by M J Porter
“Then I give my assent to the geld,” finally Leofric spoke, his words overly loud. He was a long way from forgiving his foster-son, but if Harald was prepared to half admit to being wrong, then Leofric could acknowledge that he too had underestimated Harthacnut’s ambitions.
“And mine,” Earl Siward spoke quickly.
“And mine,” Earl Thuri agreed as well, his voice thick with a Danish accent, for all he understood English without problems.
“And I,” Earl Hrani, said, reluctance clear to hear, but an agreement all the same.
Now all eyes turned to Earl Godwine, and it seemed to be his turn to look mutinous.
“You will have these men, whom you barely trust, send their warriors to Wessex? What assurance do I have that they shan’t overrun my own earldom? What assurance that they will act only on their own earl's instructions and not those of you, the king?”
Leofric suppressed his smirk of amusement. All this time Earl Godwine had been encouraging the king to take just such an action, and now it seemed he was as unsure of his own future, as any of the rest of them.
“My Lord Godwine,” Harald’s tone was coated with honey. “These actions will secure the English kingdom against any further incursions by the Danish king. It will ensure England’s independence from being corralled into wars with the Northern kingdoms which are none of our concern.”
“And so you dismiss your father’s legacy so quickly?” At Leofric’s side, Ælfgar hissed through his teeth. It was never a good decision to remind Harald of his father.
“I believe my father acted to disband his own Empire, before his death. England is mine. Denmark is Harthacnut’s. Norway is independent, and so too is Skåne. There’s no Empire anymore. Unless, of course, you know something that I’m not privy to?” The slight was intentional, the threat clear for all to hear.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the tapping of the king’s finger against the wooden table. Tap, tap, his finger went. Tap, tap, tap, and still Earl Godwine held his tongue.
“Then, My Lord King, you have my agreement.” Earl Godwine announced, standing as soon as his announcement was made, and striding from the room. Harald watched him go with a wry chuckle on his face.
Leofric stood as well, keen to greet Earl Thuri, but Harald raised his eyebrows at him, beckoning him closer.
As Leofric dipped his head to meet the king’s, fury abruptly flickered into Harald’s eyes. “Now do your fucking job,” Harald hissed, “and make sure England remains mine. You’ll be held to account if this goes poorly. My brother will not be as forgiving of insurrection as I am.”
The words hit Leofric like an arrow, but he stood smartly and bowed his head. Before pausing. For a moment he watched the king, considering if a response was needed or not, whether he could allow Harald his moment of glory.
“I’ll honour my king, as he honours me,” Leofric spoke softly, his words intended for no one but Harald to hear. “But only because his father instructed me to do so.”
With that, and the sharp intake of breath from Harald, Leofric strode from the hall.
It was long-past time Harald knew the source of Leofric’s loyalty. Long-past time.
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle Entry for AD1039
This year was the great wind. And the Welsh slew Eadwine brother of Leofric the earl, and Thurkil, and Elfget, and very many good men with them. And this year also came Harthacnut to Bruges, where his mother was.
Chapter Twenty-Five
18th March AD1040 Oxford Leofric
Earl Leofric squinted into the grey gloom of early morning. A summons so early in the day could never be good, and with the strained relationship between the king and he, he almost feared to signal that the gates be opened.
But he did, all the same.
He knew his duty, he always had. His father had made sure of that.
Leofric didn’t recognise the man who stood before him for a moment in dishevelled panic, and then shock moved him to grasp the man’s arm.
“What is it, tell me quickly.” The man before him was someone he knew too well, and for too long, and rarely had they been further from allies than they were right now. The fact that Earl Godwine stood before his gate in Oxford almost made Leofric’s knees buckle with fear. What, by all that was holy, had happened now?
“The king,” Earl Godwine gasped. “The king,” and he pointed back toward Oxford where the king was currently staying.
“Come, show me,” Earl Leofric commanded, the words overheard by the gate warden, Eadsige, who turned smartly to rush to the door warden to inform him of what was happening. Leofric was aware, in the back of his mind, that despite Earl Godwine’s panic, he really shouldn’t go alone, but none of the household were awake at such an ungodly time, other than his guards, and he needed to know what had happened, while they needed to guard his home and family.
Through the gateway, Earl Leofric looked along the roadway to where Oxford lay, a short distance away.
Leofric held his tongue as he rushed down the roadway with Earl Godwine at his side. Earl Godwine stumbled, every now and then, and Leofric felt his stomach heave with the sure knowledge of what this must mean. The darkness enveloped them, the moon little more than a faint glimmer through heavy clouds above them.
But how? And more importantly, why?
Leofric couldn’t fathom how something so catastrophic could have happened in only the short amount of time that had elapsed since he’d last seen the king, just the night before. A begrudging meeting on all sides, but one both had managed to accomplish without too much evidence of their internal discord.
Leofric and Godwine followed the same route he’d so often taken to the king’s lodgings in Oxford, aware of where the roadway was smooth. Where it was in need of some repair, he jumped to the side, whereas Earl Godwine, his confusion too great to focus on anything, further lost his balance on the deep ruts caused by the persistent winter storms.
In the end, and despite his misgivings, Earl Leofric took hold of Godwine’s arm to better guide him. The man smelt strongly of ale and wine, and when he belched, the stiff breeze blew sourly across Leofric’s nose.
It was apparent the evening’s drinking had gone on long after Leofric had stomped from the house, cursing his foolish king with as much vigour as the king had cursed him. Clearly, Earl Godwine had kept his king company, again, the two far from reconciled to each other, but both trying to outwit the other. But then what had happened?
As they came in sight of the house where the king was staying, Leofric held onto the fragile hope that this was just a game played by two drunks. After all, the house was cast in darkness, the door warden still on duty, as he and Earl Godwine swept passed his perplexed expression.
Leofric gazed at the man, wondering that he could stand so still when some great emergency must have occurred, but then he was inside the king’s hall, and he shivered involuntarily.
The room was hot, with the hearth at the centre blazing merrily, but Leofric’s attention was immediately caught by a slumped shape in the shadows at the far end of the hall.
“My Lord King Harald,” he called, only for Earl Godwine to shudder once more.
“My Lord Harald,” Leofric called more loudly when his first call garnered no response, before turning to stride to the shape. He expected Earl Godwine to follow him, but instead, when he glanced back, the other earl had collapsed beside the hearth, unable to move, as his mouth opened and closed without sound, shivering, despite the warmth, and noticeable, despite the poor light.
Leofric swallowed once more, willing his feet to move him closer to whatever this terrible secret was that Godwine had chosen only to share with him, for the time being.
“My Lord Harald,” he said one final time, just to be sure, and then he reached the prone shape of the king, only to find it covered by a cloak of deepest night. His feet squelched into something unpleasant, but he didn’t need to look any closer. He would recognise the smell of a man’s salt anywhere, and
blood pooled across the wooden floor in an ugly shadow.
“Harald,” and now Leofric moaned, falling to his knees as he pulled back the cloak and gazed into the startled, dead eyes of his king and foster-son.
“Harald,” he said once more, reaching out to touch the cooling face of the younger man, grief forcing tears to his eyes that he tried to shake free so that he could focus on the body to try and decipher what had happened here.
All the while his thoughts ran rapidly through his mind. His king was dead, and that meant only one thing. But would his family survive that? Could he rely on his past relationship with Lady Emma to ensure the new king was magnanimous toward him or were the two, as some rumours had it, as far from being allies as Leofric was himself?
Tenderly he reached out and forced Harald’s eyes closed. He shivered as he touched the cold flesh, the shocking difference between the earlier ire and the deathly chill now jarring discordantly in his mind. Harald was just a boy really, nothing else.
What had happened?
Leofric turned to glance at Earl Godwine, but the man was rocking softly to himself, moaning as he did so. Shock had set in, and Leofric would struggle to get any answers from the distressed earl.
What happened now would be ruled by his decisions alone. There was no one else to make them.
Standing abruptly Leofric turned back to the hearth fire, searching for a candle to light the dead man’s body. His own body trembled as he held the wick as close to the burning heart of the fire as he could.
When the candle was lit, he paused, once more aware of Earl Godwine. Was his trauma an accurate reflection of what had happened here? Or was the man merely playing him? The thought perplexed Leofric. He’d never seen Earl Godwine look so weak, so unsure, but he also knew that Godwine was a man who could be relied upon to enact a part if it could be turned to his advantage.
Had he, somehow, brought about the death of the young king? Was he now hoping to implicate Leofric by whatever transpired next?
Angrily, he shook Earl Godwine’s shoulder.
“What happened here?” he insisted once more, but the only response he got from the white-rimmed eyes of the older man was a strangled sob, as Godwine stuffed his fisted hand into his mouth to stifle the cries of a wounded animal that threatened to escape him.
Sighing angrily, Leofric strode back to the dead body. It was useless to demand answers from Godwine.
Leofric’s candle showed him that the path of blood didn’t just begin at the body, but rather, it seemed as though king Harald had dragged himself to the corner, blood sheeting from wherever his wound was, perhaps hoping to rouse someone to help. Delirious he’d gone away from the door warden, rather than toward him.
The thought disturbed Leofric. To know you were dying, long before your time, must have been terrifying. To know he was dying and to be unable to rouse anyone to help. Leofric juddered again.
Carefully, Earl Leofric followed the trail of blood spatters back to their source, near the hearth, and his eyes finally alighted on something that made a little sense.
Here was one of the king’s treasured glass goblets, smashed and broken into two large pieces, the stem and the cup, lying on the floor close to the hearth. One was festooned with the maroon of his king’s life, or so it appeared, in the flickering light. Leofric also noted that Godwine was sitting as far from the abandoned goblet as possible.
“What?” he asked, knowing he spoke only to himself.
Once more, holding the candle before him, he tracked his way back to Harald’s body, seeing how the loss of blood must have increased, so that in the end Harald lay in a lake of his own making, as though he was the stigma of a morbid flower.
With just the light of the candle, Leofric was able to see more, and what he saw made him convulse. His young king, the boy he’d once fostered on the insistence of King Cnut and his mother, had met his death from a jagged cut that seemed to sever his neck almost in two.
“How?” Leofric found himself gasping,
He could see where King Harald had tried to stem the flood from his neck, one hand still grasped tightly, even in death, reflecting wetly red in the feeble glow of the solitary flame.
So, he had his answer. But still, it made no sense.
How had a broken wine glass, abandoned by the hearth, found its way into his young king’s neck, inflicting enough damage to kill him, if not instantly?
He cursed Earl Godwine. Was this some strange drinking game? The result of too much wine and ale being consumed? Had Earl Godwine been a part of it?
Leofric shook his head once more.
Nausea swarmed up his closed throat, the ripening smell of death and decay trying to make him gag, but still, he scrutinised the scene.
Leofric had decisions to make, and they all revolved around the truth of what had happened here, and that wasn’t anything he was going to be able to find out. Not anytime soon.
He needed to ensure that news of the king’s death was handled carefully. Lady Ælfgifu would be distraught, but she was in Northampton, a good day’s ride from Oxford. Still, he knew his duty to her, even if they were no longer on speaking terms.
It was what he should do about the scene he’d been presented with that worried him the most.
Glancing down, he noticed something he’d not seen before. The king’s trousers were undone and tangled around his feet. Sudden understanding caused him to groan, as he stood decisively.
The time for indecisiveness was over. He needed to act if only to cover the dignity of the dead.
Judiciously, a shout at the door from a voice he recognised had him dashing toward it. He wrenched the door open, startling the five men on the other side, as he pulled his son in tight, Orkning as well.
“What?” Ælfgar almost squealed in surprise when the door was immediately slammed shut, the noise reverberating around the room ominously. Orkning, as ever, looked cool and calm. Nothing ever daunted him. Not that he ever showed, anyway.
“Listen, and listen well,” Leofric instructed his son, but Ælfgar’s eyes were already focused on the disturbing sight of Earl Godwine, and the solitary candle next to the king’s body that Leofric had placed on the floor and left there, before rushing to the door.
“King Harald?” Ælfgar stated, to which Leofric nodded.
“The king is dead. Earl Godwine is insensible. A tragedy, I believe.” Leofric didn’t yet want to be drawn on it but knew questions would be forthcoming. He tried to state only facts, but his voice quivered all the same.
His son’s face was a rigour of shock, yet he remained strong, as did Orkning.
“What needs to be done?” Ælfgar demanded quickly. His son’s clear thinking was more in common with his long-dead grandfather than himself. No matter what life threw at him, Ælfgar was able to react without a missed step. Leofric was envious.
“We need to clear the king up and bring Earl Godwine out of whatever has afflicted him. And we need to do it quickly and without panic.”
“And the king’s mother?” It was Orkning who spoke, and Leofric felt all his breath expel from his body in a rush, as he stumbled, unsure, even now, how to handle Lady Ælfgifu. Knowing his duty and enacting it were two entirely different propositions.
“She must be told, immediately,” Ælfgar spoke promptly.
“Yes, she must. But who?”
The question weighed heavily in the air, and Leofric cursed, meeting his son’s eyes. Ælfgar would offer to go. Leofric knew he would, but should his son be the one to tell the woman that her second, and youngest son, was dead? That all of her power was gone, just like that?
“I,” Leofric began, uncertainty warring inside him. Now was not a good time to be away from the hub of the court. Who knew what damage could be done to his reputation should he go to Northampton, and Earl Godwine recover his wits in his absence.
“I’ll go,” Ælfgar announced, the decision firm. “Wulfstan and Ælfwine will come with me. I’ll leave now, and bring Lady Ælfgifu b
ack with us. Father, you must stay here. You know it’s the right course of action.”
Leofric wished to argue with his son, but there was no point.
“Take both of your cousins, as you say, and five of the household troop. Have your mother come to the king’s house, when she’s able, of course, but advise her of the urgency, while telling no one else what’s happened.” Leofric looked to Orkning as he spoke. Orkning was the height of discretion, he hardly needed telling, but Leofric did so all the same. It was how he was coping with the sudden change in all that he’d known and been expecting.
Ælfgar nodded smartly and then paused. “I would see him.” Leofric winced. Harald and his son had been foster-brothers. This would be hard for him, even if their relationship had often been complicated and fraught with some long-unspoken disagreement.
“I would advise against it, but you are your own man. Come.”
Ælfgar didn’t follow his father alone, Orkning stayed close as well.
The isolated candle flickered bravely in a slight breeze, casting shadows upon the already dark recess of the far end of the hall. Leofric breathed shallowly, not wanting to taste the iron of death again.
With a sharp inhalation, he bent and lifted the candle, revealing Harald’s dead face, although he tried to keep the light away from the ragged cut around his throat.
“Bloody hell,” Ælfgar gasped. “It looks like a field of battle.”
Orkning meanwhile squatted on his heels, reaching out to almost run his hand over the virtually severed neck. Orkning immediately realised what had happened, and peered back along the floor, looking for the weapon that had been used.
“It wasn’t instant then,” Orkning muttered, and Leofric gulped at the confirmation of his own thoughts.
“Who?” was Orkning’s next question, but Leofric shook his head. He didn’t know and, for the moment, the ‘who’ was almost irrelevant.
