by M J Porter
At any moment, he was expecting one of two things to happen. He’d either be congratulated, or he’d be berated for the actions he’d suggested, and the secrets he’d long kept from his father.
Even now his father’s face was twisted. Leofric kept opening and closing his mouth, as though he’d say something, only to change his mind. If Ælfgar hadn’t been so concerned, he might have found it funny.
“So even your mother didn’t know?” was the response Ælfgar finally got, and now he did smile. All was forgiven with little being said, most probably because Ælfgar hadn’t told his mother, and therefore his father didn’t feel aggrieved at being missed out.
“No one knew father, just my wife, and Harald’s wife, and her mother, of course. It was best that way.”
“Yes, I agree, it was. But still. Well done. Your wife may have forced you to take action, but I feel you’d have been compelled to, anyway. Certainly, I’d noted the woman, and meant to find out who she was. Only, well, she disappeared before I could.”
“And now, what have you suggested to them to ensure they escape retaliation from Harthacnut and Lady Emma?”
This bit was the trickier part.
“I’ve made a proposal,” Ælfgar hedged, not sure what to do now.
“But you want it to remain a secret?” his father correctly surmised, his eyebrows high. “But you need my help to do it?” Again, his father was right. He so often was. Ælfgar remained silent under his father’s gaze.
“It will involve some of the men?” Leofric asked, once more, nodding to himself as he spoke his thoughts out loud. “Do what must be done, with my blessing, and if that doesn’t sway anyone, then see it done in your mother’s name, but I’d suggest you take care with your arrangements. You’re right to keep them to yourself. But, just to be clear, you need to make sure Lady Ælfgifu is wherever she’s going long before Harthacnut lands on English soil again. He’ll not be a pleasant man to contend with. Not at all.”
“No, he won’t,” Ælfgar agreed rapidly. His father was conflicted by the possibilities of the new future suddenly presented to him. Ælfgar could tell.
“I’ve done what I can to ensure Cnut’s sons had the opportunities they should have had. I can say with a great deal of honesty that none of the men shares even a shade of their father’s personality.” Leofric rubbed a hand over his face as he spoke, his sharp eyes dulled by the future, not enlivened by it. “I’d wish there was someone else the Witan would agree to have as king, but I fear they’ll not go against Cnut’s wishes again. Not with King Magnus and Harthacnut seemingly at peace. To do so would simply excite him to war.”
“But Edward the Exile in Hungary and Lord Edward in Normandy do have a claim.”
“Yes, but the Witan will prefer Harthacnut because they know him. Or rather, think they know him. But he was a child when he left England to rule as his father’s figurehead in Denmark. The people of England hope he’ll be as magnanimous as his father, but they easily forget the difficulties of those early years under Cnut and the weight of his taxes.”
Leofric swallowed thickly as he spoke, and Ælfgar held his tongue. His father’s thoughts would have turned to his executed brother. Northman had been a victim of Cnut’s initial insecurities.
“Will Lady Emma not speak of your good intentions?” Ælfgar pressed softly. He knew that his father and Harthacnut’s mother had not stayed enemies on their parting and that Lady Emma had been in contact with his father throughout the intervening three years. Ælfgar also knew that Lord Alfred, even as broken as he’d been before his death, had written to both his full brother, Edward, and his half-brother, Harthacnut, mentioning Leofric’s role in rescuing him, even if it had been too little, too late.
“I don’t know how the mind of that woman works, I never truly have. Our friendship has always been based on oaths my father had with her. With her son’s triumph, I can’t believe she’ll look favourably on my thwarting her earlier plans, even if she knows it had always been Cnut’s intention. Cnut always envisaged a future where his sons were allies, but he made them enemies simply by his choice of mother’s for the three of them.”
“And what of Lady Estrid? She can’t have been backward in offering advice.”
“No,” Leofric agreed quickly, “and it’s her words that worry me the most. She tells me of a man who’s ruled by his hatreds; toward the Norwegians, toward his cousins, toward his brother and his half-brother. Harthacnut will exact revenge for England’s support of Harald.”
“But he’s a stranger to the English nobility.”
“It won’t matter. He’ll not think of winning allies, only of ruling through the threat of iron and blood.”
Ælfgar stayed silent, considering all his father had shared with him.
“And yet the Witan will call for his reinstatement?”
“What choice do we have? Who else can be king?”
The words were desolate, but Ælfgar was still minded not to agree with them.
“If the English don’t know Harthacnut, why should they not look to Edward in Normandy?”
“I only wish it were so easy,” Leofric complained. “But he and his mother are even more estranged than she is to Harthacnut, and her voice is a powerful one. The memories of Æthelred’s perceived failures against Cnut, Swein and Thorkell the Tall are too fresh for many. The English do not want the Danes as their enemies. Not again, and not ever. Far better to have them as allies.”
“Then they must shoulder the taxes Harthacnut demands, and do the best they can.” Ælfgar was growing tired of the circular nature of the argument. There was a time for action and a time for thought. Action was needed now, in the wake of Harald’s untimely death.
The laughter that erupted from deep within Leofric’s chest was far from jovial.
“You say that now, but when men and women come begging to you, citing poverty and the hardships of a winter to come, you’ll not find it so easy to accept.”
“I don’t deny that, but if England wishes to have the Danes as allies and not enemies, there’s nothing else to be done. Perhaps, as before, Lady Emma will intercede for the English and her son will heed her.”
Again Leofric laughed again, a dry sound, grating to the ears.
“Harthacnut will not listen to his mother. Neither will Earl Godwine. They’ll both say that the English must be punished. Lady Emma might even agree.”
“It’s not assured that Harthacnut will accept Earl Godwine’s apologies.”
“No, it’s not. But they have the bonds of family to unite them. I doubt Harthacnut will be as keen to punish Godwine as he might ourselves.”
“Father, you forget that Harthacnut is a stranger to most of England. He’ll need his earls far more than his earls will need him. All of them.”
Ælfgar spoke with some force. His father had the air of the defeated about him, and that could not continue.
“Aye, son, I know you’re right, but still, the thought of winning the heart of another king is wearing.”
Now it was Ælfgar’s turn to laugh.
“I can’t say we ever held the heart of Harald. He punished you far more than he did Godwine, even though Godwine was his sworn enemy at the beginning.”
“Ah, the twisted path of self-interest,” again Leofric rubbed his hand over his face, but then he stood and turned to Ælfgar.
“Come, the Witan is waiting, and regardless of my worries and fears, there’s little doubt as to the future of England. We will, as always before, do the best that we can for Mercia and for ourselves. As you rightly remind me, Harthacnut might have family ties to Godwine, but I hold Mercia, with your assistance. The Danish earls from his father’s reign will judge Harthacnut even more harshly than we will. They’ll hold him against the memories of his father, and Lady Estrid informs me, the comparison will not be in Harthacnut’s favour.”
Ælfgar stood as well, to follow his father.
“Who’ll be sent to negotiate with Harthacnut?”
&nbs
p; “Well, son, that will be the fiercest point of debate in the Witan. The men must speak for England, and yet beguile Harthacnut at the same time. He’ll make demands, and they must counter them, all without earning his enmity. I don’t envy the men who’ll be forced to carry the hopes of England when they go to Bruges.”
“What if you’re commanded to go?” This was a worry for Ælfgar. His father had too often been a figurehead in the past for such doomed endeavours.
“They’ll not send an earl. They’ll send the churchmen, a bishop or three, perhaps even an archbishop, and many younger sons. It will not be politic to risk losing even more of the English nobility. Without its king, England must be ruled by its earls.”
“What if they ask me to go?” Ælfgar suddenly asked, but Leofric was already shaking his head.
“It’s in our right to refuse. You’re my only son and heir. Mercia would suffer should anything happen to you.”
“But, what if they agree to something that’s detrimental to us?”
“Then they’ll suffer Harthacnut’s wrath when Mercia refuses to ratify the agreement.”
“But is it not toward Mercia that Harthacnut will wish to exact the most vengeance? It’s well known that Mercia supported Harald whereas Wessex supported Harthacnut.”
“Yes, it’s well known, but will Harthacnut risk an uprising against him, from the heartlands of Mercia? His grandfather and father saw Mercia as the province to win over, to support their claims against the House of Wessex. Will he truly be so blind as to turn his back to that?”
“I imagine he will,” Ælfgar muttered morosely. “Harald was a Mercian, I fear that’s all that will matter.”
“Then we need worry,” Leofric chuckled, a warmth back in his voice.
“Harthacnut will do and demand as he sees fit. But that’s an anxiety for the future. Now we must ensure we’re not forced to act as a messenger to Harthacnut, and in doing so, avoid being forced to make ridiculous concessions to him.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
April AD1040 Oxford Leofric
The Witan, called to order not by the king, but rather by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Eadsige, sat at Oxford once more.
It had been but a handful of weeks since the death of Harald, but many had made the journey to Oxford, despite the continuing bad weather.
A decision on the future of England was not one to take lightly. Yet, Leofric knew, from his conversation with the earls, king’s thegns, thegns and even the holy men and women representing the Churches and great monastic houses, that few doubted the legality of Harthacnut’s right to rule.
Neither did Leofric question that Harthacnut was well aware of events in England. Harald’s death, as untimely as it might have been, might have saved every man and woman in England from the threat of war, if not from the ravages of Harthacnut’s tax demands when they came.
Even if the men and women of Harthacnut’s ship-army had not been put to any significant use, they’d still demand to be paid. And they would all yet live. That would make the burden even more onerous. If an attack had occurred, at least some would have lost their lives. That wouldn’t happen now, or so Leofric thought.
He sat beside the other earls of England, Godwine, Siward, Thuri and Hrani, and thought himself outnumbered by the number of Danish men, even counting Godwine amongst their number. Of them all, only he had genuinely English heritage, and a future that depended entirely on England. All of the other men, whether they liked to admit it or not, could have made lives for themselves elsewhere, if not in Denmark then in the other Northern kingdoms.
Yet, there was a cause for hope. Of them all, it was only Godwine who was truly tied tightly to Harthacnut. Even Hrani could potentially be turned aside from the Danish king, he had been persuaded to support Harald, after all.
“Good men and women of the Witan,” Eadsige spoke with force. “We’ve all mourned the passing of our king, Harald, God Rest His Soul. Now we must turn our attention to the future rule of England, for she must have a king to guide her in the coming years.”
Eadsige was an older man than Leofric, his hair starkly white, against his rich robes of office. Eadsige owed his current position to advancement at Harald’s discretion, and no doubt, he, like so many others within the great hall, was fearful of what the future might hold. His part in the Coronation of Harald was also no doubt causing him a sleepless night.
It would, or so Leofric thought, have been kinder to have another open these proceedings, and yet it was Eadsige’s right, as the premier church official within England to do so.
“I call upon the earls of England to set forth the available options so that we all might cast our decision on what form the future might take.”
Almost with unseemly haste, Eadsige returned to his seat, his robes taking wing behind him. Leofric stifled an outraged smirk. He’d expected the archbishop to exhibit more of his famed hesitancy to do anything.
It was Earl Godwine who took the place of Archbishop Eadsige. He had, since the death of Harald, endeared himself to Leofric, and also fuelled his wrath in equal measure.
The shock at what had happened to Harald, and his fears that he’d be implicated in his death, had quickly bled away as the possibilities for the future had manifested in his mind. Godwine now carried a supercilious grin behind his dark beard and Leofric would have liked nothing better than to slap the smile from his face.
“Good men and women of the Witan. England finds itself at a crossroads, with little choice as to which road to take, those to the left and right offering only the opportunity of forging a path through a torrent of unknowns. Harthacnut must be offered the kingship of the English, as his father commanded on his own deathbed.”
The smug tone of Godwine was perhaps not the best choice for the earl, and already there was a flurry of whispered remarks from others further back in the hall. Leofric wondered if Godwine would ever grow tired of reminding all of Cnut’s wishes.
Leofric doubted it, and time was overdue that the people of England, rather than fearing they had disobeyed their king in offering the kingdom to Harald, were aware that in giving it to Harald, they’d actually done as Cnut had ordered Leofric to arrange.
Leofric wished he could share that vital piece of information, but he also appreciated that the time was not yet ripe. It would be something that he must impart only when, and if Harthacnut, came to England and proved intractable in his treatment of the English.
“Even now Harthacnut is amassing a ship-army to attack England and take the kingdom by force. The death of King Harald makes it possible for the English to avoid the terrible threat of war, that we’ve been preparing for, and win the heart of our future king, by acquiescing to his father’s wishes.”
Leofric squinted at Godwine. It seemed the earl had also realised his previous tone was unsuitable. Now he spoke to beguile.
“Lady Emma has long been England’s fervent ally, and when she too is summoned to England, she’ll resume her role in guiding the path of the kings of the English, as she has done for nearly forty years.”
Like Leofric, Lady Emma had been an almost permanent force in the landscape of the Witan for nearly four decades. She’d been not much older than a child when first wed to King Æthelred, but she’d forged her own path, and many respected her. Although King Harald never had.
His words spoken, Earl Godwine sauntered back to his position, sharing a meaningful glance with Earl Siward as he did so. Yet Siward made no move to rise. Not yet. A short silence hung over the assembly before Hrani made his way to the front.
Hrani, a Dane by birth and profession, had grown old in England. He was that rarest of Danish men, one who’d lived far longer, if not nearly an entire lifetime longer than his fellow countrymen. England had proved to be a haven for him. Yet with his slow movements, he marked the passage of years. Hrani would not be around forever, and what use he might be to his king, Leofric was not so sure.
The disturbances on the borders with the Welsh had aged
the man, not prematurely, but rather, finally. Rumour had it that Hrani no longer rode with his men, but instead relied on his son and on the commander of his household troops. He was a figurehead and little more.
But, he was still respected.
“I’ve served a small number of kings in my long life,” Hrani began, his voice breaking slightly, while some near the back of the hall must have strained to hear his softly spoken words.
“Those men have all been Danish or half-Danish,” he offered with a wry smile. “England will benefit from another Danish king.”
And that was all he said, before returning to his seat. Leofric hoped that someone else would remember the rights of Æthlred’s surviving children. He didn’t wish to earn any further enmity from Harthacnut when he became king, if he became king, but believed the men and women of the Witan had a right to know that Harthacnut was not their only option.
But so far, Godwine and Hrani had mentioned only Harthacnut.
He was surprised when it was Earl Siward who stood next, and raised the possibility of other options available to the English.
“I’m reminded, with the mention of Lady Emma, that she has another living son, born from her marriage to King Æthelred.” Siward spoke with bluff, as though daring any to counter his words.
“Lord Edward is not as young a man as Harthacnut, but still, he’s an heir from the House of Wessex. No doubt he would also rule well, with the advice of his Lady Mother.”
A voice from the rear of the audience.
“Never heard of him.”
Siward, in the act of returning to his seat, turned to face whoever spoke.
“Lady Emma was married to Æthelred for many years. She bore the king three children, two sons and a daughter. One of the sons still lives. Lord Alfred did not survive his previous visit to England.” Siward kept a cutting edge from his voice, his gaze firmly avoiding Earl Godwine’s. “Edward was the firstborn son. The daughter, Godgifu, married well. She has two sons. They would also have a claim to England’s throne?” the question at the end of the sentence was directed toward the bench containing the clergy.
