine might think, he was uncontrollable.

  But would the king be so foolish? Earl Godwine might support him now in his desire to war against Harthacnut, but of all the earls, Godwine had been the last to turn his loyalty toward Harald. And Harald had repaid that by refusing to advance any of his sons. Would Harald be fool enough to reverse that decision now? Ælfgar, for all that he thought little of his foster-brother’s kingly skills, still doubted that Harald would be so naive as to consider it a good idea.

  A cry from inside the hall at his back, had Ælfgar turning, ready to return inside, but then a woman’s voice shushed the fractious baby, and Ælfgar relaxed once more.

  He wasn’t needed inside. Not yet. His time would come when his sons were older. For now, his role was as their protector.

  “My Lord,” a voice disturbed him, and Ælfgar squinted into the bright sunshine, seeing only shadows.

  “Yes?” he called, walking forward to see who spoke to him.

  “Ah, you survived?” the stranger said, with a smile, and Ælfgar nodded.

  “How fares Oxford itself?” he asked, it was evident the man had been sent to ensure all was well.

  “Battered and bruised,” the bearded stranger offered. “But recoverable. All are safe, although the Reeve’s sheep have escaped from their field and meander through the roadway.” The man spoke with a smile.

  “Is anything needed?” Ælfgar asked. He could hear more and more activity in his own household but was also keen to learn about the people of Oxford.

  “Just a lot of time to clear the mess,” the stranger continued.

  “What’s your name? I don’t think I know you.”

  “No, My Lord, I’m new to Oxford, the Reeve has employed me within his household to assist him with the king’s business. My name is Coenred.”

  “Well met." Ælfgar gripped the man’s forearm firmly with his own hand.

  “A bloody mess,” Ælfgar grumbled. “But take two messages to the Reeve. Tell him my household is now expanded, my son born in the heart of the storm.” Coenred smiled at the news.

  “And also, sadness. A messenger arrived last night to inform that Earl Eilifr has been killed in the storm.” Coenred stood straighter at that information.

  “Have you sent word to the king?”

  “No, the man yet sleeps.”

  “I’ll inform the Reeve and make arrangements for the king to be notified.” Unspoken was the explicit knowledge that the king was currently estranged from the House of Leofwine.

  “My thanks, and also, inform the Reeve that I will assist all I can if a lack of anything is found. I’ll have my own dwellings repaired as soon as possible, but if there is any urgency elsewhere, send for me.” Coenred bowed smartly at the instructions, his smart clothing a jarring juxtaposition to the destruction of the storm.

  “My Lord,” he turned away, and Ælfgar turned away from him immediately. He needed to decide on the priorities for his servants, and, after Coenred’s news about the sheep escaping, he thought his own animal
s should be checked. His initial priority had been the horses, but he must think more long-term.

  At his heels, one of the hounds lingered, the other two having finally run off, barking loudly, uncaring of the quiet after the storm. Only then their barks intensified, and Ælfgar cursed, rushing to grab the hound at his heels.

  It seemed the sheep had probably made a break for freedom.

  Annoyed for not considering it, Ælfgar guided the hound by its collar to the stables, and secured it inside their enclosure, empty until he arrived.

  “Bloody sheep,” he cursed, cuffing the head of his hound, before turning to begin the laborious jobs of the day. He might well be Lord Ælfgar, son of the Earl of Mercia, but today he would spend his time as a shepherd, and God alone knew where the daft sheep had buggered off to.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Late AD1039 London Leofric

  Harald eyed him sullenly, and Leofric met his gaze, head-on. His foster-son might be subdued, but Leofric was still too furious to countenance any civility with the boy. For that was all he was. At least in Leofric’s eyes. A scared boy who refused to take the good advice he was offered.

  Even a summer riding the Welsh borders had failed to quench Leofric’s wrath. His brother was still dead, no matter the king’s complaints about his own half-brother. In fact, if anything, the death of another of Leofric’s brothers had made the argument between the two brother kings appear petty and ridiculous.

  What a waste?

  Again, this was no Witan, but rather a summoning of the king’s earls so that he could berate them, no doubt, for failing to follow his wishes concerning Harthacnut.

  Beside him, his son sat immobile as stone. Leofric envied his son such serenity before the king. He’d sought to find it but had failed. Utterly, and the smug expression on Earl Godwine’s face was making Leofric’s skin crawl.

  He knew he shouldn’t have come. Ælfgar could have acted on his behalf, and then he’d not have been forced to witness Harald make yet another idiotic misstep in his governance of England.

  “My Lords,” Harald spoke softly, again trying to inveigle himself with the earls. They might be minus one of their number following Eilifr’s unfortunate death in the Great Gale, as it was widely known, but that king was still heavily outnumbered amongst his earls. Hrani and himself, and also Siward, fresh from yet another victory against King Donnchaid Mac Crinain near Durham, were not prepared to countenance a reinforcement of Wessex against an imaginary invasion from Harthacnut. Only Earl Godwine stood for the king.

  Such a bizarre reversal of fortune that Leofric knew if he honestly considered what had happened, he would never believe it.

  Even if Harald now made Sweyn Godwinesson an earl as well, of Eilifr’s earldom, the king would still not have the support he needed to arm Wessex.

  “An eventful summer,” Harald tried to joke, but only stoney faces greeted him.

  “There have been great successes,” Harald tried once more, perhaps hoping Siward would mellow toward him. “And some great losses as well.” The king flicked his gaze over Leofric as he spoke. Leofric seethed. This was the first time the king had even made mention of his brother’s death. “And then there was the Great Gale that brought great destruction, and in which we lost Earl Eilifr. I’m sure we all grieve for him.” The lack of compassion in King Harald’s voice was maddening.

  “But, we must put the Summer behind us, and turn our attention to the future,” the instant dismissal of two such important men in Mercia, not to mention Lord Eadwine’s allies who’d also lost their lives at Welshpool, found Leofric tensing to stand. Only his son’s restraining hand on his arm prevented the movement as Leofric tried to ease his tight breathing. Harald, whether aware of the impact of his words or not, continued, looking at any but Leofric.

  “I’ve received reports, many, many reports, that the truce between Harthacnut and King Magnus holds, and that even now Harthacnut is making it known he’ll invade England next year.”

  Leofric had heard the same. There was little else that people spoke about in the markets. The Great Gale had been and gone, but most now looked to the North for the next storm.

  “England must prepare for what will happen when the weather clears,” Harald spoke the truth, and yet Leofric found himself almost past caring. He’d done what Cnut had demanded of him. The fallout from that was surely not his responsibility to contain as well.

  “I would call a full Witan to discuss the future, but the season is late, and the mild summer has given way to a harsh winter.” Again, Harald spoke with some sincerity, but Leofric could hardly listen to him without hearing condescension.

  “The replacement of Earl Eilifr is a matter that I’ve given much thought to. I’m aware that there might be certain …expectations,” Harald smiled as he said that, and Leofric growled under his breath. Bloody Earl Godwine. And why did the king have to enjoy this moment so bloody much?

  “But, for the sake of England’s prosperity, I’ve asked Thuri to become the earl of Eilifr’s earldom.” As Harald spoke, a man Leofric knew well bowed his way into their presence, as Earl Godwine jumped to his feet.

  “My Lord King,” Godwine demanded, the older earl’s face filled with fury that caused Leofric to laugh for the first time since his newest grandson’s birth. Harald might well be a bastard, but it seemed he still had the ability to surprise the self-righteous Earl Godwine.

  “Earl Thuri, a Dane by birth, is well known in Eilifr’s earldom. He’ll provide the continuity needed at this difficult time.” That Thuri also had a reputation as a warrior wasn’t lost on Leofric, and still, he laughed, despite his son trying to caution him.

  Leofric had come before the king expecting demands for apologies, taxes for the coming battle, and to find a satellite of Earl Godwine plonked in Mercia. Now it seemed there was much more at play.

  “Sit down Earl Godwine,” Harald snapped at the earl, and amazingly, Godwine obeyed as though compelled to by some other force.

  “Earl Thuri is in agreement, as am I, that a new tax will enable the coastline to be reinforced against Harthacnut’s intentions.”

  “Why will you not just broker peace with him?” It was Ælfgar who spoke. His voice pleasant, no criticism implied, just mild curiosity.

  Harald eyed his foster-brother consideringly.

  “While my earls and lords have been busy throughout the summer months, with their own affairs,” somehow Harald managed to keep the rebuke from his voice. “I’ve made an attempt to open a dialogue with king Harthacnut of Denmark, via the auspices of my Aunt, Estrid.” The knowledge shocked and surprised Leofric, once more raising his dismal impression of his foster-son.

  “My half-brother will not make another treaty. Harthacnut has a wounded pride, so much so, even my cousins have been forced from Denmark. Svein Estridsson has taken his skills to Germany, whereas Beorn has made his way to Normandy. There’ll be no peace, despite my Aunt’s intervention.”

  This then was something that Leofric found he could respect. At last. Finally, Harald was acting as a king, even if Harthacnut was not.

  “Is there any idea of the size of the force?” Ælfgar asked quickly. Leofric felt that of everyone in attendance upon the king, they could all have walked away and just left Ælfgar and Harald to determine the future. It seemed they might be the only two capable of reasoned thought at that time. Godwine still glowered, and Leofric found himself buoyed by Godwine’s failure. He could hardly think straight.

  “No, Lady Estrid, of course, couldn’t tell me, or perhaps doesn’t know. The instruction is a new one, sent so that men can prepare themselves in the Trelleborg forts, come the better weather.”

  “The English will not appreciate being invaded by a Danish king,” Ælfgar still mused, and Leofric left his son to it. He was asking all the right questions and without any derision. He was taking Harald seriously, and the king was responding well to him. Leofric only hoped that Hrani and Siward didn’t intervene. Not when such advances we
re being made.

  “Harthacnut means to ally with his mother, and launch an invasion from Bruges.”

  “And Baldwin will countenance this?”

  It was an ideal question. Why would Bruges care about the relationship between Denmark and England?

  “There’s talk of a wedding alliance, and vast sums of coin changing hands.”

  “So Bruges has been bought, no doubt by Lady Emma on her son’s behalf. Certainly, Harthacnut has never shown any interest in the nation before.” Ælfgar mused, and Leofric listened, almost fearing to break the spell by breathing.

  “No, well, my father’s wife is an ingenious woman, a survivor.”

  None thought to deny the king his statement. It was, quite simply, true.

  “Then England must prepare,” Ælfgar replied, glancing swiftly at his father as he spoke. He didn’t look for agreement, but rather to ensure he was right to speak for Mercia.

  “Yes, it must. A geld, collected over the Winter, and of course, men made ready to arm the coast, in Wessex, from, say Easter next year onwards.”

  “And to the North and West?” Ælfgar prompted, and again Leofric admired his skill.

  “I give permission for the borderlands to be guarded. I understand from Earl Siward that Donnchaid Mac Crinain’s defeat in Durham has put his entire kingship in doubt. Another threatens him, and I believe they will keep Donnchaid’s gaze firmly away from the border. And in the Welsh kingdoms, Earl Hrani informs me, Gruffydd is hampered, temporarily or not, in his aspirations by problems within Gwynedd itself.”

  “So you no longer believe the attacks on Northumbria and Mercia were coordinated by Harthacnut?” Again, only Ælfgar could have asked the question, in the right way, so that it didn’t sound like an accusation.

  “No, Harthacnut has been too busy with his Accord with Magnus, and with his mother, to consider something quite as devious. I believe it was merely a strange coincidence.” If Harald was galled to speak as he did, Leofric saw no sign of it, and yet there was no apology.